Chatterbox 1896

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BOSTON: ESTES & LATJRIAT, 301 WASHINGTON STREET

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WRITE US for a catalogue of the TcektuSwJI I BICYCLE. i choke material, finely finished. PRICE, $65.00. ™5ECliO^ t t t i Both Diamond and Drop frame, handsome lines, ■ m t t t i i Boys and Girls. \ A new bicycle built on handsome lines and t up to date. j 24 in. wheels $40.00. 26 in. wheels $50.00. i Made in Diamond and Drop frame with brake. \ H. B. Shattuck & Son, \ 249 Columbus Ave., Boston, Mass. an A \ox tVvea'^ness \n\s - ^ xa\\ox\ \s \x\x\\i TOxwaWeA.'' For General Blacking is unequalled Applied and polished with a brush. Has an Annual Sale of 3,000 tons. • • . We also manufacture the .... PflSIE STOVE FOLISP For an After Dinner Shine, or to touch up spots. Applied and pol¬ ished with a cloth. Makes no dust. In 5 and I O Cent Tin Boxes. The only Perfect Paste- MORSE BROS., Proprietors, Canton, Mass.

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I World’s Fair Highest Award ! PERIAL '^^RANUM FOOD This Universally Acknowledged STANDARD and BEST PREPARED is earnestly recommended for S nursin§:-motliers, infants and CHILDREN, for INVALIDS CONVALESCENTS, fordyspeptic ^delicate, infirm and AGED^ persons. It is invaluable the ) sick-room, eiSer little-one or ^ adult ”Ste, PURE, nourish- ITIfT 5oId by DRUGGISTS Everywhere. - 111^ U.ivl I John Carle & Sons, New York, N. Y. There are so many ^oods in the market bear¬ ing the word Rogers in some form or another, some of which are inferior goods, that the word Rogers is no longer a guarantee of quality. To be absolutely sure of the best in the market, see that your goods bear the name HAHILTON, either I Crown Hamilton OR I Rogers & Hamilton. They are the best in all respects, style, finish and last¬ ing qualities. Ask the trade for goods made by The ROGERS & HAHILTON CO. Waterbary, Conn. ^ musement for all ages . . . with the -Harmless Shoots. St p ? ^ 3 o ^ <5 § I os. a « J The CAPITAL Self = Playing ^ ITusic Box Plays any number of tunes Standard and popular airs American Manufacture Interchangeable Cylinders. c ►t p o tzt o 3 C P Ou No thoughtful parent wiU let his children grow up without the thoughtful training a Rubber-Tipped Arrow Game will givet^^«^«.^t^ ELASTIC TIP CO., Patentees . - 1 and Manufacturers Size A, 15x12x7 inches, 44 teeth in conih, with 8 tunes, - $15.00 Size B, 31x14x0 inches, 58 teeth in comb, with 10 tunes, - 28.00 Size C, 26x17x10 inches, 81 teeth in comb, with 13 tunes, 40.00 Style F, 38x17x13 inches, 162 teeth in comb, with 13 tunes, 75.00 Extra tunes, 30c., 30c. and 40c. ^ ^ ^ ^ Sent on receipt of price or C. O. D. hy F. G. ono & SONS, 44 to 50 Sherman Ave. BOSTON. CfflCAGO. SAN FRANCISCO. Of can be bought from any dealer in musical merchandise* Jersey City, N. J. Send for illustrated catalogue.

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INNOCENCE.

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Page A Bird’s Cradle . 70 A Brave Girl, 202, 211, 222, 228, 237, 245, 263, 258. 270, 274, 285, 290 A Chat about the Herring . 150 A Fearless Admiral . 2 A Fox in a Trap . 4 A Gallant Rescue . 298 A Good Man’s Tenderness . 323 A Good Word for the Thistles ... 278 A Handful of Shells, 221, 227, 243, 263, 269, 283, 309, 316 Amongst the Heather . 323 An African Lion . 146 An Artful Terrier . 354 An Incident of Waterloo . 338 A Practical Joke . 205 Artfulness . 5 A Visit to Jamrach’s . 180 A Word for the Sparrows . 36 Blackberrying . 358, 366 Brave Lilias . 138 Can it be True ? . 398 Captain Robert . 51 Chicks and Squabs . 146 Chinese Geese . 42 Cow and Leopard . 202 Curious Chut ch-yard Customs ... 371 Curious Places for Birds’ Nests ... 338 Curious Story of a Wombat . 98 Dear Old Prince . 298, 310 Deceptive Appearances . 260 Doings of Ceylon Ants . 406 Don’t Crowd . 258 Dr. Johnson doing Penance . 162 Easter Heaving and Hocking . 118 Encounter with a Bison . 60 Fables . 94, 262, 371 Feet-washing on Maundy Thursday 214 Fighting Caterpillars . 194 ‘ From Information Received * ... 10 Garry . 106 Gog and Magog . 140 Han way’ 8 Umbrella . 114 He could not say ‘ No ’ 235 How Animals Amuse Themselves .. 162 Hunter Saved by his Dog . 231 Page Hunting the Polar Bear . 387 In a Crow’s Nest . 134 Iron or Gold ? . 34 King James’s First Pipe . 247 Latin Quotations . 54 Lobsters . 374 Lynn, the Deerhound „ ... . 122 Madeira ... 322 Marl and Marl-pits . 403 Midsummer Bonfires . 206 Mince Pies ... . . 373 Miss Oliver’s Pasteboard Box . 166 Mummers and Mumming . 291 Napoleon at Elba . 35 Not to be Borne . 27 Old Customs, 10, 34, 71, 90, 122, 186, 215, 239, 267, 318, 343, 391 Old May Customs . . 154 On the Thames, below Kew Bridge . 335 Our Colonial Mounted Police . 36 Pompey the Great . 99 Popular Places of Resort, 12, 44-, 77, 140, 173, 207, 276, 299, 351. 367, 399 Puzzlers for Wise Heads, 6, 30, 35, 62, 74, 90, no, 134. 154, 171, 179, 191, 214, 227, 243, 267, 283, 299, 318, 331, 350, 366, 378, 398, 410 Rahere the Jester . 189, 195 Rats Swimming Across the Thames 282 Riding without Paying . 14 Robert of Normandy . 27 Rope-walking and Balancing . 3 Sagacity of the Rat . 19 Saved by a Bagp-pe . 386 Seeking for Gold . 386 Silk . 14 Skua Gulls . 221 Strange Nesting-places . 226 Telling the Time by a Sun-dial ... 322 The Bull, the Beer, and the Baby... 42 The Cape Ratel . 82 The Chicory or Succory . 293 The Childhood of Queen Victoria ... 250 The Child of the Lighthouse, 294, 301, 306, 314, 325, 332, 339, 346, 354, 362, 374, 378, 390, 394, 402 Page : The Christmas Boar’s Head . 410 The Chrysanthemum . 389 The Cock, the Dog, and the Fox ... 51 The Daisy . 180 The Emperor and the Blacksmith... 106 The Falls of Clyde . 108, 253, 293 The Games of Swallows . 90 The Girlhood of Queen Victoria ... 261 The Goat-sucker or Fern-owl . 354 The Honey Guide, or Moroc . 82 The House-builder Moth . 135 The Isle of Man . 173 The King of the Deer Tribe . 98 The Lily of the Valley . 85 The Lost Will 381 The Man with Three Accomplish¬ ments . 219 The Night-hawk . l7o The Old Apple- woman . 19 The Poetic Daffodil . 133 The Roseate Spoonbill . 403 The Scaly Ant-eater . 195 The Story of a Scarecrow . 166, 174 The Story of Nelson . 75, 86 The Templin Spring . 282 The Ten-pound Note . 93 The Treasure of the San Antonio, 6, 14, 22, 26. 38, 46, 54, 58, 66, 78, 82, 94, 102. 110, 114, 123, 130, 142, 147, 158, 163, 170, 182, 186, 197 The Two-horned Rhinoceros . 167 The Violet . 117 The Young Wauderers . ... 68 Tongue-twisters . 371 True Story of a Japanese Bear ... 234 True till Death . 194 Two Faithful Dogs . 96 Vanity of Certain Birds . *. 118 Whip-dog Sunday . 202 * Whistling Dick ’ . 263 Wild Horses . 157 Wild Hyacinth and Wood Anemone 213 Youngsters in Popular Tales, 18, 31, 60, 62, 87, 91, 119, 127, 151, 155. 178, 191, 210, 218, 242, 254, 266, 279, 311, 319,330, 348, 359, 370, 382, 406, 411 A Careless Girl . 339 A Fallen Foe . 378 A Man Overboard . 347 A Reverie . 70 A Summer Holiday by the River . *. ... 234 At the British Mns^um ... 210 At the Flower Market ... 284 POETRY. Beauty and the Beast ... 3u6 Finishing Touches . 74 Happy Days . 259 King Frost . 30 Left in Charge . 80 Motherless Children . 99 My Chatterbox . 410 Nurse’s Birthday . 405 Pigs iu the Wrong Place... 226 Poor Pompey’s Lament ... 138 The Butterfly . 325 The Collier’s Daughter ... 131 The Discontented Donkey 2 The Highland Shepherd- boy . 363 Pago The Little Bird’s Song ...382 The Sorrows of a Short¬ sighted Man . 178 The Way to be Happy ... 82 The Young Carpenter ... 243 What Noise is t' at? . 107 Which Loved besc ? . 222

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CONTENTS ILLUSTRATIONS. A Oareles.s Girl . A Death Strug-gle . 201 A Fa.len Foe . 377 A Fox in a Trap . 4 ‘After this it was resolved that the bear must die ’ . 236 A Gallant Rescue . 297 A Hairbreadth Escape ... 232 A Handful of SheUs, 221, 228, 245, 284, 309, 316 A Haven of Rest . . 380 ‘Ah! it must be up there those old fellows carried their treasure ’ . 57 *“Ah!” said Luke, “but he will be vexed, as the rabbits are all dead’* * ... 177 A Man Overboard . 348 Amyaa Leigh looking at the wondrous Horn ... 88 An Artful Terrier . 353 •And this is our kinsman I And what is your name, kinsman?’ . 120 A Night’s Walk by Link- light . 344 An Incident of Waterloo... 337 Ann and Ruth arrive in France . 376 Ann Pennell and Ruth Delamere set sail for France . 861 An Old May- day Custom in connexion with the Maze 121 A Rookery . 60 A Rustic Bridge . 233 A Visit to Jamrach’s ... 181 A Waif from the Sea ... 304 * Away, away on my skates I go I’ . 29 Beauty and the Beast ... 305 ‘ Begone ! you vile mon¬ sters— begone ! ’ 225 Ben and Nelly Bates with Joe Wray . 329 Blackberrying . 357 Buckie threatens to burn the Book . 256 * Captain Bannatyne found haymaking was not quite such easy work as it looked ’ 40 Caracio watching the pro¬ ceedings of the Explorers 104 Chicory . 293 Chinese Geese . 41 ‘ Colonel Platt fell in the act of waving his hand ’ 278 ‘ Come here to me, Ralph ; do you not know me ?’... 320 Curious Churchyard Cus¬ toms . 372 ‘Dear girls, be sure that you are kind’ . 405 Doctor Johnson doing Pen¬ ance . 161 * Each mounted a plough- horse and returned to the farm’ . 16 ‘E.arly on the following morning we started’ ... 65 Epping Forest . 352 Falls of the Clyde 109, 252, 292 Father and Son in search of the Lost Will . 381 Felix alarmed by the sound of Human Voices . 169 F«lix sets O’Hagan free ... 160 ‘Felix thought his end had come* . 129 * Felix took delib^te aim and fired * . 148 F.mshing Touches . 73 Coloured Frontispiece - HAUL AWAY! Frank carried in triumph. 365 Friends in Need . 36 * Gallop, mother I gallop fast !’ . ... 260 ‘Gentlemen all, attention give ’ . 82 “‘Guardi turn out!’* roared the sergeant on duty ’ . 249 ‘ Hand over the money ! *... 43 Harry Esmond remains at Castlewood, and strikes up a Friendship with Dick the Scholar . 128 Harry Selwood a Prisoner 356 Harry Selwood hauls down the Spanish ensign ... 333 ‘ He dropped on his knees and took deliberate aim at the bison * . 61 ‘ He fled down the passage to the iron gate ’ . 64 ‘ “ He wants to hold some sort of palaver with us,’’ said the skipper* . 125 ‘ He was roused by a gentle touch on the shoulder’... 392 * How still all nature seems ’ 69 Hunting the Polar Bear ... 388 Ilfracombe and Neighbour¬ hood . 76 Hkley and Neighbourhood 208 *“I see the shutters are up,’’ said Owen. “ I am sorry” * 217 * I’m off to London, sir * ... 237 Isle of Man . 141 Isle of Wight . 300 ‘Is you greedy ?’ . 5 “* It is not new,” he said ; “ here it is torn ** * ... 28 ‘ It’s my fault, sir, not Figs’ — notDobbm’s’ . 32 ‘ I want to buy a plant for May* . 285 ‘Joan mounted a chair to watch the Picket ’ . 229 King J ames’s First Pipe ... 248 ‘ Lash me to the rope, mates, and let us have another try* . 296 Left in Charge . 80 Lynn, the Deerhound ... 124 Loch Lomond . 277 Lord Mayor’s Show in the Olden Time . ... 393 Marrowbones and Cleavers 9 Motherless Children . 100 ‘ Ned Mackett followed his man up to the tavern * ... 24 North Wales . 13 ‘ Now I wonder if it can be really true ? * . 397 ‘ Now, you boys, be off with your hullabaloo 1 * . 49 *Oh, Edwin— dear Edwin — do jump!* . 412 ‘Oh, Jack! what noise is that?’ . 108 ‘ Oh, Welch, save me 1* ... 264 Old May Customs . 153 Old St. Bartholomew’s Hospital . 197 On His Majesty’s Service : Letter Carrier one hun¬ dred years ago . 185 On the Thames below Kew Bridge . 336 Partridge Shooting . 332 Peel Castle, Isle of Man ... 172 ‘ Plenty of time I Take yeurturn! Don’terowdI’ 257 Pomppy the Great . 101 Poor Pompey’s Lament ... 137 * Poor Topsy, why need you steal ? ’ . 369 Preparing for an Attack... 212 Presentation of a Football in the Olden Time . 317 * *‘ Put down the letter,” Dobbin replied’ . 17 Queen Victoria at the age of twelve years . 261 Rahere’s Monument in St. Bartholomew’s Church . 197 Raht re the Jester . 189 Ridph removed to a new Home . 312 Rats swimming across the Thames . 281 ‘ Ready, they are coming up as fast as they can 280 ‘Round and sound, two¬ pence a pound ! * . 268 ‘Ruth and Jonas became constant companions ... 328 Ruth’s Visit to Afton Farm 345 Sagacity of Eats . 20 Saved by a Bagpipe . 385 Scarborough . 368 ‘Ship ahoy!* . 184 ' Sir, I want work ; may I earn a penny ? ’ 152 Skua Gulls defending their Young . 220 Stag and Dead Doe . 53 ‘Stop, my good fellow! Do you believe one w'ord of it?* . 313 St. Valentine’s Day in the Olden Time . 72 •That day Maggie, with Tom’s help, cut off the greater part of her hair ’ 192 ‘The Admiral pointed to the British fleet’ . 1 The Blackbird . 149 ‘The boar’s head in hand bring I* . 409 The Burial of Rover . 204 ‘The chests were one by one hauled up* . 56 The Chrysanthemum .,. 3S9 The CoUier’a Daughter ... 132 * The Commandant allowed him to meet his Httde daughter every day ’ ... 396 The Daisy . 180 The Dangers of our Colonial Police . 37 ‘ The darky came running up to me with his teeth rattling in his head * ... * The discharge had knock¬ ed Ben head over heels out of the boat * . * The Emperor immediately set about blowing the bellows * . 105 The Escape of 0* Hagan ... 164 ‘ The first inhabitant they discovert was an Indian srirl* . ‘ The first kind words Eric received were from a boy named Russell * 408 The Birst Umbrella . 113 ‘The force from Bombay was sighted at last’ ... 289 ‘The glad tidings of peace echoed far and wide * ...401 * The great gates were thrown wide open. How safe we felt ! ’ . 272 The Highlt«idShepherd-boy 3^ 25 8 86 The House-builder Moth... 136 The King of the Deer Tribe 97 The Lily of the Valley ... 85 The Lord of Misrule . 240 The Mexicans attempt a Night Attack . 144 ‘ The Mexicans ceased fighting and fled . 188 The Night-hawk . 176 The Old Apple-woman ... 21 The Poetic Daffodil . 133 ‘There was a little click and the ebony box was opened * 341 The Roseate Spoonbill ... 404 * The sailor delighted to answer the boy’s ques¬ tions* . 265 The Scaly Ant-eater . 196 The Schubertia . 52 The Sedan-chair . 216 The Sun-dial ... 321 The Two-horned Rhino¬ ceros of Sumatra . 168 The Violet . 117 ‘ The waters are rising, and I’ve come to fetch your father ’ 156 ‘The whole party arrived on the shore, and hailed the William ajid Mary ... 200 The Wild Hyacinth and Wood Anemone . 213 The Wreckers made Pri¬ soners . 308 The Young Carpenter ... 244 ‘ They say the Sepoys have mutinied at Indore * ...224 ‘This, then, is the start¬ ing-point of our inland journey* ... 84 ‘ Tom took to his heels and fled* . 116 • Tom was quickly reward¬ ed by a pleutiful supply of bananas ’ 112 Too late ! 324 ‘Topsy, what does make you act so?* . 384 Torquay . 45 Tossing the Pancake . 33 True till Death . 193 Two Faithful Dogs . 96 ‘“Was not your father called Mustafa, and a tailor by trade?*' he said* . 349 ‘We always did our duty to king and country * . 241 *We could see that the rebels were burning the houses * 298 ‘ Well, no, I can’t do it, sir ’ 93 ‘ Wliat are you doing here ?’ 68 ‘ What do you wish ? I am ready to obey you as your slave* . 360 ‘What’s that I see? A buttei-fly ! ’ 325 ‘ Where can that little bo.x have gone to?’ . 165 Wild Horses . 157 ‘With a loud roar the in¬ furiated animal flew to the attack* . 145 ‘ Without hesitation the creature seized him by the foot* . 81 ‘ Won’t you let me help you to peel those apples?* ... 373 ‘Won’t you tell us a story ?’ 205 Yorkshire . 400 ‘ You know right from wrong, don’t you?* ... 209

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“The Admiral pointed to the British fleet riding at anchor in the bay.”

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2 CHATTERBOX. A FEARLESS ADMIRAL. DMIRAL KEPPEL possessed a coolness of address and ready wit which, on more than one occasion, stood him in good stead. A very difficult business was im¬ posed upon him at the time he was in command of the Mediterranean squadron. The Dey of Algiers openly permitted piracy on the part of the Algerines, until at length the English min¬ istry were aroused to action, and the Admiral was instructed to demand satisfaction for the taking of some richly laden ships, which had been carried into Algiers. No man knew better than Keppel how to take a decided course. Sailing into the Bay of Algiers, the Admiral’s ship let go her anchors right in front of the Dey’s palace. Keppel^s gig was rowed ashore, and, attended only by his boat^s crew and one or two officers, he walked up to the palace and demanded an audience. After some delay this was granted, and the Admiral stated his case to the ruler of the Algerines, and informed him that the King of England required immediate satisfaction for the mis¬ chief which had been done. For a moment the Dey was speechless with rage. Then he exclaimed that he^wondered at the EngUsh King’s insolence in sending such a message by ^ a beardless boy.’ The Admiral coolly replied that if wisdom was to be measured by the length of the beard, doubtless his Britannic Majesty ^ would have sent the Dey a he-goat.’ Beside himself with fury, the Dey shouted to his slaves to come with the bow-siring, telling Admiral Keppel that he should pay for the insult with his life. The Adrniral strode across the chamber, and pointed to the British fleet riding at anchor in the bay. ^Put me to death,’ he said, in calm tones. ^ There are enough Englishmen in that squadron to make me a glorious funeral pile.’ The Dey looked at the Admiral and then at the fleet. The hint was too strong to be ignored, and the Admiral not only returned to his ship in safety, but full satisfaction was immediately afterwards ^ade. Fox Russell. THE DISCONTENTED DONKEY, €|\NE day a donkey young, y And foolish too, I fear, Stood sulking in the farmer’s yard In the winter of the year. He had enough to eat, I know. But still, the ground was white with snow. ^ It is so cold ! ’ he cried ; * I can’t get warm at all; The ground is just one sheet of ice. And soon I know I’ll fall. Oh, how I wish that Spring was here. With sunshine sweet my heart to cheer,’ Well, spring-time came, and Ned, With saddle on his back, Was made to carry little JMay — A child who could not walk ; A gentle little maid was she, Who loved the donkey tenderly. But, youngsters, only think I So cross was foolish Ned, That when he saw the little girl, He always groaned and said : ^ This tiresome child ! why can’t she walk On her own feet like other folk Tf summer-time would come, I know I’d happy be.’ W ell, in due course the summer came, Warm sun and bright blue sea ; * Oh dear,’ cried Ned, ^ how hot it is! It puts me in a perfect flzz ! ’ ‘ But autumn, when it comes, I know will suit me well ! ’ But not a bit — when autumn came His grief no tongue could tell ; For the farmer shook his apples down, And Ned must take them all to town. Of course he had to work. And smartly too must walk ; Oh, how he humped his back and groaned^ Like other lazy folk. ^ Go faster ! ’ said his master then. And thnished him once, and once again. One day he almost fell. But stumbled up once more, Until he found himself again At master’s stable-door; So sulky was he and forlorn. He wished he never had been born I ‘ Oh, dear— oh, dear !’ he cried, ‘ How tired I am of life ! It is so full of hard, hard work. Of scolding and of strife. Why was I born ? — just tell me that P And now an answer came, quite pat. Which Neddy did not like. Nor did he love to be Without some little donkey friend To keep him company. The truth is, Ned was discontented, Which wisdom ought to have prevented. It was the master’s horse Who said, ^ You silly thing. You grumbled at the winter cold. You grumbled at the spring ; And wnen at last came summer sweety Of course you grumbled at the heat.’

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CHATTERBOX. ^ You ask why you were born ? Well, you were born to work, And neither man nor beast should try Their daily task to shirk. Spring, summer, autumn, winter too. They all bring something good to you.’ Then let contentment reign In your young, foolish heart, And strive in this queer world of ours To play a worthy part ; Put discontentment far away. And you’ll be happy every day. K. LONG-LOST KEYS. FTER Mary, Queen of Scots, had effected her escape from the grim old fortress of Loch Leven Castle, her deliverer, ‘ Willie Douglas,’ threw the keys, which had brought her her longed-for freedom, into the waters of the loch. There they lay till the dry summer of 1805, when a boy, while strolling on its banks, picked up a bunch of five keys, large and small, of antique workmanship, and fastened together by an iron ring. These were carried to the parish schoolmaster, who forwarded them to the Earl of Morton, hereditary keeper of Loch Leven Castle, at Dalmahoy, near Edinburgh. There can be little doubt that these were the keys by which the unfortunate Queen had effected her escape. But other discoveries were still to be made. The loch was drained in 1821, when a richly gilt key was found, with the date 1568 deeply cut upon it, as well as the inscription ‘ Mary Regina.’ M. ROPE-WALKING AND BALANCING. S far back as the time of the Roman Empire, there were rope-dancers to amuse the public, though in England we do not find any account of such amusements till the thirteenth century, as part of the performances of the Norman joculators. The Anglo-Saxons had remark, able dances, but they did not figure upon ropes, either tight or slack. In later times, men and boys performed around London on wires, or, rather, on what we should call cables, stout enough to bear their weight ; monkeys were often trained to dance and swing upon slight wire cords. One of these monkey exhibitions was to be seen at Charing Cross during the reign of Queen Anne, and the ^ wild hangmen^ much astonished the visitors by their agility, also by smoking, or pretend¬ ing to smoke, a pipe. Sometimes the monkeys had as companions small birds, such as the sparrow and chaffinch, which were tamed and taught to hop about amongst the four-handed animals, while they went through their feats of climbing. The oldest print that can be found showing a rope performance is curious. In it a woman stands upon the rope, holding a pole for balance, and there is a man hang¬ ing from the same rope by one leg. Such swinging by hand or leg was done from both a slack and tight rope, perhaps when it was being whirled round ; or a performer would lie flat upon the rope, holding with hands and feet, while he turned very quickly, which was called ‘ roasting the pig.’ Climbing up and down a slack rope was a favourite exhibition. Clever performers would also dance up or down a rope. One foreigner used to astonish the public by moving along with two lighted candles in his hands. Attempts were made to teach dogs to walk upon ropes, but these do not seem to have been very successful. There is a description of a performance before King Edward VI. when he went in procession through the City of London. A great rope was fas¬ tened to the battlements of St. Paul’s steeple ; the other end was secured to an anchor near the gate. Upon the Kings arrival there, a Spaniard went down the rope to the ground ^ as if he had been an arrow out of a bow,’ then he kissed the King’s foot, and went back to the top of the rope. Next he took another smaller rope, and tied himself to the large rope by one leg, afterwards hanging with his head down a little time, and then he untied the knot, coming down again, much to the amusement of King Edward and his train. Another man did the like in the reign of Queen Mary, sliding down from the top of St. Paul’s without the help of hands or feet. A Dutchman stood upon the weathercock of its steeple, first on one foot, then on the other, waving a flag five yards long ; he also managed to kneel at that dangerous height, and get up safely. Some of those who danced on ropes, did so with bells fastened to their bodies or limbs, and, while dancing, they threw up balls which they caught. One man danced on a rope in the Hay market in 1768, having two small bags tied to his feet. The ladder dance was another feat which astonished people. The performer stood on a ladder, whicli he moved from place to place, and also went up and down the rounds without letting it fall. Another difficult kind of balancing is to be seen in an ancient print, where a person is walking and play¬ ing the bagpipe as he goes, while upon his shoulders is a smaller figure, who appears to be dancing to the tune. One of the tricks of the ancient players upon the timbrel was to throw the instrument into the air, then catch it and balance it upon a single finger. There were people who called themselves balance- masters, because they were clever in the art of balancing. Sometimes they would make a sword stand upright on the palm of the hand; or they balanced a wheel upon the head ; or two, one on the forehead, the other on the chin ; or they would balance a spear upon the nose. One balance-master was very clever in balancing a straw, or a peacock’s feather ; he would kick one of these up into the air to some height, and catch it as it descended. J. S. CniFPOPuD.

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A Fox in a Trap. A FOX IN A TBAP. CUNNING animals, like sly people, do not always escape, as our picture shows us. The fox is the most cunning as well as the most mischievous of all animals. No hens and chickens are safe from him unless well protected or under cover. He is so sly that he always avoids open fields hy daylight, and hides among rocks or thick brushwood; thus the huntsman’s chase for the fox is not always successful. He outwits dogs and avoids shots, so that farmers and others are obliged to resort to different plans for capturing their mischievous foe, and traps are frequently set in places where Master Reynard is likely to pass. In England the fox is generally protected, that he may give sport to the hunters ; but in other countries it is not so, and when the huntsman sets out at dawn on a dewy morning in June or July, with his gun under his arm, and goes to inspect his traps, he rejoices if he finds a scene such as that which our artist has depicted. Here is an old fox caught in the trap, with four of her young ones around her — who have been attracted to the spot by her piteous moaning — but, alas! the cubs can render no assistance to their poor mother. The forester is delighted, but it is a sad sight — the poor animal is suffering great pain and is utterly exhausted; her reddish-brown eyes, so sparkling in health, are fixed and still. The little foxes, too, are distressed at their mother’s sufferings as she tries to escape, but all in vain.

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“ Is you greedy ? ” ARTFULNESS. A LITTLE boy and a little girl had a plate given them on which were two strawberries of very different size ; some grave thoughts on both sides delayed the division of the spoils. At length the little girl said to the little boy, ^ Is you greedy With indignation, and quite unconscious of the pit into which he was falling, the little boy replied, ‘ No, I’se not.’ ‘ Then will you choose ? ’ the maiden said. It is not necessary to state into which pair of red^ lips the biffger strawberry presently vanished. . Bishop Thorold ' On Children:

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'■ CHATTERBOX. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS, 1. — Geographical Acrostic. One of the West India islands belonging to Great Britain.^ It received its name from the day upon which it was discovered ; it is very productive, and contains a remarkable bitumenous lake nearly three miles in extent. 1. A large country in Asia to the east of the Caspian Sea. 2. A town in Surrey from which may be seen some beautiful views of the Thames. 3. A county in Scotland which contains the highest mountain in that country. 4. A town in England famed for the manufacture of lace. 5. A group of islands to the west of Greece, under the protection of Great Britain. 6. A town in Surrey famed for its college and a valuable collection of pictures. 7. A group of islands in the Indian Ocean. 8. A town in Bedfordshire, noted for its straw manufactures. 2. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. What number is that whose half is 10 more than its third ? 2. Divide 75 into two numbers of which one shall be one fourth of the other. youngest child of a family is a year and a half old, and the eldest 12 years old, how many will there be, supposing there is a difference of 18 months between each ? . is that number whose half, minus 2, equals Its third, plus 2. » j m 5. How many yards of calico at ejd. a yard must be given in exchange for 26 yards of flannel at Is. 2d. a yard ? 6. If a man earns 4s. Gd. a day and forfeits Gd. every time he IS late, how much will he earn in 20 weeks sup¬ posing he IS late twice every 5 weeks ? 0, C. [Ansivers at page 30.] Since the reig-n of ^ good Queen Bess,’ the farm had been owned and tilled by a sturdy yeoman family, named Hurstbourne. At the time our story opens, Ralph Hurstbourne and his son Felix were living there alone. Mrs. Hurstbourue had died se¬ veral years before, and Ralph had loved her too well ever to fill her place. Felix, now a fine, well-grown lad of fifteen, had hardly ever known a mother’s care ; indeed, he w^as ^0 young to be able even to recall her features. His father had been everything to him, and nobly had the farmer done his duty by the mother¬ less boy. Ralph Hurstbourne was a man of good education himself. He had taken care that, between his own exertions and those of the rector of the parish, his son should have a sound and solid English training. At the same time, Felix had, from his earliest times, taken keen interest in all the farming operations, to his father’s great delight. ^ One of these days,’ quoth he to his old friend Oaptain Dick Bannatyne, of the merchant marine, ^ Felix will have to take my place here, and it would be a trouble to me if I thought it possible that, by reason of his dislike for farming or want of business-like habits, a stranger should step in to the old Red Roothings Farm, where my ancestors have ^led ever since Queen Elizabeth came to the throne ! Old Dick Bannatyne, a grizzled weather-beaten sailor of the olden type, grunted out in reply : 'Right, skipper, .right. This place alwavs feels like being in harbour to me. So peaceful and plea¬ sant, you know. And, Avhen the old bull begins blowing his fog-horn down in the paddock, why, then 1 seem as though I were half at sea and half ashore; perhaps in the riyer, eh ? Well, I am bringing up both my lads to follow their father, too ; they can both handle a boat properly— at all events without upsetting her, and that’s something — and next voyage I go they will come with me. Yes, it seems right and the way of nature too, doesn’t it that our sons should do, in the future, iust what we have done in the past ? ’ When that first voyage, which had been alluded to by the old sailor, had been well ended. Captain iiapatyne and his two boys, Tom and Ben, received an invitation to spend a few days at Red Roothings b arm, and after settling many details relating to treights and cargo with the owners of his ship, the old captain packed up a few things for himself and his boys in a canvas sack, and sailed up from Boston Deeps, round the east coast, past Felixstowe and Harwich, up the Orwell to Ipswich. Here they left their little sailing boat, and took train for the rest of their journey. Arrived at Chelmsford station, they were met by farmer Hurstbourne, and, climbing up into the high-sided Essex cart which awaited them, they drove the rest of the way— and a good seven miles it was— to the hospitable roof of the Red Roothings. That night, whilst the older men sat over their pipes, discussing business, both of the land and sea, the young folk were busy laying out their plans for the ensuing week. Felix was speaking : ‘ We breakfast here at half- pabt seven, and you need not turn up till then. I am round the farm before six every morning, and THE TREASURE OF THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ By Fox Russell. ^ county of Essex there is, n market town ^ii^i^sford, a lovely tract country, where hills, three or even four hundred feet above the level of the sea, overlook a fertile and highly cultivated valley. Mid-way a// one of these hills nestles a substantial red-brick and • > red-tiled building ; it is of manv j Successive owners have from oiiginal farm, and im- p ed its barns, stabling, and cowhouses.

Page 14

7 CHATT'ERBOX. shall hare pretty nearly finished all I have to do until the afternoon by the time I come back to breakfast. After that, if you like, we will go out on the hill, and shoot some rabbits; the larder is rather low, I know. I have been too busy with the sheep for the last few days to do any shooting or fishing either, but, while you two are here, we must try our best to amuse you. Can either of you siloot ‘ Oh, I have handled a gun ! ’ said Tom, laughing ; ‘ but Ben is the boy to shoot— aren’t you, Ben ? he added, slyly. . .l 4.1. i. ‘ Now, of course you are going to bring out that stupid old story again ! ’ exclaimed the younger brother. ‘ Well, you won’t be happy till you have told it, so fire away;’ whereupon Tom, amid hursts of laughter, told the following story of what had once happened on their recent voyage. As their brigantine lay becalmed one hot, still evening, not far from the African coast, some were seen hovering about, to pick up any offal which should be thrown from the ship. The man standing at the wheel had told Tom and Ben that these birds were extremely good to eat, and thereupon they had asked their father to let them have a boat lowered, and to lend them his gun, in order that they might get a shot. Anything fresh in the way of food is more than welcome, we need hardly say, on a long voyage, and the old man at once complied with their ^'^^anding them a queer-looking bell-mouthed musket, clamped with brass. Captain Bannatyne had said : Felix was much amused at this story, told at Ben s expense; but Ben took it all in good part, and enjoyed the laugh quite as much as though it were directed at any one other than himself. Then the three boys renewed the^ discussion of their arrangements for the following day, and, having finally settled them, they retired to bed. Whilst larks were brightly carolling, and the dew still heavy on the grass of the meadows, Tom, Ben, and Felix, each with a big rough towel on his arm, were racing over the fields to the river, where there was a deep trout-hole, its water clear as crystal and seven feet deep. The stream ran swiftly from a source somewhere up in the hills, over a dean, gravelly bottom, and, though not large enough for swimming more than half a dozen strokes, was as inviting a place as could well be imagined for a cod, refreshing morning dip. The boys quickly stripped, and, led by Felix, who paid the spring a morning visit all through the summer months, they plunged head first into the water, rose, spluttering, to the surface, and, gasping with the icy coldness of the water, hastily clambered out again, dried, and dressed. Bunning over the meadows and up the hill back ao-ain to the farm, they arrived at the breakfast table in a glow of health which their elders said ‘ did them good to see.’ With what an appetite did they attack the smoking dishes of ham and eggs, the home-cured bacon, the new-made rolls ! They ate like giants, and very soon after the repast was finished, the whole party started to walk round the stockyards and view the other places of interest on the farm. ‘Here are the pigs, you see,’ exclaimed .Ralph Hurstbourne, as they leaned over the brick- built low wall of a large enclosure, where seventy or eighty porkers were giving free vent to their feelings, some squeaking in querulousness, some grunting in content¬ ment, others squealing as they were pushed about by their fellows. ‘ Those black Berkshires there cost me twenty-two shillings a-piece when they were only nine weeks old. A pretty heavy price that, but i shall make tliem pay me all of it back, with a fair, honest rate of interest into the bargain. Never buy a bad sort, say I, whether it is pigs, sheep, horned cattle, or horses ; for, after all, the bad eat just as much as the good, and drawing the purse-strings a little wider at the beginning I ^have always found proves to be cheapest in the end.’ ‘Bight,’ growled out the rough voice of the seaman, as he withdrew his pipe from his Ap®* ‘ Always keep your craft well painted and tarred. She will be sure to pay for the extra expense in the long run. Now, what do you give these little grunters to eat ? Ship’s biscuit, eh ? Salt • Well, it’s fine healthy food for anybody, that is, though not appetising for invalids, I’ve heard ^^^Thev’re fed on the best of meal, mixed with the refuse from- the house,’ answ^ered the farmer, amused to hear the sailor’s notions on pig-feeding. ^ And now we will jog round to the bullock-yards. And so saying he led the way to some high-pailinged fold-yards, in which two score of fine young bullocks frisked round and round, little heeding of the fate in store for them the following Christmas week. ^ ^ (Continued at “page 14.)

Page 15

0H.4TTERI30X.

Page 16

Page 17

10 CHATTERBOX. OLD CUSTOMS. MARROWBONES AND CLEAVERS. OING alonpf the busy streets of London, or other large towns, we are used to hear the butcher’s loud appeal to those who pass his shop ; ‘ Buy, buy, buy ! ’ and ' What’ll ye buy ? ’ a mode of pushing his trade which seems to prove successful as a rule. Evidently, the butcher has no objection to noise, but we may not have given him credit for a love of musical sounds. Yet some such love he had in the past, if he has not at present, since the lads and apprentices of the trade once knew well how to produce from marrowbones and cleavers some peculiar music, as is shown in our illustration. Like many more old customs, it has almost died out, and few young butchers have performed upon these instruments, or ever heard their sounds in the streets. There was a reason in the olden time why the butchers had a liking for music, though only for that of a rough kind. Then, much more than they do now, butchers had to mix with herdmen and shepherds in the country. They did not get their meat from markets, and the folk who looked after the cattle or the sheep were always musical. They played upon a pipe made from reeds, or on a small hand -harp, or blew blasts upon horns as sign^. The butchers found out a way to have music of their own, imitating their country friends, and I suppose some of them managed to get sounds both pleasant and loud from the marrowbones and defers, which may remind us of the cymbals of which we read in early history. It might be asked, if any special bone was chosen to strike upon the cleaver, and the answer is, that the bone used was a beef-bone called the clod-bone, in which is hard, not soft marrow. Our illustration shows some jovial young butcher- lads forming part of a wedding procession; some¬ times, however, they only went to the house, after the bride and bridegroom had returned from the church, and performed outside till they were sent away with a present. They used also to attend other marriages besides those of butchers, when the people were well off, and likely to give them a handsome gift, or if either of the persons married belonged to sorne family which was well known in the place. Evidently, the butchers must have practised this musical art of theirs at other times, or they would not have become such good performers on these u^truments as they often were. In one of the old histories of London, we are told that durino* the rejoicings on November 6th, Guy Fawkes’ Day, the butchers would turn out with their marrowbones and cleavers, from which there rose such a clash and clang that the noise almost drowned that which came from the City bells. J. B. S. Clifford. ‘PROM INPORMATIOi^ RECEIVED.’ ASTER TIMOTHY LARKSPUR was a smart and lively youth, but he had his weaknesses, and one of them was for cherries. Wherefore, as soon as he had finished tea, he would adjourn to his father’s ample garden, and climbing up the bigaroon tree, whose luscious fruit was just ripening, enjoy himself to the full whilst seated, more or less com¬ fortably, on one of the upper branches. He had been pursuing this course for upwards of a week, when a somewhat curious incident occurred, which only goes to show that we may acquire useful information in wholly unexpected ways. The cherry-tree in question stood quite close to the boundary fence, separating the large old-fashioned garden from a back lane. Coming down this lane on horseback one evening about half-past eight, old Mr. Larkspur just caught sight of Timothy up the tree, and being very fond of a bit of harmless fun, he rode into the stable-yard, gave up his horse to the groom, and went straight into the garden. Proceeding to the ladder by which his son had mounted to his present perch, he called out — ‘All right, young man! I'm going to take the ladder away, and then what will you do ? ’ And away he went with it in triumph, laughing at the joke. Tim laughed, too. He knew that his father would return with the ladder, or send some one down with it soon, and he never troubled himself about his position for a moment. But time went on ; it got darker and darker, and still no ladder came. The fact was that Mr. Larkspur, who was a surgeon in large practice, had been suddenly sent for to a serious accident, and the situation of the unhappy Tim had been driven completely out of his head. The boy was getting very cramped and wondering if he had better shout for help, when casting his eyes up the back lane below him, his attention was suddenly riveted upon the suspicious movements of a man with very broad shoulders who had just crossed the road, and now stood immediately beneath the cherry-tree, but on the other side of the fence. A minute later he was joined by another man with a bushy black beard. Before these two had done more than just casually nod to each other, a third man came up. Tim, safely concealed in the branches overhead, then heard the following highly interesting conversation : — ‘ It will be just the easiest job in the world. I got talking with one of the maid-servants and found out all about it. There’s no man sleeps in the house, only the old doctor himself and that ugly little red-headed boy of his.’ ‘ Thank you,’ murmured Tim to himself. ‘Well, that’s all right so far,’ said the black- bearded man. ‘ And now about the stuff. Where is the silver kept ? ’ ‘ In the pantry, downstairs beside the kitchen. It’s all real silver — old-fashioned, but that won’t much matter when we get it into old Jacob’s melting-pot, eh ? ’ The other two laughed softly. ‘ W ell, and the safe. What about that ? ’ ‘ Why% it’s in the studj^, on the ground floor ; room next the dining-room. And better luck still, it’s none

Page 18

OHATTEriBOX 11 of your Milner’s nor Chubb’s nor any of those fellows’ make, but just a plain one by some maker I never heard of — and that’s saying a good deal — eh, mates ? Now, to-morrow night at half -past twelve sharp. We’ll meet just here, as soon as the policeman has passed on his beat. We will get in by the study window.’ ^ Will you ? ’ thought Tim. ^ Don’t make quite so sure of that.’ ‘ Then there’s nothing more to say. I shall bring my short steel jemmy, and you, Bill, don’t forget the little bit of oak, with the loaded end. It will do to quiet the old gent if he is inclined to give us any trouble.’ The ruffians then separated and walked off m different directions. Timothy was relieved from his uncomfortable position about a quarter of an hour later. Mr. Larkspur had remembered the cherry- tree on his way back, and, hurrying home, he ran down the garden with the light ladder on his shoulder. * Why, boy, I quite forgot you. You must be getting cramped and cold up there. Another case to put in the papers of Brutality to a Son,” eh ?’ and the cheery old gentleman laughingly placed the ladder up to Tim’s branch. That young gentleman descended as rapidly as his cramped limbs would allow, and then, taking his father’s arm, he told him all that he had heard. The following afternoon, all the servants were sent away to their respective homes, with strict orders not to return until the following day. The house was then left to Mr. Larkspur and Tim, until at seven o’clock a big man, with a long nose, came up the front steps and knocked softly at the door. ^ On being admitted, Mr. Inspector Tootle walked, with gentle step, into the hall, looked sharply all round, blew his nose with a trumpet-like sound, and subsided into a chair. Some two hours later, another knock announced the arrival of two stalwart constables in uniform. Mr. Tootle then proceeded to double-lock and bolt the front door, and putting the key in his pocket he turned to Mr. Larkspur and said — ‘ With your permission, sir, I should like you and this young gentleman to retire to a top room and lock the door. You will ? Thank you. Good night !’ And Inspector Tootle bowed father and son out of the room, as though bidding a lingering farewell to his dearest friend on earth. That wary gentleman, having thus rid himself of the non-professional element, stationed his two subordinates, one in the drawing, the other in the dining-room. Each man then turned the key, thus locking himself securely in. This done, Mr. Tootle put out all the lights of the house, and, drawing a chair up to the door — which he left partly open— of the study, he- sat down in utter darkness, blew his nose for the last time before action, and patiently awaited events. He had sat thus for almost two hours, when he was rewarded by hearing a slight grating noise at the outside of the study window. After this had continued for some minutes, the catch of the window was forced back, the sash thrown up, and a man dropped softly into the room. ^ Will you come into my parlour ? ” said the spider to the fly,’ quoted Mr. Inspector to himself, as a thrill of satisfaction shot through him. He gently rose from the chair and noiselessly in his list slippers he crept up the stairs till he got to the first landing. As he anticipated, the first move of the thieves was to the pantry, wherein the plate was kept. They descended the kitchen stairs, and as they^ did this, so did the Inspector — who looked like nothing so much as a huge tom cat — creep down the upper ones. He stood listening eagerly at the head of the stairs with intense delight to the smothered exclamations of disgust and disappointment proceeding from the thieves below, as they opened drawer after drawer, only to find that the plate had been removed. Then Mr. Tootle, drawing from his breast pocket a handy little implement of tough timber, painted black, with a Lion and Unicorn emblazoned thereon in gold, put a shrill police whistle to his lips and sounded a sharp call on it. ... Instantly the unlocking of the drawing and dining¬ room doors mingled with the clatter and rush of the three miscreants, tumbling over each other in their frantic haste to get up the kitchen stairs, and escape through the window which they had left open. But as the first one reached the stair-head, a brawny con¬ stable caught him by the collar, and flung him^ head¬ long to the ground. The second man — ^he with the beard — ^made a savage blow at the Inspector, but dropped his arm with a cry of pain as a police- truncheon visited him smartly over the wrist. In two minutes it was all over, and all three burglars were adorned with bright steel wristlets. Tim and his father then appeared upon the scene, and shortly after, preparations were made for taking the prisoners to the station. J ust before they started, the bearded man, whose savage-looking face belied the mild tone which he put on, said : ^ You might tell me one thing, Mr. Inspector, before taking us away. Do you object to telling me how you knew we were coming here to-night ?’ ^ Not at all — not at all,’ answered the Inspector, cheerily, and poor Tim felt an agony of fear come over him, as he thought of the future vengeance of the ruffian before him. ^ Then how did you know ?’ Mr. Tootle again blew his trumpet-like^ nose, and then folding up his enormous handkerchief, he de¬ liberately replied, ^ From information received ! ’ Fox Kussell. DEAF, BUT NOT WHISPER-DEAF. ON the oaths being administered to a jury^ at the Liverpool Assizes, one of them, addressing the clerk, said, ^ Speak up, sir ; I can’t hear what you say.’ ‘ Stop !’ exclaimed Baron Alderson, who happened to be the presiding judge. ^ Are you deaf ?’ ‘ Yes, my lord, of one ear,’ replied the juror.^ ^ Then you had better leave the box,’ said the learned baron, ‘for it is necessary that jurymen should hear both sides'

Page 19

12 CHATTERBOX. On another occasion, when the same learned Judge was presiding in the Crown Court at the Hertford Assizes, a tradesman who had been sum¬ moned on the jury claimed to be exempted from serving, on the ground that he was deaf. ^ What does he say?’ interposed the judge. ^ He says that he is deaf, my Lord,’ replied the Clerk of Arraigns. ^ Are you very deaf?’ asked Baron Alderson, in a whisper, looking intently at the juror. ^ Very,’ was the reply of the juror, taken unawares. ^ So I perceive,’ rejoined the judge. ‘ Very deaf, but not whisper You had better go into the box. The witnesses shall speak low.’ POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. NORTH WALES. 'HE Conway, a river of North Wales, famous for the bold, romantic scenery along its higher course, as well as for the riphly beautiful scenery along its lower levels, rises in a small mountain lake, whose borders touch upon the three counties of Merioneth, Den¬ bigh, and Carnarvon. It runs . thirty miles northward to Beaumaris Bay, passing the picturesque seaport town of Conway on the route. Conway is situated on the bank of the river at Its estuary, the river being at that point more than half a mile in width. The town is very picturesque in appearance, triangular in form, and surrounded by a high wall, twelve feet in thickness and one mile in circumference. This interesting old town wall is of the same date as the castle. It is pierced by four Moorish-looking gates, and crowned by twenty-one round towers. In the south-east corner are the magnificent remains of Conway Castle, rising proudly from a rock above the river. Its noble situation, the graceful forms of its towers and turrets, as well as the draping ivy which fills up the breaches in its walls, all help to make it one of the most pic- turesque castles in North Wales. The castle was built, or rather was rebuilt, by Edward I. in a.d. 1284, with the yiew of checkinrr the advances of the Welsh people, who had been con- quered by him quite recently, and were by no means Willing to bear his yoke patiently, but were throughout his whole reign most turbulent and rebellious. The castle was certainly very strongly rebuilt, for its walls are from twelve to fifteen feet in thickness, with eio'ht vast towers, each of them forty feet in diameter, fSur 01 them being surmounted by a slender turret. Un the north side of the castle is a sally-port, to which access was gained by means of a river path winding up the rock, while in the same position on the west side was the main gate, approached over a steep drawbridge, and through a covered entrance With flanking turrets. The principal feature of the interior of the castle is the Hall of Llewelyn, on the south side, 130 feet long. It is now roofiess. The two eastern towers are called the King’s and Queen’s Towers. In the latter is a chapel or oratory, a beautiful little recess in the thickness of the wall, with seats on each side supposed to have been for priests. Under the King’s Tower is^ a great vault, accessible only through a trapdoor in the floor above. Conway Castle was garrisoned for the King (Charles I.) during the civil wars. Prince Kupert for a time was in charge of the fortress, but finally Charles II. made a grant of it to the Earl of Conway in 1665. He stripped the building of all its timber and lead, and used these materials for his own purposes. The estuary of the Conway River is crossed by two fine bridges, the first-built and the most beautiful being the suspension bridge, erected in 1826, in order to complete the Holyhead road. The entrances on either side of the bridge are between two towers, which were intended to harmonise with the general style of the castle. The suspending chains are secured at each end into the cliff below the castle, and into a rock formerly insulated, but now connected with the main -land by the railway embankment. The one end of this elegant bridge is shown in the picture before us. The other bridge across the Conway is a tubular one, quite close to the suspension bridge, the ap¬ pearance of which it greatly mars; but it could not be helped, it had to be erected in this spot to suit the convenience of the public, for through it the railway train passes on its way to Chester. As the train emerges from the bridge, it passes close under the towers of the castle. This brid2:e was built in 1848. ^ No. 2.-— The hand of modern improvement has been at work in the town of Conway, as well -as in many other interesting old places, and most of its quaint- looking houses have been rebuilt, but the Bias Mawr (great mansion) still remains. It is a noble-looking timber house, erected in a.d. 1585, its exterior and interior being profusely covered with ornament. One of the chambers, known as Queen Elizabeth’s room (No. 2 in our picture) shows this rich adorn¬ ment in a vpy marked degree, both the ceiling and the walls being elaborately ornamented, while above the fireplace a coat of arms may be seen with the Queen’s initials as well as those of the Earl of Leicester. In No. 3 of our picture we have a charming view of the Fairy Glen, one of the loveliest and most romantic spots in North Wales. Here all is silence, save for the musical sound of the water, as it now glides gently along some level ground, and then leaps wildly from rock to rock and from stone to stone. F urtber up this beautiful glen more than one waterfall may be seen. ^ No. 4. — Bettws-y-Coed (the station in the wood) IS a charmingly situated village, a little above the junction of the Conway and the Llugwy. Its houses stretch for nearly a mile along what may be called an avenue, shaded by fine trees. The bridge which we see in No. 4 of our picture, and which is known as ^ the artists’ delight,’ is on the road to the villairo of Bettws-y-Coed. J). B.

Page 20

North Wales. 1. Conway Castle. 2. Plas Mawr (Qneen EUzateth’s Eoom). 3. Fairy Glen. 4. Pont Lledr, Bettwe-y-Coed.

Page 21

14 CHATTEKJBOX. SILK. TWO monks who resided in China about a.d. 550, sent to the Emperor J ustinian a number of silk¬ worm eggs, enclosed in a bamboo. Before they dis¬ patched the eggs, they bade the Emperor get some m ulberry-trees ready. After some aw’kward attempts, silk enough was produced at Constantinople to show that they were on the right track. The ingenious Greeks persevered, and in time made silk equal to that of the Chinaman. Roger the Norman conquered western Greece in a.d. 1146, and carried silk-weavers to Sicily. So the art spread over Europe in time. The Italians get the worms to deposit their eggs on a cloth, from^ which they are separated, and kept in little bags in a cool place, until the mulberry is in leaf. Then the eggs are hatched in a warm room. In the brief life of a silk-worm, it casts its skin three times in China, four times in Eurojie. Four days after its birth, the worm falls sick, will eat nothing, and casts off its skin, apparently in pain. In two days, health and appetite return. Then come two days of healthy vigour ; and then the sickness comes back, and the skin is cast a second time. After a short interval of health, the third and last sleep (as the Chinese call it) comes on the insect. When this is over, the worm enjoys a longer interval of health than at any time. For five or six days it eats heartily ; and then begins to spin its ^ golden tomb.’ Sanfobd. RIDINTG- WITHOUT PAYIHG. APOOK Russian peasant, who wished to travel to St. Petersburg, but who had not enough money to buy a railway ticket, took his seat in the tram at Moscow. At the first station the guard came to him and demanded his ticket. The man was. of course, unable to produce one, and he was turned out of the carriage by the guard, who gave him several pokes in the ribs. Nothing dnunted, the peasant waited for the next train, and was conveyed a station further, where he met with similar treatment. On entering a train for the third time, he was asked by a fellow-passenger how far he was going. ^ ^To St. Petersburg, if my ribs will stand it, grimly replied the peasant. THE TREASURE OP THE ‘SAH ANTTONIO.’ {Continued from page 7.) TIHESE bullocks,’ said Mr. Hurstbourne, w ° 1 1 pride, ^I bred and reared myse vuth the help of Felix there, who is gettino- ran clever m the way of caring for stock, both' horn and otherwise. We shall make a tidy price, I hoi of them for the London market at Christmas-tin Londoners like their beef fat and comely to lo upon, and especially at the festive season of the yei -It IS well for us farmers that they do. Now, Die old friend, tell me what you would do with these fine beasts if you had them to deal with.’ ‘ Salt them down for junk, of course. What better could you do with them than that ? ’ The farmer laughed, and passed on to the neatly whitewashed range of thatched cow-houses. ^ Alder¬ ney s. Jerseys, and one or two Kerry s,’ he said flinging back the door for his friends to enter. They walked the carefull}" paved shed from end to end, admiring the smart and cleanly appearance of the gentle- eyed creatures, which turned their heads in their stalls to gaze wonderingly on the unusual sight of strangers. ^ I should salt these too,’ said the old captain, as they turned to leave. ‘ And now for the motive power, the engines which work the wheels of the whole. Here are the cart¬ horse stables, but most of the horses are, of course, at work. Up in that corner, though, you can see my grey team, which works in the mill waggon. I always like to see greys drawing flour. It seems to me in accordance with the fitness of things.’ ^ Should salt them too,’ murmured the skipper, under his breath this time ; ^ to give to the crew,’ he added, as though to make things quite clear. Then he filled another pipe, and they all strolled off to see a stack of wheat threshed out with the aid of the then new threshing machine. The mid-day dinner of home-fed beef, and home¬ made pickles, and home-grown vegetables, and crusty, home-baked bread, having been discussed, the three boys left their fathers to return to the wheats tack, whilst they themselves started on an expedition, the object of which was to replenish the larder. Ben, after his experience in the boat with the ^kicking’ blunderbuss, declined the loan of a gun, and said that he thought a walking-stick was more in his way. Tom and Felix therefore took guns, and they all trudged off to a part of the farm called the Warren, a succession of sandy hillocks, in the soft, dry ground of which countless rabbits Mived and had their being.’ ‘We will approach them from the up-wind side,’ said Felix, as they drew near the scene of operations, ‘ and then they cannot scent us. I am afraid you fellows will have to exercise a little patience, for we shall scare them all away at the first shot, and it will be twenty minutes or half an hour before they come out again. During that time we shall have to lie hidden, and to keep as still as so many mice.’ Creeping cautiously up from the back of the ridge, they gently raised their heads, and there, below them, within easy gunshot, they saw some dozens of rabbits, feeding at the edge of a small wood, and not many feet away from their own burrows. At a sign from Felix, Tom got his gun ready, and the two of them, each selecting his own victim, fired almost at once. Both shots were effective, but, even before the smoke of the discharge had cleared away, not a sign of the many dozens of rabbits, except the two dead ones, was to be seen. They picked up these, and in perfect silence they awaited the return of the rest. Over half an hour passed slowly away before first one and then a second popped out of their holes. As soon as they were well within range, Felix nodded to Tom, and again they fired with a like effect.

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OIIATTEK.BOX. 15 ‘ That is as mariy as we shall need,’ said Felix, as they took up the 'four rabhits, and they started for home. Shooting for ihooting’s sake had no attraction for Felix Hurstbourne. He was not sentimental, but a thorouj^hly common-sense lad. If they wanted a rabbit, or a pheasant, or a partridge to eat, he went out and shot it ; but to go out to shoot for the purpose of destroying animal life was a thing against which his very soul would have rebelled. As would he have taken a bird’s nest, a thing which, to his truly manly nature, seemed revolting and cowardly. It is so like robbing a man as he lies helpless at your feet. ‘ What place is this ? ’ asked Tom, on the road home, as they passed a cave which seemed to be dug out of the side of a sandy hill. ‘ That/ answered Felix, 'is where some otthe east-coast smugglers used to hide their contraband goods, on the way to London. Whether the story & true or not, I don’t know, but my father has told me a tale which he heard from an old fellow at the market ordinary, in Chelmsford, years ago of how, directly the cargo was safely landed, pedlars--or rather, men who pretended to be pedlars— -took the laces and silks and all such things, in pacl^, which they carried on their shoulders, to London, and whenever they thought that the excisemen wei^ on the look-out for them, or following them, they brou^ght the goods and hid them in certain coves of which they knew, between the coast and London this is one of them. After supper to-night, we will get father to tell us the story. He will do it better than 1 should, even if I remembered it aU, which I am afraid I do not.’ Here they were overtaken by a team ot plough- horses Hist returning from their daily toil m the helds and, at the suggestion of Felix, they each mounted one, and on the grand-looking creatures they rode back to the farmyard. . Here they found Captain Bannatyne, .lUSt returned from riding a fat and quiet cob of Mr. Hurstbourne s round the fields. He had intended, so he told them, to ride over the hill and then ' moor ’ the cob to a tree or a rail, while he (the captain) got off and had a smoke. ‘ But,’ he wound up with, ' I couldn t find anything that looked strong enough to hold him safely. To-morrow I would like to go again, and take a small kedge anchor with me, which I could just drop when I like, and be independent of finding any moorings. W hat’s that you say, Kalph ? That you haven’t got a kedge anchor ? Stuff and nonsense ! don’t tell me that, man ! What 1 a great big farm like this, with no kedge anchor in the whole place . Bubbish ! whv, you couldn’t even work a decent- sized cutter without one, let alone a- big farm ! —and nothin^’ would convince the ‘obstinate old sea-dog that horses and cattle were not ordinarily tethered by means of an anchor. 'Father, Tom and Ben would very much like to hear that story of the smugglers, which you heard in Chelmsford, years ago - about the sham pedlars and how they used to carry their smuggled property up to London, you know.’ ^ j The farmer thought for a minute or two and then said, 'Well, really, until Felix reminded me, I had almost forgotten the story } but, now that I begin to think of it, it all seems to come back to me, pretty cleariv. Mind you, it may not be true ; but, at the same time, I think it is.’ Having made a brief pause, he went on : Most of the work of running smuggled cargoes was done on the west and south coasts. The east was not looked upon as so favourable, and most of the excisemen were drawn round to the other coasts. Only the oldest and dullest men in the preventive service were left to look after the in- terests of the revenue on this east coast, lou may give a shrewd guess that the smugglers were not Ion" in finding this out, and it soon got to ^ be notorious amongst the most prominent films for they carried on smuggling, m those days, m a re"ular commercial manner, and had partnerships and companies formed for the prosecution of their illicit trade, just as any honest business was worked —that a cargo could be ' run ’ at the mouth of the Burnham Biver, or at some well-known places near Harwich, Dovercourt, or Felixstowe, with halt the risk attendant on the doing of a similar act anywhere on the west, or ' inside the Wight. Then it was that the authorities thought it high time to draft some of their best men back again to the spots most favoured by the smugglers, and, as a result, they suc¬ ceeded in capturing two or three of the craft and taking ten or a dozen of the men prisoners. But stiU the game went on : it was too paying to be lightly given up. A revenue cruiser was stationed on the coast, near Dovercourt, and she proved herself smart enough to out-sail several of the smuggling lu""ers, though there was one little, low schooner whfch had the heels of them all, and set the reve¬ nue men at defiance ; the Little Star they called ^^One night this smart little vessel tad run a cargo, under cover of a convenient fog, and then, unable, with safety to herself, to get away to sea again, she lay to, under the shelter of the land, waiting for the fog to lift. Meantime a lot of these 'pedlars’ had started away, their packs well laden with smuggled silk and lace and what not, in different directions-for it would have excited suspicion to have seen several of them together-intending all to get to London, and there dispose of their goods. (And here I ought to tell you that the reason why men on foot were employed to carry the goods instead of their being sent by carts, for¬ merly, was this. Just at that time the excisemen had made a practice of stopping many of the carts, on suspicion— a suspicion which had been, in nume¬ rous cases, only too well justified.) Well, on particular night, cold, damp and foggy, one of the pedlars— who, of course, was a smuggler in disguise —made careless by long success, neglected to take the precaution of depositing his pack in one ot these coves, before seeking shelter for the night though the nearest was only a mile and a halt from the little inn where he meant to ^ sleep. Unslinging his pack, he placed it, for a few minutes, on the oak settle near the inside of the door, whilst he entered the tavern parlour, and drew up to the wood fire to thaw his blood. {Continued at ^age 22.)

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Page 24

“ ‘ Put down the letter,’ Dobbin replied.”

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18 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTEKS m POPULAB E-QVELS. DOBBIN OF OURS, IN ‘VANITY FAIR.’* LLIAM DOBBIN, nick¬ named Figs, was the son of a grocer, and his school fees were paid in groceries. It was a bad day for our Dob¬ bin when the cart of Dobbin and Budge was espied by little George Osborne at the tradesmen’s door of Dr. Swish tail’s academy, dis¬ charging a cargo of the waves in which the firm dealt. Those were the days when the line between ^ gentleman ’ and tradesman was sharp and decisive. Young Dc»bbin had no peace after that. His school-fellows pelted him with gibes. J Hullo, Dobbin ! ’ one would say, * here’s good news in the paper : sugar is ris’, my boy ! ’ Another would set a sum — * If a pound of mutton candles cost seven- pence-half penny, how much must Dobbin cost ? ’ and a roar would foUow from the circle of young knaves, including the usher, who held that the selling of goods by retail merited the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen. ^ Y'our father is only a merchant, Osborne,’ Dobbin said in private to the little boy who had brought do'wn the storm upon him, at which the latter replied haughtily, ‘ My father is a gentleman, and keeps his carriage ! ’ and William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in the play¬ ground, where he passed a half-holiday in sadness and woe. If there was one study which Dobbin disliked more than another, it was Latin, as propounded in the Eton Latin Grammar. It was pitiable to see the big fellow, almost at the bottom of the school, in his scraggj’’ corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his big bones were bursting, taken down by little fellows with pink faces and pinafores, when he marched up with the lower form, a giant amongst them. All made fun of him ; they sewed up those corduroys — tight as they were, they cut his bed- strings, they upset buckets and benches, so that he might bark his shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was no little fellow but had his joke and jeer at Dobbin, and he bore everything quite patientty, and was entirely dumb and miserable. Amongst the boys at Dr. Swishtail’s seminary was one named Cuff. He was the son of rich people ; he dressed well, and had plenty of pocket-money ; rode home on a pony on Saturdays, had top-boots in his room, in which he used to hunt in the holidays; possessed a gold repeater, and took snuff like the doctor ; indeed, it was said that the doctor himself was afraid of him. Cuff was the king of the school. He ruled over his subjects, and bullied them terribly. I * William Dobbin is one of the most interesting cha¬ racters in Vanity Fair^ written by W. M. Thackeray. This book may be bought for a sum as small as sixpence. One blacked his shoes, another toasted his bread, others would fag out and give him balls at cricket during long summer afternoons. Figs was the fellow whom he despised most, and whom he was always abusing and sneering at. It happened one afternoon that Figs was alone in the school-room, writing a letter to his mother, of whom he was fond, when Master Cuff entered, and bade him leave the letter to go upon an errand for him. ‘I can’t,’ said our Dobbin; ‘I want to finish my letter.’ ‘ You canH?' sneered Cuff ; ‘ I should like to know why, pray? Can’t you write to old mbther Figs to-morrow P ’ Ton’t call names,’ Dobbin said, getting off the bench. ^ Well, sir, will you go? ’ asked Cuff, as he seized the mis-spelt and blotted letter, on which had been spent thought, and labour, and tears. ^ Put down the letter,’ Dobbin replied ; ‘ no gentle¬ man readsh lettersh ’ (Dobbin lisped). ‘ Well, noiv will you go ? ’ demanded the other. ^ No, I won’t ! Don’t strike, or I’ll thmash you ! ’ roared out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked that that young bully paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away. But he never meddled with the grocer’s boy after that, though he always spoke of Dobbin with contempt behind his back. It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon, and the rest of the school were busy with various sports, but Figs lay under a tree in the playground spelling over a favourite copy of the Arabian Nights, He was quite lonely, and almost happy. The tale was possibly of ^ Sinbad the Sailor,’ in the valley of diamonds, when the reader was aroused with shrill cries, as of a little fellow weeping, and looking up he saw Cuff beating the boy who had peached about the grocer’s cart. Figs bore the child no malice — he was too young and small. The little boy’s offence against Cuff was a pure accident ; he had been sent to fetch a drink on credit for his tyrant, and had successfully climbed the glass-protected wall, run a quarter of a mile, procm-ed the beverage, but, in climbing it a second time, his foot had slipped, the bottle was broken, and the contents spilled, to the damage of his pantaloons. ‘How dare you, sir, break it?’ said Cuff ; ‘you blundering little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir ! ’ Down came the yellow cricket stump with a great heavy thump on the child’s hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up. ‘ Take that, you little - ! ’ cried Cuff, and down came the wicket again. ‘ Hold off. Cuff ; don’t bully that child any more, orl’n - ’ ‘ Or you’ll what ? ’ asked Cuff, in amazement at this interruption. ‘ Hold out your hand, you little beast ! ’ ‘ I’ll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life,’ Dobbin said, and little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up in amazement. {Concluded at gage 31.)

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CHATTERBOX. 19 HOW HE RODE. A CASE was being heard in a court at Illinois. A ix livery-stable horse had died soon after being re¬ turned, and the person who had hired it was sued for damages. The question turned upon the reputation of the defendant as being a hard rider. A witness was called. ‘ How does Mr. So-and-So usually ride ? ’ asked the lawyer. Without a gleam of intelligence the witness replied, ‘ A-straddle, sir.^ ‘ No, no,’ said the lawyer ; ^ I mean, does he usually walk, or trot, or gallop ? ’ ‘Wal,’ said the witness, seeming to search the depths of his memory for facts, ‘ when he rides^ a walkin’ horse he walks, when he rides^ a trottin’ horse he trots, and when he rides a gallopin’ horse he gallops ; when - ’ The lawyer was angry. ^ I want to know what pace the defendant usually takes, fast or slow.’ * Wal,’ said the witness, ‘ when his company rides fast he rides fast, and when his company rides slow he rides slow.’ ‘I want to know, sir,’ the lawyer said, very much annoyed, and very stern now, ‘ how Mr. So-and-So rides when he is alone.’ ‘ Wal,’ said the witness, more slowly and medita¬ tively than ever, ‘ when he was alone 1 wasn't along, and I don’t know.’ The laugh at the questioner ended the cross- examination. the help of one of his relations, to his hole, where, if it cannot be taken further, they will contrive to break the shell, so as to enjoy a feast on its contents. Indeed, it has been asserted that rats, in their eager desire to obtain eggs, of which they are very fond, will unite their forces, and plan some method of mutual help— such as is represented in the picture before us— which from its very audacity and clever¬ ness, deserves to be crowned with success. Let us hope that when the coveted dainty has been secured, the four robbers who have combined to steal it may divide the contents of the egg-shell fairly. M. THE OIiD APPLE- WOMAH. LD BIDDY was a great amusement to us children, ©specially to the boys. A 1 Iff ' V together JJJ * to a school in the neigh- bourhood, and my two brothers, Owen and Regi- nald, on our way to school, would sometimes stop to tease poor Biddy, or play tricks upon her. She kept a fruit-stall at the end of our street, where she used to sit through heat and cold, summer and winter, with her feet tucked into a basket and a shawl round her poor old shoulders, through the bleak December and the sultry days of July. At dusk a little boy would bring her a large mugful of warm tea and some thick slices of bread and butter. One morning, as we were coming from school, passing an oil-shop, Reginald called * Owen, here’s some size ; let’s paste old Biddy with it ! ’ ^ All right!’ said Owen, diving his hand into the sticky stuff. Reginald grinned, and took a supply also, and they started off. ‘ But, Owen,’ said his brother, ‘ isn’t this stealing ? Shan’t we catch it if we are found out ? ’ ‘ Well, yes, I suppose so,’ was the answer to both questions. ‘ But it is for a good purpose — to serve out a nasty old woman with.’ This seemed to satisfy us, and on we ran, till, turning round the corner, we came to Biddy’s stall, but no Biddy was there. In her place sat the little boy whom we had often seen bringing her tea. ‘ I say, youngster, where’s Biddy ? ’ asked Reginald, in a civil way, but slyly dropping a piece of size among the peppermint-drops at the same time. ‘ She is gone home ; but she will be back after a bit.’ And, in spite of our questions, bribes, and threats, we could get no more information from him. So, as Owen despised hitting a boy smaller than himself (though he did not mind pelting the old woman), we turned to go homewards, Reginald saying, in a grave voice and with upturned eyes, ‘ My boy, do you know it is wrong to tell stories — very wrong ? You might as well own that she has gone to the public-house to have a drop of spirits.’ SAGACITY OP THE RAT. rjIHE common rat is disliked by every one, and with X good reason too, as he is a bold thief, robbing the poultry yard of its plumpest little chickens and ducklings, stealing the housekeeper’s butter and candles, and indeed devouring everything eatable that comes in his way, without shame or compunction. It is even asserted that a very hungry rat will attack an undefended baby, while it is well known that in the sewers of London and Paris, where these vicious creatures swarm in multitudes, they will unite to attack any man whose duty leads him down into these dark and noisome places. Few cats will venture to tackle a full-grown male rat, and even some dogs who attempt to measure their strength against his, are fain to run away howling after the first bite from his sharp and strong teeth. Can anything good be said of such an animal as this? Not much, perhaps, but this at least can be said, that the rat is a wonderfully sagacious and wise creature. It is hardly possible to administer arsenic ^ or strychnine to him, as he seems to detect the poison by his acute sense of smell ; while if he has set his heart on obtaining some awkwardly large and smooth dainty, such as an egg, one may feel quite sure that it won’t be his fault if he does not succeed in obtaining it. Indeed, his perseverance in such matters almost makes one feel that he deserves to succeed in his nefarious attempts. Many persons have asserted that they have seen a rat roll an egg out of a hen’s nest, guide it carefully, perhaps with

Page 27

Sagacity ‘She has not!’ cried the hoy, angrily; ‘she has gone to see Maggie.’ ‘ Stop I ’ cried Keginald ; ‘ you have told enough for to-day. Good-bye. 1 leave you to your fate.’ ‘ I wonder who Maggie is ? ’ said I. ‘ Oh, she is some one invented for the occasion,’ was Owen’s off-hand explanation. of Bats. At this we all laughed. On that same afternoon I had to take a message to the charwoman, who always came to help in the housework on Saturdays. It was a long walk through a low, dirty neighbour¬ hood. At the end of a little street, beset with poor people and noisy children, I found the person I wanted. I gave my message, and gladly started off

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The Old Apple- woman. at a vun to get home again as quickly as possible, when who should I see but Biddy, our Old Biddy ! She was just entering a court between two of the houses. The entrance might have been mistaken for the door of a house. Without thinking what I was doing, I crept close after her. She went to a house at the end, and passed through the open door. I followed, and looked in through the half-opened window. The room was clean and neat, but scantily furnished. At the window hung old muslin curtains ; a box of mignonette stood on the sill. Two rush- bottomed chairs and a three-legged table were in the middle of the room ; a chest of drawers and a couch were placed against the walls. On the couch was a delicate-looking girl, not more than fifteen years of age. Her thin cheeks were pale ; long hair shaded her face, which was lighted up by her soft, languid, blue eyes. Biddy was speaking. I listened. < Maggie, dearest, are you better ? ’ inquired the old woman, in what seemed to me a strangely loving and anxious voice. ‘ Yes, grandmother, darling !’ cried the poor girl, with an accent which showed her Irish birth, clasping her arms around the old woman’s neck. ^ How good of you to come all this long way to see after me! But I am better.’ ‘ 1 could not rest content, leaving you with little Jim. Did neighbour Benton come in ?’ ^ Yes, granny, she came in twice ; the last time she

Page 29

22 CHATTERBOX gave me my broth, and brought me a custard. She is very kind ; so don^t trouble to come up again till you come home for good.’ * Well, well, dear, I won’t, if I can get a neighbour to sit with ye.’ ‘Jim shall bring your tea, granny, dear.’ And then, with a tender ‘Good-bye !’ Biddy came out. Biddy hobbled away, wiping her eyes with the corner of her shawl. I waited till she was out of sight, and then, pushing open the door, I walked in. ‘May I come in and see you?’ I asked, timidly. And Maggie, turning her head, answered, when she got over her surprise, ‘ Yes, and thank you for coming.’ I felt so ashamed of my behaviour to Biddy that I confessed all — how my brothers and myself had called Biddy names, and teased and tormented her. Her face clouded, and tears chased each other down her cheeks ; iDut, quickly drying them, she said, ‘ Yes, I feared that poor grandmother would be treated badly when she first took to keeping a stall. This makes me long to be well and strong. Poor, poor grandmother ! if I could work and help, I could save all this. Dear, good creature ! she never tola me this. Oh, I wish I was as strong as other girls ! ’ ‘ I will never treat her so again,’ I cried, ‘ nor the boys either ; when they know, they will be kind to her.’ ‘Please don’t cry. Miss!’ said Maggie. ‘You have promised that you will not do so again.’ I then begged her to tell me all about her grand¬ mother and herself. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘when I was quite a baby, a nurse-girl let me fall down, and I injured my spine. The doctor said I might live some years and outgrow it, but that I should never be strong. I am obliged to lie down nearly all day. T can stand sometimes for a while, but my back hurts me so afterwards that I am obliged to pass nearly all my time on this old sofa. When little Jim was born, my mother found it a hard job to keep us both.’ ‘ Had you no father?’ I inquired. ‘No,’ said Maggie, with a si^h. ‘Father was a mason; he fell from a scaffolding not long before Jim was born ; he was taken to the hospital, and died there. Then, when Jim was about five years old, came that dreadful fever that Jim had ever so bad, and that took mother away. Jim recovered to find mother had died. Poor lad 1 he was almost broken-hearted. He was too young to earn anything, and, of course, I could not ; so there seemed nothing for us but to go to the workhouse.’ ‘ But you did not ? ’ said I. ‘ No ; granny took us to live with her, and she is good and kind to us. She had a little money sent to her from her son, who went to Canada — just enough to keep herself, but not enough for us; so, as soon as we came to live with her, she set up a stall. Dear old granny ! I wish I could do something to help her ; but I cannot till I get stronger.’ How I reproached myself for my heartlessness ! When I got home I told them all about it. ‘What brutes we were 1’ said Beginald ; and from that day we never teased the old woman, and Biddy, Meg, and Jim became great friends of ours. As we passed Biddy on our way to school we often stopped to say a few words, or to ask after Meg, and many a penny we spent at the stall of the old apple-woman. E. H. THE THEASURB OP THE ‘SAN ANTOHIO.’ fy (Continued from page 15.) ^OON after the smuggler had entered, he was quietly fol¬ lowed by old Ned Mackett, the chief of the excise, sta¬ tioned on the coast. Ned was an acute old man, who was very much in the habit of keeping his mouth shut, and eyes and ears wide open. He had been quietly prowl¬ ing about, that foggy night, and had seen the ‘pedlar’ come along a path which led only down to the water’s edge, bearing this heavy pack upon his shoulders. This had greatly excited the old fellow’s suspicions. He had followed his man up to the little tavern, and he was resolved, by hook or by crook, to satisfy his curiosity as to what that pack contained. Scrawling a hasty note on a page torn from his pocket-book, to warn one of the preventive men to go over the cliff path, and look around for suspi¬ cious characters, he sent it off by the landlady’s little boy. Then, full of his resolve to examine the contents of the pack, he entered the parlour and found himself alone with the suspicious pedlar. Ned Mackett wore no uniform, and in his rough sou’-wester and oilskins looked a great deal more like a channel pilot, or the skipper of a coasting vessel, than one of the ‘King’s men,’ so no distrust was excited in the mind of the smuggler when the old man began to engage him in conversation. I won’t weary you with the details of it, but it will be enough for me to say that, before half an hour had passed away, they became, apparently, on the most friendly terms, and the smuggler, in looking after his own comforts, clean forgot the all-important fact that his pack lay still on the old oak settle in the hall. Shortly after midnight, the new-made ‘friends’ shook hands, and, after arranging to take an early breakfast together next morning, they went upstairs to their respective bedrooms. Half an hour later, Ned’s door was slowly opened, and the exciseman appeared, carrying his boots in his hand ; he crept along the gallery, out of which nearly every bedroom in the old tavern opened. He paused outside the smuggler’s room. The regular sound of snoring, coming thence, caused a grim smile to appear on the old fellow’s face. ‘ Safe,’ he muttered, and straightway he silently descended the stairs. ^ Less than five minutes was enough for his examina¬ tion of the pack, and, of course, his suspicions were at once amply verified. He sat down and put on his boots; then, quietly opening the door, he let himself out, closed it again behind him, and started out

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OHATTEI^BOX. 23 for tlie little whitewashed station-house which served for the excise barracks. An hour later, the ^ pedlar ’ was placed safely under lock and key, and Ned, tireless in the pursuit of his duty, started out again into the foggy night. Taking his way across the marshy meadows, Ned soon struck the path where he had first seen his present prisoner. Before he had gone a hundred yards doT\’n it, he was met by his subordinate, who had been put on the watch by Mackett’s note, written in the tavern. ^ Well ? ' said the old man, shortly. ^There’s something up, here, sir, but I can^t quite make out whaV answered the man. ‘ Four seamen have come ashore from some vessel or other ; I slip¬ ped away behind the sea-wall when I heard them coming, so they never saw me. They walked cau¬ tiously, stopping every now and then to listen, and, as they made one of their halts close by me, I could make out a little of their conversation. One says, Oh, stop your croaking, the schooner’s safe enough on a night like this — why, the fog is so thick that, if a boat passed within two yards of her, she would never be seen and then the other one answers him. Don’t make too sure, mate. I’ve been at this game a bit longer than you have, and, what’s more. I’ve had a taste of chokee over it, and that makes a man cautious ; ” and then they passed on, the voices died away in the thick fog, and I heard no more.’ ^That will do for us,’ said old Ned Mackett to the man. ‘Four of them, you say there were P The little schooner, hey? Perhaps it’s the Little Star herself ! You come on with me, and keep your mouth shut, remember. I don’t want to hear your voice again until I ask you a question,’ and his sub¬ ordinate knew grim old Ned quite well enough to be sure that it wouldn’t be healthy for him if he didn’t obey his instructions to the very letter. In dead silence, the two of them, Ned leading the way, stole down the path towards the shore. They could not see a yard in front of them ; so dense was the fog that they had to almost feel their way along. After a weary walk, their feet touched the shingle on the seashore ; Ned almost stumbled over one of the groins, built at right angles to the edge of the tide, and then, foot by foot, the two men searched along the water’s brinli for traces of the boat by which the four sailors must have come ashore. Before they had gone a hundred and fifty yards, they came across her, hauled up on the beach. Silently the two excisemen shoved her oif, and stepped in. Before they had taken a dozen strokes with the oars, fate, chance, what you will, led them, through the fog, to the side of the very craft of which they were in search. They laid their boat alongside her, and, without a moment’s hesitation, clambered up over her bulwarks. Ned Mackett, despite his sixty years, was bold and brave as a lion. He knew no fear, though he was quite conscious of the extremely risky thing that he was doing. But he had made a pretty shpwd guess at what number of men he would be likely to find on board. Most of these little vessels engaged in the contraband trade carried a crew of half a dozen. Four of these ho knew were on shore, and so he reckoned upon encountering only two. Another point in his favour, on which he had counted, was surprise. But he could not help saying to himself that it was a piece of rare good luck to find no one on deck as a look-out. Probably the dense fog had led the smugglers to forego this precaution. Be that as it may, the deck was clear, and Ned, with his man’s help, quickly had the hatches popped over those below, and securely battened down. Then the two excisemen, without any delay, hoisted a little sail, and, in the faint breeze then coming off the land, the rakish little schooner was soon moving through the water. It was dangerous work for an hour or more, and then, just as the first faint signs of coming day appeared in the sky, the sea-fog lifted and made them visible. Then N ed, who had never left the helm for a moment, put her about, and ran in not far from the same spot where they had found her. A group of stalwart excisemen were quickly on the beach, ready to aid their chief. When the batches were taken off, the Dutch skipper and two hands came up from below, and were promptly secured. Such evidence as sham ballast, which pretended to be pigs of iron, but which were really made hollow for the purpose of receiving ardent spirit which had never paid duty ; false mattresses, wherein could be stowed laces and silks ; floats and anchors for sinking kegs, when in danger of capture, together with certain letters, and written instructions from the shippers of the cargo, proved beyond any doubt what the tivide ' of the Little Star was. Ned Mackett made not only a fine haul, both in prisoners and produce, but the capture stopped the smuggling on that part of the coast for many a year. The authorities were so pleased with the old man’s sagacity and boldness, that they promoted him to be cmef of the Preventive service at the Wight, which was, just then, over-run with the smugglers trading from Cherbourg and Havre-de-Grace, along the French coast. ‘ That’s the story, as near as I can recollect it, just as I heard it from the old fellow at the farmers’ ordinary at Chelmsford,’ concluded Ealph Hurst- bourne. The captain grunted. ‘ Ah ! one of the crew of rascals himself, I shouldn’t wonder.’ ‘ Oh, he made no disguise about the matter. He was one of the men captured below, with the Dutch skipper, and after suffering a term of imprisonment, he was employed in the Preventive service (on the principle of “ set a thief to catch a thief,” I suppose). He then heard such parts of the story as he had had no personal share in, from the lips of the excisemen who had assisted at the capture.’ The next day, after their morning bath, the boys met Farmer Hurstbourne on their way back to the house. ‘ I shall have some work for all of you to do, to-morrow, for I have decided not to miss this chance of fine weather for the haymaking. I hope you are all of you ready to lend me a helping hand, eh ? All hands to the pumps, as you young sailor-boys would say.’ A chorus of assent was the response, and^ directly after breakfast they all, including Captain Ban- natyne, went down to the meadows, where the mowers were already laying the rich grass in great swathes on the ground. {Contimied at page 26.)

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24 CHATTERBOX.

Page 32

CHATTERBOX. “The darky came running up to me 'n itli his teeth rattling in his head from fear.”

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26 CHATTERBOX. THE TREASURE OP THE ‘SAN ANTONIO.’ {Continued from page 23.) W, this grass,’ said the farmer, ‘ must he left to lie as it is until to¬ morrow ; then we shall need every man, woman, and child in the place to make it — that is, to turn it over, and toss it about, to dry in the sun. Skipper,’ he added, laughingly, ‘I shall expect you too to make your¬ self useful. Any contributions, of even unskilled labour, thankfully received, you know!’ ^ ^ Right,’ assented the sailor, between the puffs of a pipe that never seemed to go out. ‘ If I can’t do anything else, I can, at all events, rig up yonder bit of sailcloth to cover the stack till it’s thatched, and I warrant I will do it far better than any of the land lubbers you have got here.’ ‘ Ah, but that doesn’t come until a latter stage, you see. To-morrow you must really try your hand with a fork.’ ^ Well, I’m a pretty good hand when .a knife is added to the fork,’ responded the skipper, ‘ but I will have a try to stick it into the grass, and if I am as successful in forking hay as I am when the roast pork comes my way, I think you will be well satisfied, Ralph, my boy.’ Shortly after sunrise on the ensuing morning, Felix was up and about, attending to his farm duties amongst the pigs and sheep. Having done this, and breakfasted, he headed the party for the hayfield. The morning was a perfect one for late June. ‘Regular haymakers’ weather,’ said Farmer Hurst- bourne, cheerily, as he trudged along in his shirt¬ sleeves, armed with a huge two-pronged fork. The old merchant captain, who, in his heart of hearts, rather looked down on the whole pro¬ ceeding, brought up the rear, eyeing wdth some contempt the fork with which he had been presented. ‘Ralph,’ he growled, huskily, ‘what’s the o'ood of tossing this grass up in the air, and watching it come down again, I should like to know ? Why can’t you put it all in a heap — oh, staeh^ you call it — well, stack, then, without all this dancing it up and down first, eh?’ The farmer laughingly explained that, unless it were dried, or ‘made,’ to use the correct term, it would smoulder or get alight when put on the stack ; and with this explanation the sailor had to be content. The boys worked with a will for the best part of the morning, and very hard work they found it. Nothing looked much easier than tossing the light, sweet-smelling stuff about, but my young readers had better make actual trial of it first before under¬ taking to do any certain quantity within any given time. Hot and tired, they called a halt at noon, and the lads ran off for a dip in the refreshing waters of the trout-stream. Whilst drying themselves, Ben sud¬ denly uttered a cry of alarm, and Felix, half guessing what had happened, rushed up to him just in time to see a small adder dart away in the long grass. It had bitten the young sailor’s great toe ; he had un¬ wittingly trodden on the reptile as it lay coiled up in the sun. ‘ Don’t be afraid, old fellow 1 ’ cried Felix ; ‘ make your toe bleed freely, and then plunge it into the water again — that will wash the wound flean. These adder bites are slightly poisonous, but our labourers here tell me that no harm ever comes when the blood flows at once. Meantime, that adder is con¬ demned to death, and must “suffer the extreme penalty of the law ; ” ’ and, so saying, Felix cut out a stout ash stick from the little copse, and hurried off after the adder, Before going many yards, he overtook it, wriggling its serpentine way through the grass, and with one well-directed blow he Idlled it. It was almost black on the upper part, whilst the lower was of a dull, dirty- white colour. ‘ We have very few of these things about here, I am thankful to say,’ he said, as his two young friends came up ; ‘ though there are several of the common English green snakes — which are much bigger than this — many of them measuring over three feet in length, whilst this adder, as you see, is hardly twelve inches. They rarely grow any larger than that. The snakes, though horrible to look at — at least, I always think so — are quite harmless in their bite. Many of the cottagers take them in for their children to play with! We came upon a colony of them, about a month ago, beneath a fallen tree, and killed nearly a hundred, including the young ones.’ Ben was partially consoled at hearing that his wound was not likely to give him much trouble ; but, nevertheless, his toe swelled and inflamed that night, causing him a certain amount of pain, and, on the advice of the farmer, he kept quiet the whole of the next day. ‘ It reminds me,’ said the old captain, ‘ of a snake which was sent home aboard my ship ten or twelve years ago — a python, I think they called it ; if it wasn’t that, it was a boa-constrictor; I forget which, now. Well, they sent it aboard in a great wooden box, with a darky chap to go along in charge of it to England. We hadn’t cleared the harbour more than a week, when one fine day the darky came running up to me, with his teeth rattling in his head from fear, to say that the great snake had escaped from its box, and was somewhere loose in the ship. ‘ I looked him square in the face and said : “ Snow¬ ball, or whatever you call yourself, you’re the man in charge of this insect. You had better go and hunt around for it; when those serpents get loose, they are apt to make trouble for somebody.” ‘ He shook his head and gibbered : “ No can do ; no can do ! Not liking; ” and that was all I could understand. Well, of course, I saw that it was no joking matter. Half the crew had taken to the rigging by the time I came Up on deck, and I began to think I should have a mutiny to deal with pretty quick if I ordered them down again. So I and the mate and quartermaster, each with a pistol and a cutlass, set to work to hunt the old ship through and through, but not a sign of the snake could we see. We couldn’t see it anywhere, and I don’t

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CHATTERBOX. 27 think an;^ of us wanted to very badly, either,’ added Captain Bannatyne ; ' if some one had told me that Mr. Python had gone over the side, it wouldn’t have taken my appetite away ! But after a time it did really look as though that was what it must have done, for we had hunted every inch of the old ship over, and, you must remember, this thing was of enormous size — no chance of his hiding himself in your coat pocket. ^Next morning we all thought that we were finally rid of the serpent, and the men began to settle down again and get over their fright. I don’t mind con¬ fessing, though, all the same, that I looked pretty carefully around my bunk before turning in that night. ‘ About the middle of the morning, I called to one of the men to jump into the cutter then hanging to the davits, to get out a block which I wanted. It was Harry Pearce — you know Harry, boys ? ’ said the Captain, turning to his sons, who both nodded assent. ^Well, Harry jumps up on to the bulwarks and climbs into the boat. No sooner was he in than, with a screech like a Choctaw Indian, out he tumbles and rushes off up the deck at the rate of forty miles an hour. I thought, for the first moment, that poor Harry had suddenly gone mad. Without a word, he rushes at the ratlins, and, my word, I never saw a man go aloft at the pace he did. He was up to the crosstrees almost before I could find the use of my tongue. ‘ ‘‘ The python,” he yelled, as soon as he could catch his breath ; in the boat — in the boat ! ” ^ Then up comes the black, trembling all over. In boat,” he says, pointing to it, “ in boat ! ’’ ^ “ Well, I reckon you had better go and fetch him out of it,” I answered ; ** you are the man in charge.” ^But Snowball naturally didn’t see it in that light, and, finding the darky had really no more control over the snake than any one else on board, I soon made up my mind what to do. My owners had con¬ tracted to carry the case it was packed in, not a loose live snake, that looked, as he lay coiled up in the boat, about half a mile long. It might be a very valuable article for them who fancied such things, but it was the owner’s duty to have secured it properly, not ours. Under the circumstances, I didn’t intend to run the risk of sacrificing any human life to please snake-fanciers, and so I jubt called out, Lower away the cutter, boys, and tow her astern.” And we hadn’t made the painter fast more than five minutes before my gentleman wakes up to see what the noise of rushing water around him was. Up reared his hideous head, and then he got up, higher and higher. There was a stiffish breeze, and we were going pretty fast through the water, so you may guess it made a smart hissing, that small boat, as it travelled. Whether it was the noise, or what it was that attracted him, I don’t know. Perhaps he saw a fish — the sea just about there teams with them — anyhow, he rose higher and made a sudden dart at something or other. Just as his bod}^ — if you can say a snake has a body — was half over the side, I let drive at him with my old bell-mouthed piece. I had stuffed her full of iron nails, as well as having a bullet in, big enough to hull a “ seventy-four ! ” I fired, and - ’ ^ And it knocked you down, father, eh ? ’ laughed Ben. ‘ Well, yes, it did, but that’s nothing to do with the story. When the smoke cleared away - ’ ' And you had got up again,’ Ben put in. ^ And I had got up again, as you say,’ resumed the old man, who did not like the ^ kicking ’ way of his favourite weapon commented upon in public — Hhe python had gone, and pretty thankful we were for it too. When we got home, those who had consigned the reptile were inclined to make things unpleasant for my owners and me. Why didn’t we take steps to capture it? they asked. I answered them that I didn’t care about playing around with sudden death, and that, before doing business with a python, I would like to go and get insured.’ That quieted them, and they went away grumbling a little, but they never gave us any more trouble in the matter.’ {Continued at page 38.) NOT TO BE BORNE. IT is known that most dogs are affectionate, and that they are jealous no observer can doubt, but that a dog may show true pliilosophy in accepting a hard situation is now and then proved. The Spectator gave an instance not long ago : — A young man had for some years owned a dog which was his constant companion. He married, and moved with his wife and dog into a house on the opposite side of the street from his father’s house, his old home. The dog was not happy, for attentions which had once been his own were now given to the young wife. His master tried to reconcile him to the altered state of things, and the bride tried to win his affection, but he constantly showed his displeasure and misery. One day the master came home and sat down^ putting his arm about his wife. Jack was lying by the fire, and he at once rose, approached the two, and made the usual exhibition of his disapproval. ‘Why, Jack!’ said his master, ‘this is all right. She is a good girl,’ and as he spoke he patted his wife’s arm. Jack looked up at him, turned away and left the room. In a moment they heard a noise, and going into the hall they found him dragging his bed down¬ stairs. He reached the front door, and whined to be let out. The door was opened, and he dragged the bed down the steps, and across the street to his old home, where he scratched for admittance. Since then he has never returned to his master, and has refused all overtures towards reconciliation. ROBERT OF NORMANDY. OBEBT, the eldest son of the Conqueror, when he became a man, claimed the Duchy of Nor¬ mandy. His father thus refused him : ‘ I don’t throw off my clothes till I go to bed ; ’ meaning that he did not choose to give up the Duchy while he was alive and able to rule over it.

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** ‘ It is not new,’ he said ; ‘ here it is torn.’ ” Robert’s legs were very short, and his two brothers, I Indignant with his father for taking their part, William and Henry, nicknamed him ‘ Courta heuse,’ I Robert left home, and, being soon surrounded by or ‘Short hose,’ and otherwise plagued him. One day ' many of his friends, who hated the iron rule of they emptied a jug of water on his head from an | William, he once more demanded to be made Duke upstairs window. He was violently enraged, and i of Normandy. The request was refused, and Robert would have^ stabbed them with his sword, but his | then became a rebel, and got help from William’s father, hearing the noise of angry voices, came in and | enemy, the King of France. He obtained also a roughly stayed Robert’s hand. strong castle, and had many soldiers, whom he paid

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Jl “ Away, away on my skates I go ! ** generously. His father hastened to attack his un- duliful son, and, in one of the conflicts near the castle, he had a hand-to-hand combat with Robert. The father and son were each in complete armour, so that their faces were hidden by their helmets, and they did not know one another. After a fierce en¬ counter Robert unhorsed his adversary, who loudly shouted for help. Robert knew the voice, and leaped from his horse, and, falling on his knees, craved his father’s forgiveness. Peace was made between the two for a time, but Robert felt that he was not really pardoned, and he went away, and never saw his father’s face again. When the Conqueror was on his death-bed, his two other sons, William and Henry, were present, and seemed to be very affectionate ; but there was very little love in their hearts. The dying man left Normandy to Robert, and England to the decision of God, with the hope that William might have the succession. Henry’s share was to be 6000 pounds’ weight of silver. ‘ What am I to do with it.^^’ asked Henry. ^ Bide thy time, my son,’ replied the Conqueror ; ‘ thy chance will come after thy brothers. Be patient, and trust in the Lord.’ William, without waiting for his father to draw his last breath, hurried to England to look after the crown, and Henry went from the bedside to draw his silver ; and so the mighty Conqueror died, forsaken of all. Robert, poor as a mouse, came to Rouen after his father’s death, and became Duke of Normandy ; but quarrels arose directly between him and William. His Norman nobles were ever urging him to claim the throne of England as well, and he promised to cross the Channel with an army ; but he was slow and indolent. He not only failed in getting England, but in the end he gave up Normandy to William for a sum of 10,000/., and joined the Crusaders. While absent on this business, his brother William was shot dead in the New Forest ; and Henry seized the crown, though against the wishes of many, who thought that the elder brother Robert ought to have had it. Six weeks after the death of William, Robert arrived

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30 CHATTERBOX. in Normandy, covered with glory. But here he met with more than his match in his brother Henry, who made war on him, and deceived him, and took him prisoner. He "was cruelly deprived of his sight, and thrust into Cardiff Castle, where he lived for twenty-eight years in darkness and grief. One day his jailer brought him a scarlet robe from the King, his brother. The blind have very sensitive lingers, and, as Robert was feeling the garment, he found a rent in the seam. ' It is not new,’ said he. ‘ Here it is torn.’ \The King did that,’ replied the jailer, ^ as he was trying it on. It was too tight for him, and he tore it.’ Robert indignantly threw the robe away, and said, ‘ So, my brother, the traitor, who put me in a prison and blinded me, now thinks so meanly of me that he sends me his cast-off clothes, as if I were his valet.’ The old historian, Holinshed, has left us this story, and he adds, ^ Duke Robert, after this, refused to take any nourishment, and died in consequence.’ G. S. 0. KING FROST. WoED Puzzles. In the following words, shorter words may be found as the letters stand, without transposing them. 4. — A word of nine letters which is both Old and New. 1. — 1, 2, 3, 4, is a trial, a standard. 2. -3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, is a part of a flower. 3 — 4, 5, 6, 7, is the reverse of wild. 4. — 5, 6, is a part of the most irregular of all verbs. 5. — 5, 6, 7, 8, is a word which expresses agreement. 6. — 6, 7, 8, is a large portion of the human race. 7. — The last letter is the same as the first. 5. — A word of six letters, meaning a heavenly wanderer. 1. — 1, 2, 3, 4, is an arrangement, a scheme. 2. — 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, is a carpenter’s tool. 3. — 2, 3, 4, 5, is pleasant in the country. 4. — 4, 5, 6, is a transparent fabric. 6. — A large town in European Russia ; also a celestial being of very high rank. 1. — 1, 2, 3, part of a circle. 2. — 1, 2, 3, 4, a beautiful form much used in building. 3. — 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, to alter, to make different. 4. — 4, 5, 6, 7, to suspend. 0.— 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, a heavenly messenger. ^ WAY, away, o’er the frozen lake. With the ice so thick that it never could break. Wrapped in my jacket (it’s warm enough). And my hands pushed into my new fur muff. Who does not envy me ? Come now, say, Don’t you envy me skating, this beautiful day ? Who’d stay at home when King Frost is here, The best and the happiest time of the year ? He touches the river, the lake, and the pond, And turns them to ice with his magic wand. While all the country lies deep in snow, A^vay, away, on my skates I go ! D. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 3. — Tbaitspositions. Teanspose the following words so as to make sen¬ tences of the nature of proverbs. 1. Your speech and your manners unaffected let simple be. 2. Anger than kindness better governs. 3. Bring jesting sorrows serious falsehoods. 4. But little many possess much who enjoy. 5. You would to live learn to die as wish. 6. Prudence and industry to honour climb by men. 7. Idleness labour brings pleasure pain. 8. Another’s infirmities at a jest not make. 9. To passion is answer the best silence. 10. Another’s burden feel can none of the weight. 11. Ten hearsays better is one eye witness than. 12. Pain or poverty with sport never. 13. The thief opportunity makes. Sood no feai-s prevent us from should. 15. Perfectly weary perfectly idle one will be that is. lo. Danger debt out of of out. C. 0. 7. — A word of nine letters, meaning one who waits upon another. 1. — 1, 2, a much-used preposition. 2. — 3, 4, 5, the fifteenth part of half of 300. 3. — 3, 4, 5, 6, to aim at, to guard. 4. — 4, 5, 6, a termination. 5. — 7, 8, 9, an insect held up as an example. C. C. 8.— Geogeaphical Anageams. 1. On a perch. A cape at the extremity of a large continent. 2. Oh 1 so cool. A group of islands in the Ghinese sea. 3. Sing on, Kent. A suburb of London, containing a royal palace. 4. One halt. A town in Ireland, on the Shannon. 5. Ha ! the black. A village in Kent. 6. 0 1 that drum. A town in Devonshire, taking its name from a river upon which it stands. 7. Lo ! best soap. A seaport of European Russia. 8. Gay law. A county in Ireland. 9. Try a romp. A town in Cumberland with a good harbour. 10. Bare plants. A town and seaport in Devonshire. C. C. [A7is2rers at 'page 35.] 1. — Trinidad (discovered on Trinity Sunday). 1. Tartary. • 2. Richmond, 3. Inverness 4. Nottingham. 5. Ionian Isles. 6. Dulwich. 7. Andaman. 8. Dunstable. 2. — 1. Sixty. 3. 8 children. 5. 56 yards. 2. 15 and 60. 4. Twenty-four. 6. 26/. 16s.

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CHATTERBOX. 31 TATTLBTOO. AFEENCHMAN said to an Englishman, ‘ T’ere is von vord in your language I do not compre¬ hend, and all ze time I hear it. Tattletoo, Tattletoo — vat you mean hy tattletoo ? ’ The Englishman insisted that no such word exists in English. While he was saying so, his servant came to put coal on the fire, when he said, ^ there, John, that’ll do.’ , . The Frenchman jumped up, exclaiming, ‘Tare, tattletoo, you say him yourself, sare; vat means tattletoo ? ’ YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR NOVELS. DOBBIN OF OURS, IN ‘ VANITY FAIR.’ {Concluded from page 18.) After school on that day, the assembled hoys watched an unusual sight, nothing less than a battle between Figs and the school dandy and bully. At first all the sympathy of the lads was for Cuff, and as he floored the unlucky champion three times running, cheer after cheer rent the air. Young Osborne, who was Dobbin’s second, thought to himself, as he picked up his man, ‘What a drubbing I shall get when the combat’s over r while to Figs he said, ‘ You had best give in ; you know it’s only a thrashing, and I’m used to it.’ But Figs judged differently. Being a left-handed lad, he brought that arm into action, and hit out a couple of times with all his might, once at Cuff’s left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose. Cuff went down that time, to the astonishment of the assembly, and at the sixth round loud cries of ‘Go it. Figs; give it him with the left!’ proceeded from the fickle school-mates, who, a few minutes before, had shouted in eager voices, ‘ Go it, Cuff 1’ to him whom they had deemed the likely conqueror. Thirteen times the plucky lads closed for battle, until at last Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, to stand up again. And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would make you think that he had been their champion through the whole battle. The noise brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs, of course, but Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and said, ‘ It’s my fault, sir, not Pigs’_not Dobbin’s. I was bullying a little boy, and he served me right.’ By which magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but he got back his ascendancy over the boys which his defeat had nearly cost him. Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the tran¬ saction ; — ‘ Sugarcane House, Richmond. ‘ Dear Mama, — I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to you to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight here between Cuff and Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the cock of the school. They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin licked, so Cuff is now only second cock. The fight was about me ; Cuff was licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn t stand it. We call him Figs because his father is a grocer— Figs and Rudge, Thames Street, City. I think as he fought for me you ought to buy your tea and sugar at his father’s. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can’t this, because he has two black eyes. He has a white pony to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a bay mare. I wish my papa would let me have a pony, and I am, ‘ Your dutiful son, ‘ George Sedley Osborne. < P.S.— Give my love to little Emmy. I am cut¬ ting her out a coach in cardboard.’ In consequence of Dobbin’s victory, his character rose prodigiously in the estimation of all his school¬ fellows, and ‘ Old Figs’ grew to be a name of kind¬ ness and endearment. And Dobbin’s spirit rose with altered circumstances ; he made rapid progress, and showed that, although dull at Latin, he was uncom- monly quick at mathematics. To the surprise of every one, he carried off a prize-book at the public midsummer examination. Dobbin attributed this happy change in his circumstances not to his own manly and generous behaviour, but to the sole ao-ency and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom all through life he showed the utmost love and affection. Even before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor of every perfection; to be the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous of created boys. He shared his money with him, bought him presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals, toffee, little warblers, and romantic - books, with large coloured pictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter you might read inscriptions, ‘ To George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, from his attached friend, W^illiam Dobbin, the which tokens of homage George received very graciously, and as became his superior merit. This attachment lasted for life — that is, until a bullet put an end to Captain George Osborne, on the field of Waterloo, and then Major Dobbin befriended his wife and child in a thousand different ways. The late Captain’s little son George, speaking to his mother — the ‘ Emmy ’ for whom the cardboard coach was cut out — said, ‘ I like him, mamma, because he knows such lots of things; and he snot like old Veal, who is always bragdng and using such long words, don’t you know ? The chaps call him ‘ Lono-tail ’ at school. I gave him the name ; isn t it capitM? But Dob reads Latin like English, and French, and that ; and when we go out together he tells me stories about my papa, and never about him¬ self, though I heard Colonel Buckler, at grandiiapas, say that he was one of ^ the bravest officers in the army, and had distinguished himself ever so much. Grandpapa was quite surprised, and said, ‘ That fellow! Why, I didn’t think he could say Bo to a goose,” but I know he could, couldn’t he, mamma . Jamks Cassidy.

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34 CHATTERBOX. OLD CUSTOMS. TOSSING THE PANCAKE. SHKOVE TUESDAY has had, in the past, many curious customs belonging to it which have died out, hut some remain still, and one of these is observed at Westminster School. This is the tossing of the pancake, shown in our illustration, and which was, in the olden time, per¬ formed by the clerk of the school; now it is the cook who appears to toss the pancake. At the appointed time, preceded by one of the Abbey vergers, he marches from the kitchen to the door of the great school. His dress is all white, and he carries a frying- pan containing the pancake, smoking hot. The door is shut, and the verger gives three solemn knocks, when some one wjthin cries out, * Who demands admittance ? ’ The reply is, ‘ The cook,’ and then he enters, to find that the bar which divides the upper school from the lower has been drawn out, and the boys have all assembled in the space beyond the bar. After cautiously whirling the pan three times round his head, the cook flings his pancake over the bar, and amongst the boys, who scramble for it. The boy that gets it has the right to claim a guinea from the Dean, and the same amount is given to the cook. Westminster School was one of those schools which, in former times, had masters remarkable for flogging severely, one of the most famous being Dr. Busby, who was also disliked because he set the boys such difficult exercises. The gentle poet Cowper, who was educated in this school, seems to have fared better when he was there, and he notices another custom of the place, that of rewarding with a silver groat the boys who, in a competition, could write the best Latin verses. But about the pancakes again. Simon Eyre, a wealthy citizen of London, five centuries ago, when he was chosen Lord Mayor, gave all the City prentices a pancake feast. It was this Mr. Eyre who, in A.D. 1446, built the Leaden Hall, a granary for the City, roofed with lead, and which gave name to the w^ell-known Leadenhall Street, in London. Pancakes, we know, can be made any day of the year, but from an early date in English history they have been the special dish of Shrove Tuesday, and in many towns and villages a ^ pancake bell ’ used to be rung on that morning, so that the people might be reminded to prepare their pancakes. J . R. S. C. mOH OB GOLD? England has iron mines, but no gold or silver mines, and yet she is bettter off, in almost every way, than those countries which do possess mines of old and silver, although iron, when it leaves the iln, is a very cheap metal, and gold is very dear. Take a copper coin, and then take as much * pig iron ’ as weighs the same as the coin. The copper coin is worth about thirty times as much as the iron. It is called ^ pig iron,’ because when it melts, and runs down to the bottom of the smelting-place, it takes a shape that has some resemblance to a pig. Then, take a shilling, and an equal weight of pig iron. The shilling is worth about a thousand times as much. That is, you could buy with a shilling a lump of pig iron about a thousand times its own weight, and with a golden sovereign you could buy seventeen tnousand times its weight of pig iron. How, then, is a that England, with her iron, is rich, while the gold and silver mining districts in America are generally poor, and often half-civilised Because England bestows enormous labour on her iron, and turns it into a thousand beautiful and useful articles A pound weight of pig iron is worth a halfpenny. Now, if it IS made into an anvil, it may be worth twopence a pound So its value is raised fourfold by the anvil, which requires no great labour or art in the making But when the iron is turned into such wares as scissors, knives, lancets, watch springs, or the like, it becomes far more valuable; not because of its weight, but because man’s labour and skill have been spent on it.. V\ e, who buy a pair of scissors, pay, not for the metal itself, but for the time and know¬ ledge of the men who have made the scissors out of the rude metal. Look at a needle. It is cheap ; yet some of the very finest sort, we are told, are worth more than their weight in gold ! How, then, are the tables turned! The golden sovereign is worth seventeen thousand pieces of pig iron, each being its own weight ; and yet, when the iron has been converted into needles of the finest delicacy and polish, the gold piece is not worth its own weight of tliem ! Or, consider the main spring of a watch. It is made of steel, by a process which we cannot here describe. To go back to what was said before, a pound of pig iron costs a halfpenny. It is converted into steel. From that steel is made the main spring, and per¬ haps even a more wonderful thing, the hair spring, for a watch. Open your watch, and look at the thing. It weighs only the tenth of a grain, and is worth half a guinea ! The pound of iron, which cost a halfpenny, will provide steel enough for seventy thousand such hair springs, the value of which is thirty-five thousand guineas ! We see, therefore, that iron, by having skill and labour bestowed on it, becomes far more valuable than gold.* Still, as a pound weight of gold is worth seventeen thousand pounds’ weight of pig iron, we expect that the lands where gold is found would be far richer than they really are. Why are they not ? Why is not Peru, why is not Mexico as rich as England ? Well, wages are high, the machinery rude, roads bad, the preparation of the precious metal consumes much time, the mines are sometimes very deep, and the find is uncertain. Many a proprietor has spent as much in getting the gold as he has obtained for it when he had got it. Iron, in the hands of vigorous and industrious men, who know what they are about, is of far more value than mines of gold and silver. Sanfobd. * Some of these statements, as, e.y., the cost of a hair spring, may not be quite exact, but this does not affect the principle, that iron, by man’s labour, is of more value than gold.

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CHATTERBOX. 35 l^APOLEOI^^ AT ELBA. Elba is a mountainous island of an irregular shape, near the coast of Tuscany. It has one high mountain in it. The island contains about 15,000 people. When Napoleon was forced to yield the sceptre of France, the Emperor of Russia suggested that he should have Elba for his kingdom, with an allowance of six millions of francs, that is, 260,000/. a year. It was so arranged, and Napoleon arrived in Elba on the fourth of May, 1814, followed by a thousand veteran soldiers of his old guard, out of the love they bore him. For several months, the great man seemed happy in his new home. He soon visited every part of his island. He lived chiefly at his tiny capital, Ferrajo, but he had three other residences, each in a corner of his island, and he was ever on the move, attended by his staff, from one house to another. h or the^ first few weeks he was looked upon with great dislike because the French had behaved very roughly to the Elbans ; but when he began to employ 3000 men, at three shillings a day, in building barracks and in making fine carriage drives from the chief town and port to distant parts of the island, he became most popular with all classes. And though he was only nine months and a few days in the island, his presence and liberality acted like magic on trade. The whole island seemed wide awake. It had become a new place. Ships of all nations crowded the ports, which before were nearly deserted; and the good wages earned by so many men, filled every house with plenty, and even with luxuries. The military band gave concerts and provided dance music in a large new building, which the Emperor put up for evening amusements, and the little island almost worshipped its generous chief. But, it was noticed by many, that after sometime the Emperor had become an altered man. He no longer took an interest in the public works, which had engrossed his attention when he first arrived ; he often seemed lost in thought, and would pace up and down his room in deep silence, which no one dared to disturb. Alas ! he was plan¬ ning a return to France, and was sending both to France and Italy letters in cipher to his agents in both those countries. He was bent on regaining the throne of France, if he could, and that was only to be done by renewing the war. When he had found out from bis friends that the French soldiers still loved him enough to fight for him, he resolved to put himself once more at their head, and strike a blow for his lost throne. And so he left Elba, with his thousand guards, one evening near the end of February, 1815, and landed in France, where he was received by the army with joy. Great was the anxiety in England, Prussia, and Europe generally. The long and dreadful war, so happily ended, as men thought, was to begin afresh, and naore blood was to be poured out on the earth, as if it were water. Wellington, who was at Vienna at the time, repaired to Belgium, and marshalled the English forces ; old Blucher was again in his saddle, and all the needful preparations were made for a bloody encounter ; and when it came at last, it was, as Wellington called it, a battle of giants, and it gave peace to Europe for forty years. G. S. O. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. 9. — Geographical Acrostic. An island forming a part of Australasia. It is now named after its discoverer, but was formerly called by another name. It is mountainous and well watered, and celebrated for the extreme healthiness of its climate. Its chief production is wool, but it has also great capabilities for the growth of corn, so that it was for many years called the ‘ Granary of Australia.’ In 1842 it was made an English bishopric. 1. A river and lake of the same name in Perthshire. 2. A range of mountains in the south of Europe forming a division between four countries. 3. A group of thirty- eight islands off the coast of Cornwall, of which it is said that only six are inhabited. 4. A city in Italy containing a very beautiful cathe¬ dral, adorned with four thousand statues. 5. An island off the coast of Wales connected to the mainland by a chain bridge. 6. A port belonging to England, in the south of Afi’ica. 7. A group of islands in the Mediterranean forming a republic under the protection of Great Britain. 8. A town in Russia on the Dwina ; the first Russian port which traded with England. C. 0. [Answers at ‘page 62.] 3. — 1. Let your manners be simple and your speech unaffected. 2. Kindness governs better than anger. 3. J esting falsehoods bring serious sorrows. 4. Many who possess much enjoy but little. 5. Learn to live as you would wish to die. 6. Men climb to honour by prudence and industry. 7. Labour brings pleasure, idleness pain. 8. Make not a jest at another’s infirmities. 9. Silence is the best answer to passion. 10. None can feel the weight of another’s burden. 11. One eye-witness is better than ten hearsays. 12. Never sport with pain or poverty. 13. Opportunity makes the thief. 14. No fears should prevent us from doing good. 15. One that is perfectly idle will be perfectly weary. 16. Out of debt out of danger. 4. — Testament. 1. Test. 3. Tame. 5. Amen. 7. T. 2. Stamen. 4. Am. 6. Men. 6. — Planet, 1. Plan. 2. Plane. 3. Lane. 4. Neti 6. — Archangel. 1. Arc. 2. Arch. 3. Change. 4. Hang. 5. Angel. 7. — Attendant, 1. At. 2. Ten. 3. Tend. 4. End. 6. Ant. 8. — 1. Cape Horn. 2. Loo-ohoos. 3. Kensington. 4. Athlone. 5. Blackheath. 6. Dartmoutfl. 7. Sebastopol. 8. Galway, 9. Maryport. 10. Barnstaple,

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86 OHATTEE-BOX. Friends in Need. A WOED POE THE SEAEEOWS. Every one knows the pert, self-sufficient, quarrel¬ some fellow who prefers the noisy street to the green-leaved garden, and who carries on all his family arrangements and disputes in public, not hindered by the presence of man ; but few will be prepared to hear how generous a few of these humble birds once proved themselves to be towards a companion in trouble. x. u. \ a A poor sparrow, while nest-building in the thatched roof of an outhouse, was caught by the leg by a long thread of worsted, which she had been conveying to her nest. Thus fixed among the straws, she could not extricate herself ; she would have died a miser¬ able death had it not been for her companions, who, with much fuss and chatter, gathered round the un¬ lucky one. They fed her carefully, and, no doubt, condoled with her in a language of their own. Several days afterwards the thread gave way and the captive was set at liberty, an event which was celebrated by much chirping. Children, take a lesson in kindness from the humble sparrow. OUR COLONIAL MOUNTED POLICE. 1 mounted police of our colonies are always picked men. Bodily strength, mental vigour, and energy, with fearless courage, are qualities quite necessary to carry them through the dangers with which they may have to contend. They are always armed; they have to risk meeting evil-minded men, as well as wild animals. Among animals, snakes of all kinds are the most deadly. A man can hardly find himself within half- a-dozen paces of an African lion without having at least some intimation of its near neighbourhood ; but it is different with a snake — the most deadly of these creatures may be lying in the grass beneath his horse’s hoofs, and may inflict a fatal injury before the rider is aware of its presence.

Page 44

The Dangers of our Colonial Police. But the danger of fatal injury from a poisonous snake is much lessened hy the fact that snakes are, as a rule, sluggish by nature, and do not attack man unless some provocation has been given. If the creature has been unwittingly trodden upon, of course it will turn and bite; but persons, even children, may pass quite near it, without danger, if only they do not interfere with it in any way. In proof of this, a lady resident near Brisbane, Queensland, told the writer of this, that she has a large field of grass at the back of her house, which is known to be a haunt of more than one deadly snake ; but a path, four feet in width, lias been cut across this field, and has been laid with rough cinders. This path is a short cut to the town, and may be safely traversed by her chil¬ dren, if only they never attempt to walk upon the

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38 CHATTERBOX. grass. This unwillingness to attack man much lessens ^ the danger of snake-bite ; yet in British India, in the last ten years, the official figures tell of 20,000 deaths from snake-bite. But the natives have themselves very much to blame for this, as they refuse to take ordinary precautions, and they walk out of doors in the evening with uncovered feet, thus exposing themselves to terrible danger. The stalwart rider in the picture before us, having his rifie with him, and, doubtless, having his limbs defended by stout leather leggings, may be expected to make short work of the snake which has so menacing an attitude. Fortunately snakes are easily killed, a blow from a stout stick being enough to break the spine, after which it is powerless to do any injury, M. THE DEAN’S REPLY. Dean S VVIFT on one occasion called at a roadside house for shelter from a storm. The lady hap¬ pened to be one of his admirers, and she greeted him with great warmth. ^ What will you take, sir? ’ she inquired. * Will you have an apple pie, a gooseberry pie, a cherry pie, a plum pie, or a pigeon pie, sir ? ’ ^ Anything but a magpie,^ replied the Dean, in his usual dry, sarcastic tone. THE TREASURE OP THE 'SAN ANTONIO.’ {Continued from ‘page 27.) HANKS for the story, skipper. And now, as we have a hard day of ^'pitching” the hay before us, I suggest that we all go to bed,' said Mr. Hurst bourne. ' I’m ready to trip my an¬ chor,’ exclaimed the captain next morning, after break¬ fast, as he picked up an enor¬ mous Panama straw hat and f , . put it on his grizzled bead. ^ About twice round to the mile,' said Ben, lauo-h- mg, as he pointed to the hat. ‘ We might hoist it°on a pole and use it as a tent.' ‘ Nerer you mind, young man,’ said the shipper, with a giin; <it isn’t exactly the thing you would choose for a gale of wind, but under this sun it will be all nght. When the time arrived for carrying the hay, the captain exclaimed that he would take command of the enormous waggon and ' go aboard ’ at once. So say¬ ing, he clambered up over the ‘starn,'as he called ahead ' waggoner to go ‘ full steam The teamster, highly amused at the old seaman’s quaint sayings, at once started his horses, with the immediate result that the captain lost his balance and sat down with much violence on the fioor of the waggon. ^ Belay there,' he cried ; ‘ where’s the helm of this silly craft ? She goes right into a big sea, instead of riding easily over it.’ Then he scrambled to his feet again, whilst Ben ran after him and restored the great Panama hat to his father. As the waggon got abreast of the first haycock, the captain called to the driver to ^ stand by ' and ^ let her go easy.’ They pulled up, and then the loading began. Captain Bannatyne worked manfully in pressing down and packing the scented hay, as men, armed with long-handled forks, threw it up to him. As they got their load higher and higher, and it became thpefore more and more difficult for the loaders to raise their burdens to the top, the skipper waxed valiant in his efforts, and kept on calling out for ^ More hay ! hurry up — you fellows don’t half keep me supplied. More hay, I tell you, more hay ! ’ and he worked away vigorously to keep up his character for being more than equal to any number of those casting up the stuff from below him. ^ Let us all come up to this haycock, and load Captain Bannatyne, as fast as we can go,’ suggested Felix, and soon the three boys were all hard at work, pitching, on the' captain’s waggon, already piled up to^ a great height from the ground. Manfully the skipper battled with the increased forces now supply¬ ing him with material, and still his cry rang out every two or three minutes for ^ more hay ! ' But at length exhausted nature gave in, and, grasping the last huge armful of hay that had been pitched up to him, he rolled down over the side of the waggon, and fell on the soft masses of the stuff below, r?ght in the midst of the astonished workers. As he struggled to his feet again quite unhurt, Felix mischievously asked him what he had come down for ? More hay ! ' answered the old man, with a merry twinkle in his eye. The work went on, but the captain went off. Haymaking was not quite such easy work as it looked, and the rest of that day, from beneath the shade of the big Panama, and soothed by the grate¬ ful fumes of his pipe, he sat and watched his sons and his friends continue their exertions. ^ Now,’ said Mr. Hurstbourne, ^ you’re none of you to eat much to-day, because, as you Imow, I always give a haying” supper to the men, and that supper is fixed for to-night at eight, when you will all be expected to eat enormously. If you do not, the labourers will think 5'ou are proud, and that would never do, you know. It is amazing what their hearty appetites can do, and they cannot understand why we should not eat as much as they do. So I always go to the supper in a half-starving condition, and also have to starve myself for a couple of days after, in order to avoid an attack of indigestion I Therefore, I just throw out the hint in good time.' The supper was a tridy portentous affair. And with what happy, innocent mirth did the honest fellows settle down to their places — all in strict order of seniority of service on the Red Booth ings Farm— and prepare to enjoy the annual festivity. Mr. Hurstbourne was presiding, of course, at the head

Page 46

CHATTERBOX. 39 of the long table, whilst Captain Bannatyiie, much against his will, was made Vice-President for the occasion, and took his seat at the lower end. The lads ranged themselves on either side, chatting with the labourers, and making their guests feel as much as possible at their ease. After supper, the oldest worker on the estate rose to his feet, and proposed health and long life to their master, the founder of the feast; and, if hearty good will could ensure those blessings, Mr. Hurstbourne would undoubtedly have received them. Then, after the farmer had made a modest and suitable reply, Captain Bannatyne, in response to loud demands from all parts of the table, got on nis hind legs,’ as he called it, to say ^ just a few words. 'My lads,’ he began, in his best quarter-deck fashion, ' mv old friend, Ralph Hurstbourne, the sldpper of this big farm, is a man of whom you may all well be proud. My first meeting with him was close on forty years ago, when I was a new boy at the school, and he punched my head almost the first thing.’ Loud laughter here interrupted the captain s oratory for a few moments. ‘ We “ had it^out ’ the next day, and I was a very good second. Prom that time to this I don’t suppose any two fellows have been closer friends than Ralph Hurstbourne and Dick Bannatyne. When he says a thing he means it, and when he means to do a thing he does it. That’s what 1 call a man. There’s a good many imitations of men about nowadays, but our good host is the genuine hall-marked article. Before you all foregather in this room again, for your next festivity , I and my two lads will probably be out on the Pacifac Ocean, a place which I dare say you’ve all heard of as a farm where the only ploughing is done by the stern of a ship and all the stock raised there has fins and scales. But, although we shall be far away in body, we shall be with you in spirit, and, if you have half as good and as jolly a gathering as this one that we are all enjoving to-night, why, you won’t do badly . and, amidst the chink of glasses and rapping of knife- handles on the table, the old tar sat down. After supper the farm hands, male and female, joined in dancing the time-honoured Sir Roger de ‘Coverley, and it was late when these rustic revels were brought to a conclusion, wfith three hearty cheers for Farmer Hurstbourne. ^ ^ . The visit of the Bannatynes to the Red Roothmgs was fast drawing to its close. Each morning the captain looked out anxiously for the^ expected letter which should summon him hack to his ship. On the next market day after the^ haymakers’ supper, Ralph Hurstbourne had told his guests that that^ night Felix must do the honours of the table in his absence, as business would keep him to a late hour in Chelmsford, and the ride home was a long and weary journey which he intended to make on horse¬ back. By riding, he could make a saving in distance of over two miles, as a horse could travel over the rutty tracks which would probably prove fatal to springs and wheels. Born and bred on the hill-side, the farmer could find his way home on the darkest of dark nights. ^ ^ -,1 At daybreak a herd of choice black-faced sheep had been driven off the farm, on their way to the market to be sold. Farmer Hurstbourne followed on horseback some three hours later, intending to sell them in Chelmsford. Business was brisk that day, and merry were the faces of the farmers who had sold their stock we 1. At the farmers’ mid-day ordinary, held at the old ' Cromwell Arms,’ there were some strange faces ot men who seemed to have come from London, but, whether dealing or not, none seemed quite able to say. The talk flowed freely of bargains and prices, of produce and prospects. When the meal Avas finished, and the reckoning duly settled, the merry party gradually broke up, some to return to the market, others, who had already done their business, to prepare for a return to their homes. At the inn door was Ralph Hurstbourne, and, having shaken hands with and bade farewell to several of his friends, he repaired to his lawyer, who lived in the town, in order to give him instructions with regard to the buying of a small farm which adjoined his own. Many matters had to be gone into and arranged, 80 that it was even later than the^ larmer had expected, when, the last document having been tho¬ roughly over- hauled preparatory to the seals and signatures being affixed, he could call in at the stables of the ' Cromwell Arms,’ and get out his stout nag, full of impatience to get home again. ^ He mounted, paid the hostler, and rode out of tne ill-paved yard into the High Street ; then, gently feeling his horse with the spur, he started out on his journey to the Red Roothings Farm. Less than two minutes afterwards, three well- mounted men also turned out from the yard of tne ' Cromwell Arms,’ and followed in the same direction as the solitary horseman. ^ ^ , Ralph Hurstbourne rode on, his pockets heavy with the gold Avhich bis good flock of black-taced sheep had brought him in the market that day ; the good yeoman soon emerged from a narrow lane i^to the open country of Galleywood Common, past^ed the old mill, which threw its deep black shadow from the moonlight right across his path, took the middle road for a few hundred yards, and tnen struck across the common at right angles to the road, his top-boots brushing the yelloAv gorse as^ his good nag jogged along, at a slow trot, in the direction of his own stable. j The three horsemen were still following, and once off the road, and crossing the furze-covered common, they gradually pressed their steeds so as to close on the horseman in front. Then, when some miles had been covered in this manner, and already, in the distance, the twinkling of lights in the windows of the Red Roothings Farm could be dimly seen, one of the three suddenly rode forward, pressing his horse to a canter, until he overtook Ralph Hurstbourne. „ t> oj -a ' Can you direct me, sir, to Handley Barn . said. he, in polite accents. _ . The farmer looked at the man suspiciously, lou are riding somewhat far out of your way for Handley Barn,’ said he, gently drawing his reins through the fingers of his bridle hand and just touching his horse with the spur. ' You should have kept the main road, not crossed Galleywood Com¬ mon at all.’ {Contimied at page

Page 47

40 CHATTERBOX “ Captain Bannatyne foimd haymaking was not quite such easy work as it looked.”

Page 48

CHATTERBOX. Chinese Geese. 1 _ ^ _

Page 49

42 CHATTERBOX. CHINESE GEESE. . 1/ ■ H E common grey goose of '"W l/y^^ wf Great Britain, a web-footed M f "" bird, too well known to cur ikl readers to require descrip- IJ-lf tion, has a representative almost every country in the world, many of these ' foreign geese being gifted with very beautiful plu- mage. Among the most remarkable of these birds is the Chinese goose, which thrives very well in the various ornamental sheets of water about London, where they are, of course, much admired. It is of large size ; the plumage, which is thick and soft, is beautifully varied, brown, grey, and white ; while the shape of the head and bill is unlike that of any other species. A look at our picture will show this. The head is much higher in front, almost having the effect of a hood composed of firm, dark brown feathers edged with white, while the bill is straighter and rather shorter than the bill of any other known variety. The voice, too, varies a little from that of other geese. All geese, as a rule, are cautious and inquisitive creatures, and rather shy of anything which they see for the first time and do not understand. How often we may see them, while passing through a gatewav, stoop as though they expected the roof might touch their heads. In the picture before us we have another instance of the same shy timidity. All these geese are glancing sideways at the motion of a reel of cotton which is being gentlv pulled by an un¬ conscious kitten at play behind the door. As a domesticated bird the goose is of great value, both for the table and on account of its quills and fine soft feathers. The quills supplied all Europe with pens before steel pens were invented, and have not ceased even yet to be in great demand. Geese, if they have free access to water and grass, are easily reared and rendered profitable. K. THE BULL, THE BEER, AHD THE i FLOKA, Bobby Clark is coming to tea.’ ^ Well, Archie, I am glad ^ After tea, it will be too > to go out.’ ^ ^ Yes, Archie, there’s nO' ‘May we come and sit with you. Aunt Flora ? — and will , you tell us about you and the bull F ’ * My dear boy. I’ve told it you a dozen times I ’ ' Never mind, auntie, it’s so queer, and then Bobby has never heard it.’ ‘ Can’t you tell it to him ? ’ ^ Now, auntie, don’t tease ; you know I can’t tell stones.’ ‘No; but don’t you think you might learn .P At least, so that a story might come out better than this : “ Oh ! there was a bull, and it jumped over a fence, and nearly killed Aunt Flora, only it didn’t, don’t you know ? ” ’ I think I shall have to try, some day, Aunt Flora, for it does seem stupid not to be able to tell a thing, liut just this one evening,- 1 do want Bobby to enjoy himself, and to hear it all right, so do please tell it us just this once.’ ‘ Well, Archie, I think I must, as you put it in that way, and I hope Bobby will find it as “queer” as you do.’ bo, after tea, by the fire in Aunt Flora’s pleasant drawing-room, the two boys sat, the one to hear the ‘ queer ’ story for the first time, the other to do what was nearly as good (if not better), to watch the effect of the well-known odd situations on his friend. Archie got his netting, and Bobby was provided with some wool to wind on Aunt Floras winder, as the lady said she did not like to tell or read stories ‘ to idle fingers.’ And then she began. You must know, or I think you do know, Bobby, that every year we spent three months in the Highlands, at a small remote shooting which belono-s 'Uncle Eoderic,’ Mr. Cameron. It Is called Glendennie. One day when we were there, the gentlemen were having ^ an off day ’ — that is, they were not going for any distant fishing or shooting expedition, but were amusing themselves by fishing the burns and river at home ; so they gave me their company at home to luncheon. There were three of them. And at luncheon a sad announcement was made— the beer was finished ! It so happened that they were all drinkers of light beer in preference to anvthing else bo this caused a blank on all the faces. It was easy to write for another barrel, but then it had to be sent to the station, fetched from it, and so on— a three or four days’ business in the remote region where we were. I therefore threw myself into the breach, and offered to drive to the Glendennie hotel, three miles away, and to see what could be got from there. THE HAT GAME. rpHE ‘ flat ’ is a simple and lively game. The -S- players are divided, as for clumps, into two op¬ posing parties. They sit in two half-circles at tlie same^ distance round a hat which is placed on the floor in the centre of them. Two differentlv coloured packs of cards are then given, one to each party, and by them equally dealt out to each player. The players try to throw the cards into the hat in the centre. This is by no means easy. The cards have a way of flying over it, or around it, in a provoking way, even when thrown by good players. The floor with failures. The game is plaved till both packs are exhausted ; then those cards which have fallen into the hat are counted, and the side which has the most of its own colour in the hat wins the game.

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OI-IATTERBOX. 43 I have a pony phaeton and a big* Highland pony at Glendeimie, and an obiect for a drive is what I liked. I proposed at first to take Archie’s two little cousins, May and Flora, with me. They were only six and eight years old, and always ready to come for a drive. But then another suggestion was made, and I had to leave the little maids at home, and to take Duncan, ' the man,’ with me instead. The sug¬ gestion was this. One of the three gentlemen. Major Gibson, had bought a little Scotch terrier from a gamekeeper who lived near the Glendennie hotel, and was intending to pick the little doggie up when he passed the gamekeeper’s on his w^ay to the train, next day. Now, Major Gibson said to me that it would be very kind if I wmuld call for his purchase, and bring it back with me, as he could make better arrangements for the little thing’s comfortable journey if he had it over-night. This I agreed to do, taking Duncan with me to run up and fetch the dog, and reserving the back seat of the phaeton for the hamper of fcer. The gentlemen returned to their fishing and I set off. Arrived at the Glendennie hotel, the kindly people managed to spare me two dozen bottles of beer to till my hamper, but told me it was fortunate I did not want more, as they were just sending for a fresh supply themselves. Duncan and I, well pleased at having secured what -we needed, set off home. The gamekeeper’s cottage was about a mile from the hotel, on the way home ; it was the only house on the way, except one very near to it, with its side to the road, and one upper window that looked down the road towards the hotel. The gamekeeper’s cottage was in a field, with a stout post-and-rail fence between it and the road, and a small green hill that just prevented anything but the thatched roof of the cottage being visible. By this fence we stopped, and Duncan ran up to the cottage to get the little dog. I sat in the phaeton, held the pony, and looked about me. First, at the lovely view up the glen, familiar, but ever new, with its changing lights and shadows. Then I looked at what 1 took to be a cow, probably roaring after its calf, in the gamekeeper’s field ; but I paid very little attention to that — it was a big, black, shaggy Highlander — there were plenty of them about, and I turned to look back at a cloud that seemed to be coming along the hillside, and which very likely meant a shower before I got home. I knew Duncan would not hurry himself. A Highlander does not regard rain, or even perceive it, and he likes ^ a crack ’ — that is, a bit of chat. Then my eyes fell on the hamper of beer. The seat was narrow, and it appeared to me that the hamper was in great danger of slipping. Now, it would be a great misfortune to lose what appeared to be the only supply of beer in the country. At the same time, one scarcely likes to suggest to an excellent, well-meaning, but rather touchy Scotchman, that his tying is not secure. I was therefore meditating getting out, and tying the hamper more firmly myself, when a sudden crash and violent jerk in front recalled my wandering eyes to my pony. They met a most unpleasant and most unexpected sight. The ^ cow,’ which I had quite disregarded, turned out to be a big Highland bull, and it had jumped the fence into the road, smashing the top bar as it did so, and landing right in front of Johnny the pony’s nose. That was the crash. The jerk was a far worse affair, for I never heard of a bull attacking a pony phaeton, and Johnny and I would soon have moved out of his way. But the ^ jerk ’ was a disaster. The shafts of the phaeton were rather long, and curved down in front. Johnny had a particularly short neck. I was holding the reins very loosely and carelessly ; in fact, I am ashamed to say, with a loop about a yard long hanging from the bit on each side. When the bull crashed down right in front of Johnny, he naturally and quickly shrank back into the shafts, which, with their curving ends, ran through the hanging loops of the reins. I, startled by the crash, equally naturally tightened the reins, which effectually fastened them under the shafts, and there we were ! Unfortunately, too, I had pulled the right rein rather the tightest. What then did Johnny do ? He had no thought in his good little head but to do exactly what I wanted him to do — as, believe me, boys, is nearly always the case with our horses, when they can find out what we want, and we do not bewilder them with our own bad tempers and stupidness. So poor Johnny thought I 'wanted him to back, as he supposed it was I who was pulling his head so tight ; also, he thought, as the right rein was the tightest, that he was to go to the right as he backed* The result of this was a most curious backward circular movement on his part, and a most dreadful fear and anxiety on mine. I could do notliing. I stood up and poked at the reins wdth the butt end of the whip, but it was not strong enough to push them free. I ^ whoa’d ’ at Johnny with no effect, and was thoroughly puzzled what to do, feeling that another turn or two must upset me, and I saw no way to stop it. Steadily, quietly, Johnny went round. Happily, the road was wide, and not furnished with a precipice on each side, as is so common on Highland roads. Still, no phaeton can be expected to go steadily round and round in ever- decreasing circles without some catastrophe ! And there was that very precious, and very shaky, hamper of beer 1 I was sure we should all be over in another minute, and the great bull stood looking on ! I could not jump out, for on the right side was the ever- nearing circle of wheels, and on the left side stood the bull, pawing and roaring. I seemed to see the pony, the wheels, the bull, and the toppling hamper all at once, wdien suddenly I heard a dreadful scream, ‘ Oh ! Duncan, Duncan, do come ! ’ It was my own voice. I do not think I had ever screamed before in my life, but this was forced from me, and I think it had the effect of terrifying me more than anything, But an answer came. Not from Duncan — the ‘ crack ’ with the keeper was far too engrossing — but from a stout, burly man, with a thick stick, who was now rushing down the road from the house 1 told you of before, whose one window looked in my direction. A shout, and a whack on the nose to the bull, which quickly sent him back over the fence, and the man was at Johnny’s head, just in time, for the wheels had locked, and we were really tipping over now. As my deliverer seized the reins, I saw that he was the parish doctor, a man used to all sorts of emergencies, and he quickly released the reins and then turned to me.

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44 CHATTERBOX. ‘Well, Mrs. Cameron,^ he said, ‘I have been watch- ing you for a minute or two from the window, but what you were doing I could not make out.’ I said, “ She’s sure no so awful frighted for the bull that she has lost her head altogether ” — for you see I could not see the way the reins had got, and I thought you were turning Johnny round and round.’ 1 laughed. ‘I must have looked odd to you, doctor, but you see now how it was, and my only desire was to stop turning, only I could not do it! Will you fasten that hamper of beer tighter ? ’ This the handy, kindly doctor soon did, and now that all the trouble was over, appeared Mr. Duncan with the wee terrier in his arms. ‘I hope, mem, ye were no frighted for the bull? He’s no just very canny, but I knew well the fence was atween ye.’ ‘ Not all the time, Duncan,’ I said, and then I told him of the performance that had been going on. Very glad was Duncan that all had ended so well, but one more question remained : Why was the doctor sitting in that window at that most fortunate moment? He was watching for his boy to bring his gig, which had been put up at the Glendennie hotel, while he attended to a patient in the house. ‘ It’s a splendid story ! ’ said Bobby. ‘ Thank you so much for telling it to me. But one thing surpr'ses me, and that is, that the bull did not turn on the doctor.’ ^ ‘ Perhaps it would have done if it had been an English bull, Bobby ; but these great Highland crea¬ tures are always accustomed to yield to the shout and the whack of the herd laddie, often a small fellow no bigger than you, and their free life on the hill-sides, grazing with the cows and calves, and never knowing teasing or bondage, does not sour or irritate their temper; though they look most truly formidable.’ ‘ They do. I should be frightened at one, I know,’ said Archie. ‘ But now. Aunt Flora, tell Bobby what you have always called this story when you have told it to us.’ ‘I call it “The Bull, the Beer, and the Baby.”’ ‘ The Baby ? ’ said Bobby. ‘Where is the Baby ? The Bull and the Beer 1 understand.’ ‘ That is what we asked,’ laughed Archie. ‘Well. Mrs. Cameron, please tell me.’ ‘The Baby, Bobby, was the cause of my rescue I He had only arrived in this world about half an hour, and was lying, sucking a very red fist, by his mother’s side, while the doctor stood by the window, and, looking out for his carriage, saw my curious performances.’ ‘ It %oas lucky,’ said Bobby. ‘ It was. I’ve always felt an interest in the little man, who is growing into a herd laddie liimself now, and often I say to him, as I say now to you two boys, “ Never worry a horse when he is standing still ; but, if even you have such a simple thing to do as holding a quiet pony at a door, do it, and don’t think of other things while you are at it.” ’ S. P. POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. TOKQUAY. ^W^HEN one visits Torquay — at present one of the most beau- V \ English watering- places — for the first time, it (/A \ / i difficult to realise that at 1 ALJ!^ beginning of the niue- (X Ar teenth century it was little ^ more than a group of fisher- men’s huts ; but such is the time, how- ever, the advantages of its climate, its peculiarly sheltered position, and its freedom from fogs, caused it to be resorted to by consumptive patients, so that it gradually became famous all over Europe. Torquay is situated on the northern recess of Tor Bay, 220 miles south-west of London, and is screened ky lofty hills on the north-east and west, while open to the sea-breezes of the south. It possesses many fine buildings, many churches— of which St. John’s Church, a striking Early-English edifice, is perhaps the most remarkable. On Chapel Hill are ruins of a chapel of the twelfth century, dedicated to St. Michael, supposed to have formerly belonged to the original Torre Abbey. The remains of the abbey, which was founded a.d. 1196, include a crypt, said to have sheltered some sur¬ vivors of the Spanish Armada. A fine view of the town is obtained from Vane Hill (No. I.), from which elevation the romantic hills and valleys, over¬ spread with terraces, villas, and gardens embowered 1 in the luxuriant foliage of summer, have a very striking effect. We may remind our readers that Tor Bay is celebrated in history as the place where William, Prince of Orange landed, a.d. 1688 ; also that during the war with France, the bay was often used by the British fleet. Torquay is a great yachting station, it has a convenient harbour, and exports a fine lime-stone called Devonshire marble, much valued for building purposes. Anstey’s Cove (No.^ 2.), distance about two miles from Torquay, is considered one of the most beautiful spots on the Devonshire coast, and is much frequented by ladies and children as a bathing-place, being quite safe and very sheltered. The road to the cove winds upwards from Torquay, till it enters a pretty wood, after which the road descends through the trees to the coast. Close to the cove is Bishopstowe, a fine residence built by Dr. Pliilpotts, Bishop of Exeter, who died there. No. 3. — Here we have a pretty illustration of the ruins of Berry Pomeroy Castle, distant about seven miles from Torquay. The oldest part of this ruin is the great gateway and a circular tower connected with it, dating from the thirteenth century. The body of the building is the ruin of a sumptuous mansion begun by the Protector Somerset, brother of Queen Jane Seymour, third wife of Henry VIII., and so uncle to the boy-king, Edward VI. He was an

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Torquay. 1. General View. 2. Anstey Cove. 3. Berry Pomeroy Castle. 4. Cockington Village. 6. Natural Arch. ■ ••• rr

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46 CHATTERBOX. ambitious and unscrupulous man who ended his life on the scaffold. No. 4.-^uite close to Torquay is the pretty little village of Cockington, richly wooded and picturesque m appearance. Many of its old-fashioned little cottages are^ simply buried in flowers. As might be expected it is much frequented by artists, and is a favourite walk for tourists and strangers. No. 5. A curious natural arch in the rocks is represented here, the sea about it having ratlier a Wild appearance. Such natural arches are frequently seen in the west and north of Scotland where they are not uncommon. j) ]3 'IT’S DONE, SIR.’ ONE day an employer said to a youth beginninf>- life as a clerk, ^Now, to-morrow that cargo of cotton must be got out and weighed, and we must nave a regular account of it.’ He was a young: man of energy. This was the 1st time he had been entrusted to superintend the execution of this work. He made his arrangements over night, spoke to the men about their carts and horses. He resolved to begin very early in the morning, and he instructed the labourers to be ready at half-past four o’clock. His master came in, and, seeing him sitting in the counting-house, looked verv black, supposing that his commands had not been executed. I thought,’ said the master, ^you were told to get out that carg’o this mornino*? ’ • done, sir,’ said the young man ; ^ and here is the account of it.’ He never looked behind him from that moment— 1 His character was fixed, confidence was established. He was found to be the man to do the thing with promptness. He very soon came to be one who could not be spared ; he was as necessary to the hrm as any of the partners. THE TREASURE OF THE 'SAN ANTONIO.’ {Continued from page 39.) ^ Y this time the stranger's two companions had quietly closed in on the other side of the farmer’s horse. See¬ ing this, the first comer whipped out a pistol, and levelled it at Ralph Hurst- bourne’s head. ^ Not so fast, farmer,’ exclaimed he. ^ That ex¬ cellent flock of sheep you sold this morning made a do^no7°ee ®*'fsociallst“andf L'^sueh, we hZf J justice of your taking all that gold me for yourself, and leaving us with none of it. In fact, we are inclined to go even a little beyond the ordinary bounds of Socialism, for, instead of making you share it with us, we propose to make you shed it a-ll. Hand over the money ! ’ and, still keeping the pistol up, the rascal extended his other hand as though to receive what he so impudently demanded. AVhilst the man had been sjieaking, the farmer had carefully calculated his chances of escape. He was as one to three, and moreover — a most impor¬ tant point his opponents were armed, whil.'^t he himself carried nothing but a riding-whip. He de¬ cided to try and gain a little time, as they rude slowly on at a walking pace. ^ ell, said he, Hf it be Socialism, when a man has honestly made a sum of money, that others having made nothing are to share it wdth him, I call that robbery.’ Ihe three men laughed; then the first speaker resumed! ^Robbery? No. Why should you have money and I not have it ? Answer me tnat.’ / Because money is to the thrifty and the indus¬ trious, and not to the idle.’ MVhy should not the wealth of the world be equally divided ? Are we not all alike ? ’ /Truly. .But suppose' it were all divided to¬ night; say, in ten years’ time again, w(»uld not the thrittless be poor, and the workers rich.? Wliat would you do then .? ’ asked the farmer, amused with the other’s impudence and in spite of the very awkw'ard fix in which he found himself. Divide again,’ replied the highwayman. ^But come, farmer, though a moonlight ride and the discussion of Socialism is not altogether un pleasing, we must not overlook the business part of our evening’s work ; so shell out wdthout any more delay, or you wdll compel me to end the conversation in a Avay most unpleasant to yourself;’ and, from his oiiginal smooth accents, the man’s voice grew threat- ening and loud. Suddenly dashing out his arm, Ralph Hurstbourne struck up the robber’s pistol wdth such force that the man s owui weapon was driven into his face, inflictino- a severe blow upon his nose. Almost at the same moment he clapped both spurs to his horse, wdiich gave a great leap forward and a snort of ano-er at the unaccustomed indignity. Track — crack ! ’ went two pistol shots, but neither of them took effect, and in an instant the farmer was clear of his assailants, and riding at full gallop in the direction of his not- tar-distant homestead, the others following in hot pursuit, and giving vent to their fury in tones both loud and deep. Hark ! what s that ? ’ said Felix, as faintly on the evening breeze was borne the sound of pistol shots; thats from the Down just below, and the very road that father would be coming home on. and, without a moment’s delay, he snatched up bis {run which always stood in the hall, and ruslied out, bareheaded, into the night. Tom and Ben, the one gra.^ping*^ a stick and the other picking up the poker, followed him. Captain iiannatyne had already gone to bed. Guided by the sound of the furious pallop of horses, the tliree boys rushed on in the moonlight nio-ht till they faintly discerned three or four mounted'^figures

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47 CI-IATTERBOX. careering madly on towards the house. In another minute, Ralph Hurstbouvne dashed by, shaking his fist and laughing in mocking derision at his pursuers. Then, catching sight of the boys, he quickly pulled up, and exclaimed, as he turned his horse to retrace iiis steps, ^ Now, gentlemen, it is our turn ! ’ So great was the pace at which the highwaymen were riding, that they were in the midst of the group on foot before they were aware of it. helix, quickly discovering that, in his haste, he had omitted to load his gun, clubbed it and dealt one of the rascals a tremendous blow on the leg which sent him off, howling like a wounded jackal. Then, taking his hoi’se firmly by the head, the farmer resolutely charged the man nearest him, and knocked his horse completely off its feet. The rider came down with a heavy crash to the ground, but rose to his feet, apparently uninjured, and, in the darkness, made good his escape. The third man got his horse round as quickly as possible, and galloped off at the top of his speed. ‘ The spoils of war,’ exclaimed Ralph Ilurstbourne, as he went up to the prostrate horse, and took hold of its bridle. ‘ Get a lantern, boys, and let us see if the poor beast is injured by its fall.’ Rut, almost as soon as Ben had started off to the house, the horse, after one or two ineffectual efforts, struggled to its feet, gave itself a hearty shake, and prepared to start off again. ^ Oh, come, that’s good, at all events. I am glad to think I did not hurt the poor brute in riding its rascally master down,’ said the farmer. ^We will just take him round to the stables, give him a feed, and make him comfortable for the night, and then get indoors ourselves. Hallo, Felix, boy ! why, what is the matter with you ?’ — for Felix, who had not spoken since the rush of the attack and repulse, was now holding his hand to his head, and looking around him in a dazed way. . , . , . ‘ Let us get him into the house quickly , said his father, a shade of anxiety in his tone. ‘ I am afraid he may have received some unlucky blow.’ .Just then two of the men at the farm came running out, closely followed by Ben, with a lantern in his hand, and between them they soon had the boy into the house, and the two horses round to the stable. -r. T , Directly the light of the hall lamp fell upon Felix s face, it was seen that he had been struck heavily on the temple. Restoratives were quickly administered, and without delay he was got to bed. Next morning, when, at daybreak, his father entered the boy’s room, he found him in a very feverish condition, and at once, calling up the old housekeeper to look after him, he went to the stables, saddled a horse, and rode off for the nearest doctor. Ralph Hurstbourne returned to breakfast, though he felt too anxious to eat. The doctor had promised to drive over at ciice, and he expected him every minute. ^ , n j ^ Shnuld let out a quart or two of blood, and put on A plaster,’ grunted Captain Bannatyne— though where the plaster was to be put on was not very apparent. Like many another of the old race of sea- dogs, the skipper entertained a vague idea that ^putting on a plaster’ must be efficacious, be the injury or the disease what it might. Fortunately for Felix, better advice was soon obtained. Dr. Gulston arrived and quickly made an examination. ^ He has been severely struck upon the head, and is suffering from a slight concussion of the brain, Mr. Hurstbourne,’ he said. ' Absolute quiet, nothing stimulating or exciting, keep the^ darkened, and that is all you can do just now. Ihe doctor was a man of few words, and for him this was quite a long speech. i ^ xt. ‘ Nothing to be afraid of,’ he added, in reply to the father’s anxious inquiry, as he clambered up the tall side of his red- wheeled dog-cart. ‘ Keep ^ him quiet. I shall be over again to-morrow morning.’ For a week Felix suffered terrible pains m his head, day and night, but at the end of that time he began to mend, and, on the day fixed for the departure of Captain Bannatyne and his two boys, he was able to come downstairs for the first time, to wish them farewell. , , « , i j ‘ He looks rather like a ghost , don t he . growled out the old captain. ' Better send him out a sea trip with me. Pull him together quicker than anything, wouldn’t it, doctor? ’ , m i Dr. Gulston had entered the room whilst he was speaking, and to him these last words were addressed. * A. sea voyage — yos, finest thing in the world. But no blood-letting or plasters, captain. Why not send him a trip, Mr. Hurstbourne ? ’ ‘ Well,’ answered the farmer, ' it is such a sudden idea, I don’t even know whether he would like ‘^Bah ! that has nothing to do with it,’ broke in Captain Bannatyne. ' Think I liked to go way first voyage ? Not I ! I tried to hide myself in the coal cellar when the time came, but I was promptly hauled out and put on board. To be sure, I was only ten years old at the time,’ he added. ' Should you like to go, Felix, my boy ? inquired his father, anxiously. . ^ ‘ Oh, yee, father, above all things !— that is, it you can spare me from the farm for the time. Ralph Hurstbourne was silent for a minute or two. Then he quickly made up his mind. The bny was ill and shaken. He might be many weeks, perhaps even months, before recovering his health and spirits at home, and, from personal experience, he knew that no tonic on the face of the earth was to be compared with the health-giving, life-restoring power of the sea breezes. And in confiding him to his old friend, he knew that he was, in effect, giving him into the hands of a second father. Yes, Felix should go. ' Right,’ said the captain. ^ To-morrow week, send him along to Hull, consigned to no, 1 don t mean that ; but {send him to Hull, '>r better still, bring him yourself, Ralph, and then you can see us all off on the good ship, and Mary. Now, is that all settled ? Right ! Boys, the gig is round at the door. Ship the luggage and we will trip our anchor. What Captain Bannatyne was pleased to call the gicr ’ was Mr. Hurstbourne s waggonette, drawn by a pair of sturdy AVelsh cobs, and in this the farmer drove his guests to the Chelmsford station. (Continued at page 54.)

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48 CHATTERBOX

Page 56

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50 CHATTERBOX . yotj:^gsters iig- popular tales. CHAELEY CHANNING.* KCE in three years there fell lio an Exhibition for Helston- leigh CoEege School, to send a boy to Oxford, and groups of eager lads, just let out of school, were dis¬ cussing the jyros and co7is of various candidates. Tom Channing, Gerald York; and ITarry Huntley each had secret hopes respecting it. Iheir progress was about equal, but Tom’s name stood first on the rolls. The lively discus-ion was interrupted by the appearance of the school porter, a cross-grained, grim old man, with a keen dislike for boys generally, and for the Helstonleigh College boys in particular, all of whom he regarded as his born enemies and tormentors. Surly and limpino* he entered the cloisters, from which he would gladly have kept the boys altogether had the matter rested with him. He bore au unfortunate name — Ketch — ^d the boys were not slow to take advantage of it. He came up with an old gig-whip in his hand, which he was fond of smacking round the throno* of boys. He had never yet ventured to touch one of them, and perhaps it was just as well for him that he had not. ‘ Now, you boys, be off with your hullabaloo ! Is this a decent noise to make around gentlefolk’s doors?’ ® ^ Dear me, who’s this?’ began Gaunt, one of the senior boys, in a tone of much politeness. ‘ Boys, do you see this gentleman who condescends to accost us ? I really believe it is Sir John Ketch. AVhat is that m his hand ? A piece of rope ? Surely, Mr. Ketch, you have not been turning off that unfortu¬ nate prisoner who was condemned yesterday ? Bather hasty work, sir, was it not ?’ To such a pitch did they work up the cross-grained old man with their chaff that he left them with threats of future payment. Some little time had elapsed after this encounter, and Mr. Ketch sat in his lodge taking his supper, bread and cheese and ale, when there came a knock at the door, and, in answer to his ^ Drat the door ! whose kicking at it ?’ the mild face of his son-in-la'w, meek Joe Jenkins, appeared. Leisurely finishing his supper and grumbling the while at every mouthful 01 rood, Ketch rose to make his usual round and lock up the cloisters, saying to his companion. ‘Come along of me while I lock up,’ and together the two men sauntered towards the dark enclosed cloisters, which they entered by the west gate. As the two arrived at the darkest part of the cloisters, Jenkins suddenly startled his companion by , Chmmmffs, by Mrs. Henry Wood, is a canit nlot^Vli delightful characters are introduced, and tl fori’ sustained. It may be bougl ior a trifle, or borrowed at any public library. ^ ^ declaring that there was a light in the burial- ground. ‘ Come along ! ’ growled Ketch. ‘ You will say there’s corpse* candles next.’ A moment afterwards a somewhat startling inci¬ dent occurred. The keys were whisked out of Mr. Ketch’s hand, and fell, or appeared to fall, with a clatter on the flags at his feet. He turned his anger upon Jenkins, and, declaring that he believed that Jenkins had snatched them from him, he commanded him^ to pick them up. Jenkins, being a peaceably inclined man, did so, stooping and finding them on the ground. The porter, grunting, seized them, and hurried on to the west door. It was locked. He tried one and then another of the keys, and fumbling and fumbling, and then critically feeling the keys and their w^ards, the truth at length burst upon the unhappy man, that the keys were not the right keys, and that he and Jenkins were — locked in! Ketch shouted and raged, but all to no purpose, until he was surprised by a voice whose tones he knew well acco.sting him by name. It was the Bishop of Helstonleigh’s. He, too, wdth the Dean’s servant — his Lordship had been visiting the Dean — found themselves locked in. The cathedral sexton, whose duty it was to ring the bell, was sitting at supper in his home close to the cathedral when the deep-toned college bell boomed out, and the man started as if a gun had been fired at him. The booming of the bell announced to the world outside the precincts of the cathedral that something was the matter, and aU Helstonleigh turned out to find out what it was, and amongst the rest the college boys, whose practical joke had affected a greater than Ketch, whose keys had been so ‘ mysteriously changed,’ as he himself put it. This mishap to the Bishop, and the risk which the college lads ran by their conduct towards old Ketch, did not deter them from future practical jokes, not always of so harmless a character. Tom Channing had several brothers, one of whom was at school with him, and went by the name of ‘ Miss Charley.’ He was a boy of about twelve, with delicate features, a pink flusli on his face, and wavy auburn hair, with a face of such refinement and beauty that it had gained for him in the school the nick-name of ‘ Miss.’ He was a truthful boy, full of integrity, kind and loving by nature, and a universal favourite. The Channings were a^ large family ; they had been well brought up. Never, since their earliest years of understanding, had their mother failed to assemble her children together for a few minutes’ reading, moTiiing and evenimr. She would take her eldest son, Hamish, when a little fellow of three years old, upon her knee, read to him a short Bible story, suited to his age, and then talk to him ; talk to him in a soft, loving, gentle tone of God, of Jesus, Heaven, of his duties in this world, of what he must do to attain everlasting* peace in the next. Day step by step, untiringly, unceasingly, had she thus laboured to awaken good in the child’s heart, to Kain it to holiness, to fill it with love of God. Hamish was three-and-twenty years old at this time, and he loved those minutes of instruction as he had done when a child.

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CHATTERBOX. 51 Mr. Channing was almost an invalid, his rheuma¬ tism had become chronic; and, althoLigh he was nominally the head of an office, it was Hamish who chiedy did the business, bringing the books home with him, and going over them in the evening with his father. Thus the work was duly transacted, and Mr. Ohaiming retained his salary, and the directors were contented that it should be so, for Mr. Chaniiing had their thorough respect and esteem. Of gentle birth, and reared to no profession, Mr. Channing expected for years and years the inheritance that ought to have come to him, but some enemy set up a claim and threw it into Chancery. At last the case was decided, the decision bringing disappoint¬ ment to the whole family. The story of their bravery under the trial, and the noble way in which each member of the family turned to and did his or her best in the cheeriest spirit makes delightful reading. {Concluded at page 62.) CAPTAIlSr ROBERT. OBERT was kept in the house by a cold, so he flattened his nose against the glass, and watched a military procession pass by. They were in gay uniforms, with bright buttons, and kept step- beautifully. Robert watched until ^ the last glimmer of their bright¬ ness disappeared round a cor¬ ner, then he turned with a sigh to watch his mother put some pies in the oven, and he said to her, ‘ I would like to be a soldier.’ u i , ^ Very well,’ said his mother ^ then I would be. Robert stared at her a few minutes, and then said, ‘•Would be what?’ ‘ Why, a soldier. Wasn’t that what you said you wished to be ? ’ ‘ Well, but how could I be ? ’ ‘Easy enough; that is, if you put your mind to it. A soldier’s life is never an easy one, of course.’ , ‘But, mother, I don’t know what you mean. This Robert said. ‘Don’t! You haven’t forgotten the verse we talked about so long ? Greater is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.” It takes real soldier-like fighting to rule a spirit, I can tell you.’ , , . ‘Oh,’ said Robert; and he .flattened his nose against the glass again and thought. ‘ But, mother,’ he said at last, ‘ I didn’t mean that kind. I would like to be a captain, and have some soldiers under me.’ ‘ Nothing easier,’ said the mother, shutting the oven door. ‘ There are your ten fingers, and your eyes, and your ears, and that troublesome tongue, that hates to obey. I'm sure you have soldiers enough to con¬ trol. I pity any captain who has as troublesome ones.’ Robert laughed. Pie had had so many talks with his mother that he understood her very well ; yet this was a new way of putting it. He stood there a good while thinking about it, deciding that he would be a captain forthwith, and that his soldiers should obey perfectly. Then he wondered what orders he should have to give them first. Poor fellow ! In less than ten minutes from that time he knew. Pie went to the sitting-room, to find that baby Carrie had been there before him. There lay his birthday book on the floor; some of the best pictures in it were torn into bits. Oh, how angry was Captain Robert ! Pie wanted to run after Carrie and slap her naughty fingers ; she was almost two years old, and ought to know better. He wanted to run to his mother, and with red face and angry voice tell his story of wrong, and demand that Carrie should be whipped. He wanted to bury his head in the sofa cushions and cry just as loud as he could roar. W hy did he do none of those things? Just because he remembered in time that he was a Captain, and had soldiers that must obey. ‘ Halt 1 ’ he said to his feet as they were about to rush away; and they instantly obe^'ed. ‘Stop! he said to the tears, as they began to rush up to his eyes; and back they all went, save one little straggler who rolled down his nose, and was instantly wiped out of existence. In short, the boy proved himself a good captain, for that time at least. He even sent his feet upstairs presently, with a rosy-cheeked apple for Carrie, and bade bis arms give her a very loving hug, which they immediately did. Mother found out all about it, as mothers alrnost always do ; and when father came home at night what did he do but bow low, and say, ‘Captain Robert, I am proud to salute you. I hear you have fought a battle and won a victory to-day.’ THE COCK, THE DOG, AHD THE FOX. A DOG and a cock, travelling together, as the even¬ ing came on retired to rest. The cock flew up into a tree to roost, while the dog crept into the hollow trunk for the night. At early dawn the cock began to crow as usual ; a fox, hearing him, im¬ mediately ran to the place from whence the sounds proceeded, and, seeing the cock upon the tree, en¬ treated him to come down, having, as he said, a great desire to embrace him, on account of his sweet melodious sinpring. The cock answered, ‘ Before I come down, I beg you will awaken my friend who sleeps below.’ . ‘Certainly,’ replied the fox; who, supposing the cock’s family to be nestling there, thrust his head into the hole, and was immediately seized and killed by the dog. When just at the point of death, he ex¬ claimed, ‘ What a poor wretch am I, who, in seeking the destruction of another, have drawn down ven¬ geance upon myself.’ — From ‘ Fables Original and iSelected,' by James Nouthcote, R.A.

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52 CHATTERBOX. IS- pi • A CROWN OR FLOWERS. JN the days of old a crown of flowers or even of green leaves was considered a sufficient and honourable reward for deeds of great courage and skill. Such were the prizes given to the athletes of Eome and Greece, and the crowns of merit for the victorious soldiers were of no greater value. Thus Ave still speak of a victor’s ‘ laurels ’ which were wreaths of bay leaves, and a poet’s crown was made from another evergreen called the poet’s laurel Wreaths of flowers were worn by men at all feasts and on grand occasions, and a crown of seven stars was an emblem of immortality. ^Stephen’ means a crown, and a well-known flower called Stephanotis thus derives its name. There is another plant even more lovely called Schubei'tia^ which forms of itself a natural crown of fragrant snowy Howers. It comes from the Brazils, and is a climber and tAAuner like our honeysuckles, and grows to a great length, until it reaches the tops of trees and shrubs. Then it puts out its crown of flowers, which are pure white. It is from this plant that the illustra¬ tion was drawn. The Schubertia (Crown of Flowers).

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stag and Dead Doe. THE STAG AHD THE DEAD DOE rnriIS poor stag has just found his dear friend X Iving dead among the heather. He thought at tirst she was sleeping ; but when he found he could not awaken her, he stood quite still, with large tears flowing from his bright eyes. Poor fellow ! it is very sad for him, on this bright autumn morning, to find his beloved doe shot through the heart.

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54 CHATTERBOX IiATIW QUOTATION'S. A JACKSON was once making a stump AL speech in a small village. Just as he was concluding, some one who sat behind him whispered, Tip them a little Latin, General. They won’t be content without it. ^ Jackson instantly thought upon the few Latin p rases which he knew. They had no connexion whatever with the subject on which he was speaking, nor any manner of meaning as thrown together. In a voice of thunder he wound up his speech by exclaiming, ‘E pluribus unum— sine qu4 ™ parvo— nil despei- andum . The effect was tremendous, and the shouts could be heard a mile off. THE TREASURE OF THE "SAN AHTOHIO.’ (Continued from page 47.) FTER a short visit to his ship. Captain Bannatyne tra¬ velled 'to London, and made his way to some old- fashioned, dingy - looking offices, situated in Leaden- hall Street, to report him¬ self ready for sailing to the owners of the William and Mary. He was received by a ^rely told him, in answL to his inquiry ^for Mr. fnTcordno^seethn.^^*^®^^ is my nam? The young clerk went on softly whistling, but a-ing no notice of the captain’s request. The h^wn^t ** for about five minutes, during which the outer office, examinin| all the mnn! nf°f .Sailing and steam, Ind the far-oii countries hanging on the wall; then attempt to take in his name, the old seaman coollv pushed him out of the way, and walked straight up and’lntered Pti’'ate room, knocked ‘ Morning, sir,’ said the captain. ‘ You will excuse me entenng your room in this unceremonious manner, with w;ork that he seems to have no time to brino' mv name in to you. But he has been making lome n^tha!- " blotting-paper, and^I sup- n- ^ ‘“Portant business than attendino- TPiiig interests of this firm.’ ° be auger as said^- ^ to the clerk, he ^ f complaint of the kind I last Tmikp Wood— let it be the last. I make this remark in your own, not in my interests;’ and, feeling exceedingly ‘small,’ this young man withdrew from his employer’s presence, . vowing all sorts of vengeance upon sea captains in general, and Captain Bannatyne in particular. As soon as the door was closed, Mr. Greenwood, having first shaken hands with the captain and motioned him to a seat, began : ‘As you are aware. Captain Bannatyne, I have had a lifelong experience of the shipping business, and in the course of that business I have had to deal with many things rather out of the common. But I think I am weU within the mark when I say that the voyage on which I am about to send the William and now requires me to teU you of quite the most curious story I have ever fi,^ to do with as a matter of business.’ Mr. Greenwood paused a few moments, and took out a bundle of begrimed papers from an iron box behind him, whilst the captain settled himself in his chair, his hands resting on his knees, prepared to listen to the yarn,’ as he would have called it. Some weeks ago a Spanish merchant, of very high standmg, so T am assured, in Madrid, called upon me here, with an introduction from my own bLkers, two of whom have had a personal knowledge of him for some years past. His object in coming to me was to charter one of our vessels, and this is the story he told: — In 1815, or thereabouts— for there is no precise Rbte^r.1 date— a Spanish treasure- ship, laden chiefly with doubloons and gold pieces, all contained in strongly iron-clamped boxes^ was starting on her way to Cuba, when she was sighted and chased by a French privateer. The San Antonio lor that was the Spanish vessel’s name— having succeeded m eluding her opponent under cover of the night, found herself driven right out of her course when morning broke, and shortly afterwards went ^hore on a miserable, deserted part of the Honduras coast. With his vessel so damaged that he doub+ed It he could ever get her to a port safely again, the captain determined not to risk his Valuable cargo in her. Knowing that privateers and other craft of more than doubtful honesty swarmed in those seas, and that in the San Antonio’s disabled state she must be an easy prey if pursued, he re¬ solved to conceal his treasure in some safe place until “®.®?"'.d/eturn with a sound vessel, to recover it. With infinite labour, therefore, the whole ship’s crew taking their turn at the work, the small treasure che.sts were carried a two days’ journey up into the mountainous passes which lay inland, and there concealed. The hiding-place looked, indeed, as Biough the foot of man had never yet trodden within miles of it. It was a cave about mid-way up the face of a high, steep rock, a.nd by means of ropes the chests were, one by one, hauled up to the cavity, and there swunff in and stowed. Huge pieces of rock were next got up from below in the same manner as the chests had been, and placed carefully over the cave’s mouth. Then the .sailors returned to the ship, and, having thrown overboard much of their ballast, they floated on a favoui able tide. The Spanish captain then took the exact bearings of the spot, and, setting as much sail as he dared upon his cranky craft, he prepared to

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CHATTERBOX. 55 make the best of bis way to the nearest Lai hour for repairs. The Fates decreed that that harbour never should be reached, for, before the San Antonio had been two days on her voj^age, a gale burst upon them which proved too much for the disabled ship, and §he foundered, with nearly every soul on board. Only one man lived to tell the tale wdiich I have just been telling you — the ship’s carpenter. He was a young man and a powerful swimmer. Supported by a hen-coop, he managed to keep afloat for some two hours or so, when a passing vessel picked him up, more than half dead. His hair had turned grey with the horror of his situation, and the poor fellow s brain had been seriously affected from the same cause. For days, it seems, he babbled almost in¬ cessantly, not of the wreck, but of the treasure which he had been assisting to hide near the lonely coast which they had just left. Naturally, sniall heed was paid to what those on board the rescuing vessel concluded were the ravings of a disordered mind, and the poor man was finally set ashore at Cuba, where, for a year or two, he was treated as a hopeless lunatic. After that period he began to regain his reason, and soon he became once more able to resume his trade of carpenter. But no power would induce him to go to sea any more; indeed, he hated the very sight of it. Ten years afterwards he married a woman of Cuba, and settled down in that country for the rest of his life. To his wife and children he often spoke of the terrors he had endured through the wreck of the San Antonio, and of the hidden treasure left in the un¬ known island. But they, knowing how terribly his mind had been unhinged*' by the sufferings which he had gone through at the time, paid little heed to his talk, and were half inclined to think that imagination was playing tricks with him still. Nevertheless, as his elder son grew up, he repeatedly asked his father to explain, if he could, the whereabouts of this hiding-place, and the carpenter, Jos5 Bados by name, tried his best to satisfy him, drawing out a rough chart, and describing the position of the San Antonio at the time they were being chased by the French privateer. The son, brought up to his father’s trade, and without any knowledge of seamanship, gleaned little for his own information, but he carefully put in writing everything let fall by the old J ose. These notes were brought by the young Jose to my friend, the Spanish merchant, whilst he was on a business visit to Cuba some time since, and he has determined, with the aid of two or three of his friends, to charter a ship and proceed, on what I myself ventured to say, was a wild-goose chase. However, as they have offered us so much a month for the chartering, and the terms are liberal ones, I have decided to place the William and Mary, commanded by a thoroughly able seaman (here Mr. Greenwood bovyed slightly to Captain Bannatyne) at their service. There you have the whole story ; it is, I must con¬ fess, a very extraordinary one, but the Spanish mer¬ chant of whom I have spoken has made close inquiry in several directions, and is perfectly willing, as you see, to adventur^ his own money on the enterprise. If it should be a successful one, we, the owners, shall reap our fair proportion of the profits, in addition to being paid the agreed sum per month; and you, as captain, are also to have a substantial percentage ; this we especially stipulated for (it was now Captain Bannatjme’s turn to bow). If it is not successful — and, to be perfectly frank, I do not at all think that it will— well, no one except the Spanish merchant will have any cause of complaint. Briefly, then, your sailing orders will be, first, to find an unknown part of the coast of Honduras; secondly, to search for treasure; and, thirdly, if found, to bring that treasure home with you. The captain rubbed the side of his nose with a thoughtful air. Then he asked Mr. Greenwood for the mass of notes, rough chart, and other papers which he held in his hand. Without speaking a word, the old skipper pored over them for some time. ^How did a ship’s carpenter get this chart, 1 should like to know ’ cannot tell you. I can only throw out such vague suggestions as, that knowing the inamense value of the treasure, and that without this chart it would be impossible to find whereabouts it was hidden, he may have possessed himself of it before the vessel foundered. But this, as say, is sheer guesswork on my part. Bo you think the chart genuine ? ’ ‘ I can’t say. I’m sure, sir. All I know is that I shouldn’t go out on the strength of such a yarn this. But you tell me that you are to be paid handsomely per month for the William and^ Mary, and so it don't matter to you, find or no find.’ < Except that we, and you too, captain, get a fair slice of the treasure if it ever is found. But we shall not be losers, even if it is not ! ’ Half an hour later. Captain Bannatyne shook hands with Mr. Greenwood, who wished him success in his peculiar mission, and left the dingy little office in Leadenhall Street. The following day he was in Hull again, and on board the William and Many, superintending the final touches which were being given to her fitting out. On the day before she was to clear the dock, Mr. Ilurstboiirne and Felix arrived in the town, and the captain and his two boys were their guests at dinner. Rather sad was it on the whole, for impending separation was brooding over the minds of both Felix and his father. To the latter Captain Banna¬ tyne explained the strange commission which he had received, and added that it would certainly be a voyage full of interest for Felix, and a chance to see foreign countries which rarely came in any young lad’s way. Early on the following morning the good ship was passing over the river bar, and encountering the first gentle swell of the ocean. Besides her ordinary crew, she carried our young friend, Felix Hurst- bourne, and two of the Spanish merchants who had adventured their money in the enterprise. A fair wind and pleasant ro'lling seas rapidly bore the smart sailing vessel on the first stage of her long journey. Farmer Hurstbourne returned to Hull on board the tug which had towed her out of the river, and soon lost all trace of the William and Mary, {Continued at 'page 58.)

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CHATTERBOX. “ The chests were one by one hauled up to the cavity.”

Page 64

Page 65

58 CHATTERBOX. THE TKEASTTRE OP THE ‘SAH AWTOHIO.’ , ^V!)^^^^^^Continued from page 55,) £BOUT four months after the departure of the ^ William and Mary from J y A ) England, a smartly rigged making her way leisurely fashion along \ coast of Honduras. if deck a group were ^ ^ e) standing and chatting together, whilst the cap- tain, from time to time, ^ ® swept the coast-line with his glasses. ^ Now,’ said the captain, ‘it seems to me that, if these measurements are in any sort of a way right, we must be very close to where the Sa7i A^itonio went ashore; and, by the same token, I don’t want the William and Mary to follow her example. Perhaps we should not be quite so lucky as she was in getting off again. We don’t always get tides to suit us for that kind of fun.’ The speaker was Captain Bannatyne, and the others of the group comprised our old friends Tom and Ben, Felix Hurstboume, and a dark, handsome man, Senhor Ferdinand Chiquita, one of the Spanish merchants. Felix is greatly changed by the sun and the sea since last we saw him, pale and weakly from the effects of his illness, as he stepped on board ship at Hull. Tanned to a rich brown colour, and a very picture of health, he stood bolt upright, with his hands in his loose pilot-jacket pockets, and his chest well thrown out. ^ The old skipper said, with a touch of pardonable pride at the success of his recom¬ mended treatment: ‘Your own father wouldn’t know you at the first glance, my lad.’ ‘ There is little bay not far from here, captain,’ said the Spaniard, who spoke English perfectly; ‘ but, not being a seaman, I cannot say if the water would be deep enough for your ship to lie there. It is a spot well sheltered from the wind, I know.’ ‘That is just about the sort of place we want,’ answered the skipper ; ‘ but, of course, on an almost deserted coast like this, one must be very careful where one runs a ship into. However, if we can find it, I can send a boat into the bay and explore ‘It is, indeed, a wild coast,’ observed Senhor Chiquita; ‘and, from the little I have seen of the country in years gone by, it is wild people who inhabit it. These South American republics seem quite unable to maintain law and order for any length of time. The dishonesty amongst nearly all the officials has, I think, a great deal to do with the rebellion of the people. Seeing that their rulers are thieves cannot fail to be a temptation to lawless¬ ness and knavery amongst the lower orders.’ ‘ Bight,’ grunted the captain, ‘ always the way. If the leader goes straight, those that follow will do the same. A good captain makes a good crew.’ ‘ Which is the reason, doubtless, why the crew of the William and Mary is so excellent,’ rejoined the courteous Spaniard, with a slight bow. If a blush had been possible for a face so weather¬ beaten as the captain’s, no doubt one would have been seen there. As it was, the old seaman merely coughed uneasily, and again gazed through his glass at the coast which they were slowly skirting. Two hours later, and after another long and earnest spell at his charts, he observed to the two Spaniards : — ‘ It seems to me that we can’t do better than try for an anchorage anywhere about here. Do you see that surf breaking over yonder ? Well, it looks to me as if there was smooth water beyond. I shall have a boat out, and go ashore there directly to see what I can make of it.’ ‘ My friend, Senhor Bocan, and I place ourselves quite in your hands, captain. We have every con¬ fidence in your skill, and we will anchor wherever you think best,’ replied Chiquita, as he lit a cigarette. So greatly had the bluff, straightforward old sea- captain impressed the Spaniards during the long voyage out, that they were both thoroughly satisfied that he would do his best for the expedition in every way. Felix and the two Bannatyne boys accompanied the captain in the boat, only too eager to get a close view of what they called their ‘ Treasureland.’ By the commander’s orders, the boat was directed to¬ wards the line of breakers, and rowed in as close as was considered safe to the angry, curling waves. Captain Bannatyne, after a careful survey of this spot, ordered his men to row along the line of breakers, but well out of their reach. x\n idea had just struck him, and he wanted to see if his guess was a correct one. The boat was pulled along for nearly half a mile, when the line of breakers suddenly ceased. ‘Ha ! I thought as much,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘ By going roiuid here, we get into smooth water; this is a kind of natural harbour, protected from the sea by that line of rocks on which the waves are breaking. If I find water enough inside, here is where we will lay up our ship. No harm can come to her in such a place as this, and the passage is plenty wide enough for one of the tonnage of the William and Mary. But we must first make sure of our soundings.’ It was as he had said. Inside the line of foamings angry breakers, the water ran deep and smooth as an inland lake. This smooth water covered a space of about ten or twelve acres of the shore, and afforded an admirable anchorage. Having thoroughly satisfied himself as to depths and the absence of rocks, the captain ordered his men to run the boat up on the sandy beach, and then he and the boys jumped out and strolled up to the group of rocks which lay not fifty yards from the water’s edge. Here they sat for a while, gazing at the objects around them. A rocky, and in many parts barren-looking, shore led up to sand dunes, and, beyond them, green hil¬ locks, stretching away for some miles in the distance. These were bounded by a darkling range of high

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CHATTERBOX. 59 mountains, forming a sort of background, as it were, for the picture. The captain gazed attentively at them. ^ Ah, it must be up there, somewhere or other, that these old fellows carried their treasure. I’ve been hearing so much about the story, this last four months or so, that I am beginning to get as keen in the search as if it were my ovm long-lost property. But it seems a wild-goose chase, all the same.’ Leaving any further exploration for the present, they soon returned to their vessel, which was gently standing on and off the land, and at once the diffi¬ cult task of getting her through the aperture in the reef, and under shelter of the line of rocks, began. Boats flitted here and there, carrying the end of a hawser, or a coil of light line, or a small anchor, for hauling on, and, once within a cable’s length, they rapidly rowed to the point of a huge rock, and, by dint of strenuous labour, warped the ship along, so that she passed the little group of men on the point close enough for any one standing on her deck to throw a biscuit into the midst of them. There ! she almost grazed the end of the reef as she floated by in deep water. Before evening, however, she had been got past the last point of possible danger, and was gently towed by the boats down to the place which had been previously selected for her by the captain. Here a couple of anchors were let go, which fortunately held firmly; the cable was brought up again on the capstan to just the required length, and the ship was in safe anchorage. The boys crawled out on to the bowsprit, and began to fish, whilst the elder men — the captain and the two Spaniards — sat on deck, gravely smoking, and examining, for the thousandth time, the well-worn chart and written directions for finding the hidden treasure of the San Antonio. ‘ We know,’ observed the captain, Hh at the place must be a two-days’ journey inland. Two days with men heavily loaded, and travelling over mountainous tracks, does not mean far, you know. I strongly doubt whether they would even get twenty miles in the time. To-morrow I suggest that, guided by - these directions, we set out on an exploring expedi¬ tion along the coast. It is quite evident to me that this is not the spot where the Sa7i Antonio went ashore. If she had driven on to any part of that ■ reef over there, I don’t care how calm the weather might have been, she would have been knocked to pieces in twenty-four hours’ time. No, you may take the word of an experienced seaman for this, that that old ship must have driven ashore somewhere where there happened to be no rocks, and. probably if we search along the shore for, say, thirty miles or so in both directions, west and east, of where we now sit (I am sure we are pretty near the place, if these charts are right), we shall be able to give a good guess as to the spot where a vessel covld drive ashore, and yet not get too damaged to float off again, after being fast for nearly a week.’ Senhor Chiquita and his partner agreed that the captain’s plan promised them the best chance of success, and thereupon the plan of the first day’s search-party was determined on. Burning with a natural curiosity to see the new country, the three boys at once volunteered to go ; Senhor Chiquita, the captain, and Dick Baxter, the first mate, com¬ pleted the number. The little party set out early the next morning, determining to walk in a westerly direction; but before they started, a dash into the cool, refreshing sea-water, followed by a glorious swim, prepared the boys for the task before them. Slowly travelled the exploring party along the hot, sun-baked shore, stumbling over the loose shingle, whilst the scream¬ ing of the gay-plumaged parrots and the buzzing of myriads of insects supplied them with ^ music^ in plenty. In addition to an ample supply of pro¬ visions, they carried a camp kettle, an iron pot for boiling purposes, and a small tent. The captain took great care to have his pocket compass with him, although, as they did not intend to leave the line of the shore, there could be no fear as to their finding their way back again to the ship. Two of them also carried small hatchets, and Tom and Felix took their guns and a plentiful supply of ammunition. For the first two or three miles they plodded on without incident of any kind. Then they came across a small stream of fresh water, running over the rocks, and emptying itself into the sea. When this was crossed, Felix got a shot at a white cockatoo, and brought him down. About midday they called a halt, lit a fire, and put the cockatoo into the pot for soup, and very excellent soup it made. Just as they were about to resume the journey a terrible storm of thunder, fightning, and rain burst upon them with truly tropical violence. All hands at once set to work to raise the tent, and get under its shelter. The storm, with short periods of quiet, lasted for several hours, and Captain Bannatyne finally determined that the wiser course would be to remain in their present comfortable quarters for the night, instead of proceeding any further on their journey. They were, they reckoned, some¬ where about twelve miles from the ship, and not more than half a mile from a tiny spring of good drinking water. When the storm had somewhat abated in its violence, Ben and Felix volunteered to go, with the pot and kettle, back to this spring, and get a supply of water, both for drinking and cooking purposes. Felix took his gun, and succeeded in shooting two birds of the paroquet tribe, about as large as the ordinary pigeon, but with long and gaudily coloured tail feathers of mixed blue and yellow. ^ If these fellows make as good soup as the white cockatoo, we shall have something savoury for supper to-night,’ said he to Ben. On the road back again, after having filled the two iron vessels with the bright spring water, they discovered oysters, mussels, and a few crabs. Gather¬ ing up some of the former to show as specimens, they returned to the camp, where the kettle was quickly singing on a blazing fire, which not only served for their cooking, but, almost a,s important, drove away the countless winged and much be-legged creatures who sought to thrust their unwelcome com¬ panionship upon the travellers. (Continued at page 66.)

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A Kookery. A BOOKERY, The common Rook is a bird too well known to require any description. Its nest, composed of twigs and lined with grass or roots, is almost always on a lofty tree, the noisy cawing of the builder in early March being a familiar sign of departing winter. Unlike the crow, the rook is a very social bird, feed¬ ing in large flocks, nesting in rookeries, and sometimes combining to beat off a common foe. They are by no means shy birds, for they often nest in the trees of a town garden, and though afraid of a gun, they show the utmost indifference to a scarecrow. They are always very wide awake, and are clever in choosing tit trees on which to build, and in posting sentinels, who warn the others when any danger threatens. Though quarrelling and mutual robbery are common during the nest-building, they seem to have a social feeling which shows itself in the punishment which they inflict on an offending member. In Scotland it is considered a fortunate thing for a family, if a colony of rooks establish themselves near their place of abode. D. ENCOUNTER WITH A BISON. fPHE munificent animal known as the North X American bison was within recent times very abundant on that great continent, especially on the ptensive prairies beyond the Mississippi River. It is, however, by this time nearly extinct in these localities, although a few herds still remain in Mon¬ tana and in Texas. The reason for this is not far to seek; it is the inevitable result of the increase of cattle-ranching and the spread of railways in every direction. Indeed, one can scarcely imagine a herd of bison existing within sound of a railway whistle. This noble animal, which has never been subdued by man, differs from all varieties of the common ox in many respects. One chief difference is the arched line of the back, which rises behind the neck, the hump thus formed consisting, however, not of mere fat, but in a great measure of the thick and strong muscles which support the huge head. The head and shoulders are covered with coarse, shaggy hair, which adds to the appearance of strength and ferocity exhibited by this animal ; and, indeed, it is remarkable for the strength of its fore¬ parts, an old bull being able to knock down a tree of six inches in diameter. It also at once repels all at¬ tacks of the wolf or of the bear, rushing upon them and trampling them under foot. Wolves and bears, however, are always to be found hanging about a herd of bison in order to devour stray calves, or to worry to death an old or sickly animal which may not be able to keep up with its stronger companions. The flesh of the bison is very good eating, not un¬ like beef, with a flavour of venison, the hump and tongue being especially prized. The skin forms the red man’s blanket, and also covers his tent, and when properly dressed it makes a soft and handsome tra¬ velling wrap, much prized in Canada. It has been computed that, in the days now long gone past, when bisons abounded on the great plains,

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I I t!t “ He dropped on his knees and took deliberate aim at the bison.” adventurous white men to find themselves thus face to face with an infuriated bison, when nothing can save them but a stout heart, a steady hand, and a sure aim, for the animal is only vulnerable in one or two places, the best point of attack being straight between the eyes. On one occasion a Mexican hunter, named Juan Boreza, found himself quite unexpectedly in a three hundred thousand Indians lived exclusively by hunting them on horseback or on foot ; whatever the method of attack, it was always extremely difficult to get within range on account of the bison s keen Bcent, and the speed with which it runs. The cliase is also at all times dangerous, as the animal is very apt to turn upon its pursuers, when even a fleet horse can scarcely escape. It has often fallen to the lot of

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62 CHATTERTBOX. position of peat danger. He had gone out with other naounted and well armed, in pursuit ot bison, when, coming up with a small herd, they at once gave chase, trying to separate two fine animals rom the rest of the herd. This, however, was not easy to do ; the creatures ran hither and thither in much confusion, always finding themselves headed by one or other of the hunters. At length the men got divided themselves, and Juan found himself alone, all his friends being out of sight. But this did not daunt him, for he had great faith in his weapon, his horse, and, we may add, in himself. But a most untoward accident befell the young hunter. His horse, galloping along, trod on a concealed hole, fell heavily, and lay gasping out its life upon the prairie p'ass, while at the same minute Juan saw a wicked- looking bison coming towards him, evidently bent on mischief, its tail in the air and its great head almost touching the ground. It was ‘ now or never ’ with tlie young fellow. He 8ho(^k himself clear of the dying horse, dropped on his knees and took deliberate aim at the bison. As the weapon was discharged, a heavy thud showed that the bullet had gone home, and Juan crave a sigh ot relief as the enormous animal rolled over upon the grass. It was well for him that a couple of other bison which were close at hand turned tail and fled scared, no doubt, by the sound of the firearm, for Juan could do no more; he had been somewhat injured by the fall from his horse, and, now that the danger was past, he lay where he was in a dead taint till his companions returned to look for him. M. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 10. — Squabed Words. I* — I- -A- MUSICAL entertainment; a work. 2. Danger. 3. To destroy, to rub out, 4. One who ascends. 5. Quick, active. 2. — 1. A thought. 2. Expensive; an object of affection. 3. A cardinal point. 4. Skill, dexterity ; cunning. The native of an oppressed country. 2. A sign, a prognostic. 3. To grant for temporarv use 4. Terminations. The name of four rivers in England. ^ ^ S^a^ mountains between Europe and 3. A man’s name. 4. A woman’s name. 5. — 1. Amusement. 2. Solitary. 3. A woman’s name. 4. A natural period of time. Hot the whole ; to separate. 2. A plant which rarely blooms. 3. A beautiful and fragrant flower. 4. A river in the north of England. C. C. U- — Buried Trees, Plants, Flowers. 1. No one has answered the bell. Betsy, ring again. 2. Put the tea- kettle on the fire. 3. That building must have been designed by a very skilful architect. j j 4. When did you last see your cousin, Percival? Monday week in the afternoon. 5. As I was going to the cathedral, I met the dean in the quadrangle. • information you want in the eighth or ninth page. 7. The prisoner was known as Ahaz, alias Benjamin, and several other aliases. 8. Did you offer no refreshment to that poor man ? C. C. 12. — Charades. 1. My first is company. My second shuns company. My third assembles company, My whole amuses company. 2. My first is the whole, So is my second, and also my whole. stormy nights draw near, second makes my first more dear ; My whole with prudent care my first preserves. And thus to be my second well deserves. 4. My fimt is a carriage, my second a favourite, yet my whole is trampled under foot. at page 75.] 1. Tay. 2. Alps. 3. Scilly. .A.3<rs WE E,S- 9. — Tasmania, 4. Milan. 6. Anglesea. 6. Natal. 7. Ionian Isles. 8. Archangel. YOtTH-GSTEBS IN BOPITLAB TALES, CHARLEY CHANNING. {Concluded from page 51.) R. and Mrs. Channing were away in Germany ; Hamish was trying to fill his invalid father’s place at home to the best advantage, taking the keenest interest in the hoys’ school-life during his parents’ absence at the i-n 1 1 when an unexpected 111 overtook Charley Channing. It was about a quarter past seven o’clock when Charley, who had been invited by several of his schoolfellows to take part in another practical joke against Ketch, gained the cloister. The moonlight fell upon the cap of another college lad, who softly whistled to Charlev Channing. The little lad set off at a run. Who the boy was that had given the signal he could not teU, tor the moonbeams had not fallen on the face. When he gained the cloister entrance, he could no longer see him, but he supposed that the boy

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CHATTERBOX. 63 had preceded him into the cloisters. On went Charley, groping his way down the narrow passage. 'Where are you.^^ he called out. There was no answer. Once in the cloisters, a faint light came in from the open windows overlooking the graveyard. A very faint light indeed, for the buildings all round it were so high as almost to shut out any view of the sky ; you must go quite to the window-frame before you could see it. ' I — s-a-a-y ! ’ roared Charley again, at the top of his voice. ' Where are you all ? Is nobody here ? ’ There came neither response nor sign of it. One faint sound, like the click of a lock being turned, fell upon his ear. Charley looked sharply round, hut all seemed still again . The low, dark, narrow passage was behind him, the dim cloisters were before him, and the pale burial-ground, with its damp grass and its gravestones, looked cold and lonely in the moon¬ light. The strange silence — it was not the silence of daylight — struck upon Charles with dismay. ' You fellows, there,’ he called out, in desperation, 'what is the good of playing up this nonsense ?’ He fled down the passage to the iron gate, as a fearful terror crept over him. It was closed. What could have shut it ? He shook it. It resisted his efforts; it was fastened firmly; he was locked in. Locked in the ghostly cloisters, close to the graves of the dead. It was awful, awful ! He sped on down the east quadrangle, and turned into the north, and saw— ah ! what did he see ? — a towering white form, with a ghastly face, telling of the dead, a weird blue flame lighting it up round about. It came out of a niche, and advanced slowly upon him. An awful cry escaped from his heart, and went ringing up to the roof of the cloisters. Oh, that the good dean, sitting in his deanery close to the chapter house, could have heard that hapless cry of anguish ! Back to the locked gate, with perhaps the appa¬ rition following him, or forward past it to the open door — which was it to be ? Instinct took the poor lad to the open door. How he flew past the sight it is impossible to tell, but with his hands stretched out, and his breath leaving him, Charley did get by, and made for the door, the ghost bringing up the rear with a yell, while those old cloister niches, when he was fairly gone, grew living with moving figures — the figures of school- ■^oys — who came out of their dark corners and shrieked aloud with laughter. Away, away, anywhere from the old grey ghostly edifice ; anywhere in his dread and agony. Charley dashed past the boat-house, down the steps, turning on to the river-path, and, in his maddening terror, he plunged into the river — a last wild cry escaping him as the waters closed over his head. When it was found that Charley did not come home, Hamish, and his sisters Constance and Annabel, and his brothers Arthur and Tom, searched, and waited, and watched through the livelong night. Hamish went to work to find him, the police were at work, Tom was at work, but neither sign nor trace could be found of Charley Channing. The next morning many faces went pale as their owners’ consciences smote them when Bill Simms announced to a group of boys, seniors and jjuniors, that ' there was quite a crowd down by the boat-house as I came along. I asked a fellow what it was, and he said he didn’t rightly know, but he thought one of the college boys had been found drowned in the water.’ A conviction that it zoas Charley who was drowned overtook them all. Schoolboys are not quite without hearts, and they would have given all they possessed at that moment to see Charley come fiying amongst them as usual. Before the roll-call was finished, the head master was in school. Tom Channing — it was late for him — entered afterwards. The master beckoned to him. ' Is Charles found ? ’ ' No, sir. We cannot learn any tidings of him at all. We have not been to bed, any of us, and the police are searching also.’ The master made no comment then. He motioned Tom to his desk, and gave the word for prayers. As the boys were rising from their knees, Hamish Channing entered the school, attended by Mr. Ketch, and, after shaking hands with Mr. Bye, the head master, he said, gravely, ' I come to demand of your courtesy an immediate investigation of the doings of the college boys last night. That the disappearance of Charles is in some measure connected with it we cannot for a moment doubt.’ Hamish addressed the boys in a fair and candid manner, and asked the master not to punish the lads for any disclosures that might arise through the steps he had taken. Now, it is only fair to say that the lads who had been in the conspiracy might have freely confessed their knowledge of and part in it had it not been for the news whispered to them by Simms. This sealed their tongues ; they were too much afraid of the consequences to themselves, supposing Charley were drowned, to confess. Certain of the boys drooped their conscious faces and their eyelids, as the master, in severe tones, asked, 'Is there not one of you honest enough to speak ? ’ And Bill Simms felt ready to faint. At last he could stand it no longer, and, forgetting what would be his position in the school if he told, for¬ getting everything but the terror of the moment, as he saw himself in imagination in a dungeon, he blurted out enough of the truth to cause Mr. Pye to cross-question him. The whole trick was soon ex¬ posed, and summary punishment was about to bo dealt to the ringleaders when Biggs, the man who lived at the boat-house, appeared, and, carrying a college cap in his hand, announced, ‘Gentlemen, I am the bearer of bad news. I fear one of the young college lads was drowned last night by my boat-house. We have picked up this cap this morning. It was poor little Master Channing’s.’ ' The affair has become serious,’ observed the Bev. Mr. Pye, ‘ and must be dealt with differently. Poor child ! Poor little Channing ! ’ And the boys, in their emotion, broke into an echoing wail. ' Poor little Channing ! poor little Channing!’ It is only fair to put an end to the suspense which doubtless Chatterbox readers are experiencing by assuring them that after all little Channing was not drowned. He was picked up by a barge, and nursed all through a serious attack of brain fever by the kind, rough woman who was on board. James Cassidy.

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CHATTERBOX. “ He lied down the passage to the iron gate as a fearful terror crept over him.”

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LOOK! GRANDPAPA.

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CHATTERBOX ()■)

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ee CI-IATTERBOX. THE TREASURE OF THE ‘SAH ANTONIO.’ {Continued from page 59.) SEARCH-PARTY was at once organized to go to the spot where the oysters had been discovered, and several dozens of the succulent dainty were quiclily brought hack. Some were cooked, but most of them were eaten in their natural state. Very welcome, indeed, is any change in the way of food after a voyage extending over a good four months. Felix and Ben engaged in an interesting contest, Felix to open and eat half-a-dozen of the bivalves whilst Ben sipped a horn full of water by means of a teaspoon. After a most exciting race, the oysters proved victorious. The party passed quite a merry night in the camp on the shore, and next morning, after a most refreshing bathe in the shallow sea¬ water, they resumed their journey. They plodded on over the loose shingle and jagged sharp rocks, until the day was nearly spent. Then the captain called a halt. ^My lads,’ he said, Ht is no use going any further in. this direction, according to my humble opinion. As you see, this dangerous | reef extends every foot of the way we have journeyed, i and it is, therefore, quite clear to my mind that the San Antonio never went ashore anywhere here. She would have been dashed to pieces at once if she had done so. Now, we know, for a fact, that she not only did not go to pieces, but that she remained somewhere about a week ashore, and then was floated off, injured, it is true, yet not so badly injured but that she could still “ swim the seas.” By that line of simple reasoning, it follows that the spot where she did go ashore must have been at some place where there was soft lying for her, no breakers to knock her about, and no reef for her to grind out her life upon. This reef here seems as if it extends many miles further still, and the old chart tells me that the point of starting the inland journey to bury the treasure was not so far from where the WilliaTn and Mary is now lying as we are at the present moment. That brings us to the end of the problem ; and I say, therefore, that we have come in the wrong direction along shore, and that we must now get back to the ship and make our researches on the east side of her instead of on the west.’ With the rest of the party the captain’s word was law, as, indeed, it deserved to be, for no one of them was so skilled as he in the work which they had in hand. They all obeyed him, and, as he had said they had better return to the ship, they at once prepared to do so. The heat was most oppressive, and the boys were repeatedly tempted to enter the beautiful blue waters surging up so close to their line of march. They did not venture in more than two or three yards from the water’s edge, however, wisely taking Captain Bannatyne’s warning as to the danger of sharks. That night they selected a spot, just above high- water mark on the shore, for pitching their tent ; then they captured three or four crabs, and detached forty or fifty oysters from the rocks to which they clung, and supped luxuriously upon them. The three boys waded into the calm sea-water afterwards, and managed to catch a goodly number of crabs for the morrow’s breakfast, and when, at last, tired out with their exertions, they returned to the camp, they found Senhor Cbiquita just at the beginning of a story of some adventures which he had had many years before in the sun-baked country in which they now found themselves— Honduras. ^ Yes,’ he was saying to the listening skipper, ^ although I am a Spaniard, and Spanish interests are so intermingled with Honduras, I say advisedly that it is a terrible country, either to live in or to do any business with. The people are idle and lawless. You see the low white beach around us ; the people look upon it, lined as it is with its orange, palm, and banana groves, and consider that, as nature has been so boimtiful to them, there is no need for them to worli and cultivate the soil.’ The Spaniard paused to roll a cigarette, whilst the boys .le quietly into the camp, and found places within the listening circle in silence. I left Spain — I was born and educated at Grenada — when I was seventeen years of age, and went out to New York as clerk in a house of Spanish mer¬ chants. I was fortunate enough to gain the respect and confidence of my employers, and all went well with the house until after I had been nearly seven years with them. Then their strong-room was broken open one night, and many thousands of dollars’ worth of bonds were stolen. From one or two trivial circumstances, suspicion fell upon me, and I was actually arrested by the New York de¬ tective who had charge of the case. The very day that I was lodged in prison a fellow-clerk absconded, and, when his desk was broken open, such over¬ whelming proofs of his guilt were discovered as completely cleared me, whilst clearly proving him to be guilty. Thereupon, the partners" in the firm made me a very handsome present by way of compensation for the indignity and inconvenience which I had wrongfully suffered, and the senior, taking me aside, said: ‘Chiquita, you have be¬ haved like a gentleman in this matter, and we are grateful to you. More than this, I am about to entrust you with a most important mission, one not without a certain amount of danger to yourself, which will show what great confidence the firm reposes in you. Of course, you need not undertake it unless you like. We have just been informed by private telegraph that the cashier who has absconded with our bonds is now on his way to Tegucigalpa, by way of Truxillo, a port on the coast of Honduras. Now, in a place like that, it would be hopeless to send the police after him. The people are too law¬ less, and nothing would be gained. But if an unolficial personage were to follow him up, and, when found, bring a certain pressure to bear on him, tell him that all the numbers of bonds of the Regente Corporation

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CHATTERBOX. are known, and that any one attempting to deal with them would surely he arrested, I think he would be very likely to give them up. Will you go ? ’ Of course, I consented at once, only too glad of the chance. Without a day’s delay I started from New York, and had a charming vojage down to Truxillo. A crescent of high, majestic-looking mountains forms the fitting background for a scene as picturesque as it is strange. The white high wails of the harbour are perched upon the natural rock, nearly a hundred feet above the level of the sea. Splendid and yet sad-looking old ruins of Spanish forts and other buildings, vaulted only with the blue arch of Pleaven, and baked beneath the pitiless glare of the sun, and an old church, neglected and decayed, were visible from the ship’s deck ; the dirty, ragged banner of some month-old republic hung listlessly on its pole. Sentries, here and there, idling rather than walking up and down at several points of the ramparts. Such was the impression produced upon my young mind as our ship slowly turned into the pretty harbour of Truxillo. After the shore boat had come off to us with the necessary permission to land, I began to realise that the perils of my journey were now beginning. From the inquiries I, with difficulty, made as I strolled along the broad-flagged piazza — for the place was peopled with a motley dirty-looking crew of Indian half-breeds and negroes, none of whose jargon could I correctly make out — I gathered that it would take me at least three w^eeks to get up to Tegucigalpa, a city seven thousand feet above the sea-level, and that the road there lay through unhealthy, fever- stricken palm groves and forests, in which lurked deadly reptiles and wild beasts, and over mountain passes which were passes only in name. I was not deterred by all this, for I was young, and when we are young, then is our time to do and dare. (Senhor Chiquita heaved a deep sigh as he said this ; then he resumed his narrative.) Well, ao I was saying, not scared by this informa¬ tion, I presented myself before the Alcalde with my letters of introduction, and, at his advice, I purchased stores and mules, and engaged what he called * trust¬ worthy ’ half-breed guides for my expedition. ^That is,’ he explained, lightly, mean that they will not rob you as long as you are awake and happen to be watching them ; further than that I would not like to go. Should you be attacked by any wandering band of marauders, they will imme¬ diately run away and abandon you to your fate. The only thing to trust in, then, is a big revolver. Farewell, my friend, and may the saints protect you!’ Early on the following morning we started out through the straggling jungle, all mounted on mules, and^ having also two pack-animals with us. The Indian half-breeds chanted a low, crooning kind of song as they went along, and after passing over some few miles of low-lying ground, the track gradually ascended, and we entered an awesome, gloomy gorge in the mountains, soon rising to such dizzy heights that I was filled with terror, whenever my eyes were drawn, as by some horrible fascination, to the abyss below us. 67 Arrived, after many hours of terrible and weary toil, at the first peak, we just caught a far distant view of the beautiful bay which we had left behind us, and then we began a descent, as aw^ful in its way as the dreadful climb to the peak liad proved. We passed the night in a filthy, broken-roofed hut, tenanted by wretched, poverty-stricken, and very filthy half-breeds, and, with the first light of day, we were again urging on our weary beasts upon the road. Now and then we passed one or two straggling huts; here and there we met an Indian runner. Snakes, deadly and otherwise, monkeys in scores, parrots by the hundred, we disturbed as we pursued our painful journey. The heat was killing, and we had to halt for at least two to three hours in the middle of each day to avoid the burning rays of the sun, shimmering down upon our heads. After several days of this travelling, we reached the jungle which surrounds the course of the Aguan Fiver. Through groves of mighty tropical trees, of cedar and palm, we pushed our way to the water’s edge, and got ferried across the swift-running stream by some Indians. On the other side, we rested for a time, in a miserable collection of mud hovels, where dwelt a handful of half-breeds and negroes. Here two of my hirelings threatened to desert and return home, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I managed to persuade them to con¬ tinue with me. Indeed, it was not until I had refused to give them a single coin, by way of pay¬ ment for their services, until we should arrive at our journey’s end, that they consented to resume their duties. We next climbed another mountain, the top of which was covered with straggling pine-trees, and, after finally surmounting the difficulties which con¬ fronted us, we emerged, on the other side, into some dreary plains, with, here and there, groups of ■s\Tetched cattle, grazing. After this there were more mountains, more heights to cross over, where a false step must have sent one hurtling two or three thousand feet through space into the brawling torrent below. At last, jaded and almost ‘ sick unto death,’ with a fever contracted in the swampy morasses through which we had had to pass, I rode into the capital, Tegucigalpa. {Continued at page 78.) ALL A MATTER OF TASTE. A CERTAIN African king who came to this country, was one day, soon after his arrival, invited to a garden party. His host thought that he would give him something to eat unlike anything which he had ever tasted before, so he brought him a strawberry ice. ‘Isn’t that good?’ he asked the black man. ‘ Yes, it am berry nice,’ was the reply ‘ but did white man ever eat ants?’ The favourite food in his country consisted of white ants pounded up into a jelly and baked, and the strawberry ice was so very good that it reminded him of this delicacy.

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“ What are you doing here ? ” THE YOUHG WANDERERS. COME, get out of tliis, you young scamp ! What are you doing here ? ’ The speaker was a rough¬ looking man who had entered his stable to put up his horses for the night, and who had felt both surprised and angry to find two children, a boy about nine years old, and a girl somewhat younger, crouching together in a corner. ‘ How dare you come here,’ he repeated, ' without my leave ? What’s your name, and where do you live ? Can’t you speak, boy?’ Then the little fellow, who seemed to be terribly frightened, began to explain. ‘I, came in here,’ he said, ^ because sister was so tired. We have lost our way. We went into a wood to get blackberries, and then it got dark, and when we got out of the wood we were on a different road, and we did not Imow the way home, and poor little Emily was so tired and so frightened. Please will you let us stay here till the morning ? ’ ^ Not if I know it,’ said the man. ‘ Do you tliink I am going to get myself into trouble for the likes of you? As likely as not the horses would kick you to death if I was to let you stay, and I can’t take you into my house, for my wife is away to see her mother

Page 77

“ How still all nature seems Across l)Otli hill and dale ! ” for a spell. So come, jump up. I’ll show you the right road to your home, if you tell me where you live at Eeston,’ said the hoy, ' but poor Emily is so afraid of the darkness, and 1 m afraid, too. ^ Afraid ! ’ said the man. ' A big hoy like you ! What are you afraid of ?’ ' Emily is afraid of lions,’ said the hoy, ^ and I’m afraid somebody might murder us.’ ‘No fear of that so come along. Heston is only a mile away 5 you will be there in half an houi. Now, jump up.’ Then the two terrified children followed the man to the door of the stable, Emily crying sadly, while

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70 CHATTERBOX. Harry tried to cheer her up. ‘It is only a mile, Emily,’ he said. 'Don’t he frightened, dear; I don’t believe that there are any lions in the country.’ ' Of course there are not,’ said the man. 'I would have let you stay in my house if I could, but it’s not possible when the missus is away. So, youngsters, off you go. Keep straight along the road till you come to where four roads meet, then turn to the right hand, and you will see Heston right afore you. And see, there’s a slice of bread and butter for you. Now, off you go.’ And the forlorn little ones, with weary feet and beating hearts, went creeping on in tlie darkness, taking the road which the man had pointed out. ' Harry,’ whispered the little girl, ‘ I’m so afraid of the wood. Keep on the other side of the road,’ she added. ^ ' Oh ! what noise was that ?’ 'I think it rnust have been a crow,’ replied Harry. ' I heard its wings flapping, but it is so dark, I can scarcely see.’ ^ ' Oh ! no, Harry, it was not a crow,’ said the little 8^1* 'Ihere it is again! It is the trampino’ of people’s feet ! Oli, brother ! let us creep intS some corner. It may be wild men coming to murder us ! ’ Now, as Harry was very much afraid of mur¬ derers himself, he followed his sister’s advice ; and the two little wanderers crouched down in the shelter of a hedge, where they lay as still as possible, listen¬ ing with trembling hearts to the sound of advancing feet, which became clearer every moment. After a while they could also hear voices; several persons were approaching and talking together. Then the children could make out the glimmering light of a lantern, but this only added to their fears, for It was evident that a party of people were lookino- for something or some one. ” 'Oh Harry!’ said the girl; 'it must be the mur¬ derers looking for you and me. Oh ! how terrible to be murdered, and never see dear father or mother Hgain ! But Harry did not reply. The light of the lantern was shining full upon the face of one woman of the party, and as Harry saw it, 'Emily!’ he cried, 'it IS mother ! she has come to look for us ! and it is fatiier himself who is carrying the lantern ! Father and mother, hero we are ! here we are ! Oh, how glad to see you, mother!’ iBw moments more, and mother’s arms were round her children, while warni tears were f allin o- •>n their yomig faces. 'My darlings!’ she said” • Oh, why did you run away ? We thought that we had lost you, and father and I have felt heart¬ broken. ‘ But it is all over now,’ said father. ' Here, Harry you carry the lantern, and, wife, give me little Emily into my arms. No one shall carry my little wander¬ ing lamb but myself.’ 'Oh, what a happy meeting this was! what a nappy home-going ! and what happy faces those were that gathered that night round the supper-table ! les, and how the children’s hearts glowed with happiness as they knelt by mother’s side before goino* to bed, with their hands in hers, while she thanked I beir kind Heavenly Father who had restored her -ittle wanderers to their home. B. M. A REVERIE. BOWN from the wooded hill. The balmy night wind blows ; While, gleaming in the soft moonlight. The silvery river flows. Its gentle tinkling sound we faintly hear, Until its waters reach the silent mere. How still all nature seems ! Across both hill and dale. The little birds are all asleep ; But, stay ! the nightingale In this sweet month, the sweetest of the year, Is softly singing in the coppice near. W hen I was but a boy (How long ago it seeips !) My mother’s home was near this spot. But now, save in my dreams, I never see her dear, her gentle face ! And strangers live in our loved dwelling-place. Ah ! Life, what canst thou give To cheer the lonely heart. When from the loved of long ago With tear-tilled eyes we part ? ' Look, look above ! ’ we seem to hear thee say, For Heaven endures when earth has passed away. K. A BIRD’S CRADLE. The nests which birds build in the spring are cradles for the baby birds to lie in until they are old enough and strong enough and clever enough to hop and fly. Grown-up birds do not live in nests; they do not even sleep in the mossy beds which look so comfortable. Birds sleep in trees and bushes, in hay¬ stacks and barns, in old ivy, or on the grass. But little birds must be sheltered more snugly. So their parents take a great deal of pains to make a warm and comfortable cot. Each different kind of bird builds a different nest. Some seem to us more clever than others and weave most beautiful and finished homes. Some throw a few sticks and straws together and call it a nest. Some are content with a hollow scooped out on the bare earth or in the grass. There is one bird which only collects some stones and lines a hollo in the ground with them. This is the oyster- catcher. Does not that seem an uncomfortable place to ^prepare for tender chicks.? We are not in the bird’s secrets at aU, or we might know perhaps that little oyster-catchers like lying on stones best. A bird’s cradle must be placed in the safest place that can be found, as much as possible out of the way of foes. I dare say you think that the worst enemy a bird can have in the spring is a bird-nesting such thing. Birds often choose to build near houses and roadways, for thouo-h we are more likely to find these nests than those” in lonely ^pots, our presence protects them from worse dangers.

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71 CHATTERBOX. I ! I I I A rat is a far more dangerous foe, so is a weasel or a stoat. These creep about by night and by day, seeking what they may devour, and there is nothing they like so much as a nest full of nice eggs or tender chirks. Have you ever found a nest with empty egg-shells lying in it ? These have been sucked by the rata, or their relations. Birds’ nests are often placed on slender twigs at the far end of a branch, where the bough is too frail to support the weight of a fat rat. ^ Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top ; When the wind blows the cradle will rock. This is a true story of baby birds in their nests, and it is not often that the bough will break and the cradle will fall, and down will come baby and cradle and all. Snakes also steal the eggs of birds which build upon the ground. And there are foes that hover above : even birds who ought to know how precious are beautiful eggs and dear little chicks — will steal them from one another. Rooks and missel thrushes are sad offenders, and the fierce hawks are always on the watch to pounce when they get a chance. It is not only for fear of boys that the birds hide their nests deep in the tangled hedge or low in the grass. Some birds know a very clever trick for hiding a nest. They make it look as much as possible like the branch on which it rests. The chaffinch chooses a grey bough, and covers the outside with pieces of grey lichen, so that there is little contrast between branch and nest to attract the eye. Once I found a chaffinch’s nest in the fork of a pine-branch ; the branch was very pink in colour, and the bird had stuck scraps of pink blotting-paper all over the nest, so that it was hard to find ! It must have been on the trail of a paper chase that such a good match was found ; birds cannot count on finding such treasures as pink blotting-paper at a moment’s notice. The robin, whose nest is often found on the ground, under trees, where dead leaves are strewn, weaves in leaves with the grass and twigs as it builds. The wren’s nest in the furze is made to look like part of the native bush. It is generally timid and small birds that disguise their whereabouts so skilfully. They are so little able to defend themselves against a stronger foe, that they must be cautious. All of them, however, are not so wary. Who does not know where the spar¬ row’s nest is ? Bundles and wisps of hay, scraps of rag and paper, always dangle down and betray it; but sparrows are such little fighting cocks, that few molest them. Sometimes it occurs that not only an egg or a fiedgling is stolen— the whole nest is seized. I have sevtS’al times seen sparrows living in a house-martin’s nest. Once a pair got punished by the angry mar¬ tins building them in with mud, so that they perished. The titmouse guards against usurpers by choosing a very small hole for a doorway. If it cannot find one only just big enough to squeeze its little body through, it closes up a larger hole by plastering the edges with mud, so that no larger bird can possibly got in. It is not uncommon to find examples of this in. woods. How much there is for the little parents to think of when birds build nests ! It is no easy matter to guard them safely when they are well built, ihe cock keeps watch on a bough near by when the hen leaves her post to feed. How restlessly birds hover near if we go too close to the cradle. The chaffinch and the hedge-sparrow cry and scream with distress. The nightjar and the corncrake pretend to be wounded, that we may try to catch thein instead ot seeking their nest. The lark and the landrail run away, and pretend to have a nest at the other end of the field to where it really rests. The peewits scream and threaten to attack us as they hover °^EveT timid birds are brave when danger threatens the cradle where the young ones are. F. A. Fulcher. OLD CUSTOMS. r. VALENTINE’S DAY. E wonderful increase in the sending of Christmas and Easter cards in tlie last quarter of a century has almost done away with the sending of valentines. Some five-and-twenty years ago the Post Office used to issue the notices about early posting for Valen¬ tine’s Day, February 14th, which they now give before Christmas and Easter. The observance of St. Valentine’s Day grew out of an ancient spring festival at Rome called the Lupercalia, when the names of the maidens were inscribed on tablets and put into an urn. Every youth drew a tablet, and he was bound to devote himself for the year to the maiden whose hame was inscribed on it. . i j As the influence of the Christian Church increased the clergy desired to check various customs which had grown up at the Lupercalia. When Bishop Valentine was beheaded as a martyr, A*^* the eve of the pagan festival, the Church dedicated February 14th to his memory. But the flirtations of the youths and maidens could not be so easily abolished, and they lingered round the day. In the middle ages English ladies chose on bt. Valentine’s Day their good Sir Knights for the next twelve months — sometimes these valentines had not only to dance attendance, but had to make costly gifts. Pepys tells us that the Duke of York, being the valentine of the famous Miss Stuart, afterwards Duchess of Richmond, did give her a jewel of the value of about 800^. ^ -r. v -u There were various curious old English customs connected with St. Valentine’s Day, but they have fallen into disuse and been forgotten. The last that remained was the sending of a pictured valentine by post, leaving the recipient to I guess who the sender might be; but even that custom has now almost died out, and St. Valentine s Day passes without much observation.

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72 OH ATTJER BOX St. Valentine’s Day in tlie Olden Time.

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i^liiisliiiig Touches CIIA-TTERBOX.

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74 CHATTERBOX. FINISHING TOUCHES. By the Wrong Artist. IfJflHERE was a rising artist, for a while unknown My to fame, Who vowed to paint a picture to shed lustre on his name ; But long before the time he reached the summit of his glory, A sad mishap befell our friend, of which I sing the story. ♦ * * * # He long had sought a subject, his fancy all a-fire, Until at last he fixed his choice on Salisbury’s noble And straight within a neighbouring field he took up his position, • And scarcely ate and scarcely slept, but lived upon ambition. What golden dreams were fiitting through our artist’s fevered brain. Of what wealth would fill his coffers— of the laurels he would gain ! 'R. A.’ should dignify his name— those mystical initials — And soon the great Academy, with all its grand officials. Would point with acclamations to the President’s high chair, And beg our modest artist to at once be seated there. And at the yearly banquet the heir to England’s crown Would request to buy the picture, and pay his thousands down. * * * * ^ But, alas! full soon he learned with grief, ere triumph he had snatched. He must never count his chickens before they’re safely batched. ♦ * * * # He had finished the tall spire, with its backo-rouiid of the sky, ” And a rainbow arch above it, and the storm-clouds fleeting by. And all the middle distance and the foreground at his feet, Till there needed but a touch or two to make the thing complete ; j But ere he put them in he paused for forty winks. I poor fellow ! * | When he was roused from blissful dreams by a tre- i mendous bellow. With beating heart he turned him round to view a raging beast, A monstrous bull, who looked as if he’d swallow him at least. Twas clear he could do nought but fly like mad to save his life, For, had he faced him, sure he must be worsted in the strife. He left his treasures on the field for Mr. Bull to ravage. Who stamped and tore them into bits, to vent his temper savage ; And as the shreds and fragments all like dust were blown av/ay. Our poor young painter turned, and lo ! his golden dreams grev/ grey I The doors of the Academy seemed closed to him for ever ; Instead of victory, defeat had crushed his high endeavour ; And the last concluding touches, on which he had set his mind, Had been added by a furious brute, the maddest of its kind ; And he saw the dazzling prospect, of which his heart was full. Fade all away, because they lay at the mercy of a E. C. Rickards. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. Historical Arithmographs. 13. — The king of ^ a large country in the north-west of Greece ; he was killed by a woman. 1. — 5, 6, 3, 4, 2. Hasten ! 2* — 1, 6, 3, 4. Pussy’s song of pleasure. 3. — 3, 6, 7, 5. A plant ; to move with violence. 4. — 1, 4, 2. To look with curiosity. 5. -7, 5, 2. Timid ; beware your horse does not do it. C. C. II* — The country over which the above reigned. 1. — 2, 3, 1, 4. A landing-place. 2. — 6, 5, 4, 1. Certain. 3. — 4, 3, 2, 1. Mature. 4. -2, 5, 4, 1. Innocent, unadulterated. 5. -4, 3, 6, 1. Get up 1 3*— 2, 1, 4, 5. A country in South America. 7. -4, 5, 6, 1. A trick, a stratagem. 8. --6, 3, 4, 1. A title of respect. 0. C. 15.— A Grecian philosopher, not famed for amiability of disposition. 1. — 8, 5, 7, 1. Part of a plant. 2. — 4, 3. Depart I 3. — 6, 3, 1, 7. A term used in astronomy. 4* — 1, 3, 6. A Spanish nobleman. 5. — 4, 2, 6. A spirit, a snare. 6. — 1, 3, 8, 5. Sent by your doctor. 7. — 8, 2, 4, 6. A symbol, a token. C. C. 16. — Riddles. 1. Why is the letter T like an island? 2. A despotic monarch, a lately discovered planet, a sea monster, a miser’s treasure, a precious stone, a beautiful flower, a common fruit, and a magnificent building, may all be expressed by one common liquid. What is the liquid? 3. What Spanish musical instrument will remind you of a fisher’s occupation? 4. What is that which was to-morrow and will be yesterday ? q q [Ansivers at imrje 91.]

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CHATTERBOX. 75 ^IsTSWEIS/S- 1. 0 p ERA 2. I D E A 3. P 0 L E p E R I L DEAR OMEN E B A s E EAST LEND R I S E R ARTS ENDS A L E R T 4. 0 U S E 5. P L A X G. P A R T u R A L LONE ALOE B A U L ANNA ROSE E L L A YEAR TEES — 1. Syringa. 4. Almond. 7. Azalia. 2. Teak. 5. Lime. 8. Fern. 3. Larch . 6. Thorn. 12.— 1. Co-nun-drum. 3. House-wife. 2. Al so. 4. Car-pet. THE STOHY OF NELSON. oft- told tale, you will say. Ay, and so it is ; but wherever the red ensign of St. George shall wave, wherever English hearts beat under English breasts, wherever the brave old battle-cry, ^ For God and the King,’ is heard, there will be those, both old and young, w'ho will listen to the story of a man who, with many faults, like all the rest of mankind, yet placed his duty in the forefront of everything, sacrificing health, comfort, and, finally, life itself, in striving, according to his lights, to serve his God, his country, and his King. The Reverend Edmund Nelson was rector of Burn- ham-Thorpe, in Norfolk, when, in September 1758, England’s future naval hero was born. Of a delicate constitution, young Horatio was only enabled to take part in the sports of his eight sur¬ viving brothers and sisters by his resolute courage and high spirits, which overcame the difficulties arising from weakness and a puny stature. On the death of his mother, his uncle. Captain Suckling, promised to provide for one of the boys at sea; but Horatio was only nine years old at the time, and was therefore, together with his brother, sent to a school at North Walsham. Upon one occasion, when two of the boys were returning to school, in mid-winter, on horseback, they found the snow so deep that, not being over¬ anxious to resume their studies, they returned, and told their father of the state of the road.^ * In that case, you shall not go,’ said he; ‘but make another attempt, and I will leave it to your honour.’ The bo3^s again started, and found that the snow was, indeed, deep enough to justify their return. ‘ The snow is far too deep/ said William, ‘we must go home again.’ I ‘ No,’ answered Horatio, ‘ we must go on. Re¬ member, it was left to our honour,' and they pressed on, and safely reached North Walsham. At ten years of age, Horatio was summoned, by special messenger, to leave school and join the Raisonable, then laying in the Medway, to which ship Captain Suckling had just been appointed. After serving a short time here, and taking a voyage in a merchantman to the West Indies, Nelson rejoined his uncle on board the Triumph. Soon after, he volunteered as cockswain on the expedition then fitting out for a voyage of discovery to the North Pole, and distinguished himself by chasing a polar bear over the ice in a thick fog all night, until a signal of recall was made from the ship. After many changes of sea and climate, and after many sufferings, and after much hard work. Nelson passed, in a.d. 1777, a hard examination by the Naval Board, presided over by his uncle. When the examination was concluded, Captain Suckling introduced TIoratio to his colleagues as his nephew. ‘ Why not have told us this before ? ’ asked one of the examiners. ‘ 1 did not want the youngster to be favoured,’ was the answer. Horatio Nelson was then appointed to the frigate Jjoivestoft, and sailed for Jamaica. At the age of twenty-one he was given the command of the Badger, and shortly after promoted to post-captain in the Hincheiihrook, which formed one of the squadron sent on the unsuccessful attempt to take Fort San Juan. The deadly climate so prostrated him, that he was forced to resign his command and return to England. Here, after a long stay at Bath to recruit his health, he travelled to London, and once more sought employment at sea. Appointed to the Albemarle, he spent some time in the North Sea, and, later on, went to Canada and America. Thence he sailed for the West Indies, where Lord Hood introduced him to Prince William — afterwards King of England — who thus, in quaint fashion, describes him : — ‘ He 'was the merest boy of a captain I had ever seen ; dressed in a full-laced uniform, old-fashioned waistcoat with long flaps, his lank, unpowdered hair tied in a stiff Hessian tail of extraordinary length, making altogether so remarkable a figure that 1 nad never seen anything like it before. Nor could I imagine who he was, nor what he had come about ; but his address and conversation were most pleasing, and, when he spoke on professional subjects, it was with an enthusiasm which showed he was no common being.’ The peace of a.d. 1783 saw the Albefuarle paid off and Nelson left without employment. During this time he made a short tour in France, the land of his hereditary foes. Appointed soon after to the Boreas, he was sent to the Leeward Isles, and in 1787 he met, whilst in the West Indies, a young and charming '^udow, whom he shortly afterwards married, England’s future King being present at the wedding ceremony. The Boreas was sent home after three years’ service on the W est India station, but, to Nelson’s great disgust, it was kept for months

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1 Ilfracombe and Neighbourhood. 1. V le^- of the Rocks, from the Capstone. 2. Ilfracombe. 3. Rockford-on the River Lyn. 4. Lynton-the Castle Rock.

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OHATTERBOX. 77 i at the Nore, whilst he, in very bad health, pined for a sight of the green fields in vain. When at last the Boreas was paid off, Nelson expressed his intention of at once quitting the service ; but Lord Howe, then First Lord of the Admiralty, and George III. received him so graciously that his wrath was appeased, and, after a spell ashore, he was appointed, in 1793, to the Agamemnon, a sixty-four gun ship. A horrible state of things was existing in France ; the i bloodthirsty rabble had murdered their king, Louis ! XVI., and then the French Convention had declared ; war against England. Nelson hated the French, and rejoiced at the chance of coming into collision with them. Being ordered to the Mediterranean, he greatly distinguished himself at the siege of Calvi, where a shot, striking the ground at his feet, drove some gravel into his eye. With characteristic courage he made light of his misfortune, but the sight was gone for ever. After the fall of Calvi, Nelson’s services were for a time overlooked ; but although this neglect . caused him much mental suffering, he never for a moment swerved in the pursuit of his duty. Shifting his flag to the Minerva, when the Aga¬ memnon was sent home. Nelson soon after took a prominent part in the battle off Cape St. Vincent, for which Sir John Jervis, ^vho was then com¬ manding the Mediterranean fleet, "svas rewarded with the title of Earl St. Vincent, and Nelson, now a Rear-xVdmiral, obtained the Order of the Bath. On board the Theseus, Nelson w^'as sent to attack Santa Cruz, and, in the very act of stepping out of his boat and drawing his sword, he received a bullet in his right arm, and the shock hurled him back into the boat. The attack failed, and, when Nelson was rowed alongside the Theseus again, he caught a rope with his unin jured hand, swung himself aboard, and, as he leaped upon the deck, exclaimed, ‘Tell the surgeon to make haste with his instruments. I know I must lose my right arm, so the sooner it is off the better.’ After this, the hero was compelled to return to England, and seek a much-needed rest in retirement. He suffered terribly with his arm, and almost as much from depression of spirits. Early in a.d. 1798, Bonaparte was preparing a huge armament for operations in the Ea^t, and Nelson again found himself in command of a ship, the Vanguard. He sought the French for a time in vain, but, after having written to Sir William Hamilton, our Ambassador at Naples, in these words, ^Be assured, I will return either crowned with laurel, or covered with cypress,’ he again made sail, and finally came in sight of the enemy’s fieet at the mouth of the Nile. The French Admiral Brueys, a gallant and able seaman, had drawn up his ships in Aboukir Bay, and bade defiance to all. As Nelson rose from the dinner-table that day, he exclaimed to his officers, ^ Before this time to¬ morrow, I shall have gained a peerage or a place in Westminster Abbey.’ Led by Nelson in the Vanguard with six colours flying, lest any one should be shot away, the main body of the fleet sailed majestically onwards to the foe, and just at sunset the Vanguard opened fire. The cannonade was soon terrific ; the men, working the foremost guns, were all killed, but others quickly filled their place. Before long, five of the French ships were either dismasted or captured. The heroic Brueys, on board the Orient, was three times wounded, but refused to leave his post ; at last, a shot almost cut him in two, and he died on the deck where he fell. A piece of langridge struck Nelson on the head, but he would not allow tho surgeon to look at the wound until he had ‘ taken his turn ’ with his own seamen. Whilst he was being attended to, the Orient blew up, and Nelson, forgetful of his injuries, rushed on deck to order all his boats away to the rescue of his enemies. The action was continued throughout the night, and, at daybreak, the last remaining couple of French ships, not di-abled, cut their cables, and stood away to sea. Nothing else escaped. ‘ It is more than a victory. It is a conquest ! ’ said Nelson, as he surveyed the wreck of the splendid French fieet. Early in 1800, he returned to England. The following year, a coalition, consisting of Russia, Denmark, and Sweden, was formed to destroy England’s supremacy on the seas. An armament was fitted out from our shores, and with Sir Hyde Parker nominally, and Nelson in reality, as its head, the fieet set sail ar Yarmouth for Copenhagen. {Concluded at page 86.) POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. . ILFKACOMBE. ^ N studying this picture of Ilfra- combo and neighbourhood, it ^ convenient to begin ^ looking well at No. 2, f/i B ^ which shows us Ilfracombe itself, with its wild and rocky heights and its beautiful blue sea. Ilfracombe, a favourite 7/j watering-place of England, is '/ i situated on the picturesque and rocky coast of North Devon, on a cove or inlet of the Bristol Channel. It is very much sought after as a health resort, seeing that its air combines the soft warmth of South Devon with the bracing freshness of the Welsh mountains. Such, at least, was the opinion of Charles Kingsley, who thought very highly of this beautiful place. Its delightfully fresh air, its fine coast scenery, and its admirable sea-bathing attract a great manv visitors. Ilfracombe consists in the main of one long street, running down to the harbour for about a mile. There are, besides, many beautiful villas and lodging-houses scattered over the heights, with churches, hotels, baths, and a beautiful and sheltered bathing-place for ladies and children. Several craggy heights or tors bound the harbour on the west side, the most notable of which is the Capstone, a conical elevation, which seems to oppose itself to the waves of the Bristol Channel. The view from tho Capstone (re¬ presented in No. 1) all over the rocky coast is very

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CM ATT K R HO X . 7S wild and romantic. There is a pleasant sea-walk all round this hill. The headland seen beyond is ITeles- borough. It is 447 feet high, and is surmounted by one of those old earthworks called cliff castles. Look now once more at No. 2, and on the north side of the harbour you will see an elevation known a,s Lantern Hill, on the summit of which there is a lighthouse, the light, which is 127 feet above high water, being visible for ten miles. This lighthouse was once an ancient chapel. Picture No. 3 represents one of those pretty little hamlets which have sprung up on the river Lyn. This river becomes divided into two torrents, named the East and West Lyn. A great barricade of rocks has divided them. They join again at Lynmouth, close by the sea, after rolling over huge stones like a prolonged waterfall. At the point of junction where they enter the sea, river and sea together unite in a tremendous uproar. The valley of rocks at Lynton seeras^ to have been at one time the course of a vast and violent torrent, which rent asunder the mountains on its way into the Severn. On each side are great masses of rock, which have assumed the most fantastic shapes possible. At the west extremity, which ter¬ minates in a small cove, stands the celebrated Castle Rock (picture 4), an isolated pile of extraordinary size, and shaped like a cone. From its summit the view is very grand and extensive. Much more might be added about Ilfracombe and its beautiful surroundinffs, but enough has been stated to give such of our readers as have not as yet visited North Devon an interest in this charming place. D. B. THE TBEASUBE OF THE "SANT ANTONIO.’ (Continued from page 67.) ^0 R three days (continued Ohiquita) I lay thinking many times that my last hour was approaching ; then, and without anj^ ap¬ parent cause that 1 was aware of, I suddenly mended, and in less than a week from my arrival, I was nearly well again, although . weak from the combined eilects^of my journey and my sufferings. Without any deiay, I set about the business which had brouo-ht me to this land of misery and revolution. ° Chance stood my friend, and, walking into the hotel on the second day of my quest, the first man I missinsr cashier. He had grown a small beard, but was in every other respect the same in appearance as when I had last 0^1’ New York office. ^ Hoffmeyer/ I said, T want a word with vou in private, and I verily think that the ex-cashfer was too astonished at seeing me to refuse my request, lou have not come to arrest me, here? I have half-a-dozen ruffians at my beck and call - ’ he began, but I cut him short at once by saying ^No. You need have no fear for your own personal safety from me, or, as matters at present stand, from the firm. Y^ou have got the best of them, now. But what I do want from you is that you should deliver up to me the Regente bonds, which can do you no good, as all the numbers are known to and published by the New York police.’ ‘ Ha, ha ! ’ he laughed, coarsely. ^ You think to take me in such an easy trap as that, eh ? Well, my excellent Chiquita, if that is what you have gone through this terrible journey for, I am sorry to think 5^ou are so weak and foolish. I decline to give them up. Now, what can you do?’ and he lit a cigar, and smiled mockingh^ at me, as he sat down on the table, swinging his 1% about. ^ I can make things very unpleasant for you by informing the Alcalde, for one thing,’ I answered. ‘ There is no extradition,’ he laughed. ^ True — but you would not care to be even denounced as a swindler.’ ‘ Before you could do harm to me, my Indian beauties could, and v/ould at my bidding, silence vour tongue, my friend. Be.sides, the great AJcalde of to¬ day is the miner, washer, labourer of to-morrow, in a capital where revolutions take place every few months.’ I knew this to be true. But it was most impor¬ tant to get from him the fifty thousand dollars’ worth of bonds if it could be anyhow managed. Whilst I was thinking, he spoke again. ^ It s no good, Chiquita ; you cannot do me any harm here. Now, make the best of the situation, join me in my life in the town here for a week or two, and we can be jolly together, both in our- different ways, living at the expense of the old task¬ masters who used to grind all the labour they could out of us, up in New York there. W^hat say you ? Shall we join forces and get some pleasure out of life together, here ? ’ An idea hashed across me as he was speaking. ‘Agreed ! ’ I cried, and that night we dined to¬ gether at his hotel, where, next day, at his sugges¬ tion, I took up my quarters. In less than a week’s time Hoffmeyer had become so much at his ease with me that he used to boast of the sums of money of which he had robbed my employers, and he told me where he was keeping a great part of the stock. ‘ Let me have a look at those bonds I was sent after,’ I exclaimed. ‘ I will,’ answered he, and, leaving the room, he presently returned with the bonds in his hand. I trembled as I balanced my chances of success with those of failure in the scheme then fermenting in my brain. He threw them all carelessly upon the table. ‘ There they are,’ he said; ^ you can look at them, but you mustn’t touch them,’" he added. ‘ I don’t entirely trust an3^body from the old firm — not even you.’ He stooped over the low table to relight his cheroot, which had gone out whilst he was talking. He looked up again to find the cold steel muzzle of my service revolver within two inches of his head.

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CHATTERBOX. 79 ^ Not so fast, Hoffmeyer,’ I said, as still keeping the gleaming weapon pointed at his head, I quietly gathered up the bonds with my other hand. ^ It sounds rather funny to hear you talk of ^vho you will trust, I must say. Now I intend to take these bonds back to New 'S'ork with me, in spite of you ov your Indian half-blood friends. Take my advice and don’t compel me to resort to — ’ and here 1 looked significantly at the revolver — ‘ extreme measures.’ He was completely cowed. Human life was at a discount, as he well knew, in a place like ieguci- o^alpa, and I expect he knew also that, when it came to the pinch, his half-blood, bullying rulhans were not to be depended on. At all events I managed o leave, next morning, on my return to IruxilJo, witn an escort of six ragged soldiers, who were conveying an equal number of military prisoners down to the port. I carried the fifty thousand dollars worth ot Lnds with me, and Holfmeyer made no sign of any attempt to stop my going. My journey back was, it possible, a more wretched one than that towards the capital, as to all its other discomforts was added the terrible anxiety of having charge of so much money not belonging to myself, and the constantly haunting fear that Hoffmeyer might think it worth his while to get together a dozen desperadoes and foilow us up. However, we aU reached Truxillo in safety, except one of the soldiers, who was bitten on the foot by a poisonous snake. A blow from the mans razor-edged onachete instantly killed it, but too late. At sunset the poor wretch died, and we buried, him at once, setting up a cairn of stones, and planting a rudely made wooden cross over the grave. Regard¬ less of the presence of the convoy and the P^soners, my emotion at the first glimpse I caught of Truxillo Bay, blue and calm in the far distance, was so strong within me that I threw myself on my knees, as we rested on the topmost ridge of the inountain peak, and lifted up my eyes and voice to Hod m thank¬ fulness for my delivery from that \md of horrors. A week later, and, on board an American steamship, we swept past the old white-walled Spanish fort, and out of Truxillo Bay once more, on to the open ocean. I got back to New York without further incident, and was soon rewarded with a partnership in the house from which I only retired a ^ear or gQ igaok.— 'No, Captain Bannatyne, I dont like Honduras,’ ended Senhor Chiquita, with a quiet smile on his grave face. ‘ Well,’ remarked the old sailor, as he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, ' if that is the sort of place and people we have come amongst, perhaps it is iust as well that our journeyings inHnd are not required to extend very far.^ If we should happen on the treasure, Senhor Chiquita, do you think there is anv place where we could buy or hire some mules to c Jry it down to the ship for us ? That seems to me a far more sensible way of transport than tor men to struggle along stony, rough tracks with the Yes,’ said Chiquita, ‘ I know there is a squalid Indian village not more than thirty or forty miles from here, across that mountain gorge yonder. iNo doubt we might get some mules from there, but and here the Spaniard smiled, and looked straight at ye“sSior, I know what you are mean- ino- to sav, “First catch your hare, oh? Quite l^ht, and ! must admit that up to tbe present we don’t seem to have progressed very fai, do we^ And, now, what say you to try and get a little sleep — that is, if the flies will let US? _ After a stout piece of tramping and blimdeiin^ over the heavy sand and shingle, next day, the party came in sight of their ship, and very glad were Ley to once more swing themselves mto^ their ham¬ mocks in the cool shade of the deck awning. It was luxury, indeed, after their brief experience of a camp life. Here they rested for two days, during which the three boys thoroughly enjoyed themselves, fishing and swimmino’, rowing about in the cool, smootl water of the natural basin, in which the Wilham and Mary was lying at anchor, and collecting crabs and oysters for the pot. l After this short interval the exploring party was awaiii formed, and prepared to make a start along the coast in the opposite direction, in search of open shore where it was possible that the San Antonio miirht have grounded and yet not have become a wreck. Accordingly they once more set out, carry¬ ing tent and cooking utensils, as before, prepared tor a two or three days’ absence from the ship ; but, before going more than five or six milM, the dangerous reef suddenly ended and Captain Banna- tyne exclaimed, ‘From this point eastwards we must travel with our eyes open, for a ship might well touch bottom anywhere here, lie a week or two, or, in fact, as long as the weather continued to kpp fair, and then be floated with little or no damage. They continued their journey along the edge ot the sea until, late in the afternoon, they arrived opposite a gully, or gorge, running up at right angles from the beatfii, and leading evidently to some mountainous region beyond. The captain stopped a this place, and began to search closely for some¬ thing on the face of the rocky front, consulting a yellow piece of paper, which he held as he did so. ‘ Five feet above the foot of the cliff,’ he read out, musingly, as he let his eyes travel along at the specified height, and twenty feet from the opening of the gorge, he continued. Then, starting from the side of the gully, he carefully paced out twenty feet as nearly as he could guess, on the edge of the strand. ‘Now, lads,’ he exclaimed, ‘ according to these in¬ structions, which I hold in my hand, there shoul^e a sign cut in the face of this rock, just about I am now looking, and five feet from the ground. That is just about level with the eyes of most ot us here. It will very likely be overgrown with lichen and weed, but we must try and make it out, it, indeed, it is here at all. The shape ot the sign is rather a peculiar one. It is like this. And t 6 captain showmd them the quaint-looking figure rokghly drawn on the piece of paper which he was holding in his hand. . . They all looked well at it in order to fix it in then minds ; then they set to work to minutely scan the face of the rock which rose in front of them. {Continued at page 82.)

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why has master gone away, Through that half-open door ? Said he, ‘ Now, Jack, you’ll watch my traps?' Of course I will— but then perhaps I’ll never see him more ! AVell, Jack, old boy ! and are you tired Of ^yaiting here for me. And did >ou think I’d ne’er come back? I went to get our tickets. Jack,

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CHATTERBOX. “Without hesitation the creature glided swiftly in, and seized him by the foot.”

Page 90

82 CHATTERBOX. THE CAPE EATEL. 5outh Africa, that land of many fierce and dangerous wild animals, there is one little creature called the Ratel, not unlilce a badger, but so insignificant in appearance that any one might imagine there could be no danger in attacking it. Those, however, who know the ratel and his ways think it best to leave him altogether alone for two reasons, one reason being that he is of no use when dead, and the other being that, considering his size, he is about as unpleasant a creature to deal with as can be found in all the game country, this unpleasantness being caused by his peculiar manner of showing fight. The experience of an English boy of fifteen will throw some light on the peculiar ways of this vindic¬ tive little creature. This lad, Edward Freeman, had been sent from England to spend a year or two on his uncle’s farm, near Capetown, South Africa, and, having been presented with a shot-gun, he was, of course, anxious to have it always with him, that he might not lose any chance of securing a partridge or other small game. On one occasion he was out with his uncle, when, on returning home, the old man stayed behind to chat with a friend w’hom he had met on his way. Edward meanwhile walked leisurely onwards, and had got well ahead of his friends when be saw a ratel creeping round an ant-hill. The creature cantered otf on seeing the boy, but not very fast, when the lad at once fired and wounded his game, which uttered a cry of pain. Then it paused in its , flight and turned back, at the same time fixing a i steady and malignant eye upon its enemy. Edward ' felt that it was meditating an attack upon him, but he never for a moment thought of running away from so insignificant a creature ; on the contrary, he clubbed his gun, and stood prepared to meet a spring. Now, to wait thus, expecting a leap, breast high, is just to give the ratel exactly the chance he is looking for. Without he.dtatiori the creature glided swiftly in, and seized him by the foot. The lad hacked at the malig- npt little wretch with the butt-end of his gun, kicked at it, all the time shouting his loudest for help, but the ratel gnawed away with the pertinacity of a , bull-dog, his teeth being closed like a vice. | Edward, in his agony, now seized it by its long tail, wn*enched and twisted it, but all in vain, it would not quit its hold. The struggle only lasted for a few seconds, but the muscles of the instep being com¬ pletely cut through, the unfortunate boy tumbled backwards, not full length, but atjainst the ant-hill. This probably saved his life. Tlie ratel let go (as it always does when its victim drops), in order to spring upon his throat and rip up his body with its hind claws. But the lad had presence of mind to raise himself upon his elbows and lie across the summit of the mound. Probably, however, this would only have prolonged the struggle, he would have been vanquished at last, for the ratel never gives in, had not his uncle at this moment come running up and shot it dead. For months after this terrible experience Edw^ard had to keep his bed, and for many more, to walk with crutches. But he had learned a lesson, never again ! under any circumstances to interfere with a ratel. Strange to say, this animal, if taken young, is easily tamed, and is amusingly active in confinement. Its body is grey above, head and all, but black below. Its claws are very long and strong. B. M. THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. ^ HERMIT there was, and he lived in a gi’ot. And the way to be happy, folk said he had got ; As I wanted to learn it, I went to his cell. And when I came there the old hermit said, ^ Well, Young man, by your looks you want something, I see ; Now tell me the business that brings you to me ? ’ ‘ ‘ The way to be happy folk say you have got ; And wishing to learn it, I’ve come to your grot. Now, I beg and entreat, if you have such a plan, That you write it me down as plain as you can.’ Upon which the old hermit he went to his pen. And brought me this note when he came back again. ^ ’Tis being and doing, and having , that make All the pleasures and pains of which mankind partake; To be what God pleases, to do a man’s best. And to have a good heart, is the way to be blest.’ Byron. THE TEEASUEE OP THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ {Continued from page 79.) his point, Senhor Chiquita, who had begun of late to let his interest flag somewhat in the search, suddenly felt hope revive within him. If, indeed, they could discover this rude sign cut in the rock, there would at length be something tangible to go upon, and he joined in the work of closely examining the face of the cliff, with as keen an interest as the three boys. But not, how¬ ever, with as keen a sight. ^ Youth will be served,’ says the maxim of the athlete, and in no case is it better served than in that of eyesight. The little party had hardly been engaged in their search half an hour, when a glad cry from Felix brought all the rest running up to his side. ‘ Look, look there ! ’ he cried, breathlessly, as, working with might and main with his pocket-knife, he disclosed what looked remarkably like the top arrow-head of the mystic 'Sign.

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OI-IATTERBOX. 83 ^ Yes, yes ! it must be, surely it must be ! ’ ex¬ claimed Ohiquita; excitedly, as be scanned the now half-revealed arrow-head. ^ What say you to this, Captain Bannatyne ? ’ , The captain drew out his glasses and closely peered into the rock. ‘It is the arrow-head!’ he pronounced, with decision. ‘There is no doubt whatever about it; this, then, is the starting-point for our inland journey.’ They rested and ate their mid-day meal, with no great appetite. The excitement of being thus confirmed in their information, and encouraged in their search for the treasure, was, so the boys thought, akin to that pleasurable feeling experienced when ‘ Hot 1 ’ is called at the magic game of ‘ Hot buttered beans and bacon 1 ’ and, for the time, it almost succeeded in driving away the natural desire for food. . T T They returned to the ship that evening, and Felix was heartily congratulated on being the first to discover the mark on the rock denoting the starting- point of the San Antonio's party. ‘ Half the contents of the first treasure chest we discover shall go to you, my young friend,’ was Chiquita’s generous promise to Farmer Plurstbourne’s son, and Felix felt his face flush with delight, not so much at the thought of the reward as at the dis¬ tinction which he had been fortunate enough to gain in first seeing the sign of the arrow-heads. Without the loss of a single day, a party consisting of Captain Bannatyne and his two sons, Felix, the mate Baxter, an Irish quartermaster, O’Hagan by name, and the two Spanish gentlemen, left their snug quarters on the William and Maunj. They were well armed and equipped, and carried tents and an ample supply of provisions. They started out along the shore. The heat soon grew to be intense, and before ten o’clock in the morning most of them had indulged in the refreshing luxury of a dip in the sea water. When they got as far as the arrow-heads marked on the rock, they halted for dinner, and then began to ascend the gully which led inland. Along a disused track, overhung with low spreading branches of trees, and choked up in many parts with dense masses of jungle, they plodded on, their thorny way. The mate and quartermaster went first, cutting and hacking a path for the rest with their axes. As may be imagined, under such circumstances, their progress was a very slow and laborious one. The heat, too, especially now that they had left the light breezes of the sea behind them, was nearly in¬ tolerable. Through steamy jungle, which breathed forth fever at every step, they wended their toilsome way, stepping warily as they went, in order to avoid the loathsome snakes and other reptiles which, from tune to time, glided noiselessly across their path. Wearing high sea boots they were, in a measure, protected from the serpents’ fangs, but nothing availed to save them from the horror which passed through their frames at seeing the sinuous windings of the noxious reptiles. Soon after mid-day they began to ascend a sharper rise in the stony track, and presently they emerged on a bare, smooth mountain-side. Here, hard by a little rill of clear water, they determined to make their camp. To go on in the terrible heat was a great risk, whilst travelling by night, in a jungle tenanted by poisonous snakes, tigers, and jaguars, would have savoured of madness. There was little in the way of conversation that night, by the camp fire. The whole party vvas wearied out, and the mate, who was to take the first watch, frankly avowed that he was so dead sleepy he would not guarantee to keep awake long. Under these circumstances, the captain wisely arranged that his watch should only extend to an hour; then he was to call the quartermaster for a like spell ; he in turn was to be relieved by the captain, and so on throughout the whole night. ‘ I’ve no fancy/ said the skipper, ‘ for waking up suddenly to find myself shaking hands with a jaguar, or fondling a ten-foot serpent. So there must be no mistake in keeping the watch up properly, you un¬ derstand.’ . J Nothing of any moment transpired during the night, to disturb their repose, from wild beast or wild man. But of sleep they got little. The weird, strange cries of the forest and jungle, so awe¬ inspiring in the stillness of the starry night the stinging of scores of pitiless creeping and winged things, the humming of beetles and angry, buzzing mosquitoes, all combined to keep our voyagers restless and uneasy. Once a long, shiny-looking snake poised its venomous fangs in the air, as, with uplifted flat¬ tened head, it threatened to strike at the unconscious figure of the mate. But the quartermaster, who was then on watch, caught sight of it in the fire-light, and with a sharp blow from his heavy iron-wood stick he broke its back.. From this incident they learned the^ danger or sleeping on the ground, without a small circle of fire round them, and in the succeeding nights of their bivouacking they always took the precaution, when possible, to make a ring of fire outside the sleeping- tent, for, even after it has burnt out, no snake will cross the line of ashes. A council was held before starting, next morning, as to which way they should go, for two traclp, evidently disused for many years, but both still dis¬ tinctly visible, now presented themselves, not ten yards from their camp. Once again the captain brought out all his old charts, and directions in writing, to try and find help from them. • I don’t know. I’m sure/ said he, as he ran his fingers through his grizzled locks, in deep perplexity. ‘ if we were afloat, now, we might take our soundings, and see what we were doing, but here why, bless my heart, you don’t know where you are a bit, you know 1 There is no mention here of two tracks, and nothing to go by, any way. But stop a minute, though. I think I remember, in another paper 1 ve got here, that there’s some mention made of it being a stony track all the way there. Now, if I’m right in this — and I think I am — it can’t be the right-hand track, because that appears to lead downwards through the swamp, and out there beyond that palm grove. The left-hand track is a stony one, and seems to take us deeper into the mountains, through the gorge we can see right ahead of us up there. Yes,

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take my word for it, the left-hand track is the one we must go by.’ In the space of half an hour they had broken their fast, and were once more toiling along under the merciless rays of an almost vertical sun. Without any sign to tell them Yea or Nay as to their quest, they kept on their way, as long as the heat would let them, and then, just as they were discussing a favourable spot for pitching their tent, O’Hagaii s foot struck something which gave forth the ringing sound of iron. He stooped and picked it up. It was a rusty marline-spike ! ‘ Be jabers,’ exclaimed the Irishman, ^ sure, there’s little mistake about somebody having been here of the sea-going persuasion ! They say a sailor never can do anything without a bit of rope and a

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CHATTERBOX. 85 marline-spike, and no doubt the men of the San Antonio were very like other sailors, even in their old days.’ ‘ Eight, O’Hagan,^ grunted the old skipper, taking the marline-spike from his hand and closely examin¬ ing it. ^ It has evidently been here a number of years, and, from my point of view, Mr. Chick-eater’ (this was as near as Captain Bannatyne could get to the Spaniard’s name), ‘ everything points to this marline- spike having been lost here by one of the San Antonio s party when they came to hide their trea¬ sure. If I am right — for this lonesome spot don’t much look as if it was used for pic-nic parties ’ (and the speaker gave a grim smile as he looked up at the gaunt • and ghostly mountain-side, towering sheer above them) — Hhen this ought to encourage us onwards in our search, and also make us careful now in examining every likely spot for the sign. ^ We must seek for the sign of the arrow-heads again as soon as we get those three purple mountain- peaks in a direct line, and within two hundred yards of the head of the gorge,’ said Senhor Chiquita, consulting an old yellow paper which he held in his hand. ^Already we see the end of the gorge in the distance, and, according to these instruc¬ tions, we cannot be very far from our El Dorado now.’ If it exists,’ said the captain. Tf it exists,’ assented the Spaniard, {Continued at page 94.) THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. E ‘ merrie, merrie month of May ’ is come, and all creation seems to rejoice at her return. The air is redolent with fragrant odours, and fields and gardens are decked with varied flowers ; not one of which is more welcome than the ‘ lily of the valley,’ whose drooping bells, half-hidden between its folded leaves, must have led the poet to declare that ‘ The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.’ The ancients ascribed medicinal properties to this plant; and said that it was useful for ‘ helping those poysoned by the biting of mad doges and other venomous beasts;’ but they ascribed still greater healing virtue to another of the same family, which is called Solomon's Sealy from some marks on the root which are like Hebrew characters ; and which they supposed were stamped on it by the great herbalist. Solomon, as a sign of its wonderful power; and, certainly, its healing properties are very remark¬ able, if we believe quaint old Gerarde, who says that, when bruised, it takes away ^ blacke and blew spots gotten by fals, or women’s wil fulness in stum¬ bling vpon their hastie husbands' Jists, or such-like.’ The lily of the valley forms an extensive article of commerce in London. Market-gardeners take great quantities every day to Oovent Garden, and sell them to the flower-girls, who make them into bunches, and retail them in the streets. In some parts of England the lily of the valley grows wild in such profusion that the air is oppressive from the perfume. ’I'his is the case at Matlock in Derb3’’shire ; and one of the islands in Lake Windermere is called ^Lily of the Valley Holme’ because, as Words¬ worth says, it is ^Sown with lilies of the valley like a field.’ E. B.

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86 CHATTERBOX. THE STORY OF HELSOH. {Concluded from page 77.) At a council of war, held on the 30th of March, the impetuous spirit of Nelson at length triumphed over Sir Hyde Parker’s fears, and it was determined to attack Copenhagen. On April 2nd, Nelson led the van in the £lephantf and, about ten a.m., he opened fire on the^ shore batteries. After three hours’ hot fighting. Sir Hyde Parker, from his flagship, made the signal of recall. Raising his telescope to his blind eye. Nelson coolly said to the officer, who had called his atten¬ tion to the signal, ‘I really do not see the signal. Keep mine, for closer battle, flying. That’s the way I answer such signals. Nail mine to the mast ! ’ About two o’clock the Danes’ fire slackened, and, in spite of their gallantry, the losses which they had sustained showed them that a surrender was inevitable. Nelson went ashore and had an inter¬ view with the Crown Prince ; a treaty was signed, and Nelson, soon after being appointed to the com¬ mand of the fleet (Sir Hyde Parker having been recalled), was preparing to attack the Russians when the assassination of the Czar Paul put an end to the coalition. Nelson returned to receive the enthu- sia-tic acclamations of his countrymen, and was then made a viscount. Bonaparte was now very busy with his hostile preparations at Boulogne, and much alarm was felt in England at the bare prospect of an invasion. Again was Nelson called upon to patrol the seas, until the Peace of Amiens once more gave him temporary rest at home. The following year (1803) war broke out again, and IN elson, appointed to command in the Mediter¬ ranean, blockaded Villeneuve’s fleet in Toulon, and for two whole^ years the English admiral only went ashore three times, always on service, and never for a time exceeding an hour on either of those visits. Nelson was, at the time, on the ship whose name will ever be associated with his own and with England’s .glory, the old Victory^ which, to this day, is doino* duty in Portsmouth Harbour. He sailed at length to Sardinia, and then the French escaped from Toulon, and sailed for the West Indies. Nelson chased them, hotly, half round the world, but they eluded him, and he retired, once more, to his home at Merton, to recruit his health. In the autumn of 1805, his friend, Captain Black¬ wood, visited him there, early one morning. Before he could speak. Nelson, eager and expectant, broke out with, I’m sure, Blackwood, you bring news of the French and Spanish fleets ! ’ his visitor, who at once informed him tha^t ViUeneuve, after refitting at Vigo, had entered Cadiz Harbour with the squadron. Nelson at once offered his services, which the (government accepted with joy. His old ship, the victory, was fitted out and commissioned, and amidst the wildest demonstrations of enthusiasm, he em¬ barked at Portsmouth for what was destined to be nis last voyage. On September 29th, 1805, the Victory arrived off Cadiz, and some three weeks later signal was made that ViUeneuve was coming out of harbour. At dawn, on October 21st, the English fleet advanced upon the enemy, the leeward line — that nearest the shoal of Trafalgar-led by Collingwood, the wind¬ ward by Nelson himself. A presentiment that his own life would be the payment for victory was so strongly upon him, that, as Captain Blackwood bade him farewell before returning to his own ship, he said, * God bless you, Blackwood. I shall never see you again. See,’ he added, Tow that noble feUow, Collingwood, carries his ship into action ! ’ Not^ for a moment, however, did his dark fore¬ bodings cloud the fire of his eye or his keen watch¬ fulness on all the enemy’s movements. ^Self’ found no place or part in the heroic soul of England’s gi'eatest sailor. For some time after the French had opened fire, the Victory s guns never spoke. At length, however, both her broadsides belched forth their flame and smoke with terrible effect, and then, her helm being suddenly put aport, she ran down the Redoubtable, clasping her in a fierce death- struggle. The French ship, after firing one broad¬ side, closed her lower deck ports for fear of being boarded, and Nelson, thinking that, as he heard no great guns, she had surrendered, issued orders to cease firing. But the riflemen who filled her tops con¬ tinued to pour a deadly hail of bullets on to their opponents, and, as Nelson stood upon the deck of the Victory, a shot, fired from the mizzen-top of the Redoubtable, struck him on the shoulder. Captain Hardy and some sailors rushed to his assistance and raised him up. ^ Tliey have done for me at last. Hardy,’ he said, calmly. ‘ I hope not,’ was the anxious reply. ^ Yes,’ answered the dying hero, ‘ my backbone is shot through.’ But not even at this awful moment did his coura^^’e or presence of mind forsake him. He covered up l?is face and his medals, that the crew might not know that he had been wounded, and he was carried below to the cock-pit. As each cheer from the deck above told him that yet another French ship had struck, his eye brightened, and he uttered an exclamation of joy and thankfulness. In an hour’s time Hardy left the deck, and ran below to give him news of the battle. ^^Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us.?’ he said, and, when a satisfactory answer had been given, he added, T hope that none of our ships have struck ? ’ ^ No fear of that,’ replied Hardy. Again was the gallant captain obliged to hurry up on deck, for the fight was still raging. Nearly an hour passed, and then, hastening back again, he took the dying man’s hand in his, and congratulated him on having won a splendid victory. Nelson said, '’Tis well— ’tis excellent;’ then he gave directions that his body should be buried in his own village, unless his king and country should be pleased to order otherwise. ‘ Now kiss me, Hardy,’ he added. ^ Hardy bent over him, and kissed his forehead. ^ Who is that ? ’ asked the sinking hero, faintly. Tt is Hardy.’

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CHATTERBOX. 87 ^God bless you, Hardy. God bless you!^ then, after a pause, he said, * I wish I hadn’t left the deck, for I shall soon be gone,’ and the last words that came from his lips were, ‘ Thank God, I have done my duty ! ’ «:****■* Would God that we might all be enabled to feel as he felt, and to say as he said, when that dread moment shall arrive, for you and me. Fox Russrll. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. AMYAS LEIGH.* 0 knows Bideford ? That pretty little white town which was at one time one of the chief ports of England. Bideford sent seven ships to fight the Armada, and a hundred years after that had been gloriously vanquished, con¬ tributed more vessels to the northern trade than any port in England, saving London and Topsham. It is to the sea-life and labour of Bideford, and Dartmouth, and 'lopsham, and Plymouth (then a petty place), that England owes the foundation of her naval and commercial glory. There is perhaps but little in the Bideford of to-day that serves to recall those glorious days of glorious deeds. The town slopes upwards from its broad tide-river, paved with yellow sands, and many arched old bridges, where salmon w’ait for autumn floods, toward tlie pleasant upland on the west. The Torrid ge joins her sister Taw, and both together flow quietly toward the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. One bright summer’s afternoon, in the year a.d. 1575, a tall and fair boy came lingering along Bideford Quay, in his scholar’s gown, with satchel and slate in hand, watching wistfully the shipping and the sailors, till, just after he had passed the bottom of the High Street, he came opposite to one of the many taverns which looked out upon the river. Merchants and gentlemen sat talking in the bay window of the tavern, while outside the door a group of sailors stood listening eagerly to some one who stood in their midst. Now, if there was any news which a school-boy cared for in those days, especially in a seaport town, it was news from the sea. Young Amyas Leigh, for that was our hero’s name, took his place among the sailor-lads who were peeping and whispering under the elbows of the men, and as he listened he heard something like this : ‘ If you don’t believe me go and see, or stay here and grow all over blue mould. I tell you as I am a gentleman I saw it * Amyas Leigh is the hero of Westimrd Ho I — a spirited book by that delightful writer, the Rev. Charles Kingsley. The volume may be pirrchased for a few pence, and every page is charming. with these eyes and so did Salvation Yeo there, through a window in the lower room; and we measured the heap as I am a christened man, seventy ! foot long, ten foot broad, and twelve foot high, of silver bars, and each bar between a thirty and forty pound weight. And says Captain Drake : There, my lads of Devon, I’ve brought you to the moutii of the world’s treasure-house, and it’s your own fault now if you don’t sweep it out as empty as a stock-fish.” ’ • Why didn't you bring some of them home then, Mr. Oxenham ? ’ ‘ Why weren’t you there to help carry them ? We would have brought them away, safe enough, and young Drake and I had broke the door abroad already, but Captain Drake goes ofif in a dead faint; and when we came to look he had a wound in his leg, you might have laid three fingers in it, and his boots were full of blood, and had been for an hour or more. Wasn’t it worth more to save him than the dirty silver ? for silver we can get again, brave boys : there’s more fish in the sea than ever came out of it, and more silver in Nombre de Dios than would pave all the streets in the west country ; but of such captains as Franky Drake, Heaven never makes but one at a time ; and if we lose him, good-bye to England’s luck say I, and who don’t agree let him choose his weapons and I’m his man . We’ve got forty men to Plymouth now, ready to sail the minute we get back, and we want a dozen out of you Bideford men and just a boy or tw'o, and then we’re off and away, and make our fortunes or go to Heaven . Who will join ? I know the road and Salvation Yeo knows it too . You ask him to show you the chart of it.’ Salvation Yeo at this speech pulled from under his arm a great white buffalo horn, covered with rough etchings of land and sea, and held it up to the admiring ring. The school-boy, who had been devouring with eyes and ears all that passed, and had contrived by this time to edge himself into the inner ring, now stood face to face with the owner of the horn, and got as many peeps as he could at the wonder. But when he saw the sailors, one after another, having turned it over a whilg, come forward and offer to join Mr. Oxenham, his soul burned within him for a nearer view of that wondrous horn, so magical in its effects. J'imboldened by this desire he asked Oxenham for a nearer sight of the marvel, which was granted at once. Cities, harbours, dragons, elephants, whales which fought with sharks, plate ships of Spain, islands with apes and palm-trees, each with its name overwritten, and here and there, ^ Here is gold ; ’ and again ^ Much gold and silver,’ drawn upon the horn, made it appear to the boy the most covetable treasure in the world. He turned it round longingly and lingeringly, for young Amyas wanted to buy it. It was not, however, for sale. But, questioning the boy, Oxenham drew from him the darling wish which he* had hidden from his father and mother since he was ten years old — the wish to go to sea, see the Indies and fight the Spaniards. Mr. Oxenham asked him his age, name, and whose son he was, promising to see his father that very night and prefer the lad’s wish, at the same time bidding Yeo let him have the horn. {Concluded at page 91.)

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Amyas Leigh looking at the wondrous Horn.

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CHATTERBOX

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90 ClIATTJilRBOX. OLD CUSTOMS. OLD CLEM. Woolwich the hlacksmith apprentices in the dock¬ yard used to have a yearly ceremony on St. Clement’s Day, and indeed may have still. One of them, a senior probably, dressed himself in a great-coat, set a wig on his head and a mask on his face, and hung a long: white beard beneath his chin. Then he took his seat in a chair adorned with various pictures relating to the craft. An anvil, made of wood for lightness’ sake, with hammer and tongs, stood in front. Some stout fellows then lifted chair, anvil, and old Clem himself, on their shoulders, and paraded the town, with an eye to a good supper. Old Clem’s mate, masked, and wielding a huge wooden sledge-hammer, walked beside. When a halt was made at some convenient spot, where a crowd could assemble. Old Clem’s mate flourished his sledge-hammer and bawled out : — ^ Gentlemen all, attention give, And wish St. Clem long, long to live.’ THE GAMES OP SWALLOWS. O WALLOWS can fly very fast and very far. If O it were not so, they could not take the long journeys which they do, leaving England in the autumn and returning in the spring. This quick flight enables them to catch insects on the wing, on which they chiefly live ; also it enables then! to escape bird enemies of the hawk tribe sometimes, and, perhaps, shots which may be flred at them by men. Often do we see them flying, as it seems, just for the pleasure which they have in rapid motion, going in circles round the top of a lofty house or church spire, dropping now and then, only to rise ' again, till the whole party suddenly darts off in another direction. A gentleman walking one morn¬ ing across a huge park saw a number of swallows having quite a game with a hare, though the poor animal did not seem to like the performance. The hare was running very fast, and at first the gentle¬ man wondered why it was, as no dogs were near; but directly after, he noticed some swallows coming up behind, and they skimmed past the hare’s ears close to the ground, evidently giving her the idea that they were going to strike her, though, when close, they took a sharp turn. Then they dis¬ appeared, and the hare stopped to listen ; presently they returned, and again the hare ran till she got hid amongst the underwood. Still more curious is the story which a clergyman tells us of a scene he witnessed between some swallows and- a cat. Pussy was sitting upon the top of a gate-post, in a sort of doze, in which we often see cats when they are lazy and not hungry. Puss’s repose was interrupted by the arrival of a swallow, which flew close to her head. She raised her paw to strike it, but was too late. Another swallow, a minute after, did the same thing, and again puss made an unsuccessful blo\v. More swallows dashed past her just in the same way, till ten or eleven had gone by, and each made a sort of chirp which sounded like a laugh. Next, the whole party flew round puss, forming a circle like a wheel. This was too much for her — she jumped down and retreated. Swallows have even been known to unite, and drive off their great enemy, the kestrel, a kind of hawk, by whirling and fluttering about him till he gets confused, and is not able to seize any of them. j. R. S. 0. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. 17.— ARiTmiETiCAL Puzzles. 1. Express the following numbers by placing four 3’s to represent each of them : 1, 6, 8, 9. 2. Subtract 45 from 45, and leave 45 remaining. 3. What number is that whose half is two more than its third ? 4. What number is that whose ninth is three less than its sixth ? 5. Four persons — A, B, C, and D — divide a sum of money among them. A takes one-half, B one-half of the remainder, C one -half of the sum left, and D one- half of the then remainder ; there are then SI left. How much did each receive, and how much was there at the beginning ? 6. Divide 96 into four such numbers that the first, multiplied by 3, the second divided by 3, the third increased by 3, and the fourth lessened by 3, may be all equal. 7. A sheepfold was robbed three nights in succession. The first night half of the sheep were stolen and half a sheep more ; the second night half the remainder were taken and half a sheep more ; the last night half of the remainder and half a sheep more ; there were then two left. How many were there at first ? 8. A bill of 210Z. was paid in sovereigns and crowns. The number of crowns was three times the number of sovereigns. How many were there of each ? [Aiisivers at page 110.] Amid the silence obtained by this speech, old Clem began to say his say, which w^as as follows : ‘ I am the real St. Clement, the first founder of brass, iron, and steel, from the ore. I have been to Mount Etna, where the god Vulcan first built his forge, and forged the armour and thunderbolts for the god J upiter. J have been through the deserts of Arabia, through Asia, Africa, and America, through the city of Pongrove, through the town of Tipningo, and all the northern parts of Scotland. I arrived in London on the twenty -third of November, and came down to his Majesty’s dockyard at VV oolwich to see how all the gentlemen Vulcans came on there. I found them all hard at work, and wish to leave them well on the twenty-fourth.’ The mate then added a few words, and so they . went round the town, and obtained enough money in their box for a bountiful repast in the evening. Sanford.

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CllATTlilRBOX. 91 I 13. — Pyrrhus. 1. Hurry. 3. Rush. 5. Shy. 2. Purr. 4. Pry. 14. — Epirus, 1. Pier. 4. Pure. 7. Ruse. 2. Sure. 5. Rise. 8. Sire. 3. Eipe. 6. Peru. 15. — Diogenes, 1. Seed. 4. Don. 7. Sign. 2. Go! 5. Gin. 3. Node. 6. Dose. 16.— 1. Because it is in the midst of water. 2. Ink. 3. Cast-a-net. 4. To-day. up YOUT^GSTERS OT POPULAR TALES. AMYAS LEIGH. (Concluded from page 87.) training of Ainyas Leigh had been that of the old Persians. He had been taught ‘to speak the truth and to draw the bow ; ’ to endure pain cheerfully, to believe it the finest thing in the world to be a gentleman ; by which word he had been taught to understand the careful habit of not causing needless pain to any human being, poor or rich, and of taking pride in giving his own pleasure for the sake of those who vTere weaker than himself. He had been entrusted with the breaking of a colt and the care of young hawks, and had profited by means of these amuse¬ ments, in perseverance, thoughtfulness, and the habit of keeping his temper. He knew the names and ways of every bird and fish and fiy and read as cunningly as the oldest sailor, the meaning of every drift of cloud which crossed the heavens. He was a fine stalwart fellow for his age, and the most terrible fighter amongst all the Bideford boys, doing justice among his schoolfellows with a heavy hand, and succouring the oppressed and afiiicted. He hardly held that he had done his duty if he went home without beating a big lad for bullying a little one. Mr. Oxenham, true to his word, called upon Mr. Leigh, and it was agreed that after a certain time had elapsed, if Amyas were still of the same mind, he should join Drake’s followers and ‘ fight the Spaniards.’ His father never lived to see his son a sailor, but died from gaol fever caught at the Exeter A.ssizep, whither he had gone on business. The day after his father’s funeral young Amyas walked into Sir Richard Grenvile’s house — Sir Bichard was his god-father— feeling that henceforth his mother was no more to think and act for him, but that he must think and act for his mother. He said firmly, ‘ Y^ou must be my father now, sir,’ and Sir Richard looked at the boy’s broad, strong face, and swore a great and holy oath, ‘ by oak, and ash, and thorn,’ that he would be a father to him and a brother to his mother, for Christ’s sake. Amyas Leigh possessed a fiery spirit as well as a bold one, and it got the better of him one day at school, when bidden by his schoolmaster to show a drawing on which he had been busy while the old man had slept. The schoolmaster insisted, the lad went on drawing, regardless of commands. These became louder and more impatient, and then the artist, unable to control himself, when the schoolmaster clutched him, raising his cane to strike, seized his slate and brought it down with tremendous force upon the poor old gentleman’s head, who dropped to the floor and lay for dead. Amyas was not afraid of the flogging, for when he frankly told Sir Richard Grenvile of his escapade the latter asked him, ‘What! art not afraid of being flogged ?’ ‘ Not a bit ; besides. I’m too much used to it ; but I was busy and he was in such a desperate hurry and, oh, sir, if you had but seen his bald head, you would have broken it yourself ! ’ ‘ Go back to school this moment, sir, and be flogged,’ said Sir Richard, and Amyas went ; but that evening Sir Richard sent for the schoolmaster, paid him for his broken head, and Amyas left the school. In a very short time after this, Amyas found himself riding joyfully towards Plymouth by the side of Sir Richard, and, being handed over to Captain Drake, he vanished for three years from the good town of ’Bideford. Those three years saw many brave deeds done by Amyas Leigh and his fellows, so that when they returned to Bideford there were few in the crowd who did not press forward to shake them by the hand, and so heartily did they do it that Mrs. Leigh, her stately joy quite broken down at last, could only answer between her sobs, ‘ Go along, good people — go along, and God send you all such sons.’ During his years of wanderings over sea and land — for Amyas Leigh was not one to remain long at home inactive, he and his men came upon a number of Indians upon a lovely island off the coast of South America. The firot inhabitant of the island whom they discovered was Ayacanora, an Indian girl, and yet, as Amyas looked upon her face he wmndered — is it an Indian girl ? She was taller, her limbs were fuller, her complexion fairer, and her hair, crowned with a garland of white flowers, was not lank and straight and black, but of a rich glossy brown ^ and hung in curls from her temples to her knees. This Indian girl turned out to be a true friend to the i^arty led by Amyas, and on more than one occasion saved his life. After his engagements with the Spaniards of the Armada, which engagements are glorious to read about, Amyas gave chase to a huge Spanish galleon, on board of which was the man who had wronged and caused the murder of Frank Leigh, Arnyas’s brother. During this exciting chase, and a minute after the great vessel had sunk like lead in the mighty waters, a flash of lightning struck down old Yeo and i blinded our hero. I Very sad is the story of the blind giant’s home- j coming to his heart-broken mother, to whom he had ! brought home, some time before, the wild Indian

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The first inhabitant of the island whom they discovered was an Indian girl girl whose sole wish and aim was to please Amyas, who had saved her from many dangers, by hecominer like a true-born English girl. ‘ The gentleness and goodness and wonderful patience of Amyas’s mother, as she taught and gained the wild Ayacanora, had borne good fruit. When Amyas returned from his last voyage she had been converted into a gentle, loving maiden, who afterwards proved her devotion to the blind Amyas, whose wife she became, by waiting on and tending him in the kindest possible way, doing all that she possibly could to soothe his sufferings and gladden his ^ There are several beautiful chapters about this poor girl, whose history is most delightfully entertaining, and very prettily written. James Cassidy.

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THE TEH-POUHD NOTE. TO give you change for a ten-pound note ? Well, no, 1 can’t do it, sir.’ ^ But isn’t a tradesman bound to give change to a man who has bought some of his stock, so long as the customer presents genuine money ? You don’t suppose that this is a forged note, do you ? ’ ‘No,’ replied the shop-keeper, with knitted brows, ‘ I see the note is genuine, but - ’ ‘ But what?’ demanded the customer, in an angry tone. ‘ Well, sir, I can’t change your note for more reasons than one, but one good reason is enough. I have not so much money in my cash-box.’ ‘ But your credit is good at the bank here. I suppose you could get this note changed for me, I am sure, if you were willing.’ ‘ Perhaps I could, sir, but I am not going to do it all the same.’ And the shop-keeper put away the tobacco jar from which he had supplied his cus¬ tomer’s wants. ‘ Because I’m a stranger, I suppose,’ said the man with a sneer. ‘Well, yes, sir, because you are a stranger.’ The customer hesitated for a moment, and then he said, ‘And so you don’t know me, Mr. Johnston? You don’t remember Michael Bond, who played with you as a boy in tliis very village ? ’ Then the shop-keeper, looking at him, saw that the man before him was indeed his old playmate ; but the discovery only made him hold the more firmly to his resolution, for Michael Bond, when he had known him, was as thorough a rascal as a youngster of only ten years old could possibly be. ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ now that I look at you, I see that you are the Michael of old days ; but, all the same, I can’t help you in this matter. You were always given to gambling as a boy. You once persuaded me to do the same. I lost my money, and was well fiogged by my father when he heard what I had been about. It was a flogging that I could never forget, but let me tell you that, now that I have boys of my own, I am thankful that I had so wise a It was well for Peter Johnston that he kept to his resolution of having no dealings with a gambler, for three weeks afterwards a detective from London visited the village in search of Michael Bond, charged not only with theft, but forgery. The ten- pound note, though genuine, had been stolen, and the misguided man, being quickly apprehended, had

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94 CHATTERBOX. to stand his trial at the next assizes, and to pay the penalty for his evil deeds. lo our boy readers we would say, * Never bet or gamble, however much tempted you may be to do so. The first bet is often the first step to ruin.’ M. THE PLIHT, STEEL, AHD TINDER. A Fable. High words once occurred in the early morning between a flint and steel. * 1 can break you to pieces if I like ! ’ cried the steel. ‘Break away, then,’ retorted the flint; ‘I can stand more than you can strike, for your blows have no etfect upon me.’ Hold on, cried the tinder ; ‘ let me come between you two, for I liear the mistress of the house comino* down to make the Are, and I want to be lighted.’ ° So avvay they went, striking and banging each other with great force, till sparks began to fly out, and soon the tinder was kindled and the fire lit. Mobal : Competition is one secret of success. H. Bebk;elbyS( OBE. THE TREASURE OF THE ‘SAN ANTONIO.’ (Continued from page 85.) NCH more the journey was resumed, every' one of the party now being thoroughly alive to the fact that, at any moment, the great discovery might be at hand. They toiled on, through tangled bush, and over huge boulders of ragged rock and stone, for about two hours longer and then the captain, calling Chiquita aside, said : Look, now.^ As we stand here, the three purple peaks are in a straight line, one exactly behind the other. There, on the right, stands an upright crag, full forty feet from the ground, and we cannot now be more than about two hundred yards off the end of this defile. I will send O’Hao-an on to pace out the distance at once.’ ° Amid much suppressed excitement, the Irishman started on his errand, and when, on his return, he communicated to the party that he made the dis¬ tance about one hundred and ninety-two yards, a shout welcomed the announcement. Immediately they all set to work to try once again to find the rnuch-desired sign, upon the moss-grown rock, which should announce to them that the treasure was discovered at last. But, search as they miirlit — and, as may well be imagined, the whole party worked with a hearty good will— nothing could be seen of the sought-for arrow-heads. When darkness began to fall, camp was again pitched, the fire lighted, and their evening meal prepared. It was a strange scene, there in the wild-looking gorge with the great beetling mountain-sides tower° ing up above their heads — such a scene as a painter might have loved to portray. The firelight, leaping up in fitful flashes, illumined, with its bright, red glare, the savage scenery around, and the motley group gathered about it. The dark, grave-looking Spaniard; the fair-haired, sun-burnt boys; the olcl^ grizzled captain, and the rough, stalwart sailors — a remarkable group, and in a remarkably strange place — at least, so thought a man with whom we are not yet acquainted, but who, nevertheless, was present at the scene ; for, peering through some sumach- bushes, growing on the top of one of the lower crags, lay an evil-looking Mexican half-breed, his body en¬ tirely concealed from the view of the unconscious , exploring party below, whilst his thin-lipped, cruel face was almost caught and lighted up by the high leaping blaze every now and then. He was listening intently to their conversation, but soon found that it was carried on in a language which he did not under¬ stand. Suddenly his quick ear caught the sound of a sentence addressed by Chiquita to his fellow- countryman^ in Spanish. The listener was all atten¬ tion then, in a moment, and this was what he heard : — ‘ I feel certain, Miguel, we shall have found it bj this time to-morrow night ; and, furthermore, I be¬ lieve it win be discovered not twenty yards from where we are sitting at the present moment.’ ‘ Will have found it ?— here, where they sit, and by to-morrow night ? What can they be in search of, I wonder ? Anyhow, my friends, whatever you dis¬ cover, I also will discover. Time is of littl'e object to me— to-morrow, next week, a month hence, what matters it ? If they are worth robbing, why, in less than a day and a night, I can have my comrades upon them. If they are not, well, I shall have wasted some of my time, it'is true, but there is no¬ thing else to be done which gives better promise of reward ; so, my unknown friends, I will keep with you.’ And, so saying, the fellow rolled himself in his capote, pulled his soft broad-brimmed hat down well over his eyes, and settled himself to sleep. Unknown to the party from the William and Mary^ this man had been following closely on their heels for nearly two days past. The half-breed was one of a class by no means rarely met with in the petty republics of South America, half guerilla- fighter, ready to be hired on either side whenever a revolution takes place, and half a bandit. These fellows are amongst the worst and most worthless of mankind, for they fight, not with any patriotic object, but are ready to kill and maim at the command of the highest bidder. This fellow was a notorious rascal, and the chief of a band, each member of which was as great a ruffian as himself. He had been returning from an expedition of plunder, carried out on this occa^ sion single-handed, when the ashes of the previous day’s camp-fire had excited his curiosity, and he deter¬ mined upon following the party up the gorge in order to find out, if it were possible, whether they might be safely robbed, and probably murdered (with

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CHATTERBOX. 95 this man Caracio and his cut-throats, the one generally followed the other), or, at all events, he meant to find out on what business they were engaged. After Oaracio had come within sight of them, he clitiibed up into the overhanging rocks, and kept parallel with the party for the whole of that day, leaping from rock to rock with the agility of a mountain sheep. If he Avas resolved before to find out the object of their visit to so strange and savage a spot, after hearing the chance remark of Seuhor Cliiquita he was more than ever determined to stay within vdew, and see for himself what would happen. Little recking of hoAV dangerous an enemy lurked actually within earshot, the camp party, Avith the solitary exception of O’llagan, who Avas doing sentry duty, soon sank into profound slumber. The pale light of the moon shone from the far side of the darkling mountain-tops, throwing them up, sharply defined, against its brilliant purity. Nought save the croaking of the bull - frogs, the humming of myriads of insects, or the hiss of a snake, was to be heard. Even the cry of the jaguar was missing on this night of still and perfect calm. O’Hagan had just been relieved by Baxter, Avhen the latter, happening to cast his glance upAvards, sailor-like, to the skies, suddenly gripped his com¬ panion by the arm. ^ What’s that ? ’ he said. The Irishman looked up in the direction indicated, but, at first, saw nothing. ^ What’s what, avick ’ answered he. ‘ Why, don’t you see that little red gloAv — ah, it’s gone out. How strange it looked; just like the lighted end of a cigarette, high up amongst those rocks.’ Which is exactly Avhat it was. Caracio, waking up from time to time, had rolled and lit a cigarette. The moment he heard the mate’s voice, however, from below, he silently put it out. ‘ Ah, sure it Avould be a blow-worm — no, I mean a gloAA^-Avorm, me boy. Ye don’t suppose anything but a parrot could get up to that rock now, do you ? and they don’t smoke, as far as I’m aware. And, now, good-night to ye, for it’s Cornelius Moloney OTIagan is sleepy entirely this night.’ Active work in search of the mysterious sign was resumed soon after it was light in the morning, and active work, in the Avay of keen-sighted Avatcliing, Avas resumed by the half-breed from his post of observation above. He had only got a small piece of dried fish left to live on, with less than half a pint of Avater, and he saAv that he must within an hour or two leave in search of provision for the inner man. This would be no easy task, as he dare not fire his gun for fear of alarming the men whom he was so intently Avatching ; his c unpanions, he kneAv, were a good day’s journey from him. He thought over the situation, and, whilst thus revolving the position in his mind, a sudden cry from one of the party below — it was Ben Bannatyne on this occasion, whose sharp eyes had dimly made out the sought-for sign, carved some six feet from the ground — attracted his attention. Cautiously crawling forward on his face, but still keeping well under cover of the thick- tangled brush, Caracio peeped over the edge of the rock. This is what he saAv. Ben was standing, knife in hand, just as he had stopped scraping the moss off the face of the lower part of the rock. The others were all in the act of running up to witness with their o.vn eyes the ' neAvly made discovery, to Avhich the young fellow I had summoned them by his glad cry. Here, then, at I last, was the actual place Avhere the treasure was said to have been hidden. The written directions told them that, ten yards to the west of this mark, a loose rock would be discovered ; they were to pull this away, and the hiding-place would stand revealed. What the several exclamations of the party below meant Avere as a sealed book to the spy above. All he could gather was that they were all immensely interested in trying to make out something or other which was graven on the granite rock below him. Then a chance sentence from Chiquiia, spoken in the Spanish language, gave the half-breed the clue to the Avhole secret. ‘ We shall surely be successful, now. The trea¬ sure must be close at hand.’ ^ Bight,’ assented the captain. ‘ I really do begin to believe so myself. It does seem, somehow or other, to be more 7'eal, now, than it did. It always has seemed to me a wild-goose chase, though, since Ave . landed, I will own to being as much interested as any one in the party. But I never could quite come to believe in the reality of it. I mean that I couldn’t actually believe we Avere going to discover the trea¬ sure. But now — Avell, I do believe Ave shall.’ At the sound of the Spaniard’s voice, and the mention of the treasure, Caracio’s black, beady eyes glittered with greedy delight. ‘ A treasure,’ thought he to himself, whilst he forgot his hunger and thirst. ^ This, then, is what these sailors are in quest of ; this is the object of their mysterious expedition up the mountain gorge. Ah ! my friend,’ he continued, speaking of himself, ^ my excellent friend, Caracio, you have really dropped in for something good at last. How fortunate for me that I was always curious — yes, even as a boy, I loved far better to know what my neighbours Avere about, than to do my own share of this life’s work. If it has brought me to a treasure, this curiosity will have turned out very valuable, indeed, to me.’ And he grinned hideously, exhibiting his shark-like teeth as he did so. So intently was he engaged in watching the pro¬ ceedings below, that, in bending forward to obtain a better view, he cracked one of the dead wood branches Avhich concealed him, and Tom Bannatyne looked sharply upwards. As Caracio lay still as a mouse, however, Tom concluded that the cracking noise must be due to natural causes, and in a minute I or two resumed the search. The indicated distance Avas quickly paced out, and then an attack by the combined forces was made upon a heavy piece of rock, which appeared to be detached from the main body of the mountain. ^ Faith, and it will be a rare tough job to move this little morsel, captain, I’m thinking,’ exclaimed I the Irishman, as he pulled and tugged vainly at the ; rock, whilst the beads of perspiration trickled down his face. {Continued at page 102.)

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TWO FAITHFUL DOGS. A STRANGE but true snake story comes from Sierra Madre. A little girl whose mother re¬ sides at that place saw a large snake while she was playing near the house. Being pleased with irs appearance, the child followed it through the grass, trying to get hold of it. Two faithful dogs belonging .0 the family saw the snake also, and, running after it, got ahead of the little girl in the chase, and pounced upon the reptile. An alarmed rattle, two quick strokes, and the dogs ran yelping back. When the mother, who happened to be absent, returned home that evening, she found two dead dogs in her \ ard and her little daughter fast and safely asleep in bed. We may be sure that a prayer of gratitude went up from her heart at the fortunate escape of her darling child.

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CHATTERBOX The King of the Deer Tribe

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98 CHATTERBOX. THE KIHG OF THE DEER TRIBE. N entering the exhibition grounds at Denver, our attention was arrested by an animal which was tethered in the centre of the large square. It was a magnificent creature, standing fully six feet high or more at the shoulder, and with wide, branching horns. In colour it was a dark greyish - brown, and its hair was coarse and shaggy. The head was long, the eyes far back, and the nose and upper lip were very prominent, giving the creature the look of having a swelled face. The neck was exceedingly short, so that the head seemed to come directly out of the shoulder. This impressed the beholder with the strength of the animal, but it took away the elegance which we are wont to associate with the deer tribe. The elk seemed to be browsing pretty contentedly when we first saw it, and to be taking no notice of the two - legged creatures who were watching it. Next time that we looked at it, however, matters had quite changed. It was getting dusk, and most likely the keepers wanted their supper — anyway, Mr. Elk was intended to retire to his quarters for the night. This was by no means in accordance with the will of the great creature ; probably he was not accustomed to going early to^ bed, and he flatly declined to be obliging. Something like a dozen men tugged at a rope one way, and Mr. Elk tugged the other, planting his great forefeet solidly before him, and offering dogged resistance. For a long time it seemed as if he would win the day, but after a time he began to leap wildly about, and make little rushes in all directions. Clearly his vast strength was frittered in these gambols, and finally the gentleman was lodged in a not very inviting-looking log house. I concluded that this was a badly brought-up speci¬ men, as elks can easily be tamed, and were at one time used as draught animals in Norway. The young have no fear, and, when standing in shallow rivers, which they often do to free themselves from insects, they will allow a boat to glide beside them and let themselves be caught by the horns without resistance. A curious ^ peculiarity of the elk is that his hoofs are divided into several sections, which spread out when standing flat, giving him a firm hold of the ground, but clash together when running, which makes his progression rather a noisy affair. There are, or were, great numbers of these fine creatures in the Rocky Mountains, but senseless slaughter is fast putting an end to them. When I was tliere, one arty, calling themselves sportsmen, in hliddle Park, oasted of having killed eight in a day. Probably by this time the government has taken measures to prevent this wanton cruelty. For a long time Nor¬ wegian law has prohibited the killing of more than one elk by a hunter. The chief weapons of an elk are his forelegs, a blow from which will kill a wolf, and when on firm ground he is well able to defend himself. When the snow is melting, however, and his feet are cumbered with water, the poor thing falls an easy prey to a pack of wolves or other animals. With a cleverness not to be expected of such a stolid, clumsy-looking beast, a herd of elks make a winter home for themselves, where they are fairly safe from their four-legged foes. Whilst the snow is still soft, they stamp out lanes and places to lie in of a circular form, round which the snow makes a natural rampart, and woe be to any marauding wolf who tries to effect an entrance. Sometimes these elk-yards have been known to measure from four to five miles across, and the lanes are trodden so deeply that even the horns of the elks cannot be seen passing along them. Whilst, however, his yard preserves the elk from wild animals, it forms only a trap when his most formidable enemy, man, finds it out, as with snow-shoes the hunter skims over the snow-crust, and easily shoots the poor creature as he lies at rest in his fancied security. Hklena Heath. CURIOUS STORY OP A WOMBAT. The wombat is a little animal belonging to tbe family of Marsupials found in Tasmania and adjacent places. It resembles in appearance a small bear, with short legs, broad flat back, and very short tail. It eats only grass and other vegetable matters. It is a harmless, helpless little animal, shy and gentle in its habits, though it can bite if very much pro¬ voked. Its flesh is sometimes eaten, but only by such persons as at the time have nothing else to eat, as it is coarse in quality and with a strong, rank flavour. On one occasion an English settler in Tasmania found one of these harmless little creatures and took it home to his children, telling them that here was a little bear which they might keep as a plaything. The delighted little ones made a bed for the wombat in an old box, giving it at the same time a piece of blanket as bedclothes. It soon showed great docility and affection, played with the children and followed them about as a dog would do, and, when put into its box at night, would get under the blanket and settle itself in a very com¬ fortable manner. Indeed, it loved heat so much tliat it would make its way into any other bed from which a scrap of blanket hung down to serve as a climbing ladder. However, as the little creature became trouble¬ some in some respects, the farmer determined, much to the grief of his children, to part with their clumsy plaything. He carried it away into the forest, and left it there, returning home with the story of his success ; but, just at bedtime, a well-known scratch¬ ing sound was heard at the door, and the delighted children, who rushed to open it, carried in the weary creature who had found his way without help to his adopted home. A second time, however, the farmer conveyed it away, and to a greater distance, but still

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CHATTERBOX. 99 it came back ; but, the third time, in order to make sure that the unwelcome little animal would not return, the farmer conveyed it across the river in his boat and left it on the opposite bank. The river was broad and deep, and the wombat has not feet adapted to swimming; therefore the farmer felt sure that he had got rid of the troublesome and per¬ sistent pet. But, no I by the time the boat had reached the home shore, the little creature had found a huge fallen tree which lay half across the stream, and had crawled to the extreme end of it, where it sat, wist¬ fully gazing at its departing friend. But the farmer was kinder-hearted than he knew himself to be; he could not bear the wistful gaze with which the dis¬ carded pet was watching him ; he therefore paddled back again, took his fat little passenger on board, and carried it home, where it was received with open arms by the children, who told it that it would never, never be sent away again! B. MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. SAM so weak and feeble, that I cannot leave my bed. Or from the pillow even for a moment lift my head ; All day I would be quite alone unless for sister dear. It is such joy to me to know that she is always near. I can’t remember mother, for she died so long ago, But sister says she went to Heaven, where angels live, you know ; And that if we are very good, and trust in Jesu’s love. The day will come w^hen He will send and take us too above. Poor father, when so hard at work, I know he thinks of me. And washes he could stay at home to nurse me ; but you see He is so poor that he must work to earn our daily bread : When he is very old, perhaps. I’ll work for him instead. But one day every week my dearest father stays at home. And how I count the hours till that delightful day has come ; For then he sits by me until the church bells call to prayer, And well I know he thinks of me when he is kneeling there. Before he goes he lifts the window just a little way. So I can hear the gentle murmuring voices as they pray; But when the organ peals, and I can hear the people rise To sing the hymns T know so well, then glad tears fill my eyes. For then I think of Heaven, where all the happy angels dw^ell — My sister tells me that these angels know of me quite w^ell; And, if it is God’s will that I should pine awav and die. They won’t disdain to spread their wdngs and carry me on high. But here comes father from his work. Oh, father, I can see Two oranges are in your hand, for sister and for me 1 Oh, how thankful we should feel, how full of hope and cheer. With such a Saviour up in Heaven, and such a father here ! M. PEY THE GREAT. N the days before the Em¬ pire of Rome was estab¬ lished, her ambitious citi¬ zens constantly struggled with each other for power. Among these was Cneius Pompeius Sextus, but who was usually called by the nickname of ^Strabo,' which means ‘the squinter.’ a son who was also named Oneius Pompeius, who was born in the year B.c. 106, and is known to us as Pompey. He entered the army whilst still a boy, and had gained a reputation for bravery before he was seventeen. At this time Borne was distracted by the factions of Marius and Sulla, in which Strabo was involved. He was in danger of assassination, but his life was saved by the courage and promptitude of his son. In the following year, however, he was killed in his tent by a flash of lightning. He had been accused of appropriating the public money to his own use, and young Pompey, as his heir, was obliged to meet the charge. He was only nineteen years old, but he pleaded his cause with such effect that he gained it, and a wife also ; for the Praetor, or chief magistrate of Rome, before whom the case was heard, admired him so much that he gave him his daughter in marriage. Marius and Cinna had now gained possession of Rome, and slain most of their foes. Pompey retired to Picenura, where he raised an army of sixteen thousand men, and, defeating those who opposed him, he joined Sulla, Marius’s great rival. Sulla received him with distinction, saluting him as ‘ Imperator,’ or ‘ Commander ; ’ a title from which our word ‘ Em¬ peror,’ is derived. After this he made successful campaigns in Sicily, Spain, and Africa, and when he returned to Rome covered with glory, where Sulla was Dictator, Pompey was hailed with the title of ‘ Magnus,’ or ‘ the Great,’ which he bore ever after¬ wards. A fierce contest now broke out in Italy, known as ‘ the Servile War.’ A celebrated gladiator, named He had

Page 108

100 CHATTERBOX Motherless Children. Spartacus, having put himself at the head of a crowd of revolted slaves and other desperate men, en¬ trenched himself in the crater of Mount Vesuvius, and defied the power of Kome. He was a man of great ability — he defeated four Koman armies sent against him ; but he was at last overcome by Crassus, and the war was finished by Pompey. Two years afterwards Pompey was appointed Proconsul ; and he cleared the Mediterranean Sea of the swarms of pirates who infested it, and were destroying the commerce of all the neighbouring countries. He seized their ships, got possession of the fortresses in which they kept their plunder, and liberated their captives. He took 20,000 prisoners ; but, humane as he was brave, instead of executing them, he settled them in remote provinces, far from the sea. Mithridates the Great, king of Pontus, was now" the Homans’ most formidable enemy, but l^oinpey defeated him. Tigranes, the king of Armenia, sub¬ mitted to him, and he conquered the Albanians, and several countries hitherto unknown to the liomans, and received the homage of as many as twelve kings. He entered Syria, reduced Judaea to a Koman pro¬ vince, and returned to Italy with such splendour and

Page 109

so powerful an army that the Homans dreaded his becoming master of the city. But he disbanded his troops before entering Home, and was accorded a magnificent Triumph. I’o strengthen his influence he formed an alliance with Julius Csesar, and with Crassus, who was the wealthiest man in Home; this was known as 'the Triumvirate,’ and Pompey married Caesar’s daughter ; but the alliance was broken up when she died, an5 Crassus was slain in his campaign against Parthia. Pompey and Caesar now became rivals for the mastery of the Homan world. Caesar was away in Gaul, pushing on his victorious campaigns there, whilst Pompey was gaining favour with the people by the magnificence of the shows which he pro¬ vided at Home. Several days were devoted to

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102 CHATTERBOX. these exhibitions, in which gladiatorial combats alternated with fights with wild beasts. Four hun¬ dred lions and fourteen elephants were killed, and the wondering citizens beheld a rhinoceros for the first time. jBut the city was disturbed by the violence of unscrupulous men who were striving to gain power, and Pompey was appointed sole Consul to put an end to the anarchy that prevailed. This he did with a strong hand ; but the breach between him and C^sar grew wider. Caesar’s friends at Home wished him to be continued in his command in Gaul, though his time had expired; and when this was refused, and when Pompey sent for two legions of soldiers that had been lent to him, Caesar declared hostilities by crossing the Rubicon, and marching against Rome. The Romans were seized with fear at his approach. Pompey, with the consuls and the principal senators, left the city, and retired to Brundusium, Caesar obtained possession of the city, and his supremacy was acknowledged by all Italy. Pompey collected a numerous and well-disciplined army, and retired into Greece, whither Caesar followed him. The two great generals met in the plains of Pharsalia ; but Pompey was no match for the military genius of Caesar, and he was completely defeated, and he fled from the field of battle. Making his way to Mytilene, he went on board a ship and sailed to Lesbos, where he took up his wife, Cornelia, a lady of noble character, whom he had married on the death of Caesar’s daughter, Julia. Thinking he might find a refuge with Ptolemy, the young King of Egypt, to whom he had been appointed as guardian by the Roman Senate, he continued his course to that country ; but the king was only thirteen years old, and he was under the governance of three men who were afraid of offending Csesar. So, when Pompey’s vessel approached, the Fgyptian fleet was lying off the coast, and the young king and a number of people were standing on the shore. Presently a boat was seen to put off from the beach and row towards the ship, and those who were in it invited P ompey to enter it. He did so and was carried to land; but just as he rose from his seat to step on shore he was stabbed by a man who had been one of his own centurions. Others then drew their swords, and Pompey, without uttering a word, covered his face with his robe, and submitted to his fate. His death took place in the year b.c. 48, the day after he had completed his fifty-eighth year. The head was cut off and sent to Caesar, but he turned from the sad sight shedding tears, and caused ail the murderers to be put to death. Cornelia saw from the ship the dreadful spectacle of her husband’s murder, and immediatelv set sail and escaped from the Egyptian vessels which pursued her. Pompey’s two sons, Sextus and Cneius, tried to oppose Csesar, but they both lost their lives. Such was the pitiful end of Pompey the Great, who was a good man as well as a great general. He used his victories with humanity, never enriched him¬ self with plunder as many of the Roman Pro-consuls did he was above taking bribes, and he was blame- le^ in his private life. On the sea-shore at Alexan¬ dria there is a Roman column, eighty-eight feet high, whidi is known as ^ Pompey’s Pillar.’ A. R. THE TREASURE OE THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ {Continued from ■page 95.) APTAIN BANNATYNE was slowly divesting himself of his coat and waistcoat, and paused in the operation to say, ^Now, O’Hagan, did I tell you you could do the business all by yourself.^ or did I say that the whole party of us would fix ropes, and use stakes, and otherwise get to work in a business-like way, in order to When we want to get the William and Mary under way, does one man just go on board and do it himself, or do the whole crew lend their hands to it ? Perhaps you will be good enough to keep that wonderful strength of yours in reserve until your commander — that’s me — tells you that it is needed;’ and with this mild reproof, the old skipper leisurely stripped off his coat, whilst O’Hagan, somewhat abashed at his own eagerness, sat down, and awaited the time when they should all be ready to make a combined effort against the granite guardian of the treasure-house. ^ What if it shouldn’t be there, after all ? ’ said Felix, laughingly, to Tom. ^Well, that would be a sell,’ answered the latter. ^ We must hope for better things than that, my boys,’ said the gentle voice of Chiquita, ^My friends and myself have spent so much money on fitting out the expedition, that we must, at least, trust to get enough to pay our expenses. We shall soon see,’ he said, as he lighted a cigar. There was a suppressed excitement about the whole party, now that the time which was to make or mar the entire success of the expedition seemed so close at hand. Even the old skipper, though out¬ wardly so calm, was, in reality, under its influence, and his fingers twitched nervously, as he prepared the cord which was to be looped around the sharp peak of the rock. O’Hagan looked at the boys with a droll twinkle in his eye. ^ And what was the magic word they said now, in the Forty Thieves ” story ? If we could think of it, maybe the whole thing w^ould open of itself. Open — something or other.” Ah, now, isn’t it Open sausages ? " ’ * Open Sesame, you mean, don’t you ? ’ laughed Ben. * WeU, I’m afraid the spell won’t work, O’Hagan.’ ^ No, but we can,’ said Felix. am burning to get the rock hauled away, so that w'e can satisfy ourselves what is behind it.’ ‘ Well, boys, you won’t have to wait so very long for that,’ answered the captain, ^for whether this rock holds tight or not, we can soon get it away by some means or other. I’ve brought a few charges of blasting powder from the ship up along with me, to use if needful. I hope, though, all the same, that move that rock ?

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CHATTERBOX. 103 we shall he able to manage without it. The explosion might very likely have two eiTects which would be most undesirable under the circumstances : one being that probably half a ton of loose rock would come tumbling down on our heads, and another that the noise might attract the unwelcome attentions of some of the hill robbers, and wandering bands of natives, who may be prowling about within earshot. I think we have been very fortunate to have escaped their notice, up to now.^ In which sentiment, Caracio, could he have under¬ stood the English language, would have hardly been likely to have agreed with him. At length the ropes were made fast and properly adjusted. Then, headed by the big Irishman, all hands laid their weight on to the tug. For two whole minutes they pulled without pro¬ ducing the slightest effect. ‘ Hold hard, boys, for a moment,’ then called the captain, purple in the face from his exertions ; ^ hold hard, and we will move round to another angle. Away with you, all round to the right of those gooseberry bushes,’ he said, pointing to some low- growing tropical bushes, which certainly did. bear some resemblance to the homely plant mentioned. They got the rope round to this point, and again began their tug of war with the tough piece of rock. ‘Now, all together. One, two, three — haul! Again, one, two - ’ but with a cracking sound the whole mass suddenly gave way, and the hauling party, as one man, found themselves seated on the ground. At this point the spy, who had been all this time watching eagerly, could restrain his curiosity no longer. He reached forward, until half of his body fairly overhung the cliff, in order to get a better view. As he did so, he detached two or three stones from their place, and sent them rolling’'down the face of the rock. In an instant the men below had looked up, and. he was discovered. ^ ^ ^ ‘ Tear an’ ages 1 ’ cried out O’Hagan, ^ if that isn’t the same now ; I mean I recognise the man I couldn’t see — och 1 what a blunderer is myself ; but that’s the chap that must have been up there the night you thought you saw something, eh, Baxter ?’ Before the party could get to their feet, Caracio had disappeared. The Spaniards both looked grave. At last Chiquita spoke. ‘ My friend,’ he said, addressing the captain, * I don’t suppose that fellow up there was after any good. The hill-men about here are nearly all thieves and desperadoes. We shall now have to be con¬ stantly on our guard to watch for a surprise. Nothing could well have been more unfortunate for us, just at this juncture too, when we have not only discovered the treasure-house — if treasure-house it he — for ourselves, but have also showed it to him.’ Meantime, Felix and Ben, lithe and agile as mon¬ keys, had climbed and scrambled, with torn hands and bramble-scratched faces, up to the eyrie from which all their proceedings had been watched so carefully. Of the man himself there was no sign, but ample evidence lay all around them oi the spot having been occupied for many hours. Then they returned, slipping and sliding down the face of the rock, to the others. For the moment, the unexpected appearance of a watcher had driven even the thought of the treasure out of their minds. The work was soon resumed, and after hauling several lesser obstacles, such as loose boulders of stone, out of the way, a large fold of mouldy sail canvas met their view. This withdrawn, they saw, with a breathless gasp of expectation, eight iron- clamped, heavily padlocked boxes, ranged four on the ground, and the other four on the top of them. The boxes were stoutly made of dark oak, whilst every corner bore a curiously wrought, heavy metal clamp. The padlocks were extremely old, and were at once pronounced by Senhor Chiquita to be of Spanish workmanship. * And these boxes,’ rejoined his friend Bocan, ^ are of Spanish oak — the oak which, in the eighteenth century, was used almost without exception for the conveyance of anything precious. In those primitive days,’ he added, with a smile, ‘ the wood was looked upon as invulnerable. We knew not the modern burglars’ tools then.’ Taking up a hammer, the captain was just about to break the lock of the topmost box, when he paused and said : ‘ Don’t you think, Senhor Chiquita, that we had better get all this safely on board the old William and Mary, before we break the locks.? You see we have no means of locking the boxes up again when once we have broken these. Shall we carry them, or get mules to carry them down to the ship first ? ’ ‘ Only to find that we have been carefully convey¬ ing eight large and heavy boxes of brick-bat or pig- iron, my friend ? ’ laughed the founder of the expe¬ dition. ‘No, that w^ould be too vexing did wo discover, after such exertions, that we were mere carriers of rubbish. We will break the padlocks, and afterwards decide whether the boxes are to go on board our good ship, or to remain here where they now are.’ ‘Right,’ grunted the captain; T must be a silly old noodle not to have thought of that before. Give me that hammer again, Ben. We will soon solve the doubt, now.’ Whilst the captain’s resounding blows struck upon the rusted padlock, great was the speculation amongst the others as to the possible contents of the boxes. ‘ Would it be bank-notes, your honour ? ’ asked O’Hagan, anxiously ; ‘ sure, they’re just the handiest thing entirely for travelling about with.’ ^ ‘ Diamonds and rubies now, I should say,’ said Baxter, who, in his boyhood’s days, had read all sorts of rubbish about the doings of pirates on the Spanish main. ^ i ‘ Suppose it’s only guns and pistols, after all ? said Felix ; ‘ that would not surprise me in the least ; though, to be sure,’ he added, as he recollected the circumstances under which these oaken boxes were said to have been placed here, ‘ they would certainly have required all the arms they possessed to defend themselves against the possible attacks of their enemies.’ / i i ‘ Does it not seem sad,’ remarked Tom, ^ to think

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104 CHATTERBOX Caracio watching the proceedings of the Explorers. that of all the poor fellows who toiled up here to hide their treasure, only one was left alive within a month from that time ? Well may we say in church, “P yourselves treasures upon the earth! ^ {Coiiliniicd at page 110. )

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106 ^ OI-IATTERBOX. THE EMPEHOH AND THE BLACKSMITH. URING the journey of the Emperor Joseph II. to Italy, the wheels of his coach broke down on the road, so that it was with difficulty he reached a small village at a short distance. On his arrival there, his Majesty got out at the door of the only blacksmith’s shop in the town, and desired him to repair the wheel without delay. ‘ That I would do willingly,’ replied the smith, ‘ but it being holiday all my men are at church ; the boy who blows the bellows is not at home.’ * An excellent method then presents of warming oneself,’ replied the Emperor, who was unknown to the^ smith, and he set about blowing the bellows, while the blacksmith forged the iron. The wheel being repaired, six sols were demanded for the job ; but the Emperor gave six ducats. The blacksmith returned them to the traveller, saying, ^ Sir, you have made^ a mistake, and, instead of six sols, have given me six pieces of gold, which no one in the village can change.’ ^ Change them when you can,’ said the Emperor, stepping into the carriage ; ^ an emperor should pay for such a pleasure as that of blowing the bellows.’ GARRY. The Story op a Faithpul Dog. TES, sir, I am an old man now, and rather feeble on my pins, but I can remember when a twenty- mile walk, ten mile out and ten mile home, was nothing to me. ^ You see I was a country postman, and used to take the letters from a small town to a village lying ten mile out, every morning. Ay, sir, I’ve^done a tidy bit of walking in my time if it was all reckoned up. Thirty-five years a postman at twenty miles a day.’ ‘ Y^ou have indeed,’ I replied, ^and I should think you must have met with many adventures during your long lonely walks in a service which has extended over so mpny years.’ ‘ Only une adventure, or mishap perhaps I should say, the old man replied; ' and, if it had not been for a very dear friend, long since dead, these old eyes of mine would never have seen this day. Martha ! ’ he shouted, at the same time knocking with the stick on the stone flags of the little cottage porch where we were seated. The summons was answered by a young woman, who came from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on a coarse brown apron. 'What do you want, father?’ she asked, plea¬ santly. ^ ' Just fetch Garry’s likeness, my lass, and have a care with it. I wouldn’t have it broken for the world.’ Martha went away, but soon returned with a small photograph on glass, and placed it carefully in the old man’s hand. ' That, sir, is the picture of the dear friend who saved my life,’ he said, passing it to me. ' I was not a little surprised to find that the dear friend was a large black-and-tan colley dog. My curiosity being aroused, I begged the old man to tell me the story, and here it is : — ' When I had been about twenty years in the postal service (began the old man in his quavering voice) a farmer one day made me a present of a colley pup of a pure breed. I named him " Garry.” As he grew up I taught him almost everything a dog could learn. lie got so that he could just understand what was said as well as any Christian. ' When he was old enough I took him with me on my journeys, and very soon he got so used to it, that he really seemed to think it was as much his duty as mine, and when I let him carry the satchel, there was not a prouder dog in all England. ' I had to be up very early in the mornings, get my letters as soon as they were sorted, and be at my destination by half-past nine, where I delivered them to the postmaster in the village, who kept a grocer’s shop and post office combined. ' It wp pleasant enough in the sqmmer months, but during the winter it was a cold, dreary walk; dangerous too, in the dark mornings to any one not used to the path, as one part of it ran along the edge of a desert^ stone quarry, over which the unwary traveller might easily step if he missed the beaten track. ' But, as Garry and I knew every foot of the way, I never felt the least misgiving, no matter how dark the morning, except when there had been a heavy fall of snow, and then 1 trusted to the dog, who would walk on ahead. By following his footsteps I found that I never lost the path. ' One dark December morning, the snow lying thick upon the ground and a cold north wind blowing, I started on my usual journey in company with my faithful friend. 'Though muffled up in great-coat and comforter, the wind seemed to pierce through all my clothing, and the hair about my face was soon stiff with ice.° "'We shall have a rough time of it, old fellow,” I said to Garry, whose only answer was a short bark and a roll in the snow. Then, shaking his coat, he settled down to his business as guide, going a few steps in advance of me. ' The exertion of tramping through the snow soon set the blood tingling through my veins,, and on I went, feeling as warm and comfortable as circum¬ stances would allow. ' After an hour’s hard walking, we came to the old quarry, Garry, as usual, taking the Iqad. ‘ The snow was almost knee-deep here, making it hard work for me, and harder still for poor Garry. ' But we plodded on, and at last came to the stump of an old tree, by which I knew that we were past j the dangerous part of our journey. I 'The snow was not nearly so deep as we got 1 further on, which made it much better walking ;

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CHATTERBOX. 107 but, before we had done another mile, large flakes began to fall thick and fast. ‘ Knowing the danger of being caught in a snow¬ storm in that neighbourhood, I increased my pace, and pushed on with all possible speed. ^ In descending a steep incline I lost my footing, and fell heavily, with my right leg twisted under me. ^ Garry was by my side in an instant, and I tried to rise, but there was something the matter with my leg, and 1 fell back sick and faint with pain. I tried again and again, but every time I made the attempt I suffered dreadful torture. Plainly the limb was broken ! What was I to do ? ^ I ^vas lying there perfectly helpless, and a snow¬ storm was coming on. ‘ There was little chance of anybody passing that way unless I was missed and a search made. But I might die before then. ‘The postmaster at the village to which I was bound would think that the road was blocked, and that I had not attempted the journey, if I did not turn up at the usual time, and, on the other hand, my wife would think I had got safely to my destination, and was waiting there until I could make the return journey in safety. What should I do f ^ Looking helplessly rounu i or something that might suggest a means of deliverance, my eyes n:et those of my faithful dog, who sat in the snow, looking into my face and whining piteously. ‘ Suddenly it occurred to me that, if I could send the dog on to the village, he might bring help. But he had never yet gone alone, and I was afraid that he would not leave me. ‘ So it appeared, for, in spite of coaxing and threats, he steadily refused to budge from my side. ‘ As a last resource I took off my satchel, and, strapping it firmly on his back, said, “ Garry, take that to the post office. Go on, boy 1 ” ‘ Wagging his tail, and barking as much as to say, “ Now I understand,’' he darted off through the snow, leaving me alone, with a deadly faintness creeping over me, and a fear at my heart that I should be found dead. ‘ The snow fell thicker and faster, gradually bury¬ ing me. ‘ For a time I suffered dreadfully from my broken leg and the intense cold, but after a while a sensation of numbness came over me, and I felt a strong desire to go to sleep. I battled against the feeling with all my energies, knowing how dangerous such a sleep is, but at last I yielded, and knew no more. ***** ‘ When I regained consciousness I was in a warm bed, the postmaster’s wife was holding some beef tea to my lips, while Garry sat by the bedside. ‘By the doctor’s aid, and the kind treatment I received, I was soon on the way to recovery, and then I heard the particulars of my rescue. ‘ It seems that Garry, after leaving me, made the best of his way to the village, and presented himself in the postmaster’s little shop about ten o’clock, seemingly almost exhausted, with the satchel en¬ tangled about his legs in such a manner as to cause wonder as to how he got through the snow at all. ‘ As you may imagine, the appearance of the dog filled the mind of the postmaster with alarm. But that was not enough for Garry. As soon as he was relieved from the satchel, he rushed into the street, barking violently, as if he would say, “ Follow me ! ” ‘ The postmaster at last understood it. The alarm was given, and a dozen stout fellows, provided with a hurdle and restoratives, set out upon the search, guided by the faithful dog. ‘ They found me, sir, and you know the rest. But they might never have found me if it had not been for Garry. ‘ There was six inches of snow oner me when he led them to the spot, and began to scratch at the snow and whine piteously as if to say, He is here.” ^ Garry and I had many a journey over the same road after that ; and when he grew old and feeble, and no longer able to walk so far, he would stand at the cottage door and watch me off, and when I came back was always first to give me a welcome. ‘ He has been dead many years now, and I haven’t very long to live, but, as long as I have my memory, Garry will never be forgotten.’ ***** Thanking the old man for his story, I walked back to my quarters at the little village inn, thinking the while of what a noble example poor Garry was of perse veramce, obedience, and love. A. M. Babton. WHAT NOISE IS THAT? H, Jack, what noise is that ? You must have heard it, dear ! It makes my heart go pit-a-pat. And fills me with such fear! ‘Oh! there it is again! Dear Jack, do come away ; Let’s run to mother quick, and hear What she and father say. ‘ I’m really almost sure It is some wild beast’s cry. Oh, can it be a tiger, Jack ? If so, I know I’ll die!’ ‘ Now, Jane, don’t be a goose ; How could a tiger come From Bengal, where those monsters live, Into our English home ? ‘ I’ll tell you what I think. Indeed I’m almost sure. It is the squeaking of a rat, A beast I can’t endure ! ’ ‘A rat ! oh, me !’ cried Jane, ‘ Let’s run out of the house.’ And so they did, until they found ’Twas nothing but — a mouse!

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THE FALLS OF CLYDE. I. — Uppee, Fall — Bonnington. rpiiE Clyde is a world-famous river and firth of JL South-West Scotland. It rises at the height of nearly 1600 feet above the level of the sea, in the mountains which separate Lanarkshire from the countries of Peebles and Dumfries. It runs for upwards of a hundred miles in a north and north¬ west direction, round Tinto Hill (2335 feet) and past various important towns, Lanark, Bothwell, Glasgow and Benfrew, till reaching Dumbarton it becomes merged in the firth. In the four miles of its course, near Lanark, the river descends very rapidly from 560 to 200 feet, and forms the three celebrated Falls of Clyde, the first of which, known as the Bonnington Linn,* is well represented in the picture before us. * The word ‘ linn ' in Scotland means ‘ waterfall.’

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Upper Fall, Bonnington. At this point, the river, having descended at a rapid rate and with much noise, suddenly leaps over crags thirty feet in depth, and thereafter, as though it had exhausted itself, the impetuous waters run more soberly for a while. At the Bonnington Linn, the banks of the river are very rocky, and are adorned with lofty trees and leafy shrubbery, which greatly add to the beauty of the scene. B. M. K.

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110 CHATTERBOX. PUZZLERS EOB WISE HEADS. Metagbams. THE THEASIJBE OF THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ 18. — 1. Theke is a word of four letters naming a river in the south of England famed for the beauty of its scenery; also a weapon. Take away the first letter and substitute others in succession, and the following changes will appear : — 2. A place for transacting business. 3. Not the whole. 4. A homely vehicle. 5. A pleasant addition to your table ; very acid. 19. — 1. A word of four letters naming an island between England and France. 2. Deprived of light. 3. An enclosed piece of ground. 4. Listen I 5. Part of a tree ; the cry of an animal. 6. A visible line or impression ; a coin. 7 . A bird famed for its beautiful note. 20. — 1. A word of four letters naming a cape in the north of Europe. 2. When once in, you will not find it easy to get out. 3. To look earnestly. 4. A mist. 5. To lay level with the ground. 21. — 1. A word of five letters, a bay in the west of Ireland. 2. Only one. 3. To mix. 4. To feel a slight sensation. 5. A sound made by bells. c. C. 22. — Buried Cities and Countries. 1. I ha\t: told you the same thing over and over again. 2. There fell a large bomb a yard or two from the spot where I was standing. 3. After whist, besique became the fashionable game. 4. I know she is a person of rank, for there is a coronet on her carriage. 5. In the next chapter the character of Imogene vanishes entirely from the story. 6. During the winter months I am obliged to go to a warm climate. 7. I found Ernest exasperated at the unjust treat¬ ment he bad received. 8. He carries his new honours right royally. r . * C. C. lAmwers at page 135.] .A-ig-S 33 3 + 3 + 3-3 = 6. g 3 = 8. 2. 987654321 = 45 123456789 = 45 3x3x3 3 = 9. 8 64197532 = 45 3. 12. 4. 54. fi’ ^8?. at the beginning. 6. 6, 54, 15, 21, all equal 18. 7. 23 sheep. 8. 360 crowns and 120 sovereigns. (Continued from page 104.) i^'NAP went the lock under the force of the captain’s hammer. He pulled it out of the hasp and tugged at the lid. But it held stoutly against liim, and, looking closely to see the cause, lie ^ ^ couple of thick i^on bolts driven through . the lid, one on either side, which held it firm. The bolts had rusted into their sockets, but at last, with great labour, one was drawn, w’^hilst the other yielded to a vigorous blow of the trusty hammer. With a loud ^ hurrah,’ the lid was thrown open, and they all ran for¬ ward to get a ^ gli mpse. A piece of worm-eaten canvas was quickly torn away, and there, before their gaze, lay disclosed, roll after roll, of Spanish gold pieces, doubloons, and Portuguese moidores (worth about twenty-seven shillings English value). ^ Well, that’s good enough, Senhor, I think? Without counting the other boxes, I should say that this one alone will pay you back all your expenses of fitting out this expedition. Shall we break open just one more of the boxes, and then take the rest on trust till we get aboard, for, between ourselves, I don t much fancy the idea of that chap peeping at us this morning. I don’t think he could have been after any good, else why should he have run off like a frightened rabbit ? If he had been an honest man, there was nothing to be afraid of.’ ' As you like, captain. Yes, we will open just one more, I think. I confess to being of a curious dis¬ position, and should like to see the contents of the next.’ After more hard toil, the second box yielded to the efforts made upon it, and the lid was thrown open. A similar sight, in all respects, was revealed, and then the chest was again fastened roughly down, and the old tattered sailcloth flung loosely over them all once more. The Are in the little camp was replenished, and the men all flung themselves upon the ground, except Baxter, who was acting as cook. He set to work with the frying pan, and soon a savoury, if not very delicate, meal of salt beef and biscuit, onions and potatoes, was set before them, and they all fell to, their appetites sharpened by the feeling that success had crowned their efforts, and that there was now no longer any fear of having to return to England empty-handed, and confessing to having been befooled into a wild-goose chase after treasure which only existed in a crazy imagination. After the meal, the men lighted their pipes, whilst Bocan and Chiquita rolled their almost endless cigarettes. Then, after a brief spell of smoking, the last-named, addressing Captain Bannatyne, said: ^ Our next thought must be as to whether we shall attempt to get these heavy chests down to the ship by our own efforts, or whether one or two of us shall

Page 119

OHATTEUBOX. HI travel over the mountain to the Indian village beyond, to try and procure mules and drivers for the task. Such a iourney, in this country, will certainly he attended with much danger. The question for us is this : Is it worth while for us to run that risk, and also the chance of drawing the attention of any robber bands to the fact that we are well worth murdering ? For my part, I think not. I think we should do far better to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, and try to get the boxes on board our ship as soon as we can. If our small party is not sullicient for the labour, then I should think it would be best to send, say, two of our number, for more hands. What is your opinion, captain ? Do you agree with me ? ^ ' Right,’ said the skipper, without removirig the pipe from his mouth. ‘ It is too late to begin the journey to-day ; let us camp here, where we are, all nio-ht, and then start on the back journey at day¬ light.’ And thus, without any further discussion, the matter was settled ; but, as a measure of precaution, after their experience of the mysterious watcher’s unexpected appearance, two men — this time, Senhor Bocan and Tom Bannatyne, taking the first watch — instead of one, were set to act as sentinels. These were to be relieved by O’Hagan and Felix Hurst- bourne, who in turn, would give place to the captain and Senhor Chiquita. Each man, as he took his turn at sentry duty, was enjoined by the old skipper to look well to his gun being loaded, and to keep his weather eye open, as he called it. The night passed slowly away to those whose duty kept them on guard over the silent camp. Which of us does not know how wearily the hours creep on, when we have to struggle against sleep, the natural desire for that ‘sweet restorer’ of strength and wasted tissue, in the noiseless space which men call night ? Perchance it has been by the side of a sick¬ bed ; perchance in the depths of some lonely forest, whilst comrades were taking of rest ; perhaps on a stately vessel, as she glides oyer summer seas, and all on board is still. Wherever it be, sleep hovers ever dangerously near us, and, unless we exercise all our firmness and self-control, will surely lure us out of consciousness before we are aware. So it was especially with the three boys. Try as they would, each one finally fell asleep. Fortunately, the captain had been careful to arrange that no two boys should keep a watch together, so that no harm could come from their failing in alertness. The night wore on, and daylight broke without incident or anything occurring to alarm the occupants of the camp. Soon after four o’clock they all roused up, and away sped Tom, Felix, and Ben to the mountain pool, to which they repaired for the per¬ formance of the morning bath. ‘Tom,’ said Felix, after plunging his head and face into the water, ‘ watching at night is a terrible business, isn’t it ? Isn’t it awful to struggle against the wish to go to sleep ? ’ ‘Well,’ answered Tom Bannatyne, ‘now^ you mention it, I confess that I never felt so sleepy iii all my life before.’ ‘ I really could not keep awake,’ chimed in Ben, as he began drying his face ; ‘ not properly, that is _ _ — The three boys looked hard in each other s faces. Then they all burst out into a hearty fit of laughter. ‘ You went to sleep, Ben ! ’ ‘Well, if I did, I expect you did the same, Master Felix.’ _ , ‘I’ll own up, too,’ confessed Tom; and then they all laughed again. i After brealrfast— such as it was— had been liastiiy eaten, preparations were quickly made for movmg camp, and securing the treasure chests. It wavS found, on ‘ hefting’ them, that two men would be required for each chest, and as there were but eight men in all, the work of transport was stopped at the outset. , 1 i. • ‘ Now, what’s to be done ^ asked the^ captain, scratching his head in perplexity. .^Yid, in truBi, the situation was not free from difficulty. On the one hand, they had no method of transport, except by means of the eight men and boys composing the party, and that number was certainly unequal to the task of carrying all the chests down to the sea ; on the other hand, after the spy had discovered their secret hiding-place, it would be unsafe to leave part of the treasure behind them. Then a bright idea occurred to Felix. ‘ Captain Bannatyne,’ said he, could we not remove all the chests from where they are, and find another secure hiding-place for them, where that fellow would not be able to find them ? Then we could take, say, three of the boxes straight off with us now, and come back with more men for the five which we hide.’ ‘ Your head is a level one, boy. If the seniioi is agreeable to that plan, why, I say it is the best that we can devise, under the circumstances. V\ hat say you, Senhor Chick-eater? ’ said the captam, turning to the latter. . ‘ 1 think Felix’s idea is an excellent one, captain. I cannot see how we could do better,’ answered the Spaniard. -.n . . i 4. Without any further delay, they all set to work to carry out the suggested scheme. Felix, Tom, and Ben started off by themselves down the gorge, in search of a suitable hiding-place amongst the loose rocks and boulders, with which the place was so thickly strewn, whilst the other five set to^ work to drag the chests out of the cave in which they lay. After a spell of hard clambering, Ben caught sight of some yellow-green fruit, hanging in great bunches from a banana-tree on a point of rocky tableland some twenty feet above their beads. ‘ Felix,’ he exclaimed, ‘ I’m getting rather hungry, and those bananas look good. Do you think we mi<vht manage to climb up there ? It’s rather steep, to be sure, but, if Tom will stand at the foot of the rock where it is so upright and smooth, we could climb over his shoulders, and catch hold of those bushes, haul ourselves up to them, and then tne rest of the way is easy.’ ^ i ‘ I’m agreeable to be made into a walking ladder, my boys, so long as you will undertake to keep me well supplied with the fruit, when you have got up to it,’ said Tom; and, placing his broad chest against the rock, and steadying himself with his hands, first Felix, and then Ben, clambered up on to his shouldar^*

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112 CHATTERBOX. “ Tom was quickly rewarded by a plentiful supply of bananas.” and from that point, by tbe aid of the bushes above their heads, they got up to the foot of the tree. bcores of the delicious fruit were hanging from the numerous banana-trees which clustered on tbe table-land, and Tom was quickly rewarfed for his share in getting it hy havine- a plentiful supply thrown down to him by tL two ifds. {Continued at page 114:.)

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CHATTERBOX. 113 The First Umbrella.

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114 CHATTERBOX. HANWAY’S UMBRELLA. E have it on good authority, that Jonas Hanway, the eccentric philanthropist, was the first per¬ son who walked about the streets of London with an umbrella over his head. He was a man who did not want courage, as we know from ofher deeds which he did of a more dangerous sort. Being a Quaker, he was not afraid of sneers or jeering re¬ marks, which Quakers have always had to en¬ counter. Very likely he was both insulted and pelted when he appeared with his umbrella in some streets, for the constables of the reign of George III. did not keep order so well as our modern policemen do, Probaoly, good Mr. Hanway’s original umbrella was even larger than those to which, in allusion to one of Dickens 8 tales, the popular name of ^gamps’ is often given by way of joke. The Georgian umbrellas are described to us as being made of green, oiled canvas, with cane ribs, which would not bear a strong gust of wind. Cowper, the poet, in his ^Task,’ mentions the umbrella as an article which people used to protect them from the sun, because it was the fashion then to cut down many of the fine old trees of parks and groves, so that perhaps this was Planway’s first idea about it, that it made a good sunshade. Evidently, the umbrella came to us from the East, where it is employed for that purpose, but the French had it before us. This was one thing which made people dislike it, for French fashions were thought silly. Macdonald, writing in a.d. 1778, says that the London idlers and the hackney coachmen shouted after him when he carried an umbrella, and called him a ‘mincing Frenchman.’ His sister was out walking with him one day, and she was so much insulted that he had to take refuge in a shop. But I must say something about Jonas Hanw^ay, for he is worthy to be remembered. He was born at Portsmouth in a.d. 1712, and travelled about the world a good deal, and published a book giving an account of his travels in Persia. With some other gentleman, he founded the Marine Society in 1756, which was intended to benefit beggar-boys and orphps, by giving them an outfit and starting them as sailors upon trading ships. He was himself a Russian merchant. Then he was one of the early friends of Sunday schools, though the schools which he helped to start w^ere different to those we have now ; they were the means of taming children who were like young savages. They heard the truths of the Bible and were taught to read. It was not till this century that a machine for sweeping chimneys was invented^, and the custom of employing boys as climbing sweepers gradually ceased, but before that Jonas Hanway did what he could to protect these poor little fellows. They had often to go up chimneys on bitter cold mornings ; sometimes they stuck fast and died, often hs-J bruises and sores from this dangerous work. Some of the timid ones, too, were always afraid of meeting bogies in the chimneys ! Even at the age of six or seven, children were so employed, because, when small, they could climb narrow chimneys better, and little girls were actually sent up sometimes. Mr. Hanway obliged the masters to feed these young sweeps properly, to have them washed after their work, and to give them beds, not dirty sacks to sleep upon ; also he got their hours shortened. When he was in London, Hanway lived during many years in a house in Red Lion Square, Holborn, and he had all the reception-rooms there decorated with beautiful paintings and devices. The reason he gave for this was a good one : he said that often visitors did not know what to talk about, and these wall-scenes gave them a subject. J. R. S. 0. THE TREASURE OP THE ‘SAN AHTOHIO.’ {Con tinued from page 112.) ^ H E ‘ table ’ of rock on which the lads found the bananas was about forty feet square, or nearly so, and backed by several caves, honeycombed into the face of the cliff. This cliff rose sheer above them for over a hundred and fifty feet, and a tiny rill of bright, clear water trickled down from above, splashing into a shallow pool at their feet. Ben heaved a sigh : ‘ W hat a place this would be for hiding the treasure chests in, if only it were possible to get them up here.’ ‘And why not, Ben.P’ answered Felix. ‘Surely we could do that. AVe have got ropes, and there are eight of us to haul on to them. The chests them¬ selves are not large, and eight of us can surely pull up one at a time ; don’t you think so ? ’ ‘ Let us ask Tom ; he is more likely to know than I am,’ said Ben. ‘ If it could be managed, it really would be a grand place. Tom,’ he called out over the rocky ledge, ‘do you think you could get up here? We want you to see this place.’ ‘ Get up there ! ’ came the answer from below ; ‘ not unless I were a rock squirrel, or else a bird with a sound pair of wings ! What is it you want P ’ ‘ Then, if you can’t get up here, we will come down to you,’ said Felix, and, their pockets well stuffed with bananas, they easily slid down to within about eight feet of the ground, and gently dropped the rest of the distance. ‘ Well,’ said Tom, after hearing what they had to tell him, ‘I must certainly go up myself before giving an answer to the question. So one of you two must now play the part of ladder.’ He was quickly hoisted on to Felix’s shoulder.

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CHATTERBOX. 115 and, catching the bushes, he drew himself up just as the others had done before him. After about ten minutes spent in inspecting the small space of table¬ land and the caves behind it, he called out : ‘ There’s no doubt about it that this is a splendid hiding-place. With ropes, I really think it would be quite possible to get the chests up here. No doubt it would be a tough job, but then we’ve got some tough men — O’Hogan and Baxter for example — to tackle it. Yes, I certainly think we ought to go back at once to the camp, and tell them of this.’ He scrambled down again, and they hastened back to their friends. Stumbling along over the loose stones and boulders, they came at length upon the. party, seated in a circle and busy munching their salt beef and biscuit meal. ^ ^ Ah, we have been faring rather better than you ! laughed Felix, as they all three produced from their pockets the ripe fruit of the banana-tree, and presented it to their comrades. The story of their morning’s work was soon told, and, after a short con¬ sultation, it was decided that the treasure should be conveyed to the new hiding-place in the course of that same afternoon. The meal finished, the laborious work of dragging the chests down the gorge began. Two men to each could only move over the rough, broken ground at a very moderate pace, and nearly two hours were gone before the first chest was thankfully dropped by its tired bearers at the foot of the tableland rock. With infinite labour, just half of the treasure was brought down to that place, before falling night put a stop to the proceedings. The watchers doing sentry duty had another anxious vigil, the captain warning them that an attack was by no means unlikely, and that upon their alertness might probably depend not only the safety of the treasure chests, but, far more important still, the lives of all those forming the expedition. Nothing, however, gave cause for alarm, and when the welcome daylight again made its appear¬ ance, all the party began to feel more secure, and to think that, after all, the sight of the s^y was nothing to cause them any uneasiness. \N hether they were correct or not in such surmises, we shall very soon see. By mid-day the whole of the eight treasure chests had been dragged down the gorge from the place where they had been discovered, and got beneath the intended hiding-place. Then all the party, with the exception of O’ Hagan, climbed up to the table rock, with ropes slung round them. Two of the stoutest of the ropes were lowered from the vantage-point above, and the Irishman made them fast to the first chest. Then, with a sailor’s * Heave ho I ’ the half-a- dozen men put all their weight into the task before them, and, bit by bit, the heavy burden rose from the ground, an inch or so at a time, whilst O’Hagan, by the aid of a long pole, steadied it from swaying against the rock as it went up. ‘Phew ! ’ whistled the captain, looking ruefully at his hands, red and almost raw from the violent pull on the rope, ‘ that was a tough piece of work. I m not sorry that there are only eight of them to do. I am still more pleased to think that they don’t weigh an extra hundredweight ; that, I think, would make just the difference between our getting them up or having to own that they were too much for us. However, here goes, boys ; let’s hitch the ropes on to the next. Hilloa, down below there ! ’ he shouted to the Irishman. ‘ Here are the ropes ; hitch on the next.’ . ‘ Hitch on meself ? ’ said O’Hagau, mis-hearing the captain’s direction. ‘ Now what does he want me to hitch on meself for, I wonder However, it’s a seaman’s first duty to obey, and with a good captain like this it isn’t for the likes of me to question his orders ; ’ and, so saying, O’Hagan fixed the bight of the rope round him, and gave the word to ‘Haul.’ ‘ Come, boys, this one’s lighter than the last, any¬ how. Afraid it doesn’t contain quite so much gold, Senhor Chick-eater,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘Now, all together, lads, up she comes ! that's right. One more haul, and - ’ The skipper stopped, and let the rope fall out of his hands in sheer astonishment, as, appearing above the level on which their feet rested, was, not a wooden box, but a great shock head and the face they so well hnew of the quartermaster. In a moment they were all convulsed with laughter, and O’Hagan, for a few moments, really ran some risk of being dropped, by reason of the whole of the hauling party giving way to their feelings of merriment and slacking their hold on the rope. The Irishman was, at last, dragged over the ledge, and landed safely on the table rock, after which, the mistake being ex¬ plained, he scrambled down again, and once more the work of hoisting up the chests went on. By dint of incessant labour the last of the boxes was landed on the high rocky plateau, just as day¬ light gave signs of failing. Then, after it had been sSely stowed away with the rest in a cave beyond, the exhausted little party set to work to light a tire on the rock, in preference to returning below, and to cook their evening meal. After dispatching this and a dessert of excellent bananas, Tom expressed liis intention of going out up the gorge a short way, to try and shoot a parrot to make into soup for the next day, before they all started back for the ship. Captain Bannatyne enjoined him not to be long gone, and, above^ all things, to run into no danger that he could possibly avoid. Tom, of course, promised to observe his father’s instructions, and, sliding down the rock, started off. For about three-quarters of a mile ^ Tom ^vent slowly up the pass, casting his eyes anxiously about for sight of a parrot, but looking in vain. Then a green-crested bird flew out over his head, and the bo}^ rapidly raised his gun to his shoulder. In the same moment he suddenly withdrew it again and paused, listening intently to a sound that had just caught his ear coming from somewhere higher up the gorge. He leant forward, peering through the now dusky atmosphere, and again his ear caught^ the humming noise. It was the sound of human voices. Stepping behind a bush, he almost trod upon a huge, thick, black snake, which reared its flat, evil-looking head at him with an angry hiss. He drew quiclvly back again, and, unwilling to run the same risk in the thickness of any other bushes, he kept in the middle

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“ Tom took to his heels and fled.’* of the stony pass. The voices meantime had been getting nearer and nearer, and, whilst still hesitating whether to retreat at once or wait where he was, the sounds suddenly ceased. An instant later and the sharp crack of a rifle rang out, with its sound magnified and re-echoed amongst a dozen rocky hills, and a bullet sped past his listening ear, with that swinging sound so well known to the old soldier. Tom never stopped to make inquiries as to why, how, or frona which point he had been shot at. He did just precisely what nine boys out of ten would have very naturally done under the circumstances— he took to his heels and fled. Another and yet another bullet was quickly sent after his flying form, but they both dropped short of him and fell harmless to the ground. He tore along

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CHATTERBOX. )17 'THe Yiolet. for his very life, and shortly came -within sight of tlie camp, perched high up on its little plat¬ form of rock. Shouting as he approached for those above to let down a rope for him, ne ran on, and, com¬ pletely out of breath, he grasped the loop and swung himself into it. Before he could be raised from the DTOund, another rifle shot was fired, and a band ot about a dozen men — Indian half-breeds and low -class Mexicans— came into view round the bend of the Seeino* the object of their chase just m front or them, they stopped short for a moment ; then they came on again at a greater pace tnan before ; but Tom, secured in the bight of the rope, was now being rapidly hauled out of reach, and half a minute late was safely landed on the top of the high rock. He quickly explained what had happened to the rest or them, and they turned their attention to the doings of the men below. {Continued at page 123. ) MICAWBER’S ADVICE. My advice is. Never to do to-morrow what you can do to-day ; procrastination is the thiet of time.” My other piece of advice is : Annual income 20Z., annual expenditure 19/. 195. 6d., result, happi¬ ness. Annual income 20/., annual expenditure, 20/. Os. 6d., result, misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, and, in short, pou are for ever ■floored — as I am now THE VIOLET. Tennyson tells us, that in the 'wreath of March ’ blossom the ' crocus, anemone, and violet,’ all of which are welcome heralds of spring; and the violet is especially dear to us, on account of its fragrance as well as its modest beauty. There are many varieties of this plant, the well- known pansy or heart’s -ease being the most con¬ spicuous from its showy blossoms. The heathens reverenced the violet as the flower of Jupiter, from the fabled story that he caused it at the first to spring up as food for a young damsel, whom he had turned into a cow ! Syrup of violets is much used by the English in medicine, and in the manufacture of confectionery ; and it is still more largely used by the Turks and Persians, in whose favourite beverage, sherbet, it forms an important ingredient. Dr. Salmon main¬ tains that it is extremely 'profitable for quinsies;’ and Oharas, who wrote in a.d. 1670 on the medicinal properties of vipers, says that ‘ the juyce of floures of violets may be compounded with oyl of scorpions into boluses, that shall have great vertue.’ Poets are true lovers of this little flower. Homer decorates the enchanted Isle of Calypso with ' glowing violets ; ’ and Wordsworth sweetly sings, — ' A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye. Fair as a star, when only one Is shinin" in the sky.’ R. B.

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118 CHATTERBOX. EASTER HEAVIIQ-G AE’D HOCEmO-. UR ancestors had so many curious CTKtoms and observances connected ■with the Easter festival that it was almost as important as Christmas. One of these, which we do not hear of now in any part of Britain, was the ceremony of heaving or hfting. What was the beginning of it no one seems to know. It has been supposed, however, that it was meant to be a kind of sign or reminder of the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the rocky tomb. Mr. Lysons, some years ago, when searching the records of the Tower of London, found an account of money given to some of the ladies of the Court for taking King Edward I. in his bed at Easter. He thinks that the King was lifted, with his bed, according to this custom. He believes that it was common amongst all ranks of the people during the Middle Ages, though it probably was not usual to heave persons in their beds; yet it may sometimes have been done with children or youno- folk. We have numerous stories of people being lifted on chairs. This was done in the house and sometimes, it would appear, out of doors. But generally when any one was heaved in the street, the persons either made a sort of seat by two joining hands, or they heaved the individual full length by one taking his head and another his feet—which could, not have been an agreeable way, we think, especially as the operation was gone through three times. Even till the reign of George III. the custom was followed in North England and the Midlands, Easter Monday and Tuesday being called ‘ heaving days.’ The men heaved the women on the first day, between the hours of nine and twelve, and the second day the -women heaved the men. If a chair was used for this lifting, it was customary to line it with white and put bows of ribbon or flowers upon the arms and back. In the street-lifting, people formed into parties of six or more to take hold of the passers-by for this object, and a demand of money was always made from each person heaved. There was another Easter custom which had to do with the time when buckles were commonly worn in the shoes. Lads or girls assembled along the streets, asking the gentlemen and ladies who passed to pay for their buckles. If they refused to give a trifle, some of the ruder ones would try to pull the person’s shoes off, or they would seize a gentleman’s hat and run away with it, so that they often got what they demanded. Hocktide or Hock Tuesday is mentioned in many of the old parish books, for the money that was gathered then appears generally to have been given to the Church or to some charity. It has been thought, indeed, that this hocking was practised on two days in the week next after Easter week. The custom is supposed to have had something to do with the struggle between the Danes and Saxons. In proof of this we read about a pageant witnessed by Queen Elizabeth on a Hock Tuesday when she was^ at Kenilworth. There were two parties of soldiers, some on horseback, some on foot, with spears, swords, and shields, and they marched and counter-marched, carrying on a mock fight, till at Hst those representing the Danes were conquered. Those who went ^ hocking ’ took up a position in a public road, being furnished with ropes. They stopped people who were going along, refusing to let them pass. There was much fun and merriment, but when the hockers got a gift of money they lowered their ropes and let persons through. For a good while after the Reformation the hocking custom was kept up. The parish books of Chelsea mention that, in A.D. 1700, six pounds were obtained for the poor by the hockers. The custom had quite died out before the end of that century. J. R. S. C. VANITY OP CERTAIN BIRDS. Every one must have observed how proud the peacock is of his gorgeous plumage; how he will strut about the lawn, or in front bf the parlour window, evidently pleased to be gazed at and admired; and how the same bird will slink out of sight at that season of the year when his old feathers drop away, and he is left for a time shorn of the splendour in which he used to delight. But much meaner creatures than the peacock share this feeling, as the following little story will show. ° It is on record that a boy, while amusing himself near his father’s house in Shetland, saw a colony of sparrows building their nests. Seeing a cock-sparrow go into a hole of the wall, within his reach, the boy made a rush, and placed his hand over the hole, when the bird, in great alarm, fluttered into his hand and was caught. Then the lad, wishing to know the bird in future, cut a small bit off its tail, and let it go. A week or two afterwards, he caught another cock-sparrow at the same place, and marked it in a similar manner. The other sparrows continued their nest-building* but neither of the two marked birds appeared again! In the month of July, nine weeks after the event recorded, while wandering among the hills a lono- way from home, he came to an old ruin, and went to it in search of birds’ nests. Two birds started out from a hole in the wall, and to his great surprise he saw that they were the two forgotten cock- sparrows. Not another bird was to be seen, and they ran from hole to hole, as silent as though they had lost their voices. Evidently the small bit cut off their tails had quite broken their hearts, and had driven them to seek each other’s society, as^ brothers in adversity. Why had they gone into banishment to spend a gloomy summer away from their fellows Had their little mates discarded them on account of their stubby tail, or had they themselves felt too down-hearted to be able to hold their own among their fellows ? Who can tell ? Next spring, however, they would have new tails, and certainly the Idnd-hearted boy would never again amuse himself in such a manner. D. B. McKean.

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CHATTERBOX. 119 youngsters in popular tales. ESMOND.* T was in the 3*ear a.d. 1691 when Francis, ^ Viscount Castlewood, and his dear ® Lady Viscountess came to take aV w/ possession of their beautiful country H r house of Castlewood, in the county jjW of Hants. « Almost the only tenant of the place besides the servants was a twelve of whom no one seemed to take any notice. ^ My Lady found him quite by chance, as she was going over the house with the housekeeper, in the book-room or yellow gallery where hung the old family portraits. The child was all alone, bending studiously over a_ great book. He was a well-mannered boy, and directly he became aware of her ladyship’s presence, he laid down his book, and, standing up, made her a low bow. 'And this is our kinsman!’ she said, stretching out a kindly hand, ^and what is your name, Idns- man ? ’ ^ My name is Henry Esmond,’ said the lad, looking up at her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she appeared to him as most beautiful. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun, her lips smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond’s heart to beat with surprise. She placed one of her fair hands on his head, and with the other she held the boy’s. There was a look of tenderness and pity in her eyes, and Esmond r^ membered that look and the tones of her voice to his dying day. Harry was very different in appear¬ ance to the beautiful fair-haired lady. He had a queer little figure, a sallow face, and long black hair. A portly gentleman was my lord of Castlewood, and he entered the gallery, soon after his lady, leading by the hand a little girl of four years. ‘ So this is the little priest 1 ’ said the gentleman. "Welcome, kinsman 1 ’ The boy was kneeling on one knee before the lady. ^He is saying his prayers to mamma, said the little girl, who came up to her papa’s knees ; and my lord burst out into a great laugh at this, and kins¬ man Henry looked very silly. ‘ The poor child, he has only us,’ said the lady, looking to her lord. She spoke in the French language, and Harry, who understood her, though she did not know it, thanked her with all to heart for her kind speech. ^And he shan’t want for friends here,’ said my lord in a kind voice ; ^ shall he, little Trix ? ’ The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, looked solemnly at Harry Esmond with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile shone over her face, which was * Esmond, by W. M. Thackeray, is almost a true tale. It tells of an illustrious family, supporters of James II., and the troubles and adventures through which its members passed in the royal cause. Harry Esmond is the hero of the story, which may be purchased for sixpence. very beautiful, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen pang of gratitude, happiness, and affection filled the orphan child’s heart as he received these tokens of friendliness and kindness. Only an hour before he had felt quite alone in the world, when he heard the bells from .Castlewood Church ringing to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lady. Harry’s life had been a sad one, and lonely too. He had never known his mother, who had died in a convent, where she had retired as a penitent, having been deceived by Harry’s father who had made her believe by false assertions that she was not really his wife, though she was. In 1676, Harry’s father had been banished in the retinue of the Duke of York ; during his banishment he met a good and tender woman, whom he married, in the name of Captain Thomas — Thomas being his own Christian name. Little Harry was born, and the supposed Captain Thomas rode away on pre¬ tended business, promising to return, but he never saw his poor young wife again. He wrote her a cruel letter pretending that he had been married before, and saying that as this was the case, of course she was not really his wife. The letter was a very wicked ana heartless one, for there was no truth in it; but the poor lady, filled with grief, believed it and retii-ed to^ a convent for the rest of her life, her father putting the baby, little Henrv, out to nurse with a cousin of his daughter. The baby was sometimes carried to the convent, and petted by the nuns, who loved and pitied his unhappy mother. The nurse’s family were silk-weavers out of France, and when Harry was three years old they carried him thither. Old Pastoureau, the nurse's father, afterwards lived at Ealing, Harry calling his nurse ^ aunt.’ She was very good to him, a great deal kinder than Bon Papa Pastoureau’s new wife— for the old man married a second time. Harry always remembered London, and the looms and spinning-wheels; the psalm-singing, church¬ going, and the colony of Frenchmen. Uncle George, too, who used to tell the boy that he w^ a little gentleman, and that his father was a captain and his mother an angel, was remembered by Harrv ; and the child grieved when, tired of Bon Papa’s new wife and her disagreeable scolding ways, Uncle Geoi^e went away. This stepmother brought with her two children of her own, a boy and girl to whom she gave the best of everything, but to Harry many a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows he got ill words, sometimes. 'When, the boy was about six years old, ‘Uncle George’ met Captain Thomas, the child’s father, and, seizing him by the collar, upbraided him for having deserted his wife and son. A crowd began to collect, and to avoid a scene on Ludgate HUl, the Captain bade ‘Uncle George’ enter a tavern near by where he w'ould ‘explain’ to him his conduct. There he pretended to shed tears, and young Pastoureau (‘Uncle George’) believed him, when he declared that he had twice sent money to Brussels for ‘ poor Gertrude,’ and told him that he was now married again. {^Concluded at page 127.)

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Page 129

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122 CHATTERBOX OLD CDSTOMSo THE MAZE. S T boys and girls have heard of Hampton Court, near the Thames, with its many memories of our kings and queens. Some of them have been to see this old palace and its gardens, gardens famous for the venerable vine, also for a curious maze. In former times^ mazes were much mors common than they are now. Almost every one of the public gardens near London, where our ancestors strolled about on summer evenings, and took tea, had its maze to amuse the visitors. Gentlemen who had large gardens often made a maze in some part of their grounds. A maze was made by forming a number of walks between hedges, by which people had to reach an open space in the centre. There were many turns and winding paths also, which looked promising, but along which you could only go a little way without being stopped. The con¬ triver of a maze tried to puzzle folk as much as possible. When the bushes were grown tall, there was no chance of finding the right path by peeping over their tops; but the boys sometimes managed to get quickly to the middle by creeping through gaps in the hedges. One old author tells us that parents visiting any garden where there was a maze, when the time came to return home, had often trouble to gather their children together, because they ran about in the paths of the maze. Another name for these places was a Habyrinth.^ The garden maze had its beginning from the laby¬ rinths built by the ancients, with many rooms, galleries, and passages. One of the most remarkable was in Egypt, which was said to have had 3000 rooms, half above ground and half below. What a capital building for hide-and-seek ! In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, there was a man who wrote a book which he called the Gardener's Lahyrinthf in which he described various parts of the gardener’s work, especially how to make ^ knots,’ that is, flower-beds and mazes. His real name was Thomas Hill, but, perhaps as a joke, he signed him¬ self ‘ Hidymus Mountain.’ There was one interesting custom connected with the maze of which we read in the olden time. It seems to have been observed during the May festivities. A lady fair was the attraction ; she went along the paths of the maze, scattering flowers as she went, and she was followed by admiring cavaliers, who each strove to be the first to overtake her. Success in this chase did not depend upon quickness of foot, since, out of fun, she might drop flowers down some turning which would lead them wrong for awhile. Evidently, if the lady knew the direct way to the centre of the maze, she could give a clue to any one she loved, so that he might reach her before the rest of her followers. In some of the mazes, a person stood on a sort of little tower near the middle, where he could see all the paths, and, as the people walked along, he called out now and then, * Turn to the right ! ’ or ^ Turn to the left ! ’ but since they could not tell exactly to whom he was speaking, his hints were not always helpful. To amuse visitors, funny contrivances were sometimes placed in the paths of a maze ; thus, there would be what looked like a comfortable seat, and, on sitting down, a person found it drop with his weight, so that his legs went up in the air. Or, perhaps, hidden under the gravel there was a spring, and if any one stepped upon this, it moved a valve, and squirted a stream of water over him. We can hardly believe that near busy Charing Cross there was, in Stuart times, the old Spring Garden, which had its maze, amongst other amuse¬ ments which the folk of those old times enjoyed. j. k. s. c. COUHAGE. Have the courage to tell a man why you will not lend him your money. Have the courage to wear your old garments till you can pay for new ones. Have the courage to pass the bottle without filling your glass. Have the courage to speak your mind when it is necessary that you should do so, and to hold your tongue when it is better that you should be silent. Have the courage to pay a debt while you have the money in your pocket. Have the courage to provide an entertainment for your friends within your means, not beyond them. Have the courage to own that you are poor, if you are so. Have the courage to obey your Maker, at the risk of being ridiculed by man. Four Good Words : — Punctuality, Accuracy, Steadiness, and Dispatch. LYHH, THE DEEBHOUHD. Puppies are often very commonplace-looking; often the more so the nobler the breed. A deer¬ hound puppy had been promised to me by a celebrated breeder. Many letters passed between us about it, and when at last the hamper containing it arrived from Yorkshire, few people, except those who knew the breed, would have thought much of the shy, scared-looking little tinker’s dog that crouched in a corner of the same. I knew a gentleman who destroyed a litter of valuable bloodhounds, because at an ea}dy age they looked like curs, and I have repeatedly seen other deerhound puppies doubted because they look ^ nothing at all,’ as a groom once said to me. * And this little tyke was to become a large, noble animal, about 2 feet 4 high, with rough, straight, yet shaggy hair, an eye as keen as a hawk’s, speed like a greyhound’s, strength like a little horse’s, and courage that never gives in I ’ Well, he did grow

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CHATTERBOX. 123 1 I up to be all that, uniting with it the gentlest, most affectionate disposition. Daily almost he has to cross backwards and for¬ wards over a large open common, with geese, lambs, chickens, and other things on it, which tempt dogs to forget themselves. He has to do that with several other dogs, but never does any accident occur. No sheep is ever chased, no goose or duck is worried. The village children of all ages rush out to meet the dogs, and hug them round the neck. Lynn is now sedate and middle-aged, but not portly. When he was younger, he had one particular spot on the heath up a steep ravine, in sand about a foot deep ; there he would race round and round, dozens of times, up and down, till his eyes glared, and he lay down for a second, panting for breath. King Oscar, as we used to call him — he is dead now, and so is poor Vesta — was a majestic blood¬ hound — I am afraid rather a tyrant to Lynn in the kennel ; but when out Lynn coaxed him to a race, and did not they go a pace ! dashing through the pool and sending the glittering spray in the morning sun through the rushes, or leaving a gleaming track among the watery sedges in the gloom of the evening. Oscar soon found that he could not catch him, especially as he, being a hound, gave tongue all the time — and such a voice it was, just like a deep-toned bell ! So he ran cunning, that is, he cut off comers. But Lynn was too quick : jumping straight over him into the air, he cleared his ponderous pursuer, and the race began anew. Lynn is an example of one fulfilling his duty, even in a situation inferior to the one for which nature seemed to have intended him. His gentleness and good manners would fit him to be his master’s com¬ panion in the house ; he would love, of aU things, to throw himself lengthways on the floor or in a graceful attitude, to look pensively into the fire or up into his master’s face, while he was pursuing some occupation or resting from exertion. But there are reasons why Lynn must live in the kennel ; and so, after an im¬ ploring sort of ^must-it-be’ look, he goes quietly in, to be annoyed by the rude puppies. Now he has a bedstead there for himself, and so he is better off ; yet he is not in company with his master, which he would prefer to that of some insolent youngsters who succeeded King Oscar, and who try to domineer over mild, gentlemanly Lynn. Nature intended them to hunt deer in the hills of the North; to keep them at bay, when wounded, till the master came to secure the quarry ; or to run down a cold hart (that is, one which has not been shot at or wounded) by his enduring strength and speed. Lynn’s ancestors were hounds of great size, and coped with wolves in Ireland and the North, and dogs of his race are the best wolf-hounds now. Nevertheless, he does not pine and say, ^ I am too good for your humdrum, tame, daily routine ; following that stupid carriage over that stupid common, of which I am so sick, to be stared at and stamped at by those sillj^ sheep, whom I despise and should like to do for.’ Then he does not in sheer disgust rel^el, and run a-muck a-mong them for a little excitement.^ Oh, no ! he quietly does his best where he is. And, if Thomas now and then allow^s him a little rabbit-poaching, he confesses that life is not so bad after all ; and that, if you do your best under all circumstances in which Providence places you, happiness and even pleasures are sure to come with the quiet and contented mind which tries to do its duty as well as it can. But, if we do our very best, we still are wanting ; as even Lynn has sometimes a trick of loitering by the way- side, or eating things he finds in the street or road, for which he has to be reproved. There was once a very good man, an officer. He seemed half forgotten, and in an out-of-the-way part of India. A great calamity came for England — it was called Mutiny.’ Many of her best soldiers were killed, and the time came when this modest man had an opportunity to show that he was not only one of the best officers under command, but that he was a really great commander himself, and he helped to save the Indian empire and the lives of many gallant Eng-lishmen. But in his earlier life that great man never complained of the monotony of his smaller duties and said, T am born for great things.^ While he was in an obscure station he did much good by faithfully performing his humbler duties, doing far more than he was required to do ; and then, when suddenly he was called to take a higher rank, his light shone in increased brightness from the reflection which it had from the good he had done before in his lowlier station. THE THEASUEE OF THE AHTOHIO.^ {Continued fran page 117.) Mexicans, as soon as they saw the strong position in which the William and Mary's party were, thought ifc advisable to retreat out of gunshot range. Here they held a consultation as to what should be their next move. We must now leave our party for a short time, whilst we explain how it was that they thus found themselves pursued to the foot of their new encamp¬ ment. Caracio — whose lifle it was that had first been discharged at Tom Bannatyne — as soon as he found himself discovered outside the hiding-place of the treasure chests, had taken to his heels. He made his way across the mountains, and repaired to a squalid Indian village of plastered earth hovels — and not more than half a dozen of them — situate on a small stream. It was at this spot that the gang of ruffians, of which he was the chief, had their abiding place. They were soon gathered around him and listening greedily to his wondrous tale of the discovery of a treasure hid in the rocky caves of the pass. To think that they, who had stripped every lone house for miles around

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Lynn, the Deerhound. of its Taluables, who had robbed and murdered every traveller who had fallen into their hands, should have been, many a time, within a few hundred yards of such a prize, and had never Imown of its existence ! Not a moment must be lost in swooping down upon these strangers, who had thus dared to seek for, and to find, treasure such as ^ this I Taking a small supply of dry pro¬ visions with them, and filling their water-gourds, looking well to their rifies and pistols, and laying in a good stock of ammunition, they started away at daybreak, toiling over the rugged mountain passes, and pressing on like bloodhounds in pursuit of their quarry. Led on by Oaracio, they lost little time, merely stopping, at the demand of exhausted nature, to eat, drink, and sleep. Travelling thus all day and part of the fine, clear, starlight nights as well, | they were quickly on the spot where Caracio had witnessed the finding of the old hiding-place. Great, indeed, was their chagrin to discover that, already, the chests had been removed. By the tramplino* down of the grass it could be plainly perceived in which direction they had been carried. Caracio’s band of ragged vagabonds at once started down the gorge in pursuit, and it was whilst thus engaged that they had come upon young Tom Bannatyne, as we have already related, and followed him down to the very foot of the encampment, their rage at finding the treasure had been removea prompting them to fire upon him as he fled from them. As may well be imagined, a most anxious watch was kept up during the whole of that night in the encampment to guard against attack. Every two hours the guard was relieved, and it was with no

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small feeling of thankfulness that the little garrison on the mount saw the first misty signs of daybreak manifest themselves. At breakfast a long and earnest consultation was held as to what had better be their plan of action, but nothing (in the absence of any move on the part of the enemy) was then decided upon. Clearly, for the present at least, it would be the height of rashness for them to abandon their strong position on the rock. As we mentioned before, there was, fortunately, a plentiful supply of good, clear, drinking water, trickling down from the mountain side at the back of them, and they had suf¬ ficient in the way of solid provisions to last them with care for three or four days. Before that time had elapsed, probably, thought they, this horde of ragged cut-throats would tire and leave them to make their

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126 CHATTERBOX. way back to the ship in peace. Little did they know the wretches with whom they had to deal. Had it been a year, Caracio and his precious crew would have waited patiently, with such a prospect of obtaining the treasure at the end of the time. Towards mid-day two or three of the ruffians cautiously showed themselves ; ready, however, in a moment to dodge behind rocks or trees should the besieged fire upon them. Caracio himself and one or two more tried, from different vantage-points, to get good shots at those on the table rock, but the bullets went very far of their mark. * This is not a pleasant situation, captain,’ said the Spaniard, mildly. ^They do not seem able, it is true, to actually hit us, but to be made targets of ^ A disturbing. Even if we were inclined to abandon the treasure chests to them, I know the treacherous nature of these bandits— fur they are nothing better — too well to imagine for a moment that they would refrain from the pleasure of cutting our throats were we to go down amongst them and try to fight our way back to the ship.’ ^ High t,’ assented the captain. am inchned to agree with you -that the position will take a deal of thinking over, and is rather an awkward one iust at present.’ ^Siire, captain, if we were all to drop down on them with some handy, useful bits of sticks cut out of the trees here, we would be a match for all the niggers they could brmg against us !’ ‘Afraid not, O’Hagan,’ said the captain, shaking his head. ^ Niggers, as you caU them, especially with rifles in their hands, are sometimes awkward customers to deal with. We must think of some better plan than that.’ As the day wore on, the heat became almost in¬ tolerable on the plateau, and the whole of the little party retreated to the grateful shade of the gloomy ^verns in which they had stored the treasure chests. Here they were more free, too, from the myriads of flies tormenting them, the men’s pipes and the two bpanish gentlemen’s cigars keeping them for the most part at a respectful distance. Several of the party, mcluding our three boy friends, also took advantage of the favourable opportunity to go to sleep, and thus make up for the disturbed nights which they had passed. The afternoon and evening drao-ged wearily through, but still the enemy made no sign, and only now and again was even a fleeting sight of one of them caught by the besieged. Another night was thus passed. Captain Bannatyne’s party not relaxing in their watchfulness for fear of an attempted surprise by the wretches below. All passed over peacefully, however, and again mornino- found that the attack had not been delivered. Shortly before noon Caracio himself appeared, cautiously sidling round the corner of a rock, and seemingly loth to leave its friendly shelter. In his hand he carried a short stick, to which was attached a white cotton rag or handkerchief. This was evi¬ dently meant as a flag of truce, and, after some hesitation, he came to within tw’-enty paces of the toot of the rock. ‘ He wants to hold some sort of a palaver with us ’ said the skipper. ‘ Below, there ! ’ he shouted, at the top of his voice, making a speaking trumpet of his hands, as though, by making a noise, he could force this foreigner to understand English. ‘ Below, there, I say,’ he roared louder than ever. ‘ What do you want to say ? Where do you hail from ? What’s your port? Why don’t you answer in plain English mstead of stopping gibbering there like a fiddle¬ headed monkey ? What do you say? Well, then, say it in some language a man can understand!’ he concluded. But the captain’s summons was wasted upon Caracio, who did not understand a single word he said. Then Senhor Chiquita stepped in, and gently observed that probably the fellow understood Spanish, and that he (Chiquita) with Captain Bannatyne’s permission, would try him in that language. ‘ Oh, of course, Mr. Chick-eater, if you think Spanish a better language than good plain English, rve nothing to say on the subject. All the same, if it had been left to 77ie, I should have said that, if English was good enough for Englishmen, it’s good enough for a nigger. But if you like to have a try at him in your own lingo, why, fire away, and don’t mind my feelings in the matter.’ The Spaniard smiled good-humouredly. He had a great affection for the bold, rough old sailor, and could afford to laugh over his strange ways. Speakino* in his own language, he demanded of Caracio why ne and his followers had fired upon Tom Bannatjme, and, later, on the encampment, and, also, what he now wanted speech with them for ? The half-breed, with great assurance, replied to this that he pd his band were well aware that the ‘English mariners’ had discovered some great treasure; that he, Caracio, would take good care that they should never carry it off to the coast. If they were willing to give it up, the half-breeds would consent to allow them to depart without molestation. The fellow wound up his insolent harangue by saying that, unless the ship’s party chose to agree to these terms, they would be starved into submission by means of a strict blockade. ‘ Give me the small change of all that silly cackle, now,’ said the skipper. ‘Just as if he couldn’t say what he had got to say in plain English,’ he muttered to himself. 'When Caracio’s message had been translated to him, the old skipper was exceedingly wroth. ‘What!’ roared he; ‘after chartering a ship, coming all these thousands of miles, studying up those musty old charts till your head aches, toiling up this gorge, cutting your boots to pieces on the stones, finding the hiding-place, lugging the chests along up liere and stowing them in the caves, to go and give them up, as if we were a pack of sheep, to the first dirty-faced rascal who comes up to us with a threatening message ! Tell him that if he wants the treasure he can come up here and take it, and, if he does, that he will probably hear something fall, and that will be himself ! Give it up, indeed ! I fancy I see myself doing that!’ And Captain Bannatyne ran himself out of breath over his torrent of indignant words. (Continued at page 130.)

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CHATTERBOX. 127 YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ESMOND. {Concluded from 'page 119.) Captain’s wife was the daughter of a certain Lord Viscount Castlewood. Harry’s father, whose real name and title were Thomas, Marquis of Es¬ mond, expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastou- reau family for the care of the infant and inquired after the ^darling child.’ Uncle George told him that they never wished to see liim (the Marquis) again within their doors, but that be might have the boy, though they should all be very sorry to lose him ; and that they would take his money, they being poor, if he gave it ; or bring him up, by God’s help, as they had hitherto done, without. The Marquis replied, ‘ Well, it is better that the dear child should remain with friends, who have been so kind to him,’ and he gave the weaver ten gold pieces and promised him more from time to time. Not very long after this, Harry’s father, upon the death of his uncle, became Viscount Castlewood, and one of the first things he did was to engage a Roman Catholic priest, one Father Holt, to look after the little boy, and it was by the Father’s advice that Harry vras brought home. Here he became page of honour to his father’s wife, her Ladyship. Of course, he had no idea of his relationship, nor that he was really lawful heir to the title and great estates of Castlewood; this was kept a secret from every one, and not even her Ladyship, at this time, knew anything of the matter. Father Holt became Harry’s instructor and the boy soon learnt to love his kind master, who obtained an entire mastery over his intellect and affections and brought him to think, as he himself thought, that no life was so noble, no death so desirable, as that which many brethren of the Order of Jesuits were ready to undergo. By love, by brightness of wit, by good humour that charmed all, by an authority which he knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him, which increased the child’s reverence for him, he won Harry’s fealty and love. Father Holt read Latin and French with his pupil and taught him many things. The page soon learned the domestic part of his duty, which was easy enough. He waited at her ladyship’s chair, brought her scented water, and the silver basin after dinner — sitting on her carriage step on state occasions, or on public days introducing her company to her. The great old house which Harry had come to inhabit stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were rooks’ nests, where the birds at morning, and returning home at evening, made a great cawing. At the foot of the hill was a river, with a steep ancient bridge crossing it ; and beyond that a large, pleasant green flat, where the village of Castlewood stood, with the church in the midst, the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith’s forge beside it, and the sign of the ‘ Three Castles ’ on the elm-tree. The London road stretched away towards the rising sun, and to the west were swelhng hills and peaks, behind which little Harry Esmond loved to watch the sun setting. There came a time when Harry had this great house of Castlewood to himself ; a time that was quite near, for my lord and lady went to London with Mr. Holt, leaving the page behind them. A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and lady were away. King James II. was flying, the Dutchman was coming ; awful stories about them and the Prince of Orange used old Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper, to tell to the idle, little page. He liked the solitude of the great house very well; he had all the xflay-books to read and no Father Holt to whip him — for kind as the priest was he believed in chastisement — and a hundred childish pursuits and pastimes without doors and within, which beguiled his time. The family were away more than six months, and when they returned they were in the deepest dejec¬ tion, for King James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and dismay prevailed at Castlewood. It must have been about the month of June, 1690, that, my lord, in a great horseman’s coat, under which Harry could see the shining of a steel breast¬ plate which he wore, called the child to him, put the hair off his forehead and kissed him, and bade God bless him in such an affectionate way as he never had used before. Soon after this, the troops roue into the courtyard of the old house, and the captain and a guard of men remained in possession there ; and the soldiers, who, on the "whole, were good-natured fellows, ate my lord’s mutton and drank his wine, o.nd made them¬ selves comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters. Amongst these soldiers was one ^ Dick,’ or Richard Steele. ‘lam no common soldier,’ he would say to Harry, with whom he struck up a real friendship, seeing his loneliness after the departure of his friends. ‘ I am of one of the most ancient families in the empire ; I have had my education at a famous school, and a famous university’ — and his learning, breeding, and many accomplishments bore out. the truth of his words. Dick was very good to Harry. He told him the story of his own sad childhood, and spoke up for him when the soldiers questioned him, and beguiled and gladdened many otherwise tedious hours, reading with him, and playing bowls, and, seeing that Harry was sensible and wise, he confided to him his secrets. He stopped all vulgar jokes and improper speeches when the other troopers were not over-nice in the presence of the child, and it was with deep grief that Harry parted from ‘ Dick the Scholar’ when the garrison was ordered away upon the death of the Lord of Castlewood, which occurred in consequence

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Harry Esmond remains at Castlewood, and strikes up a Friendship with Dick the Scholar. of a wound received while fighting for King James at the battle of the Boyne. The story of Harry’s birth had been confided by his father to one Mr. Atterbury, a priest — when ill and like to die Thomas Esmond, Viscount Castlewood, cleared his mind. Flarry had lived to be past twelve when there appeared at Castlewood the lady with the golden hair, the portly gentleman, little Trix, and baby Eiank. Ihe lad’s fond and afifectionate heart, tender to weakness, attached itself at once to the gentle lady, and the beautiful story of his devotion to her, refusing to take possession of all that was his, choosing rather to relinquish every right in favour of these new-found friends, is ^e of the greatest charms of Mr. Thackeray’s Esmond. James Cassidy.

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NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND

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130 CHATTERBOX. THE TREASURE OF THE 'SAN ANTONIO.’ {Continued from page 126.) ilNHOR OHIQUITA ren¬ dered as much of the cap¬ tain’s speech into Spanish as he deemed advisable, whilst the half - breed leisurely rolled a husk cigarette below. Then, with true Mexican insolence, Caracio answered, 'You have chosen. Well, be your fate on your own heads, then. We shall simply remain here, and, if any of you attempt to descend to get food, we shall shoot you. You must soon be starved out, and then — well, we have not bullets to waste, and the knife is surer.’ And here the impudent villain drew his finger across his own throat, and nodded signifi¬ cantly, and, with a swaggering air, he turned on his heel and coolly walked back to his own company of vagabonds, waiting for him within fifty yards distance. 'This is cheerful,’ said Tom, after he had heard the translation of Caracio’s ansvver. 'Tt makes one feel hungry already to think of being slowly starved until we choose to submit. Choose !’ he repeated, laughing ; ' we shan’t have much choice about the matter, I’m thinking. I wonder what we are to do?’ ' Och, Master Tom, let you and me just drop down on them and bate them well with a big stick. I’m sure it will drive them away at once,’ exclaimed O’ilagan. ' No, no, O’Hagan, that won’t do at all. We should both get shot for our pains. Unless we can think of something better than that, here we must stop until we either starve or surrender.’ ‘What is your advice. Captain BannatyneP’ asked Senhor Chiquita. ‘ I and my friend Bocan here have the utmost confidence in your sagacity. Your courage is too well known to permit of even mentioning it,’ he added, with a slight bow. The old seaman ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. He was perplexed : on the one hand, his bull¬ dog courage forbade him to even think of surrender ; on the other, his wisdom clearly pointed out to him the apparent hopelessness of either attempting to hold out, for any lengthened period, without fresh supplies of food, or trying to get back to the ship with the treasure. It was a difficult situation, and he told Senhor Chiquita that he could only suggest, at present, a waiting policy. In the meantime, they must husband their slight resources as much as possible. These last words set Felix thinking. He was a sharp boy, and few things escaped his notice. On looking up the great towering mountain-side which formed the background to the small plateau where stood their encampment, he had several times observed large birds hovering about, and finally entering crannies of the rock. He argued to himself, there¬ fore, that they had probably built their nests there. If these contained eggs, and it were possible to climb up after them, without being shot at from below, they would form a nutritious food which might enable the small garrison to hold out, at least for a time, against the rascally force that threatened them. How strange are the positions in which we find our¬ selves, in this curious and unstable life ! Here was Felix Hurstbourne, who, at home, had always set the manly example of refusing to do so cowardly a thing as to take a bird’s nest, the very one who, by force of circumstances, was compelled to suggest the very thing against which he had always set his face. But to take a bird’s eggs from it in so- called ‘sport,’ and to do the same act for the sustaining of human life, were two very different things, and so the boy regarded it, when he told his plan to the captain. ‘ A capital notion, my boy,’ he said, cheerily, ‘ but the climb must be made as soon as there is daylight enough to see your way up and before these rascals are likely to be awake — otherwise they would pick off the climber to a certainty, for most of these fellows are fair shots. If we succeed in getting any large supply of eggs, it would probably enable us to hold out until our crew become alarmed at our pro¬ longed absence, and send up a rescue party from the ship.’ The danger of the scheme, of course, lay in this, that, when once over a certain height from the plateau, the climber would become distinctly visible, and offer an inviting mark to any one on the watch below, who happened to have a rifle in his hand. But their plight was a serious one ; even if they sm- rendered the whole of the treasure, it was pretty certain that their lives would be forfeited directly they left their secure position. Before the first faint streak of dawn, Felix and Ben, as being by far the smartest climbers, were in readiness, cool as any member of a veteran battalion going into action, though each well knew the dangerous task which was lying before him. In perfect silence, each boy was hoisted on the shoulders of a man, as high as possible, and then slowly started on his perilous and painful climb. Without uttering a word to each other, they clambered slowly up the steep face of the mountain, clutching at bushes and projections of any kind. Before Ben had got twenty feet up, he with difficulty restrained a cry of delight as he came upon a nest of eleven large bluish-coloured eggs. There was no bird on the nest, which was made in curious fashion, out of sticks and feathers, and placed high up, on the extreme corner of a flat slab of slaty rock. These he took, and placed carefully in his cap. Meantime, Felix had gone higher up still, and was just in the act of taking the last of a nest of seven snow-white eggs, when a faint shout from those below arrested his and his young companion’s attention. Caracio and two of his men were staring up, shading their eyes with their hands, and had just realised what was the object of the lads in exposing themselves to rifle fire. With a shout, they rushed off back to their camp to fetch their guns, and then it became a race between them, on the one hand, and the boys on the other, as to which should be quickest

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CHATTERBOX. 131 in their movements. The task of coming down the steep incline, without slip or fall, was a difficult one ; of course, the eggs had to he abandoned, Ben leaving his load, cap and all, on the point of a jagged rock ; only a few yards had to he covered by the robbers, in order to snatch up their rifles, and, just as Ben was safely landed out of sight of the marks¬ men, the foremost knelt, and took cool, deliberate aim at Felix. The boy saw it as he clung on to a sharp crag, and thought his end was come. He tried to pray, but the tension on his nerves made every¬ thing whirl around him. With a sound like the rushing of the sea waves in his ears, the sharp ‘ ping ! ’ of a rifle rang out from below him. But it was not from the half-breed’s weapon. Unwilling as he was to shed human blood. Captain Bannatyne waited to the last moment, to see if Felix would be able to get out of the line of fire, and, perceiving that he could not do so in time, the sturdy old skipper, from one knee, took a steady aim at the Indian half- breed, who, with rifle upraised, was 'drawing a bead’ upon the boy, and tired, breaking the fellow’s arm above the elbow, his rifle exploding harmlessly in the air as he let it fall. With a howl like that of a wild beast, the half-breed turned and ran. In another second Felix Hurstbourne was in safety on the plateau again. 'I’m truly thankful no harm was done to you, boys,’ exclaimed the captain. ' However necessary it is to get food, I won’t let you run any such risks again. I consented to the attempt being made because I never thought these gentry below would be likely to be about at such an early hour.’ ' Ah, sure, your honour, these haythens here get up as the day breaks, and go to sleep all the after¬ noon, when decent people are about their work. They call it their ‘ Sister.’ ' Siesta, Tim,’ said Ben, laughing. ' Well, then, and didn’t I say " Sister ? ’’ ’ asked O’Hagan, failing to make out the difference. That night boiled eggs formed the staple of the meal, to every one’s intense surprise. • Tim O’Hagan explained: ‘ Didn’t I tell ye, now, that the varmints all go to sleep in the middle of the afternoon ? and didn’t 1 say to meself "Tim,” says I, " if the boy is the boy, the time is the time.” Well, the boy was the boy, and seeing everything was quiet, and you all gone into the caves out of the heat, I just slipped off my coat, and took my own time about the climb. I got up to Master Ben’s cap first ; picked that up, with the eggs inside ; just took a slight observation of the world below me, and, seeing all was calm, went on and got Master Felix’s lot. That is just how it was done, and I think I will be able to get a schame for deceiving them yet, and getting some provisions before the wretches can starve us out.’ ‘ You have done a plucky thing, O’Hagan,’ said the skipper, 'but you must not engage in any of these risky schemes. It may bring disaster when you are least prepared for it.’ The eggs proved a very welcome addition to their scanty bill of fare. Whilst they were discussing them, the Irishman suddenly made a dreadful grimace and held his nose with his fingers. (Continued at 'page 142.) THE MAH WHO WOULD RATHER WORK THAH DO HOTHIHG. A GENTLEMAN once advertised for a man to -GL look after his pony and to attend to the garden as well. Several applied for the place, out of which the gentleman picked four, and told them to come the next morning for an interview. Accordingly, at the time appointed, they came ; but the geptleman, wishing to try them, told his servant to say that he would see them in half an hour. One said he could not stand about all that time, so he went off to the public-house; another said he would have a pipe, so he sat down on the doorstep and smoked the time away; the third took out a book and read; but the fourth, seeing some weeds growing up, began to work, and cleared the yard by the time the gentleman was ready for them. The fourth was the one chosen, for, said the gentleman, ' a man who will willingly work for another in his own time, will be sure not to waste his master’s time ; ’ and so he got the situation, because he would rather work than do nothing. H. Berkeley Score. THE COLLIER’S DAUGHTER. little May sits all alone Working through the summer hours ; Never has the maiden known The joy of gathering sweet wild flowers, To' wander through the wild wood free Is not for poor ones, such as she. And even when the sun has sunk Behind the lovely heather hill, By candle-light, with work in hand, The little lassie sitteth still. How long those weary days must seem All slowly passing, like a dream ! And yet it was not always thus ; A father’s love she used to know. Until one day they brought him home. Killed in the coal-pit by a blow. A lump of coal fell on his head — They ran to help, but Bill was dead ! Then mother ! oh, her pale, sad face Was more than little May could bear ; How tenderly she used to watch Beside the sick one’s easy chair. But now, all day confined to bed Poor mother lies, with aching head. But little May, don’t be afraid ! For joy is coming fast your way ; An uncle from Canadian wilds Will send for you, this very day — Your father’s brother, uncle J oe. Of whom but little do you know.

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The Collier’s Daughter. He ran away, when but a boy ; The coal-pit’s toil he could not bear, And now a Western farmer’s home He wants his little niece to share. His brother’s widow, too, may come And find with him a happy home. Hear little May, don’t look so sad. Your toilsome days are nearly o’er. Hark ! was not that the postman’s step ? Pie soon will reach your mother’s door. And when the letter you have read Oh ! how you’ll run to mother’s bed. With shining eyes, you’ll read it through, And all the joyful news impart, And then she’ll kiss you o’er and o’er And draw you closer to her heart ; Then ^Darling,’ she will softly say, ^ Oh, is not this a happy day ? ’ How good our God has been to us, How He has led us all along ! Oh, child, I don’t know what to say, My heart seems full of joyful song ! My little May, my pretty one, ° Your hard- worked days are surely done ! K.

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CHATTERBOX. 133 THE POETIC DAEEODIL. ryiHIS is the flower which in fable bears the honour of having been once JL the fair youth Narcissus. Pie was so much in love with his own beauty that he sat constantly by the side of a stream, looking at the reflection of his face in the water. To punish his vanity he was changed into a flower, and there you may And him still with his head hanging down. Both children and their elders often ask which flower is Narcissus and which is Daffodil. Both names belong to any one of these flowers. Daffodil is the English name and Narcissus the Latin one for the whole species. 'There is one kind which is a great delight of the Chinese, which they call the ‘ Water-fairy-flower.’ It comes into blossom just at the time of their New- year’s Day. This is the greatest festival of the whole year, and the people delight in decorating their houses with flowers and shrubs, just as we do at Christmas. Among the flowers in bloom there at this season is one sweetly scented little daffodil, with flowers about the size of a buttercup, the whole plant being often no more than six inches high. Some time before the festival the people go into the markets and buy the roots of these plants, wdiich they place in shallow dishes fllled with water and pebbles. There they grow after the fashion of hyacinths in England, and require very little attention after they are once planted. When they come into flower it is just the New-year’s festival, and they are given as presents from one to another on that da3^

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134 CHATTERBOX. IN A CROW’S NEST. OUR birds that we all know are brought up in crows’ nests. Raven, rook, crow, and jackdaw, all belong to the family whose general name is Crow; and all these birds build such untidy homes for their young ones that people sometimes say, when they find a room . very untidy, or a work- basket with the contents all tangled and tossed, ‘What a crow’s nest!’ The raven carries sticks in its beak to some rocky ledge high up in a mountain, or on cliffs by the sea, and lays them across each other just as boys and girls place spelikins ready for a game. It always chooses bare and windy spots, where the wind rages and storms buffet, but it is wise enough to build behind the shelter of a crag, so that its home is pro¬ tected. High up, almost out* of sight, you may see the great black birds go in and out with food for thp’ young, and the only sign of the nest is a few dried sticks and straws that hang over. In some crows’ nests there are” quarrels every day. The rooks live in great companies, and in the sprino* when forty or fifty have their nests close to each other in a group of trees, they often fight They fight ovei nests, they fight over food, they even fight over their own eggs, and it is not uncommon to see one rook carrying off an egg from the nest of another. Indeed, they are not good-tempered or well-mannered, as any one may know who passes by a rookery and hears their noisy squabbling. The raven has more dignity. It lives alone in solitary state; even two or three families of ravens never build near together. Quiet creatui’es, they seldom talk, and never chatter. The deep croak of the raven is a rare sound. Even if a raven does choose a bird for a neighbour, it is one as scarce and as shy as itself. It shuns the haunts of the gulls and cormorants that share its taste for a rocky home and chooses a lonely pinnacle where an eagle or a luiAvk are the only possible rivals. 1 ]v-uew of one that suffered for this. It was on a lonely island rook, just off the north coast of Ireland that the tragedy took place. On either side of a peak a herce raven and a wild and warlike peregi-ine falcon had chosen to dwell. Somebody, leading over from above had managed to reach the falcon’s eggs, and had taken them — a rare prize for a collector and too tempting to be missed. The birds were away when their treasure was taken ; even a man would scarcely venture to brave the wrath of these fierce and strong birds. He waited, however, at a respectful distance to see what would happen when thev discovered their loss, and this was what he saw. t irst,the two hawks, great and handsome birds, mottled breasts, flew round and round, astonished and dismayed. Then they perched on the edge of the cliff, and seemed to nold a long and solemn consultation, which lasted some ten minutes. And then, evidently having de¬ cided who was the thief, and how to punish him, they made a dash at the raven’s nest, attacked it vigorously, and tore it to pieces. Was it not a clever though a wrong guess ? For the crows are not an honest family ; perhaps they come of a bad stock, or perhaps they have learnt bad ways from each other. They are not to be trusted with other people s goods. The jackdaw will take anything it can lay its claws upon, and make off with it. The rooks and the crows eat other birds’ eggs, and they dig the little young mice out of their snug nests, and gobble them up. The raven is not quite such a brigand, but still those falcons had good reason to suspect him. There is some mischief done in a crow’s nest, but a great deal that is useful takes place tliere too. The young rooks especially do a good work in eating millions of grubs and insects, which would be doing great harm to farmers’ crops if they were allowed to grow up. The parent rooks go backwards and forwards to fields and gardens, and when they see the grub of a moth or a wire-worm eating away at such good things as turnips and carrots, and corn and cabbages, they seize it and carry it home for the squabs that are waiting in a crow’s nest to eat. The young ravens, young carrion crows, and young jackdaws share these spoils too, and they eat other things as well. Young ravens are fed with the carcases of dead creatures which their fathers and mothers find lying on the seashore or in the fields. I think we have no business to find fault with the crows’ nests because they are untidy. After all, they seena to cradle young crows safely, and that is all that is needed. God, Who teaches the birds and beasts, tells them what is needed for each one’s wel¬ fare, and so little rooks and little ravens grow up strong and well in a crow’s nest, just as young chaf¬ finches thrive in their trim and pretty homes. I heard of some rooks once that built a nest under great difficulties. It was in India, and a pair of these crows had made up their minds to build in the veranda of a house in a town where no trees were. So fbsy could find no dead twigs, no fallen branches, nothing of the right sort at all. By searching care- f ully, though, they discovered something rather like sticks and straw — crooked wires off old soda-water bottles I — and of these they built a nest. Must it not have been a prickly cot for tender and naked young squabs? F. A. Fulcher. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS, 23. Well-known Peoverbs with Vowels omitted, 1. brntchlddrdsthfr. 2. otmtlktkng. 3. bjstbfrybgnrs. 4. bttrltthnnve. 5. dnthlltlltrtfthwd. 6. NGHSSGDS.FST. 7. FNFTHRSMKFNBRDS. 8. TSNLLWNDTHTBLWSNBDYNYGD C. 0.

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135 CHATTERBOX. 24. — Geogeaphical Aceostio. A Beitish colony in the south of Africa, deriving its name from the day upon which it was discovered by the Portuguese. It has a beautiiul climate and a soil, producing great varieties of fruit and grain. The size is about one-third that of England and Wales. 1. The chief town of an eastern county in England famed for its manufactures ; also a city in Connecticut, and a town in Vermont, U.S. • j ^ 2. A maritime city in Belgium, once famed for its commerce, but now greatly reduced. , 3. A cape in Spain famous for a great victory gained by an English admiral over France and Spam. 4. A town in Devonshire famed for the manufacture of carpets. 5. A very cold country in the north of Europe. C. 0. 25. — Aeithmogeaph. A LAEGE sea in the south of Europe, which derives its name from its position with regard to surrounding countries. 1. — 1, 9, 4, 10, 11. One of the United States ; a pro¬ vince in France. 2. -5, 6, 13, 3, 11, 8. Soft, delicate. 3. _7, 6, 3. A showy colour. 4. _5, 6, 10. The twelfth part of five times twenty- four. , , 5. — 1, 11, 3, 4, 5, 9, 5, 6. To contemplate. 6. -9, 7, 8, 12, 13. An island off the coast of Scotland. 7. _ 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 12. A town in Arabia famed as the burial-place of a remarkable man. 8. — 1, 4, 10, 5. A fragrant herb. 9. _2, 7, 8. What we all do every day. 10.-3, 2, 13. The home of an animal. 0. C. [Ansivers at page 154.] WE E/S - 18.— 1. Dart. 3. Part. 5. Tart. 2. Mart. 4. Cart. 19.— 1. Sark. 4. Hark! 6. Mark. 2. Dark. 5. Bark. 7. Lark. 3. Park. 20.-1. Naze. 3. Gaze. 5* Raze. 2. Maze. 4. Haze. 21. — 1. Dingle. . 3. Mingle. 5. Jingle. 2. Single. 4. Tingle. 22. — 1. Andover. 4. Frankfort. 7. Texas. 2. Bombay. 5. Geneva. 8. Troy. 3. Quebec. 6. Siam. THE WEST-INDIAH HOUSE¬ BUILDER MOTH. Everybody knows the snail; it is a familiar sight to see one of them crawling with its shell-house on its back: but it is not the only small creature that has an abode which it can carry about. Many insects are protected from the weather, and from enemies which would devour them if they could, b\ a portable house of some sort. The snail’s shell grows upon him ; it has not to be made. ^ Insects often make, very cleverly, the house in which they travel to obtain their food. We have an illustration of a remarkably curious species, which, owing to its habits, has been called the House-builder Moth, or, by the naturalists, Oiketicus Sander sii. ' .-rr i. t t The country of this insect is the W est indies, where it is common, and seriously damages the fruit trees. As soon as the little larva or caterpillar is hatched from the egg, it sets to work at building its home, even before it begins to feed. This house is made by the ingenious insect of bits of wood or leaves, bound together with silken threads which it draws from its own body. i While the caterpillar is sniall, and the house has not much weight, it is carried nearly upright ; but when this increases in size, and becomes h^^^y the insect to move, it is allowed to lie fiat, being drago-ed along in that position. Then the entra,nce to this clever habitation is so made that the sides can be drawn together whenever the creature is alarmed or in danger. A sharp pull is given to the cords, and it is secure from foes, unless they are prepared to swallow the house and caterpillai too. Having completed its growth, our house- biulder becomes a chrysalis, closing the door of its abode, which is now secured to some handy object. F rom this the male moth, when its time arrives, comes forth, and takes its flight through the air. Quite different is the life of his female companion : she tarries at home after she has changed from the chrysalis state, and, indeed, she hardly looks like a moth, for she possesses neither wings nor legs, and the body re¬ sembles that of a grub. But she has no need to take a journey ; all her business is to lay the eggs vvmch produce another brood of caterpillars. Our tration shows a caterpillar with his house behind him in the act of climbing amongst the foliage, and a male moth is seen having the wings expanded, whilst beneath lies a female in her case. _ ^ Thouo-h this insect is not found iii liritain, we have a^'family of moths, much smaller, which have similar habits, and as they have not an English name, we must give them their Latin one cA Jrsycne , not unsuitable, is it, for the male moths ? Light and pretty little fellows are they, having feathery Mtennse, transparent wings, their bodies clothed with silky hairs ; the females resemble those of the West Indian species shown in the picture, since they live and die in their homes. The caterpillar of a Fsyche makes a house, which it carries upon its back just as a snail bears its shell; one kind, which is very common, boys and girls who have sharp eyes may And upon elm or willow trees. Its case or house is formed from little bits of grass stems cut evenly, and placed side by side. Others have a house differently made. There is a kind which uses frag¬ ments of leaves, and one which chooses small bits of bark; but silk is always used to join them A very curious abode is sometimes discovered, which is made of sprigs of moss. These houses have to be enlarged as the caterpillars grow : this is done by cutting a slit and putting in fresh stuff. ^ J. Cliffobd.

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CHATTERBOX. 137

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138 CHATTERBOX. POOR POMPEY’S LAMENT. My friends, I feel truly ashamed To look at you all in the face, For master has made such a guy of poor me, That I feel it a perfect disgrace. J ust tell me — did ever you know ( )f a dog with a night-cap before ? A horrible meerschaum he placed in my mouth, (But I let it drop down on the floor). A pair of glass windows he stuck Right in front of my horriOed eyes ; Still— what could I do, but submit, for he said, ‘ Now, Pompey, please none of your sighs ! ^You’re my dog, and Pd have you to know That I must have my dog to obey.’ Ah, well ! if I really must wear these odd things, I know that I’ll — just run away ! M. BRAVE LILIAS. By Constance E. Thomas, author of * Larro’s Child,’ * Joe’s Friend,’ &c. * I LI AS is ten years old; she is a tall girl for her age, with steadfast blue eyes and fair curling hair which hangs loosely about her shoulders, and lies in soft rings upon her forehead. A sensible child I think her, and I believe that you will agree with me when I tell you what she did a little while ago. Every autumn she and her mother go to stay at her uncle’s country house, situated just on the edge of a lonely Scottish moor. Last autumn there were a great many other guests staying there, beside Lilias and her mother. Lilias was the only child, so she came in for more than her share of petting. If she had not been a sensible little girl, she would have stood a fair chance of be¬ coming spoilt; instead of that she felt very grateful to people for being so kind to her. However, a day came when it seemed likely that Lilias would be left alone to amuse herself. The gentlemen had gone shooting, the ladies had promised to attend a concert which was to be held that afternoon at the nearest town. They did not relish the prospect of two hours spent in a concert-hall, sandwiched in between two long dusty drives, and Lilian’s mother decided that her little girl should not go with her. ^ I think it will be wisest to leave Lilias at home,’ she remarked to the lady next her at luncheon ; ^ I don’t care to take children into crowded rooms more than I can help ! Lilias, dear, I think you must stay at home this afternoon. You must try and amuse yourself. There is that pretty book which uncle gave you yesterday. You can read that, can’t you, dear?’ Lilias had wished to go to that concert very much, but she did not dispute her mother’s decision; she did not look cross, as she tried to smile at her mother, just to make believe that she was not disappointed. Lilias’s uncle had been detained from joining the shooting-party, so he also was at the luncheon-table, and when he caught that wavering smile upon the face of his little niece, who was a very great favourite of his, he promptly laid a plan of his owm. ^ Never mind, Lilias,’ he said, good-humouredly, ‘ you and I are companions in misfortune to-day, so we must console each other. I mean to shoot a few partridges this afternoon, and you shall come with me. Would you like it ? ’ There was no make-believe in Lilias’s smile now. ‘ Oh, yes, uncle, ever so much ! ’ she said. So by- and-by those two started off together. It was a glorious day — one of those intensely hot, still days that we get in early September. They drove along the moorland road to a -wild bit of cover where the partridges generally had it all their own way. And then, as Lilias declared herself quite equal to the two-mile tramp home, they dismissed the groom with the dog-cart. Lilias certainly was, as her uncle often said, the best little companion in the world. As she tripped along at his side, she showed the oddest mixture of pity for the birds and pleasure at her uncle’s success, and she insisted on carrying every added bird to their temporary resting-place, under a big beech- tree. They had no gillie with them ; all the men had gone off with the big shooting-party in the morning. By-and-by a keeper, who lived in a cottage in the hollow hard by, would come and fetch away their birds. ^ After awhile Lilias grew tired, and sat down be¬ side the slain partridges under the beech-tree, where, if she could not always command a good view of her uncle, she knew him to be within earshot. It was very pleasant there; the thick branches of the beech-tree formed such a complete shield from the hot rays of the sun, which peeped through elsewhere around her, making glad and gay the wealth of yellowing bracken. It was almost as good as being a fairy, under a very big mushroom, in the days of long ago. But hark, what was that ? A sharp report, a dull thud, as of some heavy body crashing down amongst the underwood, and then a low cry. Lilias sprang up, scattering far and wide the beech nuts of which she had been making a collection. What had- happened ? Had her uncle shot some one by accident ? She ran in the direction from which the sounds had come, and there she found her uncle, half lying on the ground, a discharged and still smoking gun at his side, his handkerchief tightly pressed with both his hands over the upper part of his right leg, where the blood was already beginning to^ ooze through his garments. He looked up as Lilias, horror-stricken, approached, and tried to smile. * Don’t be frightened, my child,’ he said ; ^ I stumbled, and the gun went off. I do not think it

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CHATTERBOX. 189 is a very bad wound, but this bleeding must be stopped. You know the cottage down in the hollow, Lilias — there are two young men there. You must run and tell one of them to fetch a doctor at once from the nearest village. "What are you doing, Lilias ? ’ Pie might well ask. Something that would not have occurred to many children of her age. She had taken off her pinafore, and was tearing it into strips with all her strength. ‘ It is to prevent the blood coming, uncle,’ she explained, full of fear, but by no means flustered. ‘ Thank you, dear child ; will you wrap it round as tightly as you can ? ’ When she had done her best, Lilias ran down the incline in the direction in which a faint blue wreath of smoke told her where the cottage lay. Pdiere it was, a tiny thatched homestead ; a flower-garden in front, kitchen garden, kennels, and out-houses behind. The absence of any signs of life struck the child with fear, as she ran in at the garden gate, and rapped her knuckles sharply on the closed door — once — twice — three times. She had no time to lose; she lifted the latch and entered. ‘ Is any one here ? ’ she called, looking round the deseited front kitchen, where the eight-day clock ticked so loudly. ' Any one here ? ’ No one appeared ; she was turning away in de¬ spair, when she heard slow uneven footsteps coming round the garden path from the back of the house, and, joyfully turning, she met an old woman — a very old woman, bent and shrivelled. ^ Are there any men here ? ’ Lilias asked, distinctly, and very loud, .rightly judging that the old body would be dull of hearing. ‘ A gentleman has shot himself up on the moor, and I want some one to fetch a doctor at once.’ The old woman threw up both her hands, thereby nearly losing her balance, and uttered an exclama¬ tion of surprise. * A puir gentleman shot himself,’ she said, ' and is he dead then, my bairn ? ’ ‘No,’ said Lilias, trying not to speak impatiently. ‘ But he will die if he doesn’t have help. Tell me where I can find the men who live here.’ ‘ The laddies ? ’ said the old woman, shaking her head dismally, ‘they’ve gone away to the village; they will not be back home afore simdown — not afore night, I reckon.’ ‘Have you a boy about the place?’ asked the child. ‘ Or a woman — any one, it does not matter ? ’ The old woman shook her head again. ‘Not a soul but me, and I am no more good than a baby. And you won’t find none this time of day. It’s a lonesome part.’ Lilias looked around her. In all that vast still¬ ness, that wide expanse of landscape, there^ was no sign of human life, save this cottage— no glimpse of human habitation. She could see the moorland road — stretching white and dusty away towards the village — a distance of some three miles — good country miles, too. She had often driven to the village in her uncle’s carriage, and she knew the doctor’s house with its red lamp hung over the garden gate. ‘ I must go myself,’ she said, desperately. * No, do not stop me,’ as the old woman began again. ‘ I am sure it is right that I should go,’ and, without further ado, she turned out of the garden gate, crossed the scrap of common that skirted the cottage, and set her footsteps steadily in the direction of the moorland road. She was not a country-bred child ; save for this yearly visit to Scotland, nearly all her life was spent in London, and she was never allowed to go out alone. So it was not without some fear that she looked at the long white road, and thought of the lonely walk before her ; true she might meet some one who would act as her messenger ; she might even be overtaken by a vehicle, but the chances were that she would come across nothing more intelligent than a goat or a donkey. She was too wise to start at any great speed ; she knew that that might end in a break-down, but she trudged along bravely at a steady, even pace. The first mile was not so bad, and she began to grow less timid of the lonely road, but she wished that the sun’s rays would not beat so piteously down on her eyes ; there was no shade to be had anywhere, and she drew the sun-bonnet closer over her face. At the second mile she begiiii to grow weary, and when she found that her pace was flagging, she urged it into a run. The moisture gathered on her lips and forehead, her shoes and stockings were filled with dust, every now and then she gazed almo.st in despair around her, and listened eagerly for the sound of approaching wheels. Once — across the moor, some distance to her right — she thought she saw something — it might be a goat-herd’s hut! — and she ran in its direction, only to find with bitter dis¬ appointment that it was the wreck of a disused cart, probably left behind by gipsies. It took her some lime to find the road again after that — quite ten minutes. Ten minutes 1 and every moment of such value. She uttered a little cry of mingled terror and anguish, and then she pushed on. Her feet were very weary now ; the steadfast blue eyes were misty with tears which she had no time to shed. At last she gained the outskirts of the village ; there were several cottages dotted here and there, but she would not seek help at any of them. She met an old man returning from work, but a glance showed her that he was no fleeter of foot than herself. A group of children, playing by the wayside, burst into a shout of rude merriment as she ran past them, her bonnet in her hand, her hair falling wildly about her hot and dust-grimed face — Lilias was not used to be laughed at. She ran all the faster to get away from the sound of their mocking voices. And then she forgot them ! Hor then, oh ! there at last was the doctor’s house ! And there was his trap waiting at the door — a boy holding the horse’s bridle. The doctor was evidently just starting off somewhere. Suppose — oh, suppose that he were to come out and drive away betore she had time to reach him. That would be too cruel, and she did not feel that she could run a step farther, she was almost ready to fall. But the child who had got over more than three miles of moorland road, in the glaring sunshine, was not to be bafiied by a few hundred yards. She pushed the hair away from her eyes, she paused to gather breath, and then she stumbled on. She reached

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140 CMATTii:KJJOX. the gate just as — with his foot on the step — the doctor was preparing to mount his trap and drive away. She caught hold of his coat, half to detain him, half to keep herself from falling. ^ Will you please come with me ? ’ she panted. ^ My uncle has shot himself up on the moor. He will die if you do not come and attend to him at once.’ ****** ‘And 1 was only just in time,’ said the doctor later on to Lilias’s uncle, when he had dressed his wound, and had him conveyed in safety back to his own home, where Lilias had been ministered to by her mother’s gentle hands. ‘ And you may congratu¬ late yourself on having just the most sensible and plucky little girl in the world for your niece.’ POPULAR PLACES OF RESORT. THE ISLE OF MAN. I HE Isle of Man, situated in the Irish Sea, about equally distant from England, Scot¬ land, and Ireland, is dis¬ tinguished by a bold and picturesque coast scenery, especially at its southern extremity, where it pre¬ sents a sea-front of ex¬ treme grandeur. This island pos¬ sesses much to interest the antiquary, for various castles and abbeys still remain, though in a ruined condition, as standing witnesses of the grandeur and glory of bygone days. It is not a large island, being only about thirty- three miles in length and twelve miles in breadth. Its chmate is mild and equable, which proves very attractive to summer visitors, who arrive year by year in large numbers to spend their holiday time in this interesting spot. A chain of mountains runs tlirough the Isle of Man, from north-east to south-west, the highest point of which is Snaefell, upwards of 2000 feet in height. There are four principal towns, namely Castleton, Douglas, Ramsay, and Peel, the last named being almost entirely devoted to the fishing industry. It is atuated on the south-west coast, and on a small island, which shelters the harbour, stands the beauti¬ ful ruin of Peel Castle, which our readers may see in Picture No. 1. An ancient cathedral is included in the space occupied by the castle, which, viewed from the sea, shows evident tokens of a glorious past. In Picture No. 2 we see a very ancient church, named Kirk Braddan, about which we shall have something to say further on, but at prcvsent we must ask our readers to look at Picture No. 3, where we have a view of Douglas Harbour. The town of Douglas, eleven miles from Peel, is the modern capital of the Isle of Man, and from the excellence of its sea-bathing, as well as its central position, it has of late years become a highly popular watering-place. It possesses an excellent landing-place, new streets. handsome villas, and a charming promenade, which follows the line of the bay. Altogether, it presents a vivid contrast to the old town of Douglas, with its narrow winding streets and generally shabby appear¬ ance. There is a tower of refuge, a very picturesque object, which occupies a dangerous rock in the southern area of Douglas Bay. This was erected in 1838, for the safety of shipwrecked mariners, and has proved most useful to many unfortunate seamen. Douglas is the principal packet station, and has a daily service of steamers during the summer months, besides telegraphic communication with England. In Picture No. 4 we see some curious remains of ancient Runic crosses, which have been found in various parts of the Isle of Man, notabl}’’ at Kirk Michael, and at Kirk Braddan, the old church in Picture No. 2, These ancient Runes have an inter¬ esting histor}^, for it seems that they are found in every region which has been at one time overrun or settled by the Baltic tribes. They all have inscriptions upon them written in the ancient alphabet of the heathen Northmen. Tlie Isle of Man having been at one time occupied by the Norwegians, sufficiently ac¬ counts for these Runes being found at Kirk Braddan and elsewhere. ^ As it was during the ninth century that the Norwegians under Harold Haar-fager invaded and took possession of the Isle of Man, these ancient Runes must now be about 1000 years old. In Picture No. 5 we see a waterfall, named the Rhenass Falls, in Glen Helen. This beautiful water¬ fall is considered one of the prettiest sights of the Isle of Man, as, owing to the smallness of the island, there are few rivers of any size. These falls, how¬ ever, having richly wooded banks on both sides, with the river fiowing rapidly between, are quite worthy of a visit from those tourists who, in the sunamer season, find their way from Great Britain to this interesting island. D. B. GOG AND MAGOG. F E of the famous buildings of London, which visitors from afar go to see, is its Guildhall, and many a youngster has stood there gazing with wonder, if not with fear, at the two notable figures of its old giants, Gog and Magog. For many years, the representations of these City champions have rested quietly in Guildhall, but there was a time when they carried Gog and Magog along the streets on the days when they had pageants or processions. Evidently, the present figures were not made to be moved about, and the giants that formerly astonished the spectators of the Lord Major’s Show, and other displays, have long disappeared. It used to be one of the City jokes, to tell people that when the clock struck at twelve mid-day, the giants came down from their high positions to have their dinner ! But though they cannot eat and drink, Gog and Magog

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L Peel Castle, from the Sea. Isle of Man. 2. Kirk Braddan. 3. Douglas Harbour. 4. Remains ofAncient Runic Crosses, Kirk Brad(ban. 5. Rhenass Falls, Glen Helen.

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142 CHATTERBOX. have cost the City some money. For example, when the Queen dined at the Guildhall in 18d7, the giants were made specially smart, and they have often been cleaned or decorated. It is quite evident, from the size and form of these figures, that they were not in¬ tended to be taken through the streets, as had been the practice. A man named Saunders is said to have carved them a.d. 1708. We suppose he copied two figures of older date which were falling to pieces, as we read in a scarce little book called The Gifjantic History of the Two Famous Giants of Guildhall. Partly from the etfect of being carried about, and partly from the^ attacks made on them by City rats and mice, the giants of wicker-work and pasteboard had to be removed. One author tells us that the giants were sometimes taken upon the Thames, as on the coronation day of James II., when they were placed opposite Whitehall, and their backs were lighted with lamps. If this were done now and then, they would also get rather smoked, perhaps burnt ; therefore it is not surprising that new figures were needed in the reign of Queen Anne, and these have lasted on to the present time. The Guildhall giants were not represented as of the same age ; one being made to look older than the other, some people may have thought that they were father and son, or that one of the pair was a ^big pother. There is a doubt, too, about their names. We now speak of them by those of Gog and Magog, but it appears that the ancient names were Gogmagog for one, and Corineus for the other, nor were they relations^ at all. Indeed, according to the legend or tale, Corineus bad not the size of a giant, though he was a mighty soldier. He is said to' have come" from Troy with the grandson of Hilneas, named Brutus, ^d after many adventures the Trojans landed in Devonshire. They took possession of our island, and Brutus gave to his friend Corineus the far west, which was inhabited by a race of giants. The tallest of these, Gogmagog, twelve cubits high, asked the Trojan to fight him, and after a desperate battle Corineus threw the giant over a lofty cliff. Then it is added that when Brutus built London, which was before the Eomans came to Britain, tlie figures m the two were put up in memory of this event. But really the true story of these giants can never be known, and some folk think they were onl}’^ made to show that the Londoners believed their city would become great, as it certainly has — greatest, indeed, of all our earth^s cities. A\ e do not know when these giants wore first dis¬ played by the citizens on special occasions; some¬ times they were carried in procession, at other times they were put in a conspicuous position, perhaps on London Bridge, or at Temple Bar. The dav before her coronation, when Queen Elizabeth passed through ^e City, the giants stood at each side of Temple bolding a written description of the pageants which were shown on that day of rejoicing. ' It is ^pposed that these figures were destroyed in the Civd War, and new ones made after the Kestoration. T ^ron icier, who saw the giants borne along in the Lord Mayor's procession of a.d. 1672, states that they were fifteen feet high, and that they talked while going along. No doubt a man was hidden J. Cliffobd. I THE THEASUHE OF THE ‘SAN ANTONIO.’ (Continued from page 131.) ABE an’ ages ! ’ O’Hagan ex¬ claimed, ‘the ould bird has had a try to hatch this egg. The smell is so strong, you could lean up against it! Well, it is a pity to waste it. I will just make a pre¬ sent of it to the two Mexican gentlemen you see walking about below us,’ and in a trice he had, with dexterous aim, hurled the bad egg at the nearest man. It hit him hard upon the top of his head, breaking and sending its unsavoury con¬ tents all over him. As the fellow danced and wriggled about in his wrath, Tim O’Hagan put his head over the ledge of rock above him, and called out: ‘Now, what are ye jigging about for, there Sure, I wouldn’t do anything mean, at all, and I would scorn to conceal from ye that we’re eating eggs up here. How do ye like the sample I’ve supplied ye with.? If I can find any more of the same brand, ye shall be sure to liave thim. Its meself wouldn’t cheat ye out of a sin^de one of them I ’ And, although the Mexican could not understand a word the Irishman uttered, the very tones of his voice had such an exasperating effect on him that, in impotent wrath, he drew the horse-pistol that was stuck in his belt, and fired in the direction of his enemy. The bullet merely struck the rock and dropped harmlessly to the ground again. ‘Go on, my jewel, at tliat game!’ called out 0 Hagan, ‘sure it is good practice for ye, entirely ; ’ then, cautiously peeping over the edge again, he burst out laughing. ‘ Sure it’s like an omelette ye are, my Southern beauty!’ he said, and then, declining any further controversy, he walked back to the others, who had been immensely amused at the ridiculous incident, the Irishman’s rough fun, and the savage rage of the Mexican. That evenin", at about eight o’clock, heavy, lower¬ ing clouds, of inky blackness, began banking up upon the mountain tops immediately around the gorge. The sullen roar of the distant thunder rumbled threateninerly, whilst, here and there, a sharp-forked Hash of lightning shot out its angry tongue across the deep purple heavens, ‘ shining out from the east, even unto the west.’ The little group perched upon the plateau quickly withdrew to' the shelter of the caves as the great* drops of heat rain came pattering down. Nearer and nearer drew the Storm King, until, right above their heads, he announced his arrival in full majesty by a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to shake the very mountains to their foundations, whilst the whole of air and earth was illumined by flash after flash of the lurid blue lightning. After two hours or more, the active raging of the storm seemed nearly over. ‘ Heaven’s

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OHATTEUBOX. 143 artillery ’ still rumbled ominously amongst the high hills and mountain tops, but the fury of the tempest appeared to be about spent. The rain continued to fall in torrents, as the beleagured garrison all — with the exception of Baxter, whose turn it was to watch — lay down in the cave to sleep. Jjaxter, waterproofed up to the ears, sat on the rocky platform, revolving the whole situation in his mind. A bold, able man in his own profession, this was work entirely new to him, and the situation was full of alarming chances. It was true they might hold out here for some time, if only they could get a supply of food, blit beyond the birds -nesting, which had been promptly condemned as too perilous, what resources had they? As to descending from their little fortress to risk an encounter with their per¬ secutors below, he saw that such a thing was court¬ ing disaster. If they could only communicate with the ship, a stout reinforcement of stalwart seamen, well armed, would q^uickly raise the siege, and rescue them from their unpleasant predicament. The ques¬ tion was. Was it possible to send a messenger who could escape the vigilance of the blockading party below? . . . , Whilst thus thinking over the position m whicn he and his party were placed, the mate, amidst the constant plashing of the rain, thought he heard a slight rustling noise behind him. He quickly turned his head, and, looking over his shoulder, saw to his horror, a creeping human figure in the act of springing upon him. With a loud cry to alarm his sleeping comrades, the intrepid seaman leaped to his feet, in time to meet the attack of his stealthy assailant with a stinging blow in the face. The fellow uttered a cry of pain and anger, and the next moment the whole plateau seemed to be alive with fighting, struggling figures. The Mexicans and half-breeds, taking advantage of the noise made by the heavy rainfall, had crept silently up the face of the rock, with the intention of surprising their victims by a night attack. Above the din of shouts, curses, menaces, and groans of wounded men, the captain s ^ tones rose high: ^ Don’t use fire-arms, lads, in this darkness. We might shoot each other. ^ Grapple with your man, each of you, and hurl him down the rock, if you can.’ . , .l % One circumstance, which had not been talven into account by the robbers, was that the besieged knew every inch ot the little plateau as well in the dark as the light, whilst they themselves had, of course, never seen it before. Taking the fullest advantage of this, each of the William and Mary's men pushed his adversary, as they wrestled together, into the corners and edges of the rocks, causing many an unexpected trip and fall. The attackers, for the same reason as their victims, dared not use firearms, and, in fact, had not even brought . them, trusting entirely to their knives, and to the hope that they should surprise and murder the whole 'party as they lay asleep. / The Mexicans and Indians, however, by sheer force of numbers, were slowly, but none( the less surely, triumphing. The attacked fought . doggedly on, well knowing that, if defeated, their li\'es would be the penalty. » ‘ There’s nothing to hope for, boys, from these villains,’ gasped out the captain. ^ I’m done for; but fio'ht on ; ’ and the gallant old man, stabbed in the chest and bleeding profusely, fell fainting to the ground. Just then, and in the nick of time, a change came over the scene. Through all this unearthly din the Irishman had slept as peacefully as though on down pillows at home. Then he awoke suddenly with a start. Grasping the situation in an instant, he sprang to his feet, picked up a short, heavy iron- wood club, which he had been fashioning into a 'shillalah’ the day before, just to pass the time away, and sailing in to the ‘divarsion,’ he attacked the Mexicans and half-breeds with a ferocity which fairly staggered them. The moon shone out through the heavy, murky clouds just in time to enable him to see a man stooping over the prostrate captain with an upraised knife. With one tremendous blow from the brawny Irishman the wretch was laid senseless on his back, whilst, with a backward cut he struck Oaracio himself so severely in the mouth as to knock that worthy backwards over the rock and down on to the ground twenty-five feet below. A huge Mexican Indian next faced him, grinning savagely from ear to ear. The Irishman ducked his head to- avoid the stab made at it, and then ran that thick skull of his right into his adversary s chest. The giant fell with a fearful gasp for breath. . j . u • Their leader thrown over the platform, and their two best fighting men down, the rest of the attack¬ ing party soon got disheartened. O’Hagan, now thoroughly in his element, was laying about him so heartily, dealing out whacks and thwacks all round with his terrible cudgel, that there was not a man amongst them who was not more or less sore and beateUi. Seeing that their attempt was a failure, the Mexicans called to each other that they must retreat, and then it became a simple question of who amongst them could run away and scramble down most quickly. In less than ten minutes from the first alarm the camp was once more quiet, and the invaders had fied to a man. To the infinite joy of the whole party it was found that, except for the loss of a copious supply of blood from a knife wound in his chest. Captain Bannatyne was none the worse for the desperate fight in which they had all been engaged. -Baxter had been somewhat severely handled, and, in addi- ; tion to a bad wound in the hand from a knife-blade, had struck the back of his head against a roclvy crag. Felix and Ben were unhurt, whilst Tom had received a blow on the face, from which his nose had swelled to a ludicrous size. The two Spaniards, who had fought like gallant gentlemen, were both sli.ghtly wounded, one in the hip, the other in the cheek-bone. The Irishman, strange to say, had gone all through his desperate onslaught without himself receiving a scratch or even a bruise. , That thev had inflicted a severe drubbing upon the enemy admitted of no sort of doubt, and ® fall had given him a terrible shaking, whilst the blow which he had received from O’Hagan s cudgel had knocked two of his front teeth out. Soon after morning broke, the besiegers, by way of still more

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144 CHATTERBOX. The Mexicans attempt a Night; Attack. ice, moved their camp up to plateau. Here i low that of their intended evening proceede any attack on their part by they had iiiUed t {Continued at page 147.)

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CHATTERBOX. Mo

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146 OI-IATTERBOX. AN AFRICAN LION. tremendous power of strik- /V iug possessed by the fore- ' ^ arm of the African lion is shown in the following- account of an occurrence which took place some years ago. The dry season was at its height, and the heat was very great, as the steamer was returning from the White Nile, on its way to Khartoum. All the high grass and other herbage had been burnt by the natives, and the surface of the ground was black and bare. As the steamer floated gently along, with the paddles revolving slowly, a large lion was observed upon the bank of the river. The vessel w^as at once stopped, when a skilled and trustworthy Tokroori hunter, who chanced to be on board, volunteered to go on shore and shoot the animal. The man was advised by others on board to think twice before doing so rash a deed, but he was quite confident that he would come oS the victor, and was therefore put on shore, armed only wdth a single-barrelled rifle. He at once advanced boldly towards the lion, which (although it had been standing when first observed) immediately crouched, as though preparing to spring. Notwithstanding this ominous change of position the hunter still advanced, till within a few yards of the lion, when he halted and fired. With a loud roar the infuriated animal flew to the attack, and struck the man a terrific blow on the shoulder, which dashed him violently to the ground. Then the lion fell across his body, after which neither of the two moved. The steamer was now run alongside the bank, and a number of men went ashore. But both the hunter and the lion were dead. The bullet had passed clean through the heart of the animal; yet, strange to say, it had ^ud life enough to deliver a blow which had not only completely dislocated the arm at the shoulder, but bad also struck downwards with such force, that the flesh had been stripped off the unfortunate man’s side. His death had apparently taken place so sud¬ denly from the frightful shock to the system. B. CHICKS AND SQUABS. springtime there is great joy among birds; their merry song is heard in field and wood ; each one joins in the chorus and music is every¬ where ; and all this rejoicing is because the time has come for little birds to be hatched in the nest, and rejoice the heart of parents by their win¬ some ways. You have heard of the geese who thought that all their goslings were swans. I believe every bird thinks its own little brood are swans, too, or quite as fine as those stately birds. But all young birds are not beautiful — not even pretty. Everybody knows how pretty baby fowls are — little balls of soft down. Nimble and clever, too, are chickens. All the young game-birds are like these — eager and active as soon as they are hatched, and covered with fluffy down. Some water-birds are early made charming by pretty clothing and pretty ways. Most of the fresh-water fowl can swim and dive from the first. The young ducklings from the nest of the wild duck, on the bank of a river or lake, plunge into the water on the very first day of their life. The young grebe dive off their floating cradle just as soon. This nest is like a raft; it floats on the surface of the water, and is drifted hither and thither by the flowing currents. The sitting hen is not dismayed at being carried off on a short journey now and then, perhaps a yard or two down-stream, or across to the opposite side of a river. She builds her boat of tangled weeds and sticks so firmly that she know’^s it will not sink even if a "svave wash over it, and she places it among the reeds so that it can¬ not drift very far. The grebe’s nest is often very wet — so is the moorhen’s in the rushes, or laid on a dipping branch ; but this does not seem to matter. Very strong chicks are hatched in both. The young coot are water-babies, too. It is well worth a journey to go to some lonely mere, or reach of river, to see young water-birds, they are so charming. Little grebe are like clowns with painted faces, and down all striped like a zebra s. Little coot are black as chimney-s'weeps, with blue and red faces. Both these play antics of all kinds ; they dive into the water and tumble about like corks ; they hop out of it with ease. They dart to and fro, their tiny w*ebbed feet paddling so fast that you can hardly see them move. These are brave feats for little creatures one day old ! The game-birds are just as precocious, but they cannot swim. Their home is on the heathery hillside, so they do not need webbed feet. The hillside is bare and open; no trees grow there for shelter, and, as the fierce hawks fly overhead, they look down to see where the young birds that taste so good are. But it is very hard to spy young grouse or ptarmigan, for their downy covering is of brown shades that match the heather-stalks, bracken, and ling, so that even a hawk’s sharp eyes may be deceived. These young birds may all be called chicks. There are others that are ugly, and helpless, and naked for the first few weeks. For these I think ‘squabs’ is a very good name. All the young ones in the nests of the small birds which we know best are squabs. Young robins, and thrushes, and finches, and larks, and starlings, and tits, and wrens — you know what ugly little beings these are. Their bodies are fat and skinny, and they gape helplessly for food which the parents must provide. Young pigeons, and hawks, and owls, and jays, swifts and swallows, rooks and ravens, all begin life like this. The parents of squabs have hard work to supply their children with food. Chicks can run about and peck up for themselves, but squabs can only lie

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CriATTF.RBOX. 147 still in the nest and open wide their broad naouths. The swallows sometimes go backwards and tor- wards 400 times a day, bringing home food, femaii insects are what infant birds like best, and these must be caught as well as carried, riimk wha labour ! ^ mi • A squab’s eyes are shut fast at first. There is an old story that the little swallow’s eyes will not open until the mother bird can find a piece of beautitui calcedony and lay it in the nest ; then their eyes y open as if by magic, and they see. Some of these ugly squabs grow up to be most beautiful ; indeed, all of them outgrow this early ugliness very quickly. The feathers grow and s ow all the colours of .their kind; they learn to fly and to hop and to sing. All the finest singers have been u"ly squabs — nightingale, thrush, blackbird, robin, bfaicap, dipper, ousel. Some of the handsomest birds, too — the bright chalfinch and bullfinch, the handsome jay, the lovely swallow. Squabs go through another stage before they reach perfection. Their first feathering is soft and tlufty, and often quite different to the grown-up dress which they will wear some day. Little robins are mottled like thrushes. Most young birds are dressed in feathers like their mothers when first they come out of the nest. The young cocks wait till next spring to put on gay colours like the father bird. When the time comes to do this, they may go their own way, build nests, and sing happy songs to a little brood of their own. F. A. F dlcheb. THE TREASURE OP THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ {Continued from page 144.) _HE savoury smell of the roasting mutton was tan¬ talising in the extreme for our friends in their unfortunate position. Ra¬ tions Avere by this time at a very low ebb. The few eggs which they had got were all gone, and salt beef and biscuit, and very little of either, were all that now stood between them and starvation. Every now and then, O’Hagan just ventured to put the tip of his nose over the ledge and indulge in a long, grateful sniff. As darkness fell, and the mutton approached to the stage which cooks call ‘ done,’ the Irishman pushed his head farther aM farther over the ledge, which he could do now with¬ out fear of being seen and fired at, as he was completely in the dark, whilst the big fire below illumined the savage-looking party beneath him wutn a fierce, strong light. ‘Smells good, Felix, eh?’ said Tom, as he sat gently rubbing his outraged nose with one nnger. < I could just do -with a nice juicy cut out of the saddle — couldn't you ?’ < , t ‘ I could,’ answered Felix, laughing ; but I haidly think it likely that they will offer it.’ Just then O’Hagan got up quietly, and went into the cave where all their worldly possessions weie stored. In half a minute’s time he came out carrywg something — the hoys could not see what in the darkness— in his hand. Once more he lay down flat on his face and peeped over at the roasting sheep. He noted that it was suspended over the wood Are by three sticks, sharpened at the ends and driven into the ground, and impaling the meat on the upper ends of them. Then he whispered his plan of action to the ot*“r^ and passed over to Baxter a coil of light line. Taking the other end of this, to which was attached a sharp steel hook, or rather three hooks, for^d back to back in the shape of a gi-apnel, and which was in¬ tended to he used in catching large fish, he, veiy warily and in complete silence, let it down out of the darkness overhead directly on to tempting roasted meat below. ^ f sudden jerk he caught one of the barbed hooks Arm y into it, and, giving a wild shout of Hurroo . Pu , boys, with all your might ! up the sticks into mid-air, where it dangled but a -econd or two ; then, with a further mighty haul, it dis¬ appeared from the view of the astonished Mexicans iu^ as they grasped the idea of what was happenin , and sprang, with furious gestures, to tteir feet, too late, however, to save their supper. With e mendous cheering the little party had the satisfaction of hauling their prize over the ledge, and the further delight of listening to the curses of their baffled enemies below. m ‘For once in a way we shall dine and they will go empty,’ said Tom. ' It has been far too often the Other way for my liking since we have been peiched '^^Senhor Ohiquita was so overcome with laughter at the success of the Irishman’s audacious trick toat for a few minutes he was in positive pain. He had no sooner recovered than O’Hagan started him off again by leaning over the edge and calling to the exasp^ rated crew standing in the Arelight, Misthei Mexican, there, would ye oblige me by handing up the red-currant jelly ?’ j A savage shout from below merely provoked derhive laughter. For the flrst time in three or four days they were going to have that necessary t'nn^ *0 man’s well-being, a ‘ square meal ’ And what a meal thev had! Good, honest mutton, and e.vtiemely well roasted, with all the trouble and anxiety of cooking it taken off their hands ! talked the ‘spoiled spoilers’ below fairly hovv.ed with impotent rage to think how coolly they had been out- ^ Two’ days went by, and they were well kept up in strength by the enemy’s roast mutton. After tins they were again forced to consider what must be t their next move. ^ , ‘ Can no one devise a way of communicating wth i the ship, I wonder?’ said Senhor Chiquita. For 1 my part, I must confess that, day and ^ ha;® I racked my brain to And some way of doing so, but i

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“ Felix took deliberate aim and fired.” have thought in vain. Has any one a plan to propose ? — for, if something is not done, and done very soon, we shall in two or three days now, at the farthest, find ourselves face to face with starva¬ tion, on the one hand, or being murdered, on the other.’ All were silent. Naturally, each member of the little party had been constantly thinking of every means of escape, but no one had yet been able to hit upon any feasible plan. Another day passed slowly, wearily away. Hunger began to pinch them, for now all the salt beef was gone, and very little of the biscuit remained. This was doled out sparingly, and eaten very slowly, in order that the most should be made of it. The spirits of the party began to sink.

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CHATTERBOX. 149 The Blackbird. * Never mind. While there’s life, there’s hope,’ said the skipper, sturdily. ‘ Now, we have not only life, but health and strength as well, and, at all events, we shall not die of thirst. Our men will very likely get anxious about us before long, and send up a party from the ship to our rescue.’ But, although he spoke stoutly, in order to keep hope within his followers’ breasts, the captain was by no means sanguine himself on the subject. He had given no order that those left behind should send up help, however long gone he and his party were, and he reflected, rather bitterly, that on board the William and Mary his lig:htest word was as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and that his last instructions to his second officer had been to ‘wait there until he returned.’ Therefore, in his heart of hearts, he hardly dared to hope for help in that quarter. What to do he did not know. A windfall came in their way that day, as a mountain goat, impelled by the curiosity^ of ^ these creatures, came leaping down the mountain-side, in order to get a closer view of that strange aninaal, man, which it had probably never, in its short life, seen before. Felix crept softly into the cave, slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and then quietly took deliberate aim and fired. Down came the goat, tumbling from one rockv point to anotlier, until, with a great thud, it fell upon the plateau at the markman’s feet. It was quickly skinned and dressed. When roasted it made very good eating, though, to the fastidious, the flesh inight have been condemned as strong-tasting. Our friends of the treasure-party were, however, in no position to be fastidious, as may well be imagined, and again the evil day of capitulation and possible death was postponed. The besiegers had seen the goat drop, and turned away with lofty disgust at tiie idea of eating such coarse flesh ; but, then, they had a largo choice in the matter' of meats to feed on, while their intended victims had not. Two nights later, when hunger was again making its unpleasant presence felt amongst them, O’Hagan made up his mind to a bold, not to say a desperate move. He determined, as soon as the moon should pass behind the purple clouds around her, to slip down the rocky escarpment, and enter the enem}’’s camp for the purpose of foraging ! He made no mention of his intended enterprise to any in the camp, except his great ally, Baxter, who, he knew, would not attempt to stop him. He charged the mate to hold a rope over the ledge by which he could both descend and return — if he escaped With cool courage, the Irishman silently went down the ropes, and, unseen by any one, gained the ground in safety. Then, keeping in the shadow of the great boulders, he crept noiselessly nearer and

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150 CHATTERBOX. nearer to the camp. The Mexicans and Indian half- bieeds were lounging and lolling in careless attitudes around the fire, some leaning up against the rough rocks ; others seated cross-legged hy the fire. Some were talking, hut, of course, O’Hagan did not understand a word they said. Most of the fellows wore a bandage of some sort, which told of the struggle which had just taken place, and of which they had decidedly got the worst, judging by their appearance. But these things did not interest our intrepid Irishman. AVhat he was seeking for was the larder! Where, oh, where, he kept mentally repeating to himself, did they keep their food? {Continued at page 158.) THE BLACKBIRD. all parts of Great Britain. It frequents hedges and woods, is shy and vigilant, and when dis¬ turbed it takes wing with a vocifer¬ ous chatter of alarm, seeking re¬ fuge in some neighbouring thicket. Its fondness for fruit, however, makes it very annoying to the gardener. The blackbird is one , , of the earliest of birds to build his little home, the nest being often seen when the snow IS on the ground. It is a favourite cage -bird, especially with^ the cottager, as it is readily trained and exhibits some power of imitation. It also becomes very tame in captivity, and may be freely allowed to leave its cage, or, it is said, even to leave the house, when it will perch upon the window-sill, or on some neighbouring bush, and enjoy a peep of the wide, wide world. If one, however, has a great liking for his pet blackbird, it may not be safe to trust it quite so far from its M. K. A CHAT ABOUT THE HERBING. WE have heard it said that the herring is a fish which almost everybody eats, and which nobody knows anything about. This is not exactly those who catch herrings and those who ^11 them must have some knowledge of these fish, but people generally have not. Like many other things, bernugs are so common that we do not feel any curiosity concerning them. Yet there are numerous villages on the British coasts where this small fish IS of great importance to young and old. The men and boys are much occupied in fishing, with line or with net: if line-fishing does not prove successful, they hope to make amends by the busy use of the net. A good year for fish, herrings especially, means comfort in the homes ; a bad one, suffering, perhaps starvation. ^ ^ The name of Terring’ comes from a good old baxon word, which has not altered much all these centuiies. It is likely that the ancient Britons caught the fish, but we cannot tell what they called it. In the curious old volume, Domesday Book, the herrimr has the name of Alec,’ which was also applied to any small sea-fish. People in those days paid taxes with fish sometimes, for this book informs us that Dun- wich had to pay a tax of 60,000 herrings. Under the Norman kings it was an important walled town, but It went to decay owing to the land being washed away by the ocean. The earliest mention of the herring is m a charter granted by the Bishop of London to Barking monastery about the year a.d. 680. In this we have some allusions to the smoking and salting of this fish ; also w^e read of a special kind, called ‘ silver herrings,’ which the monks ate during Easter. Indeed, the salt was so important for the curing of herrings, that Edward the Confessor gave a salt mine to the Abbey of Fecamp as a particular favour. It seems likely that the taxes paid in herrincrs were of the red or smoked sort. King John, wfo was rather fond of good things, gave a charter to Yarmouth, upon the condition that the town sent him twenty-four herring pies yearly. Even then, this seaport w’as a great place for the herring- fishers. Besides the British boats, many Flemish and Scotch ones anchoi ed on that coast. The fishing was regu¬ lated by saints’ days under the IIenries,°and no nets were allowed from St. Martin’s Day to the feast of St. Michael. Their cheapness appears from the statement, that in the reign of Edward I. herrings were twenty a penny. ° ^ At different ages the herring has different names given it. Thus, what are commonly known as * sprats ’ in England, and ‘ garvies ’ in Scotland, are really young herrings. These often travel up the mouths of livers for some distance. When very juvenile, the herring is called 'sile,’ and manv are no doubt devoured by larger fish. Yet, in" spite of perils, herrings are very abundant, though of late years they have vanished from some of their old haunts, and people have feared that this valuable fish might be¬ come scarce. However, at present the danger seems distant, the yearly ^ake’ amounting to thousands of millions. A single boat has sometimes brought to shore ten < lasts ’ of herrings, a last being Sprats (the young herrings) are frequently driven on land in great numbers when there is a strong easterly gale. This fish furnishes its principal food to a bird called the ‘ herring gull.’ The favourite resorts of the herring are sandbanks not very deep in the sea, and on these the fish assemble in shoals or big parties, at a certain season. One of these banks my readers will have heard of, the Dogger Bank of the North Sea, which is also famous for its cod. I must give a word of caution against believing a story common in some old books, that the herring migrates from one sea to another, just as some birds take long journeys from country to country twice a year. The idea was, that they started from ^e Polar^ Seas during spring, and arrived off the West of England about November. It appears now, that the colonies of herrings live all the year each in their own station, but they form shoals to spawn when the water of the sea has a coolness which suits them. This happens earliest in the North, latest in the South, owing to the warmth of the Gulf Stream. J. R. S. 0. I

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CHATTERBOX. 151 YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. JOHN HALIFAX AND PHINEAS FLETCHER.* AGGED, muddy, and miserable looked the poor boy, John Halifax, who stood in the way of the hand-carriage pushed by Mr. Abel Fletcher, of the tan-yard. The boy seated in the carriage was sixteen years of age, two years older than the ragged lad near him ; but he was weak and and a cripple. His name was Phineas, and he was the son of the thriving, prosperous Mr. Abel Fletcher, master of the tanneries. The rain was pouring down, and nearly half an hour had been wasted stand¬ ing up for shelter, waiting vainly for the weather to clear up. • Mr. Fletcher looked at his great silver watch with some impatience, for he was a very busy man. At last he said, ^ Phineas, my lad, how am I to get thee safe home, unless thee wilt go with me to the tan-yard .P' Phineas shook his head- ‘Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee.^ Then Mr. Fletcher called to a woman near by — she had been the sickly boy’s nurse — ‘Sally, Sally Watkins, do any of thy lads want to earn an honest penny ? ’ John Halifax started forward, and, after a moment or so, said, as he stepped up to Mr. Fletcher, ‘ Sir, I want work ; may I earn a penny ?’ The tanner looked closely at the questioner, and, in spite of his wasted and hungry look, and the rags about him, he saw at once that the lad was no common beggar. Then followed questions as to age, parentage, and native county. John Halifax answered each promptly, and at last Mr. Fletcher said, ‘ Well, thee shall take my son home, and I’ll give thee a groat (fourpence). Let me see; art thee a lad to be trusted ? And he held him at arm’s length, and looked into his face The examination satisfied Mr. Fletcher, and he asked, ‘ Lad, shall I give thee the groat now ?' ‘ Not till I have earned it, sir.’ As John pushed the carriage Phineas talked to him, and asked him many questions, and admired his strength. ‘ I shall want my strength,’ replied John ‘ How ? To earn my living.’ ‘ What have you worked at lately ? ’ * Anything I could get, for I have never learned a trade. ‘ Would you like to learn one ?’ ‘ Once I thought I should like to be what my father was. ‘ What was he ? * John Halifax^ GenHeftnan^ is a capital story. Every boy and girl should read it. ‘ A scholar and a gentleman.’ ‘ Then, perhaps you would nob like to follow a trade ? ’ ‘ Yes, I should. What would it matter to me ? My father was a gentleman.’ ‘ And your mother ? ’ ‘ She is dead. I do not like to hear strangers speak about my mother.’ ‘ Have you been up and down the country much ? ’ *A great deal these last three years; doing a hand’s turn as best I could, in hop-picking, apple¬ gathering, harvesting. Only, this summer I had typhus fever, and could not work. ‘ What did you do, then ?’ ‘ I lay in a barn till I got quite well. I’m well now. You need not be afraid.’ ‘ No indeed, I never thought of that.’ ‘ And how shall you live in the winter, when there is no out-of-door work to be had ?’ ‘ I don’t know !’ and a painful look crossed John’s face. Phineas felt sorry that he had asked the unwel¬ come question. By that time the hand-carriage had arrived at the door of Mr. Abel Fletcher’s handsome house, and John would have gone his way ; but such a love had sprung up in the heart of Phineas for his poor companion, that he begged him to stop a little longer — at least, until his father returned. It was not a great -while before Mr. Fletcher came home. ‘ So here thee be — hast thou taken care of my son ? Did he give thee thy groat, my lad ? ’ said the old gentleman. No, the hoys had neither of them remembered the money. ‘Well, here is thy groat, and a shilling added for being kind to my son.’ ‘ Thank you, but I don’t want payment for kind¬ ness.’ And John Halifax put back the shilling into Mr. Fletcher’s hand. ‘Eh!’ said the old gentleman, much astonished. ‘ Thou art an odd lad ; but I can’t stop talking with thee. Come in to dinner, Phineas. I say,’ and he turned back to John Halifax with a sudden thought, ‘ art thee hungry ? ’ ‘ Very hungry.’ And great tears came into the poor lad’s eyes. ‘ Nearly starving.’ ‘ Bless me 1 then get in and have thy dinner. But, first,’ and Mr. Fletcher held him by the shoulder, ‘thee art a decent lad come of decent parents ? ’ ‘ Yes 1’ almost indignantly. ‘ Thee works for thy living ? ’ ‘ I do, whenever I can get it.’ ‘ Thee hast never been in gaol ? ’ ‘No!’ exclaimed the boy, with a furious look. ‘ I don’t want your dinner, sir. I would have stayed because your son asked me ; he was kind to me, and I liked him. Now I think I had better go. Good day, sir.’ Bub Phineas caught J dm Halifax by the hand, and would not let him go. ‘There, get in, lads. Make no more ado,’ said Mr. Fletcher sharply, as he disappeared, and, still holding John’s hand, Phineas brought his newly found friend into his father’s house. {Concluded at page 155.)

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X 154 CHATTERBOX. OLD MAY CUSTOMS. UR illustration shows a street scene early in May, which used to be familiar to the inhabitants of towns, es¬ pecially London, but which is rarely to be seen now. ^Jack in the Green’ and followers seem to be fast vanishing — nay, even the still more familiar ‘ Guy ’ is getting out of date. Is it because those who go about with ‘ Jack in the Green ’ have found lately that it is not worth while, since the public did not bestow much money? This May-clay show originally belonged to the chimney-sweeps, but afterwards, idle people, who had nothing better to do, went about with a Jack in the Green. Around this object the attendants danced, generally to the sound of a drum and mouth-pipe, though sometimes they had other music, such as that of the fiddle. A frame was made of wood or wicker, into which various twigs and branches were put, with bunches of flowers, which almost or quite hid the man who was inside. The Lord and Lady of the May accompanied the Jack in the Green, attired like a squire and his dame ; also other chimney-sweepers, who, for the occasion, not only washed their faces, but made them extra white by rubbing them with chalk. Their dresses were decorated, having bows or festoons of gilt paper and ribbons; sometimes they carried hard brushes and shovels, which they clattered as they went along. To complete the party there was a fellow dressed in the style of a clown, who went round demanding money : evidently this per¬ sonage was a descendant of the fool of whom we read in English history, who wore cap and bells, and a motley dress, and who figured in most shows or pro¬ cessions of the olden time. Hone . says, that in the reign of George III., instead of the squire, one of the party appeared attired as a soldier, and his female companion represented a country maiden or Maid Marian, carrying a ladle to take the money. ^ Another old custom which has dropped out is the milk-maids’ procession on May Day. We read about this when Anne, not Victoria, was Queen of Britain. The milk-maids had a wooden stand or large tray with handles, which was borne by two of the men who used to carry the sedan chairs. Upon this was piled up as many silver or plated cups and dishes as they could get, all brightly polished; beside them walked the milk-maids, carrying on their heads the sign of the trade, pails, which were adorned with ribbons and flowers. Some of the companies, who could not borrow plate, took with them instead a cow, having her horns gilt; upon her back they arranged rosettes amongst bunches of green leaves. They even put strips of silk round her tail ! Some of the children in our English villages still keep up another old custom, that of carrying about garlands of flowers on May Day. At Abbotsbury, in Dorsetshire, which is a fishing village, we are told that garland-day is kept as a yearly holiday, observed however, on old May Day, that is, the third of the month. Those that are going to carry garlands from house to house, make a framework of wire or sticks in any shape they fancy, and they cover this with flowers, some wild, some from the gardens, but always having as many white ones as they can get, so forming a sort of flower picture. Two children carry the garland, others walk behind, and at every house they have a welcome. The number of garlands agrees with the number of fishing boats at the village. After they have finished their round, one by one all the garland-bearers go to the Castle, which is near the pebbly beach called the Chesil Bank, and then spend the afternoon and evening by the seaside, with other children and older folk, feasting on the nice things bought with part of the money collected. These customs carry back our thoughts to the earlier May games of the Middle Ages, and. to the maypole dance, which was a famous festivity m towns and villages. This maypole was often very tall, and was brought from the woods by a large party, with green branches and wild flowers. When the pole had been put up the folk decorated it, and made around it green bowers for people to sit in. They chose a King and Queen, who had for their attendants Robin Hood, Little John, Friar Tuck, and other funny characters. Two of the great maypoles of London were those in Cornhill, near St. Andrew Undershaft, and in the Strand, which remained till about a hundred years ago. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 26.— Lines addressed to a Bird, H N L D T W E R S T H U G L M Y W L THULVESTTHTTHULVESTTHWL RNLDAKSYURHLLWTNE SLSTSSLEMNSUNDSALNE SMURNFULNNELVESTG RFYURHTINGHWLTKNW Supply a vowel where needed. F. H. [Answer at page 173.] 23. — 1. A burnt child dreads the fire. 2. A cat may look at a king. 3. Be just before you are generous. 4. Better late than never. 5. Don’t halloo till you are out of the wood. 6. Enough ia as good as a feast. 7. Fine feathers make fine birds. 8. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. 24. — Natal (discovered on Christmas Day). 1. Norwich. 4. Axminster. 2. Antwerp. 5. Lapland. 3. Trafalgar. 25. — Mediterranean, 1. Maine. 4. Ten. 8. Mint. 2. Tender. 5. Meditate. 9. Err. 3. Red. 6. Arran. 10. Den. 7. Medina.

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CHATTERBOX. 155 YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. JOHN HALIFAX AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. (Concluded from •page 151.) FTER dinner Phineas and John ■went into the garden, and lay on the grass, and in a pretty clematis arbour, over¬ looking the river Avon. There was in the garden a fine yew hedge, so strong that nobody could climb it, or get through it ; it was hundreds oi* years old. ^ What would you do, John,’ asked Phineas, ‘ if you were shut up here, and had to get over the yew hedge? You could not climb it?’ ‘ No ; I could not, and therefore I should not waste time in trying.’ ^ Would you give it up, then ? ’ He smiled — there was no ^giving up’ in John’s smile. ‘ I tell you what I would do. I would begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced my way through, and got out safe at the other side.’ This last remark was overheard by Mr. Fletcher, who had come up unnoticed, and his ‘ Well done, lad !’ startled both the boys. Now, it happened that the tanner had lost one of his men, Bill Watkins, that day. He had enlisted, and left no one to take his place. It was a low position which Bill had held. His work had been to drive a cart, and collect the skins which his master had bought from the farmers around. The work was very un¬ pleasant indeed, from the disagreeable smell accom¬ panying it. Mr. Fletcher had been turning over in his mind the question whether it would not be better to fill the situation by a lad, instead of a man; a lad, he thought, would not be so likely to fall into the hands of the recruiting sergeant. So when he had found out from the boy that he was willing to do any honest work, no matter how distasteful it might be, he hired him at the wage of three shillings a week to take Bill’s place. John began his new work the next morning, and it was some time before he and Phineas met again. Meantime, hardworking John plodded on at his daily work, sleeping in the open air when it was finished, curled up in a little heap of bark in the yard, wrapped in an old rug which one of the men had given him. Very little time was left the young driver for eating and drinking. He generally ate his dinner as the cart jogged on, or as he walked along the road, picking blackberries, by way of pudding, when they were to be had ; his supper he liked the best, for he could take that sitting on the bark-heap. John earned about fivepence a day, and his food cost him threepence, so that there was little to wonder at in the fact that he preferred sleeping in the open air to such lodging and companions as he could get for the remaining twopence. He told all this to Phineas, who came to the tan-yard once on purpose to see him, and Phineas determined to see Widow Watkins about it — Bill’s mother — and question her concerning a spare attic she had. He did so, and John was soon the proud possessor of a tiny bedroom, very low and small, but with a window from which one could crawl on to the roof, and see the town of Norton Bury and a long way around. Here Phineas came, or was carried by John, and spent some of the happiest and brightest hours with the friend to whom he was so much attached. John Halifax did not long continue to drive the cart. He had managed during the winter, and in his odd moments, to teach himself to read and add up, using the books lent him by Phineas ; and Mr. Fletcher had found it out, and offered him better wages and new and pleasanter duties. John, therefore, became a collector of money instead of skins, having won Mr. Fletcher’s trust. The boy’s ragged clothes were laid aside, and his appearance in a new suit gave him quite the air of a gentleman, as, indeed, he showed by all his actions that he really was. ♦ * ♦ # It was a cold night in February. The river Avon was swollen and fiowing rapidly, and its waters had made for themselves several new channels. A loud knocking at Mr. Fletcher’s hall-door aroused the inmates, and Phineas heard John’s voice calling to him, ‘ The waters are rising, and I’ve come to fetch your father. He may save a good deal yet.’ Mr. Fletcher and John left the house together, and did not return till morning. It was a night long to be remembered at Norton Bury. Bridges were destroyed, boats carried away, houses inundated or sapped at their foundations, and men and women everywhere near the Avon were ruined in less than six hours. Mr. Fletcher would have been ruined, too, had it not been for John, who had seen the river rising by the light of the moon while he had practised the letters with chalk upon bark in the tan-yard, Phineas having taught him how to shape them. As it was, the tanner lost several thousands of pounds. When master and servant entered, wet and weary, it was by Mr. Fletcher’s own order that their meal was set on the same board ; and so John Halifax and his employer breakfasted together on that eventful morning, and veiy proud and happy felt John over Mr. Fletcher’s words of praise — words seldom given to any by the worthy tanner. ‘ John Halifax,’ said his employer, ‘ thee hast been of great service to me this night. What reward shall I give thee ? ’ And he put his hand in his pocket as he asked the question. John turned away. ‘ Thank you ; I had rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have been useful to my master, and that he acknowledges it,’ he said. When John had gone to work, Mr. Fletcher turned to his son and asked, ^ Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasure the

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L'lmipnl. The waters are risiog, and I’ve come to fetch your father.’* lad?’ and Phineas replied, ‘ Let him spend Sunday at our house.’ So at last it came about that the one-time poor ragged boy, with the beautiful character and the noble heart, was received at least one day each week as equal and friend in his master’s household. But there came a time when John Halifax did better than that. The story of the riot at the tan-yard — a riot which threatened worse dangers than the floods, is well worth reading. It tells of what one determined and right-principled man was able to accomplish, and shows John’s right to be the hero of the book, John Halifax y Gentleman. James Cassidy.

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Wild Horses. WILD HORSES. The native country of the horse is quite uncertain, some contending for Asia, others for Africa. We know that at a very early period the horse was in use, as a domesticated and valued animal, among the ancient Egyptians. At the present day wild horses are found in North Africa, Central Asia, and both Americas, these latter, however, being un¬ doubtedly the offspring of animals which had been introduced into the country by Europeans, America having been without horses when first discovered by Columbus. Wild horses congregate in troops, sometimes of many hundreds, and on the first appearance of danger they move in a concerted manner, so that the stronger animals are always opposed to the enemy, while the younger and weaker are efficiently protected. In fighting, horses raise themselves on their hind feet, and bring down the fore feet with great force on the enemy, then wheel

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158 CHATTERBOX. about and kick violently. This vigorous manner of defending themselves causes them to be looked on with great respect by wolves, even when in packs ; indeed, those fierce though cowardly creatures can only attack with success some aged horse, or some stray animal who has left the herd. In Tartary there is a peculiar variety of the wild horse ; it is of a reddish colour, with black mane and tail. This animal is very vicious, and cannot easily be tamed. In South America the horses are called mustangs, and are generally of a broAvnish colour. The domesticated varieties are numerous, from the huge dray-horse of Loudon, down to the tiny Shetland pony, which may be lifted entirely off its feet by a strong man. B. TRIED BY A JURY. posed himself to sleep. He waited a short time longer, and then began his stealthy march forward towards the now fast-expiring camp fire. Inch by inch, he crept along, pausing at every yard or so of ground, to listen, with the greatest intentness, in order to discover, if possible, whether any of the ruliians were yet awake. Not a sound broke the stillness, except the measured breathing of the sleepers and the beating of his own heart. Lor it was a nasty situation, this, for the boldest of man¬ kind to face. One false step, an incautious move¬ ment, the least noise, and he well knew that his life would not be worth five minutes’ purchase. After a long and careful search round, well clear of the now expiring firelight, O’Hagan came upon the half of a mountain sheep, uncooked. He looked all about, in hopes of finding something of either a vegetable or farinaceous nature, a thing of which those in the beleaguered camp now stood greatly in need. SEVERAL centuries ago, we find that it was com¬ mon in some places to arrest straying animals, such as donkeys or pigs, and convey them before judges and lawyers, in order to stand their trial for having ti espassed on forbidden ground. In the island of Sardinia, it is on record that now and then the patient and hard-working donkey was allowed a whole holiday that it might roam about in its master’s fields, but only there — for elsewhere trespas.sers were prose¬ cuted according to law. If caught in the field of one Avho was not his master, the poor animal was caught by the fore-lock, dragged to the council chamber and ^ denounced. A lawyer was retained for his special benefit, and he would plead for the offender, and appeal to the jury, but to no purpose. He was a trespasser, and for the first offence he had to part wdth one of his soft grey ears, which w^as cut off. For the second offence, the second ear had to go. But if, after this, he was perverse enough to strav once more, he became the property of the prince of the land, who placed him among his own droves, where he was carefully watched and forbidden to roam with his old sweet freedom. Far woise did it fare with pigs, wild cattle, and even with domestic cows. If found trespassing they were killed, and given to the man on whose ground they had strayed after having gone through a trial, such as in tliose days used to serve alike for man and beast. D. K. THE TREASURE OE THE ‘SAH AHTONIO.’ (Continued from page 150.) Gently O’l-Iagan moved round to the farther side of the Mexicans, keeping at some distance from them, and determined to wait until they should lay^ down to sleep, before venturing any nearer. He waited what probably Avas about a half-hour, but which he afterwards declared must have been at least a week, before the last and most Avakeful of them had Avi’apped himself in his poncho and com¬ Nothing of the kind, however, presented itself, and, fairly well satisfied Avith what he had captured, the Irishman began to move stealthily away. Step by step, each one taken at long intervals, and with a pause between, he approached the place where the friendly rope was overhanging, and offering him the means of reaching a haven of security above. By means of his handkerchief he slung the mutton around him and grasped the rope, giving it a gentle tug^ to tell Baxter that he was about to climb up again. An answering jerk from the mate assured OTlagan that he might trust his weight to the rope, and he began to ^ shin up ’ as sailors call it. Almost at the same moment, an exclamation, the jangling of arms, a stray shot fired in his direction, but without doing any damage, and the rush of many feet in the darkness, told him that he Avas dis¬ covered. With the utmost exertion he struggled on, whilst Baxter, alarmed by the noise below, pulled lustily, with all his might, to help his comrade’s ascent into safety. But it was not to be. Chafing on the sharp rocky ledge with the unwonted swaying motion of the struggling man beloAv, the rope suddenly yielded and was cut right in two. With a crash, doAvn fell O’Hagan, not to the ground, but on top of Caracio himself, crushing him to the earth, and cutting short the half-breed’s exhortations to his men to ‘ shoot the dog of an Englishman.’ Helpless above, Baxter listened, terrified out of his wits for his unhappy companion’s sake. But, listen as he might, no sounds came to his ears which indicated what had befallen him. In silence and deep sorroAv, he moved off to the caves to tell the rest of the party what had happened. In the rush with which the Mexicans and half- breeds had overpowered O’Hagan, Caracio had been nearly smothered. When, at length, he was assisted to his feet, he drew his long, keen-bladed knife with an ugly look at the Irishman. Then another thought struck him : he would use this captive as a means of compelling the rest to surrender, under pain of torturing him in their sight. Torture is, and always has been, a favourite method with Mexican Indians, and their barbarity and refinement of wicked cruelty

Page 168

CHATTERBOX. 159 are but too well known to their enemies. Surprised that bis bfe was spared, the Irishman lay bound hand and foot securely on the moist, steamy ground, until morning broke and revealed his surroundings. His captors were aroused from sleep, and were soon, apparently, deep in consultation as to what they should do with their prisoner. Fortunately for him, O’Hagan, being ignorant of one word of their language, understood nothing of the diabolical schemes of torture to which they proposed to subject him. Nor did they waste much time in discussion. Marching their prisoner out in full view of the little garrison on the plateau above, Caracio, in Spanish, demanded that ^ the one among them who understood him ’ should translate to his friends what he, Caracio, was now about to say. Senhor Chiqiiita replied, in Spanish, that he was ready to act as interpreter of anything that he chose to speak of. "Whereupon, with great insolence, the fellow began as follows, illustrating his remarks from time to time by pushing, striking, or otherwise ill-treating his bound and helpless captive, until those above felt the blood boil in their veins with righteous indigna¬ tion. ‘ The Englishmen could take their choice of what he (Caracio) now offered them. They could surrender, in which case he would promise them safety as soon as they came down from their present position (and the villain dropped his head here, to hide the murderous grin which overspread his ill-favoured features, for his real intention was to kill every one of the party as soon as they abandoned the^ security of their present position) ; otherwise, their friend would be brought before them, and his ears sliced off in their sight. Later on, he should be subjected to further torture. W'^ould the Englishmen think it over, and decide whether they would like to see their comrade killed by inches, or whether they would trust Caracio’s honour and surrender? He would give them to mid-day on the morrow. If they still held out, then the torture should begin without further delay.’ And, taking off his great sombrero, with an elaborate flouriiih, the rascal, hauling poor O’Hagan roughly along with him, took his departure. Captain Bannatyne gave vent to a groan. Here was an awful situation, indeed, to see their poor comrade horribly tortured by these inhuman ruffians, or else to desert their own harbour of refuge and probably be all murdered, on the ground, within ten minutes of doing so ! What to do he did not know. Too well he understood that no faith could be put in the ruffian’s promises, and that to kill, for killing’s sake, was ever a prominent feature with the Mexican Indian half-breed. What should he do ? and there was but a space of twenty-four hours to decide in ! Half-distracted with conflicting emotions, he with¬ drew to the cave. Night found him still seated there, his head resting upon his hands, whilst his fingers ran backwards and forwards through his grey hair. The worry and strain were, for the time being, too much for the honest old sailor, and he was as helpless as a child. Then young Felix Hurstbourne determined to act. | ^ With the hour comes the man !’ and as in a moment, | and just as the nominal leader of the party had broken down, so did the young fellow feel the call within him, the ‘ sacred fire ’ to do and dare all, for the sake of suffering humanity as represented by the unhappy creatures around him. Saying no word to any one of his intention, he quickly arose in the deep darkness, for there was no moon yet apparent, and, selecting a stout rope, he made it fasc to a crag ; then, holding a long hnife between his teeth, he silently lowered himself over the ledge. Half a minute later, and he was standing on the level of the Mexicans, and within twenty feet of their camp fire. His quick eye soon made out O’Hagan, who had been sat up by one of the half-breeds, in order to feed. His hands had been released, but his feet were still fast tied roimd with raw-hide thongs. Refuse bits of meat were thrown to him, as though he were in very truth, what they called him, an ‘ English dog,’ and poor Tim, desperately hungry, was forced to eat whatever was given him. Felix dared not move ; hardly dare he draw a breath freely, so close was he to them and so sharp were their ears. One by one, the ruffians finished smoking, and dropped off to sleep, first wrapping themselves round in their capotes and ponchos, and pulling their soft, wide-brimmed hats down over their eyes. Previously to this, however, they had taken good care to again secure their prisoner’s arms behind his back, a circumstance which entirely prevented his getting any sleep. Sleep for the prisoner ? — pah ! what was that to them ? — let him lie awake ! For a whole hour or more the English boy waited, motionless as a statue. Even had any roving eye chanced to light upon him, he might well have been mistaken for a portion of the solid rock against which he stood. At the end of that time not a single one of the group around the fire was awake, save and except the prisoner. This was Felix’s chance. Creeping noiselessly forward, and taking the utmost care to prevent his cat-like footsteps from being heard, he skirted the camp in the outer ring of darkness, until he arrived at a spot about ten yards from where the Irishman lay tied. Then, his heart beating furiously, as a thought of the consequence of failure and discovery flashed across his mind, he uttered a low hiss. O* Hagan, the only man awake, heard it, and, fastly secured as he was, twisted his body round and turned his head to listen. Again, but even more gently, was the sound repeated, and a glad thrill shot through the heart of the quartermaster, as he felt that some scheme must be afoot to try and save him from his impending fate on the morrow. Then a whisper came softly to his ear, ^It is Felix ; don’t move.’ And, in strict obedience, he lay as still as a log. Nearly ten minutes passed, and then, the fire having almost burnt out, a dark form edged itself up beside him in perfect silence. A keen-edged knife was rapidly passed across the raw-hide thongs which confined the hands, and then over those which bound the feet, of the captive : he was free. {Continued at page 163.)

Page 169

160 CHATTERBOX, Felix sets O’ Hagan free.

Page 170

Doctor Johnson doing Penance.

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162 CHATTERBOX. 0 DOING PENANCE. /rflRSlS Samuel Johnson! his i ffilfill is familiar to most young' Ipa people. They know he was the ^ B 1 I'l f \ M maker of a famous dictionary, rir)! 1 which cost him much hard ^vic^rM Ijlf I work, though he could not in his day give the information which we can get from dic- ^ tionaries of our time. Some of ( wK our hoys and girls have had to read, when studying English literature, parts of essays that Johnson wrote; full of wise thoughts they are, though perhaps they may seem rather dry. It has been said that he was apt to be rude and rough. Certainly he did get angry when persons contra¬ dicted him, but he had a kindly heart. Though his appearance was not attractive, as he grew older at least, yet children liked him, and he was not harsh to them if they behaved themselves properly, as he thought. No doubt Dr. Johnson had his ideas about the way in which children should act towards older folk; evidently he believed that they should always be obedient to their parents, even when they had to d(.; things which were not pleasant. Indeed, he seems to have been quite a pattern boy himself. But still he went wrong sometimes, and our illustra¬ tion shows how he carried out a resolve to punish himself m his later years, because, on a day which he well remembered, he disobeyed his father. Before we tell the story in his own words, we must glance for a moment at the place where his boyhood was passed. This was the town of Lichfield, where his father, Michael Johnson, was a bookseller and stationer, and so much honoured by his fellow- townsmen that they made him a magistrate. The clergy all around, when they needed information on any subject, sought out Johnson’s shop at Lichfield. Young Samuel was^ often there amongst the books, being fond of reading ; also he, no doubt, helped his father to dust and arrange them. Booksellers’ shops were scarce in country towns then, and Michael Johnson used on market-days to visit some at a distance from Lichfield, where he put up a stall, and sold his books during market hours. Even Birmingham had no book-shop at that time, nor Uttoxeter, and other towns with many inhabitants. The scene of our illustration is Uttoxeter market, and the reason of Dr. Johnson’s singular conduct before a gathering of people, young and old, is thus explained by himself. He was talking, towards the end of his life, with a young clergyman, the Rev. Henry White. He said that he had been, on the whole, an obedient son. But he added : ‘ Once, in¬ deed, I was disobedient; I refused to attend my father to Uttoxeter market. Pride was the source of that refusal, and the remembrance of it was painful. A few years ago I desired to atone for this fault. I went to Uttoxeter in vei-y bad weather, and stood for some time bareheaded in the rain, on the spot where my father’s stall used to stand. In contrition I stood, and I hope that the penance was expiatory.’ Though we may not think Johnson right in so severely punishing himself for a bygone fault, we cannot but admire his bravery in standing exposed as he did, disregarding the weather and the ridicule of those who might be round about him. Now, it is remarkable that Johnson should have told his friend that he had acted wrongly when a boy from pride, because we read other things con¬ cerning his early days which tell us that he was proud. For example, while he was quite a little fellow, a servant had to take him to school and fetch him home. One day the servant was after time, and he started ofiE by himself, though, being short-sighted, he had to crawl on his hands and knees over the crossings. His schoolmistress followed him to see how he got on, and when he found that she was behind him, he was so offended at being watched that he turned back and tried to beat her! Afterwards, when he went to a boys’ school, all the boys owned him as their superior. Sometimes in the morning three of them would come as his humble attendants to carry him to school. The future sage sat upon the back of the middle one, the others acted as supporters on each side, and so he went along in triumph. J. R. S. C. HOW ANIMALS AMUSE THEMSELVES. TN animals, the faculty of amusement awakes very JL early. Our four-footed friends seem to be aware of this, and make it a part of their parental duties to amuse their young. A ferret will play with her kittens, a cat with hers, a dog wdth her puppies. A mare will play with her foal, though the writer has never seen a cow try to amuse her calf, nor any birds their young. If their mothers do not amuse them, the young ones invent games of their own. A flock of ewes and lambs were once observed in adjoining fields, separated by a fence with several gaps in it. ^Follow my leader’ was the game most in favour with this flock, the biggest lamb leading around the fleld and then jumping the gap, with aU the others following in single flle; any lamb that took the leap specially w^ell would give two or three little jumps out of sheer happiness when it reached the other side. Little pigs are also great at combined play, which generally takes the form of races. Emulation appears to form part of their amusement, for their races seem always to have the winning of the flrst place for their object, and are quite different from those com¬ bined rushes for food, or causeless stampedes which we often see in little pigs. Racing is an amusement natural to some animals. Many horses, and all racing dogs, learn to be as keen at winning as schoolboys. Birds delight in the free and fanciful use of their wings. There is all the difference possible between the flight of birds for ‘ business ’ and pleasure. Many kinds on fine days will soar to vast heights for plea¬ sure alone.

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CHATTERBOX. 163 THE TREASURE OP THE ‘SAH ANTONIO.’ {Continued from page 159.) LTHOUGH naturally a rollick¬ ing, noisy fellow, the horrible fate, over which ho had been miserably brooding for the last twenty-four hours, had sobered O’Hagan. No mouse was ever quieter in its move¬ ments than he, as, following the example silently set him by Felix Hurstbourne, he crept, on hands and knees, gradually farther and farther from the spot on which he had been lying bound but a minute or two beforehand. No word was breathed between these two, as they got, bit by bit, away from the sleeping camp, and into the thick darkness beyond. In less than a quarter of an hour, they had reached the foot of the rope, the end of which Felix had made fast above. Then, first Felix, and then the Irishman, quickly ^ shinned up,’ and, finding themselves once more on the rocky plateau which had now, for so many days, afforded them comparative security from their enemies, they fell on their knees and, with streaming eyes, thanked God for their deliverance, for the time being, from the tender mercies of the villainous crew below. At once^ everybody in the sleeping camp was awakened, in order that the joyful intelligence might be imparted. Great was the rejoicing, and inanv the warm congratulations to Felix, on his bold and humane deed. As to O’Hagan, he first hugged his deliverer so as to almost crush his ribs in, and then he shook hands several times over with all the rest. In peaceful slumber the rest of that eventful night was passed. Baffled in their cruel intentions by the escape of the prisoner, the Mexican Indians’ rage knew no bounds. Why, they asked themselves and each other, was it that, time after time, they had been, in one way or another, outwitted by those whose defeat and death, at their remorseless hands, was surely but a question of time ? These godless wretches recked not that the guidance of things here on earth was not entrusted to creatures of the earth. They knew, but heeded not, that, however well laid their nefarious schemes might be, the bidding of the Great Unseen could render them of no avail, in a moment. Extricated, for the time being, from the position of choosing between two terrible alternatives, the little party were in far happier state on the morning following Felix Hurstbourne’s daring act. btill the fact remained staring them in the face, that the end could not be far off, in the absence of either help or food. Again did each member cudgel his brain and think his hardest to try and devise some method of escape from their dangerous position. The feverish energy of the day before, which had, as it were, suddenly called Felix to be a ‘ leader of men,’ had not, for a moment, deserted him. His brain had been busily toiling in search of a way of escape from their present peril. With many men, success is a dangerous thing. After achieving it, they lest upon their oars, so to speak, content with having done one thing well ; or perhaps it turns their heads, and gives them that overweening confidence in their own wonderful wisdom which surely brings them to grief sooner or later; but, with others, success, and the praise which it gains as its fit reward, stimulate the doer of the deed to greater things, and give him that confidence, a measure of which is always required for daring deeds. Felix belonged to the latter class. Encouragement was to his gentle, sensitive nature as the breath of life. It did not make him proud of his powers ; it merely showed him that he possessed them, and he never forgot to render his thanks to Heaven for them, and to glory, not in himself, but in the Maker and Giver of all good things. ^ Thus it was that, stimulated by his late exploit, ne hit upon an expedient as bold as it was simple, in order to communicate with the ship’s company of the William and Mary, and so obtain the sorelj^ needed help for the beleaguered few on the rock. He had noticed that the Mexicans despised goat's flesh, and that they never, by any chance, fired at one of these sure-footed denizens of the mountains. He resolved that, clad in the skin of the goat which they had recently shot, he would try to pass by the enemy’s camp, and thus escape to the seashore ! when Captain Bannatyne was first taken into the secret, he was inclined to forbid the adventurous lad from running so great a risk. Ti-.'Sently Felix talked him over to see the matter in another light. J What is to become of us, then?’ asked the lad, quietly ; ‘ our case is really hopeless. We shall simply liave to remain here upon the rock and starve to death. Now isn’t it better for one to run some extra risk, with the chance of saving our lives, than that we should stay here and die ? A full-grown man could not possibly succeed in getting away in a goat’s sldn; he would be too big. I am just about the right size, and I have the feeling strong within me that I shall cheat these fellows, and get down to the ship, and bring up a party to your relief. Now, don’t you agree with me P ’ Captain Bannatyne still hesitated. What if the bold boy should be discovered, and lose his life in the plucky attempt to save them all P Well, even then, he reflected that he would probably only meet his fate a little sooner. What, indeed, could save them, he argued? Nothing — unless help could be promptly got from the ship. Weighing well the chances for and against, he did not think that he could refuse his assent to Felix carrying out his scheme. This matter once settled, young Hurstbourne set to work to prepare the goat’s head and skin. He stretched the skin across a light pole, dragging it out to its fullest size, both of length and breadth. Then, by way of rehearsal for the morrow, he got into the skin and fixed the horns firmly upon his head. He then spent over an hour in practicing walking, and imitating the movements of the moun¬ tain goat, as far as he could. Then he went to rest, intending to start on his perilous trip at break of the following day. That night, Felix slept but little, and brokenly. Hi'iSx^ thoughts were constantly of his home, and of the T

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The Escape of O’Hagan. father who was even now so anxiously awaiting news of his absent son. He thought of the clear old liomestead in the Essex farm, of its red- tiled roof, and rustic gable ends ; of the old clock over the stables, of the ivy-covered, square church tov'er. A\ ould he ever see them again ? he wondered, or would one of the ruffians in the camp below dis¬ cover his disguise and shoot him? or. even, thinking it was truly a mountain goat, wantonly put a bullet through him as he went? But none of these thoughts deterred him from his purpose. This was no boy’s foolhardy exploit, done either for plea¬ surable excitement, or for the sake of afterwards boasting of a daring feat. It was none of this, but a brave attempt to give life and hope to his comrades at a time when both were greatly on the wane. /' / I

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CHATTERBOX. 165 “ Where can that little box have gone to? Added to this, Felix Hursthourne, without being a fatalist, or indeed knowing anything of their creed, always felt that whatever was the will of God would most certainly be carried out, and whether he was facing wild beasts and still wilder men in Honduras, or peacefully plodding on the farm in Essex, God was equally there, and would equally nerve him at the critical hour, in one place as in another. This feeling was sustaining above every¬ thing, and by it he felt already hopeful of the success of his plan. With a light heart, therefore, it was that he bade farewell to all his friends, and told them that he made little doubt of escaping the vigilance of the Mexicans by means of his novel disguise ; and as soon as there was sufficient light for his purpose, he scrambled up the mountain-side above the plateau, and there remained until he felt assured that the half-breeds had seen him — or rather had seen what they supposed to he a goat, browsing. Then only, did he begin his descent ! If he had at once descended from the plateau, it might have aroused suspicion, as being an unlikely spot for a goat to be in ; and in the next place, Felix was most anxious to give his enemies a chance of looking well at him, so that if they should suspect anything, and fire upon him, he could take his chance of dropping on to the plateau amongst friends, rather than fall, to a certainty, into the hands of his merciless foes below. (Continued at page 170.) MISS OLIVER’S PASTEBOARD BOX. OW where can that little box have gone to? ’said Miss Oliver to herself, with a frowning ex¬ pression on her face, not very pleasant to see. ‘ I am perfectly certain that I put it, only a fortnight ago, in the right-hand top drawer of this bureau, and yet — the drawer is empty ! Now, how can that be ? No one ever enters this room except myself and Elizabeth. I have sometimes suspected that Elizabeth is not perfectly honest, although I got a good char¬ acter with her. Of course, if I have not touched the box, then it must have been she who has taken it 1

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166 CHATTERBOX. Well, I will go downstairs, and see if I can get any¬ thing out of her/ Miss Oliver went at once to the kitchen, where Elizabeth was cutting vegetables with her back to the door. * Elizabeth,’ said her mistress, touching the girl on the shoulder. ‘ Oh, la, ma’am ! ’ said the suspected culprit, with a jump, and almost a scream. ‘ What a fright you have given me. I didn’t know that you were there, ma’am,’ and the crimson colour flew into her face. ^ Very suspicious indeed,’ thought Miss Oliver. ‘ I never like to see any one change colour like that the moment a word is said to them. Oh, I have no doubt whatever that Elizabeth has taken my box! Elizabeth,’ she repeated coldly, ‘ you need not jump and colour up like that. I only wanted to ask you if you had seen the little pasteboard box in which I keep my silver vinaigrette. I put it in one of the drawers of my bureau, but it is not there now ; and as you are the only one who ever enters my room, I thought you might know about it.’ These words were spoken by Miss Oliver in such a pointed manner that poor Elizabeth, who was a very nervous girl, began to tremble and to cry. ^ Oh, ma’am,’ she said, imploringly, T never touched it, indeed I never did ! Oh, please don’t accuse me of stealing it ; it would kill my poor old mother, indeed it would.’ Here Elizabeth threw her apron over her head, and wept some bitter tears, during which her mistress left the kitchen, with the corners of her mouth drawn down, and a disagreeable expression on her face. ^ Poor, miserable girl,’ she said to herself, ‘ even if this is the first offence — which I doubt — what is to become of her now ? Of course, I cannot keep her any longer ; but whether or not I should report her to the police, I cannot make up my mind ; it would give me a great deal of trouble, besides utterly de¬ stroying any remnant of character which she may possess. Meanwhile, in case she should steal any¬ thing more, I had best lock up my bureau, and keep it always locked after this. I only fear that I have been too trustful in the past, and this 1 must avoid in future.’ AVhen Miss Oliver went to her room and began to shut the small drawers of her bureau, before locking it up, she found that one drawer stubbornly refused to^ be closed. She pushed it, at first gently, then with a smart and sudden push, but no, it would not let itself be shut. She then drew the drawer entimly out, and peeped into the space behind, to see if any hindrance could be found there. Ah, ray dear reader, there was a something lying there ! Can you gue.ss what it was ? A little pasteboard box, in which there lay, in its pink cotton-wool, her precious silver vinaigrette ! Miss Oliver was rather a hard person, but she would never be wilfully unjust. She therefore re¬ turned to the kitchen, where poor Elizabeth was still weeping bitterly. ‘ Elizabeth, my good girl,’ she said gently, ' I have found the little box. I ought not to have suspected you; it was very mean of me to do so. Can you forgive me, Elizabeth ? ’ We need not tell Elizabeth’s answer to this appeal, but we may say that ten years have passed away since then, and Elizabeth is with Miss Oliver still. D. SHERIDAN AND HIS SERVANT. SHERIDAN was one day lying in bed very ill and in a nervous condition. The servant in pa'^sing the fireplace knocked down some dishes, and made a great noise. Sheridan was very much disturbed and called out in a rage, ^ I suppose you have broken all the plates?’ ^ No,’ replied the servant, ^ there is not one broken.’ ‘ Well, then,’ said the enraged invalid, ‘ why did you make all that noise for nothing ? ’ THE STORY OF A SCARECROW. PiOlT I. IT was a bitterly cold night, early in spring. An old man named Ralph Norris, well known by all his neighbours to be a miser, sat alone by a poor fire in his dingy parlour, chafing his cold hands and gazing with dull lack-lustre eyes into the grate. He seemed to be deep in meditation upon some important matter. The wind which roared in his chimney, and the gusts of rain which splashed against the case¬ ment, alike failed to divert his thoughts from him^ self, and the resolution to which he was gradually coming. No one, looking at old Ralph Norris as he sat shivering there, would have found it easy to believe that such a miserable, starved-looking creature could possibly be the owner of two thousand pounds, yet so it was : a sum which had been gathered together by denying himself, even in such necessary things as food and warm clothing — a sum which had been the care and the burden as well as the one pleasure of his dull and lonely life. Hitherto, be had always kept this money in the house, mostly in bank-notes, which he carefully counted over, at frequent intervals, till the notes, once so clean and crisp, had become limp from constant handling. But now he thought that he would keep his precious hoard in his strong¬ box no longer — he had made up his mind to that. He felt, indeed, that he was acting like a fool, in having kept so large a sum lying idle at home, when he might be drawing a goodly sum year by year as interest, and yet — and yet — how could he possibly part with it out of his sight ? Still, there was no u.^e thinking of that; it must be done. But how could he best transmit the money to the stock-broker ? That was the question which he was now turning over ill his mind ; and the resolution to which he had arrived was to take the precious notes himself to London the very next day, securely concealed between the lining and the outside cloth of his coat, a coat of w’-hich he had only become possessed that very day. 13 ut here we must pause for a moment in our story to tell our readers how this old man had occupied himself during the day, which was now fast closing in. Poor old fellow ! while walking past a neigh¬ bour’s cornfield, his attention had been atti-acted to a scarecrow, dangling its long arms as it flapped about

Page 176

CHATTERBOX. 167 in the chill spring wind. At the sight of this common- enough spectacle, a sudden thought had entered his mind. His own coat was a very bad one : he had worn it for fifteen years. True, he had mended it skilfully and beautifully (having been bred as a tailor), but he was well aware that it would mend no longer. "What if the coat which clotlied the scarecrow should be a better one than his own ? A fair exchange would surely be no robbery ? Looking cautiously all round, lest he should be observed by any one, the old miser stepped up to the miserable bundle of sticks and closely examined the coat which clothed its skeleton frame. Yes, just as he had hoped, poor as the garment was, it was really better than his own, thougli daubed with mud and bits. of straw; therefore as quickly as possible he made the exchange, and went back in breathless haste to his poor home, with the damp coat of the. scarecrow clinging to his thin and stooping shoulders. Then, he lighted his fire, stretched out the coat to dry, and carefully brushed it. After which, with needle in hand, he sat down to put it in thorough repair. Over this work he had spent two long hours. It is at this point that our story really begins. This was the coat in which he had made up his mind to go to London on the following day. There¬ fore, unlocldng his strong-box, he took out the precious hoard, cunningly sewed the bank-notes into the lining, and after (from force of habit) having again locked the empty box, he hung the key round his neck as usual, and was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a footfall outside on the gravel-walk, which was speedily followed by a knock at the outer door. Who could it be ? He resolved to go and see for himself, lest his old servant should allow some vagrant to enter. But, before he could reach the outer door, Martha had admitted an elderly man, who walked straight into the parlour, and held out his hand to Kalph. ^ I dare say you do not remember me after all these years,’ said, ^but I am your brother John.^ I returned to England only yesterday , and came straight here to see if you had a welcome for the wanderer.’ Now old Kalph Norris had not seen his brother for five-and-twenty years, but he knew him in a moment, and though he had not heard from him often, he had read in a Colonial newspaper that John had become bankrupt and was probably now a ruined man. Yet here he was standing on the hearthrug, wet through with the drenching rain, and with a poverty-stricken look in his face, while his hand was actually held out no doubt to plead and beg for assistance ; but Kalph did not feel inclined to be imposed on, therefore, putting his own hand in his pocket where he felt his bank¬ notes, he said slowly and steadily, ^Brother John, of course I am glad that you are alive and well, but 3"ou can’t expect me to support you. You were well provided for when you went away. Why do you come to beg from me ? Do you think I am a fool to be touched with whining poverty ?’ Now, the visitor had asked for nothing, but he replied in a calm and serious voice, ‘ I have not begged, brother, as you may remember, nor will I do so now, but let me say this before I leave you for ever. It would be better for you, Kalph, to spend your money in clothing the very scarecrows which flap in the windy fields, than to hoard it as you do with careful wisdom only for j^ourself. Farewell!’ and in a moment the angry man had left the house. Kalph had no time either to stop him or to reply ; he felt a curious twinge as if he had somehow made a mistake, but he soon got over the uncomfort¬ able feeling. BLe left the room and locked the outer door, muttering all the time, * Clothe the scarecrows, indeed 1 who would do such a thing ? Why, the man must be a fool — but — what made him think of scare¬ crows, I wonder?’ Here he glanced at the coat on his back, which within the last twenty-four hours had adorned the back of a real scarecrow. ^ John could not have seen me take it, I know, but — somehow it is curious 1 clothe the scarecrows 1 Bah ! I’ll think no more about it. I wonder where John will go ? Well, I neither know nor care, but I am quite worn out, and must go to bed.’ Then, shouting out to Martha, and telling her not to be such a fool as to open the door again after nightfall without first consulting him, the miserable old fellow tottered up to bed. (^Concluded at page 174.) THE TWO-HOHNED RHINOCEROS OF SUMATRA. H E rhinoceros, of which there are at least seven or eight existing species, is one of the largest and most powerful of land animals, with the excep¬ tion of the elephant. All of them are natives of the warmer parts of A^^ia and Africa. The form of these animals is un¬ couth and clumsy, while their aspect is dull, heavy, and ugly. The limbs are thick and strong, each foot being terminated by three toes covered with broad hoof¬ like nails. The head is large, and the muzzle pro¬ longed, the bones of the nose being combined into an arch for the support of a solid horn. Strange to say, however, this horn does not spring from the bones of the nose, but merely from the skin. One might imagine from this fact that the horn could not be of much use to its owner, but the reverse is the case ; it is a powerful weapon, both of offence and defence, while with its help the animal can root up bushes or small trees on which it may desire to feed. In some of the species a second horn grows above the first, in like manner springing from the skin, and resting for support upon the bone of the forehead. The whole body, head, and limbs pe covered with an extremely thick and hard skin, with scarcely a trace of hair upon it, the hardness of the skin being such that, in most of the species, it has not pliancy enough to permit of the movements of the animal ; therefore it is, in a manner, jointed by means of folds on the neck, behind the shoulders, and on the limbs. Though usually harmless, the rhinoceros is easily

Page 177

168 CHATTERBOX. The Two-horned Ehinoceros of Sumatra provoked, and in captivitj^ it shows much capricious- nesa of temper. The rhinoceros of Sumatra, repre¬ sented before us, is a two-horned variety. Its hide is nearly black, and scarcely so thick as that of the Indian species. It is also covered with short, bristly hair. It is fond of bathing, and has delighted many visitors to the Zoological Gardens by its uncouth gambols in the bath. M. K.

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170 CI-IATTERBOX. THE THEASTJRS OF THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ {Continued from ;page 165. ) AVING remained for ten minutes to a quarter of an hour on the crags, Felix gave a little hop, such as the goat often makes, and again he paused, to see if the half-breeds below had noticed anything un¬ natural about the move¬ ment. Watching them keenly from the holes cut for his eyes, just beneath the goat’s chin, he was gratified to see one of the Mexicans look up and point him out to his com¬ panion, an Indian. The latter nodded and turned carelessly on his heel, as much as to say that such carrion as goats did not interest him. Emboldened by this experience, Felix, who had most carefully studied the movements of the wild mountain goats for some days past, now ventured to step along faster, and descend rapidly to the bottom of the gorge. Every now and again he paused, and then repeated his little jump to keep up the delusion. So deftly did he manage this funny little spring, that, forgetful, for the moment, of the hoy’s most critical position — for, had the Mexicans’ suspicions now been aroused, no earthly power could have saved him— O’Hagan burst into a roar of laughter, shouting out : ' Oh, it’s himself can do the Mexican rascals entirely ! ’ Fortunately, as we know, none of the party of the besieging force could understand a word of "English (let alone ^Irish’), so no harm was done. With another little hop, skip, and a jump, the ^goat’ was quickly out of sight around a' corner of the defile, and Captain Bannat^ ne heaved a sigh of relief, as he saw that the brave fellow had run the gauntlet of observation, and escaped without notice. Tom and Ben were only sorry that they also had not gone; they would have liked to have shared such an adven¬ ture with their friend, and taken, with him, the risks attendant on his bold scheme. However, as that could not be, the only thing they could do now was to patiently await the help which he would bring, if he escaped all the dangers of the journey and suc¬ ceeded in reaching the ship. Of this they had little doubt, now that he had passed the Mexican camp in safety. We will now, for a time, leave the little party encamped on the rocky plateau, in order to accom¬ pany our young hero, Felix, on his long and weary tramp ^ of some twenty miles to the seashore. By following the gorge — which was a mere volcanic split in the mountains, and which probably at certain seasons of the year formed a kind of water¬ course — he reckoned that, rough and stony as it was, he might, by dint of great exertion, reach the ship ere niglit fell. Twenty miles is a fair day’s walk at home through country lanes or over pleasant downs ; but twenty miles over rocks and slatv stone, huge boulders, and sharp-cut rocks, is a very different thing. Still Felix determined to try it — for, bold though he was, the prospect of passing a night in that terrible and awesome gorge, whose overhanging sides almost shut out the light of Heaven, even in daytime, and made night so black that it was almost impossible to see your hand in front of you, was anything but an attractive one. The ever-present danger also of an attack by wild beasts, or, far more dangerous still, by venomous reptiles, made him desire to reach the friendly shelter of the good ship’s deck before sleep and rest became imperative. He had been unable to store any food about him in his disguise, for fear of it making him look too bulky, and before he had been four hours walking, he began to feel all a hoys healthy appetite. He had got pretty well used to short commons, however, by this time, and he consoled himself with tlie thought that hunger was easier to bear than thirst, so he tightened his belt and pushed on. ‘ There’s plenty of water,’ he added to himself, as he stooped to slake his thirst at a cool rill, running down the side of the mountain ; ‘ and that’s half the battle.’ And so he went on, ploughing his way across the rough slabs, and stumbling over the stony boulders. Now and then he would have to step out of the way sharply, to avoid a black, shining serpent, or glance round with a slight shudder as a horrible-looking thing of many legs would scuttle away to its hiding- place amongst the rocks, at his approach. Selecting a shady place beneath some huge rocks, lying scattered at the base of the mountain, he sat down, and rested himself for a short time aHout the middle of the day. He reckonevl the time that it would take him to reach the end of the gorge, and emerge within sight — and what a blessed sight it would be !— of the blue sea again ; and then, how long he would occupy— making, of course, due allowance for the fact that he would be very tired by then— from that point along shore to where the XVilliam and Mary Avas lying, in her snug little natural harbour. Then he tried to calculate the distance he had already travelled, and thought proudly of the goat-skin and horns, by means of which he had been able to elude the enemy. He thought how well that goat’s head and horns* would look, when stuffed and mounted, in the old square hall of the Essex homestead, and he trusted that no one would discover it in the cave where he had hidden it, not half a mile from the camp. He was just about to rise and go upon his journey, when his quick ear caught a sound that sent the blood surging up to his head. In that long, narrow gorge, sound travelled far, and the sound Felix heard coming up behind him was the sound of human voices ! Pursued ! horrible thought, and when, too, he had fondly imagined all danger from the Mexicans was past. What should he do ? was the question which kept ringing out in his brain, and finding no answer. Should he go on — run for his life ? ay, not only for his life, but for the lives of the comrades he had left anxiously awaiting him at the camp — for what help could come to them, unless they were able, through him, to communicate with the ship? — or should he I strive to find some hiding-place in the rocks around.

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CJ-IATTERBOX. 171 and wait there until his pursuers were ^^one by? Yes, surely that would be the better plan, he argued to himself. How could he tell but what these men would travel far more swiftly than he himself could, and if that were so then he must be overtaken, sooner or later. He looked sharply round for a suitable place, but saw none, so he ran on for a few yards, look¬ ing eagerly about him, until his eye rested on a cleft in the mountain to the left of him, about ten or twelve feet from the ground. Into this he quickly scrambled, and then, turning round, he lay down fiat, and awaited the oncoming of the owners of the voices with deepest anxiety. Apparently they were in no hurry, and the fact caused Felix at once to strongly doubt whether, after all, they were in pursuit of him. Nearly teu minutes elapsed before the men came in sight. There were only two, and Felix immediately recognised them as the leader of the band of their assailants and a half-breed Indian. He watched them carefully as they came nearer and nearer to his hiding-place, and then he saw, with a feeling of intense relief, that they were laden with game, both furred and feathered. He might have spared himself all his fright, natural though it was under the cir¬ cumstances; the men were merely out shooting in order to provide food for their camp. This spot was evidently to be the limit of their bunting ground. Flinging down their burden of game and their guns, they seated themselves almost immediately below Felix’s hiding-place in the rocks, and prepared to discuss a meal. They made up and lit a fire, the smoke of which nearly choked our young friend just over them, and his struggles to repress coughing were very painful. Then they plucked and cooked a bird which they had shot, spitting it with a stick and roasting it over the flame. Whilst the Indian was doing thi'i, Caracio from his wallet produced a roughly made oaten cake which, in these regions, is very generally used as a substitute for bread with the hill-men and roving bands — this was laid upon a large, flat stone beside them, and then Caracio walked off about fifty yards up the gorge, to slake his thirst at the nearest mountain rivulet. No sooner had he gone, than the Indian, after giving a fresh turn to the roasting bird, strolled off in the opposite direction, gun in hand, in pursuit of a big brown-pluu5aged bird sitting on a small tree a little way down the canon, and then for Felix the coast was clear. Now, all these proceedings had been full of annoyance to young Hurstbourue. First of all, they had frightened him into thinking he was pursued ; secondly, they had lit a fire, and nearly choked him ; and thirdly, greatest offence of all, they were cooking and about to eat an excellent meal, right under his very nose, when he himself was ravenous with hunger. Then a bright recollection of O’Hagan’s meat trick struck him. He silently slipped down, at all risks, and took the oat-cake, and slipped back to his hiding- place. Many a time since that day, Felix Hurst- bourne has said that he never quite enjoyed a meal so much as he did that one off the Mexican’s coarse oaten cake. Hunger is truly the best sauce, and he was hungry ! Caracio returned first, and seated himself again by the _ roasting bird, uttering a curse upon his com¬ panion for leaving it to cook itself. Then, a minute later, the evil-looking half-breed Indian came back. Just as he was about to take his former place by the wood fire, he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and asked Caracio, in Spanish, what he had dune with the cake ? {Continued at page 182.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. WoED Puzzles. 27. — I AM a word of five letters, naming a piece of water in a neighbouring country. Change my head, and you will find the following transformations : — 1. A sound made by the wind. 2. Part of a tree. 3. Not smooth. 4. Kneaded flour. 5. Not tender. 6. A troublesome malady, most prevalent in the winter. 28. — A valuable guide whose voice is too often neglected. 1. — 4, 5, 7, 8, 10. A sight, an appearance. 2. — 3, 6, 1, 7. Pleasant ; a town in Italy. 3. — 8, 6, 3, 10. A square number. 4. — 1, 2, 8, 7. The seed of a tree ; a mathematical figure. 5. — 6, 9, 10. The skater’s delight. G. — 4, 7, 6, 3, 10. A river in France. 7. — 2, 3, 5, 7. At one time. 29. — One from another country. 1. — 2, 3, 5, 6, o, 7. Beginning, source. 2. — 1. 2, 3, 6, 8. A workshop. 3. — 6, 3, 4, 8, 7. The colour most seen in nature, especially in the summer. 4. — 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. To rule. 5. — 7, 5, 6, 4, 9. A river in Africa. ^ 6. — 9, 4, 8, 1. Part of a sail ; a chain of rock^ 7. — 6, 2, 7, 8. Departed. 8. — 7, 2, 9, 4. A river in Ireland. C. C. 30. — Decapitations . 1. What river beheaded will be useful in a barber’s shop (France) ? 2. What river beheaded will you pay for your house (England) ? 3. What river beheaded will be a metal (England) ? 4. What river beheaded will be a weapon (Ireland) ? 5. What river beheaded will be a colour (England)? 6. Wliat port in Arabia beheaded will be the home of an animal? 7. What town in Scotland beheaded will name the seed of a tree ? 8. What country in Europe beheaded will name another country in Europe? 9. What town and county in Scotland will name a structure once a place of refuge ? 10. What river in Asia beheaded will name a native of a country in Africa? C. C.

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172 CHATTERBOX Peel Castle, Isle of Man,

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CHATTERBOX. 173 31. — Enigmas. 1. I OFTEN murmur, yet I never weep, I always lie in bed, yet never sleep ; I have no legs nor feet, yet swiftly run. And, the more falls I get, move faster on. Mrs. Barbauld. 2. We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features ; One of us in glass is set, And a second found in jet ; One of us is ca-sed in tin. And the fourth a box within. If the fifth you would pursue, It can never fly from you. Mrs. Barbauld. 3. Formed long ago, yet made to-day. And most employed while others sleep ; What few would like to give away. And fewer still would wish to keep. Hon. C. J. Fox. [Ansicers at page 179.] 26. — Supply the letter 0 ; then read : — Oh ! on old towers, thou gloomy owl, Thou lovest to hoot, thou lovest to howl 5 Or on old oaks your hollow tone. So lost, so solemn sounds alone ; So mournful no one loves to go, Or of your hooting howl to know. THE ISLE OF MAN. PEEL CASTLE. N G great buildings now crumbling with age and decay, Peel Castle, dating from the twelfth century, is certainly ; one of the most beautiful. But although founded in the twelfth cen¬ tury, it was mainly rebuilt by the fourth Earl of Derby, in A.D. 1593 ; St. German s Cathedral, a cruciform ruin with a crypt and low cen¬ tral tower, being included in its area. It may be interesting to show what interest the Derby family had in the Isle of Man, and how they happened to have anything to do with the rebuilding of Peel Castle. We must ask our readers to go back for a moment to the sixth century. Before that date the history of the island is involved in obscurity, but from that time until the ninth century it was ruled by a line of Welsh kings, who, however, had to give place at the close of the ninth century to the King of Norway, who invaded and took yssession of the island. This continued until Magnus, King of Norway, ceded his right in the island to Alexander III., king of Scotland. ) On Alexander’s death, the Manx people, not being at all satisfied with all these changes, placed them¬ selves under the protection of Edward I. of England. On the strength of this, the Kings of England granted the island to various royal favourites one after another until a.d. 1406, when it was granted to the Derby family, and they ruled the island under the title of Kings of Man. However, troublous times came; England w^as convulsed by civil war, and in a.d. 1651, the Isle of Man was surrendered to the Parliamentary forces, but, on the Restoration, the Derby family again took possession. The Isle of Man had been for a long time the seat of an extensive smuggling trade, to the detriment of the imperial revenue, and therefore the British Government bought the sovereignty of the island, in order that they might put a stop to all illegal practices. Peel Castle occupies the whole of a high, rocky peninsula, or rather an island, for it is surrounded by the sea at high water, although a stone causeway of great solidity now connects the island with the mainland. It was often the abode, not only of the Kings of Man, but also of those State prisoners whom the Kings of Britain sometimes committed to their charge. Among those prisoners was the great King¬ maker, Richard, earl of Warwick, who was im¬ prisoned in Peel Castle during one period of his eventful life. Sir Walter Scott makes mention of this castle in one of his well-known novels, Feveril of the Peak. There are many strange legends connected with this castle. One is about the ^ Manthie Doog.’ It is not quite clear what the word ‘ Manthie ’ really signifies. ^ Doog,’ of course, means dog. The ‘ Manthie Doog ’ was said to be an appari¬ tion in the shape of a large black spaniel, with curled shaggy hair, which used to haunt the old castle. It has been seen in every room, but was particu¬ larly fond of the guard-chamber, where, as soon as the candles were lighted, it came and lay down before the fire in the presence of the soldiers. At first these ‘ brave ’ men were very frightened, but after a time they grew quite accustomed to the appearance of this uninvited guest. It was an evil spirit, they declared, which only waited permission to harm them. The men were most careful not to use bad language as long as the black poodle was in the apartment, and, as he appeared at the beginning of the dark and stayed until the dawn, they were likely to have become gentlemen in speech if a strange thing had not occurred. Though the soldiers were brave enough when all together to endure the shock of a visit from the ‘ doog,’ no man dare face it alone. It was the duty of one of the soldiers to lock the gates of the castle at a certain hour, and carry the keys to the captain, whose apartment was reached by a walk through one of the four churches belonging to the castle. The soldiers agreed among themselves to go two at a time to perform this duty, as the ‘ Manthie Doog ’ was seen to come from this direction. One night a soldier, who had been drinking hard, began boasting of his courage, and said, with a scoffing laugh, ‘Give me the keys. I will lock the

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174 CHATTERBOX. gates alone ; no man shall come with me.’ Unfortu¬ nately he did not stop at this, but used very bad language, and swore in a shocking manner, snatching up the keys, and, heedless of all his companions could say, he rushed off to ^ try his luck.’ An hour had passed aw*ay, when the soldiers in the guard-room were startled by a very great noise. Not a man would stir to see what it was about, but the tones of the party became hushed, and their faces pale, and each man looked with terrified eyes into the face of his fellow. At length the adventurer returned. He had left them noisy and bold, with wicked oaths upon his tongue ; he returned silent and timid, unable to utter a word, either good or bad. He was hopelessly dumb ! For three days he lived, and, although the soldiers, his friends, entreated him to tell them what had happened, if not by words, yet by signs, he seemed unable to do so, and he died at the end of the third day. After this eventful evening the ‘ Manthie Boog ’ was never seen again ; but the lesson was so deeply impressed upon the minds of the soldiers that the legend declares that they were never heard to swear or use bad language again ! How would some of the public schoolboys of to-day suffer, were it possible for the ^ Manthie Doog ’ to appear in dormitory, schoolroom, and playground ? THE STOHY OF A SCARECROW. {Concluded from page 167.) PAHT II. IT was on the eventful night of Ralph’s brother’s visit that old Martha upset her bedroom lamp. The rickety old wooden house was soon in fiames, and was burned to the ground before morning. Nothing was left but four smoking brick walls. There was a black chaiTed heap, underneath which lay the outline of a human body— all that w^as left of poor old Martha. Ralph, however, had escaped. Roused from sleep by the stifling smoke, the old man had crept out of bed, stared about him, and then, in an agony of terror, he had rushed out of the house. Already a crowd of villagers were appearing on the scene ; a half-dressed, useless crowd of onlookers, who were gazing stupidly at the flames. Into this crowd Ralph ran before he well knew where he was ; then, suddenly remembering that he had left his money behind him, he tried to go back into the house, but a dozen hands restrained him. ^ My money ! ’ he shouted, as he struggled to free himself ; ' my money ! Let me go ! ’ Rut they refused to listen to him, as they felt sure that he would be choked. Then one of the bystanders offered to go inside the burning building — at least, if he was suitably rewarded. ' Fifty pounds then ! ’ shouted the old man. ^ It is a box in a closet off my room.’ Away dashed the young man, and in about five minutes he returned with the box in his hand. Ralph caught it in his arms and unlocked it with trembling hand; then, finding it empty, he staggered back and fell insensible to the ground. In the agony of his terror about the fire, he had quite forgotten that the notes had been transferred from the strong-box to the coat, and now the precious coat had been left behind, The village doctor who by this time had appeared on the scene, felt his pulse, and at once said: ^Ile has a paralytic stroke ! Is there any one belonging to him under whose charge he can be put ? ’ But not a soul stepped forward ; the old man had not a friend in the place. The awe-struck neighbours were about to lay him for the present in an out¬ house when a stranger, pushing his way through the crowd, came forward, and looking on the poor old man, said : ^ Leave him to me. I was with him late last night. I am — his friend.’ Then they all gladly made way, and the stranger got him conveyed to the village inn, had him laid in a comfortable bed, and sat watching by his side all that day. No one save the doctor was admitted, and when he came out of the sick-room, all that he would say was, * I did l not know that the old fellow had a friend ; that man could not nurse him more tenderly if he were an only brother.’ When, after some days of careful nursing the stricken man revived, it w’as to a feeble, flickering kind of life. His brain remained affected; he had lost all memory of the fire, though his weakened intellect still seemed to be struggling over some old recollection, which troubled and distressed him greatly. For a long time his kind brother could not make out what he said, until one day when the mystery became suddenly clear. Poor old Ralph, who was now able to totter about with a crutch, wandered one day into the garden of the pretty cottage to which his brother had removed him, and there he was found standing in a patch of potato-ground, trying to wrap a coat about a scarecrow which had been placed there. While doing so he was muttering to himself, ‘ Pity, poor man ! I took his coat from him ; he is so cold— so cold.’ Then John Norris knew, or partly guessed, what was preying on his brother’s mind; the parting words he had spoken about clothing scarecrows just before he left the house for ever, as he thought, had not been forgotten, but had sunk into Ralph\ heart, and now, out of the broken wreck of his thoughts, he had patched together this strange amends for the covetousness of his old life. Something of j good still remained in the man, and had risen up j and asserted itself, though it had been so long I cramped and buried. The miserly habit had passed | away, but with it had also passed away the power to | direct the better impulse which survived. The touching tenderness with which poor Ralph sought for and clothed the present objects of his compassion became, of course, generally known in the neighbourhood, and some persons were cruel enough to laugh at it ; but his brother, who knew more about it than the neighbours did, was sorely perplexed. He tried to restrain the poor old man, but as he saw that restraint only made him un- happy, he gave up the attempt, and was glad to find.

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CHATTERBOX. 175 as the months passed on, that a change for the better was growing in his mind. There were clear intervals of sense, which gradually lengthened ; the visits to the fields in search of scarecrows grew shorter and fewer, until sometimes three or four months would pass away without any reference to them. But the fire, and all about it, was still a blank in the memory of old Kalpli. He had awakened to an intelligent life, but it was not the old life. Nothing could surpass the affection which he showed to John, though he still forgot that he was his brother. The two men lived together, for J ohn, who was as noble-minded as his poor brother had been the reverse, cherished and cared for him with true brotherly love. It had been a mere fancy, on the part of Ralph, that his brother had returned to England a broken man, to beg from him ; he was well-to-do, and only wished to live near the brother who was his only relative in this world. Few men who^ had been treated so badly as he had been by his churlish brother would have acted so generously ; but J ohn Norris was one of a thousand, and was never so happy as when he could make the poor old fellow smile and seem pleased. Three years after the fire, John and Ralph were living in a comfortable and ornamental cottage about two miles distant from the old house. John, vyho was the younger man of the two, had taken to him¬ self a wife, whose cheerful and kindly ways added greatly to the happiness of the home ; and when ^ at length poor old Ralph departed this life, it \vas with restored reason and true and grateful affection that he said farewell to the good brother who had for¬ given him so much, and to the kindly sister, one of whose greatest pleasures had always been to try to make him happy. H. B. McKean. open space in the woods, sometimes in a ploughed field. The eggs are placed^ on the bare gj-’ound, on a dry place, and are not easily discovered, being very much the same in colour as rhe ground on which they are deposited. As soon as incubation begins, the male keeps watch and ward. He is very vigilant, although he may be seen from time to time playing about in the air over and around the place where tlie eggs are. By several rapid vibrations of the wings, he mounts to a great height, uttering all the while a sharp squeaking noise; he suddenly swoops down head foremost with great rapidity, some sixty or eighty feet, and as suddenly wheeling up again, at which instant is heard a loud booming sound resem¬ bling that produced by blowing strongly into the bung-hole of an empty cask. This is probably pro¬ duced by the sudden expansion of his capacious mouth while descending through the air, as shown in the illustration. This violent manoeuvre is often repeated ; some think that it is done to scare away or intimidate man or beast from approaching too near the nest, and it is said that these curious divings are more frequently repeated around those who come near the spot. Sometimes the bird will dart at the intruder so suddenly and fiercely, and approach so close, as to alarm and startle him. This habit is peculiar to the male. During the time the female is sitting on the eggs, she will suffer you to approach within a few feet without attempting to move, and when compelled, she does it in such a fiuttering, trembling manner, and with such an artful imitation of a lame and wounded bird as would deceive most persons, and tempt them to pursue her. This is kept up until the pursuer is drawn away from the nest : then she seems to recover from her apparent wealmess, she takes wing and disappears. The night-hawk is a bird of strong and vigorous flight ; it often visits towns or cities, darting and squeaking over the streets at a great height, diving perpendicularly with the same hollow sound as already described. Tliey have been often observed sitting on the tops of chimneys in some of the bu.siest parts of the city, uttering their sharp little note at intervals. When wounded or captured, they attempt to frighten you by opening their mouths to the utmost stretch, malang a kind of guttural sound, and strildng violently with their wings, which seem to be their only weapons of defence, for they never strike with their bill or claws. The night-hawk is nine inches and a half in length ; the upper parts are of a very deep blackish brown, thickly sprinkled or powdered on the shoulders and head with minute spots, and streaks of a pale cream interspersed with specks of reddish colour ; the shoulders are barred with the same, also the tail coverts and tail, the inner edges of which are barred with white and deep brownish black for an inch and a half from the tip, where they are crossed broadly with a band of white. The bill is exceedingly small, scarcely one eighth of an inch in length, and of a black colour ; the nostrils circular and surrounded with a prominent rim ; the eye is large and full, of a deep bluish black ; the legs short, feathered a little ^ below the knees ; the claws of a purplish fiesh colour ; the mouth is extremely large, and of a reddish fiesh colour within. W . A. C. THE NIGHT-HAWK. — M). history of this bird has been involved in much obscurity, ^ ^ although the bird itself is perfectly well known. It 1/^ I dwells throughout the sum- ^ N ^ America, from Florida to Hudson’s Bay. ^ Within the United States, three species only of this ^ V hr) singular bird are met with, the whip - poor - wiU, the chuck-wills-widow, and the night-hawk. The night-hawks make their first appearance, early in the spring, in Pennsylvania, and about the same time in Kentucky and Georgia. They soon after disperse them.selves over the country, and are seen in pairs, darting about high in the air, pursuing their prey — wasps. Hies, beetles, and other insects. About the middle of May the female begins to lay ; no nest is made, though doubtless some particular spot has been chosen beforehand and determined upon, sometimes in an

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176 CHATTERBOX Tlie Night-hawk.

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CHATTERBOX 177 “ ‘Ah! ’ said Luke, ‘ but he will be fine and vexed, as the rabbits are all dead.’ ”

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178 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ) tom and MAGGIE TULLIVER.* OM and Maggie Tiilliver lived at the old Mill on the Floss. At least, / Tom did when he was at home, for ,Ji-rr'4r that young gentleman went to a ( J boarding-school, spending only his holidays at the mill. He and Maggie were great friends ; indeed, Maggie ^ ^ thought that Tom was the finest \ world. There were no V*- games half so good as those in which ^ Tom had a share ; no cure for trouble like that of telling Tom all about it. Maggie thought Tom quite a wonderful fellow, too ! He knew all about worms and fish, and those things, and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened,, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. thought this sort of Imowledge very deep — much more difficult than book knowledge. She was rather in awe of her clever brother, for he was the only person who called her knowledge ^ stuff.’ Maggie was fond of reading, and knew everythinir that her few old books could tell her. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly. They couldn’t throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn t do anything with a pocket- knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and he meant always to take care of her, to make her his hou.>ekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong. Tom was thirteen, and Maggie ^ gone nine.’ In appearance they were very undike. Tom had light brown hair, blue-grey eyes, rosy cheeks, and a good- tempered face. Maggie’s Lair and eyes were black, and her cheeks were brown as a gipsy’s. Those were rare times for Maggie, when Tom's holidays admitted of happy mornings by the river, mornings which Maggie always shared. One of the days upon which Tom Tulliver was expected home was wet, and the rain had sadly disappointed Maggie, for she had been looking forward to a drive in her father’s gig to fetch Tom. After sobs and tears in the old attic, which was used by JMaggie as a retreat for special occasions, she was gladdened by a beam of sunshine stealing suddenly in at the window. She got her hat, and ran downstairs into the yard, and meeting Luke, one of her father’s men, she wandered with him into the old mill. She talked on in her own way to Luke, telling him all about the pictures iu her beloved fairy-books at home, and then her conversation turned upon Tom and his cleverness. ‘ He makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit-pens,’ said the admiring little sister. ^ Ah ! ’ said Luke, ^ but he will be fine and vexed, as the rabbits are all dead.’ ^ Dead ! ’ screamed Maggie. ‘ Oh, dear, Luke ! hat ! the lop-eared one, and the spotted doe that Tom .spent all his money to buy * The Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot, is a capital story. It may be borrowed at auy good library. * As dead as mole.s,’ said Luke. ^ Oh, dear, Luke !’ said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the big tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘ Tom told me to take care of them, and I forgot. Wiiat shall 1 do It was all too true. The rabbits had been placed in a far-away tool-house, and Maggie had quite for¬ gotten about them, and that Tom had entrusted them to her care. It was late in the afternoon when Tom reached Dorlcote Mill. How Maggie hung on his neclf and half-strangled him and smothered him with kisses, which Tom took quite easily, as if they were only his due ! And Tom told her of something he had in his pockets for her, and made her try to guess^ what it could be. But Maggie was bad at guessing, and begged Tom to tell her what it was. ‘ Well, it’s a new fish-line,’ said he ; ‘ two new ones : one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn’t go halves in the toffee and ginger-bread on purpose to save the money, and Gib^son and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn’t. And here are hooks ; see here.’ Maggie was delighted. The gift and the prospect of fishing made her very happy, and she thought Tom more of a hero than ever. It was on the same afternoon that Tom decided to go and see his rabbits, for Magde had not yet told him of his loss. The little girl’s heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence, as he went out, thinking how she could break to him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his anger. ‘ Tom,’ she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, ‘ how much money did you give for your rabbits.^’ * Two half-crowns and a sixpence,’ said Tom. H think I have got a great deal more than that in my steel purse upstairs. I will ask mother, to give it you.’ ^What for?’ said Tom. don’t want money, you silly thing. I’ve got a great deal more money than you, because I’m a boy. I always have half-sovereigns for my Christmas-boxes, because I shall be a man ; and you only have half-crowns, because you are only a girl.’ ^ Well, but Tom — if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know, -and buy some more rabbits with it ? ’ ^ More rabbits ? I don’t want any more.’ ‘ Oh, but Tom, they’re all dead.’ {Concluded at page 191.) THE SORROWS OF A SHORT¬ SIGHTED MAN. was the village oracle, a scientific man Who knew the outs and ins of things before the world began ; He was perhaps a little proud, a little haughty too, But who can wonder, when one thinks, how many things he knew?

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CHATTERBOX. 179 He said the earth went round the sun ! It made the people laugh And almost think their oracle inclined to playful chaff. But when he said the tiny stars were higger than the moon, They gravely said, ^He reads too much; he’ll be quite crazy soon!’ The little boys upon the street regarded him with awe. And stopped their rough-and-tumble games when his grave face they saw; The little girls all curtsied in a meek and humble row. And whispered ^ Ain’t he wise ? ’ as down the street they saw him go. But no man can be perfect, and though he was so wise Our oracle was troubled with short-sightedness of eyes, Which led him into many scrapes, and troubles not a few, And one of those most sad affairs I now must tell to you. One day while walking down the street (it was an autumn day) A merry gust of wind arose and blew his hat away. He made a snatch at it — alas ! it bounded o’er a wall; He bravely scrambled after it, though afraid that he would fall. It was liis Sunday hat you see, and precious in his eyes. And so he made another snatch in hopes to gain the prize. But no ! there came another gust — the perverse hat once more Went bounding o’er another wall, and through an open door. ‘ Ah, ha ! I have you now,’ he said, and o’er the second wall He bravely scrambled, though this time he got an ugly fall ; Then through the open door he went, and caught the vagrant hat : Alas ! alas ! it proved to be his neighbour’s old black cat! But from that day, ’tis sad to say, he lost his famous place Of village oracle, and fell into complete disgrace ; ^ For, said the village gossips, ‘ he may indeed be wise. And know (or think at least he knows) what goes on in the skies ; ‘ But really, if he cannot tell his own best Sunday hat From poor old Jerry Tompkins’ ugly black tom cat, Why then he’s not the man for us — he’s not as wise as we. What think you, neighbours ? ’ — and they cried, ‘Just so, we all agree.’ B. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 32. — GrEOGB.\PHICAL ACROSTIC. ^ A LARGE country on the western coast of North America. It was at one time subject to Spain, and afterwards to Mexico, but is now independent. Part of the country is very fertile, and it abounds with game of every description. The accidental discovery of a valuable natural product in the present century has caused a very great influx of population. 1. A foreign king who ruled over England in the eleventh century. 2. A cluster of islands ; a sea abounding in islands. 3. One of four divisions of a neighbouring country. 4. A deceiver. 5. A silver coin used in England, which takes its name from a town in Italy where it was first coined. 6. A musical composition ; a work. 7. A river in Germany famed for the beauty of its scenery. 8. A province of Spain, once an independent kingdom. 9. A town in Suffolk, the birth-place of an eminent cardinal. 10. A naval officer of the highest rank ; the title was first used in the thirteenth century. C. 0. 33. — Arithmograph. A GREAT writer of fiction who was born in the last century and died in the present. 1. _8, 3, 5, 2, 6. Transparent, intelligible. 2. -1, 5, 7, 4. A cardinal point. 3. — 11, 6, 9, 1, 5, B. A garden tool. 4. — 0^ 7^ 10. Pleasant after work. 5 — 8, 3, 2, 1. The extremity of the limb of an animal. 0.-1, 2, 4, 5, G. A great necessity of life. 7. -4, 9, 2, 7, 11. Often seen on your breakfast table. 8. -8, 6, 9, 1. Heard in the early morning. 9. -8, G, 5, 2, 4, 5. To form from nothing. 10.— 8, 9, 2, 7, 10. Where land and sea meet. C. C. at page 194.] 27. — Lough. 1. Sough. 2. Bough. 3. Bough. 4. Dough. 6. Tough. 6. Cough. 28. — Conscience. 1. Scene. 2. Nice. 3. Nine. 4. Cone. 6. Ice. e. Seine. 7. Once. 29. — Foreigner. 1. Origin. 2. Forge. 3. Green. 4. Eeign. 6. Niger. 6. Beef. 7. Gone. 8. Nore. 30.— 1. E-hone. 2. T-rent. 3. N-ore. 4. B- arrow. 5. H-umber. 6. A-den. 7. S-cone. 8. P-russia. 9. L-an-ark. 10. A-moor. 31. — 1. A river. 2. The vowels A, E, I, 0, U. 3. A bed.

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180 CHATTERBOX. The Daisy. THE DAISY. WHliiN the dark month of December arrives, then Nature sleeps, and few flowers indeed linger to adorn the earth ; yet still the faithful daisy here and there opens her buds, in spite of frost and snow, and spangles our fields and churchyards with her ‘silver crest and golden eye.’ No flower is more pleasing to a lover of God’s works than the little ‘ Day’s eye,’ with the contrast of its colours, and the graceful curve of its delicate stem, as it springs out of its leafy tuftj though, like many other common beauties of Nature around us, we do not bestow on it the notice which it deserves. In America, where it is rare, it is highly valued. In Pennsylvania, it may be seen nurtured with delicate care in greenhouses and cherished for the sake of the ‘ Old Country.’ In most parts of Europe it is as common as with us, and is generally known as the meadow flower. Tennyson tells us, how in Italy he plucked it in memory of England, and how, when on his return home he found it ‘crushed to hard and dry,’ he loved it for the sake of the simny sky under which it had grown. ‘ It told of England then to me. And now it tells of Italy.’ In Lancashire it is distinguished from the large ox-eye species by the name of dog daisy, on account of an ‘ old wives’ fable,’ which says that a syrup of daisies ‘ causeth young doges to keep small.’ In bygone times people adopted flowers as their emblems : thus, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and in compliment to her, courtiers wore roses behind their ears; and Henry VIII. had branches of eglan¬ tine hooked on to the trappings of his horse. The flower chosen by Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI., was the daisy, one particularly un¬ suited to the haughty Queen, as in the language of flowers it stands for humility. On Margaret’s first arrival in England it was worn by the noblemen of her court, not only in wreaths in their hair, but em¬ broidered on their dresses. It was for long after known in this country as Herb Margaret, and it is still called in France La Marguerite. K. B. A VISIT TO JAMRACH’S. SOME of our London readers have passed through Seven Dials, as it is called. It is not a pleasant part of the great city, though now rather improved. To young folk it has long been famous on account of the shops in two or three of the streets branching off from it, where a great variety of pets can be bought, also cages, aquariums, and objects to put into them. Birds are conspicuous in the windows and inside of course, but cats, dogs, guinea-pigs, white mice, squirrels, and other quadrupeds are also o i sale. Lately, I think the trade at Seven Dials ha> fallen off, owing to the opening of bird-shops in man} other places, and, indeed, at some seasons birds ar»- offered for sale along the streets.

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A Visit to Jamrach’s. But I expect to most readers the existence of a place called ' Jamrach’s’ is unknown; yet it is only a few minutes’ walk from the Tower Bridge, and in Ratcliff Highway, famous as a resort of seamen of all countries. This road is also remarkable because it is a place of arrival for animals of all sorts, birds especially, from every country of the world. Nearly every ship that comes into the docks brings some living treasure, which finds a ready purchasei amongst the numerous dealers in quadrupeds and birds. Hundreds and thousands are sold privately or exchanged, others are selected and taken away by the ao-ents of Zoological Societies in various lands. °Our sketch represents one of the principal rooms (really it is a sort of loft), in Jamrach’s singular establishment. This room, you must understand, is

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182 CHATTERBOX. N quite apart from the shop, which has its front in Eat- cliff Plighway. Besides his store of animals, Mr. Jamrach has a collection of curios from different countries, which are bought and sold in the same way as the quadrupeds and birds. Still, the establishment of wild beasts is the one which is most likely to interest young people — all the more, perhaps, because there seems to be some little danger in being surrounded by so many of them. Probably, too, at a hasty glance, the cages may not seem to be strong enough ; but on looking closer you will discover that both the bars and the cases them¬ selves are very solid. I have stood thei'e, with a lion, a tiger, and grizzly bear upon one side of me; and, on the other, a snarling leopard and some fierce . wolves. All of these I could have touched at the same time, if I had had a stick, and wished to do so. Strangers are not permitted to go about here unless some one accompanies them. The cages have stood the wear and tear of many years, and an animal seldom escapes, though we are told that a tiger did get his freedom, and took a run along the road, but he was soon caught, after he had given some folk a good fright. The large Carnivora, as they are called, are kept on the middle floor ; smaller ones and other animals above ; cattle are below. Not a few persons visit the place, but they are reluctant to venture beyond the ground floor ; indeed, the roar of a lion in the confined o space sounds terrific, and does not invite timid people to ascend. ^ Once I was shut up there for an hour by myself while the men went to dinner, and I must own to feeling rather uncomfortable, though I am accus¬ tomed to animals of all descriptions. 1 did not like having all their eyes glaring on me. I thought, if one did escape, in what corner could I hide myself ? If my readers should pay this establishment a visit, they will find Mr. Jamrach very willing to show everything of interest in his Wild Beast Mart. J. R. S. 0. THE HONEY GUIDE, OR MOROO. Thebe are eleven species of these curious birds, eight of them being peculiar to Africa. Thev have acquired their name from their habit of guidin^o- men to the nest of the wild bee, this being done, of course, for their own benefit, as they expect to share the feast. The most common of these birds is a httle creature about the size of a chaffinch, and of a light grey colour. Whenever it sees a traveller coming along, it begins to twitter in an excited way, perching on a branch near him, and tryino- by various wiles to attract his attention. Havino-" suc¬ ceeded in doing so, it then flies forward in a '"wavy course in the direction of the bees’ nest, looking back every now and then to see if the traveller is tollowing. When, at length, it arrives at the hollow tree which contains^ the honey, it for a moment hovers over the nest in a very marked manner, then 1 takes up its position on a neighbouring branch, anxiously awaiting its share of the spoil. This httle bird, however, should not be followed without caution, for sometimes it happens that on the way to the nest it lands the unwary traveller into the mid¬ day retreat of a lion or a leopard. It is said that a celebrated sportsman was led by a honey bird to the banks of a river, where, however, no nest could he seen. Nothing, indeed, liut an enormous crocodile ! K. ■rnji] TKEASURE OP THE ‘SAN ANTONIO.’ (.Continued from page 171.) Heft the cake here, on this stone, said Caracio, roughly. ‘ You ask what I have done with it ? Say rather, what have you done and the Mexican twirled up the end of his moustache, and looked fiercely and suspiciously at his companion. The latter coolly lit a husk cigarette. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Caracio ? ’ he asked, wdth contempt, ‘ Only^ you and I are anywhere within many miles of this place. I went away for a few minutes, leaving the oaten cake there,’ and he pointed to the spot where it had in truth rested. ‘ I come back, find you here, but the cake gone. If I had found the cake here, and you gone, I should have said “the cake must have eaten the man ; ” as it is the other way about, then I say that the man has eaten the cake.’ Caracio had sat speechless with rage during his companion’s sneering remarks, but now he jumped to his feet, and stamped with fury at the idea of being accused of stealing a cake ! ‘A miserable Indian might well do such a thing; but a true-blooded Mexican, never ! He might rob a rich traveller, spoil a hacienda, take a horse— but a cake / ’ and he fairly danced with rage round the stolid, contemptuous Indian, who sat silently puffino’ his cigarette, whilst Felix was greatly amused at the misunderstanding which he had brought about between the two villains below him. At last, Caracio’s rage somewhat toned down, and the Indian, splitting the bird in half, in silence, offered the other his share. Caracio snatched it, glaring savagely at his companion. Each thoroughly believed that the other was the thief. That was a most un¬ sociable meal: neither would speak, and each re<^arded the other with undisguised contempt. Finally, they rose and stalked off on their homeward journey, Caracio walking along some twenty paces in front of the other, and in this order they soon disappeared from Felix’s view, greatly to the boy’s relief. After waiting a reasonable time, he clambered dowui from his friendly shelter, and resumed the journey seawards. Unfortunately, this unforeseen delay had quite settled^ the question as to his passing the ni^^ht in the grim-looking gorge. Darkness fell long '"before he could compass the distance required to get to the end of it. The weather was sultry, he had nothing to cook, so he dispensed with a fire, and he was the

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CHATTERBOX. 183 more willing: to do this because he reflected that it might possibly attract the notice of some wandering hill-men, whose honesty was not above suspicion. True, there was nothing on him to steal, but mur¬ der amongst these people seemed to be regarded rather in the light of sport than otherwise, and Felix thought that he had had quite enough of risk during the last few days without seeking to add to it now. So he selected an extra large boulder on which to sleep, searched it carefully, whilst light of day still remained to him, for snakes, or any other venomous reptiles, and then, after a long drink of water at a convenient streamlet, he lay down to try and get some much-needed rest. But sleep proved a stranger to our young hero that night. Nor was it to be much wondered at, tired though he was, for the hum and buzz of thousands of insects, the croaking of the bullfrogs, the howl of wild beasts mingled with the discordant screaming of night birds, and the general sense of gloom and danger, would have been enough to keep nearly any one but an old campaigner on the stretch and painfully wide awake. Every now and then he dropped off into a fitful slumber, only to be broken by howl, or buzz, or croak. But the night was short, and, impelled both by keen hunger and also by the desire to lose no moment in communicating with the ship, and bringing help to his beleaguered comrades, he determined to arise and push on as soon as ever the first streak of morning appeared in the sky. On, on he w^ent ; with stiffened limbs, and painfully blistered feet ; "with head aching from the sun of the previous day, and only sustained by some of the fruit of a solitary banana-tree, which he had passed on the road. Shortly after mid-day, his gladdened eyes saw the end of the long, narrow gorge, and, a few minutes later, he saw the sea once more. He fell on his knees upon the shingle, thanking God, Who had brought him ^ through so many and great dangers ^ thus far, and then, his heart full of thoughts of his half- starved companions in misfortune, he pushed on, stumbling along the loose beach stones, and springing, as best he could, over the rocks which lay in his track- Soon he came to a long strip of clean, hard sand, and he walked along, just in the edge of the rippling blue water, which laved his sore and blistered feet, and cooled the whole of his fevered frame. The sea water acted as a powerful tonic on him, and he made his way along the rough, broken shore at a good pace. Then, at last, the blessed sight of the William and Mary's topmasts met his wearied eyes, and he felt that he could have fairly shouted for joy. In little over another mile and a half, he was standing on the shore, and shouting the old familiar cry, which had never seemed so sweet a one before, — Ship ahoy ! ’ The second officer quickly appeared on deck and answered the hail. In another ten minutes, a boat had been sent ashore, and Felix stepped into it and was pulled on board. The steward quickly had a substantial meal set out before him, but the boy had got past eating. He quickly told his story to the second officer, and then tried to get some food into him ; but a sick, faint feeling overcame him, and he could only stagger away from the swing-table, and reel on to the sofa in the saloon. Without uttering a word, he fainted right away. At last, however, his senses slowly re¬ turned to him, but he was so shattered that Mr. Barlow, the second officer, thought it best he should bo got to bed as soon as possible, and all future action deferred until the morrow. Felix, on being placed in his berth, at once dropped off into a heavy, untroubled slumber, from which he never awoke for nearly ten hours. When he did, it was with mind and body alike wholly restored to a healthy tone. In fact, he felt, as he expressed himself to Mr. Barlow that morning at breakfast (and what a breakfast he did eat !), ^fit for anything.’ The second officer explained to Felix that, if he had not been tied down by the captain’s positive orders to 'wait here till I come back,’ he should certainly, long ere this, have set out in search of him ; but unquestioning obedience was always made a rigid rule on board the William and Mary, and Mr. Barlow had never forgotten the terrible snub received from Captain Banuatyne when he first sailed w'ith him. The captain had ordered the ship to be kept on a certain course before he went below : the sails not drawing as the second officer thought they should, he slightly shifted the course, and the skipper soon afterwards happened to come on deck and discover it. Fie asked why his instructions had not been followed, and Mr. Barlow said : — ‘ Beg pardon, sir ; I thought - ’ 'And who told you to think, sir?’ roared the captain. 'You have to obenj, here aboard the William and Mai'y — not to think 1 ’ and the unfor¬ tunate young officer had never ventured to ' think ^ again, when the captain had left any positive instruc¬ tions. Hence the fact of no relief party being sent out, in face of that ' cast-iron ’ order of the captain’s before he left the ship. Now, however, with a free hand and unfettered judgment, Mr. Barlow very quickly proved himself equal to the occasion. Within a couple of hours he had got together a well-arm^ed and — equally impor¬ tant — well-provisioned party, headed by himself. It consisted of ten able seamen, quartermaster, Felix and the black cook, a gigantic negro named — or rather mis-named — on account of his size, Tiny, who had begged to be taken. Before ten o’clock in the morning, they had all been landed, and were start¬ ing for the long tramp over the sea-shore, towards the mouth of the ravine. Meantime, the little party on the plateau w^ere all full of the keenest anxiety, both for the fate of the gallant boy then trying to effect their rescue and for themselves. If the attempt failed from any cause, and he could not succeed in communicating with the ship’s company, nothing then remained before them but to face death. Almost without discussion it was resolved not to trust to the word of the ruffians below, but to die fighting gallantly, in their attempt to cut their way though to the sea-shore again. Better to die fighting so than to submit themselves to the power of the Mexicans and Indians, who, as likely as not, would amuse themselves by torturing their prisoners first, and murdering them afterwards. (Continued at page 186.)

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Page 194

On His INIajesty’s Service: Letter Carrier one liundred years ago.

Page 195

186 CHATTERBOX. OLD CUSTOMS, THE TREASURE OF THE ‘SA3Sr AHTOHIO,’ A POSTWOMAN OF ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. [ E N we take a peep at people’s doings in the reign of George III., a time which our illustration recalls, we discover that letters were delivered not only by post¬ men, hut also by postwomen. We see one here taking her round along some street or road, equipped with her satchel and her hell. To us it appears strange, for this has quite ceased to he a woman’s employment in any part of England. Thousands of women, and girls are employed in different kinds of post-office work, hut they are not engaged in the delivery of letters now. Her Majesty’s mails are conveyed by males ^ not hy females, at present at least. Perhaps this is as well, for the duties are heavier than formerly; postmen have to carry more weight, to go over more ground, and to walk more rapidly than in the slow-going days when letters did not travel by rail, hut by coach — though even yet, along some districts, the post-office packages are, for convenience, ‘ road- Ijorne ’ hy special coaches. Probably, women were chosen as letter-carriers because, a hundred years ago, the work was thought to be easy, and the pay was small; but stiU the work had its difficulties, and even its dangers. It is possible the postwomen did not have so much annoyance from dogs as postmen sometimes do, for these animals are very apt to bark or snap at these useful officials, so we are told. That a bell should be part of the equipment of the female letter-carrier may seem odd to us ; in those times, however, it was necessary, because people had to come out and get their letters, owing to the doors of houses not having knockers or bells. Postmen sometimes had a horn, which they blew as they went their rounds. There was another reason why postmen should announce to the inhabitants when they were passing, as they were required then to take letters to the post as well as deliver them, because people were not obliged to prepay letters, as is the rule now. Some persons who are still living can remember the old postwomen, who took letters round villages and their neighbourhood, when postmen only were em¬ ployed in towns. These old ladies went about often attired in red cloaks, which were suitable, of course, for those employed in the service of the Cro-^m. To some of these old ladies it happened that they had to make long trudges up hill and down dale, summer and winter; sometimes they had to wade along roads which were deep in water after heavy rains; some¬ times people had to wait for their letters if the post¬ woman had ‘ rheumatiz,’ and got along slowly. However, these old folk had no evening work, nor were they required to carry parcels. J. K. S. C. {Continued from page 183.) T was with feelings of terror that, from their eyrie, the men on the rock had watched the two hunters, Caracio and the Indian half-breed, start off together, almost immediately after Felix in his goat-skin had got out of sight. Suppose the boy should feel tired, and go slowly ? or, worse still, sprain an ankle ? or in any way be so unfor¬ tunate as to lag on his journey ? The two hunters would catch him up, and not only would their last chance be gone, l3ut the poor boy’s life would be sacrificed by the savage couple now just dis¬ appearing from view, and following in his track. Their agony of fear was, unhappily, destined to be a very protracted one, as until the pair of ruffians returned, it was impossible to say whether they had seen the boy, or whether he had been travelling too fast for them to overtake him. That the hunters had no suspicion of ^ the goat ’ was quite evident, from the fact that they were in no hurry at leaving ; and, in fact, Caracio, after going fifty yards or so, returned leisurely to the camp for the purpose of exchanging the gun he was carrying for another. The beleaguered men watched, turn and turn about, all day long, for the return of the hunters, and a terribly long day it proved to them. It was not until evening shadows were lengthening in all directions on the ground that a shout from those in the Mexican camp announced the return of the pair, ‘ Pair’ they could hardly he called, for Caracio, with a desperate scowl on his black brow, stalked sullenly in, at least thirty yards ahead of the Indian half- breed, who was still cigarette-smoking. With delight the William and Mary party saw that they had no prisoner, and Senhor Chiquita was especially charged by the captain to listen and see if he could catch enough of their conversation to assure them that Felix had escaped their notice. The Spaniard listened for long, but failed to hear anything mentioned on the subject, so they concluded that the boy must have got away in front of them, so far in advance that they had seen nothing of him ; for which fact they were all, as may well be imagined, most profoundly thankful. There was little of either rest or sleep for them that night. The issues involved in the near future — in the next few hours, it might very likely be — were too momentous for men half starved, and more than half worn out, by long anxiety, by watching and waiting for the help which never seemed to come. Their enemies, after the severe repulse they had met with in their one attempt at a night attack, had apparently given up the idea of exposing themselves to^ any more personal risk, and contented themselves with the far safer and more certain process of a strict blockade, which must, sooner or later, end in starvino*

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CHATTERBOX. 187 out the unfortunate garrison, and compelling them to submit themselves and their treasure chests to the hands of the despoiler. This was the state of things existing in the two camps, when morning dawned on the third day after Felix Hursthourne’s escape. About an hour later, keeping well behind the cover of a large rock, Caracio called tauntingly to the men on the plateau to ask if they felt hungry, knowing well that they must be almost on the verge^ of starvation by this time. Then he jeeringly invited them to descend and partake of their meal. To this the dignified course was taken of giving no reply whatever. The day wore slowly away, but still no sign of help came. Could it be that Felix, after escaping the robber band, had perchance fallen a victim to some venomous reptile ? How earnestly one and all of the little beleaguered garrison prayed, both for him and for themselves! Meanwhile, as we already know, the rescue party, headed by Felix and the second officer, were making the best of their way over the rough, broken ground, up the gloomy gorge, towards the camp. The tars chatted and laughed, in their merry way, pleased as a parcel of schoolboys at the idea of a run ashore, and heeding not at all the fact that they were engaged on a mission which might involve ‘ battle, murder, and sudden death.’ They were of ^ the ordinary class of frank, free-hearted, careless British sailors, bubbling over with fun and animal spirits— and a fight, even one of a mortal charactp, was * all in the day’s work’ from their simple point of view. Going along, Felix informed Mr. Barlow of the exact locality of the camp, as far as he was able to do so, and the latter then began to lay his plans of attack. ‘ Perhaps,’ said he, * it would save much bloodshed if we were to make a night attack, when most of the fellows are unarmed and asleep. As I understand you, if they attempt to keep the neck of the pass against us, they would have to expose themselves to an attack in the rear from the captain’s party ? ’ ‘ Yes.’ ' Well then, you see that they would be caught between two fires. I wish I could think out some plan by which we might avoid a hand-to-hand fight.’ Felix could not agree with him. British boys, we fear, are all rather pugnacious, and, after the suffering which he and his comrades had gone through at the hand of Caracio’s party, he, in his heart of hearts, would have thoroughly enjoyed an honest, stand-up fight with the ruffians. ^ I wish we had some means of telling the poor fellows — who must be almost starved out by this time— that w’e are coming,’ exclaimed he to Mr. Barlow. ^ I think we must be within two or three miles of them here.’ Slowly, and with the greatest caution now, they " advanced upon their journey, the whole party being strictly cautioned neither to talk nor smoke, for fear of giving notice to the enemy of their approach. After getting to within about a mile, as far as they could judge, of the camp, they lay down in the darkness, to get an hour or two of sleep and rest after their toilsome march. Whilst the remainder of the party lay in slum¬ berous repose, Mr, Barlow, assisted by Felix Hurst- bourne’s intimate knowledge of the locahty, was carefully working out his plan to attack the enemy and relieve his comrades from their terrible plight. After revolving some half-dozen different schemes in his mind, he came back to his original idea, which was to surprise the foe by a night attack. In this way he reckoned upon doing his work with the least risk to his own men, and the least possible bloodshed for all. About an hour after midnight, all hands were awakened, and, headed by the second officer and Felix, they started on the last short stage of their journey, creeping along in absolute silence. The night was dark and starless, and in every way favourable to a surprise. Soon the rain began to fall in big, heavy drops, which fact also aided them in covering any slight noise which might by chance be made. Round a bend in the gully, the first faint glimmer of the Mexicans’ camp fire met the eyes of the advancing party. Then the mate halted his men, and, accompanied by Felix, he stole forward to reconnoitre. By the fitful flashes of the fire-light, they saw that the whole of the Mexican and half-breed party, with one solitary exception, were asleep. That exception was a tall Indian, who was leaning on his rifle, and evidently doing duty as sentinel. From time to time he tramped up and down for a few yards, and then again resumed his restful pose. The rain, which had ceased after one short shower, again began to come down sharply, as our two Fnglishmen slowly crept back again to the spot where they had left their men. Very quietly the officer whispered his instructions to them. After hasty glances cast at their weapons, they announced that all was ready, and at once all the party moved forward upon the sleeping foe. Within a few feet of the unsuspecting Indian sentry, the William and Mary's party suddenly arose from the stooping position they had maintained as they crept along the ground, and with a loud ^ Hurrah 1 ’ rushed forward to the camp fire, over¬ bearing and flinging to the earth, by the violence of their onslaught, the Indian sentry, whose weapon exploded harmlessly in the air as he fell. Quick as were the Mexicans in jumping to their feet and seizing their arras, the Jack Tars knocked them over like ninepins, with no other weapons than the brawny fists whicli nature had given them. A glad shout from the rocky plateau above told them that the beleaguered garrison had heard the sound of their attack, and knew that at length the siege was raised, and. that they were to be rescued from their perilous position. Caracio, seizing his rifle, fired it point-blank in Felix’s face, but Mr. Barlow struck it up at the critical moment, and it did no mischief. The Mexican made a desperate effort to rally his men, but at this moment the sailors were reinforced by O’Hagan and the two Bannatyne boys, who had quickly^ slid down the rocky escarpment to the aid of their friends. The excited Irishman made a wild leap at Caracio, who, however, was too quick for him, and administered a severe stab in his left hand, but with the uninjured right he dealt his adversary such a crashing blow in the face that it felled him like a bullock. Quickly seeing that any chance of a successful resistance was

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“ The Mexicans ceased nghting and fled.” practically out of the question, the Mexicans and half-breeds ceased fightiug,andfled in every direction —save that by which the attacking party had advanced from the ship — taking to the steep paths, which, even in the darkness, they clambered up with almost the agility of a mountain goat. Few of them saved even their rifles, none had any ammunition, and, in a few minutes from the beginning of the onslaught, the ground was clear of all of them except their leader, who lay stunned and senseless on the ground. Him they raised and carried under the slielter of an overhanging rock, out of the tropical down-pour, which by that time had wetted each one of them to the skin. When morning dawned the robber had disappeared. {Concluded at page 197.) J

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Bahere the Jester. RAHERE THE JESTER. IN the days of the first Plantagenet king there lived a jester who was so witty that he became pro¬ moted to the very high post of king’s fool. This man took more liberties with his royal master than the boldest courtier dared to take. He would call the King his cousin or brother, and pretend to be a sort of equal; and, indeed, he often was more than the Kino-’s equal, especially in repartee. He was not much liked by the courtiers, for kings’ favourites are seldom popular. They all feared his sharp tongue, which was able to make the best of them look foolish— at least, sometimes. Rahere may perchance have made fun even of the great Thomas a Becket, who became the Archbishop of Canterbury, and, after having been a warm friend, became the King’s chief opponent. The end of the

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190 CHATTERBOX. quarrel joii know. The Archbishop was murdered I one December afternoon in the dimly lighted Cathe¬ dral of Canterbury by four assassins, who went there for that purpose. Perhaps this deed of blood, which filled all Europe with horror, caused the King to discard his jester, or led the jester to ask leave to retire from the King’s service. Be this as it might, the jester laid aside his cap and bells, his livery and baubles, and turned liis thoughts to serious matters. If death should come suddenly upon an archbishop, why not upon the King’s jester? And so his mind was made up to forswear jokes and nonsense, and to take to the Psalter and Breviary for the rest of his days. He entered one of those religious houses which were so common in England in those days, and he became a brother of the cowl. He now had to rise soon after midnight to sing his matins. He had to fast often, ! to feast seldom, to work hard, and to snatch his sleep | at nights in a long room full of narrow beds, each with a brother monk inside it. After a time, Rahere felt a great longing to make a pilgrimage to Rome. Rome is a very great city — not so great in size and numbers, however, as in im¬ portance. After having been a heathen city for more than 800 years, it became the home of a Christian Church, and Apostles preached there and martyrs shed their blood there. ' It was, in Rahere’s lifetime, the custom^ with many pious people to visit Rome, that they might see the place where Apostles laboured, and meditate and pray beside their graves. After a tedious pilgrimage, Rahere, the once jester, reached the Eternal City, as it is called, and beheld its wonders and glories. But much that he saw he did not ^ like to see. He thought the capital city of Christendom far too gay and worldly, too full of those pomps and vanities which he had foresworn when he tossed aside his fool’s bauble and shaved his crown. So he turned away from the Conso with a sigh, for he bad not yet found that peace and comfort which he had expected to find in so religious a city. He thought that perhaps he might yet find it, if not in the brilfiant bustle of the main streets, at least in some less noisy and poorer part of the city. He soon found himself in mean and dirty alleys— now, and perhaps then also, occupied by Jews, and called the Ghetto. Threading his way through the narrow, filthy streets, flanked with tall old houses right and left, Rahere came at length to the bridge of St. Bartholomew. The Tiber was now flowing under his feet— that world-famed river. Near him was a small island, the ancient Insula Tiberina, and not unlike a ship in its^ outline. He was curious to know who had chosen this low, damp island for their home, and he there¬ fore crossed the bridge and stood on the island. Here he found two buildings. One was a church, the other looked like a monastery. ‘ It must be so,’ said Rahere to himself, ^ for here is a monk coming through the gateway.’ ° The monk had evidently come out in a weary mood, for he loitered on the bridge, and idly watched the Tiber flowing seaward. ^What is this place?’ asked Rahere, pointing to the building. ^ The Hospital of St. Bartholomew,’ replied the Roman. ‘ What mean you by a hospital?’ inquired Rahere. The Italian stared at him. ^Whence come you, that you know not what a hospital is? You are religious, too, I see!’ ^ I am from England,’ replied Rahere. ^ And have you no hospitals in England ? ’ ^ None that I know of. But I lived so long there in a paradise of fools that I had no delight in that \s hich is good.’ ‘ Ah, I see,’ answered the monk. ' Well, a hospital is a place where poor men who are sick are cured, or die ^ Were you never sick?’ ‘ Never,’ replied the other. ^Then thank God for His mercy. But what brought you here?’ ‘ I came to Rome to do my soul good ; but, alas ! I have seen more evil than good since I came.’ ^ Do not say so yet,’ said the Italian. ‘ You have seen the outside of Rome, and gay it often is, like other great cities ; but you have not seen all the good that lies underneath. Nay, you never knew that Rome had a hospital until now. You did not even know what a hospital was.’ ^ Quite true,’ replied the English monk, sadly; ^ but it was the pomp and vanity I saw in your busy streets which drove me hither in despair.’ ‘ And would you like to see inside a hospital ? You were never sick, you say. Are you not afraid of being so ?’ ^No. We have a grave always ready in our monastery, and we are taught to be always ready for it. And I fear it not — nor sickness.’ ‘ Right— quite right,’ replied the Roman ; ^ but I must tell you, who seem simple about these matters, that a healthy rnan may go into yonder building and come out sick with a siclmess unto death. Will you now come in with me?’ ^ Why not ? Even if I feared sickness, which I do not, why should I be afraid of going where you go ? Are you more than man ?’ ^No; but I am used to the air of yonder sick- house, for I breathe it every day. You are not. I f you go in there, the floating seeds of disease may be drawn into your lungs, and you may perhaps die.’ ^ I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord,”’ said Rahere from his Psalter. ' Then come and see,’ replied the Italian, striding forAvard to the door of the hospital. ” {Concluded at page 195.) CLEVER SPIDERS. JTOOK a large spider from his web imder the basement of a mill, put him on a chip of wood, and set him afloat on the quiet waters of the pond. He walked all about the sides of his bark, surveying the situation very carefully, and when he found that he was really afloat and about a yard from shore, he looked out for the nearest land. This point fairly settled upon, he immediately be¬ gan ^ to cast a web for it. He threw it as far as pos.sible in the air and Avith the wind. It soon reached the shore and stuck to the spires of grass.

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CHATTERBOX. l!)L Then the spider turned himself about, and in true sailor fashion began to haul in haud over hand on his Cable. Carefully he drew upon it until his bark began to move towards the shore. As it moved the faster, the faster he drew upon it to keep bis hawser taut and from touching the water. Very soon he reached the shore, and quickly hastened homeward. Thinking that he might be a special expert, and an exception to the rest of his companions, I tried several of them. They all came to shore in like manner. The third aunt was a Mrs. Deane. She seldom gave her opinion unless asked for it, but when she did give it her words were not always kind. Her husband was in a large mill-owning business, and was making money fast. Mrs. Deane had a little daughter, ^ Lucy,’ a neat, natty little maid, with fair clustering curls which always were in beautiful order. Lucy’s frock never got soiled or torn like Maggie’s ; indeed, she presented a striking contrast to her dark cousin, whose hair, do what she would, could not be kept in place, but straggled all over her forehead and strayed untidily from behind her ears. As Maggie and Lucy stood side by side in the presence of their aunts, many remarks were made which hurt poor Maggie’s feelings sadly. Aunt Pullet said to Mrs. Tulliver, ^ I think the girl has too much hair. I would have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I were you ; it isn’t good for her health. It’s that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldn’t wonder.’ (She looked more^ of a gipsy than ever beside fair-skinned, fair-haired Lucy.) ^ Don’t you think so, sister Deane?’ Aunt Deane could not say, but Maggie’s father replied, ‘No, no ! ’ and then, as he so often did, he took Maggie’s part, and earned the thanks of his grateful little daughter. That day Maggie, with Tom’s help, cut off the greater part of her hair, in a jagged, uneven manner. When she came down to dinner several voices de¬ clared her ‘ more like a gipsy than ever ! ’ ‘ Very funny, now,’ and a ‘ little girl that should be whipped and fed on bread and water/ There was only one kind, excusing voice raised for her, as with swelling heart she ran to her father, and hid her head on his shoulder, sobbing loudly. It was agreed that Lucy Deane should stay with her cousins for a time, and Maggie was especially pleased. She had never for one moment thought of ^ the chance of Tom’s liking Lucy’s company better than her own. But it happened that Maggie had offended Tom, and he determined to take no notice of her, but to give all his attentions to Lucy. Maggie was angry and miserable, and in one of those wild moments when she felt sorely Tom’s treatment, and looked upon Lucy as partly the cause of his unkind¬ ness, she thrust forward her brown arm, and pushed poor little pink-and-white Lucy into the mud. Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Majjgie two smart slaps on the arm, as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay crying helplessly ; he did more than that — he threatened to tell his mother. Maggie wandered away from Tom and Lucy, and, seating herself upon the roots of an old tree, feeling as miserable as she well could, she formed a sudden resolve to run away to the gipsies, whom she had so often been told that she was like. The story of how she carried out this resolution, and wandered into a little black tent, a long way from home, and was brought home by a gipsy-man, meeting her father on the way, is very prettily given in the charming book already named, which also contains some good chapters upon Tom TuUiver’s life at his new school, and his after career as^ a man, when the old mill was sold and his father ruined. 1 James Cassidy. YOUJSfGSTEKS IN PCPULAB TALES. tom and maggie tulliver. {Concluded from page 178.) Tom heard that his rabbits dead, his anger was tho- roughly roused. It was quite y. a different sort of anger to Maggie’s. It was a stern, white anger, and Maggie could not ^ You’re a naughty girl,’ said Tom, severely, ^ and I’m sorry I bought you the fish-line. I don’t love you, and you shan’t go fish¬ ing with me to-morrow and Tom ran away towards the mill to meet Luke. Back to the old attic went the weeping Maggie, and, hours after, when Mr. Tulliver sent Tom to look for his sister, he found her there, breaking her heart, because Tom had called her naughty and said that he did not love her. Tom had meant his threat when he used it, for he wished to punish Maggie ; but her tears and sobs were too much for him, and the next morning the httle girl was trotting along beside him, with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the basket in the other — very, very happy because Tom was good to her. But Maggie’s life was not to go on smoothly for ever afterwards ; she was too impulsive a little lady to admit of such a happy state of things. Mr. Tulliver had decided to send Tom to a new school, where he would learn harder lessons and be taught all those things that a gentleman should know : for Tom was not to be a farmer and miller like his father. Mrs. Tulliver had decided to invite her sisters and their husbands to talk the matter over. Amongst the aunts was one who had a very sharp way of speaking, and thought a great deal of herself and her family. She was no favourite with Tom and Maggie, for she was very strict in her views as to how ‘ little boys and gels ’ should behave towards their aunts and uncles. Her name was ^ Clegg,’ and she was supposed to be rich, for Uncle Clegg had retired from business and lived on his means. There was another aunt, whose chief pleasure lay in telling of the amount of medicine — ^ doctor’s stuff ’ — she got through. Her name was Pullet; her husband was a gentleman-farmer, and had plenty of money.

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Page 202

THE WRECK ASHORE.

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CHATTERBOX. 11)3 True till Death,

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194 CHATTERBOX. TRUE TILL DEATH. GAUCHO, accompanied by his dog, was chased and overtaken by a troop of soldiers during one of the civil wars in Uruguay. Sus¬ pecting him to be a spy, his captors cut his throat. They then rode away, calling to the dog to follow them, but the animal refused to leave his dead master’s side, ite- turning to the spot a few days later, they saw the body of the man they had killed surrounded by a large number of vultures, which the dog, in a frenzy of excitement, was keeping at a respectful distance. It was observed that the dog, after making one of his sallies, driving the birds away wdth furious bark¬ ings, would set out at a run to a small stream not far from the spot; but, wdien half-way to it, he wmuld look back, and, seeing the vultures advancing once more to the corpse, wmuld rush back to protect it. The soldiers watched him for some time with great interest, and once more they tried in vain to get him to follow them. Tw’o days afterwards they again visited the spot, to 6nd the dog lying dead by the side of his dead master. I had this story from the lips of one of the witnesses. FIGHTING- CATERPILLARS. Amongst the insect tribes there often are ^free fights,' but few readers would think that cater¬ pillars were likely to have combats with each other, or with any creature, large or small. We usually regard caterpillars as peaceful fellows, not very quick in their movements unless alarmed, fond of feasting upon vegetable substances which suit their taste. Enemies they have, many of them fierce and persevering, yet from these they often escape, not by fighting, but by hiding themselves. Some, cater¬ pillars are protected by coats of hair or spines, and some have peculiar ways of defending themselves. Still, it cannot be said that all caterpillars are quiet and good-natured. The powerful jaws of some of the larger kinds may serve other purposes besides that of biting up their food. Indeed, when some caterpillars are taken hold of, it is noticed that they will try to bite the hand. I have seen that of the Buff-tip Moth do so, but it did not seem to be able to pierce the skin. Probably, if any British cater¬ pillar could, it would be such a one as that called the Goat, for its jaws are said to be strong enough to bite through lead. Entomologists, who keep caterpillars in boxes or cages to rear them into butterflies and moths, find that their little prisoners are apt to quarrel. This is what often happens : two are crawling along a twig from opposite directions, they meet, and neither will give way, so they struggle together, till one or both fall off. Or, one has been making a good meal, and he wants to be quiet afterwards ; but some of his brothers are going about, and they keep on crawling over him as they wander, till he gets quite angry, striking out right and left. The pretty caterpillar of the Puss Moth has two movable horns at its tail, which it is supposed to use for driving off flies that might annoy or sting it ; also it has under the head a curious little apparatus, from which an acid fluid can be throwm, as a defence. One of our naturalists, who has been fired upon several times by Puss caterpillars, states that it is his belief they take aim at the eye of the person who offends them ! There is a large caterpillar found on the coast of England and France, which feeds upon the sea- spurge growing on the sand. Should one of these be touched, it turns round fiercely, and squirts from its mouth a quantity of milky fluid with an unplea¬ sant smell. The caterpillars of the moth which is called the Frosted Green live on the oak, and each makes for itself a silken tent, w^here it hides during the day, and comes out at night to feed. Returning at night, they are not like the wise bees, which always know their way home, for two caterpillars may now and then be seen fighting at the opening of a tent, each thinking that it belongs to him. At last, one of them gets an unpleasant grip from his opponent and retreats, wounded. A notable British caterpillar is the Dunbar, which produces a moth of brown, grey, aud red. Though it sometimes eats leaves, its chief employment on the trees is chasing the caterpillars of the common winter moth, which are of smaller size, aud, as it prejs upon them, it is a rather useful insect. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 34. — An.\grams. Women's Christian Names. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. Die, angler. Take a rod (2 names). May I clear „ Aryan men „ Take a horn „ Hit a crane. 7. Hoard. 8. Real Coin. 9. The bar. 10. E. sang. 11. Thv door. 12. H. bored A. C. C. 215.] [yl«sa-e?*s at page 1. Canute. 2. Archipelago. 3. Leinster. 32. — California. 4. Impostor. 5. Florin. 6. Opera. 7. Rhine. 8. Navarre. 9. Ipswich. 10. Admiral. 33. — Walter Scott. 1. Clear. 2. West. 3. Trowel. 4. Rest. 5. Claw. 6. Water. 7. - Toast. 8. Crow. 9. Create. 10. Coast.

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CHATTERBOX. 195 THE SCALY ANT-EATER. DSELY allied in its structure and habits to the well-known common ant-eater of South. America is the scaly ant-eater of India, also known as the short-tailed manis or bajjerkeit. This curious-looking quadruped is timid and gentle in disposi¬ tion, rolling itself up into a ball when afraid of any danger, with its head in the centre, and the muscular mail-covered tail enfolding all. Its food consists of insects, chiefly ants, which it procures in great numbers by thrusting among them its long, cylindrical tongue, covered with a sticky saliva, and then drawing it back into the mouth. Its claws are long and very strong, being used to tear down the ant¬ hills, and also to dig its burrow, which is seven or eight feet deep in the ground. The chief difference between this quadruped and the South American variety lies in this : that instead of having its back and tail covered with long hair, its whole body is covered with large, horny scales. The whole length of the scaly ant-eater, including the tail, is almost five feet, the tail being not quite half the length of the body. It is easily tamed and is of an affectionate disposition. As may be inferred from the picture on the next page, it can climb trees, and has a flexible tail, with which it can hold on. M. RAHERE THE JESTER. (Concluded from page 190.) H E two monks crossed a small, square, white-washed hall, and reached a flight of steps. On the first land¬ ing the Roman said, ‘ When Father Tiber rages and is furious, his waters overflow this stage.’ And are you then cut off from the city ?’ The monk nodded. * But the floods soon subside ; and we can stand a siege well in every case, except when it happens that a patient dies and needs instant burial. But here is the fever ward. Now, brother, will you enter?’ ‘ l7i manus Tuas commendo spiritum meurn^ mur¬ mured Rahere, as he prepared to follow his leader. It was a scene not easily to be forgotten. A low, dimly lighted and ill- ventilated room, with beds of rushes on the floor, each tenanted by some fevered form. Here was a black-browed giant in a delirium, held down, but scarcely, by two muscular monks ; whilst a third, attracted by the gravity of the case, was arguing, coaxing, and threatening the refractory patient in turns. There was a young man who had been stricken dow:n by malaria, but who now was evidently in a hopeful way. He was smiling, and perhaps thinking of his home outside in the brilliant sun, which threw a bar of gold across the uncovered arm of a sleeping child. 'How is JVIicheleP’ asked Rahere’s conductor of another monk. ' He is dying. He wishes to see the Confessor, and to have the last sacrament.’ While the other went to fetch the priest, Rahere followed his guide into a smaller room, where there were only three or four beds. This was reserved for the worst cases, and this. had been so often the chamber of death that the monks might have been almost justified in placing over it, ' Who enters here must leave all hope behind.’ The man called Michele was not ill of fever, but was dying from a gangrened wound. He had been a sort of bravo, serving in times of war among the irregular militia, and earning a precarious livelihood in the times of peace by anything save honest toil. A quarrel had taken place between Michele and a member of the same trade, and knives had been drawn and stabs exchanged. The combatants were parted by the watch, and went in opposite ways. Early the next morning. Brother Antonio, as he crossed the bridge on his way to the city, stumbled over the body of the unfortunate bravo. He was now going down quick into the grave, and the mists of death’s valley made all things dim. As Rahere stood by, inwardly thanking God that he had not been surprised by death in the days when jests and lewd songs were dearer unto him than Law and Gospel, the dying man whispered, ' Is the Father coming ? ’ The monk assured him that he was coming. ' He must not be long, or he will never know what I have to say.’ As the Confessor entered the chamber of death the two monks retired, and crossed a gallery into the convalescent ward. In this ward the convalescents were grumbling, as they will do, at the slowness of their recovery. The good monks, however, contrived to make the time hang as lightly as possible; one was reading won¬ derful legends to the old folk, another was telling playful stories to a group of children, whilst a third was singing the valiant deeds of the soldiers of the Cross. He who sang them had been a Troubadour, and had followed the Crusade, and shared the dangers of a campaign in the East ; but, like Rahere, he had exchanged a worldly life for a religious one, and nobody in the hospital worked harder or more cheerily, or did more to raise the spirits of the invalids, than Pierre, of Provence, whose fine voice was trolling forth ' the lay of the lost Crusader,’ in the midst of a delighted group. Rahere inquired of his guide who the singer was, and when he understood he sighed, and said to him¬ self, ' Alas ! I fear I shall not be able to use my former calling as Pierre does bis ; but I will do what I can when I get home. What I have, and what I can get, I will devote to a hospital in Londpn. After all, I have not seen Rome in vain.’ Brother Antonio, seeing Rahere look very thought¬ ful, said, ' You have seen the sick, the dying, and the recovering. You must now partake of our hospi-

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The Scaly Ant-eater. tality, and promise us your prayers when you return to England, and especially on St. Bartholomew’s Day.’ As they were sitting at their frugal meal, Bahere unfolded to Brother Antonio his plan. ‘ But have you wealth to spare for such a work ? ’ ‘None; but I have a tongue, and a pair of legs, and I will beg all over England, sooner than drop my plan of showing mercy. Many people die in our laud, when sick or hurt, because there is none to care for them. It shall be my business to roll away that reproach.’ ‘And I will come and visit your hospital, as you have done mine,’ said Antonio. ‘ I hope you wiU. And I will take care that, in remembrance of the happiest hours I have spent in

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CHATTERBOX. 197 Kome, the hospital in Lon¬ don shall hear the same name as your own, The Hospital of St. Bartholo¬ mew.” ’ And so it does to this very day. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, founded by Bahere in a.d. was refoimded in a.d. 1547, and has been for more than three hundred years in active use as a hospital and medical school, increasing during that time to five times its original extent. The hos¬ pital now contains 070 beds. Each ward is presided over by a ‘sister,’ with assistant nurses, in all about 120 nurses, and, in addition to the usual staff of non-resident medical officers, there are five resident house surgeons and four house physicians, who are always in attendance. About 0000 in¬ patients are admitted during the year, and 150,000 medical and surgical out-patients are treated during the same period. Geobge S. Outram. Rahere’s IMonnmont in St. B irtholomew’s Chiu’cli, Old St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. THE TREASURE OF THE ‘SAH AHTOHIO.’ {Concluded from page 188.) Rejoicings and mutual con¬ gratulations were the order of the day between the rescuers and the rescued. And what a hearty breakfast they made when daylight appeared ! The Mexicans had fed themselves well all the time their vic¬ tims were starving, probably because they had nothing else to do. and their ‘larder’ was an extremely well-stocked one. Of this, on the ‘spoils r.-e war’ principle, all the party freely partook. The whole of that day they devoted to rest and the discussion of their plans for removing the chests of treasure down the dark gorge to the ship.

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198 CHATTERBOX. Next day, they were not long in getting to work. The iron-clamped boxes were dragged from their hiding-places, in the caves at the back of the plate lu, securely slung in the new Manilla ropes, and let down with great care over the front of the rocky ledge. They were received below by several sturd}' seamen, the ropes cast loose, and then the process repeated with the next chest. In this manner, and without mishap of any kind, the whole of the eight chests were got down to the lower level of the gully. To carry them the whole length of this to the sea¬ shore was a work of no small difficulty, and, though all hands worked hard and wilhngly, progress was necessarily slow. They all took their regular turns at the carrying, but frequent rests were necessary, both from the weight of the boxes and the extreme roughness of the ground which they had to traverse. However, they succeeded in getting over twelve or fourteen miles, in the course of the first day, before twilight warned them to cease their labours and pre¬ pare for passing the night. On the way down, Tom and Felix had both been busy with their guns, and so the pot soon boiled with parrot soup, and a large piece of mountain sheep was ready ' to follow.’ Then one of the men was left on guard, whilst the rest lay themselves down to sleep. Nothing beyond the distant howl of a wild beast occurred to disturb their slumbers throughout the night, though the tropical heat made it but broken rest for the most hardened amongst them. Eagerly did the three bojs long to be back on board the good ship once more, where at least they could feel safe from the reptiles and insects which were with them here on every side. Throughout their wanderings, and the many dangers and disagreeables which had been crowded into their unpleasant experiences in Honduras, they had looked back regretfully to their time on board, and thought of the old vessel as a second home to them. Early on the march next day, the whole party set to with a will to reach their destination with the precious cargo which they carried. This day they rested not, even in the greatest heat, and only stopped for a few minutes, to eat aiid drink, by the way. A welcome shower fell, which cooled the sultry air for a time, and the rain-drops freshened up the chest- bearers as they tiudged along. Heated and weary with a heavy day’s work, the vanguard of the little party, to their great joy, emerged from the gloomy recesses of the savag^ looking glen, and once more breathed the life-givmg breezes of the seashore, about five o’clock that after¬ noon. The westering sun threw its red light upon the beach, and shimmered over the dark-blue ripples of the sea. The receding tide had left deep, limpid pools of salt water amid the rocks, and by the edge of one of these soon stood the three voung men, Tom, Ben, and Felix, promising themselves the rare luxury of a plunge into the cool water. With bodies heated by severe exertion under a tropical sun, they longed to jump in without a moment’s delay. Duty, however, stood in the way, for such time as it should take to bring up the last treasure chest to the spot. Then they would all rest an hour, and refresh them¬ selves with food, before making their final stage to the ship. With a sigh at the delay, Felix was turning resolutely away from the temptation, when his foot accidental!}' struck a large piece of stone, which fell with a loud splash into the beautiful pool. Hardly had the stone sunk a foot below the surface, when out from beneath the rock on which he stood darted a long, grey-looking thing, as though to seize it in its fall. Quivering with horror, Felix gazed spell-bound at the creatiu’e, which, baulked of its expected prey, rose to the surface, exposing its wicked-looking head and voracious jaws. There was no mistaking it, or the deadly danger from which he and his two friends had been preserved. It was a half-grown shark, of some ten or twelve feet in length. If the boys had followed the bent of their own in¬ clinations, and plunged into the treacherous pool, one amongst thern, at the very least, must have fallen a victim to this horrible monster. It had evidently been left there by the falling tide, and was securely imprisoned until the waters should again rise and give it chance of egress. That chance, Felix quickly determined, it should never live to see. With a vicious whipping of its powerful tail, it once more disappeared from sight below the rock. The boys waited, slowly recovering from their feelings of horror, until the main body of the party came up, and, depositing their heavy burdens, prepared to camp for a short rest. Then, enlisting the aid of two or three stalwart seamen, they set about the task of catching the monster who had gone so near catching one of them. At first, they searched for something which they could make into a hook and bait, as though fishing. This, however, not being forthcoming, a rifle was pro¬ cured by Felix, and all being in readiness, efforts were made to lure the shark out into the open, and up to the surface again; but, cunning as he was fierce, the creature refused to leave its secure hiding- place. After some little time wasted in this manner, O’Hagan, who was taking immense interest in the proceedings, ran off, and presently reappeared, bearing in his undamaged hand a large piece of salt beef. This was quickly attached to a piece of thick string. Felix loaded his rifle, and, on his giving the word, the Irishman dropped his piece of beef into the pool. Out darted the shark, just as before. The bait, dangled before his eyes for a brief moment, was quick ly snatched away again, and held about on a level with the surface of the water. He made another dash at it, enfolding it, this time, in his murderous-looking double rows of teeth. In order to seize its prey, it had to turn over on its back— and this was Felix Hurst- bourne’s chance. Taking quiet aim at the monster’s throat, he fired, and in a moment the hitherto clear pool was dyed red with the rush of blood from some artery which the bullet had evidently divided in its deadly course. The shark, whipping the water into a pink foam by the lashings of its tail, dashed round and round the natural prison, from which it was making vain and desperate efforts to escape ; but the blood was pouring steadily out of its wound, and each struggle became fainter and fainter, and shorter than the one before. In twenty minutes’ time the fins gradually ceased to move, the back rolled i)ver slowdy, exposing to view its dirty white breast. The shark was dead.

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CHATTERBOX. 199 The sailors managed after some dithculty to haul him to land; but when the black cook, Tiny, sug¬ gested that they should cook his fins, he having heard that in China and the Straits these were greatly sought after and accounted a ^delicacy rare,’ the captain shook his head. ^ Eat a thing that eats man ! No, not for me. I have heard of wine with plenty of ''body” in it, but shark has a little too much ‘'body” in it for my fancy. Throw the nasty stuff away at once.’ Late that night, or, more correctly speaking, early on the following morning, the whole party arrived on the shore, and hailed the look-out man on the William and Mary. A boat was quickly lowered, and speeding on its way shorewards for them. In half an hours time the party was safely on board again, leaving two of the ship’s crew ashore to watch over the treasure chests till daybreak, when the process of getting them aboard would be begun. . After the chests were safely stowed away in the bold, all that now kept the ship was the necessity of filling the water-casks. This done, and a supply of fruit gathered, the work of warping out the vessel from her snug anchorage began. Pretty indeed was the scene as the sailors, some in small boats, some on the crags and rocks which surrounded the basin, some on the decks, pulled and hauled, with a hearty goodwill, at the warps, and the stately vessel, every rope in her rigging showing like delicate pencilling against the background of a perfect blue sky, slowly came round and turned her stern seawards once more. The men on tlie rocks were then taken off bv the boats, which, in turn, were picked up by the ship. One by one her white sails were hoisted and broken out to a gentle, favoiir- ino' breeze, and soon, with every stitch of ^ canvas drawing, the William and Mary was cleaving her way through summer seas on that mostjoyful of all voyages, for she was ' homeward bound. ^ Our friends stood on her deck and took their last look at the land of dark and frowning mountain, gorge, and cavern ; of awful forest and deadlj^ reptile ; of fierce beast and lawless man ; and Felix, for one, breathed his earnest thanksgiving to Heaven for bringing him through dangers and trials of which he had never thought when he left the Red Rooth- ings Farm. •, « j j And then the beautiful, if savage, land faded slowly away from their gaze, and the William and Mary sailed out into the mighty waste of ocean. When they had been about a week at sea, enjoying a continuous spell of hue weather, one day Senhor Chiquita, addressing Felix in the presence of the captain and his sons, said : ' You remember that I promised half the contents of the first treasure-chest to the man who first discovered the sign of the arrow¬ heads. T now propose, in redemption of that promise, to have the chest hoisted up on deck— our good captain has given me permission to do this — and, in the presence of you all, I will open it, and give to our young friend, Felix Hurstbourne, the half of its contents. Y^ou will say, perhaps, that I am merely rewarding his eyes wfien his valour and his heart are deserving chiefly of reward, and that is true. _ _ _ ^ - But, ill this world, the rewards and prizes so often, alas ! fall to the wrong person, the undeserving, and even the wicked, that it is a twofold pleasure to me to give so rich a reward to the one who, under an all-merciful Providence, was the means of rescuing his friends from a terrible position. It will amount to a large sum, of which, however, I am sure not one on board will grudge him a penny, and which I certainly think, from my knowledge of liim, that he will wisely employ in the future ; and also, with my partner’s full approbation ’—and here he bowed, with his old-world courtesy, to Senhor Bocan— ' the second treasure chest shall be divided between Cap¬ tain Bannatyne and his brave, big-hearted crew. At the same time he will, I am sure, forgive rue for reminding him that the doubloons and moidores which he will receive for his share are a very solid ending to " a wild-goose chase,” such as he solemnly assured me this expedition was when we first set out on it.’ The captain could not help joining in the burst of laughter, even though the laugh was so much against himself. When the crew heard of their good fortune, they heartily cheered the generous Spaniards, and O’Hagan said, when they were all gathered together in the forecastle a little later that day : ' Boys, the Spanish Armada chaps were a big set of rapscallions, but these— Mr. Ohick-eat6r and Mr. Cocoa— can’t be any relations of them at all. They are gintlernen entirely,’ a sentiment in which the rest of the crew most heartily joined. n cf • f After a voyage in which the allowance ot rair weather prevailed over the ' foul,’ the William and Maryy rising on the top of a long Atlantic roller, disclosed to the eager watchers on her deck the well¬ loved shores of old England again. A few hours later, and they were once more safely at anchor. Next dav, Felix Hurstbourne and his father were shaking hands as though they could never leave off any more, the elder no less delighted to see what wonders a sea voyage had done for his son than he was to "have him back once again. ' I have been lonely without you, I wiU not den^, Felix, lad,’ he said, laying a hand on his boy’s shoulder, and looking lovingly at him. ' But some¬ thing told me that you would be kept from death, and I have never feared for you, not one minute of the time.’ . , i i Then they shook hands again, and the long- suffering porter, waiting with the luggage — the meeting took place on the platform of the railway station— meekly asked if they were likely to con¬ tinue this sort of thing much longer, as the next train was nearly due already. Then, with a laugh, they moved down the steps and climbed into the dog-cart awaiting them outside. ^ On that day week, Captain Bannatyne, with iom and Ben, also arrived at the ancient Essex county town. With their old friends, the Hurstbournes, they passed a right merry fortnight, at the close ot which it was agreed that life at the Red Roothings Farm was far pleasanter than searching for the treasure of the San Antonio. And the captain grunted, ' Right ! ’ ^ The End.

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200 CHATTERBOX. “The wliole party arrived on the shore, and liailed the look-out man on tlie Wdllam and d/ary.”

Page 211

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202 CHATTERBOX. COW AND LEOPABD. MAN who has spent much time in the observation of the ways and habits of the wilder sorts of animals tells the following curious story of the audacity of a leopard which paid a visit by night to the cattle-shed of a blacksmith : — A native cow had a calf. This being her firstborn, the mother was exceedingly vicious, and it was unsafe for a stranger to approach her, especially as her horns were long and pointed. The cattle-shed was scooped out of the hill-side, and was within a few feet of the blacksmith’s house. The roof was thatched. During the night a leopard, which smelt the presence of the cow and calf, mounted the roof of the shed, and began to force an entrance by scratching through the thatch. The cow at the same time detected the presence of the leopard, and, ever mindful of her calf, stood ready to receive the intruder. It is supposed that upon the leopard’s descent it was at once pinned to the ground before it had time to make its spring. Tlie noise of a tremendous struggle aroused the blacksmith, who, with lantern in his hand, opened the cattle-shed door and discovered the cow in a frantic state, butting and tossing to and fro some large object, which evidently had lost all power of resist¬ ance. This was the leopard in the last gasp. The ^big cat’ had been run through the body by the horns of the courageous mother, whose little calf was nestled in a corner, unheeding the struggle of its brave mother. WHIP-DOG SUNDAY, YOEK is a famous old English city, and it had some remarkable customs of its own. One of these was that on St. Luke’s Day the schoolboys had the privilege of whipping all the dogs they saw in the streets, so that it was known as ‘ Whip- dog Day.’ One reason given for this yearly punish¬ ment of dogs was that, some centuries ago, a priest was celebrating mass at a Church festival and dropped the sacred wafer, which a dog that happened to be lyin^ close to the altar snapped up and swallowed. This custom was still continued ^11 the beginning of the reign of our present Queen. No doubt, sensible people kept their dogs indoors on the day, unless they wished them to be whipped. Dut when we read the history of other towns and villages, we find that, whatever truth there may be in the story which explains why dogs were thus whipped at York, there were also other places where a similar custom once existed, and they had what was called a ^ Whip-dog Sunday,’ not in October, when St. Luke’s Day falls, but some day in the summer, probably during the dog-days, when people supposed there was most danger of dogs going mad. Our ancestors had some curious ideas about things ; thus, they now and then whipped sick people who were poor, believing that this would help them to get well. Again, it was quite common to beat children, not because they were naughty at the time, but to prevent their being naughty. Why should Sunday have been chosen as the day for dog-whipping in some towns ? Does it not look rather as if it had something to do with the be¬ haviour of the dogs at church? Very frequently these animals went to church with their masters and mistresses, as we know from the fact that in many churches there was a man whose office, we are told, was to keep order amongst the dogs, and to turn out any stray ones that had no right to come in, being without owners. To the same officer belonged the duty of waking up sleepers — the men by rapping them on the head, and the women by tickling their faces with a peacock’s feather! It" is not so long ago since Scotch shepherds generally took their collie dogs to the kirk; but the trouble was that these clever animals found out somehow when the end of the service was near, and would indulge in barks of joy. Therefore it may be that the whipping yearly on a Sunday, probably done before church-time, was meant to teach the dogs good behaviour, especially as warm weather makes them more restless than usual. J. It. s. C. A BRAVE GIRL. By Alice P. Jackson, author of *In tho Days of Our Child¬ hood,* * Jack’s Little Girls,* ‘ Three Little Socialists,* * The Dolls’ Dressmaker,* * Fairy Tales and True,* &c, * appened during the Indian Mutiny. .Joan was always a brave girl. There were only two of us — Joan and I. Mother died when we were little things. It was a great dis¬ appointment to father that both of us were girls. He wanted a boy so much. So he made Joan a tomboy instead. She could jump, and leap, and climb trees just like a boy, and liis pet name for her was Johnnie. Father used^to take her out shooting with him when she was . twelve years old, and Joan would march off at his side with the powder-flask over one shoulder and the shot- bag over the other. Thev always carried two guns ; and Joan’s duty was to load one while father fired off the other. She thought nothing of firing off a gun herself and used to laugh at me because I was too timid to attempt it. She became a dreadful tomboy, and father only laughed at her. All this happened when we were sailing up the Jumna from Allahabad to Delhi. Our boat used to be brought to shore to land father and Joan and

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OHATTETiBOX. 203 Rover ; then we would push off and go ^ sailing on again while our sports-mew made their way through the jungle, shooting peafowl, and part¬ ridges, and quails, and whatever else came within their range. ^ Rover was first-rate in the jungle. I don’t know what they would have done without him. He was a wonderful dog for scent. Sometimes they lost their way. Then father would say, ‘ Rover, where’s the river ? Take us to the boat, Rover. Boat, Rover — boat ! ’ Rover would cock up his ears, sniff the air, and run on ahead. The others followed, and he always brought them safe to the river again, where our boat was waiting for them some miles further up than where we had put them ashore. When father had bagged as much game as they could carry, they always made back for^ the river. If they were on the right track. Rover frisked gaily along ; but, sometimes, father mistook^ his bearings, and would be going deeper into the jungle. Then Rover would whine and catch at Joan’s dress, or snap at father’s legs. * Father,’ Joan used to say, ^ look at Rover. W e re on the wrong track.’ • . 'Halloa! Not happy. Rover, old boy? Wait a minute, Johnnie. I will climb that tree and take a look round.’ But the jungle was so thick in some places that father couldn’t see far ahead. Then he would climb down and say, 'All right. Rover. Take us home. Boat, Rover — boat ! ’ Rover would answer with a bark of joy, bound on in front, look round to see if they were following, and so would bring them safely back. Dear old Rover 1 He had such a sad end. When they were out shooting once, father shot a fox. Rover ran up and shook it before the fox was dead. This kind of fox when dying breathes a fetid smell, which is poisonous to dogs if they inhale it. Rover must have got poisoned in this way — so the natives told us afterwards. He brought father and Joan all right to the boat as usual, and then suddenly his ears began to sweU. We petted him, and gave him a good meal ; but the next day his head began to swell too, and his ears were ever so much larger. It was dreadful to look at him. Jlis head swelled to twice its size. The boatmen begged us not to touch him ; and when Joan told them how he had seized the dying fox, they shook their heads, and said the fox ^ad poisoned him, and that Rover would not recover. Joan and I cried piteously. He had been such a faithful fellow. And father pleaded that he should be put out of his misery. It was dijeadful to have to consent. But it was the kindest ping to do. So the boat was brought to shore, X^d father called Rover to follow him, and wheii they were out of eight in the jungle, father shot him ; and then we all went into the jungle, where the natives buried hini. It was a long time before we could get over it, and father was very down-hearted. The boatmen were very sorry for us, and when we got to Delhi the man who had buried Rover brought a little black fox-terrier to us, and gave her to Joan and me. She was as sharp as a needle, and as intelligent almost as a human being, and had such dainty, pretty ways* We called her ‘ Lady.’ All this happened when Joan was about twelve and I thirteen years of age. Three years later, we settled in Mhow, where father was quartered. There was no more shooting at Mhow, and study had knocked out a good deal of Joan’s tomboy ish- ness. Joan hated lessons ; but she had to learn, and she had grown steadier and did not tear her dresses half so much. She was two inches taller than I, though I was a year older ; and father still said with half a sigh, when Joan came galloping into the compound at a break-neck pace, 'Oh . Johnnie, Johnnie, what a fine boy you would have made 1 ’ ^ • We had been living at Mhow about two years— i was sixteen and Joan fifteen — when the Mutiny fi^t broke out. Dreadful news came to. us of the massacres at Meerut and Oawnpore. But these places were far from Mhow, and up to this time things about us had been very quiet. One evening — it was the evening of the day that father brought the news of the massacre at Gawn- pore — Joan and I thought that we saw from our sitting-room window a blaze of light, as if from a bonfire close by. It was getting on for ten o’clock. Father had gone to bed. He was so busy all day at the Fort that he came home dead tired and liked to get to bed in good time, especially as he had to be up and away very early in the morning. I was folding up my work, and Joan was finishing off the last chapter of an exciting story-book. 'Did you see that light, Joan ?’ I said. 'Yes,’ said Joan. ‘I wonder where it comes from P ’ * 1 j 4. We both went to the open window and put our heads out. We could see no bonfire ; but the trees in the compound were certainly lighted up. There was no moon, and the night was nearly dark. ^ .tit •!.» ‘Do you know, Sara,’ said Joan, I believe its a bonfire at the back! W^ait a moment, the bath¬ room window looks out on the servants’ quarters. And she left the room as she spoke. All the rooms of our bungalow were on the ground fioor, and the bath-room window, as Joan said, looked out on the back compound. We call our *ardens ' compounds ’ in India. Our bungalow was built in the middle of the compound, and about a hundred yards away from the bungalow were a row of little brick houses for the native servants. Joan was away a long time, and I began to get fidgety. I was a very nervous girl, and from a little thing had been timid in the dark; and a sudden terror seized me when I found myself alone, though our lamp was burning brightly. But I remembered the massacre at Oawnpore, and terrified at the horrors I had heard I ran out of the room, and pitched against Joan coming hurriedly back. 'Oh, Joan! Has anything happened? I almost screamed. For I had worked myself into a dreadful state of fear. . . ' Don’t shout like that,’ said Joan, gripping my arm hard. Then, feeling how I trembled she said more gently, ' Don’t be a goose, Sara. There’s nothing

Page 214

The Buiial of Rover. to be afraid of. Only, Sara, just come and look out of the bath-room window.’ I don’t think I was anxious to look out of the bath-room window. I went because Joan returned there, and I followed for the sake of her company. ‘Look!’ said Joan, pushing me against the window. It was a little window about a foot square, wiib two iron bars across ; and through the bars I saw a small bonfire blazing brightly in the back compound, and grouped round' it, sitting cross-legged on the I gTound, were all our native servants, wanging their I heads mysteriously and gesticulating as tiiev talked, i ‘ What are they doing, Joan r ’ I wiiispeied. ‘ 1 don’t know,’ said .loan. ‘ Jdsten, Sara ; can you h ar • i-ything they Say h* ’

Page 215

“ Won’t you tell us a story ? Joan scanned my face eagerly, for she had always been a little dull of hearing, and I had unusually sharp ears. But though I listened with all my might, 1 could hear only a low murmur. ' 1 can’t hear a word,’ I said. 'They seem dread¬ fully in earnest.’ Then one of them turned his face our way, and the light flickered on it. ‘ There’s Gungadeen, Joan,’ I said. ' Did you see him?’ ‘ Yes,’ she answered. ' And the man next to him is not one of our servants. It’s Father McCarthy s butler, Sheikismail. Father McCarthy was a Roman Catholic priest. He lived with another priest quite close to us. AVe could see their bungalow from our windows. , n.. i j u ‘ There’s Cossam, and Govind Singh, and Rah¬ man Khan,’ went on Joan, mentioning our other servants. She had very good eyes, and could see a long distance off. j j i ^ xi, Cossam seemed to be doing a good deal qt the talking. He was our butler, and had been with us only a few months. Suddenly I heard him say quite plainly, ' Cawnpore.’ {Continued at page 211.) A PRACTICAL JOKE. R Miss Couper, won’t you tell us a story ? It rains so that we cannot get out of doors, and how we are to spend our half-holiday I’m sure I don’t know — do tell us a story of something that happened to you when you were young.’ The speaker was Bessie Harold, the elder of Miss Couper’s two pupils, a lively girl of thirteen years. 'Yes, do!’ echoed Mary, the younger girl; 'I like listening to a story, especially if it is a^ true one.’ The pleasant young governess smiled at her pupils as she said : ' Well, dears, I can tell you a rather queer experience which befell me when I was about thirteen years old. I had been sent to live with an old lady, a friend of my mother’s, whose home, called Rose Cottage, was quite in the country, the nearest town, called Ashton, being more than a mile away.

Page 216

m CHATTERBOX. Ashton -^as on the sea-coast and was quite a small town. Old Miss Fenton, my mother’s friend, was an invalid, never able to go out of doors at all, and one of my duties was to go to Ashton and make little purchases for her, besides reading to her, when she was able to bear it. It was rather a dull life for me; but, as Miss Fenton was very kind, I was happy enough, more especially as I was to go home again to my dear mother after spending a month at Rose Cottage; ^ One day Miss Fenton told me to go to Ashton to match some knitting wool for her, and also to call at the chemist’s to get her cough mixture made up. ‘‘Now, dear,” added the kind old lady, “ don’t loiter on the way, as the days are short, and I know you don’t like to be out of doors alone after dusk.” ‘ Well, it was true enough; I was a timid girl, and the lonely country roads were a terror to me after night-fall. Well, dears, I had matched the wool, and now all that remained for me to do was to call for the cough mixture; but I hated to go to the chemist’s shop, as Mr. Durham was what people call a wag; he delighted in saying and doing what he thought mlty and clever things, and, as I was only a timid little girl, he often amused himself by talking to me in such a manner as to make me feel shy and afraid. Well, I went into the shop, gave him the prescription, and asked him to make it up as soon as possible, as 1 wanted to get back to Rose Cottage before it was quite dark. ‘ “ Yes, Miss,” he said, “ ril attend to it just im¬ mediately, but did you see any sailors about the town.^ ” lie added, in a lower tone ; “I hear that a ship has just come in, and several sailors, all quite tipsy, are wandering about, annoying every one. It is really too bad ; they ought to be punished ! ” ‘ Now, my dears, 5'^ou may be sure that these words frightened me terribly ; suppose I should meet these tipsy men on my way home ? oh, I could not bear to think of anything so dreadful ! Rut at this moment something happened which seemed to put mq half out of m}^ senses. A man’s rough voice was hoard outside the window saying, “ Is Miss Alice Con per still here ? Tell her that I mean to walk home with her, to take care of her.” ‘ “ Oh, Mr. Durham,” I said, “who can that be, a^ how does he know ray name ?” ‘ Mr. Durham looked grave, and said, “ I am afraid he must be one of the sailo^ you about. It is really too bad ; if I coul(J»®^’a .police¬ man I would give him in charge — he skbmdaiot annoy any one like this ! ” ‘ “ Oh, please tell him to go away ! ” I cried out in my terror. “ Tell him I do not wish any one to walk home with me ; ” but at this moment the voice spoke again. “I shall walk home with her,” he said; “ she can’t escape me, I shall wait for her round the corner.” ‘“Rude fellow,” said Mr. Durham; but, my dears, by this time I was beyond thinking of the man’s rudeness, I burst into tears, and, catching hold of Mr. Durham’s arm, I begged him to take care of me. ‘And now something more surprising still happened. ^Ir* Durham burst out laughing. “Oh, Miss,” he said, “ it is only a little joke of mine. I did not mean to frighten you so sadly ; there is no man outside the window, and no tipsy sailor in the town. I only said it to frighten you.” ‘ “ But I heard the man speak,” I said, still trembling with terror, “and he seemed to know my name quite well ! ” ‘ “ But I assure you. Miss, there is no man there,” Mr. Durham repeated. “ Whj^, Miss, did you not know I am a ventriloquist — I can speak first like myself, and then in quite a different voice like some other person ? But I did not mean to frighten you like this; please don’t tell Miss Fenton about it, for I am afraid she will be quite angry.” ‘ AVell, dears, I took up the little bottle of cough mixture, dried away my tears, and ran home as quickly as I could ; but 1 was ill for a week after this, dreaming every night that the rough voice was calling out, “ 'VYhere is Miss Alice Couper ? I want to walk home with her.” Now, children, that is all my story. What do you think of it ? ’ ‘I think Mr. Durham must have been a hateful man, to tease a poor little girl of thirteen,’ said Bessie. ‘ And I hope you told Miss Fenton,’ added Mary,’ and that she told the policeman and got him punished ? ’ ‘ No, dear,’ replied Miss Couper, ‘ I never told any one, except my dear mother, for I really do not think Mr. Durham meant any harm ; but, my dears, I learnt a lesson that day. I resolved never to play a practical joke on any one ; more especially upon a timid child, who might actually die of fright.’ ‘ Oh, dear, I hope I would never do such a thing,’ cried both girls at the same moment. And they have always kept to that wise resolution. M. ^ MIDSUMMER BONFIRES. ONFIRES are now most frequently M ^vv| seen in the winter season, especially about the time of Guy Fawkes’ Day; it is when trees and hedges are being lopped or cut that waste wood is easily got for the purpose. For- merly there often used to be summer bonfires. One day especially which was made important by its* bonfire ^ was the Eve of St. John, or Mid¬ summer. Such bonfires were not made for amuse¬ ment only ; they had a meaning to our forefathers, as we see by the name itself. The first half of the word, I dare say you know, is ‘ good ’ in Latin and French, and, by lighting them, ignorant or super¬ stitious people expected to get something good aftcjr^' wards. But one old author says ^hat he thinks they were at first called bone-fires, because the people burnt bones upon them with the wood, believing that the smell of the bones drove away evil spirits. Others have thought that since these midsummer bonfires were lighted just when the days were longest, that they were intended to honour the sun, or some pagan deity— perhaps Baal. It is certain that, in country places, whenever it could be done, this bonfire was raised upon the top of a hiU. However it was at first, afterwards bonfires were associated with St. John and other saints, and they appear to

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CHATTERBOX. 207 ha^e been a means of showing' kindness or friend- line.^s. Those persons who could afford it, in towns and villages, brought out tables from their houses, upon which they put a good supply of eatables, which were free to every one. About the streets of London, we read, these bonfires were lighted at sunset, but in some parts of the country they did not light them till midnight, and the people stopped b^ them till the day dawned. Stow tells us that in most of the City streets,^ be¬ sides the bonfires, the citizens had illurninations along their houses. First they made a display of greenery, putting up young branches of trees, lilies, St. John’s worts, and other wild flowers ; then they placed oil lamps at their doors and windows ; also in some spots they erected pillars, to which hundreds or lamps were hung. Old pictures of the scene round the midsummer bonfires show us parties of people dancing hand in hand, having wreaths of flowers upon their heads, and ribbons, with other adorn¬ ments, upon their dresses. All sorts of things were thrown into the fire to keep up the flames: green twin's often, which must have made a rather pleasant smell ; some of the old wood would cause a good deal of smoke. It seems to be true that, if not in London and large towns, yet in some parts of the country, the custom was observed of ^passing through the fire,’ or perhaps between the flames of two bon¬ fires near to each other. The march of the Midsumnaer Watch was an im¬ portant event on this bonfire night, both in London, Chester, Nottingham, and elsewhere. This procession went from the centre of the City to V\ est- minster, along the Strand, and returned by way ot Ilolborn. In the Tudor times it often consisted of seven or eight thousand men, some of them mounted on horseback, the rest on foot, but all armed, except those who carried the cressets, or portable lamps, placed on poles. Usually they had about a thou¬ sand of these lights, each supported by two men ; at the head of the procession were trumpeters and standard-bearers, and some also brought up the rear. All the constables wore gilt armour, wim scarlet iackets, and the watches or guards of the City com¬ panies followed, bearing bows, pikes, hand-guns, and other weapons. J. It. o. . GIVING AN OPINION. A TRAVELLER, going along a coimtry lane, was surprised at mating a man bleeding at the nose and looking altogether very sad. He “‘1"“^,^ had met with an accident. ‘No, ’ ‘it is worse than that.’ He then stated that at a short distance farther on, two men were in hot dis¬ pute about the points of two small dogs, “f they were the respective owners. They appealed to hini for his opinion, which he gave. attacked by one of them, and severely dealt with. Boon after this the traveller came to the spot where the men were still arguing, when they eagerly ap¬ pealed to him for his opinion, but he declined to in¬ terfere, stating that he had just met a man with a bleeding nose. From Walter Brotvns Fables. POPULAR PLACES OE RESORT. ILKLEY AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. ILKLEY, the small Yorkshire town, part of which is shown in picture No. I, is. about an hours distance by train from Leeds, and is pleasantly situated on the south bank of the river Wharfe at the base of Ruiubold Moor, an extensive heathy expanse, which reaches to a height of 1323 feet. This moor is well worth climbing, for the air is delWitfully bracing, and the view of the country all round very extensive. Ilkley derives its importance wholly from the water-cure establishinents which of late years have sprung up in its immediate neighbour¬ hood. Of these hydropathic establishments the most famous is Ben Khydding, one and a half miles east of the town. It is beautifully situated, is sur¬ rounded by plantations, and commands very hne views It 'is not seen, however, in the picture before us Ilkley Wells House, another of the hydropathics, is also a stately building, and may be seen standing on high ground on the left hand. . ... Ilkley has several churches, but only one of ancient date. This old church has been partially restored, to the sorrow of persons of antiquarian tastes, as, in their opinion, the restoration does not seem to he any improvement. At the west end of the north aisle of this church, there are several curious pews ot carved oak, the date of these being A.n. 1633; also in the churchyard three remarkable sculptured crosses may be seen. All about Ilkley there are b^utif ul w^ks. Overhanging Ben Ehyddiiig are the Oow and Galt rocks, from the top of which a magnificent view of Wharfedale is obtained; beyond Ilkley Wells House the Panorama rocks command a fine view. _ In picture No. 2 we see the magnificent rums of Bolton Abbey standing on a patch of open ground, round which the Wharfe gently curves. Here there are stepping-stones for the use of those who wish o cross the river. There are beautiful woods about these ruins and on the banks of the river. About two miles higher up the stream there is a famous spot, where the swift, deep current of the Wharfe is contracted into a narrow channel, with rocks on either side. It is possible, though danprous, to stride across the stream at this place, which is called ‘The Strid.’ There is a legend that the Bo/ Ei^remond, who was the only son and heir to the estate, bounded over, but the greyhound which e held in the leash hung back, and so the lad was dragn-ed into the torrent and drowned. It is said that '"his parents founded the prioi’T their son. The chief relic of the Abbey is the chuich, the nave of which has been restored and is perfect ; but the rest of the church is in complete rum Picture No. 3 shows us a beautiful old doorway in the south transept of the Abbey. In picture No. 4 we have a specimen of one of the many‘s hydropathic establishmpts. This one is not upon a grand scale, but is doubtless comfortable within, for in Illdey there are not only large and stately ‘ hydros’ for wealthy persons, but also pbihier establishments for that large class of person who have not much money to spare. d. d.

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3. Doorway in

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CHATTERBOX. 209

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210 CHATTERBOX. YOUITGSTEBS IN POPULAR TALES. OWEN: A WAIF.* INE-YEAR-OLD Owen was asleep in a tent with about twenty more, when his mother, who had been drinking, stole out and left him. Owen’s mother did not care for her child ; she cared for nothing but drink, so that the boy’s rags were easily explained. ‘ Archer’s Tent,’ in which Owen was sleeping, was not a pleasant place, nor were they pleasant people beneath it. Dirty clothes, dirty ‘faces, and dirty characters belonged to its occupants, most of whom knew well the inside of a prison. Owen’s mother was a beggar and a thief, and bore a very bad character. She had often threatened to drown herself. She had repeated the old threat upon the night when she disappeared from the tent. Q.uite early the next morning the sleepers in the tent left it, until there were few beside Owen rernaining there. One of these, a woman in a grey plaid shawl, called to Owen and asked him where his mother was, and what was his name. He could not tell what had become of his mother ; his name was ‘ Owen,’ nothing more. Finding tliat the boy was hungry, IMrs. Tarby, as she was called — her real name was Tarby Chickney — gave him a piece of bread, which he ate eagerly. AVhen he had finished it, he looked wistfully at Mr. Tarby's barrow and the donkey jirepared to draw it, and then he boldly asked for a ride. The man and his wife were going to London — they were then at Markshire Downs — and Owen had a short ride over the Downs into the town, when Tarby bade him get down and run away. He got down, but he turned his running to better account, for he kept up with the donkey-trap, much to the annoyance of its owner. Mrs. Tarby was kinder, and seemed to like the forlorn lad ; and when her husband took the donkey out of the barrow, and lay down to sleep under an elm -tree for a short time, she asked Owen as to what he would do if bis mother stayed away altogether. ‘ I should live, mum,’ said the boy. ^ Why, I can sing songs in the street^ — comic ones, and I can throw hand-springs and flip- flap«;.’ * Haven’t you any relations in the country ?’ ^ What’s t‘hat ?’ * Any uncles, aunts, cousins .?’ * Never heard on them if I had.’ ^ A\"ouldn’t you like to be something, boy ? ’ asked the woman. ‘ I think if I was a boy I should like to be something, and ashamed of always skulking about the streets.’ * The story of Owen is witten by F. W. Robinson, and it is well worth reading. The book may be borrowed from most lending libraries. ‘Nobody will have me. I am a bad character, mum. My mother’s a bad character, too. ... If you had been my mother now, I might - ’ he began. ‘ Might what ?’ ‘ Oh ! never mind, now. AVhat’s the odds ? ’ ‘ You know right from wrong, don’t you ?’ asked Mrs. Tarby. ‘ I don’t know as I do,’ with a pull at the peak of his cap. ‘ No one has ever shown me the difference.’ ‘ When you would like to know the difference, though I’m no more a scholar than yoii are, I will try to show you if you will call on me.’ ‘At Hannah Street — the greengrocer’s ? ’ ‘ Yes. How do you know that ? ’ ‘ 1 know where Tarby lives. I’ve knowed Tarby for years. I took to Tarby ever since he whopped policeman 92.’ The greengrocer was often getting himself into trouble, and it was to one of these occasions that Owen referred. When they reached London, Mrs. Tarby said good-bye to the homeless boy, and bade him go and look for his mother about Lambeth, in the woman’s old haunts, and she slipped two pennies into the boy’s hands, and wished that she could give him more. Her kind words and kind actions touched the poor child’s heart ; he had received so few of either during his little lifetime, and he felt very grateful to Mrs. Tarby Chickney. Three months later, and close on Christ mas-time, Owen stood watching the shop or shed at the corner of Hannah Street. He was more thin, pinched, haggard, and ragged than ever. Night after night, for above a week, the boy had watched there, and no sign of Mrs. Tarby had he seen ; and he knew by the drawn blind in the little back parlour that she was ill— very ill. His heart beat quickly as he saw Tarby himself come out, and, although it was not more than seven o'clock, put up first one shutter and then another--Owen knew them to be signs of death. as she indeed dead — she who had been his only friend ? He darted across the road and entered the little shop. {Concluded at page 218.) AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM. Case 155. Mummy of a Baby. ^ UNTIE,’ said wise little John, ‘ The baby I see very well. But where can its mummy have gone. Auntie — I hope you can tell .f’ ‘ And why did she tie the poor thing In a bundle made out of a mat ? My mummy would never have done A deed half so cruel as that.’ M,

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CHATTERBOX. 211 A BRAVE GIRL. A ® {Continued from page 205.) I whispered, catching J arm, ^ they are talking j&L (y^ of the massacre. I heard (R\ iWIx^Tf? Oossam say, ‘Cawnpore.’ A 1 ^ ^ ^ ^ thought they were,’ ^ she answered, straining her and ears. ^ ^ father hadn’t gone to bed. Joan, he .6 can’t be asleep. Let’s go and tell him.’ ' ^ Of course, he’s asleep,’ said J oan, shaking: off my hand. ‘ Father is so tired ; he falls asleep | directly.’ ‘ But, Joan/ I hazarded, ‘ if anything should happen ! ’ * Don’t be a silly, Sara. Fancy waking poor father up to tell him that the servants are talking round a bonfire ! Of course, they want to talk about the massacre. Haven’t we been talking about it all day ? ’ ‘ And father locked all the doors before he went to bed, Joan.’ ‘ Of course he did. Besides, no one could get inside without Lady warning us. You will take care of us, my beauty, won’t you?’ said Joan, going down on her knees to pat the dog that had followed us into the bath-room. ^ Lady wouldn’t let any one come into the house without letting us know,’ she added, confidently, holding her up to the window, and laying her cheek against her sleek black head. ' See, Sara, they are letting the fire burn low; they are not going to sit up much longer.’ ‘ And there’s Slieikismail getting up,’ I added, as Father McCarthy’s butler rose from the ground. He stood lingering a moment or two, then moved away from the group, and left the compound. ‘ Now Gungadeen’s going. I wonder whether Sakeena knows what he has been up to to-night P ’ Gungadeen was our groom. Sakeena was his wife. We had had Gungadeen the longest of our servants — nearly four years. Father liked him : he was a quiet, simple fellow, and a good servant. His wife, Sakeena, wa.s pretty — unusually fair for a Hindoo woman, and had very pleasing manners. She had a baby about two years old, a dear little thing, that Joan and I were always playing with. We used to buj^ toys, too, for it, and I often made a bright-coloured Izoorta for it to wear. A koorta is a kind of chemise that little native babies wear. Sakeena was very grateful for our little gifts, and Gungadeen was proud when we noticed his baby. Joan and I stood watching at the window a little while longer, till by-and-by the group broke up one by one, and each disappeared within his own quarters, and retired for the night. * There ! they’ve all gone,’ said Joan, kissing Lady on the head. ‘ I say, Sara, how late we are ! ’ ‘ Yes,’ I answered. ^ I don’t think father would be pleased. Let us fly, Joan. It’s time we were in bed ! ’ ‘Father/ said Joan next morning, ‘the servants lighted a bonfire in the compound last night, and sat round it talking — after you had gone to bed ; and Father McCarthy’s Slieikismail was sitting talking with them, too.’ ‘How did you get to know that?’ said father, looking up quickly from his plate. ‘ We saw a light flickering on the trees from the sitting-room, and I went and peeped out of the bathroom window. And I heard Cossam say Cawn- pore ” distinctly, father.’ ‘ Oh ! ’ said father, trying to speak lightly, ‘ they were exchanging ideas over the massacre. Eveiy- body is talking of unhappy Cawnpore.’ But he looked grave, and didn’t seem to care any more for his breakfast. He was away all day — as usual — at the Fort. He was so busv at that time that he couldn’t come home for tiffin even. AVe always sent him his tiffin, that is his lunch. Then he came home about five, when we had dinner. He came home that evening more tired than usual, and looked worried and anxious. ‘Johnnie,’ said he, suddenly, ‘ have you forgotten how to load a gun ?’ I caught the expression of Joan’s eyes as they turned to his— startled !— and a feeling of great terror seized me. ‘ I don’t know, father ; I dare say I could manage it. I’m out of practice, of course,’ said Joan. She spoke steadily, though that startled look was still in her eyes. They looked at each other straight for five seconds without another word. Then father said, ‘ You used to load and fire off a gun quite easily a few years ago, Johnnie.’ ‘ Y'es/ said Joan ; ‘ and I could learn again ! ’ ‘ Father,’ I said, ‘ why do you want Joan to learn again ? ’ I suppose they saw the terror I felt in my face. A spasm crossed his face as he looked from mine to J oan’s. I was the coward of the family. J oan had always been brave. ‘I would be happier, when I’m away all day at the Fort, to know that Johnnie could use a pair of pistols or a gun. You used to be a good shot, Johnnie ! ’ ‘ And I’ll be a good shot again, father ! ’ They both spoke lightly. It was to calm me, I know. They knew what a coward I was. ‘ Father,’ I said, ‘ there’s nothing wrong with our troops, is there ? ’ AVe had stationed at Mhow a battery of European artillery, and two regiments of native troops. ‘ Nothing wrong,’ said father, cheerfully ; ‘ we can depend upon the loyalty of both our native regiments, and Holkar has given out that his troops can be de¬ pended upon, too.’ Holkar was the Bajah of Indore, a large city fourteen miles from Mhow. It was at stations where the native troops mutinied, and got the better of the Europeans, that the fright¬ ful massacres took place. But at Mhow, and all places for many miles round, the native troops were

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Preparing for an Attack. considered loyal, and np to this, rumours of the mutiny came to us only from distant toAvns. 'Nothing wrong,’ said father again, 'hut as I said before, Sara, I would be happier when I’m away all day to know that Johnnie could fire off a gun.’ ' Shall I begin practising to-day, father ? Sara, if you look like that when nothing’s wrong, what will you do if real danger comes? Father only means that it is best to be prepared.’ 'That is just what I mean, Johnnie,’ repeated father, with a look of relief. 'No danger may come near us, please God. But, children, it is best to be prepared ! ’ He got. up from the table, and put his hand on my shoulder as he spoke. ‘ We can pray, Sara, to be

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CHATTERBOX. 213 kept from danger. We can pray, too, for cool heads should trouble come/ I said nothing. I couldn't say anything. None of us spoke for a little. I looked at Joan’s face. It was white from excitement. But her eyes were not startled now. That was Joan’s way. When I was terrified, Joan always became cool. ^Well, are you ready, Johnnie?’ asked father, presently. ^ Yes,’ said Joan, jumping up. They went into the library, and I followed, fori was afraid to be left anywhere alone. I think from that evening I hardly ever lost sight of Joan. Even in the daytime I used to follow her about, and if I was obliged to stay in one room about any particular duty, I made Joan stop with me. The library was a room where father kept all his treasures — things besides books. The walls were decorated with guns, and pistols, and swords, and trophies of the old shooting days ; the jaws of alligators — from a baby alligator’s tiny jaw to a full-grown one, whose jaw covered half the wall ; wild boars’ heads, and a stuffed flamingo, that stood six feet high, with its scarlet wings out¬ spread. Father reached down one of the guns. ‘ We need some caps, Johnnie,’ he said. ^ See, J ohnnie, the caps are in this drawer, and the shot and slugs in that, and the powder canister here. We won’t want any shot to-day ; but it’s as well for you to know where everything is kept.’ 'No shot, father?’ exclaimed Joan. ' We’re not going to practise shooting ; it will make too much noise. I don’t want the servants to know what we are about.’ He led the way into an empty room at the side of the house. It was a large bungalow, much too big for our needs ; and there was nothing in this room but a few travelling boxes. I could never understand anything about guns. I sat down on one of the boxes in the coiner of the room, and watched father and Joan. After all these years, it comes back to my memory like a bad dream. ' Pull up the cock, Johnnie — put the cap on the nipple. Pull the trigger,’ and so on, over and over again. That’s all I know about it. The gun was not loaded with shot, and when Joan pulled the trigger, the cap went off with a snap, and a little puff of smoke ; and I sat with my knees knocking to¬ gether, wondering whether Joan would ever shoot a man dead. Every evening after dinner they practised like that with pistols, as well as with guns. Father urged me often to try and learn, but I was so nervous of fire-arms that I handled them too clumsily to succeed. This went on for two or three weeks. Everything was quiet. But at night the servants often made a bonfire, and sat round it talking till quite late. We hardly went out at all, and by-and-by father thought that it would be best for us never to leave the premises. He didn’t like us to pass the sepoys at the Picket-house. {Contimied at page 222.) THE WILD HYACINTH AND WOOD ANEMONE. rpiIE wild hyacinth and wood anemone are not JL only two of the plants which most frequently carpet our woods in the months of May and dune, but also they are two of the most graceful ; they are often to be seen side by side in great profusion, the purple colour of the hyacinth contrasting with the delicate white of the anemone. The hyacinth has always been a favourite flower, with ancients as well as moderns, both in its wild

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214 CHATTERBOX. and in its cultivated state. It was grown in England by Gerarde in a.d. 1596, but doubtless it had long before been improved by the Dutch, with whom the fondness for this plant has at times amounted almost to a mania. It is also a native of Turkey, where it is highly valued by the followers of Mahomet, who believe that the floor of Paradise is strewed with hyacinths and precious gems. There are many traditions among heathen writers about the origin of the hyacinth ; one of them is, that the flower sprang from the blood of the brave Ajax, and that on the leaves appeared the letters ■A- I — at once the first syllable of the hero’s name and a common Greek exclamation of sorrow. The name anemone is an English word made from a Greek one, and means ^ Wind-flower : ’ it was given to it from the mistaken notion that the petals expanded only when the wind blew. R. B. PEET-WASHIISTG OW MAUNDY THURSDAY. VERY year, when Easter comes round again, we read in the newspapers an ac¬ count of the distribution of the Queen’s Maundy gifts. A number of poor men and women come to the chapel in St. .Tames 8 Palace, and here they receive from Her Majesty’s almoner some little coins, made for the purpose, , which are called ‘ Maundy money ; also other coins contained in purses, oundry presents of food and clothes are given to the deserving, and there is a special service on the occa¬ sion. But formerly the King or Queen of England did something more than tliis to show that'they were humble : they followed the example of Jesus Ohrist, and washed with their own hands, as He did at the Last Supper, the feet of some poor persons -on each Maundy Thursday. When this custom began in England is not known. Probably it began with one of the Saxon kings, but we read of it beino- observed early in Christian history, and some think the name of ' Maundy’ alludes to the mandate or command given to the Apostles. More likely it comes from the old word maund^ which meant a basket— food and other articles given away at this testival being put in baskets for distribution! Good Queen Bess went through this ceremony many tunes during her reign, and we have a descrip- tion ot the scene when it took place at her Green¬ wich palace one year, for it was not always per- lormed m London. In preparation for Easter the walls of the grand apartment are adorned with palms -—that IS, the flowering tops of willow or sallow — twisted into quaint designs, as was usual, and amongst them the Lent or early daffodils. Splendid are the dre.sses of the group of courtiers standing upon the rusKstrewn floor, while, at a little distance from them, looking very different, wait the poor persons whose feet are to be washed by the Queen. There are thirty-nine of them, for the rule is that there shall be one for each year of her age. Dirty their feet cannot be, though they are to be washed, for they have first been washed by yeomen of the royal laundry with warm water and sweet herbs, and afterwards by the almoner. Queen Elizabeth enters, attended by thirty-nine ladies. All present faU on their^ knees, and, pra3^ers having been said, Her Majesty begins the washing. This ceremony she performs kneeling, and, having washed and wiped each person’s foot, before she goes to another she kisses it, and makes the sign of the cross just above the toes. More prayers follow ; then clothes, food, and money are given to the poor folk. The last of our monarchs to perform this ceremony was James II.; afterwards the Lord Almoner, who was generally a bishop, took it, and some time in the reign of George H. it seems to have been dropped. Not only kings and queens, but all persons able to give to the poor, did so on Maundy Thursday or Good Friday. Our hot cross bun came from a small loaf or cake which the clergy formerly bestowed as an alms, and which was made from a part of the dough which was used for the consecrated w’^afer. Phis cake was flat, not round, at first, and marked deeply with a cross, so that each could easily be broken into four shares. People receiving these kissed them before they ate, and a piece of one was often kept a year in the house till the festival came round again, because they thought that it secured any place from being burnt down. The Thursday was also called Shear Thursday, being the one when the clergy had their heads shorn in preparation for faster. j. K. s. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 35. — Acrostic. A CELEBRATED Athenian who was specially famed for a valuable moral quality of great use in all our dealings with each other. 1. A land measure ; a town in Syria besieged and taken by a warlike English king. 2. The founder and first king of an important city in the south of Europe. 3. A country unconnected with any other. 4. A law existing in some countries, which excludes women from the government. 5. Too often wasted. 6. A fort in Russia near which the Russians were defeated by the French and English. 7. The principal silver coin used in the United States of North America. 8. One who leaves his country to settle in another. 9. A wise man ; a fragrant herb. C. C. 36. — Changed Words. 1. Change Carp to Sole. 2. ,, Lose to Find, fl. „ One to Six 4- )) Door to Gate. 5. Change Iron to Lead. 6. „ Give to Taka 7. ,, Cook to Meat. 8. „ Meat to Fish. C. C.

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CHATTERBOX. 215 Word Puzzles. 37. — In the following words, find others in the order in which the letters stand without transposing. A word of nine letters meaning reconciliation, com¬ pensation. 1, 2, is a much-used preposition ; 2, 3, is also a pre¬ position ; 2, 3, 4, 5, is a sound ; 3, 4, 5, is a unit ; 6, 7, is a personal pronoun; 6, 7, 8, is a large part of the human race; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, is to make compensation; and the last letter is the same as the second. 38. — A word of six letters, at one time threatening great danger to our country. 1, 2, 3, is a part of a tree, of the sea, and of a human bo ly ; 3, 4, 5, is what no one would wish to be ; 4, 5, 6, ip a woman’s name. C. C. 39. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. Two travellers, A and B, set out to walk in exactly opposite directions at eight a.m. A walks at the rate of five miles an hour, and B at the rate of four miles an hour. What will be the distance between them at half-past twelve of the same day ? 2. What is that number whose fourth part is two more than its fifth ? 3. Add two figures to 9 so as to make it less than 10. 4. Bind two numbers whose sum is 35, and whose product is 34. 5. A schoolmaster, being asked how many pupils he had in his school, said : One-half are learning history, one-fourth geography, one-seventh grammar, and three are idle. Howjnany were there? C. C. 40. — Geographical Anagrams. Suburbs of London. 1. Ye learn. 2. West Araby. 3. Prize lakes B. 4. Idle men. 5. I match M. 6. T. bit her hero. 7. Shady men. 8. A best rate. 9. A vile garb. 10. I glean. 11. On ten kings. 12. Test for age. 13. Our Nancy, B. 14. This rowel. 15. Hack me, Ben. 16. Get in now, N. C. C. [Answers at page 227.] 34. — 1. Geraldine. 2. Kate Dora. 3. Alice Mary. 4. Mary Anne. 5. Kate Norah. 6. Catharine. 7. Bhoda. 8. Cornelia. 9. Bertha. 10. Agnes. 11. Dorothy. 12. Deborah. OLD CUSTOMS. RIDING IN A SEDAN-CHAIR. rilllERE is a story told about an Irishman who was X promised a ride in a sedan-chair, at the time when they were common in London. Plis friends, by way of a joke, brought out a chair which had neither seat nor bottom, and put it over him. Two men then took up the poles, and they walked him about in this way for some time. When they stopped. the Irishman said that it might be very fine, but if he had not be'en told he was riding, he should have thought he was walking ! No doubt, many of those . who^ did really ride in these chairs, while they were fashionable, would have done better if they had walked; but one advantage was, that a sedan-chair could bo carried along narrow alleys, where a carriage had no space to pass. Then there were services which a gentleman might render to a lady who was being thus conveyed, assisting her in, and, as our illustration shows, also helping her out, with umbrella to shelter her, if needful. People who were particular about being escorted properly, frequently had a friend or servant walking beside the chair as they were being carried along. There might be good reasons for having one or more protectors in going through streets that were crowded, and especially when the person riding was known by sight to some people. Instances are recorded of persons being mobbed while in a sedan-chair, and pelted ; the attendants,- of course, could not escape ns a coachman might, by driving at extra speed. Indeed, they would be more likely to drop their poles and run, leaving the sedan-chair and its occupant to the mercy of an impudent crowd. Cattle, too, were driven along the streets in a very careless waj^, and such an event has happened as a bullock thrusting his head into the window of a sedan, breaking the glass and frightening a lady seated within. Amongst stories connected with sedan-chairs, it is told that the Scotch Lord Balmerino, who took part in the rebellion of a.d. 1745, when on his way to the Tower of London, popped his head out of the window of his sedan, and asked a boy to bring him some of the ^ honey-blobs,’ as he called them — that is, gooseberries — which he saw in a basket. Accidents were apt to happen to careless, or even careful chair-men. The streets of London were badly looked after then; holes in the roads, and un¬ seen obstacles at night, sometimes made the chair¬ men give the sedan an unpleasant jolt ; and it now and then happened that one was upset in a collision of vehicles along a busy thoroughfare. Many of the gentry had private sedan-chairs, which were carried by their own servants in handsome liveries. Probably the oldest kind of conveyance for carrying people by ijand, not by the help of wheels, was the Litter, which we often read about in early English history. It was something like the modern hand- ambulance. The person did not always lie flat, but they could sit upright, supported by pillows. Litters were used not only by the sick, but by kings, or nobles, or ladies, who were taken in them from place to place. There were also horse-litters. Coaches are said to have been introduced by William Boonen, a Dutchman, who afterwards be¬ came the Queen’s coachman, in a.d. 15(34. A writ of the Privy Seal office informs us that the sedan- chair first appeared in London on September 27th, A.D. 1(334, Sir Sanders Duncomb being the intro¬ ducer. The name was suggested by the town of Sedan, on the Continent, whose citizens are said to have first used this kind of conveyance. The suc¬ cessor to the sedan is the Bath-chair, which most of our readers have seen. J. H. S. C.

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CHATTERBOX. The Sedan-chair. iliiLi

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CHATTERBOX. 217 “ ‘I see the shutters are up,’ said Owen. ‘I aui sorry.’ ”

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218 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. OWEN : A WAIF. (Concluded from page 210.) I SEE the shutters are up/ said Owen. T’m sorry. . . . She — she — gave me the first good word, and that’s more than my own mother ever did. She promised to tell me what was wrong, if I ever thought I didn’t know it from the right — and now she’s dead, Tarby.’ ‘ Not the old woman — not Polly, boy. It aren’t so bad as that.’ ‘ It’s — it’s - ’ * The babby — the little one that was only born a week ago, and, like all the rest, it is dead.’ ‘ Oh ! I’m so glad it’s dead ! ’ ^ Oh ! are you r*’ ^ Instead of Mrs. Tarb}^, you know,’ said the boy. ^ It wouldn’t have done for us to have lost her.’ ‘Well, it wouldn’t have mattered to you much, that I can see.’ ‘ I don’t know that,’ said the boy. ‘ I can’t say as much, nor more can you. I came to ask about tlie wrong, and she will tell me when she’s better.’ Whether Mrs. Tarby asked her husband, when the boy had gone, as to his visit, Owen never knew, but he had not gone far before he heard himself called, and looking round he saw Tarby coming after him. ‘Here, she wants to see you;’ and after that message Owen was happy, for Mrs. Tarby became to him a mother, and Tarby’s house became the home of the homeless child. The ‘wrong’ of ijvhich the waif had spoken was this: There lived in London a certain man — there are many such — calling himself a doctor, but, as Owen explained, ‘ he wouldn’t doctor me if I was ever so ill; he buys pocket-ha udkerchersJ To him, after trying hard to live by other means, Owen had betaken himself, and the ‘ doctor ’ offered to find him work. Work of the kind this man could give would most likely have Pd Owen to jail, for his proposed master bought stolen goods. Mrs. Tarby saw the danger, and saw, too, that Owen was anxious to lead an honest life if he had the chance. The chance given him, Owen was not the boy to throw it away. Two years passed away ; two busy years they had been, both to the Tarbies and to Owen. The boy had grown some inches in the two years, and was looking better and better cared for. He had lost a good deal of his paleness and all that pinched expression which famine had scored on his face. He had kept honest and faithful to the Tarby s, and he was of great use to Mr. Tarby now. He could wheel a barrow at eleven years of age, and conduct business in the Lambeth Marsh, even of a Saturday night ; and had the quickest eye for a bad halfpenny of all the youths in the district. . . . No distance was too great, no load too heavy, no hour too late or too early for him in the Tarby ser'vdce, and the green¬ grocer, though he had not a good temper himself, could admire Owen’s good temper when he saw it. One evening Mrs. Tarby called to Owen, and pointed to some greens and potatoes, telling him they had been waiting a couple of hours, and bidding him take them to No. 6 in Jenkins Street, to a new customer by the name of Dell. When Owen reached the house the door was opened by a little girl of about ten years old. Her father and uncle were sitting cosily in the comfoi’table kitchen, and, hear¬ ing who it was, Mr. Dell, Ruth’s uncle and the master of the house, called Owen in, and gave him a lecture on being punctual. Then, taking out one shilling and three halfpence, he bade the boy put ‘ Paid ’ to a slip of paper which he passed him. ‘ I can’t write,’ Owen confessed slowly and almost sullenly. Mr. Dell and Ruth were greatly surprised, and advised Owen to lose no time in learning both to read and write. Nor would Mr. Dell listen to the ex¬ cuse, as he thought it, of ‘ no time,’ but he urged the lad to attend an evening school. As he was leaving, after having made his sign — a cross, upon the slip of paper — Mr. Dell said to his niece, ‘ Here, Ruth, put this on the file, and show the dunce out.’ Those words were bitter words to poor Owen, but they led to good results, for in about six months’ time Owen had made such good progress at a night school, that he could read, write, and sum fairly well. It was, indeed, a proud day for Owen when he could again call on Mr. Dell and sign his name ^ Owen Owen ’ in full. There was at least one man in Mr. Dells little house who knew how Owen had come by his surname, and that was Ruth’s father, police constable ‘ 92,’ who, years before, when Owen had been an uncared-for and hungry waif, and stolen cheese from a shop-board, had been obliged to lock him up. It was at the police station that the second Owen had been added to his name, because he knew no other that belonged to him. ‘ 92 ’ knew him again, although he kept his own counsel, and Owen felt that he knew him. The policeman, when ‘off duty/ w^as a kind, fatherly fellow, and the boy grew to like him, so that there was a good understanding between them. Another little baby, a girl, was born to the Tarbies, and for a whole six months Tarby had kept from drink, and attended to his business and his home, which had been a great deal happier since little Mary had come to cheer it. This state of things, however, was not to last long. There was a visit from ‘ 92 ’ one sad evening, to ask for a fresh suit of clothes for Tarby, who was then in the station- house, having got hurt in fighting, and, what was stiU worse, having hurt some one else, police constable ‘ 107/ very much. The hurts were so severe to the police constable that he died, and Tarby had to pay dearly for his fresh outbreak, being sentenced to transportation beyond the seas for fourteen years. At his last interview with his wife and baby and Owen, the unhappy man bade the boy remember, ‘ She's been kind to you ; ’ adding, ‘ she has only you now. You won’t grow too big to forget her?’ It was not for long that Owen had it in his power to care for his more than mother. She was so grisved and broken down by her trouble that when Owen was fourteen she died, leaving to the tender care of the waif whom she had befriended her own little girl* James Cassidy.

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CHATTERBOX. 219 THE MAlSr WITH THREE ACCOMPLISHMENTS. N the olden days, servants and labourers in need of situations used to stand in the market¬ place ready for masters and employers to choose among them. An arrangement cer¬ tainly simple, but somewhat harassing to the feelings of those in waiting. Such was the scene in the market-place one day of a certain town in the south of England, when a farmer passed along intent upon finding a trusty head servant. Many men were there looking out for employers, and, guessing his business, they eagerly brought themselves to his notice. But the farmer, who was a shrewd judge of character, seemed hard to please. He had gone the round of the place, and was knitting his brows, thinking what to do next, when he caught sight of an acquaintance talking to a man who seemed to be the stamp of servant he wished to find. The man was strong and muscular, and with much quiet intellicrence and firmness in his face. After some little talk, the farmer asked : ‘ What can you do ? ^ ‘ Well, master,’ was the reply, * I can do almost everything ye would want me to do ; but besides that, I can do three things in particular.’ ‘ What are they ? ’ ‘Well, master’ — he always began thus — ‘in the first place, I can keep your children from the fire ; next, I can sleep in a gale of wind; and last, but not least, I can tell ye who be your true friends.’ The farmer did not appear to set much value upon these fancy accomplishments, but being satis¬ fied as to John’s more solid qualities, he arranged that he was to drive home to the farm with him that evening. When put to the test, John’s powers were fully up to the mark, and the farmer Avas well pleased with his new man, and though he did not praise him much before his face, he often did so behind his back. As yet, however, there had been no chance for the display of John’s special gifts. But he bided his time without saying anything. One day his master and mistress were going to be absent from home, and owing to some compli¬ cation in household matters, there was no one to look after the farmer’s three young children except John. He, however, promised to keep guard over them, and to ‘ hand them over safe and sound ’ to their parents on their return. Now was the time to use the method of his own devising to keep children from at least one danger — fire. He accordingly piled up a fire in the parlour so huge, and giving out such tremendous heat, that the poor children were only too glad to stay in the remotest corner away from it. The trust was fulfilled; the children were safe and sound, and only rather hot when the farmer and his wife returned home. A few months afterwards, towards nightfall, a liijh, squally wind rose, which later became quite a gale. The farmer, waking out of his first sleep, and suddenly mindful of certain newly-built hay-ricks, determined to go and tell John to see about their safety. Getting up, he went to the man’s room, and no answer being given to bis loud knocks, he rapped again and again, but still Avith no response from within. Even a g*ood kick at the fast-bolted door Avas without result, and finally the farmer departed in wrath, and determined to go himself to see Avhether the ricks Avere safe, or flying in fragments about the yards. On reaching the ricks he saAV that they had all been AA^ell and tightly covered over Avith tarpaulin, and were perfectly secured from the gale. The next morning he questioned John as to his heavy sleep the night before, and that Avorthy re¬ plied, ‘ Didn’t I tell ye, master, that I could sleep sound in a gale of Avind ? What did ye want to go and trouble yourself about the ricks for, Avhen j e might have known that I couldn’t have bided quiet if I thought they Avas being bloAvn about? Ye will knoAV how to trust a man another time, ye will ! ’ John, though making a pretence of haAdng had his feelings hurt, was really chuckling over Avhat he considered a good joke. Thus did he display his second accomplishment, and it was not very long before he was able to show off the third and most difficult one — the one, too, which gave him the keenest satisfaction. The occasion was this : His master and mistress Avere going to give a large supper party, and sent round all the invitations by John. At every house, after having delivered the invitation and received an acceptance, he said, in a mysterious and confidential manner to the coming guest, ‘Just^ between our¬ selves, I thought I would give ye a hint like as how I fancy matters’ — and here he tapped his pocket, ‘ I reckon that it is not all square with the master. He has been a speculating a wonderful lot these last few months, and I expect he is wanting to borrow money of ye. Maybe, I thinks to myself, the gents would like to know what’s up, and, of course, you won’t let on to the master as how I told ye.’ Every one faithfully promised secrecy, and having sown such seed at each house, John departed chuck¬ ling, and when, having finished all his business, he was Avell on the way home, he might have been seen standing right in the middle of the road venting his feelings in roars of laughter, greatly to the astonish¬ ment of a cow AAffiich was standing staring at him over the hedge. The day of the party arrived, and shortly before the appointed hour, the farmer and his Avife were AA^aiting in some surprise for the rest of their guests, only two or three having come. After the lapse of some time, the farmer rang for John, to see if he could explain the non-arrival of the full number of guests invited. When he appeared at the door, his master said ; ‘ What were you up to the other day, John ? I thought you told me that all except tAvo gentlemen accepted my invitation ? ’ ‘ And so they did, master, they all promised; but you see, only the best on them have turned up. I was just a-coming to tell ye that the other gents have been sending apologies as how they can’t come to-night ! But, master,' the gents sitting there be

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Skua Gulls defendiug their Young. our true friends, though ye seem to think the others e true as well. I don’t mind telling ye how I know they he, for ye might find it a piece of useful information. Well, then, I just said to each one of them gents as I went to on Saturday, as how I fancied perhaps ye wanted to borrow some money ; so ye see, master, on considering the matter again, they thought as how they would rather stay away, except them gents there. And now, master, I’ve told ye who be your true friends, and I'm going round now to tell the others as how it were all a joke.’ With that John was departing, but he was stopped by his master, who rated him soundly, and said that the only thing now was to set it right, and that he must never try that method again of finding out real friends, lie had never borrowed money from

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CI-I ATTER BOX . 221 friend or foe, and never intended to, and John must go and say this to every one. Poor John slipped away rather crestfallen, but made amends for bis fault, by going round again to all his master’s guests and telling them the true case. He never aired his three pet accomplishments again, but he pursued the even tenor of his way without causing his master any further surprise, and finally he died at the farm at three-score years and ten. K. M. D. SKUA GULLS. The Skua Gull is one of the largest of British sea- fowl. It breeds in the Shetland Islands, although it is sometimes seen on the coasts and fishing-grounds further south. It does not associate in flocks, like other gulls, seldom more than two or three being seen at one time. It measures about two feet in length ; the plumage is brown, streaked with a paler shade of the same colour ; it derives its strange name from its peculiar cry of ^ Skui, squi ! ’ The nest of this bird is not built on the face of precipitous roclts, like the nests of other gulls, but is a simple cavity in the moss and heather of the highest moorlands; the eggs, never more than two in number, are olive brown. The skua is a bold and rather vicious bird, and is a terrible thief. It gets its food chiefly by robbing, or even killing, other sea-fowl, in order to obtain for itself some coveted morsel. But it is a brave bird, and at the season of the year when its little ones are weak and helpless, a pair of these gulls have been known to drive off even an eagle which threatened to prey upon the young. The eagle, of course, being much more powerful than the skua, often gains the victory in a contest of this kind ; but never till the poor parents are maimed or slain. K. of treasures : hapless crabs, star-fish, and gorgeous anemones paying with their lives for the pleasure of their captors. All these delights, mingling with those less noticed— the glorious effects of light and colour and the varying music of the sea — belong to all seaside children alike; but some of the thoughtful boys and girls, to whom knowledge is happiness, may wish for something more, and it is with the hope of increasing the gratification of these youngsters that I am writing a few little papers about some of the most common shells which may be picked up on the sea-shore. I remember quite well my own delight in finding shells, but I must confess that they pleased me solely because they were pretty, and their varieties of form and colour satisfied my fancy, but here my interest ended. The shells I cared for were bright, clean little things, smooth and pearly inside, and I make no doubt that, had I been asked why some of them which I carefully threw away had ugly, jelly-like things in them, I should have answered, without hesitation, ^ Why, some little sea-creature found the empty shells and got inside.’ As to how the shells were formed, or how they came there, I had no idea, and I doubt if most of my young readers are wiser than I was. Now, let us take, first, a very easy creature to recognise, and called the ^ Kazor-shell,’ though its proper name i^the ^Solen.’ It is usually to be found without difficulty, though more frequently as a single shell, and that often broken by the sea. Don’t be contented with this, for it is quite incom¬ plete without a second — and, indeed, if you want to see the real solen at home, you must wade along the sand close to low water-mark. If you look carefully, you will see here and there a small opening, something like a keyhole, and there, if you dig down into the sand for a foot or more, you will find Mr. Solen The Solen or Eazor-fish. A HANDFUL OF SHELLS. I. IS any pleasure, shared alike by girls and boys, equal to a visit to the seaside ? — that never- failing wonder-land where new delights are con¬ tinually awaiting them. Sand castles for the little ones, exciting chases between successive waves after .some precious piece of seaweed, rocks and cliffs for the adventurous to climb, expeditions with bare feet over weed-grown stones and amongst bewitching little pools; triumphant returns with buckets full sticking straight up, standing, as it were, on his tail (only he has not got one). Now, I will tell you something of his history. When he was a tiny egg, his mother launched him and a host of brothers and sisters out into some shallow water ; but, fearing that they might drift away too soon, she held them with long, thin threads, which she unwound from her own body. As the little eggs went tossing about in the water a change came over each one, and the egg turned into a curious, bag-shaped creature, with¬ out any head. Below it grew a broad disc, which enabled it to float about in safety without its mother’s leading-strings, and a little speck of an eye appeared.

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222 CHATTERBOX. by which it could fiu 1 its way to some safe place | whereon to anchor. There the little mollusc settles down to home-life, and by degrees the disc wdiich supported him on his travels vanishes; also, now that he has no longer to find his way, the eje-speck dis¬ appears. His next development is to assume the mantle, which proves him to be a person of sufficient age to begin life on his own account. This mantle is a kind of tissue which wraps him round, and its marvellous properties excel any of the wonders of the Arabian Nights, No sooner is he invested in it than it begins to exercise its magic power of attract¬ ing to itself certain products of the sea-water, which gradually clothe the solen in two strong shells, united firmly ^ by a hinge. Day by day these shells accumulate thicker layers, until the soft body of the mollusc is protected by a firm coat of mail, from which at pleasure he puts out a mii'icular foot, enabling him to burrow down into the sand, and hold on tightly there when the tide recedes. So far Mr. Solen is a complete animal ; but, being an animal, even molluscs require food, and how is a headless creature, shut up in a shell, to obtain it ? Very sim])ly. The ends of his shell, we notice, gape open a little, and he has the power of protruding two long, flexible tubes, with one of which he fishes for his dinner, whilst with the other he rejects the salt w\aier which enters with it. In some places solens are caught in great numbers and sold for food. To catch them easily, the fisher¬ men drop a pinch of salt into the 'holes that mark their hiding-places, when the poor little mollusc Slowly drags himself up through the sand, thinking his beloved ^ tide is coming in, and so falls an easy victim to his enemies. Helena Heath. WHICH LOVED BEST? LOVE you, mother,' said little John ; ^ Then, forgetting his work, his cap went on. And he was off to the garden swing. And left her the water and wood to bring. ^ I love you, mother,' said rosy Nell ; ^ I love you better than tongue can tell !' Then she teased and pouted full half that day. Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. ' I love you, mother,' said little Fan ; ^To-day I’ll help you all I can. How glad I am there's no school to-day !' So she rocked the babe till asleep it lay. Then, stepping softly, she fetched the broom. And swept the floor and tidied the room ; Busy and happy all day was she. Helpful and happy as child could be. T love you, mother,' again they said, Three little children going to bed: Hovv do you think that mother guessed Which of them really loved her best? A BBAVE GIRL. {Continued from page 213.) E Picket-house was only a stone’s throw from our gates ; we could see it from our windows, and about a dozen Sepoys were always posted there. ^ What time will the Missy Babas drive out to¬ day?^ Gungadeen was al- Wciys coming to ask in Hindustanee. And he used to look surprised when we kept on saying, ‘We won’t want the carriage to-day.’ Once Gungadeen came for orders when Cossam was clearing the breakfast things, and when we said as usual that we would not need the carriage, Cossam smiled. We fancied he tried to exchange a glaaice with Gungadeen. . Cossam’s smile was not pleasant. It became still less pleasant when he said, presently, ‘ Humours of the mutiny come thick and fast. Missy Baba. It is also rumoured in the bazaar that Mhow shall not escape.' I looked at Joan. I had felt lately, without putting my feelings into actual thoughts, that Cossam had been less civil in his manner to us. ‘ Mhow is not in danger,' said Joan, looking him straight in the face. ‘ But suppose it were ? Sup¬ pose the mutineers came here, wouldn’t our servants tight for us, Cossam ?' Cossam looked on the carpet. He still smiled. ‘ When you pay us, Missy Baba, we tight for you ; when they pay us, we fight for them.' ‘ And you are in our pay now, Cossam,' answered Joan, with a look of scorn. Cossam bowed, and left the room with his eyes still on the carpet. ‘You cowardly wretch!' cried Joan in English. All the other talk had been in Hindustanee. ° ‘Joan,’ I cried, frightened, ‘you shouldn’t have called him that !’ ‘ He doesn’t know English, and he is a cowardly wretch. I'll tell him so in Hindustanee next time.' ‘ I have fancied Cossam hasn’t been so polite in his manners these last few days, Joan.' ‘ So have I,’ she answered. ‘ Gungadeen is just the same, Joan.' ‘He ought to be,’ said Joan, fiercely. ‘We have been good to his child.’ Of course we told father when he came home what Cossam had said. It disturbed him very much, though I don t think he was exactly sur¬ prised. ‘ Father,' said Joan, ‘ why shouldn’t I practise in the compound with the powder and shot, and take aim at the trees ? That Cossam is a fearful coward. He would be a little more civil if he saw me about with a gun. All the servants are cowards/ added J oan, with scorn.

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CI-IATTERBOX. 223 But father Avaa horrified. He forbade her quite sharply. ^ You dou’t know what you are talking about, Johnnie. If you fired a shot in the compound, you might have the picket down on you. Never let the serv ants think you are afraid, nor let them see you handling fire-arms. All we can do is to watch and be prepared. There is nothing to fear from the servants — they are cowards, as Johnnie says. I don’t like to think that they may have communica¬ tion with the Picket-house, that’s all. Please God this trouble will blow over without coming near us,’ he added, sighing. ^ Come, Sara, come and sing us a song. It’s ages since we had Far Away.” ’ ‘Far Away’ was a favourite song of father’s, because his sisters used to sing it in England before he left home. I sat down to the piano and sang it in a trembling voice, while father softly whistled the air. Joan sat very still, with her hands on her lap. Her face was pale. We both felt a foreshadow of coming evil. Father didn’t seem inclined to talk, and we all went early to bed. It was about one o’clock next day, when Joan and I had eaten our tiffin, that Sakeena glided into the room. Her eyes were scared ; she had news in her face. ‘ What is it, Sakeena ? ’ we whispered in a breath. ‘ It’s all over the bazaar. Missy Baba,’ she whis¬ pered in Hindustanee. ‘ They says the Sepoys have mutinied at Indore.’ ‘ Indore ! So near ! Only fourteen miles away ! Sakeena, are you sure ? ’ ‘ So it is said,’ answered Sakeena, rocking herself aud wringing her hands in her sarree. ‘ Oh, Missy Baba, such terrible things! Terrible news, Missy Baba ! They say Sepoys make big fire, and burn twenty, thirty English.’ I couldn’t utter a sound. Joan gave a kind of cry, and held my hand. I felt it trembling. ‘ Gungadeen just come from bazaar,’ added Sakeena, with the tears rolling down her face, ^ Where’s Cossam P ’ asked Joan, hoarsely. ‘ Cossam just gone to bazaar.’ ‘ Sakeena, if you could help us you would, wouldn’t you ?’ asked Joan, lifting her scared face. ‘ Missy Baba very good to the child.’ Sakeena spoke rapidly in Hindostanee. ‘ Sakeena would give her life for Missy Baba. But,’ she added, mourn¬ fully, ‘ what can one helpless woman do ?’ ‘ And Gungadeen ?’ asked Joan. ‘ Gungadeen very sorry. Gungadeen say Missy Baba always good to him.’ Sakeena glided away as she had come, and Joan and I sat huddled together, staring into each other’s blanched faces. She squeezed my hand so hard that it began to ache. ‘ Oh, if father would come ! if father would only come 1 ’ It was all I could think and all I could say. When I became helpless with terror, Joan always picked up her wits. ‘ Sara, the gun ! ’ she cried, ‘ and my pistols ! They ought to be loaded. Come to the library.’ In the library Joan grew calmer. She reached down the gun she used to practise with, and loaded it with powder and shot. Then the pistols. I watched her. Yes, she ought to have been a boy. Terrified as I was, I marvelled at the way she handled the fire-arms. When the weapons were loaded she became brave again. ‘ After all, Sara, it may be only a scare. It will do no harm to have these things by us, anyway.’ ‘ You — you won’t let them go off by accident?’ I said. ‘Pooh!’ Joan answered. I knew she was re¬ covering from her fright. ‘ Bring the pistols,’ she said, taking up the gun to go back to our sitting- room. ‘ Oh, Joan, if you wouldn’t mind coming back for them ! They’re loaded !’ ‘ But they’re not cocked, silly !’ ‘ I’m so nervous of them when they’re loaded.’ ‘ Hold it like this,’ said Joan, taking up one of the pistols. ‘ It can’t go off if you hold it properly.’ I took it up as she bade me because she spoke so earnestly — not in the old jeering way when she used to laugh at me for a coward. We reached the sitting-room in safety, and Joan put the loaded gun carefully in one corner, and laid the pistols on the table. Our sitting-room led out into a roomy glass porch, from which we had a good view of the compound and all the length of the drive. ‘Everything is quiet — the same as usual, Sara,’ said Joan, stepping into the porch. ‘I’m glad we have such an open look-out here.’ ‘ And Lady would bark if any stranger were about the premises,’ I added, feeling my courage coming back as I looked down the peaceful, sunny drive. Lady cocked her ears as I mentioned her name, and came to fawn on me. ‘ Hark, Lady ! ’ I whis¬ pered, holding up my finger; ‘ any one about ?’ Lady was on the alert in an instant, and stood listening with all her might; then she dropped her ears and licked my hand. The best of Lady was that she never barked for nothing ; but no stranger ever entered the compound without her letting us knovv. I had great faith in Lady. ‘ It may be' only a scare about Indore,’ said Joan, presently. ‘ Father says the native troops are held to be thoroughly loyal there.’ ‘ I wish the Picket-house were not so close to our gates. It is that that father worries about, I think. The Sepoys know we are only two girls here alone all day.’ ‘ They don’t know that one of the girls has a loaded gun and a pair of pistols ready for them,’ cried Joan. She took up one of the pistols as she spoke, and her eyes flashed. ‘ Joan, you wouldn’t really ever fire at any one ? ’ ‘Wouldn’t I, though? What else has father been teaching me for ? If one of the rebel Sepoys tried to enter our bungalow, I would do my best to shoot him dead.’ Joan looked as if she meant it. I shivered. ‘They don’t come by ones, Joan,’ I whispered; ‘they come by dozens.’ ‘ Father told me when we were practising that many a man has saved his life by firing a shot in time. I hope I may never have to use my fire-arms. But it makes me less nervous to know that I can use these pistols and that gun.’

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“ They say the Sepoys have mutinied at Indore.” ^ I wish I were as brave as you, Joan. Oh, Joan ! if you were like me, we should both have died of fright long ago. I get so terrified at times. You cannot imagine the awful terror I feel.’ ^ Yes, I can,’ said Joan. ‘I was dreadfully fright¬ ened when Sakeena came in wringing her hands and crying ; but,’ and her eyes gleamed, ^ I wouldn’t sit still or cower away if one of those murderous wretches came at you or me. Do you know, Sara, I feel then I would like to take his life. I wonder,’ she added suddenly^ ‘ if the sentry at the picket is at his post ; ’ and Joan carried a high chair into the porch. By standing there on a chair we could just catch a glimpse of the head of the Sepoy on duty as he went to and fro, doing ^ sentry-go.’ {Continued at -page 228.)

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“Begone! you vile monsters — begone!’

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226 CHATTERBOX. PIGS m THE WRONG PLACE. I^OW, what in the world does this mean, ^ These monsters how dare they come here ? Among my best flowers They’ve been routing for hours : I’ll have to eject them, that’s clear. But why should they ever have come ? I did not invite them I’m sure ; My roses are gone. My pinks trodden on : Such mischief no man can endure. I'd rather have lived in the town, I’d rather have married a wife, Than have lived near a farm Where of pigs there’s a swarm, To worry and trouble my life. Begone ! you vile monsters — begone ! And never come back if you’re wise, To tear up my flowers, "Where I’ve toiled for long hours, In the hope of obtaining a prize ! A pig is the hatefulest wretch That e’er a poor florist can meet. Till it’s turned into pork, "When, with sharp knife and fork. He finds that ^ revenge can be sweet ! ’ M. STRANGE NESTING-PLACES. is well known thnt many birds, especially the wren, the robin, and the common sparrow, show a dis¬ position at times to seek out for themselves what seem to us strange nesting-places. For instance, how strange it seems to us that any bird should choose the reading-desk of a parish church in which to make her home ! but this did actually hap¬ pen a few years ago, when the clerk, on looking out for the lessons of the day, perceived something under the Bible in the reading-desk. As the Bible rested on a raised ledge, there was a hollow place underneath, where a robin’s nest was found, which contained two eggs. As the bird was not interfered with, other eggs were laid, ' and in due time the young brood made their appearance. Strange to say, during divine service, the birds fed their little ones, flying out and in without any fear, and it is very creditable to the younger parishioners that these pretty creatures were never molested, but sutfered to bring up their little family in the hallowed spot w'hich they had chosen. Another case very similar occurred in Scotland, although it was a pair of spar¬ rows this time who attached themselves to a church, selecting as their home the centre of a carved thistle, which decorated the top of the pulpit. These birds, however, were too noisy to be endured, and had to be turned away to find a home elsewhere. Again, a pair of sparrows distinguished themselves by going to sea! It happened thus. A sailing vessel from Newcastle put in at Nairn, in the north-east of Scotland, and remained in harbour for two or three weeks. During the unloading of the vessel, many sparrows were constantly hopping about the deck, picking up grain and other articles of food, perfectly indifferent to the coming and going of the sailors, who, however, never interfered with them in any way. At length, the vessel again put out to sea, when of course the sparrows disappeared, all save one couple, who obstinately followed the ship, alighting on the rigging or mast, and showdng no disposition to return to land. Then it was discovered that the little visitors had constructed a nest in a warm and comfortable corner, where they interfered with no¬ body, and nobody interfered with them. Thus these little Scotch sparrows were carried off to Newcastle, and it would be interesting to know if they remained there, or if they found their way back to their native country. One other instance of a strange nesting-place m^sy be given, and this was witnessed with much interest by the writer of this paper. In the porch of a church in Bridge of Allan, Stirlingshire, a pair of chaffinches built their nest about four feet from the ground, and in a little nook between two curiously carved stones. Most young people know that the nest of the chaf¬ finches is one of the most perfectly beautiful bird- homes which our country can show. It is a small and perfectly round cup of the finest hair and moss, all nicely finished off on the outside with lichen, the object of using the lichen evidently being to make the nest resemble as closely as possible the apple-tree, in a fork of which this bird very generally builds her nest. The chaffinch itself is a beautiful gay little creature, just the last bird one would expect to find building in a shady church porch, where there were no trees at all. Yet the pretty little creature while hatching her eggs never flinched, although the hun¬ dreds of worshippers and all the school children passed her little home six times every Sunday. This nest was keenly guarded by the verger, and not even the wildest boy would have ventured to disturb the peace of this pretty little home. If boys would study the habits of our various singing birds, they would soon become so interested in discovering their pretty ways, that they would never tear down any bird’s nest, which they so often do more from thoughtlessness than cruelty. D. B. PRINCESS CATHERINE. The Princess Catherine, third daughter of Henry III., died while quite an infant ; yet unwonted interest attaches to her memory, from her extreme loveliness, and from the circumstance that this royal I child was born deaf and dumb. She first saw the I light on the 2oth of November (St. Catherine’s Day),

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CHATTERBOX. 227 iu the year a.d. 1253, and she was named in honour of the saint. Notwithstanding the shortness of her life, we find, even in State papers — dry and uninteresting as they generally are — records of her beauty, and of the strong affection wdiich her parents bore her. When she was ill, a special messenger was appointed to bring the king constant news of her health; and on one occasion we read that ^ a robe of the king’s gift was ordered to be delivered to the queen’s messenger, who brought good tidings of the convalescence of the king’s daughter Catherine.’ At another time we find a kid was bought for the little princess to play with; and on her recovery from her illness orders were issued that a silver image should be offered at the shrine of St. Edward at Westminster ^ on behalf of Catherine, the king’s daughter, lately sick.’ Yet all this affection and these tender cares were lavished on an infant who did not complete her fourth year. It seems that her infirmity touched the hearts of her parents, and inspired them with a more tender love for her than for any of their other off¬ spring ; and this love seems to have lasted even after her death, for we are told that ‘ Queen Eleanor re¬ fused all human consolation, and that her poignant sorrow brought on a serious attack of illness ; ’ and the king determined that a statue of silver should be made, to recall to his mind the features of his child. W3I3I2.S. 1. Acre. 35. — Aristides. 4. Salic. 7. Dollar. 2. Bomulus. 5. Time. 8. Emigrant. 3. Island. 6. Inkermann. 9. Sage. 36. — 1, Carp. 2. Lose. 3. One. 4. Door. Care. Lone. Son. Doer. Core. Line. Sin. Dote. Sore. Fine. Six, Date. Sole. Find. Gate. 5. Iron. 6. Give. 7. Cook. 8. Meat. Lorn. Gave. Coot. Feat. Lord. Gate. Coat. Fiat. Lard. Take. Moat. Fist. Lead. Meat. Fish. 37. — Atonement. At, to, tone, one, me, , men, atone. 38. — Armada. Arm, mad, Ada. 39. — 1. 40^ miles. 3. 9J. 5. 28 pupils. 2. 40.*' 4. 34 + 1. 40. — 1. Anerley. 7. Sydenham. 2. Bayswater. 8. Battersea. 3. Belsize Park. 9. Belgravia. 4. Mile End. 10. Ealing. 5. Mitcham. 11. Kensington. 6. Botherhithe. 12. Forest Gate. 13. Canonbury. 14. Isleworth. 15. Beckenham.- 16. Newington. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS, Geographical Acrostics. 41. — An island in the Mediterranean Sea belonging to a country in the south of Europe. It is very mountainous and possesses great natural advantages, abounding in wood and metals, and having, a superior soil and climate. It was the birth-place of a very eminent man who at one time ruled the country to which it belongs. 1. A town and county in Ireland in the province of Munster, containing one of the finest harbours in the world. 2. One of the western states of North America, famous for its trade and manufactures. 3. A town in Warwickshire, on the Avon, containing a large public school. 4. The most extensive plain in England. 5. A town in Persia, formerly the capital. 6. A peninsula to the south of Bussia, the seat of a great war in the present century. 7. The largest river in the world. C. C. 42. — A strongly fortified city in North America. It belonged at one time to the French, but was taken by the English in the last century, though the general who commanded the victorious army was killed in the siege. 1, 2. The highest city in the world. 3. A volcano on an island in the Mediterranean — the most famous mountain in Europe. 4. A strait dividing two large continents. 5. A city in Cambridgeshire on the Ouse, containing a very fine cathedral. 6. A strong sea-port in France — the nearest port to England. C. C. \_A7iswers at page 243.] A HANDFUL OF SHELLS. II. shells are all knowm as bivalves, or having* two shells joined together by a hinge, and the shells which we are now considering have both valves or shells of equal size and shape. A weU-known specimen is the Cockle or Card.ium, which may be found in most sandy bays at low water, wdiere he buries himself for a few inches until the tide returns. In some places cockles are very abundant, and are eaten largely, although they are by no means whole¬ some food. They are usually caught by women and children, w*ho dig the poor little molluscs up with pieces of bent iron, or narrow shovels, during the months of March, April, and May. The shell, you will notice, is remarkably pretty, delicately tinted, and deeply cleft down its entire length wdth short, curving lines, which are again crossed with short, fine marks. Like the Solen, it digs its w^ay into the sand by means of a projecting foot, which not only serves as a spade, but can be filled wfith water, and serves as a float ; also it is able to protrude tubes, with which it feeds and also rejects the superfluous salt water. Another bivalve closely allied to the cockle is the Mactra, which is also to be commonly met with. It has a smoother shell than the cardium, longer and

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228 CHATTERBOX. more oval in form, and is crossed by an in6nite number of fine lines, some following the edge of the shell, and others radiating from the beak or handle. Cardium. Another very ordinary object of our shores is the Mussel, or Mytilus. It is a gregarious animal — that is, one that likes to live in company with its kind, and frequently beds of rocks uncovered at low water are quite coloured with its shells of dark pui’ple. There are many varieties of the mytilus, but the one usually sold for food is the Mytilus Edulis. These creatures are most wholesome in the autumn, as, when eaten at other seasons, they are apt to re¬ venge themselves by producing unsightly eruptions on the skins of their devourers. It is, however. Mactra. computed that over 400,000 are annually consumed in Edinburgh and Leith alone. Mussels are enabled to adhere firmly to the rocks by means of the ^ byssus,’ or bundle of horny threads which are spun from their bodies, much as the I I silkworm produces silk, and any one who has tried to detach it from its abiding-place merely with the ; hand knows the strength of these tiny strands. From the bjssus of the Pinna, which is near of kin to the mussel, gloves and stockings are spun in Sicily and Calabria, though more for ornament than use. Another mollusc, very much like a mytilus, is the Mya, though the shell is rounder. It has very long tubes, sometimes eight or nine inches long, which it Mytilus. cannot withdraw wholly into its shell. It lives chiefly hidden in the sand about the length of its tubes, by which it keeps up continual communication with the water. Though these headless bivalves have no eyes, they are certainly conscious of light and shadow, and have also some knowledge of the approach of an enemy — a robber crab, for instance. It is supposed that these sensations are experienced in the tip of the foot, which thus serves both as eyes and ears to these otherwise helpless creatures. Helena Heath. A BRAVE GIRL. {Continued from page 224. ) OAN mounted the chair and looked in the direction of the Picket-house. ' Yes, I can see him,’ she said. ‘There! now his head is gone. There 1 now he comes again. That’s all right; the picket is loyal as yet.’ She jumped down with a sigh of relief. ‘ With Lady and me, and a gim and two pistols, you ought not to be so nervous, Sara,’ Joan said presently, with a forced laugh. ‘ In the day-time you are my only hope, Joan,’ I cried, throwing my arms round her, and squeezing her tight. ‘ Oh, Joan ! ’ ‘ Don’t, Sara, don’t,’ she said, as I began to sob wildly. But Joan broke down too, and we cried in each other’s arms.

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“ Joan mounted a chair to watch the picket.” ‘ It’s no use letting father see Tve’ve been crying,’ said Joan, half an hour later. ‘ He has got enough to worry him without that. Shall we go and wash our faces, Sara ? ’ ^ Yes, come along. Father will he home soon. Come, Lady.’ Lady generally followed where we went, and these last few days I had encouraged her to do sOc So we washed our hands and faces, and brushed our hair, and returned to the sitting-room, feeling refreshed and quieter, and two minutes after we exclaimed together with a cry of joy, ^There’s father!’ as he came swinging in at the gate and up the drive at a tremendous pace. We ran out into the veranda to greet him, and as he came up the steps to meet us we saw how haggard his face was.

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CHATTERBOX. ^Sara! Johnnie T he said, with a kind of gasp, as he kissed us one after the other. ^ Father ! Indore ? ’ we questioned in a breath. ‘Hah! you have heard? Who told you? Get indoors, girls.^ ‘ Sakeena ! ’ ‘ Sakeena ? ’ ‘ Yes ; she came in with the news about one o’clock. Gungadeen brought it from the bazaar. Is it true ? ’ Father lifted his helmet, and pressed his hand on his brow, with a sort of groan. ‘ Too true. The treacherous knaves ! A dastardly business ! Poor Lady, good dog ! ’ as Lady came fawning on him for her share of attention. ‘Father, is it true that the mutineers made a bonfire and burned twenty or thirty Europeans ? ’ Father’s eyes gleamed. He looked like Joan when she said, ‘I would like to kill him.’ He gave a hoarse assent. ‘ The Resident with a few others escaped, and fled to Mhow. They brought the news to the Fort this morning. A terrible business 1 a terrible business ! What’s this ? ’ His eyes had lighted on the brace of pistols on the sitting-room table. ^Joan loaded them after Sakeena brought the news; we were very frightened. And there’s another,’ I said, pointing to the gun in the corner, ‘ loaded too 1 ’ ‘ My brave Johnnie 1 ’ His haggard face lighted a little. Then he took up one of the pistols and examined it, and went on earnestly, ‘ Never lose your wits; keep cool; and cover the object you wish to aim at. My God! ’ he broke off, striding across the room, ^to think of these helpless girls alone all day ! ’ ‘ Father ! ’ cried Joan, sharply, ‘ is there anything wrong with our troops at the Fort ? ’ ‘No,’ he said, hesitating. Then, looking at us gravely, he came and leaned his hands upon the table. ‘ You are not children, and the truth is best for you. There is nothing actually wrong, but several officers think with me that Colonel Platt is too trusting. He insists that he would stake his life that his native regiments will remain loyal. It is trusting too far that has done all the mischief in some places. My poor Sara ! ’ father broke off. ‘My poor girl 1 ’ I was trembling all over. ‘ Mrs. Gilroy has four little children. Is not her husband, like you, at the Fort all day ? ’ I asked. He began to stride about again. ‘ God help her, poor soul 1 — yes.’ ‘ And she has no one else about the premises — no man, I mean — except the servants ? ’ ‘ No one else ! ’ ‘ Then we are better off than she, for we are not helpless children. And if I am a coward, there is J oan ! ’ ‘ Thank God ! thank God ! Pity the poor mothers with babies, Sara.’ ‘Father,’ burst in Joan, ‘ if the worst comes, what are we to do ? There are heaps of families scattered all round Mhow. What can Mrs. Gilroy, and others like her, do with their little children ? ’ ‘ That is what I’m going to tell you, Johnnie. The order has been given out to-day that a cannon will be fired tioice in quick succession from the Fort, as a signal to all Europeans to flock there at once for shelter. That’s what you and Mrs. Gilroy and everybody else must be prepared for day and night. Remember, Johnnie, two shots — one after the other.’ Father struck his hands together with two distinct claps, as if to emphasise what he was saying. ‘ That is the order the moment we find it necessary. It may never be necessary at Mhow, but this Indore business has made us suspicious, and we intend to watch and be prepared.’ ‘ And then - ’ began Joan ; she paused, and we all looked towards the door as the sound of footsteps was heard. It was Cossam; he came to ask if the sahih would have dinner served. ‘ In five minutes,’ answered father, rushing off to his room for his usual wash. Cossam glided away. ‘ Joan, I am glad Cossam doesn’t understand English. How awkward it must be just now for the people whose servants speak English ! ’ ^ Joan assented. We had both been born in India, and spoke Hindustanee fluently. People who didn’t understand Hindustanee were obliged to^ have servants who could speak at least a smattering of English. ‘ What’s for dinner,’ asked Joan. ‘ Pilau and chicken curry, and mango tart,’ I told her, though she had heard me give the order in the morning. She didn’t want to know. She only said some* thing to keep from speaking of the dreadful subject that lay so heavy on our hearts. ^ Then we stood silent, not daring even to look at each other, till father called from the dining-room to say that he was ready. He hadn’t changed his uniform. It was almost a silent meal; we couldn’t talk with Cossam in the room. Although he scarcely knew a word of English, we felt he would guess from our faces what we were talking about, and we couldn't talk of anything but that one awful thing. Then he left us with the custard-apples, and J oan s tongue was untied. She said, as though father had just left off telling us about the signal : ‘ And if you’re away at the Fort when the gun fires twice, what must we do, father ? ’ ‘Order the carriage in a twinkling, and make Gungadeen drive like lightning to the Fort.’ We finished our custard-apples in silence after that, and went back to the sitting-room with an awful load of dread. ‘ It would be a good plan,’ said father, ‘ to have a few things put up all ready, under-clothing and what¬ ever else you need, packed in a trunk— eh, Sara ? If the signal comes, we may be shut up in the F ort a week — a fortnight — who knows ? And you might put up something for me, too — shirts and socks, eh, Sara ? ’ ‘ Yes, father.’ ‘ Do it to-morrow, then ! ’ ‘ Yes, father.’

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CHATTERBOX. 231 ^ We have two hours of daylight left. Now listen to my plans, girls. Johnnie, is your heart in your boots ? ^ he broke off, with a forced smile on his haggard face. Joan gave a gasp first, then she said sturdily, ^No, father.^ ‘ Johnnie, I want to get as much sleep as I can for these two hours of daylight. I shan’t undress ; I will kick off my boots and lie down as I am. If T am asleep after gun-fire, you must come and wake me.’ ^ You are not going to sit up all night?’ we cried in a breath. T must, Johnnie.’ I gave a cry, and fell into father’s arms, sobbing violently. ‘ Sara ! Sara ! For God’s sake ! Sara ! That is all he said through his white lips. Joan rose to the occasion, as she always did at such times. ‘ Sara, you must not,’ she cried. ‘ Sara, we are in danger ; we must act, not cry.’ And it came back to me — though I was faint with terror— father’s voice of pride ; ' Give me you hand, Johnnie ; what a boy you would have made ! ’ When I came to myself, I heard them arranging what was to be done. ^All right, father,’ Joan was saying, with her eyes glittering in her ashy face. ‘ There is not so much to fear/ father was saying, ^ as long as daylight lasts. The night-time makes me anxious.’ ‘ Then go now, father,’ said Joan. ‘ You ought to get as much sleep as possible. But won’t you be more comfortable if you undress?’ ^No, no; don’t bother about me, Johnnie, and I depend upon you to call me as soon as Cossam brings in the tea ! ’ i "Yes ’ said Joan. ‘ Keep Lady with you. She is a first-rate little sentinel. Hi, Lady ! good dog ! faithful dog 1 Take care of your mistress, Lady. Watch ! ’ Lady knew the meaning of the word ^ watch.’ She put herself in a listening attitude, and was alert for anything. . ' Take care of Sara ! ’ said father, placing his hand on my head. Lady put her two paws on my lap, gave a little whimper, and looked at me in the eager way dogs often do, when they seem as if they longed to speak. ^ 1 . j Father stooped to kiss me. I clasped him round the neck. It would have been such a relief to burst into tears. It was hard work to keep calm. But I managed to say : ^ I will try to be brave.’ < That's my good little housekeeper ! ’ I had been housekeeper since I was eleven years old. I prided myself rather on my housekeeping. Nothing pleased me more than to hear father call me his good little housekeeper. I choked down a sob, and gave him a faint little smile. ^ Then father kissed Joan and went to his room to lie down. Joan began dragging an easy-chair into the glass porch. I went to help her. ^ Father says as we have such a good look-out from here, we had better sit here, rather than in the room. Another easy-chair can fit here nicely, Sara. Then we can make ourselves quite comfortable.’ We dragged in another chair. By pushing each into a corner we had enough room to walk about as well. We could not have had a better look-out. Our bungalow was built on a hill ; so we had a good view of our surroundings. The drive sloped downwards into the road — a wide, white, dusty road. We could look down it for nearly a quarter of a mile. {Contiimed at page 236.) THE PITCHER PLANT. IN the swampy regions of India and China a herbaceous plant is found, which has very curious leaves. Each leaf has the mid -rib prolonged to a great extent, far beyond the leaf proper, and^ termi¬ nating in a very singular pitcher, from which the plant derives its common name of ^ Pitcher Plant ; ’ this again terminates in a lid, which is regarded by botanists as the true blade of the leaf. In this pitcher a fluid is found, which comes from the plant itself, and is probably necessary for its nourishment. This fluid, which contains some potash, varies much in quantity, sometimes only a drop or two, but often there is enough to drown any inquisitive insect who may venture inside, and such insects are frequently found in the pitcher. B- THE LIFE OP A HUNTER SAVED BY HIS DOG-. Herman HUTTER and Charles Whitman, of Missoulia, armed with rifles and accompanied by a deerhound, one day went up the Rattlesnake River in quest of game. They climbed the rnountains to the left of the stream, and separated, taking oppo¬ site sides of the ridge, in hopes of bagging a deer. Whitman came down the Rattlesnake side, and soon after separating from his companion he slipped and fell, sliding some 200 feet down the mountain-side. He vainly tried to stop himself by digging into the snow with his hands and feet, and clutching at brush and saplings, till just as he was about to fall over the cliff into the Rattlesnake, some forty feet below, he clasped a strong sapling with one hand, and was left dangling in the air over the precipice. By a strong effort he got his arm round the sapling, and grasping his wrist with the disengaged hand, he awaited his inevitable fall. The dog, seeing his master slip, followed him to the edge of the cliff and piteously. Suddenly he dashed off over the liiU and disappeared. "When nearly exhausted, vVhitman heard his companion, Hotter, above him, coming to his assistance. He gathered renewed courage, and held on desperately till Hotter came and rescued him. Hotter says that the dog came upon him and seized hold of his clothing, whining. He toned upon him, and the dog ran off. Repeating the strange manoeuvre, Hotter suspected that something was wron^ and followed the dog to Whitman's rescue. — Helena Independent.

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232 CHATTERBOX. A Hairbreadth Escape.

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CHATTERBOX. 233 J

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234 CHATTERBOX. A SUMMER HOLIDAY BY THE RIVER. TRUE STORY OF A JAPANESE SOME, Alice, we’ll row on the river to-day ; • Remember, our holidays soon will be o’er. And we to the city must hie us away, To row on the clear crystal river no more. We’ll hold our pic-nic by the side of the stream, Where the tall trees seem whispering over our head, And the quick-glancing squirrels (so watchful they seem) Will keep a look-out for a morsel of bread. And when the bright sun has sunk down in the West, And the pale moon has taken her place in the sky. When every wee birdie has gone to its nest. Then homeward we’ll row — dearest Alice and I. Oh, summer, sweet summer ! how lovely and bright Are its beautiful flowers and its shady green trees ; When butterflies flutter, from morning till night, ’Mid the carol of birds and the murmur of bees. D. A BIG TRAP. AMR. ALSOP and one of his men, John Jackson, were looking around the rocks about Wyoming one morning after their sheep, when the man saw a crevice leading into a basin in the solid rock, which was about forty feet in diameter at the top and was shaped like the upper half of an hour-glass. He thought he would go down into this basin and see what it was like, when he observed another inlet close by which seemed to offer easier passage. Jackson walked round the corner of the rock and brought up very suddenly when he found himself face to face with an enormous mountain-lion. Mr. Alsop, coming up at this juncture, shot the lion, which rolled to the bottom of the basin and disappeared. Being anxious to secure the hide of the lion, search was made, and it was discovered that the bottom of the basin was a hole about twenty feet in diameter, opening into a cavity beneath, into which the beast had tumbled. A rough ladder was constructed, and Mr. Alsop descended into this curious cavern, where he met a sight that amazed him. He found himself in the lower half of the hour-glass-shaped hole in the rocks, which completed the likeness to an hour-glass. The floor, which was of sandstone, was forty feet across, and the sides sloped upward and inward to the neck dividing the lower half from the basin above. It would be impossible for a human being or beast of any kind once in there to escape without aid. In this cavern lay the dead mountain-lion, but he was not alone. Nine other moimt a in-lions, of the largest size, which had so recently fallen in that their hides were still whole, lay about, while the hole was filled from one side to the other with bones of every species of animal known on the plains. They had fallen into the trap formed by nature, and being unable to get out had died of starvation. BEAR. ANY years ago, while one of Her Majesty’s war-ships was cruising in Japanese waters, she was anchored off Yokohama. Several of her officers went on shore to attend to some business affairs of their own. On their return to the ship they brought with them a young bear, which speedily became the pet and plaything of every man and boy on board ship. The little creature was not only quite young and very tame, but it seemed to have a strong sense of humour, to judge by its gambols with a young mid¬ shipman to whom it had become attached. This lad would pretend to run away from the bear, as though he felt greatly alarmed, when Bruin would pursue him open-mouthed. Quickly, how¬ ever, the youth would turn the tables and become the pursuer in his turn, when the bear would as quickly turn tail, and seem to be much alarmed, though really quite enjoying the fun. But young bears have an unfortunate tendency to become old bears, when they are by no means so mirthfully in¬ clined as in their babyhood. It was so with this little animal. As time went on he became less funny and more mischievous. He would try his teeth on anything he could gnaw, and once or twice, on being corrected, he would show his teeth in a threatening manner. This, of course, brought him into disrepute with the authorities, and there were hints passed from one to another that, if Bruin did not mend his manners, he must be severely punished. One day a fine ham had been boiled and placed in the larder to cool, the door of the larder being, of course, securely fastened. The bear, attracted by the delicious odour, speedily paid a visit to the larder, and watching his chance, when none of the men were at hand, he tore out the perforated zinc window by fixing his claws in it. The hole was large enough to admit his head and shoulders. He seized the ham, and, carrying it like a baby in his fore legs, he walked on his hind legs across the deck. Then he mounted the rigging to a great height and speedily began his feast. When his theft was discovered several men volunteered to go aloft and bring the culprit down to the deck. This did not, however, prove to be an easy task. Bruin growled savagely, showed his teeth, and snapped in such a vicious manner that the men were recalled to the deck lest some accident should take place. The following day a council was held, and the question was debated whether to forgive poor Bruin or order him out to immediate execution. The majority being for clemency, he was once more set free, but from that day misfortune seemed to dog his footsteps. He upset pitchers, broke dishes, gnawed everything made of leather or wood, and took to

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CHATTERBOX. 235 growling on every possible occasion. The officers shook their heads. This would never do on board a man-of-war. But still the sword of justice was not as yet unsheathed, and Bruin was a petted favourite still. One day, however, he went a little too far. A boat having come from shore with vegetables and fruit, it was lashed to the side of the ship while the men chaffered with the natives as to the price of various articles which they wished to purchase. The bear, attracted by the talking, went forward to see what it was all about, wlien, just as he reached the side of the ship, an unfortunate Japanese boy climbed up from the small boat as eager to see what was going on in the big ship as the bear was eager to see what was going on in the little boat. But no sooner did the animal see the head of the poor little Japanese close beside him than he seized It between his fore paws and began to bite the un¬ fortunate little fellow’s face. The sailors beat off the animal and then shut him up in his cage. After this it was resolved that the bear must die. A large dose of opium was given to him, which for a long time did not seem to take effect. At last he paused in his walk, seemed to consider a little, then lay down and fell asleep, from which sleep he never woke again ! Thus ends the history of a Japanese bear. B. HE COULD NOT SAY 'NO.’ ULLO, Bill, and where are you off to ?’ It was Mr. Page, the village schoolmaster, who spoke these words. He had known Bill Sweet- man since he was five years old, and had taught him his A, B,C. Bill touched his hat and smiled serenely. He always had liked his teacher. U’m off to London, sir. Ben Joyce went there lately, and he tells me there is plenty of work to be had in the market gardens there.^ ^ But you were working here. Bill, and you have a happy home, too. What does your mother say to it ? ’ Bill looked down, and the colour rose in his cheek. ^ Mother don’t like it much, sir,’ he said ; ^ but, you see, father and I can’t get on. He speaks to me as if I were five years old and yesterday he threatened me with the strap. Sir, would you have me put up with that ? ’ Mr. Page made no reply to this; he knew that Bill’s father was a harsh-tempered man, and he was not astonished at this outbreak on Bill’s part; but still he was vexed to the very heart, for Mrs. Sweet- man was a gentle, kindly woman, and Bill was her only child. Ah ! and there was another reason why the good schoolmaster regretted to see Bill leaving his native village : the poor lad, though well-meaning, was too easily led by any one in whose company he might find himself. Sometimes he might be led to good, but more often he could be led into some mischief, for are we not, all of us, more ready to follow an evil counsellor than a good one ? After some more friendly talk with the lad, and particularly after urging him to try to say NO, when tempted to go in a wrong direction, Mr. Page bade him farewell, and went thoughtfully on his way. Bill, too, seemed a little thoughtful after leaving his friendly teacher. But he was young, and cheer¬ fully disposed ; therefore, he soon brightened up and went whistling along as though Ben Joyce and he were sure to make their fortune in London. But poor Bill did not know what lay before him. Having reached London, and engaged himself to the same market gardener who employed Ben Joyce, the two lads took a small room together, and very proud and happy Bill felt, though on calculating ways and means he could not but see that Ben was making him pay more than his due share of the expenses. This was trying, especially as his wages were two shillings a week less than the wages earned by Ben. However, he said nothing about it. He could not afford to quarrel with his only friend. As the days wore on, Bill seemed to live in a complete whirl of happiness. The two boys went to a music hall one night and to a circus on their weekly half-holiday, while Ben intro¬ duced the country lad to one or two other sharp¬ looking young fellows, who seemed to have a constant command of money, to judge by the lavish way in which they spent it. But by the end of his first month in London, Bill woke up quite suddenly from his dream of bliss- to find himself without a farthing in his pocket, ten shillings owing to his laud- lady, and five shillings in debt to one of Ben’s flash friends. This startled him terribly, and in his distress, ho consulted his friend Ben. ^ How do you make your money last so well, Ben ? ’ he said. ‘ I am quite cleaned out, and 1 know I can’t pay that five shillings I borrowed of your friend for ever so long. I am in awful trouble about it, and there is the landlady, too ! ’ ‘ I can tell you, you will need to pay Jem Styles, and that in double-quick time, too ! ’ said Ben, rather roughly. ‘ As for the landlady, she can wait ; but Jem was saying to me, only last night, that he must get back his five shillings from you at once.’ Bill’s heart died within him on hearing these words. ‘ Oh, I say, Ben,’ he cried, ^ what in the world am I to do ? ’ ^ Pay Jem up at once,’ said Bill, decidedly ; ^ that’s what you must do, or he will make things too hot for you, I can teU you.’ ^ But how can I pay him when I have no money ? ’ replied poor Bill. ^ What a fool I was to take his money at all ; but you know, Ben, that I did not ask him to lend it — he forced it on me.’ ‘ I know nothing about that,’ said Ben, but — here he lowered his voice — ^ you can easily pay if you like. Master trusts you, I can see. Well, why not sell a few vegetables and plants on your own account ? He would never be a bit the wiser, and you would be all the richer.’

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After this it was resolved that the bear must die.” Bill looked at his friend. ^ But that would not be honest/ he said. ^ I don’t think I could do that, Ben.’ ‘ J ust as you like/ replied the other ; but at the moment the master was seen approaching and the two lads separated. To make a long story short, poor Bill was at last persuaded to follow Ben’s evil advice, his master found out that the boy he trusted was cheating him, Bill was handed over to the police, taken before the magistrate, and sent to prison for ten days. Then his poor mother, having heard the terrible news, came to see him, and with many tears told him that his father had died suddenly, and she was now alone in the world. ‘ Oh, Bill, my dear boy,’ she said, ^ you will come home after you get away from this dreadful place — won't you, my dear ? — and comfort your poor mother’s heart.’ But the poor lad only groaned. ^Mother, I have disgraced you/ he said. ‘ You ought to cast me off.*

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“I’m off to London, sir.” But his mother wound her arms about his neck. ^ Never, never, my darling,’ she whispered. * We will ask God to forgive you, and you and I may be happy yet.’ . Ten years after this. Bill was a married man, with wife and little ones, while in a basket- chair by the fire his old mother sat from day to day, happy, contented, and comfortable, seeing her dear Bill once more respected by every one, a good son, a good husband, and a good father— happy mother and happy son ! A BRAVE GIRL. (Continued from jpage 231.) Father McCarthy’s bungalow— where the two priests lived — lay five minutes’ distance from our gates ; the Picket-house, almost opposite, partly hidden from sight in a curve of the road. The barracks were about a mile away, and the Fort about a mile and a quarter from our bungalow. We entered our bungalow by the front veranda up three or four steps. The veranda opened into our sitting-room. The glass porch jutted out from one side of the sitting-room. On the other side of the room were two doors : one led into father’s bedroom ; the other into the dining-room. We could get out of the porch into the compound by opening a heavy glass door and running down three or four steps. But during these troublous days we had kept the glass door bolted on the inside. We could see people passing on the road from here quite distinctly. But these last few days everything was hushed and quiet; hardly anybody passed by. Europeans seemed to be, like us, all shut up in their own bungalows. Only men on duty passed. We could see Father McCarthy and the other priest walking about their compound, and their servants going in and out. But over their premises, too, an ominous silence seemed to reign. Now and then we had noticed the priests stand for a moment to look

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238 CHATTERBOX. up at our bungalow on the hill. We did not know them to speak to. They bowed to us when we passed them on the road, just because we were neighbours. They knew that father was on duty at the Fort all day, and that we girls were alone at our bungalow. ^ There’s Father McCarthy looking up straight at us here, Sara,’ said Joan. T suppose he knows all about Indore. He looks as if he didn’t like to think that we two girls were left alone all day. Whenever he comes into the compound he stops and glances our way.’ ‘ I wonder if he is going to sit up to-night too,’ I said. ^ 1 shouldn’t wonder. The picket is so very close to them. Father says he stopped him the other day to ask how things were looking.’ ‘ I wonder if he or the other priest knows how to shoot, Joan ?’ ^ I wonder,’ answered Joan. Lady lay between us on the matting with her chin on her paws. She seemed to know that some¬ thing was wrong by the way she looked from me to Joan. ‘Perhaps we ought not to talk, Joan,’ I said, glancing back into the sitting-room. ‘ Father hasn’t shut his door tight.’ I could see his door from where I sat; it com¬ forted me to know that he was there. The thought of the long day alone to-morrow filled me with dread. ‘Wouldn’t you like to read or work, Sara?’ whispered Joan. ‘ The time would go quicker.’ I shook my head. So we sat on silently, exchanging a whisper only now and then, watching the daylight gradually fade away. And then the gun was fired from the Fort. What a boom it made ! With everything so quiet about us it sounded louder than ever. I started in my chair, and Joan and I looked at each other as if half ex¬ pecting a second boom — the signal ! But the sound rolled over the hills and died away. It was only the evening gun. ‘ We won’t miss hearing that twice^ Joan,’ I whispered. ‘ Hardly,’ she whispered back. Then the moon shone out. It was in its third quarter, and lighted up the wide, white road beyond, and the priests’ bungalow. We heard the clinking of cups and saucers from the dining-room, and knew that Cossam was bringing in the tea. We always had tea and bread and butter between half -past eight and nine. And Joan jumped up, saying that she had promised to call father. Of course I followed her, and Lady followed me. We didn’t want Cossam to know that father was sleeping while we watched ; so we went straight to his room without calling for a light, and softly pushed open his door. He had lain down in his uni¬ form. His belt and sword lay on a chair close by, and his double-barrelled gun gleamed in the moon¬ light on a table near the bed. The inoonhght filled the room. He was lying on his back in a sound sleep. His face looked so tired and pale. ‘ Sara, doesn’t it seem cruel to wake him ? Poor father,’ whispered Joan ; ‘ but I promised.’ She had whispered very low ; but the whisper woke him. In a moment he had leaped from the bed, with his hand stretched towards the table where the loaded gun was lying. ‘Father,’ we cried out together. ‘Johnnie!’ in the startled voice one speaks in when suddenly roused from sleep. ‘ All well ? ’ ‘ Yes, father ; we came to wake you.’ ‘ Hah ! ’ He gave a great sigh. ‘ It seemed so cruel to wake you.’ ‘ Y’ou did quite right.’ ‘ Cossam is bringing in the tea.’ He gave a great yawn as he mumbled something about liking a cup. ‘ Did you have a good sleep ? All the time ? ’ ‘ I couldn’t get off at first, Sara. I’ve slept this last half-hour.’ ‘ Only this last half-hour ? ’ ‘ Oh, father I I wish I had left you a little longer — and you were sleeping so soundly.’ ‘ Y"ou must always ofey orders, Johnnie,’ he said, with another yawn that ended in a sigh. ‘ Go and pour out the tea, Sara, while I make mj'self present¬ able.’ We went into the dining-room with Lady trotting at our heels. Cossam had lighted the lamp. I took the cosy off the teapot, and began to pour out the tea. How many hundreds of peaceful evenings I had done that before. Tea-time had always been a dawdling, happy time. Father was at his liveliest then, and used to be full of jokes and fun. How far off that time seemed now. Was it days, or weeks, or months that we had lived this hushed, scared life? Why, Joan and I used to take a turn in the compound after tea when the moon was shining like this ; fearing nothing, caring for nothing, light-hearted, joyous and free. And now ? Great heavens 1 was it a dream that we feared the very picket at our gates? A month ago we had looked upon the Sepoys as our protectors. Joan and I rather prided ourselves on having the picket so close. I looked at Joan’s face across the table. How old and sedate she looked. It came upon me then how her tom-boy ways used to vex me in front of other people, and how I used to complain of J oan sitting on the table, swinging her legs, and whistling before Captain and Mrs. Kilroy. Joan’s snort, and father’s laughing, ‘ Let Johnnie be I ’ came back to my mind as out of a far-away past. Father came in by-and-by, and Joan said, looking sadly at his worried face : ‘ is it necessary for you to sit up all night ? ’ ‘ I think so, J ohnnie. By-the-by, Sara, we might have coffee to-morrow evening instead of tea. A cup of strong coffee will help to keep me awake. Don’t forget, Sara.’ And then he added low, ‘ If all be well.’ If all be well 1 Joan and I fiashed one look into each other’s faces. What might not happen before to-morrow evening? The Europeans that were murdered at Indore had said, perhaps, the evening before. If aU be well. The thought must have struck father as well. Great beads of perspiration came out on his forehead as he looked from Joan to me, and then round the familiar room.

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CHATTERBOX. 289 Tather,’ burst out Joan, *1 don’t see wby Sara and I shouldn’t sit up, say, half the night. We can call you in a moment, you know. I’m not afraid ; and w6 have Lady!’ I gave a gasp. Father shook his head. *No, no, Johnnie.’ ‘ Sara ! ’ Joan cried, turning to me, ‘ if the doors were all locked, and we sat in the glass porch with my gun and pistols loaded, and Lady with us, would you be afraid ?— and with father in the next room ? ’ she added. But before I had time to answer, father said decidedly, ^ Thank you, Johnnie, not to-night 1 ’ and then he turned with a smile to me : ^ Oughtn’t we to be proud of Johnnie, Sara ? ’ I couldn’t answer. I should have broken down if I had tried to speak. When Joan came out with one of her brave speeches, and looked straight out of her fearless eyes, father treated her, for the time being, as if she were on an equal footing with him, not as a girl of fifteen. He said, with a pucker on his brow, ^The sentry at the Picket, instead of saluting me as usual, looked sullenly away.’ 'The sentry refused to salute you this evening r said Joan, as she gazed at him with amazement. ‘ You see, Johnnie, how necessary it is that I should be watchful to-night.’ Joan’s lips grew white. She did not speak. She had a struggle to keep cool. She clenched her hands together and looked down on the table. "And now, girls,’ father went on, quietly, ‘T want you to get to bed as soon as you have finished your tea. I will ke^ watch to-night, and at gunfire to-morrow morning 1 will turn in to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep. If I’m not awake a quarter of an hour before breakfast is ready, you must come and call me. It is quite possible, girls, that nothing will happen ; that all the precautions are over-done. Colonel Platt, as I left the fort this evening, pooh- poohed the idea of his Sepoys— his babas (children), as he calls them — turning rebels. God grant he may be right. But I cannot share his faith ; and, as long as I have any doubt, I must be on the watch. That sullen sentry at our gates has clenched the matter for me.’ Then we finished our tea in silence, and kissed father a sad good-night, Joan imploring him to call her if the night seemed very long ; and we crept away to bed, subdued and faint at heart, while the ominous cloud which had been hovering over us seemed to be lowering and hemming us in close. {Continued at page 245.) OLD CUSTOMS. THE LORD OF MISRULE. The fantastic-looking personage shown in our illustration, who is accompanied by some of his attendants, recalls one of the old customs which used to belong to the Christmas season. He is the ' lord,’ not of wise rule, but of ‘ misrule,’ and we cannot commend the doings of either himself or his followers, for they made Christmas a more disorderly time than we ever see it now. Indeed, there are some authors belonging to foreign countries who have said the English were more strange in their way of keeping Christmas than the people of other nations of Europe ; but the fact is, that the Lord of Misrule was formerly well known on the Con¬ tinent as well as in England. Only, somehow, after the custom had been dropped abroad, it was still con¬ tinued here. We find an Act of Parliament for¬ bidding these doings in Scotland, passed in a.d. 1555, and probably they ceased in England about the end of that century, if not before. It is possible that this Lord of Misrule is a relic of the pagan custom of the Saturnalia, or Feast of Fools. In this Homan holiday servants took the attire of their masters, while they dressed like ser¬ vants, and many odd performances went on. After the people became Christians in name, the clergy tried to put down these follies, but with little success. They did not object to people making merry at Christmas, but they wished to stop what was improper, and prevent scenes of violence, which it was not easy to do at a time when policemen or constables were unknown. It would appear that the lord of misrule did not always behave himself badly ; he might simply act as a manager of the Christmas games and pastimes, whatever they were. This is shown by another name given him, that of ' Master of the Hevels.’ Now and then, however, the conduct of his followers was such that he might rather have been called master of the rebels, as they did not seem to heed him much, even if he tried to keep theni in order ; but sometimes he encouraged them to be mischievous. One thing they did was to march along the streets in a sort of procession of twenty, fifty, or even a hun¬ dred nersons, dressed up in various colours, having often bells hung around them, and handkerchiefs of bright tints in their hands. They were accompanied usually by a hobbyhorse and a dragon, with drums, pipes, or other musical instruments. They demanded money from people whom they met, or else they required them to put into their hats strips of paper, which were called the Lord of Misrule’s badges. Those who refused to comply were taken hold of and bumped against a wall, if one was near, or else some dirty water was thrown over them. The Lord of Misrule and his company would even go into a church while the service was being performed, and make a disturbance. He had his period of office fixed ; it was supposed to extend from Allhallows Eve to the Feast of the Purification, but we read also of a Lord of Misrule appearing and taking part in May games and other festivities of the summer season, his party having tents under the trees of some wood. There was^ one of these personages appointed to act at the King s Court, and in the reign of Edward VI. the office was held by one George Ferrers, a lawyer and a poet, who tried to improve upon the games played at Christmas. The Lord Mayor of London and the sheriffs had their Lord of Misrule ; in fact, nearly all the noblemen and gentlemen had one in their households, and in many country parishes the met before Christmas and chose what Philip Stubbs

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The Lord of Misrule. calls ^ a captain of mischief.’ At Lincoln’s Inn this person had the title of ‘ King of Christmas Day/ and he had a successor, chosen on Childermas Day, who was the ^ King of the Cockneys.’ Even now, in some parts of our island, the custom lingers of drawinf>' characters upon Epiphany or Twelfth Day, and bv these a king and queen are chosen to take* the head and foot of the table on w’hich the cake is placed. This is derived from the ancient usage of having a King of the Bean to preside at the banquets held daring the early weeks of the year. Some say that this king was appointed by means of a bean, one being placed in a cake, and he who got the slice containing it received the office. J. R. S. C.

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“We always did our duty to king and countrJ^”

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242 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTEIIS m POPULAR TALES. NED FLEMING.* ED FLEMING’S home was a very happy one. It was in a small seaport town in Scotland, and the cottage in which he lived was neat and clean and white. The green before the door stretched down to the sea, and at the end of the garden was a flagstaff, for Ned’s father was known as ^captain.’ He had seen much hard service on the sea, and had worked his way before the mast — a very lowly position. Ned was an only child, but he W’as not spoilt either by father or mother. Perhaps the most inclined to spoil him was ^ Babby,’ the faithful servant who had nursed and watched him in babyhood, and stood his friend in the small troubles of his boyhood. Ned’s mother was good and gentle- She dearly loved her son. That Ned fondly loved his mother the following story will serve to show: — From a rough piece of wood Ned had scooped out, carved and rigged, a beautiful boat. This boat was to compete in a race with several other boats made by Ned’s schoolfellows. At early dawn most of the boys were examining their craft, with the Arm conviction, however, that Ned Fleming’s Nelson was sure to win. She was at least two feet long ; and such a shape, and painted, too ! But, strange to say, on the famous morning there was no Nelson tliere. Ned gave no explanation beyond saying that she was not fit to appear. But he was him¬ self as cheerful as ever. His mother was ill, and so was ‘ Babby,’ and there was a sudden need for hot water. The coal had burned down low, and, as accident would have it, there were no sticks to make up the fast-dying fire. In a moment, and before any one had time to stop him, Ned had bought down his bonnie boat, masts and all, re¬ kindled the fire with her, and boiled the kettle for his mother ! ^ When the Captain heard this story, he said to Ned, ‘ God keep you, my boy ; your poor mother is better, much better. That hot water saved her life, I do believe,’ and the boy knew and felt that his father was pleased with his action. Ned was no milksop. He was ooked up to in the playground as the brave defender of the weak, on account of his having thrashed the school-bully. Noddles, although he was only half his size. It was young Ned’s delight to listen to the sea- stones of old Ned. His heart would beat faster, and his face flush with pride, as his father told how he had done his duty in this or that engage¬ ment. The Captain had a custom of keeping all the anniversaries of his battles, and for these anniver- XI.* Lieutenant and his Son is a book written by the late Dr. Norman Macleod. It may be bought for sixpence ! ° saries he always dressed himself in what remained of his old uniform, and had some special dainties for supper. One or two naval friends were invited for the occasion, and Ned was always present, ^ You see, my boy,’ the Captain would say, ‘ we always did our duty to king and country,’ and then, as he wiped his moist eyes with the back of his rough hand, he would express his hearty thanks to a higher power than man’s for having preserved him. Thpe were two great truths upon which Captain Flerning insisted — firstly, that a lie, or any shade of deceit, is specially displeasing to God ; and, secondly, that to ^ fear God and do what is right ’ is the best way to fight the devil. Ned’s first adventure away from home is pleasant enough to read about; it cannot have been so pleasant to experience. He had been reading Bohinson Crusoe j and dreaming about the famous book, until his mind became filled with one idea, which he^ told to three of his schoolboy friends. Five or six miles from the small seaport in which Ned and his schoolmates lived was a pretty little island, inhabited only by a few sheep, and visited sometimes by fishermen. Ned proposed that the four of them should get possession of a fishing-boat, save what money they could, purchase a store (sixpenny worth) of provisions, and with four fishing-rods, matches to kindle a fire, the Skye terrier (the Captain’s dog), a blanket each, a cat (Babby’s beloved Manse)^ and some potatoes to plant for future use, go off and take possession of the island, and live there a wild life as long as possible. The boys reached the island quite safely, but they were disappointed to find that there were no goats to hunt, no wood to make a fire, and no cave to live in. The first meal finished up all the provisions, and there seemed no chance of getting any more ; the attempts at fishing failed, as bait had been for¬ gotten, and, as night drew on, the dread of spending it hungry and alone upon the island deepened, until, thinking of the boat and looking out for her, they saw her left by the tide high and dry upon the beach, from which she could not be moved a foot. At last ‘ Man Friday * came in sight, in the shape of old Dugald Wilkie, the fisherman, who, with his son Peter, and two other young fishermen, was returning in his boat from a day’s fishing. How eagerly the lads hailed the old craft, and how spprised was old Dugald when he found the four little fellows so far away from home ! Ned went supperless to bed that night, and the next morning his father walked with him and talked to him, telling him how selfishly he had acted in causing such anxiety to both father and mother and faithful Babby. He told, too, how he liked a brave, manly boy, but not one who would act unkindly, or who would wish to be independent of command, and be his own master, and go off without leave, until Ned grew heartily ashamed of himself, and begged his father to trust him once more, and that he would never forget to tell him all he meant to do before he did it. {Concluded at page 254.)

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CHATTERBOX. 243 PUZZLERS FOB WISE HEADS. THE YOUNG CARPENTER. 43. — Ehyming Puzzle. A, Think of a word which rhymes with ‘ sake.* 1. B. Is it a bird ? A. No, it is not a - 2. B. Is it a fish? A. No, it is not a - 3. B, Is it a gardening implement? A. No, it is not a - 4. B. Is it to obtain possession of? A, No, it is not to - 5. B, Is it a kind of serpent? A. No, it is not a - 6. B. Is it to quench ? A. No, it is not to - 7. B. Is it mostly done in the morning? A, No, it is not to - 8. B. Is it a kind of fern? A. No, it is not a - 9. B. Is it a schoolboy’s delight? A. No, it is not a - 10. B. Is it a piece of water? A. No, it is not a - 11. B. Is it to destroy? A. No, it is not to - 12. jB. Is it a layer or stratum ? A. No, it is not a - 13. B. Is it to create, to perform? A. No, it is not to - 14. B. Is it a bird that comes in harvest time ? A. No, it is not a - 15. B. Is it an English admiral? A. No, it is not - 16. B, Is it another naval commander? A, No, it is not - 17. B. Is it to tremble with fear ? A, Yes, it is to - C. C. 44. — Arithmogbaph. A VERY great conqueror of ancient times, of whom a short account is given in one of the numbers of Chatterhox for 1895. 1. _7, 8, 5, 9. Costly, valuable, a term of affection. 2. _2, 3, 5, 7. A heavy substance, to guide. 3. -9, 3, 8, 7. A plant which grows by the water. 4 _ 7^ 8, 5, 2. A watering-place on the east coast of England. 5. — 2, 1, 4. Not strict. 6. -2, 3, 5, 9, 6, 8, 7. Well-informed in literature or SCi611C6« 7. _ 3, 1, 9, 2. A title borne by an English nobleman. 8. -6, 3, 8, 7. Necessity. 9. _1, 4, 3. An implement often used in a wood. 10.— 2, 8, 1, 9, 6. To acquire knowledge. C. C. [Ansit'm at page 267.] .A.iTSWEItS- 41. — Corsica, 42. — Quebec, 1. Cork. 2. Ohio. 3. Eugby. 4. Salisbury. 5. Ispahan. 6. Crimea. 7. Amazon. 1, 2. Quito. 3. Etna. 4. Behring’s Straits. 5. Ely. 6. Calais. My father is a carpenter, And so I mean to be : To use the saw, the plane, the axe. To have some fine assorted tacks. What fun it is to me ! Says father, just this very day, ^ Look here, now. Bob ; you try Your hand upon a rabbit-hutch. And, if you really make it such As I approve, then I ‘ Will pay you for your work, my lad, A silver shilling bright.* W^ell, shillings seldom come ray way. And so I’ll work the live-long day, And have it done by night. I’d like to hammer all the day, When father is so kind ; It is no toil, but fun to me. And so a carpenter I’ll be, ^ The work’s quite to my mind. K. A HANDFUL OF SHELLS. III. i a melancholy fact that the gentle¬ man bearing the name of Pholas enjoys more notoriety than any of his bivalve brethren, on account of his exceedingly mischievous and destructive disposition. Whilst well-behaved molluscs are con¬ tented to glue themselves to a rock or to make their leisurely way along the surf-beaten sand, the loftier ambition of this creature is satis¬ fied with nothing less than a house of stone, built exactly to suit himself, and placed precisely where he pleases. True, he is often found in deep clefts of rock, into which he has made^ his way, and where the worst that can happen is that he and his intrusive fraternity may be swept away, crum¬ bled rock and all, by some huge wave ; but in other places, as, for instance, the fine Plymouth breakwater, the immense stones, wrought with vast toil and expense, are honeycombed and eaten away with the labours of Mr. Pholas Bactylus. A gentle¬ man at Brighton watched some of this family at work in a glass vessel filled with sea-water and blocks of chalk. He noticed that they kept turning from side to side as they thrust their long file-like tubes into the chalk, and that, as it became powdered, they licked up the dust with their ^ foot,’ afterwards rejecting it through one tube in little hard pellets. They worked on patiently until they had made a hole large enough to fit their bodies, and therein they settled themselves at their ease, taking care to be

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The Young Carpenter. near enough to the surface for their tubes to reach mit and catch their prey. The size to which the 1 holas attains seems to be fixed by the expansion which his house permits. If he has elected to live in soft, sandy, or chalky stones, he becomes a fine fat animal; whilst if he has chosen hard rock, he remains small and lean, whilst his outer shell loses its rough¬ ness. The internal apangements of the Pholas are very simple, and, minus his shell, he strongly re¬ sembles a bag of jelly, through which a muscular valve protrudes and divides into two branches, the reason for which will be evident on looking at the shape of the shell given in the picture. The shells known under the name of Chama vary greatly in form, size, and colour, but the illustration given of the Chama gigas may be taken as a fair representative of the class. The valves or shells are frequently of uneven size and shape, and in some varieties are covered with sharp spines, in others with leaf-like scales, whilst, as in the picture, some are evenly fluted from the hinge downward, and ornamented^ with delicate markings. The creature dwelling inside belongs to the oyster familv ; but, like the tortoise tribe, has fine tubes of the “^same bony structure as our teeth running through the rou^h spines and inequalities of his shell. ^Ve would fain hope that the poor Chama is not liable to toothache, hke his betters, but no doubt this arrangement must

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CHATTERBOX. 245 mean that his apparently thick coat is capable of sensation. His breathiug-tubes^ are very short, and his ^ foot ’ peculiarly small. Seaside folk usually know him as the giant cockle. One species of the tribe, the Pholas. Chama arenaria, or soft clam, is, as I need hardly tell my American readers, much prized for food on their side of the Atlantic. In New York, clams run oysters hard in popularity. A colossal clam is found in East India waters, round coral islands or in shallow lagoons, Chama. which, when weighed, shell and all, sometimes turns the scale at five hundred pounds. Its shells are greatly used for fountains and grottoes, and also for holding holy water in Roman Catholic churches. The Tellina is a pretty double shell, usually to be met with near low-water mark on most shell beaches. One variety is known in English as the ^ cat’s tongue,’ probably from the markings on its surface, another Tellina. kind as the ^ rasp,’ from its rough exterior. The one from which this picture is taken is very delicately coloured in white and pink, and the Tellinas are often shaded with dark yellow. In shape they are some¬ thing like cockles, and their breath ing-tul3es are long and slender. Helena Heath. A BRAVE GIRL. {Continued from page 239.) SHOOK out the curtains and looked under both the beds before I undressed, to make sure no one was lurldng there, and a cold shiver ran down my back when I saw Joan coolly placing under her pillow a shining, polished something. ^ Loaded, Joan ?’ I gasped. Joan nodded. ^ If it should go off while you are asleep - ’ ' It can’t go off when it’s not cocked.’ I said nothing more. We knelt down and said our prayers, and while I prayed to be kept ^ from harm that night, I sent up a heartfelt thanksgiving to * God that He had made Joan so brave. We both slept well, though it seems strange that we did, with so : much trouble brooding over our heads, and I had * gone to sleep with the face of the sullen sentry always in my mind. But I had no bad dreams, and woke with a start to find Joan springing out of bed in the grey dawn, and father’s face peering round the door. How soothing his ^ All right, Johnnie!’ fell on my dazed senses I ^ The morning gun, it seemed, had wakened Joan out of a sound sleep, and she had leaped out of bed, imagining it to be the signal, and father had heard her, and had looked in to cheer us. ‘ And oh, father,’ I cried, pitifully, when I had grasped the situation, ‘ have you been up all night ?’ It was a needless question. His drawn face and

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246 CHATTERBOX. haggard eyes, his dishevelled hair, and tunic hanging* loose for he had taken off his belt — were all answer enough. But he answered cheerily— poor father!— < All night. And I might have been snoozing comfortably in my own bed, for all that has happened, Sara. Bady and I have sat blinking at each other peacefully the long hours through.’ ^ fkank God ! And you will go and lie down now, father. It’s quite early, isn’t it ' Ji^t gone five — yes. I will have two hours and a good half. Get back to bed, Johnnie. I’ve unlocked the doors for the servants to come in. And don’t call me till a quarter to eight.’ He pulled the door after him, and was gone. Joan got into bed again, but we were both wide awake, and whispered to each other now and then. Somehow I felt little fear. Father’s cheerful voice and his report of the peaceful night had given me courage, and the new day brought us hope. Bad}’’, after going to each bedside, with sleepy eyes, to be patted and pitied after her long vigil, came to the conclusion that her watch, too, was over, and, curling herself up at the foot of my bed, fell asleep dii-ectly. By-and-by we heard the servants coming in to t eir sweeping and dusting, and Joan jumped up and said she was going to dress; so, slipping her feet into her slippers, she turned into the bath-room, and I lay a little longer, listening to her splashing about and waiting for my turn. ^It looks such a glorious morning, Sara 1’ she said when she came back. ‘Make haste and get your bath, and we will take a run round the compound betoe breakfast. I feel so much brighter to-day.’ So did I. o j And when we were both dressed and out in the compound, with the cool, fresh air blowing in our faces, and everything looking so quiet and serene oakeena dandhng her baby at her door, and the servants coming to and fro just as in other happy days— the terror of last night seemed less terrible ; the new day brought us hope and peace. We yoke father at a quarter to eight, and met him at brealvfast with as bright bolts as we could muster, for Joan and I had agreed that to burden him with our own fears after his weary watch all night would be dread! ully hard on him. And it was a good thino- we had so agreed, for he was melancholy himself and nervous, though he tried not to show it, and ate his breakfast with very little relish. ^ He gave us short, sharp instructions about the signal again, and reminded me about packing up some clothing:. Then he looked hims&f at the loading of Joan’s firearms, and bade her never to lose her wits, and with a muttered ‘God keepvou’ and a kiss for each — his lips compressed tight and his face stern, as if he felt how hard the necessity was that made him leave us-he put his helmet on his head, and, with one backward look and a quick w^e of the hand, he strode away down the drive. I he cook came for orders as usual, and when tliat duty was done, Joan suggested that we should begin to pack at once ; so, picking out two good-sized boxes out ot the lumber-room, Joan and I carried them between us to our bedroom without asking anybody else's help, and filled the larger one with our own under-things, and then we packed the smaller one with as many of father’s things as it would hold. I shut down the lids, locked both boxes safe, and put the keys in my pocket. ‘That’s a good thing done,’ said Joan. ‘If we’re shut up a month in the fort we shall have heaps of things to change. That was a first-rate thought of fathers.’ ^ ‘Joan,’ I said, faintly, ‘I wish the signal would fire off now. We would drive off straight to the Fort, and father and we would be all together, at least.’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Joan, doubtfully. ‘When the signal comes, it means the worst has come. It would mean that our Mhow troops had mutinied.’ ‘ But we should be all shut up together in the fort,’ I insisted ; ‘ father and all the Europeans, too. It would be better than listening and watching, and being afraid, as we are, in our own home.’ But Joan shook her head, ‘ Everybody may not be able to reach the Fort in safety, and who knows if we could hold the Fort ? \Ve have only the battery left if the native regiments mutiny. Father says the scare may pass off by-and-by without a shot being fired, though he thinks it’s safest to be prepared for the worst, and that would be better than being besieged in the Fort, Sara.’ ‘ Yes,’ I answered, faintly. ‘ Oh, ves ! but this watching, and waiting, and awful terror is— is killino- me, Joan.’ ° ‘ No it isn t,’ replied Joan, stoutly ; ‘ you’ve plenty of life in you yet. Bet us go back to the porch, Sara. While there’s hfe there’s hope, so I’m goino- to hope to the last. Book at Bady, now ; she’s a ifttle scared because she knows there’s something up ; but do you think she would wag her tail like that if she smelt a stranger about the place ? Then look at my fire-arms. They are loaded, and I can use them, too. There’s hope in that. I loill hope to the last.’ Her brave words took some of the terror out of my heart, as they had always done during that terrible, terrible time. She was a brave girl, brave to the backbone. Thank God for that ! If it hadn’t been for Joan, I think I should have lost my reason then. It was only when danger was over and nothin^* was left to fear that Joan confessed that her heart had felt cold within her a hundred times during those troublous days. That was a long, long day. The hours dragged. We read aloud in turns, and Joan talked bravely and hoped for the best. Everything was quiet. WA could see Father McCarthy’s servants going in and out as usual, and not a soul besides our own servants entered the drive. And father came home at last. Jle had no news to tell. Everything at the Fort had gone on quietly, too. He had a few hours’ sleep after dinner, and we called him when we heard the evening gun, just as we had done yesterday. Then he began another weary watch, till another grey dawn broke, and nothing happened. The next day passed as the day before had done, lagging, oh, so heavily ! It was a welcome sight to see father come striding up the drive.

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CHATTERBOX. 247 As soon as Joan looked into his face, she said decidedly, 'If any one has to sit up to-night it mustn’t be you, father.’ ' I must, "Johnnie ; I must.’ 'No, you shall not,’ retorted Joan. ' Look at your face in the glass. It’s yellow and drawn — and your eyes! Father, ybu know if you shut your eyes you would drop off to sleep this minute.’ 'I’ll sleep after dinner, Johnnie,’ he answered, wearily. ' I’ll have two good hours.’ ' Need any one sit up ?’ I asked. ' Yes.’ He seemed too weary to talk, but his ' yes ’ was decided. 'Father, won’t you trust me?’ pleaded Joan. 'I’m not afraid. Let us sit up to-night. Should anything happen— and nothing has happened these two nights — Lady will give the warning first, and we can wake you in less than a second. You can’t worlv all day and watch all night — it’s impossible.’ ' No, no, no, Johnnie ; no, no, no.’ ' Then I won’t promise to wake you at gun-fire. I shan’t wake you, father, and I hope you will oversleep yourself.’ ' 'What !’ he exclaimed, a smile breaking over his haggard face. ' 'We’ve a rebel in our own camp, eh?’ ' I shan’t wake you,’ repeated .loan, ' and if you wake yourself and insist on sitting up, 111 sit up with you. I wouldn’t trust you — not with those eyes. You will fall asleep at your post.’ ‘You ought to have been a boy, Johnnie — you ought to have been a boy. Sara, what have you to say to this rebel ? Sara, will you promise to wake me ?’ I looked into his poor, tired face, and felt ashamed of my cowardice. ' 1 won’t promise,’ I said. ' 1 think Joan is right. You can’t work all day and watch all night. No one can. And Joan and I will have loads of time to sleep to-morrow in turns.’ 'There!’ Joan shouted out, with a glance of ad¬ miration at my pluck. ' Two to one, father — two to one ! Now, you will obey orders like a good soldier, won’t you? ’ she added, coaxingly. ' What are your orders, Johnnie ?’ * That you go to bed and sleep as long as you can. You can leave your room-door open ; there is only the sitting-room between it and the porch. Sara and I will sit there, and if anything is wTong we can run to you in less than a second, or shout from there. The moon will be full to-night, and "we can see such a long way off, and Lady will always give the first warning. Nothing may happen, like last night and the nig'ht before. And oh, father ! what a lot you will gain from a long, restful night— far more fit to do good work by day ! ’ She coaxed him into her plan at last, and the idea became feasible to him. He was very, very tired— wearied out in body and mind. He would not consent to undress and slee^ com¬ fortably, as Joan wanted him to do. He hadn t been out of his uniform for two days and two nights, ^ ex¬ cept just for his morning bath, and he was horrified at the idea of undressing to-night. When the ser¬ vants had left the house for their own quarters, father went round and carefully locked all the doors. [Continued at page 253.) KING JAMES’S FIRST PIPE. AMES, sixth king of that name r ^ ■ \ in Scotland, and the first of Ay ^ /j* England’s Stuart princes, w^as a 1/ ■'^ery singular man, so it is no y wonder that while some have praised him, others have blamed ^ very freely. One thing V favour is, that he was a man who liked to inquire into things, so that it . is highly probable that, when he heard about tobacco, the new article from America which people smoked, he would wish to try it for himself. His first experiment in smoking, as showm in the illustration, is said to have not been very pleasant, and the King’s rueful coun¬ tenance might make it difficult for his page to suppress his laughter. It must surely have been his own painful experiences which made him thereaiter a bitter enemy of the weed, and he denounced smoking . most strongly in his writings. More than that, he sent to the block the unfortunate Sir AValter Kaleigh, who is believed to have introduced tobacco into England, as wtII as that useful vegetable, the potato, and who was a man of great knowledge and ability. We do not know that when Sir Walter first smoked it made him queer, but there is a story that an odd thing did happen to him while he was a beginner. Not wishing people to watch him, he^ had a quiet retreat in his garden, to which he retired with his pipe, and one day, at a time when Sir Walter was not aware, his man-servant happened to pass near. He did not notice the pipe, but what struck him was the fact that smoke was coming from his master’s mouth. Again he looked. Certainly it was so, there could not be a doubt about it — his master must be on fire ! Off he rushed to the nearest well, got a bucket of water, hastened back, and before Faleigh, who was half-dozing, could escape, he had dashed over him the contents of the bucket ! Thoucrh King James was not friendly to tobacco, he conferred a charter upon the Society of Tobacco- pipe Makers in the seventeenth year of his reign, smoking having become so common then that ^ the manufacture of pipes was an important trade. They had, as a device upon their shield, a tobacco-plant in full flower. But yet the article was very expensive at first; we are told the price w^as frequently three shillings the ounce for the best quality. The familiar clay pipe of England, occa¬ sionally called the ' churchwarden ’ pipe, seems to have been in use from the earliest introduction of tobacco, and no doubt it got the preference because it could be constantly changed. The American- Indian pipe was brought over here from Virginia, and it is wonderfully like the pipe which is in common use amongst the Turks. Some of the early smokers enjoyed their tobacco in a funny fashion. Aubrey says they put it into a walnut-shell, and drew up the ' smoke through a straw. People who had plenty of

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King James and his First Pipe. money would, in the seventeenth century, have their pipes made of silver. The Germans have the credit of inventing a sort of pipe which had a double howl, and it was contrived so that the smoke was purified by passing through the water in the outer bowl. They and the Dutch suggested the idea of carving upon a pipe heads and quaint devices. Some state that the Irish first thought of powdering tobacco, and using it as snuff. Durmg the reign of James I. the plant was grown about London and in the west of England, but the King forbade this, because it injured the trade with the American plantations. J. E. S. C.

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“‘Guard! turn out!’ roared the sergeant on duty.’* CHATTERBOX.

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250 CHATTERBOX. DECEPTIVE APPEARA^^CES. IDNERAL PRESCOTT, Lieutenant- Governor of Quebec in 1796, was fond of looking into matters for himself. He often adopted the plan of disguising himself and wandering forth alone in search of adventure. A Beauport farmer, conveying to Quebec a load of firewood, met an elderly man, wrapped up in a great-coat the worse for usage, and wearing a martin cap anything but new. Jean-Baptiste took compassion on the wayfarer, who seemed tired, and said, ‘You look fatigued, father; my vehicle is not very grand, but you will fare better on top of my load than trudging in this heavy The wayfarer readily assented, and took his seat on the load. He and the kind-hearted farmer had a pleasant chat as they went along. On the sledge reaching the foot of Palace Hill, the farmer was rather surprised to see that his new acquaintance, without apparent regard for his horse, did not dismount; but ne concluded that the old fellow was exhausted by fatigue, and that, after all, bis mare, being a powerful beast, would not mind this weight. ‘ Guard ! turn out ! ’ roared the sergeant on duty, on the sledge passing the city gate. The elderly man raised his cap. Jean-Baptiste looked round, saw no military man in the neighbourhood, and also raised his cap, saying, ‘ Civility must be returned.’ The farmer’s sledge then continued its ascent to¬ wards the wood- market, the old man being still seated on the load. ‘ Guard ! turn out ! ’ sang out the sentry at the entrance to the old Military Barracks. The aged man saluted the guard and also returned the respect¬ ful salutation of several citizens standing by; Jean- Baptiste again raised his cap, saluting both the guard and the citizens, and was pleased to note the progress which good manners had made in the city since his last visit. Finally he stopped his mare, when his new acquaintance quickly got down from the load of wood, thanked him for his Idndness, and slipped a coin in his mitten. He had nearly disappeared in the distance, when a bystander asked the wood¬ man how much the Governor* had paid him for the ride. ‘What Governor?’ answered Jean-Baptiste. ‘1 am not to be fooled in that way ! ’ ‘ Look in your mitten,’ was the answer. He did so, and pulled out, amazed, a gold coin, remarking, ‘ To think I w'^as all the time under the impression that I was doing a charitable turn ! Never will I judge of men by their appearance after this.’ From ‘ The Land xoe Live In' THE CHILDHOOD OF QUEEN VICTORIA. Queen victoria now mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother of princes in the direct succession to the English throne, was in 1820 a baby girl, the one ‘ hope of England.’ It will interest our readers to recall something about the Queen’s child¬ hood. Her Majesty’s father was the Duke of Kent, fourth son of George III. He was a fine soldierly man. Once, when the Queen was presenting colours to the Royal Scots, she said, ‘ I have been associated with your regiment from my childhood, as my dear fathet was your Colonel, and I was always taught to consider myself a soldier’s child.’ The Duke of Kent was a bachelor of fifty when he married the Princess of Leiningen, a young widow living in retirement at her castle of Amorbach, in Bavaria, where she was educating her two little children. The baby Princess was born at Kensington Palace on May 24, 1819, and there she was baptized by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the gold font being brought from the Tower for the occasion. The Duke of Kent wished his ‘ little Queen ’ to be called Elizabeth, but his brother, the Prince Regent, gave her the name of Alexandrina, after one of her sponsors, the Emperor Alexander of Russia. Her father asked that the babe might have another name— the Prince Regent said, ‘Give her the name of her mother,’ and so Victoria was added. At first the Royal infant was called the Princess Alexandrina, or little Drina, but by degrees her mother’s name prevailed, and she became the Princess Victoria. It was said at the time that the Prince Regent thought that the cliild should have been named Georgiana, after himself and her grand¬ father. The first eight months of the Queen’s life were spent at Kensington Palace. Then, in order to save her from the severe winter, the Duke and Duchess of Kent, at the end of the year, rented Woodbrook Glen, Sid mouth, a lovely house lying back from the sea. A lady, who at that time saw ‘the little May fiower ’ (as her grandmother, the Duchess of Coburg, called the baby), wrote that ‘ the clear, frank glance of her large blue eyes, and the sweet but firm expression of her mouth were very remark¬ able in a baby of eight months old.’ But, alas ! the babe was soon fatherless. The Duke came in from an excursion, and, before changing his wet clothes, he sat down to play with his little daughter. He caught a chiU, and died on J anuary 26, 1820. The widowed Duchess and her infant returned to Kensington Palace on January 29th, and on the same day, the old King, George III., died at Windsor. This event, and the death of her father, brought the little babe two lives nearer to the throne, which indeed she must ascend if her uncle, now George IV., and her uncle, the Duke of Clarence (afterwards William IV.), had no children.

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CHATTERBOX. 251 The Duchess of Kent longed to go back to her own country of Bavaria, but she nobly resisted her natural desire. Speaking of herself and her infant at this time, she wrote, ‘ I stood alone, almost friend¬ less in this country. I could not even speak the language of it. I did not hesitate how to act. I gave up my home, my kindred, my duties (the re¬ gency of Leiningen), to devote myself to that duty which was to be the whole object of my future life.’ From that day onward the Duchess of Kent lived at Kensington in stately seclusion, watching over the young ‘ hope of England.’ From the day of her father’s death till she ascended the throne, the future Queen never passed a night outside her mother’s bed¬ chamber. In one of the rooms at Kensington Palace there is a gilt plate to tell that there the Queen was born. In another room, which was the nursery, there still stand a doll’s house, a headless horse, and a model of a ship, toys with which the little Princess used to play* The Koyal child had rather a dull time ; she had no companion of her own age, for her half-sister, the Princess Feodora, daughter of the Duchess of Kent by her first marriage, was eleven years older than the Princess Victoria. The Queen loved her dearly, but she could not be a playmate. The child’s best romps were through the long suite of rooms with her nurse, Mrs. Brock, whom she called her ^ dear Boppy.’ When she was somewhat older, the Princess took a girl’s interest in her dolls. She had one hundred and thirtj’^-two, and kept a list of them with their names and history. The dolls’ feet were made to fix in a long board, and the future Queen used with them to go through various ceremonies of state. ^ The chief varieties in the Princess’s life were a visit to her ^ Uncle King,’ as she called George IV., or to Clare¬ mont, where her uncle Leopold, her mother’s brother, lived, and to Kamsgate. On her fourth birthday she was bidden to attend a state dinner party with her mother at Carlton House. She was dressed in a white frock with a miniature of the King set in diamonds on the left sleeve. The life of the young Princess at Kensington w'^as very quiet; she was happy in the love of her mother and in her simple pleaspes. One great delight was riding out on her white donkey, whose head was adorned with blue ribbons. An old soldier led it by the bridle. Sometimes she took a drive in a small pony-chaise led by a page. One day a dog ran between the pony’s legs ; it swerved and upset the little carriage. The Princess would surely have been injured or killed if a soldier who was passing had not caught her in his arms. His name was Malony, and he was warmly thanked and generously rewarded by the Duchess of Kent. The little Princess had to do lessons. She learned her letters at her mother’s knee. Her regular edu¬ cation began in her fifth year, when the Rev. George Davys, afterwards Bishop of Peterborough, became her tutor. ^ I fear you will find my little girl a very headstrong pupil,’ the Duchess said to him, ^ but the ladies of the household will spoil her.’ The Princess w'as trained to speak French and German as well as English, and she soon found out that to ask them in German was the most likely way to get favours from her mother. By the time she had reached her eleventh year, Italian, Latin, Greek, mathematics, music, and drawing were added to her studies. The Princess was very fond of drawing, and early began at Claremont to sketch from nature. She was much interested in natural history, and was delighted with her first visit to the British Museum, and asked that she might be often taken there. She also took much pleasure in learning simple botany, which she studied wdth her uncle Leopold in the woods at Claremont. Thus the childhood of England’s future Queen was passed under the watchful eye of the wisest and best of mothers. Year by year saw her fine natural abilities develop and her character ripen. No one had been allowed to disturb the simplicity of the little maiden by telling her that she was heiress of England’s throne. She was indeed reared as a Queen, without being burdened with the knowledge of her high estate and future dignity. THE POUR TRIALS. HERE was once an old monk who was walking through a forest with a little scholar by his side. The old man suddenly stopped and pointed to four plants close at hand. The first was beginning to peep above the ground ; the second had rooted itself pretty well into the earth ; the third was a small shrub; whilst the fourth and last was a full-sized tree. Then the old monk said to his young companion, — ‘ Pull up the first.’ The youth easily pulled it up with his fingers. ^ Now pull up the second.’ The youth obeyed, but not so easily. ‘ And the third.’ But the boy had to put all his strength and use both arms before he succeeded in uprooting it. ' And now,’ said the master, ' try your hand upon the fourth.’ . But, lo ! the trunk of the tall tree (grasped in the arms of the youth) scarcely shook its leaves ; and the little fellow found it impossible to tear its roots from Then the wise old monk exifiained to his scholar the meaning of the four trials. ^This, my son, is just what happens witn our passions. When they are young and weak one may, by a little watchfulness over self and the help or a little self-denial, easily tear them up; but, if we let them cast their roots deep down into our souls, ^ then no human pow*er can uproot them — the almighty hand of the Creator alone can pluck them out. bor this reason, my child, watch over the first move¬ ments of your soul, and^ study by acts of virtue to keep your passions well in check.

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Page 263

CHATTERBOX. 253 THE FALLS OF CLYDE. II. — The Ooera Linn. iir last paper on the Falls of Clyde, our readers had a fine view presented to them of the Upper Fall at Ben¬ nington, which, although very imposing-looking, sur¬ rounded as it is by the finest scenery, yet is greatly sur¬ passed in beauty by the magnificent fall known as the Terra Linn,’ where, closely hemmed in on either side by lofty and precipitous banks of sandstone rocks, the roaring river rushes over a precipice eighty -five feet in height, in three distinct leaps into the abyss below. When the river is in flood, this is perhaps as beautiful a scene as can be found in Scotland. But before the Clyde settles down into the quiet usefulness of a river running over more level ground and gradually widening out so as not only to bear little boats but great ships upon its surface, it has still another rough-and-tumble experience to go through. This is the fall known as Stone Byres, a pretty view of which will be shown later on. A BRAVE GIRL. (Continued from page 241.) i^E kept the lamp burning in the sitting-room, but turned the wick low. Then we dragged our two easy-chairs into the glass porch, and prepared for our long watch. Father kissed us, but kept lingering about. We had to drive him off to bed. ‘ I shall lie down just as I am, Johnnie,’ he said. ^ Don’t wait to be sure of danger. If you fancy it, come and wake me at once. A shout from you will have me on my feet directly.’ ^ Yes, father,’ said Joan. ^ If danger is near, be sure I shall call you in time. Don’t be anxious about us, father; try to sleep. I’m not afraid. Should danger threaten from the back. Lady will warn us in time ; the front we can watch ourselves. It’s such a mercy it’s full moon to-night.’ He left us then, and I said, ^ Joan, we haven’t said our prayers.’ ‘ ISo,’ said Joan ; ‘ we ought to say them just as if we were going to bed.’ So I knelt by my chair and said mine first, and then Joan said hers. ‘ If you feel sleepy, Sara,’ she whispered, presently, ‘have a little nap. We can doze in turns, you know.’ But sleep was far from my eyes, and the fire in Joan’s told me how far it was from hers. We sat silent, and sometimes I could hear my own heart beat. The night was still. We watched the lights go out one by one in the priests’ bungalow, but perhaps they too were on guard like us. The night was very still. The moon was so bright that we could distinguish the flowers in the com¬ pound, and the wide, white road lay plain before us for a quarter of a mile. Now and then a faint breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and died away again. When we strained to listen we could hear father’s regular breathing through the open door beyond the sitting-room, and were glad to know that he slept. Lady, turning her bright eyes from Joan’s face to mine, seemed to be asking plainly, ‘ What is the trouble? Why are you not in bed?’ Then she stretched herself down between our easy-chairs, with her eyes towards the drive, and watched with us. The quick movement of her ears as they cocked and fell told us plainly that Lady had no intention of sleeping. My thoughts wandered to the Kilroys. They were the only people we knew well at Mhow, and that was because Captain Kilroy was a chum of father’s. Mrs. Kilroy liked us, and we liked her, but we could hardly call her a companion. She was wrapped up in her babies, and we were not young enough to be petted as children by her, and not old enough to be exactly friends. Joan and I had no companions of our own age at Mhow. Girls of fifteen and sixteen were generally away in England at boarding schools. There were a lot of young children — babies and little things of seven or eight — among the officers’ families ; but we were too old for them, and yet not old enough for their mothers. And, of course, we never w^ent to any of their dances or grown-up parties. Father had a great dislike of girls ‘ coming out,’ as they call it, while very young. So we were, on the whole, kept rather close. Not that we wished for anything different. We had led a kind of up-and-down life with father since mother died. It would have broken his heart and ours to have been parted. And though he sometimes did talk of England, nothing ever came of it, and Joan and I had never known any but an Indian life. Then, too, we were conr stantly changing from place to place, and coming in contact with new faces. During our two years’ residence in Mhow*, many faces had come and gone. Though there were several married ladies with babies there, I could think that night only of Mrs. Kilroy’s. She had four — the eldest barely seven. I kept on wondering w'hat they were all doing that night, and picturing Captain Kilroy -watching, perhaps, like us, and poor Mrs. Kilroy going from cot to cot, sending up loving prayers over the four flaxen heads. But their house was nearer the Fort, and among a good many others ; not isolated as our bungalow on the hill w^as, or Father McCarthy’s, with the picket only at his gates. ‘I wonder if the Kilroys are watching, Joan,’ I whispered.

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254 CHATTERBOX. ‘ I was just now thinking of the children/ she answered. ‘ Joan, if— if three rebels broke into their bunga¬ low, they couldn’t save all four,’ I said. Tf six mutineers broke in here/ said Joan, gidmly, ‘ I don’t know how we could all save ourselves.’ ‘ It seems almost useless then, to watch like this/ I said hopelessly. I caught the flash of her eyes as she said through her teeth, ^ I would rather be killed fighting for my life than be murdered in my bed. Oh ! I know the feeling that makes men shudder at the thought of being killed in cold blood,” as they call it.’ I shuddered, and my heart leaped into my mouth as the timepiece in the next room rang out the hour of midnight in its clear silvery strokes. ^Twelve!’ said Joan. ^The day will break in less than five hours, Sara.’ ^ And then father said we were to go to bed.' ‘ Sara, shut your eyes and try to sleep. It will do you good. I’m so wide awake myself, I couldn’t sleep for the world.’ ^ I can’t sleep, J oan.’ J oan stretched herself, and began to walk softly up and down. ‘ Father is fast asleep/ she whispered ; I can hear his heavy breathing. It will do him so much good. Sara, you’re not sorry that I made you sit up ? ’ ' Oh, no, Joan ! not while poor father can sleep.’ She sat down by-and-by, and I stared out at the white, wide road till my eyes ached from looking at it ; and then my mouth opened to cry out, only in my terror I could not cry, for out of the stillness came the noise of a great thud. Joan started out of her chair at the same instant, and I felt my eyes glued to her face, and I knew, without seeming to see, that Lady stretched herself and ran out of the porch, wagging her tail and whimpering. ^ It’s father,’ said Joan, quietly. And with my heart beating like a sledge-hammer I saw father coming out of his room, and Lady jumping and fawning on him. ^ Good Lady ! ’ he said. ' Little messenger of peace!’ and then, ‘AH right, Johnnie.'” ‘ All right, father/ said Joan, going to meet him, ‘ Why did you get up ? ’ ‘ I had a bad dream, Johnnie. I woke to find myself springing from my bed, but Lady’s familiar whimper made me all right in a minute. Good little dog I ’ At that Lady leaped up and whimpered fondly again. ‘ Poor father ! ’ said Joan, hanging about him. ‘ But you have had a long sleep. Everything has been quiet. We haven’t heard a sound.’ ‘ Except the thud you made as you jumped out of bed/ I put in, my fears all calmed now, and feeling so brave for his presence. ‘ I didn’t know what the noise was, and even Joan started for a moment. Lady only was not deceived. Clever Lady ! She got up and wagged her tail at once. Oh, Lady, what a comfort you are to me ! ’ and I caught her up in my arms, and buried my face in her sleek, black neck, to hide the sob I felt bubbling to my lips and to drown it in a kiss. ‘ Poor Sara ! ’ said father, patting my shoulder as if he knew I had had a start. ‘ Yes, we may trust Lady to give the first alarm should danger threaten. I have had a splendid sleep, Johnnie. Now, girls, get off to bed, and I’ll watch till the morning gun. One o’clock/ he added, as the timepiece struck the hour. •But we had not bargained for that, and we told him so. It was only by insisting that we could sleep in turns during the long, lagging day, that we could persuade him to go and lie down again. But he went at last, and Joan and I began our vigil once more, and watched the moon till it dipped behind the priests’ bungalow, and the daylight broke. Then the morning gun boomed from the Fort, and the noise went crashing over the hills, and Joan and I jumped up and hugged each other in our thankfulness and crept away to bed. {Continued at page 258.) THE CUCKOO. The cuckoo is found in all the warmer parts of the globe, but is only a summer visitor in Great Britain, arriving on our shores in April and May. Every one loves to hear its note, as, whenever it is heard, we know that summer is close at hand. The cuckoo is rather larger than a thrush, with the wings and tail somewhat long for its size. It can scarcely be called a pretty bird, as it is dressed in sober brown colours. Strange to say, the female cuckoo has no nest of her own, but lays her eggs in the nest of some other bird, generally in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, but only one egg in each nest. When the young cuckoo is hatched it eats enor¬ mously, and soon grows large and strong enough to turn all the little hedge-sparrows out of their own mother’s nest ! The poor mother bird continues to feed the little cuckoo till it is old enough to fly away and look after itself. We cannot feel perfectly certain why the cuckoo acts so strangely as to have no nest of her own, but the reason may be that as she leaves England again early in the month of August, she would not have time to hatch and rear her own brood, and is therefore obliged to leave them to the hedge-sparrow to nurse and bring up. If any of the boys find a hedge-sparrow’s nest, with its bluish-green eggs, this summer, look carefully to see if a cuckoo has laid her egg among those of the hedge-sparrow. I do not think, however, that you will find one, for cuckoos are not very common, after all, in any part of our country. D. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. NED FLEMING. Concluded from page 242.) There came a day when Ned’s father said to his son, ‘ Did you ever think, my lad, what pro¬ fession you would like to follow ? ’ ‘ Yes, father/ answered Ned, ‘ the sea, with your leave,’ and so it came about that Ned was appren-

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CHATTERBOX. 255 ticed in one of the merchant ships of John Campbell & Company, Greenock, and not long afterwards an order was received for the boy to appear on a certain day at the office ^ on the Quay/ Farewells are always sad, and our hero found them particularly so. The Captain, Mrs. Fleming, Babby, and a number of friends — amongst them Ned’s schoolmates — were early at the Quay on the eventful morning of Ned’s departure. Each boy had some little present to give : one a book, another a pencil-ease, another a penknife, and another a new ball which he squeezed into Ned’s pocket, saying, * It’s a splendid bouncer.’ A week later and Ned was embarked on the John or, as she was called for shortness, the John, bound for Kingston, Jamaica. In addition to the master and mate there were fifteen seamen and three apprentices, including Ned, upon the vessel. The persons in whom Ned was most interested were, of course, his fellow- apprentices. The one, ^Little Dan,’ was a small, black-eyed, shy, active boy, whose father had long served on board the John^ and was then a porter connected with the Custom House ; the other, ^ Buckie,’ reminded Ned of the old school-bully. Noddles, and, like him, ^ Buckie ’ was anything but a pleasant lad. He was healthy, muscular, and ugly, and with a wish to play the tyrant over the other boys. He tried on bullj^ing with Ned, but he met his match. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, though for that matter there seemed to be scarcely any difference on board the John between Sunday and week-days. Ned had just finished his early watch, and it was his turn to go below. Quietly he sat down to read his Bible in a corner, where he thought he would not be disturbed. Most of the crew were sleeping in their hammocks. Ned had sat thus for a few minutes, when little Dan crept to him, and asked in a whisper, ^What’s that ye’re reading, Fleming?’ ‘ The Bible, Dan.’ ^ Are ye no frighted ?’ ‘For what, Dan?’ ‘ Oh, just for everybody, especially Buckie. He was awful mad at me last voyage for reading a good book my mither gave me.’ ‘Was he?’ inquired Ned. ‘What has Buckie to do with you ? ’ ‘ Nothing I Imow of,’ replied Dan, ‘ but he must always be master. Eh! he’s an awful chap!’ whispered little Dan, looking cautiously over his shoulder, in case Buckie or his ghost was within hearing. Buckie was not far off, and it was not long after Dan had reached out his PilgrMs Progress ^ to read, before the bully seated himself opposite^ him, and began to throw cinders at him, and bade him in no polite tones to stow away his book. Finding that Dan disobeyed him for once, he seized his book and threatened to burn it, holding it in the tongs as if to do so. Dan sprang forward and seized the precious volume, but Buckie held it in his powerful grasp. A struggle ensued, and Buckie, losing his temper, struck Dan a violent blow, threw him down, and hurled the book in torn leaves at his head. This was too much for Ned, and he bade Buckie leave the boy alone. It had been the bully’s object to make Ned interfere. He at once turned upon him, and followed some impudent words with a kick, which sent Ned’s Bible out of his hand and under the stove. ‘ Pick that up, you blackguard ! ’ Ned said, looking sternly at Buckie. The only reply was an insulting look, and then insulting words. By this time the sailors were looking on. ‘ Pick it up, I say!’ said Ned, pointing to the Bible, and coming nearer Buckie. ‘I leave that to you, my puppy dog,’ replied Buckie, attempting to ascend the ladder and go on deck. Ned laid his hand on him and said, ‘ Come back, I tell you, and pick that book up, or you will repent it !’ ‘Repent it !’ said Buckie, swinging his arms round and striking Ned on the face. ‘ Take that for your impudence ! ’ In a single second Buckie was dragged from the ladder, and sent rolling backwards a few yards. But he turned round fiercely, and again struck Fleming a blow over his eye, and prepared to follow it up with another. Every hammock had now a face looking out of it, and every sleepy sailor was roused to see how a gentleman would behave when matched with such a tough customer. For a few minutes it was impossible to say who had the best of it ; but in the end, Buckie was thrown down with bleeding nose and blowing like a porpoise, while Ned had him entirely at his mercy. ‘ Now,’ he said, ‘ you ruffian, will you ever try to bully us again ? Ha ! do want to kick my shins? If you do, I will shut ycur other eye. Now,’ he said, after giving him. a little whole¬ some punishment, ‘ take that, and be off at your leisure.’ Buckie, foaming like a wild boar, hurried up the ladder, snorting, puffing, and arranging his hand¬ kerchief, while the men said aloud that Fleming was ‘ good stuff.’ The captain of the ship decided to take a different view of the matter, for he thought that he should be doing Ned’s father a good turn by^ making his son dislike the sea. He therefore decided to be very harsh and stern with him, and to ‘ drill him weel.’ He ordered Ned, with gruff words and frowning brow, up to the maintop to ‘ cool his blood ; ’ but he secretly admired his manly spirit, and told M‘Killop, the mate, that a ‘ braver laddie never mounted the mast.’ Ned held no malice against Buckie, and he took the first chance of showing it by slipping a new and ornamental pipe into Buckie’s pocket while he slept, and before the ship reached Kingston he had taught poor, ignorant Buckie the alphabet. The story of Ned’s ‘ shipwreck on shore,’ his kindness to poor Cox, his manly conduct upon another Sunday in the good ship Johuj and his home-coming, is to be found in The Old Lieutenant and his Son, a book which every boy and girl should read for himself or herself at the first opportunity. James Cassidy.

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256 CHATTERBOX. Buckie threatens to biu*n the Book.

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FROLICSOME FUN,

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CHATTERBOX. 257 “ Plenty of time ! Take your turn ! Don’t crowd ! ”

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258 CHATTERBOX. DON’T CROWD. AVETERx^N showman recently confided to a few of his personal friends a little story about a parrot which may or may not be strictly true. His ticket-seller, he said, had a parrot which always sat beside him during his labours, and thus learned his ^ lingo,’ which was to this effect : ^ Stand back, now — plenty of time ! Take your turn. Don’t crowd.’ The parrot one day happened to fly away and got lost. The owner was much troubled about it, but a little while afterwards the attention of one of the show-people was attracted by a flock of crows on a hill at the back of the town. Approaching the spot, the man discovered the parrot sitting on a lo^ with his feathers up, trying to defend himself against a score of crows. And not only was he thus found, but there he sat, screaming at the top of his voice : ^ Stand back, now — aplenty of time ! Take your turn. Don’t crowd.’ A BRAVE GIRL. {Continued from page 254.) f EL E N I woke from a long, sound sleep, I found Joan’s bed empty. She was not in the room. I raised myself on my elbow and listened to hear her splashing in the bath-room, but all was quiet. ‘ Joan ! ’ I cried, ‘ Joan ! ’ Then I heard footsteps in the next room, and Joan’s face looked in at the door. ‘ Oh, Sara, you’re awake atlast ! ’ ‘ J oan ! you are up and dressed ! ’ ‘ Ages ago !’ answered Joan. * Father and I had breakfast three hours ago ! ’ ^ Then he’s gone to the Fort — and you never waked me !’ ‘ What was the good ? You were sleeping so soundly, it seemed cruel to wake you, so I just crawled about, and had my bath and got dressed, while you never so much as turned round. It’s past eleven, and I’ve given orders for dinner.’ * Eleven o’clock ! ’ ' Father had such a beautiful sleep, and looked ever so much better this morning. He was not half so downhearted when he went away. We must never let him sit up at night, Sara.’ ‘ But, Joan, aren’t you tired ?’ ^ N — no,’ said Joan. ‘ Lady and I have been running- in the compound, and oh, Sara, it’s so sunny and peaceful, I can’t believe danger is anywhere near.’ * I’ll get up directly, and Joan, you must get some sleep if we are to sit up again to-night.’ ' 1 know, so I’ve ordered tiffin at twelve. You can have your breakfast and tiffin together, and I’ll lie down in the afternoon to rest.’ Her cheerfulness made me almost happy, and I jumped up quickly, and felt somehow that this scare would be only a scare. We had tiffin at twelve, and Joan lay down on the sofa in the sitting-room, and I read aloud tiU she fell asleep. Sakeena came to the veranda by-and-by with her baby, so I went out to join her for the sake of her company, and we played with the baby and passed an hour away. Four more nights Joan and I sat up on guard, and four more days we slept on the sofa in turns. It was a happy moment when we saw father coming safely up the drive, and we used to run into the veranda the moment we saw him, to let him know that all was well. A dusky red would flush into his blanched face as soon as he saw us — poor father ! The hair on his temples had grown quite grey that week, and wrinkles came into his face as if he were an old man. There was a great press of work at the Fort just then. His anxiety there and his fears for us at home were telling on him terribly. But on the fifth evening he came swinging through the gates with a look of relief on his face, and as we^ ran to meet him he cried; ^ No more sitting up to-night, my girls, thank God ! The order has been issued at the Fort that all Europeans must sleep at the barracks for the future. I wish the order had been given four nights ago. How much anxiety you would have been spared ! ’ ^ Sleep at the barracks ?’ we repeated. ‘ Yes, at the barracks. Our houses are not thought safe for occupation at night, especially with helpless women and children. Not that I think my little women helpless,’ added father, looking proudly at us. ‘ Then, father, are things any worse ? ’ * Pretty much the same, Sara — pretty much the same,’ he answered with a great sigh. ‘ We’re getting prepared for danger, and to be prepared is half the battle. The order was received with relief from all who have women and children in their homes.’ The order was a relief to us, too. I could have cried in my joy. When all that troublous time was over I found more than a dozen white hairs amongst my dark curls. They came, I am sure, during those four nights on guard. Father kissed us fondly. ^ Thank God, you will sleep in beds to-night guarded by soldiers, instead of watching over one weary worn-out one.’ We each took an arm and went gaily indoors, and dared to laugh and be merry. ‘We shall just have beds,’ said father, ‘nothing more. No washing allowed,’ he added, laughing; ‘ so, Sara, if you will delay the dinner for a quarter of an hour, I will take a bath before we start.’ ‘ May we take our night-dresses and combs and brushes, father ? ’ ‘ Yes, yes ; anything like that to make you comfortable.’ When the order was given for the carriage to be ready at nine, Gungadeen showed no surprise. The news of the order from the Fort had flown like vdldfire. Cossam waited at table with the same im¬ movable face, though he knew that we were going to sleep for safety at the barracks that night. AVe put up our few requirements, and as the time for our leaving drew near, it suddenly struck me with amaze that we were coolly going to leave our house

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CHATTERBOX. 259 to the mercy of anybody that might break in to steal. I said so to father and Joan, as I looked round on many precious and familiar things, ‘ We must risk that, Sara,’ said father, with a grim smile. ‘ Houses and furniture are less valuable than human lives.’ ^ I will take my pistols,’ said Joan. ‘I have more faith in them than in anything else in the house.’ ‘ Yes,’ assented father, gravely. ^ We will take our fire-arms, Johnnie.’ The carriage was announced at nine. We had locked up everything, and father turned the key of the door as we went out, and put it into his pocket. We felt quiet and sad now, leaving our dear home at the mercy of the rebels. Lady, of course, was coming with us. ‘ Drive to the barracks.’ Father gave the order in Hindustanee, and Gungadeen took it stolidly. There was no expression in his face. We bowled along down the drive, out at the gates. Joan and I hadn’t been outside them for four weeks. We passed the priests’ bungalow. In the moonlight we saw the sentry at his post as we came upon the Picket-house. Some of the Sepoys turned out as the wheels of our carriage came grinding down the road, and a low, jeering laugh was flung after us as we drove past. ^ The wretches!’ hissed Joan, and I saw father’s hand tighten on his sword. He, too, had brought his double-barrelled gun. But the barracks are reached at last. Carriages are coming laden, and carriages are going empty away. Women and children are being helped out and led away to the rooms allotted to them. Here and there a little group stand huddled together, waiting their turn, the moonlight shining on their scared faces. There is very little confusion. A frightened silence reigns, broken only by the cries of babies and the subdued ^ bushings ’ of the mothers holding them close, and the quick, sharp orders of those in authority. ‘ Come this way, girls,’ said father, and we followed him close, I carrying Lady, till he led us into a bare, whitewashed room, with two trestle beds. ^ Sleep well,’ he said, kissing us tenderly ; ^ I shan’t be very far off ; and wake up with good appe¬ tites to-morrow. I have ordered Gungadeen to be here by half-past seven ; we wiU drive home to breakfast.’ Then he left us, and we said our prayers and un¬ dressed, and lay down with the cries of frightened children in our ears. Lady sniffed all round the room, and when she was satisfied that all was right, she settled herself comfortably at the foot of my bed. We were awake long before seven next morning, and whispered together till a sharp rap at the door and father’s voice called us to get up and dress. We put on our clothes. There was no water to wash in. ‘What a dirty way of dressing!’ laughed Joan. ^One comfort is that our neighbours are just as dirty as we. Where’s the brush, Sara ? It’s a mercy we can tidy our hair.’ ‘ Heady there ? ’ Father was waiting for us. Lady whimpered and pawed the door as soon as she heard his voice.^ We rolled up our nightgowns, with brush and comb inside, and followed him out of the barracks, where Gunga¬ deen was waiting with the carriage, and stepped in, an unwashed trio. The carriage toiled slowly up the wide, white road ; we were going up-hill. As we neared the Picket-house we drew down the blinds, but Joan and I peeped from behind them, and saw the Sepoys leering and winking at Gungadeen, and pointing to the drawn blinds with their thumbs. ‘ I wonder whether Gungadeen is winking back at them?’ muttered Joan. We found our bungalow just as we had left it last night, and went to our own rooms to undress again and bathe ; and, though Joan and I brought good appetites to breakfast, as father had enjoined us, he himself looked too much worried to enjoy anything. He had to be on duty at the Fort as usual. It seemed to trouble him dreadfully to leave us alone. He reminded us again about the signal, and went off with pretended cheerfulness. But we passed a long, uneventful day, and drove that night to the barracks again. Three more nights we slept at the barracks, and three restless days we passed at home. {Continued at page 270.) FREEDOM VERSUS SLAVERY. A JUDGE in Ohio used to defend slavery, upon the ground that the slaves knew what was best for themselves, and should be allowed to remain in the condition which brought them more happiness than labourers had in the North. His conversion to the opposite opinion was suddenly brought about by an interview with a runaway who had crossed the Ohio River from Kentucky, and entered the village in which the judge resided. Said the judge to the fugitive — ‘ What did you run away for ? ’ ‘ Well, judge, I wanted to be free.’ ‘ Oh ! wanted to be free, did you ? Bad master, I suppose ? ’ ‘ Oh no ; berry good man, massa.’ ‘ You had to work too hard, then ?’ ‘ Oh no ; fair day’s work.’ ‘ Well, you hadn’t a good home ?’ ‘ Hadn’t I, though ! You should see my pretty cabin in Kentucky ! ’ ‘ Well, you didn’t get enough to eat ? ’ ‘ Oh ! plenty to eat.’ The judge, somewhat annoyed : ‘ You had a good master, plenty to eat, were not overworked, a good home — 1 don’t see what on earth you wanted to run away for.’ ‘ Well, judge, I left de situation down dar open. You can go right down and get it.’ The result was a five-dollar note given to help the slave who had left well-being behind to become a man. HAPPY DAYS. V H, the happy, happy days. When Willie rode on mother’s back, O’er the heather hills and braes, (slopes) Carlo following on the track !

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“ Gallop, mother ! ^ Gallop, mother ! gallop fast ! Soon my father will be here. See, the sheep are running past, So the shepherd must & near I ^Quicker, mother! quicker still! Put me down, and let me run gallop fast.’’ AVith you and Carlo on the hill : AVon’t I have some famous fun ? ^ There is father ! Don’t you see ? ' Yes, his mother sees him well. Soon they meet, and happier she (And Willie, too) than I could tell. D. B. M.

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Queen Victoria at the age of twelve years. THE GIRLHOOD OP QUEEN VICTORIA. T was when she was about twelve years old that the Princess Victoria was for¬ mally told how near she stood to the English throne. Then she may be said to have passed out of child¬ hood into girlhood. It was in a lesson on English history that Dr. Davys, tutor, made the fact clear to the young Princess. She had been told to make a chart of the Kings and Queens of England and had got as far as ' Uncle WTlliam.' The tutor said, ‘ You have not put down the next heir to the Crown.’ The Princess hesitated and said, ^ I scarcely like to put down myself.’ Her mother, the Duchess of Kent, when told of this, replied that she was glad that her daughter knew what great duties lay before her. The English people had now come to regard the little Princess as heir to the throne. The King sometimes showed a foolish jealousy of his niece, but the good Queen Adelaide, whose own children had died in infancy, was most loving and kind to her. ^ The Princess Victoria went to her first Drawing¬ room on February 24th, 1831. It was a reception of much splendour, for it was the first held after the accession of William IV., it was Queen Adelaide’s birthday, and the first formal appearance at Court of the heiress of Great Britain. The Princess set out from Kensington Palace with her mother and the ladies-in-waiting in state car¬ riages with an escort of Life-guards. At the Draw¬ ing-room she stood on Queen Adelaide’s left hand. She was dressed in a frock of English blonde draped over white satin. The braids of her fair hair were fastened at the back of her liead by a diamond clasp, and round her neck she wore a single row of pearls. It was a trying ordeal for a young girl brought up in strict seclusion, but the Princess bore herself with modest dignity and took evident delight in watching the presentations to the Queen. In the same year the Princess paid her first visit to a theatre, when she was taken to a children’s per¬ formance at Coven t Garden. As a girl, the Princess led a very quiet life at Kensington Palace. Her amusements were all of a simple kind, such as walking in Kensington Gardens,

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262 CriATTERBOX. driving her ponies, or playing with her favourite dog, Dash, a hlack-and-tan spaniel. In order to vary her rather dull life, the Duchess of Kent took her daughter now and again to visit scenes of interest in England and Wales. In the present travelling days it is strange to learn that the Queen had never been abroad till she had been several years on the throne, and was both a wife and mother. The Duchess and Princess used much to enjoy their visits to Broadstairs and Kamsgate. In 1830 they travelled to Malvern, where the Princess led a free out-door life, even climbing trees. On one occasion she had to be rescued by the gardener from the bough of an apple-tree. On another occasion the visit was to Tunbridge Wells. There the old folk long remembered the little Princess on her donkey, and how she went to the wells to drink the water. There is a story that on this visit, when she had spent her allowance of pocket-money, she wished to buy a half-crown box, but the Duchess would not let her get into debt. However, the box was kept for her, and, when her allowance became due, she rode down on her donkey at seven o’clock in the morning to claim it. Even during these early jaunts the Princess took part in public ceremonies. She opened the Victoria Park at Bath, and handed the colours to a regiment of foot at Plymouth. Later on, when she visited Wales, she distributed the prizes to the successful competitors at the national gathering called the Eisteddfod. In 1833 the Princess and her mother resided for some months at Norris Castle in the Isle of Wight, and then made a cruise in the Channel in their yacht, the Emerald, visiting Southampton, Plymouth, and Torquay. In this cruise the Princess had a narrow escape. She was sitting on deck when the yacht came into collision with another vessel, and the top¬ mast fell, and would have struck the Princess ; but the pilot, Mr. Saunders, who was near, snatched her up and carried her in his arms to a place of safety. The Queen never forgot her preserver ; she promoted him to the rank of Master when she came to the throne, and cared for his widow and children after his death. The education of the Princess was still directed by Dr. Davys, who had become Dean of Peterborough. He taught her Greek, Latin, mathematics, and literature, as well as giving her religious guidance. The Princess was fond of such English classics as Shakespeare, Pope, and Dryden. Her childhood’s governess. Baroness Leitzen, was still at Kensington Palace, and the Duchess of Northumberland was appointed by the King to teach the Princess the etiquette of the Court. From Mr. Foyard, the riding master, the Princess learned that grace in the saddle which used to delight the people as they saw the girl- queen cantering down the Bow. On August 30, 1835, the Princess stood in her white confirmation dress in the Chapel Eoyal, St. James’s. Only the King and Queen, the Duchess of Kent, and others^ of the Royal family were present. The Archbishop in his fatherly address spoke of the duties of her high station, and the need of God’s guidance. The Princess turned to her mother, and, laying her head on her bosom, sobbed with emotion. At the close of her fifteenth year the health of the Princess was delicate, and some anxiety was felt. When, after her recovery, she drove with her mother in Hyde Park, there were great demonstrations of joy- In the summer of 1835, Queen Adelaide took the Princess to the Ascot Races, and as she drove in the Royal procession many admired her. She wore a large pink bonnet and a rose-coloured satin frock which matched well the roses on her cheeks, and contrasted with her fair hair and blue eyes. In 1836, when the Princess was seventeen, there came to Kensington Palace the Duke of Coburg and his two sons, Ernest and Albert. It was the first meeting of the Princess Victoria with her cousin. Prince Albert. The three young people passed several weeks in each other’s society, walking and riding in Kensington Gardens, and seeing various sights in London. At the end of a month the visitors left, and we are told that there was nothing between the Princess Victoria and her cousin Albert at this time. It was known that the King did not favour such an alliance for his niece, and was disposed to help one of the other suitors, of whom there were no less than five besides Prince Albert. A letter of the period tells of an application made on behalf of Prince Adalbert of Prussia that he also might be permitted * to place himself on the list of those who pretend to the hand of the Princess Victoria.’ The Duchess of Kent replied that such an application must be made to the King, adding, ‘ But, if I know my duty to the King, 1 know also my maternal ones, and I am of opinion that the Princess should not marry till she is much older.’ On May 24, 1837, the Princess reached her legal majority. Her eighteenth birthday was celebrated with national rejoicing. All day the great world of London flocked to Kensington Palace, to do homage to the Princess who would soon be Queen, for the King, in his seventy-first year, was showing signs of failing health. On the night of the birthday a State Ball was given at St. J ames’s Palace. It was noticed by the guests that the Princess now took precedence of her mother, occupying the chair of state between the dances. Ten days later a Drawing Room was held to celebrate the Princess’s coming of age. This was her last appearance at Court as the Princess Victoria, for on June 20th of the same year her ‘ Uncle William ’ died, and she succeeded to the throne. The girl-queen was crowned on June 28, 1837, and she married Prince Albert on February 10, 1840. THE CANDLES AND THE MIRROH. A Fablo. A GILT mirror, with two candles attached to it, used to hang on the wall of a gentleman’s draw¬ ing-room. One day it so happened that the candles, who were bosom friends, were trying to pick a quarrel with the mirror. The cause of the quarrel, as we may well imagine, was owing to jealousy.

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CHATTERBOX. 263 ^ How is it,’ exclaimed the candles, ^ that all the visitors in the house come directly to you, but never take any notice whatever of us, whereas, if we did not give our light, you would be of no use ? ’ ^ Ah ! my good friends I ’ replied the mirror, ' I do not desire any honour, I can tell you. If you only take the trouble to ol33erve carefully, you will see that it is not me the people come to admire when they draw near, but their own persons and looks. I don’t suppose any of them trouble their brains about what I am made of. They are too busy in admiring themselves. As long as I reflect their images truly and without flattery, that is all I wish to do.’ Moral: Mankind generally are too fond of admiration, H. JIerkeley Score. A HANDFUL OF SHELLS. IV. J’T would be really ungrateful to leave the bivalve molluscs without some notice of the great head of the family, the Ostrea or Oyster, although both by flavour and appearance we niay all have known him well since our early days. The whole human family of all nationalities appear _ to appreciate these dainty little morsels, and as of late years the supply was running short, vast sums have been ex¬ pended on their artificial cultivation. In England alone we devour more than 250,000,000 every year, of which many come to us from France and Holland. This is nothing to the oyster trade of the United States, which employs 50,000 persons and 4000 ships, so it may be reckoned amongst the great industries of the world. Oysters have very large families, 3000 to 8000 a year being their ordinary rate of increase. Fate, however, is hard upon the tiny grey babies when first launched upon the ocean of life : sea-worms, star-fishes, and suchlike, doing their best to diminish their numbers, and learned folk account that less than one in 1000 lives long enough to be the prey of its arch-enemy — man. VVheu first let loose from the parent, the little oysters appear as a cloud of grey dust. Each particle, however, being a complete living creature, begins by swimming vigorously for some days ; then, as the shell grows, and he finds it get¬ ting’’ heavier, he is glad to settle down and attach himself to some supporting rock or stone. Anchored there he gradually increases in size, but so^ slowly that at eight months old he is only as big as a threepenny bit. . So much for the edible oyster ; now for his still more profitable brother— the pearl oyster— of which the most lucrative species live in the Persian Gulf, where they have been fished for by divers from the earliest times. Ceylon, Polynesia, New Guinea, and the Australian coast are also celebrated for their pearl oysters, very many of which are used for mother - of - pearl ornaments, if failing to contain actual pearls. The ancients had a pretty legend that the oyster opens at dawn to catch the first drop of dew, and then plunges into the depth with its prize, and there forms of it the pearl which resembles in clearness the heaven from which it came. The more prosaic modern theory of the formation of pearls is that some tiny substance— a grain of sand, a vegetable seed, or even one of its own eggs — is accidentally introduced between the tender body of the creature and its shell, and to avoid the conse¬ quent irritation it covers the intrusive particle with much the same pearly covering, or nacre, with which it lines its own coat. This accounts for the curiously shaped pearls of the Chinese, these ingenious people having very long ago discovered that, by insert¬ ing a tiny substance of special form into an open oyster-shell, a pearl of similar shape might be the result. The most precious and rarest pearls are found detached from the shell, and these when perfect fetch immense prices, being used for the centres of necklaces. Very fine black pearls come from the fisheries of the Lower Californian coast. I was reading lately in a very old book in the British Museum an anecdote about Christopher Columbus and some pearls, with which I will con¬ clude this little paper. ‘ In the year a.d. 1496, when nearing the island of Cubagna, he saw a small boat full of fishermen, and amongst them was a woman, round whose neck gleamed three rows of pearls. No sooner did his eyes light upon them than he turned to his companions and thanked God that he had dis¬ covered the richest country in the world. Next, he broke a plate of brightly coloured earthenware, for a piece of which the woman gladly exchanged one of her rows of pearls ; and finally, by the sacrifice a second plate, he not only obtained many more, but learned of the Indians the place and the manner m which they carried on their pearl fisheries.’ Helena Heath. ‘WHISTLING- dick:.’ IN the Crimean War, one June day in 1855^, some English marines w^ere crossing a road under fire from the Russian batteries. The men had all reached shelter in the trenches except one seaman named John Blewitt. As he was running there was the roar of a huge cannon, which the soldiers called < Whistling Dick,’ from the noise which the shell made in the air. Blewitt’s comrades yelled to him, ^Lookout! ItisWhistlingDick!’ But at the moment Blewitt was struck on the knees by the huge iron ball and thrown to the ground. He shouted to his special friend, ‘ Oh, Welch, save me !’ The fuse was hissing loudly, but Stephen Welch ran out of the trenches, seized the great shell, and tried to roll it ott his comrade’s body. He was too late; before he could roll it off, it exploded with such terrific force that not an atom of the bodies of Blewitt or Welch was afterwards found. Sir Evelyn Wood’s Reminiscences.

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264 CHATTFIRBOX Oh Welch, save me I”

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CHATTERBOX. 265

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266 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. WILL SEAGRAVE * was in the month of October, 18 — , that the Pacific, a large ship, was running before a heavy gale of wind in the middle of the vast Atlantic Ocean. Amongst those on board was a boy, aged twelve, the eldest son of a Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave, who, with three other chil¬ dren, were passengers on the Pacific, When we are first introduced to our hero, we find him in conversation with a weather-beaten old seaman, Ready, the second mate of the vessel. Many interesting conversations had Will with this fine old salt. The sailor delighted to answer the boy^s questions, and to spin him yarns which had to do with his fifty years on the sea. Tom, the six-year-old brother of Will, was scarcely such a favourite. He was certainly a troublesome lad, always bent upon mischief. Once he visited, with his father and brother, some gardens at Table Bay, in which the ship anchored for a short time. Will was told to be on his best behaviour, but he forgot his promises and his cau¬ tions alike, and flung several stones through the grated windows of the lions’ den, at a full-grown three-year-old lion. This he did unnoticed by his father and brother, who were listening to some curious anecdotes about the lion which a gentle¬ man was telling. All of a sudden the lion gave a tremendous roar and sprang at Tommy, bounding against the iron bars of the cage with such force that, had they not been very strong, they must have broken. For a time, the creature stood at the bars, lash¬ ing his tail, snarling, and showing his enormous fangs, until, overcome with fright, the mischievous boy fell down, thoroughly penitent for his foolish conduct. Soon after the good ship left Table Ba}’’, a stronir gale sprang up, and, growing in force, played havoc v^ith the Pacific, snapping her tall, strong masts, killing by the fall several of the crew and disabling the captain. The rest, seeing the dangers by which they were surrounded, and that the ship was fast breaking up, took to the boat, and, led by Mackin¬ tosh, the first mate, rowed away regardless of the passengers. They took with them the wounded captain, whose name was Osborn, and offered to make room for seaman Ready ; but Ready refused to desert Mr. and Mrs. Seagrave and their family, as he believed that his experience might be useful to them. What had this family to expect ? The ship was a * The story of William Seagrave is to be found in Cap¬ tain Marryat’s tale, Masterman Ready, which has been issued in a cheap edition by the S.P.C.it. wreck and deserted ; left alone upon the water, the greatest hopes of Mr. Seagrave and Ready were to gain some island, and perhaps there to find the means of subsistence. Mrs. Seagrave was very unwell — she had been ailing for a long time — so that it was decided to keep from her the fact that they were in great danger. Will, always an affectionate and dutiful son, was set to watch during the time she was sleeping in her cabin. He was a wise little fellow for his years, and entered with enthusiasm into the plans of his father and old Ready, and it is quite surprising how useful he made himself. At last, after many rough expe¬ riences, the vessel was put on shore — on one of the numerous low-lying coral islands which abound in that latitude — and Mrs. Seagrave, awakened by the noise, was informed of the danger they had been in. As William and Juno — Baby Seagrave’s patient young nurse — would be useful on shore, old Ready asked permission to take them first, but Mr. Sea- rave suggested that William should remain with is mother. In due time, many useful things were taken from the old wreck, as well as every member of the Seagrave family, and the cattle that were to serve a useful purpose in the future. ****** One morning at sunrise, some long time after they had been on the island, William and Ready looked through a telescope, saved from the wreck, and espied the brown-grass sails of some Indian canoes. * There are twenty or thirty of them ! ’ exclaimed Will. ^ And each with twenty or thirty men in them, too, Master William,’ said Ready. ‘ Good heavens ! What must we do. Ready ? How frightened my poor mother will be. I am afraid that we can do nothing against such a number.’ Yes, William, we can do a great deal, and we must do a great deal. That there are hundreds of savages there is no doubt; but recollect that we have a stockade, which they cannot easily climb over, and plenty of fire-arms and ammunition, so that we can make a good fight of it, and perhaps beat them off, for they have nothing but clubs and spears.’ ^ How fast they come down. Ready ; why, they will be here in an hour.’ ^ No, sir, not in two hours either ; those are very large canoes. However, there is no time to be lost. While I watch them for a few minutes, till I make them more clearly out, do you run to the house and beckon your father to come down to me ; and then. Master William, get all the muskets ready, and bring the casks of powder and of made-up cartridges from the old house into the stockade’ — the family had become quite famous builders since they had been cast on the island — ' call Juno and she will help you. We shall have time enough to do everything. After you have done that, you had better come down and join us.’ {Concluded at page 279.)

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CHATTERBOX. 267 PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 45. — Anagrams. Words with Definitions, 1. My tree, go ! A science connected with measure¬ ment. 2. 01 gild a rat. One who amused others at the risk of his own life. 3. More rep. A sovereign. 4. I drag U. an. A protector. 5. Hater. The seat of the affections. 6. E. in green. One who plans important public works. 7. Is queer. An armour-bearer, an attendant on a knight. 8. Proud Gwen, A very dangerous compound. 9. Mourn him A. A musical instrument used chiefly for sacred music. 10. Press me. A lady of high rank. 11. Tell of age. A small wind instrument. 12. Fold here. Property in land. C. C. Acrostics. 46. — A LITTLE bird and a great architect. 1. A bad habit which often leads to want. 2. A beam of light ; a fish. 3. A precious stone of a green colour. 4. A musical sound ; a short letter. 47. — A SMALL bird, and the Christian name of a great reformer. 1. A place where money is coined ; a fragrant herb. 2. The best of the Saxon kings of England. 3. A Spanish coin ; true, genuine. 4. A part of the head ; a building for worship. 5. The ancient name for Spain. 6. A woolly surface ; a short sleep. C. C. {Amwers at page 283.] 1. Drake. 6. Slake. 10. Lake. 14. Crake. 2. Hake. 7. Wake. 11. Break. 15. Blake. 3. Rake. 8. Brake. 12. Flake. 16. Drake. 4. Take. 9. Cake. 13. Make. 17. Quake. 5. Snake. 44. — Alexander, 1. Dear. 5. Lax. 8. Need. 2. Lead. 6. Learned. 9. Axe. 3. Reed. 7. Earl. 10. Learn. 4. Deal. OLD CUSTOMS. THE OLD BARROW-WOMAN. The costermonger or street-seller of fruit, vege¬ tables, and various articles beside, is well known along the thoroughfares of London. He plies his business, often under difficulties, even in the busiest streets of the City. About the suburbs, too, he has not an easy life, for he is interfered with by the police, and tradesmen regard him as a rival ; still, he has some kind friends. But not only men and boys are engaged in this work; there are also many women and girls employed, who toil hard and are exposed to all weathers. Probably, in some things, the barrow-women of other times had the advantage of those who have followed them. Before we have any mention of men selling either vegetables or fruit to passers along the streets, we read of women being employed in the sale of herbs, green or dried. Some of these had what were called simples, plants gathered about the fields and woods; others sold bunches of aromatic or spicy plants grown in herb gardens. It is during the reign of Queen Elizabeth that we find the costermonger — or, as it was then, ‘ costard- monger ’ — first appearing, and his name shows that what he sold specially was apples, one kind being caUed the costard, also he had pippins, and some¬ times pears. ‘He’ll rail like a rude costermonger, loud and senseless,’ says Beaumont of some person, who had a character for noise and quarrelsomeness. Two centuries ago, the London tradesmen disliked the costermongers, and tried to drive them from the streets ; it was also proposed, though not carried out, to treat them as rogues, and have them well whipped. Oranges were scarce in England till the sixteenth century, when they began to be sold about London by the orange-women and girls, who prepared the way for the barrow-woman later, with a larger stock and more variety of goods. This is said to have been a favourite cry of these women formerly : — ‘ Fine Seville oranges, fine lemons fine. Round, round, and tender, inside and rine ; One pin’s prick will their quality show, They’ve juice by the weight you may know.’ People who knew the barrow-woman at the time she was a familiar object in London, popular both with old and young, describe her as very particular about her personal appearance. Upon her head she wore a mob-cap, frilled, which was nearly hidden by a chip-hat, with a small crown, round which were puffs of ribbon ; sometimes she wore a white chink or cotton waistcoat, if not that, a light hand¬ kerchief over her shoulders. The stuff of her dress was partly pulled through the pocket-holes in a funny fashion, so that it might balloon out behind. If the weather was fine, her white stockings were con¬ spicuous, showing above feet that were enclosed in high-heeled shoes, with bright steel buckles. John Lydgate, Chaucer’s friend, who described the busy scenes of London streets, as he saw them about the time of Henry VI., tells that he had ‘ cherries on the ryte ’ offered him amongst many other things. It is supposed to have been usual then to sell the fruit on the twigs or natural branches; afterwards, how¬ ever, it became the custom to fasten cherries upon little sticks, these sold at a halfpenny each ; even now they are sometimes to be seen, but the barrow- woman made a display of them. Also she sold the fruit by weight, being provided with brass scales, to those housewives who wished them for pies. She cried ‘Rare ripe cherries, round and sound, two¬ pence a pound,’ offering people a choice between ‘ whitehearts ’ and ‘blackhearts.’ Gooseberries she sold by measure, having an ‘ alehouse ’ pewter pint-pot for the purpose, and she urged persons to try her ‘ fine

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‘ Eound and sound, twopence a pound ! ember-berries/ though she had also red and green hinds, and their companion fruit, currants. In early autumn, the barrow-woman was busy with pears, commending them by some names which we still hear.^ She displaced piles of her ripe Katernes, or Catherines, of Windsors, and of Bergamys. When apples came in, there were codlins, rennets, pip¬ pins, and nonpareils ; specially she commended her golden and her Kentish fruits, for the best apples were thought to come from Kent. Sometimes she had mulberries, formerly a favourite fruit, plums, and filberts, which were sold at fourpence a pound. During the winter, if she went out, the barrow- woman would perhaps carry vegetables, or tarts of her own making, or dried fish of some sort. J. K. S. C.

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CHATTERBOX. 269 A HANDFUL OP SHELLS. V. j OLLUSCS which have only one shell are known as Univalves, and are, in one respect, more important ani¬ mals than their Bivalve brothers, as they are the fortunate owners of heads. As we have already noticed, the double-shelled crea¬ tures get on very well without these useful appendages, yet it must be admitted that the pos¬ session of a pair of eyes with which to survey the world, a rough, rasping tongue wherewith to taste, to bore holes as well as to gather up the prey, and a head capable of protruding at will from the im¬ prisoning shell, are advantages to animals who have to live by their own exertions. Moreover, they are Cerithinm, more capable of motion, as they have the broad foot of the bivalve, and also a strong muscle in the neck to assist locomotion. Some of the univalves progress in a series of little jumps; others are able to turn themselves over when laid by the waves on their backs, and also to conceal themselves in the sand : others suspend themselves by glutinous threads from seaweeds and rocks ; whilst one species, called the ‘Carinaria,^ is even able to swim on its back. Those univalves which inhabit reefs upon which surf waves are constantly beating have stronger shells than those which live in calm seas or sand, and we need only stroll along an exposed beach to see how roughly the poor little molluscs are sported with by the waters. Often taking up a handful of sandy stuff from the shore, we find it chiefly made up of bits of broken shells, all of which had some time a living inhabitant. The colouring of shells depends greatly upon expo¬ sure to air and light ; burrowing shells, as a rule, being colourless, whilst those that live where the rays of the sun can penetrate are usually delicately, and sometimes richly, painted. Certain univalves have the power of enlarging their shells, so as to widen or lengthen them accord¬ ing to their own growth. This is a capacity which many a father of a family may envy, when he con¬ siders the army of masons, carpenters, and painters necessary to enlarge his own dwelling. One of these fortunate molluscs is the Cerithium, whose picture is given here. He is a member of a large family, over a hundred different species of Cerithiums being known. The}*^ are found all over the world, but prefer the countries, or rather the shores, lying within the tropics. « The Trochus family have very strong, opaque shells, varying in shape. Their eyes are placed at the end of two short columns, and they have long and very slender horns. They live entirely on sea- Trochus. weed, and their shells have the property of picking up tiny stones and bits of broken shell, which in time grow into their own coats, giving them very irregular forms. The inside lining of the shell is beautifully pearly in colour and smooth to the touch. Helena Heath.

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270 CHATTERBOX. ^ BRAVE aiRL. {Continued from page 259.) had finished an early tiffin, and Joan threw aside the book with which she had been try¬ ing to forget herself, saying that she could not read. She wandered into the veranda, and I, who was her shadow*, followed her. ‘ How still it is !’ said Joan. Tne would think everybody in the world was dead except our tw^o selves. Listen Sara! Not a sound I’ The sun was bjazing in the compound. There was not a breath of wind to rustle the leaves. The timepiece chimed out two. ‘ Only two o’clock,^ exclaimed Joan. Three more hours before father comes!’ She marched up and dowm restlessly, and suddenly struck with an idea she cried, ' Let’s have a waltz, Sara. It will stretch our legs.’ We often used to dance in the veranda in the old, peaceful days. Joan was very fond of dancing. She started whistling an old familiar tune (she could whistle like a boy\ and catching me round the waist she dragged me oil, and away we went up and dowm, round and round, with Lady capering at our heels. Up and down, round and round, we were gasping for want of breath, when the stillness she had been complaining of was broken by a thundering * bdom !’ that rent the air, and made the very veranda heave under us. We stood stock still, trembling, and gazed into each other’s faces, and before the sound had done rolling over the hills a second ^boom !’ roared out a a solemn warning. ‘The signal!’ we shrieked together, panting and labouring for breath. ‘ The signal !’ My knees knocked together, I reeled and stumbled. ‘Oh, Joan!’ I gasped; ‘oh, Joan!’ and fell helpless to the floor. I seemed to see her blanched face through a mist. She wajs bending over me, and gripping my arm with the strength almost of a man. She pulled me to my feet. ‘ Sara, it is the signal ! Father said we were to order the carriage immediately, and drive like lightniug to the Fort. Pm going to call Gungadeen. Do you hear .P ’ she added, shaking me by the arm. ‘ Go and get your hat on, and put mine ready for me.’ ‘ I won’t leave you, .loan,’ I answered, desperately ; ‘ I’ll go with you.’ And, as I saw her tearing out of the compound, I found strength to run after her, and followed to the servants’ quarters, shouting with her to Gungadeen, Lady at our heels, barking at all the excitement. ‘Gungadeen! Gungadeen!’ No answer ; not a sound. ‘ Gungadeen ! Cossam ! Rahman Khan !’ Still no answer. ‘ Gungadeen ! ’ we shrieked together, beating upon his door. We were answered by Sakeena. She came out with a frightened face. She had been putting her baby to sleep. Joan poured out a volume of words in Hindostanee, panting for breath as she was. ‘Where is Gungadeen? The signal has been fired from the Fort.’ Sakeena beat her hands together. ‘ Gungadeen gone to bazaar. Missy Baba ! ’ I never saw J oan in such a rage. ‘ What business has Gungadeen to be at the bazaar when he should be at home ? Where is Cossam ? Where is Rahman Khan ? W^here is Govind Singh ? We must have the horse put into the carriage directly.’ Sakeena slipped by us and ran to the servants’ houses, shouting out their names. They were all gone ; there was not a soul on the premises but Sakeena and her baby ! Sakeena wrung her hands, Joan’s face was blanched, and I could do nothing but cry, ‘Oh, Joan! Oh, Joan!’ ‘ Missy Baba ! ’ cried Sakeena, ‘ I can put the horse in the carriage. Sakeena often help Gungadeen.’ ‘And I’ll help you,’ answered Joan, rushing off with her to the stable, her wits ail coming back. ‘ Quick, Sakeena ; we haven’t a moment to lose.’ They led out old Bounce, and put him into the shafts, while I ran hither and thither, clasping and unclasping my hands, and crying, ‘ Oh, Joan !’ ‘ Sara,’ she cried, ‘ go inside and put your things on, and get out mine for me.’ But I was afraid to go indoors alone. I had visions of the mutineers creeping in there already. I shook my head. ‘ You w'ill only delay us the more,’ cried Joan, impatiently, as she helped Sakeena with the straps. ‘Missy Baba, go get ready,’ panted Sakeena. ‘ Sakeena manage the rest.’ ‘ You’re worth your weight in gold, Sakeena,’ cried Joan, rushing back to the hou.se, with Lady and me at her heels. The moment we entered our bedroom she cried out, ‘ Sara ! the boxes ! ’ and pointed to the trunks we had packed so carefully for this emergency nearly two weeks ago. Joan began tugging at them. ‘ Gracious, they are as heavy as lead ! I wonder if we could drag them out with Sakeena to help us ?’ But Sakeena couldn’t leave Bounce’s head. He had had so little exercise all this time, he was fearfully fresh. ‘ Never mind the boxes,’ I cried. ‘ Let us get safe to the Fort.’ ‘Oh, that wretch, Gungadeen, and all those other wretches, to leave us like this in the lurch ! They ought to have been here to carry the boxes out.’ ‘ Never mind the boxes, Joan. There, we’re ready now.’ ‘After having them packed so long,’ she said, regretfully, pulling her pigtail out through the elastic of her hat. ‘ Father will think it so unsoldierly to leave our baggage behind. Sara,’ as a sudden thought struck her, ‘ where are the keys ? ’

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CHATTERBOX. 271 ^ In my pocket/ * Give them to me/ I did so. * Open that trunk while I open this. Joan’s hands were tremhlinj^, but she never lost her wits. She unlocked the trunks and pulled out w'hatever came to her hand first, and threw it on to one of the beds. ‘ Joan, what are you doing that for ? Let us get away. Come, Joan ! ’ ' Only a minute,’ she cried. ‘ Hold up the ends of the counterpane. There ! Tie the corners in a knot. We can carry this bundle, and we won’t be without everything.’ I seized my end of the bundle, and began tugging wdth all my might. ‘ Sara, one minute,’ cried Joan. ^ Think: have we done everything just as father told us ? ’ ^ Yes, yes ! ’ It was my turn to be impatient. ^ My pistols ! ’ she screamed. ‘Come, they are on the sitting-room table/ We lugged the bundle between us, and Joan dropped her end to seize the pistols ; then she tugged at the bundle again, and we got it into the compound. Sakeena was soothing and patting Bounce, and holding on by the bridle. ‘ Missy Baba,’ she cried, turning her frightened eyes on us, ‘ I can’t get .on the box to drive him. I wouldn’t know how^’ Even in my terror the thought passed through my mind what a ridiculous figure Sakeena in her saree would cut perched up on the coach- box. ‘Oh, that Gungadeen!’ muttered Joan, between her clenched teeth. ‘7 must drive, whether I can hold Bounce or not/ She jumped into the car¬ riage — ‘Push, Sara’— and began hauling the bundle after her. We had just got in when Sakeena gave a yell of joy, and, pointing to the back gate of the compound, cried, ‘ Gungadeen, Missy Baba ! Gungadeen !’ And there we saw him, rushing, gasping for breath, and panting. He must have heard the signal when he was at the bazaar, and had come running all the way. Without waiting to explain or ask a question, without seeming to wonder even how we had got the carriage ready, he cried, ^ Chullo, Missy Baba! Chullo!'—QXL^ climbed to the box in a twinkling. Joan was too much relieved to scold hirn. She darted a reproachful glance at him and said, her voice shaking with excitement, ‘ We’ve lost half an hour. Drive, drive, with all your might ! ’ There was no need to tell him that : Gungadeen was in terror himself. The moment Sakeena let go Bounce’s head, he started down the drive at a break¬ neck pace, goaded on by the lash that Gungadeen dealt him. I caught my breath, and held Lady tight in my arms, and shut my eyes, so that I could not see the wheels come in collision with the iron gate. I shivered as I felt the rasp as they grated together and Joan’s pressure on my arm; but we got safe through, and went bowling down the wide white road at an awful rate. No sentry was at his post as we flew past the Picket-house ; the picked '=vas deserted, except for a solitary Sepoy, who leanea '^ut of tV- window.. I grinning and jeering at us, and bawling out some¬ thing offensive. ‘ Oh, if I could put a shot into that^ brute’s leg or arm, how happy I should be!’ hissed Joan. Her hand tightened on her pistol, but I put my hand on hers and held it down, and strained my eyes ahead in fear of passing others more dangerous than he. But the road was deserted as far as we could see, and when we got to the bend we saw a solitary figure striding up the hill. ‘ It’s father 1’ we exclaimed together. ‘ Father ! ’ It was father. Big beads of perspiration were standing on his brow, and rolling off his face. ‘Oh, my God!^ he gasped. He put up his hand, and Gungadeen tried to pull up Bounce, but we dashed past quite fifty yards before Gungadeen could stop him, and then father came striding down to us. 11.0 He was shaking so he could hardly steady his foot to reach the step. Joan and I bent over him and literally dragged him up. ^ Gungadeen drove on again, and father lay back gasping, with the perspiration pouring off his pallid face. He looked so dreadful, struggling to get breath, we thought he was going to faint. Joa*i lifted his helmet off his head, while I loosened his collar and wiped the big beads off his forehead with my handkerchief. ‘ Oh, my God 1 ’ he gasped again. ‘ My God I ‘Father, you are better now,’ pleaded Joan, blowing into his face. ‘ There 1 doesn’t that cool you ? You ought not to have walked so fast.’ ‘ Good God ! ’ exclaimed father, getting his breath at last. ‘What have you been delaying for, Johnnie ? I gave you twenty minutes after the guns fired. I thought — my God! — I thought you ^ere - ’ He couldn’t finish his sentence ; he gave a great, dry sob. We told him why we were late, and how Gun¬ gadeen and all the servants were away, and how Sakeena and Joan had harnessed Bounce, and how Gungadeen came up at the last moment. He listened appalled, but muttered, ‘ Thank God it was no worse. I thought of the picket, Johnnie ; and — and my blood ran cold. I left the Fort to see what had happened to you both. Thank God it was no worse ! Thank God 1 ’ i . i i He was cooler now, and Joan put his helmet on his head again, and I fastened his collar ; and we told him how the picket was deserted save for the soli¬ tary Sepoy who insulted us. . , i . ‘ And what’s that ? ’ asked father, poking with his sword at the counterpane bundle wedged in between his legs and the opposite seat. ‘Oh, father!’ said Joan, ready to cry and laugh, ‘ it’s all that’s left of the shirts and socks and our under-things that we packed in those trunks we showed you so carefully two weeks ago-’ ‘ We wouldn’t have had even that, I added, it Joan hadn’t insisted on bringing them in a bundle. The trunks were too heavy for us to lift, and Sakeena couldn’t leave Bounce’s head. There was not a man about the place.’ j ^ ? a ‘ The bazaar is in a ferment, I ve no doubt, saia father ^voth a frc>wn, ‘ and they are all there. And.

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The great gates were thrown wide open. How safe we felt ! then he added, giving the bundle another poke, ^ And are my shirts there, Johnnie ? ’ The dismay on his face was so comical, as w^ell as the yearning tone of his voice, that Joan answered, ^ Yes, father,’ and laughed again. Then he patted her on the back and muttered reverently, ^ I thank Thee, my God— I thank Thee ! ’ Pie was thanking for our lives, we knew. And then the walls of the Fort came in sight, and other carriages were rolling towards its shelter pell-mell. The great gates were thrown wide open, flanked with armed artillerymen — British soldiers. How safe we felt as we looked on their English faces ! {Continued at page 274.)

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“ Colonel Platt fell in the act of waving his hand and calling them his hahas.'’'

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274 CHATTERBOX. A BRAVE GIRL. {Continued from page 272.) HE Fort was a great square place walled in, with a bastion at each corner. In the open space carriages were being put up and horses tethered. We got down and father told Gungadeen where to put our carriage and Bounce. ^Any more orders, Sahib ? ’ asked Gungadeen. Father thought a minute, and then told him to wait while he went away and got a pass for him, and explained to him that if he came to the gates of the Fort next morning and showed his pass to the sentries there, they would let him in. Gungadeen understood, and salaamed and went away, promising to come for orders next morning. Against the inside of the walls, buildings were raised all round the Forb The rest was a great open space with the powder magazine in the middle, guarded by a sentry night and day. The buildings were used for all kinds of military stores — fire-arms, ammunition, and those sorts of things. We followed father into a large room that had been cleared for the reception of the fugitives. There was no furniture at all in it. It was getting crowded with frightened women and children. Father had plenty to do, he could not stay with us ; he just went to the carriage and dragged out the counterpane bundle, and brought it into the room to serve as a seat for Joan and me. One or two ayahs had come in with one or two families, and sat cross-legged on the ground with babies in their arms; but in most cases people wouldn’t trust even their ayahs, and had come in with their children alone. We couldn’t see Mrs. Kilroy anywhere, though fresh arrivals were being brought in every ten minutes, some with such scared faces and harrowing stories on their lips. ‘ There’s Captain Kilroy,^ cried Joan, as a tall man, with a white, haggard face, entered the room with two flaxen-haired babies in his arms. Mrs. Kilroy came after, leading Katie and Milly in each hand. ‘ Sara ! Joan ! Both here. Thank God ! ’ cried Captain Kilroy, bearing down on us. ‘ Oh ! Sara,’ cried Mrs. Kilroy, bursting into tears and putting out her trembling hands to me. ‘ What an awful, awful time it has been ! ’ ^Here’s a seat,’ said Joan, pulling her down on our bundle. ^Comfort her, Joan,’ said Captain Kilroy, plead¬ ingly ; ‘ she needs it. Thank you, Sara,’ as I opened my arms and took one of the flaxen-haired children from him. ‘ We’ve brought no ayah. I don’t know how she will manage,’ he added, putting the baby on its mother’s lap. ‘We will help her to take care of them,’ I an¬ swered. ‘ Joan and I have only ourselves to look after.’ ‘ God bless you,’ he replied, ‘ and bring us all safe out of this trouble. Cheer up, Maggie,’ he added, patting his wife’s shoulder. ‘ Our darlings are all safe.’ She only answered him with a fresh burst of tears, and strained the baby to her breast. ‘ We have had a harrowing time,’ he said, and his hp shook ; ‘ and she has borne up wonderfully.’ He had to leave us then, for the officers had so much to see to, and Joan and I feU to comforting Mrs. Kilroy. She grew calmer by-and-by, and with the tears stiU rolling down her cheeks and di’opping on the baby’s face she said, as an excuse, ‘ It is such a relief to cry,’ and then she pulled each child one after the other into her arms and kissed it. Suddenly a tall, handsome woman (whom we only knew as a very fashionable person, and very languid, and very proud) came bursting into the room with a httle boy in her arms and two other children clinging to her skirts, crying out, ‘ Would to God these chil¬ dren had never been born ! ’ Her hair was dis¬ hevelled, her bonnet was crooked, the frill of her dress was draggled and torn, and her eyes were opened wide with terror. They had come from a long distance, and had great difficulty in getting to the Fort. She had brought no ayah ; and one of the children had lost a shoe, and in the crush some one had trod on her little foot, and the poor child was sobbing as if her heart would break. But the mother mingled with the crowd, and probably found some friends, for by-and-by we saw that somebody had provided her with a chair, and the little one with the hurt foot lay cuddled in her arms. Others besides ourselves had brought their dogs with them. Oh, what a night that was ! Lights were brought in as the darkness fell. And there we all stood, or sat, or lay huddled together — a terrified lot of- women, and children, and ayahs, and babies, and dogs. The moment a man put his head in at the door he was besieged with questions, ‘ Did they expect the mutineers to attack the Fort that night ? ’ and I don’t know what not. As the night came on, ladies squatted down cross- legged hke the ayahs on the floor, with their chil¬ dren’s heads in their laps. Our counterpane bundle, at present, was far more useful than the boxes would have been. We made the little Kilroys lie round it with their heads on the bundle, and gradually the children fell asleep through sheer weariness, and from hunger, too, perhaps, for we had had nothing to eat since we left our homes, though a few indeed, here and there, had brought a bag of eatables along with them. We had no trouble with Lady. She lay quite still with her chin on her paws, her bright eyes fixed either on Joan or me. Suddenly father looked in. We had not moved from the place where he had put the bundle down not very far from the door, so he knew where to look for us. He was assailed with questions at once. ‘ Are the rebels round the Fort ? Do you expect an attack ? ’

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CHATTERBOX '275 I ‘ I can’t say,’ answered father. ‘ They have made no attempt as yet to attack the Fort.’ All along we had been hearing all kinds of noises from outside, and now a louder shout reached us. ^ What is that ?’ cried some one. ‘ The mutineers are firing the houses.’ ‘ Burning down our houses, firing our homes ? Oh, the wretches!’ ‘ They seem bent only on plunder and destruction,’ said father, ^so far.’ Then a volley of questions were shot at father from all sides. ‘ Would they attempt to set fire to the FortP’ ^ They will have to get near enough first,’ said father, grimly. ‘ We will give them a warm reception as soon as they get within reach of our guns.’ We heard a louder shout, and through the open door we could see a dull blaze reddening the sky. Some of the people near the door ran outside, and Joan and I got to father. ‘ My legs are so cramped from sitting,’ said Joan. ‘May we come out there with you, father? Oh, good gracious, what a blaze I Oh, how nice to get a breath of fresh air 1 ’ It was getting very stuffy inside. The fresh air was so pleasant to breathe. Father said it would do us good to take a turn outside and get a stretch. We saw some of the people running up the steps leading to the bastions. Father said they could see the fires distinctly from there. Of course we wanted to see the fires, so we climbed the bastion also with father. The bastion is built much higher than the Fort walls. We had four bastions for defence, one at each corner of the Fort, and in each bastion there were three great guns. It was one of these guns that had fired the signal warning all to fiock to the Fort for shelter. We had a terrible view from the bastion, and the blaze of the burning houses lighted up the place for miles around. The nearest houses were about half a mile away, and there they were blazing and smoking. What an awful sight it was, and the owners were looking on with us! They had breakfasted there only that morning, and all they could do was to be thankful for the shelter of the Fort. ‘ I wonder if our house is burning, too ?’ said Joan. ‘ Oh, the wretches, the wretches ! ’ Some of the men in the bastion were calling the mutineers worse names than that. One very fussy, important-looking man was stamp¬ ing up and down. ‘ They will never burn my house. They darerit, the cowardly black brutes ! ’ And even as he spoke a voice called out, ‘ There goes Hanbury’s bungalow ! Hanbury, your bunga¬ low is on tire.’ Hanbury was the name of the fussy, important man, and it was not a bit of use his cursing the mutineers and gnashing his teeth. The exultant shouts of the rebels came to us on the air. It was a terrible sight, and yet so fascinating that Joan and I could not tear ourselves away; and there was the horrible dread that the rebels, after they had wreaked their vengeance on our bungalows, might attempt an attack on the Fort. But the night wore away, and they passed their time in yelling, and burning, and plundering right and left, as we afterwards learned. We thought of our long night watches — Joan and I in the glass porch, and father sleeping in his uniform — and shuddered. We found our way to our bundle by-and-by, and found a corner as a pillow for our heads, and slept from very exhaustion. As the day broke the shouts and yelling ceased. Perhaps the Sepoys were gloating over and hiding their plunder, for they kept themselves scarce, and the dawn brought a number of faithful servants to the Fort gates with passes in their hands to see if they could do anything for their imprisoned masters and mistresses. Amongst them came Gungadeen. He was one of the first there, and father sent him to our bungalow to fetch some cooking utensils, and he brought a kettle, and frying-pan, and saucepan, and some cups and saucers. Our bungalow had not been tired, he said. During these last few weeks they had been storing up food in the Fort in case we should be imprisoned there, and, in the early morning, coffee and tea and bread and butter were served out ; but we had to prepare everything ourselves, as no natives were allowed to stop in the Fort — only just to come and go with their passes. Father knew all about this, and as soon as Gungadeen appeared he packed him off for the cooking things. How draggled, and dirty, and miserable everybody looked next morning ! — and washing at present was out of the quefction. Father came to the door and beckoned us out. ‘ Gungadeen has brought these things,’ he said, showing us the kettle and other things. ‘ There is plenty of water to be had, and tea, and bread ; but we must boil the water ourselves, girls. We can’t trust the nativea Even the most faithful servants are not permitted to remain in the Fort, and for to¬ day each family must shift for itself.’ ‘ And, father, you are dying for a cup of tea,’ I said. I think every one is, Sara.’ ‘ We must make a fire,’ said Joan. ‘ There’s plenty of charcoal and wood stored up,’ said father. Joan’s eyes fell upon some bricks in a corner. They lighted up. ‘ Father, may we take some of those bricks ? Don’t you remember how the boatmen used to make little charcoal fires banked up with four bricks when we used to land on the banks of the J umna for our shooting expeditions? I could make a lovely fireplace with four bricks.’ ^Go ahead, Johnnie. Take as many bricks as you like.’ We got the bricks, and wood and charcoal were supplied to us. Out in the open air Joan made a square of the bricks with a space in the centre, where she made a little fire of wood and charcoal, and placed the kettle of water on the bricks. Amongst the forty or fifty women imprisoned in the Fort, it was very probable that Joan and I werQ

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276 CHATTERBOX. the only Indiau-brought-up ones. Indeed, we knew for a fact that more than half the ladies there hadn’t been in India as many as five years. None of them had knocked about the country as Joan and I had in the old days with father, when we lived for weeks on the river, and watched the boatmen contriving little fires on the banks of the river, whenever we landed. In a few moments we had a crowd of admirers round Joan’s little fireplace, and as others got hold of the kettles that their servants had also been ordered to fetch, they ran about getting bricks, and made little charcoal fires for themselves. What a strange sight it must have been to on¬ lookers ! But everybody was too miserable, and too much concerned at our position, to think whether it was strange or not. Some of the poor ladies were so awkward and so helpless in the way they went about trying to get their fires to burn ; and some looked afraid of spoiling their dresses, and some even afraid of spoiling their hands ! For Joan gave me a nudge, and whispered, as she smothered a laugh, * Sara, do look ! Did you ever see anything so ridiculous ? ’ And when I looked round, there was Mrs. Burnthorpe — the fashionable lady of Mhow — kneeling before her fireplace, with a pair of white kid gloves on her hands, daintily putting on pieces of charcoal, which she held in her gloved fingers, and fanning the flame with an ivory- handled ball-room fan. I couldn’t help laughing, it was so ridiculous. And Joan held up her dirty hands for me to look at, and whispered, ^ Her kids won’t be white long. How she must be longing to punch her ayah’s head for having deserted her ! ’ (For a good many ayahs who had accompanied their mistresses to the Fort gates yesterday, had refused to come in.) ‘ Where could she have got that ivory-handled fan from ? ’ I asked, laughing. ‘ She was more successful in bringing her baggage away than we were, I suppose.’ I hadn’t time to wonder why Mrs. Burnthorpe had packed up kid gloves and ball-room fans to bring to the Fort (and yet, perhaps, she was very wise, for her bungalow and everything in it was probably burnt to ashes by this time), for our kettle hissed and boiled over, and our attention was given to making the tea, and soon we had the pleasure of seeing father and Captain IHlroy smacking their lips over their steaming cups — the envied of all whose kettles hadn’t begun to sing yet. As the morning advanced, things began to settle themselves, and rooms were allotted to the differ¬ ent families as fast as the soldiers could clear them out. Father secured a nice little room for Joan and me, and his own led out of ours. Trustle beds had been brought in before from the barracks ; and father told Gungadeen to hire a cart, and made him fetch a few light chairs and a little table, and a couple of basins and jugs. All the others were using their servants in the same way ; and. those whose houses were burnt down gave money to their servants to get any rough things just to be made a little comfortable. All day long our servants came to and from the Fort, and none of the mutineers prevented them. Both our native regiments had mutinied — a cavalry regiment and the infantry ; but whether they were still engaged in plundering, or whether they feared to face our great guns, or whether they were waiting to be joined by other rebels before they made an attack, no one could say. All we knew was that our servants were not prevented from supplying their imprisoned masters with what they needed. And then a dreadful thing happened. A number of the rebel Sepoys came within sight of the Fort, and loitered about, gesticulating and talking eagerly, but made no attempt to attack ; and Colonel Platt took it into his head that they were afraid at what the}^ had done, or were repenting, perhaps. Poor old man ! He had been with them nearly thirty years. He knew each Sepoy personally, and he loved them like children, it was said. They had also served in the field, under his command, in the Punjaub wars, and had fought bravely. The colonel was immensely proud of them, and now it broke his heart to think that they could turn against him ; and so, fired with the idea that they were repenting, he rode out of the Fort to meet them, accompanied by two other officers of the regiment. Poor fellows ! The moment they got within range of their guns, the rebels fired a volley at them, and Colonel Platt fell in the act of waving his hand to them, and calling them his babas. The other officers were shot too, and the mutineers, appearing really frightened at what they had done, turned and fled pell-mell in all directions. Then some of our artillerymen went out and brought their bodies back on stretchers. The dear old colonel’s body was riddled with bullets, and his white hair was dabbled with blood. Joan saw him as he was carried in on the stretcher ; and a terrible gloom fell on everybody in the Fort. {Continued at page 285.) POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT, HEAD OF LOCH LOMOND. ' OCH LOMOND — queen of Scot¬ tish lochs — is situated partly in Dumbarton and partly in Stirlingshire. It lies twenty- three feet above the level of the sea, and is twenty-two miles long, with a varying breadth of one to five miles. This beautiful sheet of water is shallow in some places, while in others it is 630 feet in depth. It is studded with thirty wooded islands, and receives seven different streams, the principal of these being the Endrick. The Kiver Leven carries off the sm'plus water to the Clyde, seven miles distant.

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Loch Lomond. 2. The Kyles of Bute. 3. Tnverlocby Castle and Ben Nevis. 4. Castle of the Bruce — Tarbert— Loch F) ue. 1. Head of Loch Lomond.

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278 CHATTERBOX. Locli Lomond contains trout, perch, and pike. It is sometimes frozen over as far northward as the village of Luss, and is girdled by hills and, towards its head, by magnificent mountains, the highest of which is Ben Lomond, upwards of three thousand feet in height. In Picture No. 1 we have a beautiful view of the head of the loch, with the lower parts of Ben Lomond on the right hand. From the top of this mountain, if the day is a clear one, a magnificent view may be obtained, including the whole length of the loch, with its diversified isles and wooded shores, the rich plains of Stirlingshire and the Lothians, the silvery windings of the Forth, the Castles of Stirling and Edinburgh, the Frith of Clyde, the Isles of Arran and Bute, and the Irish coast. Unfor¬ tunately, however, the rainfall in this neighbour¬ hood is great, and the Ben is too often shrouded in mist. The climate is very mild. In Picture No. 2 we have a representation of the Kyles of Bute, through which the steamers from Glasgow to Arran must pass. Bute is an island, fifteen miles long, in the Frith of Clyde, separated from the coast of Argyll by a narrow, winding strait called the Kyles of Bute, scarcely a mile in width. When the steamer passes through the Kyles, one almost feels that she must run on the rocks, so narrow does the passage seem ; but there is no danger of such an accident, the water being of great depth, even close to land, and at that season of the year when the rugged shore is purple with heather, the passage through the Kyles is wildly romantic indeed. In Picture No. 3 we see the lower part of Ben Nevis, with Inverlochy Castle sheltering at its base. Ben Nevis is a mountain of Inverness-shire, and is the loftiest summit in Great Britain, being 4406 feet high, with a tremendous precipice on the north-east side of 1500 feet. Till a road was made to the top in 1883, the mountain could only be ascended by intrepid and experienced mountaineers. A meteorological observatory was erected on the summit in the same year, and daily observations have since then been made and communicated by tele¬ graph wire to the lower world. There is also now, beside it, a shelter for travellers. In Inverness-shire there are few antiquities worth noting, these consisting chiefly of old castles now in a ruined condition, of which we have a specimen in Inverlochy Castle, situated on Loch Lochy. It may be interesting to notice here that the battle which decided the fate of the Boyal house of Stuart was fought on Culloden Moor, in this county, when Prince Charles Edward, known in the Highlands as Bonny Prince Charlie, was totally defeated by the English under the Duke of Cumberland, in April, A.D. 1746. Picture No. 4 shows us a ruined castle belonging to the Bruces, situated at the head of Loch Fyne. This loch is an arm of the sea, running forty miles in a north-east direction, from the Sound of Bute to beyond Inverary. It is from one to five miles in width, and from forty to seventy fathoms deep. It is celebrated for its herrings, which are not only large, but of very fine flavour. D. B. A GOOD WORD FOR THE THISTLES. WE seldom hear people say anything on behalf of the Thistle tribe of plants. They are generally disliked,^ particularly by farmers and gardeners, who have, it is true, no reason for feeling friendly towards plants which cause them a great deal of trouble and loss of money. In the dry weather of the summer, thistles grow and flourish when other plants sutler from want of moisture. What makes the battle with these weeds still harder is the wonderful number of seeds which a thistle has, and its power to send them sailing through the air, with the result that new plants spring up far away. Some folk have remarked that such rapid travellers as these seeds are remind us how both good and bad thoughts travel about the world while we are taking no heed. ^ Lightly soars the thistledown. Lightly doth it float ; Lightly seeds of care are sown. Little do we note.’ But, as one of our great writers has said, there is upon this earth nothing which God made in which we do not find some good quality or use, and it is so with the thistle. The seeds supply food to a large number of birds at different times, particularly in the autumn and winter months. Without the thistles many would be almost starved. Then, during the bright summer season, the blossoms of some thistles offer honey to the bees, the butterflies, and other insects. Also, there are several species which are useful to mankind. We might take as an example the Burdock, with its large heart-shaped leaves and dull purple flowers, which are followed by prickly heads of seeds which the country children call ‘ burrs.' In some countries people cook and enjoy the young stalks ; then the leaves, placed upon the skin, have been found to take away pain, and specially to relieve the sting of the nettle. The yellow-flowered Carline thistle, which is fond of rocky places, is said to be named after Charle¬ magne, who cured his soldiers of the plague by a bitter drink made from its roots. Formerly, the down or cotton from different sorts of thistles was used for tinder, when people had no lucifer matches. Most schoolboys know that the Sow thistles are capital food for rabbits. Everybody has noticed the common sort, but a more handsome one grows amongst the corn in some parts of England. It is sometimes six feet high, and has golden, starry flow'ers, in dark green cups. These have a sweet, rather honey-like scent. Another plant which has a perfume is the Musk thistle, the purple tops of which droop in the wund ; this kind is very spiny indeed. Many think that the handsomest of all is the Milk thistle. This, too, is tall, and the large leaves are veined with white. It has been called the Scotch thistle, but by mistake. Evidently the true Scotch emblem is that specially known as the Cotton thistle. Cottony, indeed, it is, but also covered with sharp thorns. This well beflts the Scottish motto, which we may fairly translate as, ‘ If any one hurts me. I’ll hurt him.’ About marshes grows the Marsh thistle.

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CHATTERBOX. 279 having small clusters of crimson flowers ; and on downs the Dwarf thistle, its dark leaves veined with yellow or white. The Knapweed or Hardhead passes for a thistle, hut the plant is smooth, and the flowers are set in a hard brown cup. Its juice has been used as a colour. J. R. S. 0. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. WILL SEAGRAVE. (Concluded from page 266.) a very few minutes after William ran up to the house, Mr. Seagrave made his ap¬ pearance- ‘Ready, there is danger, I am sure. William would not tell me, I presume, because he was afraid of alarming his mother. What is it ? ’ ‘It is, Mr. Seagrave, that the savages are now coming down upon us in large force ; perhaps five or six hundred of them ; and that we shall have to defend our¬ selves with all our might and main.’ ‘ Do you think that we have any chance against such a force ?’ ‘ Yes, sir, with God’s help, I have no doubt but that we shall beat them off ; but we must fight hard, and for some days, I fear.’ Mr. Seagrave examined the fleet of canoes with the glass. ‘ It is, indeed, dreadful odds to contend against.’ ‘ Yes, sir ; but three muskets behind a stockade are almost a match for all their clubs and spears, pro¬ vided none of us are wounded.’ The Seagraves and their fine old servant spent a busy time for the next two hours. William and Juno brought in the powder and cartridges, and even Mrs. Seagrave did all she could, either assisting in rolling the casks, or carrying up what she was able to lift. In an hour, they had got into the stockade all that they most cared for, and the canoes were about six or seven miles off. The savages were all painted, with their war- cloaks and feathers on, and armed with spears and clubs, evidently having come with no peaceable intentions. William, who had taken the telescope to examine them more minutely, said to Ready, ‘ What a fierce, cruel set of wretches they appear to be ; if they over¬ power us, they will certainly kill us.’ Ready assented to this, and replied, ‘ I am not sure that they may not eat us afterwards ; but that is of little consequence.’ William shuddered at the idea, and then replied in a determined tone, ‘I’ll fight as long as I have breath in my body.’ A minute or two later they reached the door of their stockade; they shut the door, and barricaded it with cocoanut poles, which they had fitted to the inner door-posts. I I Before long the savages arrived, and their loud yells struck terror into the heart of Mrs. Seagrave. It was well that she had not seen their fierce appear¬ ance and painted bodies, or she would have been even more alarmed. When the savages saw the stockade, they all crowded round, talking, evidently holding a council of war. One tall man, gaily decorated, appeared to be the chief. Mr. Seagrave, Ready, and William were armed with muskets. ‘ Now, Master William, take good aim,’ said the old seaman; but, before William could fire, his father fired his musket, and the tall chief fell to the ground. William and Ready also fired, and two more savages dropped to the ground, amidst the yells of their companions. William was so true an aim that he never once missed, and old Ready told him that he had certainly behaved as though he had been brought up to it. In spite of the fact that many savages were killed, the rest did not go away. It was clear that they knew something about gunpowder, and had fought with white men before. The second day was passed in keeping a look-out upon the savages, and awaiting a fresh attack. This they made at daylight. But before they came on in force a bad thing had happened to Ready. He had dressed himself up in the head¬ dress and war-cloak of a fallen savage, in order with less danger to fetch the water which was so sorely needed by the various members of the family. Looking carefully about him, he set off across the cleared space and made for the shelter of the cocoa- nut-trees, William watching and listening meantime to the slightest sound, and with his hand ready on the pole that secured the door to slip it on one side and open the door, when he heard a scuffle and a fall close to the door. He immediately threw down the pole and opened it just as Ready called him by name. William seized his musket and sprang out ; he found Ready struggling with a savage, who was uppermost, and with his spear at Ready’s breast. In a second, William levelled and fired, and the savage fell dead by the side of Ready. The Seagraves did all they could for their faithful friend and servant ; it was, however, but little they could do. When the savages were all mustered together, assembled for a last attack, which must have proved victorious, the rattle of muskets and the sight of the savages falling in every direction, told them the joyful news that friends had come to their rescue. William knelt by Ready, and held his dying hand, while the faithful servant blessed him. The rescue party was headed by Captain Osborn, and in the captain’s schooner the Seagraves left for Sydney Cove, William taking his last look, as the vessel left the island, of Ready’s grave. They reached their destination safely, and the story tells us that ‘ Juno’s delight is to take William’s children on her knee, and tell them the tale of their father’s young days on the island, and of faithful old Ready.’ James Casstdy.

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Page 292

CHATTERBOX. •i.s 1 iJats swi mining across tlie Thames.

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282 CHATTERBOX. BATS SWIMMING ACROSS THE THAMES. GREAT fire recently took place on the riverside at Blackfriars, London. The flames drove the rats out of their hiding-places in the great wharves and granaries. A curious dark streak was seen crossing the lurid light on the river. This proved to be some thousands of rats swimming across the Thames from the Surrey side. They seemed to be guided by one big black rat, who acted as their leader. The tide carried the poor creatures some way down the stream.^ There was no place where they could land on the Middlesex side, and so most of them were drowned and carried away by the tide. THE TEMPLIN SPRING. A Legend of Potsdam. (From the German.) IN the village of Capert lived a pretty little brown-haired girl, named Elsie. One summer day, she went with her mother to the weekly fair in the town. But because she asked questions about everything she saw, and insisted upon stopping before every booth, to gaze at the pretty things displayed, her mother grew impatient. Wearied out, she told Elsie to go on before, and wait outside the yellow gate, until she had finished her marketing. This arrangement did not please Elsie, who would greatly have preferred to remain at the fair, feasting her eyes upon the toys and brightly coloured pictures in the booths. Nevertheless, she obeyed her mother. In the beautiful meadow just outside the gate, the fair and its attractions were speedily forgotten. Elsie gathered a quantity of flowers and grasses, which she wove into graceful garlands. As she did this, Elsie wandered far along the road which led homewards. Tired at length, she sank down upon the grass, longing for her mother to come. The heat was intense, not a breeze stirred the tops of the tall fir-trees. All was so still and quiet that the labours of the beetle in the bark, and the gnawing of the fir-caterpillar could be distinctly heard. Elsie felt very thirsty. Suddenly she remembered the clear, cool spring, fiowing beneath the thick, shady trees by the Templin meadow. She sprang to her feet, ran along the narrow path, then she hastened down the mountain-side to the spring. There she came upon an old woman, who was kneeling on the stones, taking up water with a little mug, then pouring it into a big pitcher that stood by her side. The act of stooping was evidently painful to her, and kind-hearted Elsie instantly exclaimed : ^ Let me do it for you ! ’ The old woman gratefully accepted this offer. After Elsie had filled the pitcher, she refreshed her¬ self with a drink from her new friend’s mug. Then the old woman took out of the water three pieces of duckweed, which she gave to the ^rl with a kindly smile, telling her to keep them until she grew older, for if she threw one of them into the stream and uttered a wish, it would be immediately fulfilled. After she had left the old woman, Elsie felt even more thirsty than before. She therefore returned to the spring. The woman was no longer there. Elsie tried to take up the water in her hand, but could not get much in that way. She then threw one of the bits of weed into the stream, and wished for the mug, which at once appeared, fioating upon the surface of the water. After she had. quenched her thirst, she observed that her wreath of wild fiowers had faded. Upon this, she flung another weed into the water, where¬ upon the wreath slipped from her hand into the stream. When she picked it out, it was perfectly fresh. And now our thoughtless little Elsie said to her¬ self : ‘ What else shall I wish for ? I might as well use this last piece of weed. Oh, I know ! I wish that mother would come, and that she may not be angry with me for not waiting for her at the gate ! ’ Scarcely had the child formed this thought, when her mother appeared. She was not a bit angry, only she rejoiced to find her daughter, who, she had feared, was lost. Some years later, when Elsie was twelve years old, she one evening met again the same old woman at the same spot. The old woman called to her, and talked with her for a long time. She made Elsie tell many things about her life at home and at school, and gave her some good advice. At parting, she gave her three fish-scales, counselling her to keep them until she grew older, for if she threw one of them into the stream, and uttered a wish, that wish should be instantly gratified. The girl thanked the old woman, tied up the scales carefully in a corner of her handkerchief, and went her way, considering what she should desire in the future. As she came out of the wood, close to Capert, she saw Job, an old neighbour, vainly at¬ tempting to push through the sand a heavy cart, which was full of geese. Elsie ran to his assistance, and pulled with a will. But her help was of little use, the sand was so deep and the cart so heavy. Elsie remembered her wonderful fish-scales. Running down to the river Havel, she took out one of them, and threw it into the water, wishing that the cart might become lighter. The next moment, she heard Job screaming behind her. The cart was upset, and the emancipated geese, merrily flapping their wings, w’'ere running in all directions. Elsie then threw on the second scale, wishing that old Job might catch his geese. The geese immediately fiocked together, in a good, hard part of the road, and waited for Job to come up with them, and pack them again into the cart. Elsie carried home her remaining fish-scale, and put it into a little case, which, fastened on a riband, she wore always around her neck. She often thought

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CHATTERBOX. 283 ! about it, and wondered what beautiful and splendid thing she would at some future time desire. When Elsie was eighteen, she was reckoned the most beautiful girl in Capert, and was an object of admiration to all the young fellows in the neighbour¬ hood. But the one whom alone she cared for — a fair-haired young fisherman named Conrad — used to pay frequent visits to Kosa, the pretty daughter of the rich Schulze. This greatly displeased Elsie. One festival evening, all the young folk had met to dance at the village inn. Among the girls, Rosa was the most handsomely dressed. No sooner did Elsie see her than a miserable, jealous feeling took pos¬ session of her. She would have given the world that when Conrad came he should not dance with Rosa. When the music began, she hurried out, flung her long-cherished fish-scale into the water, and uttered the wish, ‘ May Conrad not dance to-night with the pretty Rosa ! ’ During the whole evening, Elsie’s eyes were fixed upon the door; but Conrad came not. When she heard that two days previously he had gone to Berlin with a boatful of fish, and that, contrary to his promise, he had not yet returned, she was de¬ voured by anxiety, and repented bitterly of her angry, jealous feelings. For she feared that some disaster had befallen him she loved, and that through her fault. Doubtless he was dead in mysterious fulfilment of her wish. After a night of weeping, she rose at dawn and went down to the strand, seeking Conrad’s boat. Alas ! it was not there. With hands pressed firmly upon her throbbing heart, Elsie wandered along the bank of the Havel, her eyes fixed upon the flowing stream. By the spring at Templin she found the old woman sitting in her usual place. To her the girl poured out all her trouble. What the old woman said in reply, none but Elsie ever knew ; but the maiden returned to her home with a cheerful countenance. Before another year had passed away Elsie was wedded to Conrad, and whenever the fisherman’s happy wife came across any pale, sad, love-sick maiden, she would advise her to go out early in the morning, or at eventide, to drink from the Templin spring, and not to be afraid of the wonderful old woman sitting there, who had a remedy for every kind of trouble. Many tried the experiment, with The result that soon their cheeks were as red and their eyes as bright as ever. E. D. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 48. — Word Puzzles. 1. Which is the longest word in the English language? 2. What small animal is turned into a large one by being beheaded? 3. What word is there of four letters from which, if you remove one, only one will remain ? 4. What word is there of six letters from which you can take away one and leave eight ? 5. What word is there of six letters from which you can take away two and leave nine ? 6. What word is there of nine letters from which you can take away two and leave fifteen ? [d7isi<;e?’s at 'page 299.] 45. — 1. Geometry. 2. Gladiator. 3. Emperor. 4. Guardian. 5. Heart. 6. Engineer. 7. Esquire. 8. Gunpowder. 9. Harmonium, 10. Empress. 11. Flageolet. 12. Freehold. 46. — Wren. 47. — Martin {Luther), 1. Waste. 2. Bay. 3. Emerald. 4. Note. 1. Mint. 2. Alfred. 8. Beal. 4. Temple. 5. Iberia. 6. Nap. A HANDFUL OP SHELLS. VI. , N addition to the advantages already mentioned, which the univalve possesses over the bivalve, is still to be added another : they have no doctors’ bills to pay, as when injured they have the power of setting themselves right again. If our eyes, for instance, were to be put out, we should live in darkness for the rest of our lives, whereas these knowing little mol¬ luscs make very light of such a calamity, having- only to exercise a little patience, when two more eyes will appear, with which they can see as well as ever. More wonderful still, and quite cutting out the famous French saint, who walked about Paris with his head under his arm, should an unfortunate univalve suffer decapitation, unless the great muscle of his neck be taken as well, he will speedily pro¬ trude a new head, in no way to be distinguished from the old one. By looking at the accompanying pictures it may be seen that most of the shells given are twisted or spiral in shape. One is drawn with the side broken away to show the inside arrangement, especialty the central column or pillar, which supports the convo¬ lutions. The four first are all members of the Helix family, to which belong also our ordinary land snails, and the shell is very thin and partly transparent. The variety known as Heliv janthina is an eccentric member of the family. His colour is a rich purple, he has four horns instead of two, and he is quite a radical in his ideas of freedom. Instead of settling down like a good citizen, attaching himself to a special place, and taking gentle exercise near at hand, as do his brethren, nothing will suit Mr. Janthina but to swim off on his own account right into the great, wild sea. This he is able to do by the aid of his most curious foot, which he can make at his pleasure into a number of little bladders filled with air, thereby providing himself with as com¬ plete a swimming costume as any exhibited by Captain Boyton at the famous water show. There are a great many varieties of the shells known as Volutas, and they are chiefly to be known by the row of notches or teeth extending

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284 OHATTERBOX. Section showing Central Column. down the inside lip of the shell, commonly called the pillar lip. One species, the Voluta ventrecosce^ is probably the animal from which all the family are called, as it has the pillar which supports the convo¬ lutions of the shell twisted in oblique folds. This Helix Janthina. Helix Pomatia. Vo.uta Cancellaria. Voluta Columbella. Voluta Glabella. beautiful specimens of the Voluta have been found in fossilised forms in certain strata in the British Isles, and must have lived many thousand years ago, although quite recently a 6ne living representative of the class was found whilst dredging in deep water off the Cape of Good Hope. The small species, as seen in the illustrations, are common on most shores. Helena Heath. Helix Buliraus. Helix Lymnasa. creature has the foot so large that the shell covers only a small portion of it, so can be of little use for purposes of concealment or defence. Ver}^ large and AT THE FLOWER MARKET. ATIIER, while we’re in the market Won’t you give me half-a-crown ? I want to buy a plant for May, The cripple girl at Darley Down. Poor thing ! she lies all day in bed, With aching back and weary head.’ ^ But, Bertha dearest, why not pay For poor May’s plant from your own store ? If she could know you spared your pence Pm sure that it would please her more Than if you bought the loveliest dower That ever grew in Flora’s bower And paid for it with coin of mine — Now, don’t you think so, Bertha dear ‘Father, I think you’re right,’ she said, ‘ But then ’ — and Bertha dropped a tear — ‘ I quite forgot poor little May, And spent my money, yesterday ! ’ Ah ! boys and girls, be always kind, And see that you are thoughtful too, For there are many crippled ot-es. And sickly little children, who Are pining all alone and sad ; Now, won’t you trv and make them glad ? ]L

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“ I want to buy a plant for May.” A BBAVE GIRL. {Continued from 'page 276.) WE bad to get our rooms into some sort of order for tbe night. Every one was busy, though we all went about with scared faces, and spoke in subdued voices, for we could not forget the brave dead lying so stiif and cold, waiting for their burial. Gungadeen worked hard that day, fetching and .carrying for us, till we got our room and father’s furnished in a rough sort of way. ‘ It doesn’t look bad,’ said Joan, looking round pleased with her handiwork. ^ 'V^Hiat wouldn’t I give for a bath just now ! I feel so dirty.’ But we had nothing bigger than a basin to wash in — and it was luxury itself to wash our faces and hands. I was thankful enough to have a room to ourselves and beds to lie on, and 1 told Joan so. Yes, that is a mercy. I shouldn’t like to pass another night huddled up as we were yesterday.’ We helped Mrs. Kilroy to undress her children, and then we went to bed ourselves, and, though we suffered much discomfort, it seemed far better than watching at home, with our hearts in our mouths. Father, of course, had to be on duty part of the

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286 CHATTERBOX. night; but I do not think that it could have been half so terrible here, with armed soldiers about, as it must have been those lonely nights when he feared treachery at our bungalow on the hill. No attack was made that night. Evidently the Sepoys didn’t think themselves strong enough. Were they waiting for more rebels to join them from other places ? Early in the morning the dead bodies of the three officers were carried out of the Fort, accompanied by a strong escort — more than half the battery — for protection as well as to do them honour, and buried in the Mhow cemetery ; and none of the mutineers interfered. They were running about Mhow still, plundering, as we were told by the servants who came next morning to the Fort. We boiled our kettle just as we did yesterday, and boiled eggs too, in our saucepan ; and ate our breakfast in a little less discomfort at our little table in our room. And father said we were managing capitally. ‘Joan,’ I said, remembering suddenly, ‘ I haven’t seen Father McCarthy in the Fort nor his brother- priest — have you ? ’ ‘ Good gracious !’ cried Joan. ‘ I never thought of them till this moment.’ ‘ But have vou seen either of them ? ’ ‘No.’ ‘ Oh, Joan ! they were at their bungalow the day before the signal came. I saw them.’ ‘ Good gracious, Sara ! They must be here. They must have heard the signal. Let us find father.’ But father knew nothing of them. He looked very gi-ave, and said that others in the Fort had missed them ; but none could tell what had hap¬ pened to them. ‘Murdered ! ’ we thought. But we dared not say so. It seemed so dreadful. Though we had never spoken to them, their faces were so familiar to us. And oh ! how many dozen of times we had seen Father McCarthy in his compound, shading his eyes with his hands, looking up at our bungalow, as if he were anxious for the safety of two lonely girls. ‘ It might have been our fate,’ I thought, shud¬ dering. And Joan was quite upset. We asked Gungadeen if he knew anything of them ; but he shook his head. He said the mutineers had sent round warnings, threatening the lives of any natives trying to shelter or hide the Feringheelog (Europeans). Though Gungadeen was willing to fetch and carry for us, he was very quiet about the goings-on out¬ side. We couldn’t get out of him exactly whether our bungalow had been plundered or not." And yet be looked as if he could tell us a lot if he wished. ‘ I don’t know how long Gungadeen intends to wait on us,’ said father. ‘ What else do you want, Sara ? Get all you can when you have the chance. Ten to one, Gungadeen has had his share of the plundering of our goods. It must be too great a temptation to resist.’ ‘Oh, father, clothes!’ ‘A bath-tub I a bath-tub!’ cried Joan. ‘ If we only had the boxes we packed !’ I said. ‘ They are full of useful things. Lots of towels that would be so welcome.’ ‘ Yes,’ groaned Joan. ‘ Sara and I have had one miserable towel between us all this time.’ ^ ‘ Then speak to Gungadeen yourselves, and tell him where to get the things.’ We went out and explained to Gungadeen. He promised to bring the things by the afternoon. And true to his word, he appeared at the appointed time. And Joan' exclaimed with joy as he brought the bath-tub into our little room. ‘ I will have such a wash, Sara, to-night ; and I will have two whole towels to myself ! ’ Gungadeen put the boxes where I directed him, and seemed to stagger under their weight. I smiled to see them so heavy, for that meant a store of clean things, and as I thanked him Gungadeen salaamed and went away. ‘ Look, Joan,’ I said; ‘the keys are in the lock just as we left them that dreadful day.’ ‘ Why — Sa — ra ! ’ ‘ What ? W'hat’s the matter ? ’ I asked, for she had opened the lid and was staring stupidly inside. ‘Look, Sara!’ I looked. The box was empty ! With a cry of dismay we flew to the other box and threw open the lid. That, too, was empty. Not a vestige remained of the heaps of under-clothing and towels which we had packed. ‘Stolen !’ cried Joan in a voice of dismay, dis¬ appointment, and rage. ‘ Stolen ! ’ I echoed, looking helplessly into the emptiness. ‘Gungadeen! Gungadeen!’ cried Joan, rushing out of the room, and bumping against father. ‘ Gungadeen ! ’ ‘ Gungadeen’s gone, Johnnie ! ’ he said. ‘Gone!’ echoed Joan. ‘Father, the boxes are empty ! There’s not a rag in one of them ! ’ ‘ Whew ! ’ whistled father. And he came and looked in helplessly, too. ‘Plundered, of course. Poor girls ! ’ ‘ He must have known they were empty. They could not have been heavy at all ! And he pre¬ tended to stagger under their weight ! I thought there was a fishy look in his eyes as he salaamed before he went. And we will have to share that miserable old towel still ! ’ ‘Poor Johnnie!’ sympathised father. ‘It must have been a temptation, you see. The servants have had the whole place to themselves. And when one began, the fingers of the others must have itched. ’ ‘ And that Cossam showed the example first. I’ll be bound,’ cried Joan. ‘ Oh, the wretches ! Oh, Gungadeen, wait till I see you to-morrow ! ’ But Gungadeen never came to the Fort again. We never saw him nor Sakeena again. ‘Best content, Johnnie,’ said father, when Joan abused them for their ingratitude ; ‘between the two you got away safe to the Fort. Be thankful to them for that.’ And when Joan was grumbling at the one towel we had to go on sharing, and I said, ‘ Don’t, Joan. Have you forgotten the priests she stopped at once. She couldn’t bear to think of the priests.

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CHATTERBOX. 287 The next morning as we were hovering over our charcoal fire, waiting for the kettle to boil, Joan gave a queer kind of cry, and pushed by me so violently that she nearly knocked me down ; and when I recovered my feet, and turned to see what she was up to now, there she was laughing and crying at the same time, nearly shaking the hand off a tall man dressed in black, dirty and ragged and torn, and calling out, ‘ We thought you were killed. We feared the rebels had murdered you. Oh, how glad I am ! ’ It was Father McCarthy — the priest ! Father McCarthy with a wan, haggard, suffering face — dirty and ragged and torn. But Father McCarthy alive and safe ! ‘ My dear young ladies,’ he said, shaking my hand as I went up, too — he looked quite affected with Joan’s boisterous welcome — ‘I am as much relieved to find you both here, as you are to see me. We feared that you had not got away from your bungalow in time.’ And then the other priest came up, just as hag¬ gard and seedy, and we all shook hands again. It seemed that they had managed to creep as far as the Fort walls in the dead of night, and had attracted the notice of the sentry on one of the bastions, and a rope had been let down to them, and they had been hauled up. As father was on duty since five o’clock, and would not be relieved for another quarter of an hour, we had not seen him that morning, and so we had heard nothing about the priests’ safety. They had had a dreadful time. When the signal fired, and they were about to leave their bungalow, their gardener, Mooti Raj, who had been with them for years and was devoted to tijem, came flying to them with a face of terror, and the news that a number of armed Sepoys were keeping their gates. Then, beckoning them to follow him, he had led them out behind the bungalow, and out towards the stables, where a big hay-rick stood. The faithful fellow had feared treachery, and had already got a hiding-place prepared should the worst come. In a twinkling he had thrust his masters into the middle of the rick, and covered the hole by which they had entered with a bundle of loose hay. Then he went back to his work in the compound, as if nothing had happened. Fortunately for the priests their other servants, like ours, had all decamped, and no fellow-servant was there to betray Mooti Raj. ‘ We had a peep-hole out of the rick,’ said Father McCarthy, ‘ and we hadn’t been hidden ten minutes when a dozen or more mutineers surrounded our bungalow. Four or five rushed inside, while the others kept the doors, and it would have been all up with us if we had been there. Mooti Raj was called up and questioned, but he gave out that we had escaped an hour ago, while the servants were at the bazaar. Then the rebels all rushed into the bungalow to plunder and destroy, and were busy inside for half an hour or more.’ ^ Great heavens ! ’ broke in father ; ^ and at that very time these girls were running about for Gunga- deen, and helping Sakeena to harness the horse ! ’ ‘ While the mutineers were in the bungalow, we fancied we heard the rumbling of carriage wheels, but could not be certain ; the stable stands so far back, and we could not see the road.’ ^ It was our carriage ! ’ cried Joan. ‘We must have passed while the Sepoys were in your bungalow.’ And she grew pale to the lips. ‘Merciful God !’ father said, fervently. ‘ Thank God !’ said Father McCarthy. ‘ We hoped that it was your carriage, but we could not be sure. All we knew was that about half an hour later, while the mutineers were still plundering and making a furious din, we heard the tramp of horsemen, and something like twenty mounted men rode up, fully armed ; but seeing our bungalow in possession of the first comers, they wheeled off and made for your bungalow on the hill. From our peep-hole we could catch a glimpse of the veranda and the porch, and there we saw them dismount.’ Big beads of perspiration stood out on father’s forehead, and Joan and I looked at each other in an awed way. If we had been there — but, merciful God ! we had just then reached the Fort gates ! ‘ Our two bungalows were isolated,’ went on Father McCarthy. ‘ They thought it a good chance to begin plundering there.’ ‘ And how did you get away ? ’ we asked. ‘ Where have you been these three days ? ’ ‘In the hay-rick,’ answered Father McCarthy. ‘And we owe our lives to our good Mooti Raj. When the rebels had secured all they wanted, they came out each laden with the spoil which he valued most, and carried it away to hide. When they had cleared out our servants returned, and when they saw the state of things, they went in for their share of plunder, too. We dared not show ourselves to them ; and Mooti Raj, passing by the hay-rick, prayed us to keep close, for the mutineers had threatened the lives of any natives that might be caught hiding the Europeans. ‘ The servants came and went till night set in, and then a worse fear took hold of us. We could see from the great glare reddening the sky that the rebels were burning the houses ; and when another party came clamouring about our bungalow, we trembled lest they should set it on fire. Had they done so, it would have needed only a spark or two to make a bonfire of our hiding-place ; but,^ happily for our safety, they were content with making a bonfire in the compound, and throwing pieces of furniture on the flames, till the shouting of a larger mob in the distance drew them away to some more exciting piece of mischief. ‘ When all was quiet, and poor Mooti Raj dared to come to us, the good fellow brought us a drink of water and a few of his own chuppatis, and then he covered us with hay again. ‘ We were anxious to make our escape to the Fort, but Mooti Raj implored us to stay in hiding till he could manage to get us there in safety, saying that he would not answer for our lives if we made the attempt then. ‘ So for three days we were prisoners in the hay¬ rick, and Mooti Raj brought us water and chuppatis at night. Only last evening he brought us the welcome news that we might attempt an escape.

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\ “We could see from the great glare that the rebels were burning the houses.’* \Ve crawled out of the rick which had made us a safe hiding-place, but we were so cramped from our long confinement, that it was with difficulty we could get along at first ; we got on better, however, as we ^rsevered, and soon recovered the use of our limbs. He led us a long round-about way — often we had to hide from real or fancied danger — but the faithful fellow brought us at last under the very walls of the Fort, and glided away as he saw us being hauled up by the sentries. ‘There’s a faithful heart for you, young ladies! When this trouble is over, as please Heaven it soon may be, and you hear the natives badly spoken of, remember there are noble fellows among them, and many a heart as true as Mooti llaj’s.’ {Concluded at pane -J'JO.)

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CHATTERBOX. 289

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290 CHATTERBOX. A BRAVE G-IRL. {Concluded from page 288.) OR about a week we lived in this uncomfortable way, boiling our own kettle for coffee or tea, and cooking meat for our dinner in our frying-pan, on our little charcoal tire. One or two families had ayahs to help them, but the others had to manage the best way they could. And we had work of another kind to do. A sort of canvas was given out to the ladies in the Fort, out of which we had to cut and sew up little bags of a regulation size, for holding powder and shot. When we had finished a pile — and we completed a good many piles — they were carried away to be filled, some with powder and some with shot, and they were used for loading the great guns in the bastions. The soldiers were employed in making larger and coarser bags for holding sand ; and these sand-bags were piled up on the bastion to serve as a break for the enemy^s fire, sfiould we be attacked. So, what with sewing bags and cooking our own meals, Joan and I found plenty to do. Joan was in her element over the shot and powder bags. She felt she was doing soldiers’ work, and with her own hands preparing for the enemy. She got to know exactly how a cannon was to be loaded ; but I cannot explain it myself, as I don’t know how. And when a pile of bags was carried off to be filled, she would say with a kind of boyish pride, ^ We will give the mutineers a warm reception, Sara, when they come ! ’ They never came ; they were afraid to face our guns. Every now and then a ])art of our buttery would make a sortie, but the rebel Sepoys would never stand to attack. Our soldiers in their sorties picked up a good deal of loot— endless polished brass and pails, and plates which the Hindoos use. Brass is considered by the Hindoo as a kind of holy metal. He never eats out of earthenware dishes or vessels. These brass utensils were piled up as if for carry¬ ing away, together with beautiful Indian jewellery of all kinds. Our soldiers pounced on a great haul, and carted it to the Fort. Joan has a lovely silver filigree brooch, and I have a gold filigree bracelet that came to father as his share of the loot which our battery captured at Mhow. Another time our soldiers brought into the Fort cartloads of the firearms and uniforms of the Sepoys which they, in their haste or fear, had cast away. We heard by-and-by that they had left Mhow to join the rebels at Indore, who were mustering there pretty strong. As soon as it was known that the Sepoys had left Mhow, the shop-keepers from the bazaar (natives, of course) came flocking to the Fort gates, offering to sell their goods — meat, vegetables, and fruit ; groceries, and furniture, and drapery goods. They did not favour the rising of the Sepoys, for it caused •their trade to suffer. ^Sara, here’s a boree,' cried Joan, in a joyful voice. ^ Come and look, Sara ! Such sweet, clean towels 1 We must get a few.’ And when I looked out there was a boree sitting cross-legged before our door, taking towels and handkerchiefs and stockings out of his bundle, and holding .them up before the admiring eyes of Joan. We were in sore need of a lot of clean things, and father gladly filled my purse with rupees to buy all we required most. The boree did a good business that day in the Fort. Even cooks and butlers and grooms came with good written characters from everywhere, offering their services, for they, too, w'ere thrown out of employment by the mutiny of the Sepoys. Cossam never made his appearance, and Joan said, ‘ I should like to catch him doing it.’ No more did poor Gungadeen. None dared to come who had helped to plunder their masters’ bungalows. Mooti Raj came to beam openly on his dear masters, as well as a number of old servants, who had remained faithful in thought and deed to their employers. We were delighted to engage a cook and butler and groom, and we certainly fared better for dinners when Peer Bux took our little fireplace into his own hands. The servants, of course, always slept out of the Fort, coming in the early morning to begin their duties for the day. Then the glad news spread through the Fort that a force from Bombay was coming to our relief, and every one was questioning, ‘ How soon will they be here.f^’ ^ How long will they take coming!^’ But no one could answer exactly; and there was the fear, too, that they might have to fight their way to us. We dared not leave the Fort for our own bunga¬ lows, for no one could tell at what time the Sepoys might return with enlarged numbers from Indore. All we could do was wait patiently, and keep on sewing bags for holding powder and shot, to be ready with a warm reception when they showed their faces again. We waited three wpeks — three weeks! — and the first week ad led to that made one whole month in the Fort. AVe had almost got hardened to our rough style of living, though it was much easier when the servants came. Then one sweet morning we woke up with a wild huzza in our ears — ^ The force ! the force ! ’ And the place rang with ‘British cheers, for the force from Bombay was sighted at last. They had been marching for eight-and-twenty days. They had marched three hundred and fifty miles to come to our relief — marched through diffi¬ culties and dangers, and had got safe to Mhow at last. ‘ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ’ The throats of our soldiers must have been sore, and still they cheered, till a hoarse shout from thousands of throats came like an echo back. The force had heard, and were answering cheer for cheer.

Page 302

CHATTERBOX. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ And J oan and I cried ‘ Hurrah ! ’ as well, and hugged each other in our joj. ‘ Let us climb the bastion/ cried Joan, and off we tore, to find everybody making his way there to see the welcome sight. On they come, the brave fellows, throwing up clouds of dust — men on horses, men on foot, men on artillery waggons — a great cavalcade ; camels and mules laden with baggage — a long, long train. And the deep tones of the trombone and the rub-a-dub of the drum were borne to us from the distance as the band began to play, till our soldiers caught the air and took it up, and bellowed back the tune. What an exciting time it was ! Soon the streets of Mhow were overflowing with soldiers — soldiers crowding into the barracks, soldiers swarming everywhere ; and all our men up to their eyes in work, and as busy as could be. ‘ It would need an army of mutineers to come and face us now !’ Joan cried, with shining eyes. When we said our prayers that night, we did not forget our thanksgiving. We were allowed three days to clear out of the Fort, for our room was preferred to our company. News came that our two native regiments, that had joined the mutineers at Indore, were now on their way, with Holkar’s troops, to Delhi, where the garrison, consisting entirely of native regiments, had murdered their ollicers and their families, and had set up the old Mogul of Delhi and proclaimed him Emperor of India. So there was now no fear about returning to our own homes round Mhow. Some unfortunate ones had no home to go to. It was for these mostly that the three days had been given us. Those whose bungalows had been burned down would have to find new bungalows for themselves. What glad good-byes were exchanged ! Every¬ body was tired of such close quarters. Father was anxious to get us out of the Fort, and we were ready the second day. Our new groom harnessed Bounce, and brought the carriage round, and Lady, dear Lady ! — she had been so good all nlnng — guessed that we were going home, and bnrkfd aloud for joy. ‘ Good-bye, old fort,’ I said, as we drove through the gates. ^And thanks,’ added Joan, ‘for opening your friendly arms to us.’ Ten minutes later we were crawling up the old hill — the wide, white road down which we had driven pell-mell a month ago in danger of our lives. ‘ Here’s the very spot,’ said Joan, ‘ where Gunga- deen pulled up Bounce, and we dragged father into the carriage nearly fainting from fright.’ Father shuddered at the remembrance. ‘ Don’t talk of that now, Johnnie,’ he said, shaking his head. I suppose the very sight of the old familiar road brought back the memory of the agonising fears he had suffered daily when he tramped it up and dov/n, and thought of his two lonely girls at the mercy of the rebels. Now we catch a glimpse of the priests’ bungalow through the trees; now we pass their gates. They might have been murdered there had it not been for the faithfulness of good Mooti Baj. ‘ When I see Mooti Baj working in the compound from our porch again,’ said Joan, ‘I will never look at him without remembering what a hero he has been.’ Now we are nearing the Picket-house. Oh, what a terror the picket was to us that terrible time I The same old Picket-house, but what a different picket! The men off duty lounging about on the benches jump to their feet on the instant to salute father. The sentry (nothing sullen about him) pulls up in his walk and salutes too, and our carriage passes on uphill, always uphill, till we turn in through the old iron gates, and Joan cries out, ‘ The porch, Sara ! The old glass porch where we kept watch at night with Lady and my brace of pistols ! ’ ^ I shuddered at the remembrance, and father put his hand upon my shoulder. ‘ All over now,’ he said, ‘ and we three are all together and well, thank God!’ And Joan’s voice breaks in upon father’s with, ‘The glass porch with hardly a vestige of glass! Father, they’ve smashed every pane of glass in the porch. Do you see?’ Our other servants had gone on ahead to put things a little straight. But, oh, what a sight it was ! There was not a carpet on the floor ; every carpet in the bungalow was stolen. Chairs had their legs broken off, and tables were scratched and spoilt. The cupboards had been emptied of our clothing, and in the compound were the remains of a big bonfire where the mutineers had wantonly destroyed things. The happiest of all at that first entering was Lady. She ran from room to room, barking and frisking about. Joan was bemoaning the loss or breakage of favourite articles, and I was indignant at the wanton waste. ‘ And, oh, father,’ I said, ‘ what an expense it will be to put it all straight again 1 ’ ‘ The Government will bear that, little house¬ keeper,’ said father. ‘ I shall get recompense for all loss and damage when things settle themselves.’ ^ How strange our first meal seemed in the old dining-room ! and we felt quite overwhelmed with all the space we had — one room to eat in, another to sit in, another to sleep in ! ‘ Aftd another to bathe in, you might add,’ laughed Joan. ‘ Yes, indeed,’ I laughed. This last month we had eaten, and sat, and slept, and bathed in one single room ! We were overwhelmed with our grandeur. The next morning father went off, as usual, to the Fort, and Joan and I tried to make things wear as much as possible the old familiar look, and we could run in and out of the bungalow, and there was nothing to fear. ‘Fatner, isn’t it more like home now ?’ I asked, as we brought him in after having run down the avenue to meet him. ‘ Much more, little housekeeper,’ he answered, kissing me. But father bad taken a dislike to the place, and began to talk of leaving our bungalow on the hill. Pie said it was too lonely for us girls. The memory of that terrible time was still strong upon him,’ and I have seen him shudder sometimes to see us sitting in the porch.

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Falls of Clyde — News came to us, too, from time to time, of the horrible atrocities practised on helpless women and girls during the mutiny, and, though the mutiny was all over so far as Mhow was concerned, father insisted that we should look out for a bungalow that was not so far from other houses. So, by-and-by, we left our bungalow on the hill, and got one nearer the town, and, as our new compound was much “ Stone Byres.” prettier than the old, and wo were allowed to choose all the new carpets and new furniture for the new home, Joan and I were quite reconciled. There is nothing more to tell. Three years later Joan married one of the young officers who came up with the force from Bombay. And I am father’s housekeeper still. Alice F. Jackson.

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293 CHATTERBOX. THE FALLS OF j:;LYDE. III. — Stone Byres. IMTO^E byres, the third and last of the noted Falls of Clyde, is not held to be as fine as the Corra Linn, although it has a quieter beauty all its own. The river does not seem to be rushing so wildly ; there is at least one placid pool, out of which the experienced angler may perhaps succeed in wiling the speckled and extremely wary trout ; the foliage too, which so densely clothes the river’s banks, is softer-looking, and in the sweet season of spring is very beautiful. But everything about Stone Byres points to the fact that the Clyde has left the hey-day of youth behind it, and now intends to present itself as a sober-minded and useful river destined to bear many a noble ship on its surface, ships which make vovages to every quarter of the globe. Above the falls, the Clyde is a beautiful trout stream passing through pastoral uplands, but below the Falls (although for a time it flows through rich, fertile valleys) its waters gradually become more and more sluggish, begrimed and pol¬ luted, the nearer they get to Glasgow. Within the last 130 years, upwards of ten millions >terling has been spent on improving and deepen¬ ing the channel from Glasgow to Dumbarton, the result of this vast expenditure being that whereas a hundred years ago there was a depth at low water of only fifteen inches, they now have at Glasgow from eighteen to twenty feet at low water, so that a steamship has been docked at Glasgow second in size only to the Great Eastern. It is worthy of notice too that, in 1812, Henry Bell launched on the Clyde the first boat in Europe suc¬ cessfully propelled by steam. It may thus be easily seen that the wealth and commercial prosperity of Glasgow depends on the river Cl3'de. After passing Dumbarton the river Clyde becomes lost in the Firth of Clyde which from being one mile in width at Dumbarton expands to tliirty-seven miles in width at Ailsa Craig. The Firth of Clyde is as beautiful in its way as the river in its higher levels. It sends off the lovely Gare Loch, Loch Long, Holy Loch, and others, these being all arms of the sea running far up into the land, their banks being bordered on either side by an almost continuous fringe of lovely little watering-places. The Firth of Clyde also contains the well-known islands of Bute and Arran, and others of smaller size, not so well known to tourists. The Firth of Clyde is one of the world’s chief commercial water-ways. B. M. K. THE CHICORY OR SUCCORY. Few of our native plants are more showy than the chicory or succory, whose bright blue star-like flowers are conspicuous in June by the road-sides and on the borders of corn-fields. The chicory is closely allied to the well-known plant Endive; and in some countries the leaves (which lose their bitterness by cultivation) are much used in salads. The plant grows in the form of a lettuce, and the root, which is of the same shape as that of a parsnip, penetrates the ground to a considerable depth. In Germany, a substitute for coffee, pre¬ pared from the roots, is much used by the peasantry : for the same purpose it is cultivated in several parts of England ; and of all the plants which have been proposed as a substitute for coffee, chicory is the only one which has maintained its ground. In times

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294 CHATTERBOX. of scarcity, the roots, gathered before the stems shoot up, dried and ground, have been made into bread. Adder’s-tongue, so called from the likeness which the spike bears to the tongue of a snake, belongs to that class of plants, the flowers of which are in¬ visible to the naked eye. In some parts of England it is very abundant in the fields, and is gathered in large quantities by the country people, and made into ail ointment for healing wounds. Old herba¬ lists ascribed wondrous properties to the adder’s- tongue. Dr. Salmon says it is especially valuable in forming ‘ an essence good for the bites of mad dogs.’ E. B. MUMMEHS AND MUMMING-. e festivals and holidays of the olden time, we are told much amusement was afforded by mummers and morris-dancers. Some people have thought these were nearly alike, but there was a difference be¬ tween them. For one thing, the mummers were the older in English history ; the morris- dancers we do not read of till the Middle Ages. I expect good Dr. Johnson was right in his idea that these were originally Moorish dancers ; they performed the Moorish or Spanish dance with the tinkling of bells, and clashing of swords, also with the music of a pipe and tabor. The morris- dancers were sometimes accompanied by three per¬ sons, dressed to represent a fool, Robin Hood, and Maid Marian. Sometimes they had a queer thing which was called a hobby-horse, with a horse’s head and tail; the middle was pa'^teboard, in which a man was hidden, all but his legs. This hobby-horse frisked and capered to the sound of the music. Still, except these, the morris-dancers appeared un¬ disguised, though in fine, bright-coloured dresses. The mummers were always masked, or had their faces somehow hidden. Evidently, the name comes from an old Danish word that means a mask; though some people have fancied they were called ^ rnummers ’ because they were ^ mum,’ or silent, wdien they went about performing; that, in fact, they exhibited a Mumb show,’ like our tableaux vivants. However, this is a mistake, for we read of the mummers sometimes singing or reciting, and even acting a ^ play ; but it is true that the thing they chiedy did was dancing to the sound of music played by minstrels. The object of the mummers was usually to get money, but now and then princes or nobles had a mumming entertainment to amuse their friends. Christmas-time and the May festivities were seasons when the mummers frequently made displays. Some of them had a very curious appearance, as they wore masks which looked like the heads of animals, those of dogs, stags, cows, goats, or heads | resembling birds. Men wore masks with women’s faces, and women had men’s ; others are also described who had masks supposed to show the faces of angels ! Then some of the mummers had their faces blackened or coloured, and they wore clothes so as to seem like Turks, or other people of foreign counti-ies ; sometimes there were several dressed in skins, like savages. Or a mummer would exhibit himself in a garb reminding us of ^ Jack in the Green ’ made of the boughs and leaves of trees. How handsome the dresses of these mummers some¬ times were, we find from a list belonging to the Court of Edward III. The king’s mummers then had fourteen white tunics with the heads and eyes of peacocks, fourteen with the heads and wings of swans, fourteen mantles adorned with stars of gold, and fourteen with figures of dragons. An imitation of a dragon often formed a part of the mummers’ show ; it was moved by a man inside, the skin being all red, or else spangled. When one of our kings was stopping for awhile at Eltham Palace, some of his enemies made a plot that they would kill him by dressing themselves up as a party of mummers, and come up to him in the park w^hen he had only two or three attendants with him. They got their dresses and daggers ready, but, before the day came, a person' who had over¬ heard their talk told one of the king’s servants. In consequence, there was a guard of soldiers on watch, so when the mummers arrived, they were seized and severely punished. J. R. S. 0. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. A TALE OF THE GREAT WAR. By Marion Andrews, author of ‘ The Quest of Jack Hazlewood,’ &c. e all up with them, Jonas; it was their last chance ! ’ The speaker w^as one of a group of weather-beaten men, who stood below the cliffs at Alum Bay, watch¬ ing in awe-struck, helpless suspense, one of the most awful tragedies which even their varied experience had ever known. In the midst of a terrible storm, a big vessel had approached too near the perilous coast. Drawn by the current towards the narrow straits between the ^ Needles,’ it was being dashed to pieces against those treacherous, merciless rocks. Her signals of distress had been noticed from the watch-tower above, and the lighthouse-keeper, Jonas Pennell, had hastily summoned the neighbour¬ ing coastguard’s-men to the sliore. But in those days, at the close of the last century, there were very few appliances for saving life, and every effort to send a rope to the doomed ship having failed, they were powerless to help. T b

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CHATTERBOX. 295 It was almost dead low water, but the gale was dashing the great waves with tremendous force against the rocks ; the sea was all one mass of seeth¬ ing, boiling froth and blinding spray, through wfiich the cabin lights shone brightly still, and the vessel was so near that the despairing cries of the poor souls on board could be plainly heard above the din of the tempest. ^ 1 can’t bear this,’ said Jonas, between his set teeth ; ^ lash me to the rope, mates, and let us have another try ! ’ The men looked at him for a moment in dumb amazement, as he stood before them with a calm, determined face, the picture of sturdy manhood, though he was by far the oldest of the party. There was a general outcry from them all. * Nay, man,^ cried one, ^ it is rushing to certain death. Ne’er a power on earth can save they poor souls ; their last hour have a-struck ! ’ But the lighthouse-keeper was a resolute man, and he had already caught hold of the two-inch rope and was beginning to make fast the end round his body. ^ It is no concern of mine whether I live or die,^ he said, quietly. ^ God will see to that ; but to let those poor creatures be drowned before my eyes, and do nothing, would haunt me all my days ! ’ Not another word was spoken, but the example of his courage was infectious, and several of the younger men were soon lashed together with the rope, while the others stood firmly in a group against the cliff, ready to haul them in. Meanwhile the vessel was being driven in nearer and nearer by the force of the waves, until it seemed each moment as if she would be dashed on to the beach. Quickly and steadily Jonas led the way wUh the rope, watching his opportunity so as to creep behind the crest of a retreating wave; then there was an instant of awful, breathless suspense, as the returning breakers seemed to swallow them up in the foaming yeast: but again, almost before their comrades on shore could distinguish what had happened, through the blinding rain and spray, the devoted band had strut2fgled to their feet and were shouting to the crew to jump for their lives. But in that terrible sea, which looked like a seething cauldron of foam and bubbling surge, it was little wonder that none dared to venture. At this awful moment, in a passing lull between the breakers, Jonas chanced to look up, and just above him he saw a woman clinging on to the side of the ship, with a child in her arms. Prompted by some sudden instinct, he cried out in a tone of command, ^ Throw me down the child for Heaven’s sake!’ at the same time holding his arms outspread to receive it. The black nurse, for so she seemed to be from her dress, did as she was told — so strong, doubtless, was the habit of obedience in her race. But scarcely had she parted from her little charge, than she began to realise wdth remorse and horror wdiat she had done, and, with a bitter cry, she cast herself headlong into the sea. Eager hands w^ere stretched out to reach her as she rose again, and in all human proba¬ bility she would have been saved, when just then the doomed vessel came broadside on the rocks, and her mainmast and the greater part of the mizen fell with a thundering crash. The men on shore, over¬ whelmed with anxiety for the fate of their com¬ panions, lost no time in drawing in the rope. It was not a moment too soon, for the sea was at once strewn with fragments, as the yielding timbers groaned and shivered under the tremendous force of the waves. Utterly exhausted, and with the breath almost beaten out of his body, the lighthouse-keeper was scarcely conscious when he was hauled up the shelv¬ ing bank of sand, beyond the reach of the breakers. But his precious burden was safe in his arms : the little maid whom he had caught and clasped against his breast, and whose long fair hair was blown in a tangled mass across his face. His first care was for her, and he set himself — this big, rough-looking man — with all a woman’s tenderness, to soothe and pacify the poor little frightened creature, who began to sob and cry piteously, ^ Nana 1 Nana !’ She was drenched to the skin and shivering with the cold, and his heart was divided between a sense of duty to the shipwrecked crew, and a hungry longing to carry the forlorn child straight away to the warmth and comfort of his home. However, the question was speedily settled, for at that moment, the vessel, which had been lifted again and again by the power of the sea, was once more dashed on the sharp rocks; the foremast fell and she parted amidships, the stern rocking two or three times violently ; then she heeled over to seawards. The scene was awful in the extreme, for the lookers-on knew that this terrible disaster would destrov the last faint hope of escape for all on board. To add to the horror of the moment, there came a succession of loud reports, like the firing of volleys of rifles, and in a few minutes the ill-fated ship was broken in pieces and scattered on the waves. Jonas turned aside shuddering, with a groan of despair. He was roused by a tap on the shoulder. * Now look’ee, my good friend, thee’ve done more than thy share. Do’ee go right back to thy old woman, and let her cuddle that precious babe and keep the life in her, for I fear we will have nought but she to show for our work this day.’ His mate had touched the right chord. The lighthouse-keeper well knew how terribly anxious his wife would be at his long delay, and moreover the dusk of a September evening was fast closing in, and there were all the lamps to be lighted. No doubt she would see to that, for she always took her share of the work, but if she were in distress and anxiety, her eyes might be blinded with tears . Yes, he would go at once, and the more readily as he saw that his comrades were preparing to make another effort with the rope to save any bolder swimmer who might have escaped, almost by a miracle, from the crashing to pieces of the doomed vessel. No one knew for certain her name or whence she came, though it was undoubtedly the British flag which she had hoisted half-mast high, and one of the coastguard’s-men believed that he had made out with his glass the words ^ George ’ and ^Jamaica,’ on her ficrure-head ; but all would most likely be revealed on the morrow, when the unpitying waves would have finished their work of destruction and washed ashore the ghastly relics of their prey. {Continued at page 301.)

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296 CHATTERBOX

Page 308

OTIATTERBOX. 207 A ( Julian t Iteseiio.

Page 309

298 CHATTERBOX. A GALLANT RESCUE. the Chitral campaign, Surgeon - Captain Whitchurch won the Vic¬ toria Cross for the following gallant rescue. In a sortie made from Chit¬ ral Fort, Captain Baird commanded a small company of Gurkhas and native Indian Rifles. He was mor¬ tally wounded on the heights about a mile and a half from the fort. Surgeon-Captain Whitchurch went to his rescue, and found that the force had broken through the fight¬ ing line. It was getting dark, and the little band were quite separated from the fort and from their comrades. Captain Baird was first put on a dooly or litter, and the party tried to fight their way back to the fort. The Gurkhas, Indian soldiers, bravely protected the dooly till three were killed and a fourth severely wounded. Surgeon-Captain Whitchurch then took Captain Baird on his back and fought his way through the rough defile. After narrow escapes, at last he succeeded in getting Captain Baird and the remnant of the gallant Sepoys into the fort. Nearly all were wounded, and Captain Baird, who had received two more wounds, died shortly afterwards. DEAR OLD PRINCE. jj WRITE of the days that are gone, when thespring Jl of the roebuck was in my instep, and the brown of the autumn bracken was on my brow ; of the happy days of boyhood fifty years ago, when the mountain side was my playground, and our little heath-thatched home nestled in one of the deep glens by the crystal Dee. It is winter. The air is full of King Frost — cold, bracing, and delicious. The small birds chirp in the sun, and fluff themselves out like balls of down, and every blade of grass glitters in the early rays like a spike of diamonds. Rory and I ran scampering up from the river, making the sparrows fly off in a crowd. We push open the door and rush into the kitchen. Mother is baking the oat-cakes before a great fire. Elsie, my little sister, sits at the chimney knitting a pair of bright stockings for my brother Rory. ^ Dear, dear, laddies ! ’ says my mother, ^ what’s ado now ? ^ ‘ Where’s Dugald asked Rory, half breathless. * Out in the yard. I saw him not a minute since. But what is the hurry about says she. ^ We’re thinking of going for a skate on the loch, mother,’ I put in timidly. Elsie jumped up. ^ Oh, yes,’ cried she, ‘do let us !’ But my mother shook her head. ‘ No, no, it’s deep and dangerous,’ said she. ‘ But, mother,’ persisted Rory, ‘ the ice is two feet thick — isn’t it, Archie ? ’ ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘that thickness,’ putting out my arm. ‘ And the pail outside has been frozen tight every night for more than a week,’ cried Elsie. And so we clamoured, one after the other, until at last the battle was half won. ‘Well, well,’ said my mother, ‘ asl%Dugald,andsee what he says.’ Elsie clapped her hands, and we all three ran out at the door like a brood of chickens at the alarm-call of the hen. Dugald was feeding the cows. Donal and Queenie were lowing softly, and MacDoodle, as Elsie called him, was crowing hoarsely from his perch on the top of the half door. ‘The loch, laddie,’ says Dugald, in reply to my brother. ‘It’s an ill place the loch.’ ‘ The river’s frozen,’ say I ; ‘ froze right over last night.’ ‘ I know, laddie,’ says he, thoughtfully, pulling off his rough cap and running his fingers through his thick hair. ‘ I know, but - ’ ‘ No, no huts, Dugald, please,’ cries Elsie, taking hold of his arm and looking up into his face with her great blue eyes. ‘ No huts.’ He let his hand fall on her sunny young head, and looked at us. ‘ Well, there should be little danger. Where’s Prince ? ’ He stepped through the doorway and whistled. There was a caclde, cackle, and hasty flutter of wings among the stacks, and a black-and-tan collie came rushing round like a whirlwind. He sprang upon each of us in turn, almost knocking us down. Dugald motioned him with his forefinger to sit. ‘ Prince,’ said he, ‘ the bairns are going to skate on the loch. Ye’ll take care of them, mind, and see that they don’t fall in.’ The dog stared up at his master as solemn as an owlet. Dugald went on, ‘ Look at him, now ! He knows what I’m saying right enough. Ye will be all right with Prince, Archie. He’s never far wrong is Prince, and I’d trust him farther than I’d trust myself. Run now, and don’t stay over long, like good bairns!’ ‘ Dear old Dugald,’ says Elsie, and lifts her wee face to be kissed. And then we ran off, shouting gleefully, and into the house. Mother was not quite sure, but since Dugald saw no danger it must be all right, for she had the same trust in him that he had in Prince. In twenty minutes, or less, maybe, we were skipping through the pine- wood on our way to the loch. Prince galloped or trotted ahead, exploring the path and the adjoining masses of brown, matted ferns. The wood was thick, and the air in its sheltered depths almost mild. The bright sun glanced through the pine tops and striped the path in long rays like a zebra’s coat. Now and then a wood-pigeon fluttered out of a tree, or clapped its win^s as it swept over us. And once a timid squirrel rushed up a tree-trunk with a shrill cuckf cuck! It sat, jerking its long yellow tail, on a branch in full view; but, when Elsie cucked in return, it ran up to the top and jumped into a thick spruce-tree, when we lost sight of it.

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OHATTERBOX. 299 Once, too, we heard a great snapping of dry boughs deep into a thicket, which we took to be a startled roedeer, but the noise went away from us and we saw nothing. Two miles of wood, and we came out on the south side of the loch. It lay glittering like a vast sheet of silver under the flood of sunlight, that fell from an unclouded sky. We shouted for delight and rushed hastily to its edge. When our skates were fixed, we joined hands and swept off together. Oh, it was fine ! The sun was so gloriously warm, and the ice whirred so delightfully. The wind blew briskly, too, so that our faces glowed with the exercise. The ice was not very smooth, and Prince kept up with us. He looked sulky and dull, however, and it was easy to see that skating was not his idea of good fun. In the middle of the loch is a narrow strip of land, a sort of island, that divides the water into halves, leaving two channels of about thirty yards across. When we got hungry with the exercise we landed there and had our lunch. {Concluded at page 310. ) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 49. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. A POULTERER laid out 4:1. 13s. 4d. in chickens, ducks, and geese. The ducks cost each twice as much as the chickens, and the geese twice as much as the ducks. There were 30 in all. What was the number and price of each ? 2. Twenty persons went to a supper ; the cost was 5s. The old people paid one penny each, the young men one shilling, and the young women threepence. How many were there of each ? 3. My purse contains six pounds five shillings, and there are five times as many shillings in it as there are sovereigns. How many are there of each coin ? 4. An oblong garden is 13 yards longer than it is broad, and the whole length of the fence round is 402 yards. What is the length of the garden? 5. A man and his wife earn together 3s. 6d. a day, and the man’s wages are three times as much as his wife’s. What will be the daily earnings of each ? C. C. 50.— Word Changes. 1. Change New to Old. 2. „ Ten to Six. 3. Change Boat to Sail. 4. „ Hate to Love. C. C. at page 319.] 48. — 1. Smiles, because there is a mile between the first and last letters. 2. Fox. 3. Done. 4. Weight. 5. Canine. 6. Fifteenth. POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. VENTNOR— ISLE OF WIGHT. ^OME sixty or seventy years ago, Ventnor contained merely a few humble cottages inhabited mainly by fishermen, but as soon as the health-giving natiu'e of its climate became known, it very soon changed in appearance. Gradually there arose hotels, dwelling-houses, churches, and shops, until at length Ventnor became what it is now — the capital of the Under-cliff. And what is the Under-cliff? It is a great ledge of land which lies above the sca-cliff, but under a much higher eleva¬ tion, or second cliff, which, rising to the north, quite shelters the town and neighbourhood from every cold blast that blows. Thus, Ventnor has a full southerly exposure, besides having a natural beauty with which few places in our country can compare. In this favoured spot, myrtles and other tender plants flourish freely all the year round, while snow is seldom seen. There is a sheltered esplanade for those who like to keep near home, while the walk above the cliff towards St. Lawrence is breezy and delightful, with an ever-varied scenery — sometimes passing underneath a canopy of leafy boughs, at other times the path being little more than a rough scramble. In Picture No. 1 we see two persons on this cliff- walk, probably visitors on their way to ^ see the National Hospital for Consumption, which lies in this direction, and which is one of the sweetest spots to which sufferers from this sad malady can be taken. It would be impossible even to name the many beauties of Ventnor and neighbourhood, for there are wnlks and drives unrivalled in loveliness branch¬ ing off in every direction; but we have no space to tell of these, but must pass on to Picture No. 2, where we see Carisbrooke Castle, that fortress of saddest memories, which stands on an elevation, eight miles distant from the town of Hyde. This ancient stronghold has figured in many stirring events, long before the times of the unfortunate house of Stuart. The fine gateway, for instance, with its strong towers, carries us back to the days of the Roses, when Edward Woodville lorded it over the Isle of Wight. Again, a.d. 1377, the castle was sur¬ rounded with the din of ba ttle, a large body of Fretich rovers having landed on the east shore of the island, forced their way through the valleys and over the hills, encamping at length beneath the walls of Caris¬ brooke. They fell, however, into an ambuscade planned by the Governor, and were cut to pieces. In Elizabeth’s time, too, during the scare about the Spanish Armada, the old castle was repaired ^ and enlarged, so as to be ready to stand assault or siege, which happily, however, did not take place. But we must now pass on to the sad times of the unhappy Charles I. During his gay and gallant vonth, the Prince had on two different occasions hunted the biu-k in the neighbouring forests, and

Page 311

Isle of Wight. 1. Ventnor. 2. Carisbrooke— entrance to Castle. 3. Near the Landslip. 4. Sandown Bay.

Page 312

CHATTERBOX. 801 had rested awhile within the castle, free and happy in the prospect of a glorious crown. But how little he knew at that time what the future held for him ! Thirty years passed, and once more the Prince, now King, passed underneath that gateway, but only to the solitude and sorrow of a prison. Here he remained for a long time ; but- after two vain attempts at escape, he was removed from Caris- brooke altogether and carried away to the last sad scene of his life. The next members of the royal family to be imprisoned in this castle were the Princess Elizabeth, and her brother, the young Duke of Gloucester, children of the deceased king. Here, in sad captivity, the young Princess died, while her brother, after a longer imprisonment, was at length released by permission of Cromwell, when he passed over to Holland. In Picture No. 3 w^e have a pretty view of the Landslip. To walk from Ventnor to the landslip is a favourite short excursion for visitors, and has been often enjoyed by the writer of this paper. The district where this terrible landslip occurred, must have presented, after the sad event had taken place, a wild and most desolate appearance, that part of the hill-side which descended into the valley having carried with it rocks of every shape and size, trees, cottages, and every other impediment which came in its way. But ere long these ragged rocks and up¬ rooted trees became draped with luxuriant foliage and festooned with ivy, while primroses and cowslips soon peeped out from every hollow, converting a scene of awful desolation to what it is now, an irregular but very beautiful expanse of greenery, from amid which the grey rocks still show their heads, mantled with mosses and lichens. In Picture No. 4 we have a view of Sandown, a pretty sea-side place, nestling in a bay of the same name. Sandown, being situated several miles north and east from Ventnor, has scarcely so many charms to offer to invalids. It is, however, a beautiful and cheerful spot, with all that is needed for bathing, boating, and fishing, while the same green beauty, which is a feature of the Isle of Wight, also marks this place. Sandown has a fine pier, a sea-walk, and much to delight visitors. D. B. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. ^ , {Continued from •page 2^5.) ITH a heavy heart Jonas Pennell turned to leave the terrible scene of the wreck, but he felt that there was no longer any cause for delay, and that the child was now his first care. The effort to soothe and warm the little creature roused in him a feeling of protecting tender¬ ness such as he had never known before. Slowly and carefully he made his way across the sandy shore and up the steep. winding path which led to the top of the Alum Bay cliffs. It was no easy matter, even when he had reached the crest of the Downs, to make his way onwards in the teeth of the gale, with his precious burden clasped in his arms and the evening shadows darken¬ ing around him. Many a time his foot slipped and he stumbled over some unforeseen obstacle, till his heart began to fail him, for he feared that he must have missed the path. Then, all of a sudden, he looked up and saw the lamps shining out bright and clear before him, and a great flood of gladness came over him, for in that moment he, too, felt the comfort and support of that guiding light which it was his mission to keep burning ever bright and clear. With renewed strength and energy he toiled up the long, steep staircase of the lighthouse, where every turn was familiar to him, groping his way in the darkness, until at length he reached the threshold of the room which was home to him, and, pausing a moment to listen, he knew by the child’s soft, even breathing that she had fallen asleep in his arms. He opened the door, and at first the sudden burst of light half dazzled him. How peaceful and familiar it all looked after the terrible tragedy which he had left below ! The fire burning brightly on the hearth, the armchair drawn up close to it, all ready for his return, the supper laid out on the table, and his wife coming forward to meet him, an eager cry of welcome on her lips. With a warning gesture he pointed to the little one asleep on his breast, and murmured, ^ Hush, mother !’ Awestruck and bewildered, the good woman drew back a step, and stood there, gazing as though she had been turned to stone. Had she heard aright — ^ Mother Not for twenty years — not since the grave had closed over their lost darling — had that sweetest of all names passed her husband’s lips, and now what did it mean She looked at him anxiously and noted on his face that strange rapt expression which she knew so well, and which told of his thoughts and aspirations having risen to heights whither she might not follow him. But just at that moment the child, roused, no doubt, by the sudden cessation of that soothing movement which had hushed her to sleep, stretched out her hands restlessly, with a low, moaning cry. In an instant the spell was broken, and Ann Pennell — kind, motherly soul — had taken the little stranger to her heart and home, with unquestioning love. ^ Sweet lamb ! ’ she crooned to her, in the world¬ wide language of mothers and nurses, as, ten minutes later, when Jonas had gone to see to his lamps, she found herself in undivided possession of her newly found treasure. Most gently and tenderly she took off the wet garments, and rubbed and warmed the delicate pink limbs by the fire till the little creature looked up at her with smiling blue eyes, and put up her rosy mouth to be kissed. Then Ann Pennell rose from her seat, and, stifling in her heart the last pang of jealousy, she went to a drawer and took out a small bundle of clothes — a sacred deposit which had

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302 CHATTERBOX. remained there untouched for so many years — and, with trembling fingers, unfolded them. They were her own Jessie’s baby things, and were much too small for the little girl, who, as nearly as she could guess, must be more than two years old. But she found a soft, white, knitted shawl, in which she wrapped her up, while she made her some warm bread and milk, which she was almost too weary and tired to take, and soon fell asleep. As Ann Pennell sat by the fire with the child on her. knee, she seemed to live over again those last few eventful hours. The agony of suspense which she had endured while Jonas was away at the scene of the wreck was almost forgotten now that he was safely at home again ; and yet how terrible it had been for her to know that, with his fearless devotion, he would be sure to lead the way in the work of rescue, even when all hope of rescue was over. She had been the first to see the ill-fated vessel in the distance, and had watched its course from the lighthouse tower till she had lost sight of it under the cliff, and knew, by sad experience of many storms, that the end was very near. It was like an unfinished tragedy to her, and she longed to hear the rest of the sad story ; but, with all her warm affection for her husband, there was mingled a sense of awe which kept her silent and patient, un¬ willing to question and trouble him. She knew that, in his own time, he would tell her all, and her heart was too full of trembling joy at his safe return to ask for more. ‘The ways of God are past our understanding: only this little one spared,’ had been his solemn words, and then she dimly understood that the child had come to her, not as a passing guest, but to be her very own, an abiding light at eventide. It never occui’red to the good woman at that moment that a child of such delicate nature would probably have other relations who would be eager to claim her, even should there be no survivors from the ill-fated ship. Ann bent down to look closely at fier — this waif from the sea — and eagerly scanned the sweet, sleeping face. She noticed the clear, transparent skin, through which the blue veins showed clearly ; the long, dark lashes which swept with an upward curve on the soft, dimpled cheek ; the little rosebud of a mouth, the delicately moulded features, and soft, wavy, golden curls. Everything about the baby girl pointed to her being the darling of some wealthy home. The clothes — dripping with sea¬ water — which Ann had taken off, were made of the finest cambric, trimmed with beautiful embroidery and costly lace, and on some of them she could make out the monogram, ‘ II. D.,’ as she washed them out presently and huug them to dry b}^ the fire in readiness for the morning. She lingered over her task with a thrill of joy, such as she had not known for long, long years, for she was one of those women who, in their inmost hearts, have a perfect craving for the tender duties of motherhood. That night she could scarcely sleep for very gladness ; the soft, clinging touch of a child by her side had a nameless charm for her, and seemed to satisfy some hungry longing of her soul, and her only fear was that she might wake up in the morning and find that it was but a dream. After that terrible night of storm and disaster, the morning dawned calm and bright and still. First a vein of silver crept through the darkness, along the far-distant horizon, and all was still grey, save where the crest of each rippling wave was lighted up, one by one, with a shimmering streak of dazzling brightness. Then the dawn slowly vanished, as the sun rose above a bank of clouds,’ and the wreaths of mist melted away at the radiant presence, till the whole expanse of ocean was flooded with its glory. The great, mysterious sea, with its eternal youth and playfulness, had already forgotten the awful tragedy of the night before, and all the havoc which those innocent-looking waves had wrought. So thought Jonas Pennell, the lighthouse-keeper, as he stood in his accustomed place at sunrise, in the upper chamber, to put out the lamps which it was the duty of his life ‘ to keep constantly burning bright and clear, from sun-setting till sun-rising.’ To his thoughtful, dreamy spirit, that lonely watch-tower was an earthly paradise, and the sea had such an endless charm for him that he was never weary of gazing upon it in all its changing moods. There was a strange sense of the inevitable about its mighty, resistless power, and it brought home to him, as nothing else could do, the weakness and frailty of man. ‘ They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters ; these men see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep,’ he murmured, as he turned away from the window and devoted himself to the task of cleaning and re¬ plenishing his lamps. It always seemed to Jonas, with his simple faith and contented mind, that if the whole world had been searched, no more congenial life could possibly have been found for him than this, to which all his ener¬ gies were devoted. It was indeed a labour of love to him, and he gloried in his high privilege of guarding the coast, and sending out his fiery beacons across the waters to guide the ships in safety to their haven. Often during some lonely night-watch, he would be strengthened and supported by the thought — which was almost a prayer — that, dimly and afar off, he was following in the steps of his beloved Master. Over the doorway of the lantern-room hung a rude wood-carving of his own, which he had copied from an old engraving, of a figure bearing a lantern with the carved inscription below : ‘ I am the Light of the world.’ Intense religious feeling was the key-note of this man’s character, and no hermit in his lonely cell was ever more absorbed in spiritual things. His whole life was one long act of worship, in so far as a frail mortal man could make it so. No doubt with such a temperament as his, the circumstances of his life were all in his favour. The silence and solitude which to many another man in his situation would have been dismal and trying in the extreme, were to him only a source of strength and peace ; to follow out the imagery of the Pilgrim's Progress, the book which, next to the Bible, was his favourite study, this lonely dwelling on the Downs, far from the noise and turmoil of the world, was to him what the

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Cl-IATTERBOX. 303 Delectable Mountains were to Christian, when he fled from the City of Destruction. We must go back some years and trace the former history of Jonas Pennell, to understand how such an unusual character had been built up. He was born at Southampton, the son of a master carpenter, who held a good position in the ship¬ building trade. But he was still quite a child when he had the misfortune to lose both his parents, and was left to the grudging charity of distant relations. They sent him to a rough boarding-school, where for a time he distinguished himself by his industry and talent ; but some gross act of injustice so excited his wilful, passionate temper, that he resolved to run away. , i i j Like most boys who have lived near a port, he hacl always had a strong longing for a seafaring life, and in those days it was extremely easy to gratify such a desire. England had been so constantly at war that the Navy was always short of men, and the press- gang were not likely to make any difficulty in le- ceivmg a strong, willing young fellow of fifteen. And in his case there was no one to make any oppo¬ sition, for his relatives were glad to be relieved of all responsibility on his behalf. As for Jonas, he little knew the hardships and misery of the life before him. But the die was cast ; in a fit of temner he had made his choice and must abide by it. The" high-spirited boy, who had found it hard to en¬ dure the discipline of school and the uncertain temper of his masters, now found himself subject to the most despotic tyranny, from which there was no appeal and no escape. w The captain of a British man-of-war was absolute arbiter of the fate of those under his command, but he was usually an officer of principle and honour ; it was from the petty officers, and above all from his messmates, that the poor boy had most to He was not long in discovering what a rough, brutal set many of them were, when he first went be^een decks and spent his first night in a hammock. Fresh from school as he was, the blasphemous language and the oaths which he heard on all sides were a reve¬ lation to him ; and his comrades, amongst whom were men of the lowest character, noticed bis disgust and hated him as being better than themselves. Ihey made a dead set at him, and in after years Pennell could never tliink without a shudder of the tortures which he sutfered from their cruel ways. It was possibly all the worse for him that just at that time there was no war going on to distract their thoughts, for the .Jacobite rebellion was put down, and the Treaty of Aix-la-Ohapelle had ended the war of the Austrian Succession. ^ i In 1751, when the boy’s seafaring life began, he was drafted on board the Glory under Captain Howe, bound for the coast of Africa ; but a few years later, when the Seven Years’ War with France broke out, he thought himself very fortunate in being fleeted for active service under Admiral Boscawen. He dis- tino-uished himself many times by his coolness and courage, until at length, in that famous struggle wi n Canada which ended in the conquest of Quebec, he was wounded in the action before Halifax, and inva¬ lided home. , ^ j It was during the time of his enforced inaction. that the event occurred which changed the whole current of his future life. There came a day when Jonas Pennell was dis- miSv'ied as convalescent from the Seamen’s Hospital at Southampton, and found himself without friends or money in a strange town, where he was exposed to every evil temptation. He might have been led astray by idle and careless companions,^ but at that critical moment of his life he was induced, simply from curiosity, to go and hear a certain preacher who was much talked about in the work- yard, where he had found casual employment. One evening he walked about a mile out into the country with a friend, and found a crowd of people assembled in an open field— rough, seafaring men and labourers and others, with a number of women and children —all listening with rapt attention to the words of a man whose own intense earnestness seemed to have a marvellous effect upon his audience. The preacher was George Whitfield, and young Jonas soon felt the spell of his eloquence, and followed him about from one place to another during the re¬ mainder of his sick leave. Nor was this merely a passino* phase of religious excitement, for that simple, .. manly” teaching had such a marvellous mfiuence on the young sailor, that when at last he went back to his duty on board ship, he was so changed in charac¬ ter and behaviour that his old comrades scarcely knew him, and never ceased to taunt and ill- treat him as a Methodist— in those days a term of insult and reproach. But his religion was now deeply grounded, and was proof against trials and persecution, and in time he won the respect of we officers and men with whom he served, and his influence for good was very great. After many adventures in distant lands, rnore especially in the war with the American colonies, he left the service, and was given a post as coastguard for his good conduct. Soon after this he married, and the great sorrow of his life had been the loss of his only child, little Jessie. This had happened nearly twenty years before, but it was only recently that, a vacancy having oc¬ curred for the position of lighthouse-keeper at tne Needles point, it had been offered to him as the most trustworthy, reliable man at the station, and .lonas had accepted the post with eager satisfaction. As .lonas was a married man, and the rooms at the lighthouse were very small, it was arranged that, instead of a resident assistant, an extra man should live at the coastguard station and come over every day to carry up the oil for the lamps and gjve needful help, besides being ready to stay all night m case of any emergency. This plan suited everybody, for the coastguards-men were short-handed, and the very solitude of the spot was an additional attraction to Jonas, for he had plenty of occupation. Besides the care lamps and reflectors, there was his garden at the foot or the tower and for odd moments the wood-carving, which had been a favourite amusement from his ^ Such is a short sketch of his eventful life, and such was the man, as his past had made him, when this tale begins. ^ ^ {Continued at yage 306.)

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304 CHATTERBOX. A Waif from the Sea.

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CHATTERBOX. 305

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306 CHATTERII^OX. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. ^ YE heard foUt call you beautiful. Ah, well, I do .3^ not know ; I fear you are conceited, and think yourself a beau. A beau indeed! You’re nothing but an idle, silly bird ; And then, your voice — oh me, such notes as your’s I’ve never heard. Why, look at me ! my stalwart frame, my black tip- tilted nose. My drooping ears, protruding teeth, proclaim e’en to my foes That I’m a dog whose pedigree is known to one and all, While you, conceited creature, you’ve no pedigree at all ! You need not look askance at me; I do not care a pin For all your airs and graces — they do not take me in. Our mistress may admire you (she has no sense at all), But ask the master what he thinks when you begin to squall ! No, no! you may be ^Beauty’ and I may be the ‘ Beast,’ "Who cares for that ? Not I, I’m sure, not in the very least ; But let a thief come near this house, and then the world will see That while Miss Beauty squalls, the Beast will fight, but never flee. K. THE CHILD OP THE LIGHT¬ HOUSE. (Continued from page 303.) [EN Jonas Pennell had finished his daily work in the watch- room, trimmed and carefully re¬ filled with oil aU the lamps, polished the reflectors till they shone like burnished silver, and put all things in readiness for lighting up again at sunset, he slowly descended the steep spiral staircase wdiich led to the dwell¬ ing-rooms below. As he opened the door, a strange, new sound struck upon his ear like the vibrating chord of a half -forgotten melody. It was the patter of little feet on the floor, and the soft, cooing, baby talk of the stranger whom he had saved from the wreck at the risk of his own life. The lighthouse-keeper stood for a moment on the threshold, half bewildered by the change, for the simplicity of his character made him feel such in¬ fluences very keenly. His wife, busy preparing the breakfast, no longer wore her habitual expression of calm content; her face was shining brightly with gladness, and she turned to greet hira with a beaming smile. ‘Look at the little maid, Jonas l Did thee c' t set eyes on such a darling ? She let me dress her r.3 good as gold, for all her pretty clothes were nice and dry this morning. And you would hardly believe how she has been chattering away all the time, though I can’t make out very much of what she says.’ But at that moment the child interrupted her with a little cry, ‘Me want Nanai’ — and, taken with a sudden fit of shyness, she ran to hide her face in the folds of Ann’s big apron. ‘Dear little love!’ said the good woman, taking her up in her arms to soothe and comfort her, ‘ she keeps on talking about her “ Nana” — that must be her nurse, I feel sure.’ ‘ Her nurse !’ exclaimed Pennell, starting with a sudden shock of memory. How vividly it all came back to him — the awful suspense of that mom’ent when he had called in desperation to the dark-faced woman to throw down the child to him, and, with outstretched arms, had strained every nerve, and almost by a miracle, as it seemed to him, had caught her full against his breast ! Then the momentary flash of a red garment and the sudden cry of despair, as the poor creature sprang into the sea after her precious charge, and was lost in the seething, boiling mass of foam. He shuddered at the thought, and closed his eyes to shut out that terrible scene and all that followed when the doomed vessel was dashed to pieces. Long before the morning dawned it had become a certainty to him that no other lives had been saved from the wreck, for he had kept anxious watch all through the night, listening for the slightest sound. The light¬ house was the nearest human dwelling-place on that wild and barren coast, and he had made his helper. Bill Saunders, promise that, if any one were washed ashore in whom the faintest trace of life could be discerned, he w^ould come and fetch help* from them, and he knew that, if it were possible for her to make her way down to the shore, his wife would go down at once, for she was an experienced nurse. No, all hope was now at an end. That one frail being, the little golden-haired maid on his wife’s knee, was the only survivor of all that brave ship’s company. Yet, strangely enough, it >vas for sake that he felt his heart ache with overwhelming pity. Friends, kindred, all must have perished in the storm ; no doubt she was now alone in the world, and yet, quite unconscious of her terrible loss, the baby girl was already looking up at him with smiling blue eyes. ‘As God is my witness, she shall be to us as our own child, and we will never forsake her,’ he said, in a low, solemn tone, hardly knowing that he was speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘ Then you really think the darling will be our very own,’ exclaimed his wife, eagerly, ‘ and that she has no friends to claim her?’ Before he had time to reply, they both started at the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs, and then a loud knock at the door. Ann looked up with breathless anxiety, as her husband opened the door.

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CIIATTKRBOX. 307 Plad she tempted Providence by her rash claim, and would her treasure be taken from her when she had scarcely grasped it ? ^ Well, Jonas,’ said a rough, genial voice, ^ we be come to see how thee and the little maid be getting on ! A terrible rough niglil’s work we’ve had !’ and tbe big Aveather-beaten coastguard’s-man heaved a deep sigh. ‘ Have you been able to save any more lives, Bill?’ asked his friend, unwilling to give up the last faint gleam of hope. ‘ Never had the chance of it for one moment,’ was the sad answer. ^ Why, you could see plain enough, when the vessel heeled over and parted amidships, it was all up with they poor souls. But there’s been a deal of wreckage washed ashore, and I’ll tell you all the story, by-and-by, for we want you to come down and lend us a hand. Only, me and my mate we have come across this queer chest, and we guess as it belongs to the little lady here.’ Then, for the first time, Ann noticed that the two men were carrying a small leather-covered trunk, studded with brass nails. The cover was half wrenched off, and the things seemed to be in confu¬ sion; but on the top, with its legs half hanging out, was a big, rudely painted wooden doll — such as con¬ tented the little folk of those days. Suddenly, the child, who had been Avatching Avith great wondering eyes, caught sight of the box, and rushing foi'Avard as fast as her little toddling feet Avould carry her, she seized the doll and hugged it in her arms, Avith a cry of delight : Me dear dolly ! Baby own dear dolly ! ’ ^ There now! did you eA^er see anything like it?’ exclaimed Ann Pennell, with almost motherly pride. ^ She knew it directly, so there can’t be any doubt that it’s hers.’ Meantime the men stood looking on in silence, almost moved to tears at the pathetic sight of the child’s joy in her doll. Poor little waif ! avIio had lost everything else. ‘ Well, Jonas, that settles the matter,’ said the other man, who had not spoken yet. ‘ It was a lucky thing that Bill thought of bringing it. And nOAv, we can leave Missy quite happy Avith your good lady, if so be you’ll come down to the shore with us. hor we have a desperate lot to deal with,’ he added in a lower voice. Without a moment’s delay, Pennell left his unfin¬ ished breakfast, and followed his companions, and as they Avent down to the bay together, he heard all that had happened that night, since he had left them. It seemed that the news of the wreck had got wind with wonderful rapidity, and a reckless lot of men, smugglers and vagabonds, who made their living by the disasters of seafarers, had been draAAUi together from all parts of the island, like birds of prey on a battlefield. As soon as the coastguard’s-men had left the shore for a feyv hours, Avhen all hope of saving life was at an end, these harpies had crept down stealthily, and all that night had waited and watched and seized their spoils, as, with the rising tide, the waves had washed ashore bales and casks and other articles of the cargo. These wreckers, Avith their dark lan¬ terns, had soon discovered that the ill-fated vessel had come from the West Indies, with a rich store of cotton and coffee, sugar and rum ; and they congra¬ tulated themselves on the biggest haul which it had been their luck to come across for a long time. But in an evil moment for them, they could not resist the temptation to broach a keg of rum, and they drank freely of the spirit, until the inevitable consequences followed, of noisy wrangling and angry strife. Unfortunately for them, the sounds reached the coastguard taking his round on the cliff above, lie at once guessed what had happened, and saw Avhat a mistake they had all made in trusting to the isolated situation, and leaving the shore unguarded. He lost no time in rousing his mates and giving the alarm, and very soon a strong party, armed with guns and cutlasses, made their Avay down the steep catting and reached the sands just before daybreak. The thieves were taken by surprise, and caught in a trap, for at that point the cliffs are almost inaccessible, except by one narrow path. Many of them were already too tipsy even to show fight, though some of the more desperate characters, seeing that the game was up, managed to make their escape by a sudden dash, leaving their booty behind them, Avith many curses on the ‘ revenue men,’ who Avould come in for the fruits of their night’s labour. This was quite true, and it had been a blunder on the part of the coastguard’s-men to forget that the high tide would be about midnight, and that much of the cargo would certainly be washed ashore at that time. Exhausted by their efforts at saving the ship, and weary of battling with the stormy wind and rain, they had hoped to have a few hours’ rest and to finish their work by daylight. However, as it happened, fortune had favoured them more than they deserved, for as the various articles had been drifted in on the Avaves, the smugglershad carefully carried or rolled them up the sloping sandy shore, to a raised ledge above high- water mark, near a cave where they had hoped to conceal their spoils till they could fetch them away, on the first calm night, in their boats. But now all their calculations were upset entirely by their own folly, as they felt Avhen they were overmastered and pinioned. All this Jonas Pennell heard on his way down to the beach, and also that a messenger had been sent off to Yarmouth, to ask for extra help from the Preven¬ tive Service, to protect and take charge of the cargo. From pieces of the vessel which had been washed ashore, they had already discovered that it was the trading from Port Eoyal in Jamaica, and news of the wreck had been sent to the authori¬ ties in order that they might let the owners know the disaster AA^hich had befallen them ; but this would take time, for in those days the posts were slow and uncertain, and there were no other means of communication. To the surprise of his companions, the lighthouse- keeper’s chief interest seemed to be with regard to the prisoners. He found them in a kind of rough shelter under the cliff, all tightly bound, hand and foot, with cords, while two of the coastguard’s-men stood near Avith loaded guns, in case of any attempt at escape or rescue. There were four of these pi-isoners; one an older man, probably a ringleader.

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The Wreckers made Prisoners. a desperate-looking fellow, who broke out into savage oaths at Jonas’ approach. Two others, big, strong men, who were sullen and reckless, while the fourth was a mere lad, who was silent and looked over- whelrned by the horror of his position. He turned away in a shamefaced manner as he caught sight of Jonas, who instantly recognised him. ‘ Why, surely it is young Harry,’ he exclaimed, eagerly, ^ the son of my old friend Farmer Selwood of Afton. Dear lad, you must let me be a friend to you, for you seem to be in evil case.’ Then turning to the men on guard, who stood near, he added, ^ Let me take charge of these poor fellows here. Do you not see that this lad is badly wounded, and is almost faint from loss of blood ?’ ^ That’s no business of ours,’ was the somewhat

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CIIATTETIBOX. 309 suny reply. ^We be put to keep them iii safe custody., and we can’t run any risk.’ ‘ But you know that you can trust me, Saunders, and 1 will answer for their safety with my own life. Only leave me here alone to take care of them,’ pleaded Jonas, earnestly. ‘ You have plenty of work before you on the beach, and will be close at hand, so there can be no danger.’ After a brief consultation, the men consented, for thev knew that all this was quite true ; they had the highest respect for their old acquaintance, and looked upon this as one of his queer ways. {Continued at page 314.) THE FARMER’S STRATAGEM. OLD Farmer Heagle, in Chemung, needed water for his stock and he began to sink a well. It was a laborious operation. Gradually the work neared its completion, and its success seemed assured. Alas ! one day, just as he was putting on the finishing touches, the well caved in, and the labour of weeks came to naught. For a few moments Farmer Heagle beat his breast and tore his hair in despair. Then he had a happy thought. He took off his coat and hat and laid them on the brink of the ruined well. Then he hid himself under a neighbouring hay-stack and waited. Soon a neighbour passed the place and went to the well to inspect it. He discovered its dangerous condition, and seeing Heagle’s coat and hat near by, he concluded that the unfortunate man had been buried in the ruin, and was now lying at the bottom of the well. He ran to the neighbouring farm-houses and gave the alarm. The news spread quickly, and before long several farmers had gathered round the spot. With picks and spades they dug away at the well, until they had it completely ex¬ cavated. It was a long and hard piece of work, but sympathy for the unfortunate man and an earnest desire to rescue him lent strength to the labourers. At length the task was completed and the well was dug out. There was no trace of Heagle. After searching for him in vain, the tired workers went home. Then Heagle came forth from his hiding- place, thankful that human sympathy had not entirely died out from the face of the earth. A HAHDFUL OF SHELLS. VII. The Patellas, commonly known as Limpets, are to be found everywhere, though with a good deal of variety, both in form and colouring. The shells are always open, and generally slope upward to a point in the middle. Their homes are always on rocky coasts between tide-marks, so they are left high and dry twice in every twenty-four hours. To avoid some of the dangers to which this would ex¬ pose the little molluscs, they have been furnished with numbers of rows of tiny teeth, by which, aided by the pres.sure of the atmosphere, they are enabled to hold very tightly to the rocks— probably many of my young readers will know very well how tightly, from having vainly tried to pull them off a rock. The creature is entirely covered with its shell, and is incapable of extending more than the tip of its horns beyond its sheltering walls. On soft, chalky coasts, they live each one in a little pit, half an inch or so Patella or Limpet. Patella fissura. in depth, which it is supposed they are able to make with the carbonic acid given off by their own breath. It is quite common to see the rocks round their homes worn away in lines and furrows by the meandering of the limpets at night, when they wander out in search of food. Fishermen use them very much for bait, and in many places, especially the north of Ireland, they are sold for food. On the western side of South America a monster of this species lives, measuring a foot across, and not only does this gentleman make a fine dinner for a hungry family, but its shell serves the natives for a cooking-pot of capacious dimensions. Haliotis. The Haliotis is a wide, open shell, and often known as the ear-shell, from its likeness to a human ear. In Italy it is called ‘ Venus’s ear,’ from its beauty, and the French know it as ‘ Ormer,’ a con-

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310 OMATTERBOX. traction of ^ oreille de mer/ or ear of the sea. Its common English name is the Mother-of-pearl shell. Its coat does not enclose the animal, but merely covers its back, and it clings to rocks like the limpet. Down one side is a row of holes, which increase in number as the inhabitant grows older ; when new ones appear, however, it carefully closes up some of the old ones, so that not more than five or six are open at a time. No doubt these are to breathe through, and, as it increases in size, the situation of the breathing-organ changes. The shell is like mother-of-pearl, and is greatly used for all kinds of pretty ornaments, studs, combs, card-cases, and such¬ like. It is found in all southern waters, from the Channel Islands downwards, and to the good people of these favoured islands the ormer is much what the clam is to the Americans, and equally appreciated for food. Who that has once tasted ormers really well cooked would not willingly repeat the experi¬ ment ? The Plaliotis has two long, slender tentacles or horns, its eyes are prominent, and, apart from the shell, the colouring of its body is very beautiful. Helena Heath. But Prince growled sternly, took him by the leg when he was risen, so that he fell again. Crack ! I heard his head meet the ice. Then Rory broke down and began to cry silently, and seeing him, I gave in and wept too. Once I looked up, and saw Prince sitting on his haunches not ten yards off, howling most dismally. That frightened me more, for he looked dreadfully mad that way. In a little while I felt that something was licking my cheek. I started up and saw that it was Prince. At first I thought he was going to bite me, and yelled out. But, when I stared up, I saw nothing in his brown eyes but wistfulness. ‘ Princie,’ said I, soothingly. ' Good Princie.’ Then I patted him, and he wagged his tail. Rory and Elsie stroked him also, and he seemed all right. ' Get up, Archie. He’ll let you, now,’ said my brother. But when I made the attempt, he stared at me hard and growled. Then we got very miserable and cold. The snow began to fall, as the sun dipped in the west over the glen. The grouse cocks chirred from the beds of heather, and a flight of golden plovers passed overhead with shrill, weird cries. The wind began to bluster a little. We crept as close to each other as we could, as you have seen chickens do on a cold night, for our teeth were chat¬ tering. How vividly it comes back to me ! How silent and deserted is the wide glen ! How slowly and softly falls the snow ! And there is Prince, sitting on his haunches, barking like the faithful dog in the old story. ' Dugald will soon be here, Archie,’ says my brother cheerfully. ' Maybe he won’t,’ croaked I, for I was much of a frog in my young days. ' Maybe - ’ But at that moment we heard a shout, and Prince ' barked faster. ‘ It’s Dugald ! it’s Dugald ! ’ we cried in a breath, and shouted as loud as we were able. A form came racing round the island, dim through the snow. ‘ Bairns !’ came a shout that woke every echo in the wood and glen. ' Here, Dugald,’ we cried, 'here.’ ' God be praised,’ cries he, ' ye're living ! Ay, Dugald Farquharson, ye had no thought for this. I thought you were drowned, laddies, drowned. And you, Elsie — oh, but you’re cold ; ye’re perishing, la.^sie.’ Then to Rory and me sternly : ' How comes it, laddies, that ye had no more sense than to sit here and freeze your bit sister ? ’ I explained it, and he turned to Prince. 'Prince, what ails ye, man ?’ The dog fawned on him and whined. 'There’s something wrong with the ice, I’m thinking. Come, Prince, let’s see it ! Bide ye there, bairns, a minute.’ He went off with the dog trotting before him. And when he returned — 'Bairns,’ said he, very solernnly, ' it’s God’s hand that’s above us all. If it hadn’t been for old Prince, here, you would have been all drowned — each one of you.’ DEAR OLD PRINCE. from page 299.) went for a run while lunch, and we time. On his returning his thought nothing of it, and gave him lI\Wi 1 ^isshare of pro visions, which we had kept for him. li A^ter this we set off again, ^ meaning to skirt the north end . of the loch and return to our path by the opposite channel, which we had not been through yet. 'VVe went splendidly, getting into a good stroke. Hut, as we neared the island again. Prince became excited and queer. He jumped in front of us and barked. Then he tried to catch our feet, and was so determined that we had to stop. ' I say. Prince,' cried Rory, ' drop it, will you ! ' Hies silly,’ said I. And, as I spoke, he stood in front of us, and barked as a dog will at sheep in a corner. ^ We made another attempt to get on. But Prince became queerer and queerer, and at last he got behind and seized Elsie by the frock. He did it so quickly, too, that he upset us. Elsie hit her head and began to cry. ^ Oh, Archie ! the nasty beast,’ she sobbed, clino-ino- to me. ” ° I felt like crying, too, for Prince stood in front of us, looking so fierce that I shivered. ' Rory, he’s gone mad,’ said I. ' What shall we do r ‘ I’m goiu" to get up,’ cried he, in his bold Tvay, and at once he did so.

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CHATTERBOX. .311 And then we went homeward amid the driving snow. We met mother coming to meet us. She was almost distracted with fear. But, seeing that we were .all well, she soon became her old self again. Soon we were all seated round the wide chimney, witli Prince as the hero of the day. ^ Man, Prince,’ said Dugald, laying his hand on the dog’s head, 4f ye haven’t a soul ye’ve surely the next thing to it — and that must be.’ Authuh Fobbes-Leslie. who had stood as one of Ralph’s god-fathers. Mr. Brandon was the other ; his god-mother, a lady deeply veiled and a stranger to the town, had alighted from a carriage at the door of the church. It cannot be said that old Ford’s influence upon Ralph was good. He encouraged him, at six years old, to fight, doubling up his fists, and telling him that he was a ‘little man,’ and that it was ‘ glorious to fight.’ Ford also made the child taste gin and strong drink, and encouraged him in fits of rage and cruelty. Ralph was in training to become a little tiger, and, had it not been for a tender love which he bore to his nurse, there is no saying what he might have become under this vicious old man’s teaching. When our hero was about seven, he began to notice that a lady, at long intervals, came to see him. She called herself his god-mother, and so she was. She made a careful examination of his person, to assure herself that he was perfectly clean; and always brought him a number of nice things, which he afterwards shared with his foster-brothers and sister. By this lady’s directions he was sent to a day school, and appears to have been fairly intelligent and industrious. Ralph Rattlin had not been very long in attend¬ ance at school before he fell sick. A raging fever was followed by a long convalescence and the slow passing of weary days. One morning, after restoration to health, Ralph was playing at home, Joe Brandon being away at the saw-pits, when a plain private carriage drove up to the door, and an elderly gentleman stepped out, paid every demand immediately, and ordered the boy’s best clothes to be put on, and himself to get into the carriage. It was in vain that Mrs. Brandon raved and cried — ^for she was very much attached to the boy — or that three of the little Brandons joined in the* lamentations because the ‘naughty man was going to take brother Ralph away;’ or that Ralph himself, remembering old Ford’s lessons, kicked and bit the stranger, for that gentleman, acting, as he said, under orders, was very determined, and dragged the resisting lad into the carriage, his foster-mother crying out as he was driven away, hot with the fray and weeping from the fight, ‘ My Ralph, my dear Ralph ! ’ The neighbours thought it very odd that the mother should allow her eldest son to be carried off by force by a stranger, before her eyes, in the middle of the day. At length the carriage and its two inmates stopped near Hatton Garden, on Holborn Hill. The stranger and Ralph alighted, and walked into a house — a ready-made clothes warehouse — and the boy was soon provided with three excellent suits of clothes. A trunk was sent for, the clothes placed in it, and, after visits to four or five other shops, a good outfit was in possession of Ralph, the Reefer. The carriage rolled on again for about half an hour, stopping at last before a very old-fashioned house, over the portals of which, upon a deep-blue board, in very bright gold letters, flashed forth that word so dreaded, in those days, by little boys, ‘Academy. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. RATTLIN, THE REEFER.* was on a cold day in February, that ^ Rattlin, the Reefer, as he after- M , wards came to be called, entered H this busy world. Put out to nurse H r upon the very day that he was m H born, this poor little baby knew • nothing of his mother. Rrandon, the wife of Joe Brandon, the ^top sawyer,’ was a kind, motherly soul, and did her * best to supply a mother’s place to the child, for which she received a large sum of money. At first, the Brandons lived at Reading, but those who paid them for nursing Rattlin wrote bidding them to remove from that town, and enclosing money for the expenses of removal. Lambeth was therefore decided on, because Mr. Joe Brandon thought it a likely place for obtaining work, as at that time it abounded in saw-pits. A letter arrived one day, when the baby was a few months old, ordering that the child should be baptized ‘ Ralph Rattlin,’ and that, if he survived, he should pass as the Brandons’ own child until further orders. The very early years of Ralph’s life were not more remarkable than the very early years of any ordinary child, brought up by poor and respectable, but quite humble people. The foster-parents re¬ moved a second time, and uptm this occasion settled in Bath, so that the weakly Ralph might be dipped in some of the mineral springs which had, at that time, much celebrity. Joe allowed no one to dip the baby but himself. When the child grew older, Joe Brandon had many stories to tell him about his pantings and implorings, and offers of all his play¬ things, if he would not put him in the cold water — ' only this one, one morning.’ When Ralph was about four years old, his limbs began to expand and his face to wear a healthy hue, so that it was no longer needful to live at Bath. The Brandons returned to Lambeth, and took a larger house than they had before occupied, and a lodger, a friend by the name of Ford, ^ an awful old man,’ * This spirited tale was written by Captain Marryat. It may generally be procured from any Public Library.

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Ealph removed to a new Home. ' I want to go home ! Oh, I want to go home ! ’ wailed the tear-stained Ralph, as he rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, and made his face a woeful picture. The stranger, after a few words with Mr. Root, the schoolmaster, withdrew, and Ralph found himself in a big schoolroom, in the midst of more than two hundred and fifty boys. A few boys came and stared at him. Some of them jeered at his rough manners, and the desolate lad felt very miserable when he was left in his new home. At six o’clock supper was served out, consisting of a round of bread and some dry cheese. There was also a pewter mug for each boy, three parts filled with sour beer. {Concluded at page 319.)

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CI-IATTERBOX. 313

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314 CHATTERBOX. THE CHILD OE THE LIGHTHOUSE. {Continued from page 309.) )NAS PENNELL knew what he was about ; his earnest desire was to win the confidence of these un¬ fortunate smugglers, and for that purpose he felt that he must be alone with them, at least in so far that his words might not be overheard. But they were well known to be members of such a desperate gang that two of the Preventive men remained on guard at a little distance. It was part of their business to protect as much as possible all goods washed ashore from a wreck, and these men had been taken red-handed in the act of wholesale theft; but the guardians of the coast had no special ill-feeling towards them on account of their occupation, for in those days almost everybody" encouraged smuggling in some way. The duty on wine, spirits, and tobacco especially, was so high that the public feeling was strongly against that way of adding to the revenue, and the more so that hard drinking was more common amongst all classes then than it is now. It was quite a usual thing for any smuggling expedition to be helped with money by farmers, merchants, and other folk living in the neighbourhood of the sea, who made a regular practice of investing small sums from their savings in each voyage. Moreover, every village and town near the coast had special places for receiving smuggled goods ; great underground cellars from which a private way of escape was proviled, and cottages so arranged as to open out from one to the other. Thus, if the Revenue officers tracked a man to one door, he would probably be able to pass through several dwellings and get out somewhere in safety at a distance. In the eyes of his many friends, the smuggler’s only crime was — to be caught. Under these circumstances, though the lighthouse- keeper was deeply grieved to find the son of his old friend, Farmer Selwood, in. this sad case, yet he had no great reason to be surprised ; for an idle young fellow, within reach of the sea, would be sure to meet with every temptation to join in such illegal ventures, and his very pluck and love of adventure would all help to lead him astray. Poor lad ! his punishment had soon overtaken him, for he seemed to be badly hurt: there was a deep cut on his arm from which the blood was still flowing freely. Jonas tore his handkerchief into strips, and then having unfastened the cord which bound the lad’s hands, he skilfully bound up the wound, and placed the sufferer in as easy a position as he could on the ground. Then he took off his own jacket and rolled it up to make a kind of cushion for the support of the injured limb. All this was done in silence, and when the lad tried to murmur some words of gratitude, he quietly replied : ^ Don’t thank me, Harry, for I fear it is little enough that I can do for any of you ; and yet Heaven knows that if I could be of true service, and save you all from the fate which awaits you, I would gladly do so at the sacrifice of my own life.’ ^You snivelling old hypocrite!’ growled out Jenkins, the older prisoner, with a blasphemous oath. ^If ye meant what ye say, and was real minded to do us a good turn, you would cut the cords and let us get off precious quick.’ ‘Would you have me break my solemn word?’ asked Jonas, sadly. ‘No, no, my friend, that’s not the way to bring God’s blessing upon you. It would be only sending you off straight by a short cut to hell, and this life you’re leading is the broad high¬ way to it already.’ At these words, there was an outbreak of cursing from the men, but their friend took no notice beyond kneeling down on the ground and praying with passionate earnestness that God would turn their hearts, and save these poor souls, who were in such desperate peril. ‘ And, dear Lord,’ he continued, ‘ give me wisdom and grace to help them that they be not taken to one of those horrible gaols, which is ruin to body and soul, nor let them come to the gallows, and so be hurried unprepared to Thy presence and to Judgment.’ The man was so terribly in earnest — he prayed with such absolute faith, and was so carried away by an overwhelming tide of love and pity — that even the most hardened of his listeners were touched and silenced. They knew the truth of his words; that the common prisons of those days were in a condition too vile for words to describe; they knew that if they were tried and convicted, they would scarcely escape hanging.* The prayer was so simple that they could not fail to understand it, nay, I had almost said, to join in it in their secret hearts. Now it only remained to be seen if help would come, and for a few moments there was silence, only broken by the rippling of the waves. Then suddenly Jonas rose up from his knees, with- a bright, eager look upon his face. ‘ My friends, a thought has come to me. There may be a way of escape for you, if you care to take it. What say you to joining his Majesty’s Navy, if the chance offers of thus saving your lives ? The war has now gone on so long, that there is always a scarcity of recruits, and I have friends in the service who will help to get you pardoned on that condition. Brave men like you,’ he continued, looking round anxiously at the doubtful faces, ‘ should have something better worth fighting and risking your lives for than midnight plunder. There is the making of a hero yet, in every one of you ! Harry, my dear lad, you at least, will say Yes ? I will see your father at once at Afton Farm, and v-e will go together to Southampton and use all our influence and leave no stone unturned, till you are all free men, on board one of his Majesty’s ships.’ There is often a marvellous influence — almost a kind of magnetism — in a strong, earnest will. So it proved * Theft of the amount of 5s. was in those days punished by the penalty of death. r

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CHATTERBOX. 315 in this case, for although the men were taken by surprise — it was not the loop-hole for escape which they expected — yet they could not but see that it might give them one last chance of life. As for Harry Selwood, he scarcely dared to look up, so overwhelmed was he with shame at the thought of his father learning what had befallen him. How often had he been warned against keeping evil com¬ pany, and this was the end of it ! But before leaving, Jonas managed to speak a few words of hope and sympathy to him, and promised to break the news tenderly to the poor father, though his heart failed him at the thought of the task before him. However, he felt that there was no time to lose, and he set off at once, for he was not one to shrink from any duty, however painful. Afton Farm was just the other side of Fresh¬ water ; it would be a good walk across the Downs, there and back, and he had first to call at the light¬ house, to explain to his wife the reason of his delay, and also to make arrangements that she might not be left alone at night, in case he should be detained from any cause, for he had quite made up his mind to go into Southampton with the prisoners, so full of pity was he for their sad case. At the sound of her husband’s footstep on the lighthouse staircase, Ann Pennell went to the door to meet him. ^ Oh, Jonas! I am so glad you’ve come back; i want to tell you about all the things in the trunk, such wonderful fine clothes, and I’ve found out that the darling’s name is Ruth ! ’ she exclaimed, as he followed her into the room, which was strewn with various small articles of dress. ^ -r • v He made no answer, and, looking up at him, she saw that dreamy look on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away. Her careful mind, too, was sorely vexed to notice that he was wearing his knitted under-vest and had no coat on. ‘ Why, you dear good man, surely you never went out this cold morning without a jacket? ’ she said, reproachfully. When he was thus called back to the common things of life, Jonas looked confused for a moment, and then remembering what he had. done with the missing garment, he replied : ^ I left it on the beach for a poor fellow who needed it. You know young Harry Selwood? I found that he was caught last niofht, in company with a gang of smugglers, and his arm was badly hurt. I bound it up as best I could — ‘ Why didn’t you bring him here for me to take care of?’ interrupted his wife. ‘I always did like that handsome lad, with his bright, merry face. ' You forget, Ann, that he is a prisoner, and will have to be tried for a criminal offence,’ was the sad reply. H fear it will go hard with him if we can t make interest to get him off. I am going over to Afton Farm now to see his father, and break the bad news to him.’ / -n i. ^Poor man!’ said Ann, full of sympathy. ‘But then,’ she added, after a moment, ‘he really blame for it, very much. Why did he take the boy away from school, and try to make a farmer of him af>‘ainst his will, when his heart was so set on going to sea ? It is a bad thing for an only son like that to be loafing about at home— with no mother, too, who might have kept him straight. I was afraid he would get into mischief, but I never dreaim .f any¬ thing like this. It is a hanging matter, isn’t ic ? ’ she asked below her breath. ^ Aye ; but God in His mercy preserve them from such a fate ! ’ was the low, fervent reply. ‘ Listen to me, Ann. It is a solemn work that I’ve taken in hand, and I can’t tell when I may be home. I am going on to Yarmouth, to leave no stone unturned to get these poor fellows pardoned on condition of joining the Royal Navy, and I don’t know when I shall be back. I have spoken to Bill Saunders, and he will come from the coastguard station, and will stay the night here, in case I am detained. Though, indeed, you can manage the lamps as well as I can,’ he added, with a smile and a look of confidence which gladdened his wife’s heart. ‘You know best, Jonas, and you must go, if you think it right. Now, will you mind the child a minute, and don’t walie her, while I go and fetch your pilot coat ? ’ So saying, she left the room, murmuring to herself : ‘ If ever there was a saint on earth, out of the Bible, you’re one, you dear good man ; but, all the same, their wives must have had a trying time.’ Little Ruth had curled herself up in the big arm¬ chair, and had fallen asleep with her doll in her arms. As Jonas looked at the sweet baby face, his sensitive nature, always open to receive any^ beautiful impres¬ sion, was deeply touched by its smile of perfect peace and trustfulness. ‘ Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,’ he murmured, and the words of one of his favourite hymns came into his mind : * As a little child relies On a care beyond his own, Knows he’s neither strong nor wise Fears to stir a step alone : Let me thus with Thee abide, ^ As my Father, Guard, and Guide.* When his wife came back, she made him take some food before starting, as she well knew, by long expe¬ rience, that he would forget all abou^ himself when his mind was full of care for others. Then, after giv¬ ing* her some last directions, in case he should not return before sunset to light his lamps, he set forth across the hill, on his errand of mercy. The solitude of those open downs, bounded only by the encircling horizon of sea and sky, was very dear to^ him ; he seemed to be in a vast temple, not made with hands. But to-day he must not linger, for the work he had to do was urgent. So he passed on tln’ough the silence, only broken by the cry of sea-birds, till he beiran to descend the hill and crossed the village oi Freshw^ater. , . „ -n t.- i At length he had reached Afton Farm, which stood amongst the trees on the other side of the river, and here he was fortunate enough to meet Farmer Selwood, at once, standing at his own gate. He had a newspaper in his hand, which he seemed to be eagerly studying. At the sound of approaching^ footsteps, he looked up. ‘ Why, Pennell, is that you . he exclaimed. ‘ You’re the very man I wanted to see. I’ve just got this week s Gazette, and there s the most terrible news ! We’ve been beaten by those

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wretched Frenchmen ; beaten, do ye hear, man? and they’ve taken Toulon hack from us. So ii says here,’ and he held out the paper ; ‘ but now, you tell me, Pennell, do you think it’s likely?’ Jonas turned over the small, ill -printed sheet, which in the year 1793 did duty for a newspaper, and soon saw to his sorrow, that it was indeed true. He read aloud : ‘ Defeat of the British at Toulon, strong fort on the Mediterranean. General O’Hara taken prisoner by young Corsican artillery officer, Napoleon Bonaparte. Awful scene of destruction and conflagration ; English, Spanish and Neapolitan fleets sailed out of the harbour, carrying along with them about 14,000 of the inhabitants, whose only safety was in flight - ’ ‘ Stop, my good fellow ! ’ the farmer broke in. ^ Do you believe one word of it? Is it likely, now ? I say it’s a wicked hoax ! ’ Jonas shook his head sadly. After his experience of the risk aiid uncertainty of war, he should never dare to say that anything was impossible. ‘ Well, come in and talk it over. I’m just going to have dinner, and you must come and take pot-luclv with me,’ said Farmer Selwood, in a hearty tone, which expected no refusal. (Continued at page 325.) SOIVEE NOTED LOVERS OP CATS. 1MIE famous Dr. .Johnson seemed to think as much . of his cat as a human friend. Cardinal Wolsey used to receive the nobles of the land with his favourite cat perched on the arm or on the back of his throne. The great statesman of France, Riche¬ lieu, once excused himself from rising to receive a foreign ambassador because his favourite cat and her kittens were lying on his robes. Petrarch, the Italian poet, had his favourite cat embalmed when she died. Among the Egyptians, cats were embalmed as sacred animals. Louis XTII. of France was a staunch friend of cats, and at an early age interceded on their behalf on St. John’s Day. Mahomet owned a cat named Muezza. Once when the pet was lying asleep upon the sleeve of his gown, he had the part cut away rather than disturb kitty’s dreams. Chateau¬ briand had a cat called by the name of Micetto, a gift from the Pope. He studied the habits of the cat, and he fancied that his own character had many qualities peculiar to his pet. A HANDPUL OP SHELLS. VIII. the oyster stands first amongst its bivalve brethren in useful¬ ness and value, so does the Nautilus rank above other univalves in the perfection of its bodily structure, and the greater development of nerve centres in the head. The symmetrical arrangements of its internal organs bring it nearer to the vertebrate ani¬ mals than any other of the lower molluscs. It is remarkable as being the only survivor of a race which wo find from fossils was once abundant. Aristotle, who lived before the time of our Lord, wrote about this curious creature, but of late years very few of the livin'^ molluscs have been found and examined. Plontv, however, are known to exist, as the natives of Fi^i, the New Hebrides, and the ^loluccan Islands catch them in pots for food, and make use of the shells to hale water from their canoes. The animal usually creeps or swims gently along the bottom of very deep water, but it is also capable of floating on the surface. This was formerly regarded as being mar¬ vellous, as the shell is large and heavy, but it is now discovered that, during its growth, various parts of the shell are one after another emptied and divided

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Presentation of a Football in the Olden Time. off. These form air chambers, into which the mol¬ lusc is able to breathe at will a light gas, enabling it to raise itself to the surface and float there, on the same principle by which the great Frenchman, Montgolfier, found out that a balloon might sail in the air. The shell is beautifully pearly in colour and tex¬ ture, and though my illustration is far from giving the full size, it wiU easily be recognised^ oeing frequently sold as an ornament. It must be borne in mind that it is the inhabitant which is rare, not the shell, I must not close without a few words about the Argon auta, or Paper Nautilus. These molluscs are much hke the cuttle-fish, only the female is pro¬ vided with a beautifully ribbed and transparent J

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818 OI-IATTERBOX. slielJ^, in which to shelter her eggs. This shell IS, however, only a cradle for the babies, not a house for the mother, who embraces it with two of her many arms. The ancients declared that she put these two arms as a sail, and so went along before the wind. Modern science, however, proves that Mrs. Argonauta^s powers of locomotion are simply those of the cuttle-fish tribe, that is to say, she either swims backwards or creeps along at the bottom of the She also has another quality of the cuttle-fish family, in being able to change her body to many colours — red, blue, yellow, brown, or black, so ensuring to herself a most varied number of toilettes without trouble or expense. Helena Heath. OLD CUSTOMS. FOOTBALL. ^ OME of the successful foot¬ ball players of our day get handsome rewards for their strength or skill. They would not feel satisfied with the simple gift of a ball, which is being bestowed upon the youth in the illustration of a scene in the olden time. It was the honour which made the present to be eagerly o-flmoo • T • j^^st as, in the ancient pmes, the winners hig-fiiy p^zed a wreath of laurel or myrtle. of was never so popular m England as it is now, but about this we may have a doubt. It must have been a favourite game during the reign of Edward III., for there was an edict prohibiting it for a time. The at football which should have been given to archery: wJ» wars of the Middle Ages, many a victory arrows of the En hsn bowmen. An old name given to the game was camp ball,’ hinting that the game was most suitable for a field, though we find many instances of Its being played along the streets of towns. Some of the old authors mention football as a game that was specially suitable for ploughmen and shep- heids, perhaps because they warmed themselves by plaving at It in cold weather. Farmers’ boys used to football,! bladder into which peas and beans were put, which rattled 1 o/Ibo/s, dated A.D. r,S f^M'clay mentions the ‘grievous falls’ which vpfrf.r* driving the ball, and Waller, many years after, refers in a poem to the struggles ‘ breast to breast amongst those eager for victo!;. in frequently played Pli f?®®*®’ ,^® during the riign of hzabeth, the sturdy ’prentices of the citizens turned W V ®",““®“' evenings, or on hoUdays, being joined upon the game, they took little heed of those who were passing by, no matter whether they were courtiers or ladies, merchants or country squires. Sometimes angry disputes arose, if persons were hustled, or perhaps struck by a ball bedaubed with mud. Pepys mentions seeing the game played in the 1 lazza. Covent Garden, and at another time he says he went along a street of London which was full of footballs— balls, we may suppose, flying in all direc¬ tions from wild kicks. Even during the early part of the century it was no uncommon thing for a party of foot-ballers to start in the City, and play from Cheapside, down Ludgate Hill, through Temple Bar, then along Fleet Street and the Strand, till they reached Charing Cross. One writer about old London says that he hardly knew which was the worse to pass "through, a mob around the pillory or a mob engaged in football. I., many years before, had expressed his dislike of the game, and forbade its being played at Court, because it was so violent, and more likely to lame the players than to make them strong. ‘The players had no pads for their shins in those days. Shrove Tuesday used to be regarded as a special day for playing football. This was done in many towns in the street. So rough was the play that the shop-keepers used to put up their shutters to prevent their windows from being broken by the foot-ballers. Amongst some of the villages in the north of England It was customary for the football players to attend the wedding of persons well-to-do, and ask of them money to purchase a new ball. J, R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 51* — Geographical Arithmograph. A L^GE town in the north of England noted for its manufactures of linen, silk, and cotton. Also a town in Vermont, U.S. 1. — 3, 9, 7, 8. The home of a bird. 2. — 8, 2, 1, 6. Not wild, tacl*e~~^* ^8<rt of the human body; a recep- L f’ More felt in the south than the north. 5.— 10, 9, 2, 1. A large quantity of something you are now looking at. ^ 7, 4, 6, 3, 8. Belonging to most flowers, 7, 8, 5, 9, 10. A woman’s name. 2, 4, 9. A trial of speed. — L 2, 7, 8, 9, 10. One in authority, — 7, 8, 6, 1. Part of a tree ; to stop. 0. 0. 52. — Anagrams. 1. I’m on it again. Fancy, unreality. 2. Great mast. A plan to deceive. 3. No charm. A sovereign. 4. Quiet son. Usually needing an answer. 5. A rich trap. A title of dignity. 6. I start. One who works with skill. 7. We sat there. A term of endearment. 8. Can B see ? * Makes the heart grow fonder.'’’ -.X* 2 always in the right. 10. Tom s men. Quickly flying. 11. T. in rage. A hard stone. 12. The rust. A safeguard. [A?tswers at page 331.7

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OI-IATTERBOX. 319 :isr s "w E 12. s . £ s. d. 49. — 1. 6 chickens at Is. 2d. =070 11 ducks at 2s. 4d. = 1 5 8 13 geese at 4s. 8d. = B 0 8 30 £4 13 4 s. d. 2. 9 old people at Id. each =09 2 young men at Is. each =20 9 young women at 3d. each = 23 5 0 3. Five sovereigns and twenty-five shillings. 4. Length of garden, 107 yards. 5. Man’s earnings, 2s. 7id. a day; woman’s, lO^d, 50. — 1. New. 2. Ten. Now. Tin. Owl. Sin. Old. Six. 3. Boat. 4. Hate. Boil. Have. Soil. Lave. Sail. Love. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. EATTLIN, THE KEEFER. (Concluded from page 312.) UR hero had a hard, cruel life at his new school, for Mr. Root believed in the rule of cane. When Ralph had lived with his nurse, the boys in the street used to beat him because he dressed better than they could, and was more of a gentleman than they were. But at school the young gentlemen thrashed him for not being gentlemanly enough. Here is a story of schoolboy insolence, as told, in later years, by Ralph himself : ^ The next morning after my arrival, a fellow — a little bigger than myself — came up and, standing before me, gave me, very deliberately, as hard a slap in the face as his strength would permit. Half crying with the pain, and yet not wishing to be thought quarrelsome, I asked with good-natured humility whether that was done in jest or in earnest. The* little insolent replied in his schoolboy wit. Betwixt and between.” I couldn’t stand that ; my passion and my fist rose together, and, hitting the fellow midway bet^veen the eyes, There’s my betwixt and between,” said I. His nose began to bleed, and when I went down into the school¬ room, the new boy ” had his hands well warmed with the ruler for fighting.’ Ralph Rattlin lived in the days when the road to learning was beset with the active birch. He says of his punishments : ‘ I was flogged full, and I was flogged fasting ; when I deserved it, and when I did not; I was flogged for speaking too loudly, and for not speaking loud enough, and for holding ^ my tongue. One morning, because my face was dirty, and another because T asked the maid-servant to wash it clean. Sometimes because my shoes were dirty, and sometimes because I tried to wipe them clean with my pocket-handkerchief. I was flogged for playing, and for staying in the schoolroom and not going out to play. The bigger boys used to beat me, and I was then flogged for fighting. It is hard to say for what I was not flogged. At length Mr. Root flogged me into serious ill-health, and then he stayed his hand, and I found relief on a bed of sickness.’ When Ralph was nine years and a half old, he was tall for his age, with a very light and active frame and a fair countenance. His hair was light, glossy, and wavy. He had a good natural colour, and bright blue ej^es. In appearance he seemed more delicate than he really was. * He was,’ says the writer, ‘ a very beautiful child, and a child that seemed formed to kindle and return a mother’s love. Yet motherly caresses never blessed him ; he was left to the tender mercies of a number of men and boys, by many of when-' his liveliness was checked, his spirit humbled, and nis flesh cruelly wounded.’ After Ralph’s illness, brought on by such con¬ tinual floggings, the doctor told Mr. Root that unless he treated the boy more gently — very gently — he would probably die. Now, as this meant the loss of high school fees to the school- ihaster, he decided to take the doctor’s hint to heart, and from this time onward Ralph Rattlin was left alone, both by master and boys. A loneliness came over his young spirit, and his heart was filled with an intense longing for a com¬ panion to love. His spirits began to give way fast, and he was glad of the notice of the servants, who employed him in light tasks about the kitchen. Great was the surprise of Mr. and Mrs. Root, and Ralph himself, when ‘the lady’ called one bright day. Quickly the ‘kitchen boy*' was washed and his clothes changed, and then he was ushered into the parlour. He stood timidly at the door, until the lady said to him, extending her delicate white hand, ‘ Come here to me, Ralph ; do you not know me ? ’ Those tones of tenderness thrilled through liis frame, reached his heart, and the lonely lad burst into a passion of tears. After this, the gentle lady frequently came to see Ralph, and, as a consequence, he was forbidden the kitchen and kept more regularly to his studies. One of the most exciting incidents recorded in JRattlin, the Reefer is that which occurred on one fifth of November, at Mr. Root’s Academy. The boys, many of them quite young men, had been saving up "for a long time in order to buy fireworks to celebrate the day. By dint of the exercise of much self-denial, they had contrived to purchase a large quantity. At the last moment, the noon of the fifth, when the whole school was looking for a jolly afternoon, Mr. Root announced that there would be no holiday, no fireworks, and no bonfire ; and that the fireworks would be sold, and the money put in the poor-box. How the boys acted under these high-handed pro¬ ceedings, and whether the pile burst into flames or was carted away according to the master’s plan, and the share which Ralph Rattlin took in the events of the day, are fully set forth by Captain Marry at, the author of this capital story. James Cassidy.

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Page 332

WHO BROKE FATHER’S NET?

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CHATTERBOX. 321 — ^ i The Sun-dial.

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322 CHATTERBOX. ma THE TIME BY A SUN-DIAL. can fancy that the smartly attired young gentleman of bygone times, who has picked up some scientific information about the sun-dial, is explaining its principles to his lady com¬ panion, who appears to be in¬ terested. At that period sun¬ dials were, no doubt, more commonly seen than they are now. When clocks and watches were few, or quite unknown, people depended entirely upon the sun to tell them what the hour was. Country folk, who are much in the open air, can make a good guess at the time by looking at the place where the sun is, and some, have reckoned it by noticing the way in which the shadow falls from a tall tree. We might call this a kind of natural sun-dial, the tree answering I the purpose of the gnomon or stgle^ by which a i shadow is thrown upon the face of the metal dial, j By whom this was first made we do not know ; it I has been supposed that it was invented by the Chal- ! deans, who studied the sky a great deal. We read ! of a dial which appears to have been well known at Jerusalem in the reign of King Ahaz (2 Kings, xx. 11). I It has been stated that there was in Old Babylon a lofty stone staircase, open to the sky, and below it a ' stone semicircle ; by these time was calculated, and I the movements of the sun, moon, and stars observed. Bemains of staircases or columns probably made for this purpose have been found in Egypt, India, and i even in South America. 1 During the Middle Ages, the nobles, and those who were wealthy, sometimes had their sun-dials beautifully inlaid with gold and silver, or even set i with gems. In the gardens of large mansions there i were often a number of sun-dials of different sizes j and styles put upon the walls, or along the terraced walks. Texts from the Bible, or quaint mottoes, were inscribed upon them, so that persons coming to ; know the hour, or looking at them from curiosity, j might learn something. For instance, at Tunbridge I Wells, an old sun-dial has on it the words: ^You may waste, but you cannot stop me;’ and at Buxted, in Sussex, on another, ‘ We shall di-al ’ (die all). Again, some folk contrived a rather startling sur¬ prise connected with a sun-dial, by which jets of water were thrown from little pipes over those per¬ sons who went near. One of these existed at the Spring Gardens, near Charing Cross, in the seven¬ teenth century. There is a district, familiar to many Londoners, called Seven Dials, though few who live there know that at the point where seven streets branch off there was a column, having seven dials, one facing each street. The poet Gay has referred to this spot ; — ‘ Here to seven streets seven dials count the day. And from each other catch the circling ray ; Here oft the peasant, with inquiring face, Bewildered trudges on from place to place.’ There was a story, that at the foot of the pedestal a quantity of money had been hidden ; but, when this was taken down, a.d. 1773, the workmen searched in vain. Sun-dials were now and then placed against the outside walls of churches. There is a singularly contrived one upon the south wall of Milton, near Gravesend, the work of James Giles, formerly master of the Free School, and it has for motto, ‘Trifle not, your time’s but short.’ J. K. S. 0. MADEIRA, ONE tremendously hot afternoon, last August, we dropped anchor off the town of Funchal. I was on my way home from the Cape, and after seventeen days on board ship, especially in great heat, there are few things more welcome than a run on shore. Our captain gave us two hours, whilst the process of coaling went on, and in that time I determined to see a little of this beautiful island. There is, in my humble opinion, no view of Madeira quite so pretty as that seen from the deck of your ship when you arrive in the roads. That is a beautiful one indeed. The little white houses rise up one above another in a very picturesque fashion, and form a pleasing contrast to the wondrous bright green tints of the trees, and the glorious clear blue of the sea. It is an enchanting scene, reminding the traveller of the glories of the Rhine, though on a somewhat grander scale. After we had thrown sixpences into the sea, and watched the little dark-skinned boys dive for them, never missing a single one in the clear, beautiful water, we hired a picturesque - looking small craft, half boat, half gondola, with a canvas awning stretched over it, and made the best of our way to the little cobble-stoned ‘ hard,’ or landing- place, at the foot of the town of Funchal. No sooner had we landed than we were surrounded by a motley crowd of bullock-sleigh drivers, guides, and beggars, all shouting in Portuguese and trying to pull us in different directions. We selected a neat-looking little bullock-sleigh, got in, and then the tiny bullocks started to drag us up the great hill to the public gardens at a very slow pace. At last we arrived there, and how magnificent these grounds are, only those whose eyes have lighted on them can understand. Close by the plaintain-trees may be seen enormous bushes of red geraniums, oleanders growing iu wildest profusion, and rhododen¬ drons as large as trees; whilst the views, both of land and sea, are magnificent. Through a lovely vista of flowers, whose startling colours made one marvel if they could indeed be natural blossoms, we caught a glimpse of our good ship, straining gently at her anchors in the bay, hundreds of feet below, the sea looking like an azure lake whose waves, from the height on which we stood, seemed merely like the ripples of a pond. After remaining in the gardens for a short time, we left, and descending the hill, we managed to find our way to the market-place. Here, at wonderfully low prices, we purchased green figs, bananas, and grapes. The market-sellers are very grasping, and

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CHATTERBOX. 323 always ask more than twice as much as they are willing to take for their wares. Before leaving the gardens, we had picked an armful of flowers. This merely excited amused con¬ tempt in the minds of the guardians there, as flowers were so common in their country. As we reached the beach again, we must have looked like a procession in honour of Flora, laden as we were with flowers. But with the steam whistle blowing from the ship, the procession became a race, and as we were rowed alongside our huge floating city, the anchors were being hoisted up, and almost before we could reach our cabins, we were once more under weigh. F. R. AMONGST THE HEATHER. SOME of our young friends know how delightful it is to roam amongst the heather on a summer or autumn day when the flowers are in full bloom, and there is a pleasant breeze blowing which wafts about the fragrance of the plant. Especially do we enjoy a ramble over a heath or moor if it spreads before us to the extent of miles, and we see both hills and hollows covered with a plentiful growth of one kind or other of these plants. Indeed, it has been said that the heath or heather is the most common plant that grows wild in Britain, since it flourishes in many parts of England, and in Scotland it is very abundant. Over large tracts of country there the heather seems to have all its own way, and it lets no other plants grow where it has possession, except a few grasses and sedges. In company with the heather, on moist land, we may notice, often, that plumy cotton sedge which the Scotch villagers call ‘ hares’ tails.’ Quaint old sayings show how plentiful heather is in Scotland, such as — ^ If heather bells were corn of the best. Then Buccleuch would have a noble grist.’ ‘ But which is really the heather .P’ boys and girls sometimes ask, because there are several plants, not unlike, to which this name has been given. I believe the true heather is the plant called also ling, the most common of the tribe, and which flourishes on dry moors, often growing to the size of a small shrub. Its dark green leaves remain several years on the stem, as the heather is an evergreen. The flowers if picked do not wither for a long while, so many people put them into vases during the winter months. These flowers are rose-tinted and shining; now and then one is discovered quite white. Young folk sometimes hunt for a piece of this, because white heather is said to bring good luck. Gardeners have also raised a pretty double variety of heather, the flowers of which resemble little roses. Sheep and goats browse on the heather ; grouse and many wild birds enjoy its seeds. In the olden days, we are told, people brewed a pleasant drink from the plant, but no one knows how to make it now. How¬ ever, heather is still useful ; a sleeping couch or cushion is made in the Highlands by weaving together the twigs with the flowering tops upper¬ most, and from these tops a yellow dye is got for the home-spun yarns. The heather furnishes also a capital thatch for houses; it serves as a fence, fill¬ ing up the gaps amongst branches, and from it are made useful brooms. During such a dry summer as that of 1895, it is not uncommon to see accounts in newspapers of heath being burnt on open places by persons dropping matches, and sometimes the fire spreads widely before it can be stopped. But in Scotland it is needful to burn a portion of the heather or moors once a year, because the plant dies off or gets sickly if left untouched for a long time. Every spring, therefore, some heather is set on fire, and there comes up a new growth, which is smooth and vigorous. To prevent the flames from spreading farther than is wished, a number of gillies, or Highland laddies, are employed armed with long brooms, who beat the tire out when needful, and it is a funny sight to see them doing their work. Then there are the wild heaths, or Ericas, as gardeners call them, of which we have many beautiful garden kinds. The two best-known species, akin to the heather, are ;he bell, or bog, or cross¬ leaved heath, and the tine-leaved heath. Perhaps you have read that the Highland clans of the olden time had mostly each of them some flower as a badge or token, and these heaths were the flowers of the Macdonalds and Macallisters. The first gets one of its names from the moist or boggy places where it likes to grow ; the leaves are in fours, and the waxy flowers are pinkish, or nearly white. The other is smaller in its flowers, as well as finer in its leaves, and the purple flowers have often a bluish or grey tint — it is the common kind. Heather, and heaths too, are full of nectar, which attracts crowds of insects, and the heather honey, which is dark in colour, made by bees which visit these plants more than others, is considered to be choice. From old .books we learn that these plants took their name from the Anglo-Saxon hoeth^ a waste or open moor ; and it is curious that ^ heather ’ did not mean at first what it now does, but just the heath-people, those who lived lonely, and different to those who dwelt in the towns. In Aberdeenshire large whinstone rocks on the moors are still called ‘heathens.’ J. R. S. 0. A GOOD MAN’S TENDERNESS. This story is told of him to whom we owe our wonderful railway system : George Stephenson went one day into an upper room of his house and closed the window. It had been left open a long time because of the great heat ; but now the weather was becoming cooler, and so Mr. Stephenson thought that it would be well to shut it. He little knew at the time what he was doing. Two or three days afterwards, however, he chanced to observe a bird flying against that same window, and beating against it with till its might again and again, as if trying to break it. His sympathy and curiosity were aroused. What could the little thing want ?

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Too late ! He at once went to the room and opened the window to see. The window opened, the bird flew straight to one place in the room, where Stephenson saw a nest — that little bird’s nest. The poor bird looked at it, took the sad story in at a glance, and fluttered down to the floor, broken-hearted, almost dead. Stephenson, drawing near to look, was filled with sadness. There sat the mother bird and under it four little young ones, mother and young all seeming to be dead. Stephenson lifted the exhausted bird from the floor, the worm it had so long and bravely struggled to bring to its home and young still in its beak, and carefully tried to revive it, but all his efforts were in vain. It speedily died, and the great man grieved over the mishap.

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CHATTERBOX. 325 1 “ What’s that I see ? A butterfly ? ” THE BUTTERFLY. WHAT’S that I see ? A butterfly ? I wonder will it bite ? Oh, how pretty are its wings ! It would be my great delight To catch that little darling And to keep it in a cage ; jBut then suppose I touch it, f And it goes into a rage. And bites my hand, how I should scream ‘ And cry for nursie dear ! Perhaps I’d better just go home And leave the creature here. To-morrow, I might come again, And nurse, she too might come. And if she says it will not bite. Of course we'll take it home. M. THE CHILD OP THE LIGHTHOUSE. [Continued fromimge 316.) EAT of the British at Toulon 1’ In the first shock of hearing such lamentable news, the lighthouse-keeper had for the moment for¬ gotten everything else. In all his bygone experience of naval warfare he had never known what it was to be on the side of the vanquished, and it was with a feeling of pain and shame that he realised what his fellow- countrymen must have felt when they had to give up the French harbour, and sail away with the terrified inhabitants. With a sad heart he followed his friend through the overhanging gateway, into the big farmyard.

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326 CHATTERBOX. where one of the labourers was waiting to speak to his master. As he stood on one side waiting, he felt thankful indeed even for that short respite, as he sud¬ denly remembered his errand, and knew that he hardly dared to speak the words which would bring ruin and destruction upon that peaceful home, like a thunderstorm from a cloudless sky. He looked up at the great burly figure in front of him, the ruddy sun¬ burnt face, the general air of comfort and prosperity about him ; and felt that it would be impossible to sit down as a welcome guest at such a man’s table, with his tidings of sorrow untold. As he paused, his host led the way through the old- fashioned kitchen garden, and shouted at the open window : ^ Let’s have dinner at once, Jenny. I won’t have you waiting for Master Harry. You wouldn’t believe how lazy that boy is,’ he added, turning to his companion ; ‘ he is hardly ever down to breakfast with me at six o’clock, before 1 go out on the farm.’ J onas looked up at that moment, and caught the eye of the old housekeeper, and her terror-stricken face was a revelation to him. It was plain that she knew or guessed all about the lad’s conduct, his night expeditions with the smugglers, and that she hid the knowledge from her master. Did she suspect what had happened ? ^ Mr. Selwood,’ Jonas exclaimed with a desperate effort, * T must speak to you alone ; it is about Harry that I have come. He was out last night — you must have heard of the wreck at Alum Bay, a merchant¬ man from the West Indies — and your lad was in the fight with the Coastguard - ’ ^ My son mixed up in a fight ! ’ roared the farmer, in rage and dismay. ^ What do you mean ? Call Harry at once, and let him answer for himself ! ’ ‘ I am grieved to tell you that he was with the smugglers and was taken prisoner with some others ; we must go across to Southampton directly and use all our influence to save them.’ It was terrible to see the effect which this news had on the poor father. He staggered as though from some violent blow, and there was a pause before he could recover his breath. Then followed the most painful outburst of passion which Jonas had ever witnessed. The unhappy man stormed and abused his son, and declared that he would disown him, and never speak to him again; while in the same breath he asked how they had dared to arrest him ? Then his mood changed, and he accused himself of folly and blindness ; he should have been more strict, and kept his boy more at home and in his own sight ; everybody in the house must have combined to shield him and hide bis misdeeds. As Jonas remembered the old housekeeper’s troubled face, he thought that this was probably only too true, and he was more than ever full of pity and sorrow for the young fellow, who had so sadly missed any guiding and restraining influence. When at length the poor father had exhausted his first violent outburst of grief, and was calm enough to listen to him, he said : ^ Will you come across to Southampton with me at once. Farmer Selwood, and let us use all our influence to get the men taken straight off into the Hoyal Navy, and so avoid a trial The news in this day’s Gazette ought to make it all the easier for us; every man in authority will be wild to avenge the insult to tlie British flag, and will be glad enough to get sturdy recruits like these, instead of letting them rot in prison — or come to the gallows,’ he added in a lower voice. John Selwood shuddered; he had not fully realised his son’s danger till that moment. ‘Not that — not that !’ he cried imploringly. ‘ I will do all jmu wish ; we will drive in and lose no time.’ ‘ Take courage, my friend,’ said Jonas, earnestly. ‘ Indeed, I trust that Harry will be spared to us. There are always chances of promotion in time of war, and if by the grace of God he turns over a new leaf, you may be proud of him still.’ It would take too long to relate all that happened on that eventful day, and how no stone was left unturned to save the unfortunate prisoners. Pen¬ nell was quite surprised himself at the readiness with which his suggestion was adopted by the naval authorities at Southampton ; but, indeed, so strong was the national feeling at the loss of Toulon, and so eager was the desire to retrieve the disaster, that able-bodied recruits to the army and navy would have been welcomed, even from the prisons. It so happened that the Tigen' frigate, under orders to join Lord Hood’s squadron in the Mediterranean — was at the time in the Solent, and it was known that .she was waiting to make up the full number of her crew. There was a cutter in the harbour engaged in Reve¬ nue service, and it was settled that the four prisoners from Alum Bay, together with several other men and lads who had been pressed for the navy, should be taken off to the Tiger that very night. By the thoughtful care of Jonas, Harry Selwood was driven at once to the nearest surgeon’s house to have his wound dressed, and there he was allowed to take leave of his friends. At the sight of his father, the poor fellow started and hid his face in his hands; he had not dared to hope that he would be so far forgiven. But he felt a touch on his shoulder, and heard a familiar voice say in trembling tones : ‘ Harry, my dear lad ! it was my fault as much as thine ; I should have looked after thee better. Let me have news when there’s a chance to send word how you’re getting on, and give a thought now and again to the old man at home — and now, God bless thee.’ His son knew well what a passionate depth of feeling was hidden under those few commonplace words, which had broken off in a choking sob. But the strongest emotion is ever most chary of words, and in that crisis of his life, all that the poor lad could utter, was the one broken - hearted crv : ‘ Father.’ His silence was more eloquent than words, and no protestations of repentance or vows of improvement in the future could have carried more comfort to the hearts of his sorrowing friends. In truth, the un¬ looked-for kindness which he had met with had broken down the last barriers of wilfulness and pride, and, unheard by man, a vow was registered in Heaven that henceforth his should be a changed life. Jonas was amply repaid for all his trouble by one earnest clasp of the hand, and the whispered words : ‘ It is all thy doing !’ * * * * ^

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CHATTERBOX. B27 Some years had passed away since the opening of our story, yet there it stood unchanged — that lonely lighthouse on the Needles Point-still defying the winds and storms from its lofty height, and sending a guiding light far and near across the waves, to guard the ships from that rocky coast. Even to the dwellers within that solitary home, time had brought but few of the changes and chances of this mortal life. Still, with unceasing vigilance, Jonas Pennell ^lighted his lamps every evening at sun-setting, and kept them constantly burning, bright and clear, till sun-rising.’ To all outward appearance, the years had dealt very kindly with him and his wife, leaving slow and gradual traces ; a little slackening of the footstep, a slightly increasing dimness of the sight; a few more wrinkles, a few more grey hairs ; yet, at the same time, especially in the case of Jonas, there was a deepening, almost transparent expression on the countenance, of that peace which the world cannot give or take away. His was a noble face, and as one sometimes sees in such a case, when refined by age, it seemed almost to beam with inward light, and to reveal in every line the character within. So far with regard to the two older people, but to the child who had brought sunshine and gladness into their lives, there had come a greater change ; she had grown up from a baby into a little maiden, radiant with health and strength. ^ . -l r Strangely enough, since the eventful night of the wreck of the Royal George on that rocky, inhospitable coast, when the child had been the sole survivor, she had never been claimed by friends or kindred. Every inquiry was made on behalf of the poor little waif which seemed possible in those days; but, we must remember that a hundred years ago, when there was no penny post, no multitude of daily newspapers, all eager to report every event with the fullest particulars — and when the means of travelling from one part of the country to another were very slow and expensive — it often happened that impor¬ tant news never reached the persons most concerned in it. PI-,.. Ann Pennell had seen that some of the dainty clothes, which she found in the trunk, were embroidered with the name ^ Puth,’ or a mono¬ gram D.,’ and several handkerchiefs had ‘ Euth Delamere’ on them; so, with this clue, Jonas wrote a letter, telling the whole story to ‘ Mr. or Mistress Pc-lamere, Port Koyal, Jamaica,’ and after he had waited long and anxiously for an answer, and none came, he sent a short notice to the Gazette^ at his own expense, but this too was without result. Not till then did they begin to feel any security that they could keep the little one as their very own. Ann always believed that the child’s father and mother must have been lost on the ill-fated, vessel, and felt that, having saved the darling’s life, they ^ better right to her than any of her relations. But her husband shook his head at this ; he knew that most of the bodies washed ashore after the wreck had been identified, and, indeed, by his care, the poor nurse had been buried in a grave apart from the others, in Freshwater churchyard. • -u • He had grave misgivings as to whether, in tneir homely way of life, they could do justice to this child, whose station was probably so different, and his love for her was so unselfish that he would willingly have parted with her, for her good. yet it was the very joy of his life to watch over the daily^ growth of this little creature, in body and mind and soul, and nothing could equal the reve¬ rence and devotion with which he looked upon her as a sacred gift. As the years passed on and her faculties developed, she became his constant com¬ panion, and it was his earnest study to fill her soul with beautiful thoughts of God, of all His works and ways in Nature, and later on, of His written Word. It was a strange and touching sight, to watch those two constant friends, the old man and the little girl, walking together hand in hand across those wild, open downs, in sunshine and in storm, studying the ever-changing clouds, the sea in all its varied aspects, and the wild birds with their strange cries and circling flight. Little Puth must have had a singularly receptive nature, and that cunous isolated life, so far removed from all disturbing influences, left her free to receive all bright and holy impressions. Jonas Pennell was full of fervour and intensity in his religious feelings, and, in her constant communion with him, the child was unconsciously being moulded to the likeness of her teacher. But, in the midst of all her dreams and aspirations, there was another influence which kept her mind strong and healthy, and in touch with practical life. Mrs. Pennell wp the daughter of a small farmer in Hampshire, and m her early life she had been for a time as nurse in the family of the neighbouring squire.^ There she had seen how the children of the richer classes aie trained, and she was eager to put her knowledge in practice with little Puth. In all personal matters, no princess could have been more delicately cared for: yet, at the same time, she was taught every home art from her earliest years. As Ann used to say, there was no knowing how she might have to earn her living some day, under the altered circum¬ stances; so the little fingers learnt how to sew and to mend, to clean, and to wash, until she became as handy a small maiden as could be found m any cottage home. , 4. Those good people had never heard the precept, hat < by thought is work made happy, and by work s thought made healthy;’ yet they could not have jarried it out more thoroughly than they did in t le jhild’s bringing up. In that breezy outdoor life, the Little girl grew up, strong in body and healthy in -nind ; able to bear fatigue, to be careless of wind »nd weather, and to find in her daily life a constant ioyous round of unselfish usefulness. At that time the end of the eighteenth century— a young h\dy such as she was by birth, would have had a very difterent training. As we learn from old letters and diaries, her ambition would have been to be called an ^ elegant female ; ’ her flimsy dress and thin slippers would have been quite unfit for out-door wear, and in her artificial life she would have thought it lady¬ like to scream at the sight of a mouse or a spider, and to faint on the slightest provocation. But with all the advantages which Puth enjoyed, of simple, natural habits, her life might mother ways

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have been too much narrowed and shut in, had there not been another circumstance which brought her into contact with broader interests — the outside world full of strife and adventure, in those stirring days of the great war. Harry Selwood, who, as we have seen, had joined the navy ten years before, with the help of Jonas, had been so grateful to the man who had saved his life and libeity, tliat he kept up a frequent corre¬ spondence with him, and never came home to his fathers farm at Afton, without paying a visit to the little household at the ^ Needles Point’ Light¬ house. {Continued at page 332.) “Euth and Jonas became constant companions.”

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CHATTERBOX. 329 Ben and Xelly Bates with Joe Wrag.

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3S0 CI-IATTERBOX. YOUISrGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. | BEN AND NELLY BATES.* EN was ten and Nelly nine years old. They stood to¬ gether one bitterly cold evening, eating a ' penn’orth of hottaters’ before the fire of old Joe Wrag, the night- watchman, who had kindly allowed them to enter his little wooden hut before returning to their wretched 'home,’ for Ben and Nelly Bates were the ill-used and neglected children of a drunken father. Their own mother was dead, and the step-mother was even a worse drinker than her husband. On the morning of that very day they had been sent out to earn not less than sixpence, and as much more as they could. They had tramped here, there, and everywhere, and brave Ben had tried hard, rushing forward and offering to carry luggage for everybody who crossed his path and had any to carry ; while Nelly had stretched out her thin little hand, filled with match¬ boxes, hundreds of times during that winter day, imploring passers to buy them for 'only a penny.’ The children had earned scarcely a copper when, for the last time and almost in despair, Ben had darted towards a gentleman who was carrying a portmanteau, and, to his great delight, was allowed to ' shoulder it ’ down to the Liverpool ferry, receiving sixpence in payment. He did not keep the sixpence long. His father took it from him on his return home, and beat him unmercifully because he had hidden away an odd copper or two for the morrow’s needs ! But, what was far worse for Benny, the father beat Nelly — poor, timid, shrinking little Nelly — too. That night, as the two children lay on a heap of shavings, Nell sobbing her heart out, Ben decided to run away. He could put up with hard usage him¬ self, but he was not the boy to see cruel blows rained on his little sister’s head. They had not much luggage to get together, these waif children; indeed, it would seem that twenty potatoes were about all that Ben gathered together in the early hours of the following morning. These he tied up in an old handkerchief, and, penniless and friendless, the poor things crept out into the grey street on that bleak December morning. The thought passed through Nelly’s mind, ' Ought I to run away ? She settled that question, however, by asking herself another, 'How can I leave Ben?’ Nell believed in Ben, believed in his wisdom, his love, and his ability to find a home for her somewhere. When night came they slept in an old boat. Their ' cooking ’ had been done by the kindly fire of 1 I * Her Benny is a tale well worth reading. It is suitable for boys, girls, and ‘grown-ups,’ The name of the writer is Silas K. Hocking. Joe Wrag. When the third day dawned after they had left home, Joe discovered, what he had already suspected, that his visitors were homeless. He listened while Nell told the sad story of their father’s cruel conduct towards herself and her brother, and then he bade them come and see him again at six in the evening. Meanwhile he went to an old woman, whose husband he had known for years before his death, and a^ked her to take in a 'couple of little ’uns.’ So well did Joe tell the tale of Nell and ' her Benny ’ that Betty, a kind-hearted, motherly soul, agreed to make them up a bed in the corner, under the stairs, near the fire. For this they were to pay a penny a night. It was also arranged that she should do what washing and mending the children’s clothes needed, for which they were to pay if they could afford it. ' If not,’ said Joe, ' I will make it square with you, Betty.’ The delight of the children was great when the watchman told them what he had arranged on their behalf, and Nell could scarcely thank the kind old man enough. Two months had passed away, and Nell was unable to go out with her matches, having caught a very severe cold, so that 'granny’ — for so the children called old Betty — insisted upon her re¬ maining indoors, greatly to the child’s grief, who asked, anxiously, ' How will ye manage, Benny ? ’ Her brother assured her that he would ‘’cumulate coppers somehow.’ 'Somehow?’ repeated Nell. ‘ You will only get them the right way, will ye now ? ’ ' Never fear, Nell ! I’s not going to steal them.’ ' But, if you dunua get enough, Benny?’ ' Oh, I’ll go hungry for a day or two ! It won’t be first time I’s done it.’ 'Poor Benny!’ and she placed her wasted hand on his shoulder. ' But I hope it wiU be true what Joe told me the other night.’ ' What did he tell ye ? ’ ' Well, he said the good Lord was sure to provide; that is, you know, Benny, He will not let us starve.’ One afternoon, as Benny was passing along a narrow and not very busy street, he passed before a small hosier’s shop. A great many things had been hung outside the door, to catch the eye of the passer-by ; but one article especially attracted Ben’s attention, «and that was a wooUen 'crossover.’ ' If Nell only had that,’ he said to himself, ' she would be better in no time.’ No cold, he was sure, could come through a thing like that. ‘ They would never miss it,’ he muttered to himself, and Nell needs it so much.’ Now, just at that moment, as Ben turned away and entered a court near by, a lad, by the name of 'Perks,’ called to him. This lad was trying on a pair of shoes, evidently new, though they had been well plastered with mud. He was two or three years older than Benny, with a look of low cunning on his face. Ben knew that Perks was not honest ; he never sold matches, and rarely carried parcels, and yet he had generally plenty of coppers at his disposal, and wore better clothes than any of the street lads. But, to-day, Benny was in a different humour to what he was

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CHATTERBOX. 331 generally. He had let an evil spirit take possession of him, and so he was not so particular about his company. He walked up the entry, close to where Perks sat, and, pointing to the shoes, he said, in a whisper, ^ Where did ye get them ? ’ * Walked them,’ was the response. ‘ That is, stole them, isn’t it ? ’ A long conversation followed, and was only inter¬ rupted by Perks, saying, ‘ Look alive, and I’ll show yer a bit of nice play.’ The ^nice play’ consisted in robbing a gentleman’s pocket. The poisonous seed had taken root in Ben’s mind, and he stole back to the shop where the crossover hung. The shopkeeper was busy inside. ‘ So much the better,’ he thought. ^ Now’s the time.’ And he stretched out his hand to grasp the coveted article, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and, turning, he saw a face which startled him. It was no stalwart policeman, with his stern look, ready to march him off to gaol, but his own little sister, his guardian angel, Nell. For two or three seconds the children looked at each other in silenoe, then Nell took her brother by the hand and led him away. She uttered no word of reproach ; she only said, ^ My poor Benny ! ’ And her great round eyes filled with tears, which rolled silently down her wasted cheeks. ^ It was for you, Nelly. I thought it would warm ye. I would not have done it for myself.’ And again came the words in a choking voice, ‘ My poor Benny ! ’ Great was little Nell’s grief over her brother’s sin. At night he felt her shaking with great sobs. It was more than he could stand, and earnestly he pro¬ mised her that, if God would help him to keep his resolution, he would never steal again. And Ben was helped. Helped by the memory of his dear little sister, long after she had passed away, and her body had been laid in the grave, on that dark afternoon when Joe and Ben stood by it as the only I mourners. The story goes on to tell how Ben found work, in the employment of a gentleman, the very gentleman whose portmanteau he had carried on that night when his father had beaten him so cruelly. The way in which he again met Perks in gaol, where Ben had ! been taken on a false charge of having stolen a five- pound note from his employer, is told in a most interesting manner. Ben, thanks to little Nell’s good infiuence, became a brave and true man, and worked his way to a partner¬ ship in a good business, and a beautiful house of his own. Perks appeared in the police-courts again and again, and was at last sentenced to twenty-one years’ imprisonment, and died in gaol. | James Cassidy. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. 53. — Changed Woeds. 1. Change Gate to Door. 3. Change Eose to Hops. 2. „ Love to Hate. 4. „ Cane to Bush. C. C. Anagrams. 54. — Flowers. 1. Name one. 2. Alas! Vi. 3. All go, Ida. 4. Ah 1 nice arts. 5. U. must train. 6. 0 I I can rant. 7. Boil ale. 8. Choirs. 55. — Trees. 1. What horn. 4. Who was ill ? (2). 2. Mile. 5. A step, Dean (2). 3. Bap me, Poll (2) . 6.0! same cry. 56. — Battles. 1. Bet ran. England. 2. Say, Ben. „ 3. Hot brows. „ 4. Not room, Mars, „ 5. Save me, H. „ 6. This sang. „ 7. Ebony. Ireland. 8. Ugo in cart. Prance. C. C. at page 351.J 1. Nest. 2. Tame. 3. Chest. 51. — Manchester. 4. Heat. 8. Bace. 5. Beam. 9. Master. 6. Scent. 10. Stem. 7. Esther. 62. — 1. Imagination. 2. Stratagem. 3. Monarch. 4. Question. 5. Patriarch. 6. Artist. 7. Sweetheart. 8. Absence. 9. Majority. 10. Moments. 11. Granite. 12. Shutter. PARTRIDGE-SHOOTINa. ^ARTKIDGE- SHOOTING, which begins on September 1st, affords amusement to many men, who find both health and recreation in pur¬ suing these pretty birds over the corn-fields and meadows, where they are usually found. Unlike the grouse, which confines itself to moors and hills, on which the heather grows, the partridge is sel¬ dom found far from cultivated ground. It feeds on grain and other seeds, and on insects. Its nest is on the ground, among brushwood and long grass, or in a field of clover or corn. It generally contains from twelve to twenty eggs. Until the end of autumn, the parent birds and their brood keep together in a covey ; later in the season several coveys often unite into a pack, when it becomes much more difficult for the sportsman to approach them. D.

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332 CHATTERBOX. Partridge THE CHILD OP THE LIGHTHOUSE. [Continued from xmije 328.) ‘ The Epirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave, For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave.’ — Campbell. story of the long struggle with France after the French lie volution, and more especially that which concerns our sea w^arfare, is of such intense interest to Englishmen that we may he excused for dwell¬ ing on those eventful ten years in the career of the young sailor. As Harry Selwood looked hack in after days, it always seemed to him that his true life had only really begun from the time when he set sail from Yar¬ mouth in the Tiger frigate for the seat of war in the INIediterranean. The stern discipline on hoard ship, and the absolute change from his old, loafing, careless habits, soon made a marvellous improvement in his character. Young Selwood was most for¬ tunate, for his first step was to he drafted on to the Shooting. Agamemnon man-of-war (sixty-four guns), under Captain Nelson, and from that time his life was one of constant adventure, and he met with an almost unbroken round of victory, under the com¬ mand of the greatest naval hero our land has ever gloried in. The lad had, in fact, only taken up with evil com¬ panions and fallen into mischief, because, wliile spoilt and unrestrained at home, he had nothing in the world to occupy or interest him, lie had been brought to a sudden check on the night of the wreck by finding out the real character of the men with ■whom he associated. Then came the shame and horror of finding himself a prisoner; but the first thing which roused his dormant desire for better things liad been those words of Jonas, ‘ There’s the making of a hero yet in every one of you.’ Then had come that sight, which he could never forget, of his father’s bitter agony, and last, and most heart-piercing of all, his generous forgiveness. After that the lad felt that he could endure anything and do anything to win the respect of those who treated him with kindness and forbearance. In the days which followed there was no lack of opportunity for courage and self-sacrifice. On board Nelson’s ship, he was always sure to be in the fore¬ front of every battle — in the post of honour as far as danger was concerned. The first expedition in which he took part was the conquest of Corsica, and here indeed he had a taste of the horrors and sufferings of

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Harry Selwood hauls down the Spanish Ensign. war. The Corsicans were a brave race, and they were most ably supported by the French ; but, after desperate fighting, the important town of Bastia capitulated, and, before the end of the summer of 1794, Calvi also was taken. It was at the siege of this town that Nelson lost one eye, and the health of the ship’s company was almost destroyed by the intense heat of the climate, even more than by the hard service. But Harry Selwood w’as amongst the survivors, and was honourably mentioned for gallant conduct. He remained on board the Agamemnon during her various adventures in the war, until the poor old ship was laid aside for repair, and then he followed Nelson when he hoisted his broad pennant on board the Cajjtain. It was in this vessel that he took part in the great

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334 CHATTERBOX. naval victory off Caps St. Vincent, when Commodore Nelson, with twenty-one sail, defeated thirty-two Spanish ships of war. In this action, after many hours of tremendous fighting against fearful odds, the Captain found herself abreast of the great Spanish 8an NicolaSy having lost her foretop mast, with not a sail, shroud, or rope left, and her wheel shot away. But all undaunted, Nelson directed the helm to be put a-starboard, and, calling to his men, ordered them to board. Harrv was one of the first who leaped into the enemy’s mizen chains, took possession of the poop, and began to haul down the Spanish ensign, while Nelson himself had made his way in through the cabin windows. The ship was now in full possession of the English, when they were attacked by the adjoining ship, the Josef] upon which the Commodore gave orders to board that ship from the San Nicolas. It was done at once, himself leading the way with the cry, ^ Westminster Abbny or victory !’ Pie pushed on to the q'uarter-deck, and there re¬ ceived the officers’ swords, giving them to one of his old Agamemnon men, who quietly put them all under his arm like a bundle of sticks. After the great success of that day Nelson was raised to the rank of Bear-Admiral of the Blue, and amongst the honours which were distributed, young Selwood received promotion; but he had been wounded in that desperate hand-to-hand fighting, and was in¬ valided home. His return to his native village was a veritable ovation, and the Freshwater people scarcely knew how to show their pride in the young sailor, who had fought under that famous Nelson with whose fame the whole country was ringing. But dearest of all to Harry was his father’s hearty welcome, and the few quiet words of approval from Jonas Pennell, the man who had saved his life and honour, and made him what he was. All the time that he could spare from home was spent at the lighthouse, and here it was that little Ruth would sit watching him with big, wondering blue eyes, and drinking in, by the hour together, the marvellous story of his adventures. It was a strange contrast to the rest of her teaching ; but from that time Harry became one of her heroes, and was placed in her imagination side by side with dear Mr. Greatheart, of the Pilgrim's Progress, when he drew his sword to defend the pilgrims against the lions. On his side he was much attracted by the romantic tale of this little waif from the sea, and when, shortly afterwards, he was able to return to active duty, he never forgot his child-friend, but always sent a sp3cial message for her in his letters home. Young Selwood was lucky enough to be taken at once on board the Theseus, the man-of-war on which Sir Horatio Nelson had now hoisted his flag. This ship had recently taken part in a serious mutiny, but the men very soon showed their loyal devotion to their commander, and he led them on to victory in the expedition against Teneriffe, where he himself was seriously wounded and lost his right arm. It would take too long to describe all the naval engagements in which Nelson distinguished himself during the next few years, for, indeed, his history is that of our country’s most brilliant period, and may best be studied amongst the torn and shot-pierced ensigns which hang from the chapel roof of Chelsea Hospital. The letters of Harry Selwood told how he had the honour of serving under the great Admiral in the pursuit of the French to Egypt, and of fighting in that famous battle of the Nile, which checked the victorious career of Bonaparte far a time by im¬ prisoning him in Egypt with his army, the whole of his fleet having been destroyed in Aboukir Bay. In this action the young sailor behaved with such gallantry that he received the unusual honour of being made a lieutenant. Later on Harry wrote home from the fleet off Naples, from whence the French were expelled, and then last, and most triumpliaut of all, he sent a short, hurried letter, written in the flush of victory, to tell of the battle of Copenhagen, and adding that he hoped soon to come back, with a fair amount of | prize-money. This was in the spring of the year ! 1801, and all preparation was made at home to re- j ceive the young hero, and day after day old Farmer i Selwood went over the Downs to see Jonas Pennell j at the lighthouse, and ask if he had any further | message. He studied the Gazette with keen interest, and j learned that his son’s ship was one of those engaged \ in the unsuccessful attack on Boulogne in July of the j same year ; but no letter came, and his heart grew 1 sick with anxiety and disappointment. j In the midst of her peaceful life, there was one ! anxious thought which Ruth dwelt upon more and i more as the years passed on. Hedged round as she was by the watchful love and care of her adopted parents, she could not resist a haunting desire to know about her real father and mother. Were they i still alive ? Would they ever come to claim her ? | Who was she? And how came it that she had been | thus suffered to drift away, and be forgotten ? i It was true that with her simple tastes and eager | interest in the world of Nature around her, the child j was quite happy, and looked upon that lonely light- | house as her home, which she had no wish to leave, I and yet — dimly and afar off, somewhere in her j inward consciousness — was a vague memory of a I very different home. She seemed to see a stately | mansion, far grander than the farmhouse at Afton, ! with gardens and terraces, gay with bright flowers, ; and full of moving figures. j Was it indeed memory, or was it not rather a fabric of her vivid imagination, fed upon the quaint i wood-cuts of the ^ House Beautiful,’ in her beloved I Pilgrim's Progress? There was another vision, i hidden deep down in her heart, and of which, with a child’s delicate reticence, she never spoke. It was the image of a sweet, pale-faced woman — her mother, she fancied — propped up in bed with pillows, in a darkened room, who pressed her closely in her arms and kissed her, with a weeping good-bye ; and then it seemed to her that she was carried away. She never felt sure if this were a dream or a reality; who can tell ? And yet strange tales are told of the enduring strength of early impressions. Ill the case, too, of this young girl, there would

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CT-IATTERBOX. 335 have been little to efface those first mental pictures, which, in the constant turmoil and change of the world, as it is familiar to most of us, are so often blotted out and replaced by others. Euth’s position was, in truth, almost unique. She had been suddenly transplanted, probably from some luxurious nursery, into a household of primitive simplicity and unworldliness, where she was welcomed with devotion — I had almost said with reverence — as an unlooked-for and most precious gift from Heaven. Thus she grew up, as we imagine Samuel, in the very courts of the Temple, dedicated to God from her earliest childhood ; while, at the same time, the nun-like seclusion of her bringing up was made healthy by the free, unfettered outdoor life on those wild downs, with sea and sky around her. With help from Jona^, she had taught herself to read; and the few books which composed his library, such as the Bible, the Pilgrims Progress, Pohinson Crusoe, an old copy of the Tempest, and a few others, were studied again and again, with unfailing interest. It must be owned that the art of writing was to her a task of labour and difficulty ; but the letters which arrived from Harry Selwood, with their story of battle and adventure, were so exciting, that she made a great effort to try and answer them. All the details of the war with France were most carefully followed and talked about in those days, when every village tavern had a knot of eager poiiticians, and the prevailing topic of convepation at e^ery tea-table was the probable invasion of England by Bonaparte. As an old man-of-war seaman, who had seen much active service in his time, J onas could tell a great deal about foreign parts, and he was never weary of pointing out all the places on a big map of Europe, which was a treasure of his. It was, of course, very difficult for the child to form any clear idea of distant cities, for the only town she had ever seen was Yarmouth, where Farmer Selwood, with whom she was a great favourite, had sometimes driven her. This was a pleasant change for Euth, and yet she always came back with a tinge of sad¬ ness and disappointment. She never could meet strangers, even the rare visitors who came to look at the lighthouse, without a vague wild hope that some one might recognise and claim her. Haunted as she often was by the thought of her unknown kindred, it was no wonder that she was fond of turning over the contents of the quaint little trunk, studded with brass nails, which had been washed ashore on the night of the wreck. Every little garment, every toy it contained, had been religiously treasured up for her ; ^ and the child would gaze wonderingly at the fine stitching and delicate embroidery, and try to conjure up the picture of the dear mother whose work, she felt sure, it must be. Her worn, battered doll had retired to the box in its old age, after having been her companion and the confidant of all her thoughts for so many years. It happened one stormy afternoon, when the wind and rain were beating with the force of a hurri¬ cane against the lighthouse tower, that Euth, feeling restless at being kept a prisoner indoors so long, resolved to take everything out of the box, and put it all tidy. It was a memorable day, which she never forgot, and she had several reasons for remem¬ bering it. 1 j 11 j In the first place. Farmer Selwood had walked across the downs that morning, regardless of the threatening storm, with a letter which he had just received from the Admiralty, containing new's of Harry, whose long silence had made them all so anxious. It was nothing less than the terrible fact that he was reported missing, after the unsuccessful attack on Boulogne, and was believed to have been taken prisoner by the French. The poor father was, at that moment, shut up downstairs, in anxious consultation with Jonas, while Ann was sitting at her knitting, watching the child turn out her treasures, anrl glad to see her with something to do. Presently Euth, who after nutting all the things on the floor, had turned the trui.k over to shake out the dust, gave a sudd^^n cry ; ' Oh ! look what I have found ! This dear little key fell out of the lining at the bottom. 1 wonder what it belongs to ? ’ The words had a marvellous and unforeseen effect, for the old woman started to her feet in such evident agitation that she dropped her knitting. She took the key from the child’s hand, and held it in hei trembling fingers for a few minutes in silence. A terrible struggle was going on within her, for some instinct told her that her sin had found her out. Should she now confess it, and seek to make a tardy atonement? Or would she refuse to listen to the voice of conscience, and so be condemned for ever after to hold her peace ? (Continued at page 339.) ON THE THAMES, BELOW KEW BRIDGE. l^W, a village in Surrey, six miles west of Hyde Park Corner, stands on the right bank of the river Thames, which is here crossed by a fine stone bridge of seven arches, built A.n. 1789. There are many interest¬ ing sights at Kew. The Botanic Gardens and Ar¬ boretum are well worth a vidt, containing as they do a magnificent collection of plants and ferns, trees and shrubs, while the hot-houses and conservatories are filled with the choicest specimens of plants which require a very high temperature. These Gardens are a favourite resort of Londoners. As many as 100,000 persons have been admitted on a public holiday in summer. To the south-west of the Gardens is an Observatory, chiefly used as a meteoroloGfical station. Close to the northern en- trance is Kew Palace, formerly a favourite residence of George III., and where Queen Charlotte ^ed, A.D. 1818.

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336 CHATTER BOX On the Thames below Kew Bridge.

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CHATTERBOX. 337 An Incident of Waterloo.

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838 CHATTERBOX. A'N INCIDENT OF WATERLOO. Long and desperate had been the conflict upon the memorable battle-field of Waterloo; sometimes the French seemed likely to be victors, then again the British and their allies proved for a time suc¬ cessful. Great was the slaughter at the well- defended farmhouse of Hougoumont, where the French were worsted; but, towards the afternoon, around La Haye Sainte, the British suffered severely, and the fierce charges of the French cavalry were felt all through the lines. Napoleon had been here and there during the day, watching and directing the operations ; so too had the great Wellington ; and once the two generals were near each other, though they did not know it. It was usually Napoleon’s plan to keep back part of his army in a battle, and at Waterloo he held back about 15,000 men, one division of which was the young Imperial Guard, formed of young fellows between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, sons of good families, and anxious to distinguish themselves. The hours went on, and these guardsmen grumbled, AVhy did not the Emperor send them forward ? ’ but he would not, for he was unwilling to march up the reserve force till it was really needed. .lust then he was under a tree on the Brussels road, and the cannon-balls were flying over the heads of liis staff. Hearing of the advance of the Prussians, he decided to strike a desperate blow at the British before they came up, and Ney, at his orders, led on all the reserve troops. Amongst these, the Imperial Guard rushed for¬ ward very eagerly, and were immediately engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with a Highland regiment. One of these soldiers saw a gap round a French standard-bearer, several of his comrades having fallen, so he flung down his musket, and rushed to seize the colours. But the young guardsman was not willing to loose his hold, and the two struggled ; in consequence, both sides ceased firing, lest they should kill or wound their champions. At last, impatient and angry, the sturdy Highlander took hold of the little Frenchman, flung him, with the standard in his gi-asp, over his own broad shoulders, and set him down amongst the British troops, amidst the cheers and laughter of Frenchmen as well as Highlanders. But the charge of the Imperial Guard proved to be in vain ; the British rallied, and drove them dovm the hill, while the Prussians attacked their rear. There was a general retreat, Napoleon himself fled, and most of these young men were either killed or taken prisoners. J. li. S. THE BISHOP AND THE SWEEP. There is a street in Peterborough so narrow that two vehicles cannot pass one another in it. It is said that a former Bishop of Peterborough happened one day to meet a sweep, with his barrow, in this narrow way, and contrary to the usual rule of the road obtaining in Peterborough, the latter refused to back. On putting his head out of the carriage window, to see what was the matter, the Bishop was surprised to find his course blocked by a sweep. above all people in the world. The sweep, when re¬ quested, refused to budge an inch, remarking, ‘If you don’t move, I’ll serve you the same as I served the other party yesterday.’ The only alternative was for the Bishop to back, which he told his coachman to do. The sweep went on in triumph, much to the amuse¬ ment of the passers-by. ‘Now,’ said the Bishop, ‘how did you serve the party that refused to let you pass yesterday ? ’ ‘ Oh,’ replied the sweep, laughing, ‘ they wouldn’t make way, and so I had to.’ CURIOUS PLACES FOR BIRDS’ NESTS. ^ANY of our wild birds have a fancy for putting their nests in very odd, or even dangerous, places, and it is not only the impudent ones, such as the tomtit and the sparrow, which do this, but some we should think un¬ likely. Thus, we are told of a lark that chose about the strangest place any bird could have for its nest — namely, a railway line, over which trains were often passing. In a little hollow under one of the metals on the line between Newmarket and Dulling- ham this nest was put. Thirty or more trains went by daily, yet neither parents nor children seemed to mind. The bull-finch is rather a shy bird in a wild state, but a lady fed a pair that used to come near her house till they became tame. Over her door was a hollow stag’s head and horns. In this head the birds put moss and feathers, and laid eggs. The hen-bird sat upon them, though the door below was opened and shut many times every day. Thrushes generally hide their nests, but in the town of Wrotham a pair made one just under a sign¬ board over the front door of an inn. This nest was not more than three feet from the heads of people who went in and out, yet the thrushes attended to their brood. Braver still were the sparrows that at Coventry built a nest inside the signal bell at the st ^tion. To this bell, besides the hammer, there were two levers and a counterweight, so that every time the bell sounded there was not only the ringing noise, but the creak of the levers and the thump of the counter¬ weight close by. It was used many times both day and night, but all the noise of it did not trouble the sparrows. One day the south dial of the church clock at Heaton Mersey stopped, and people wondered why, for the other dials had the hands moving as usual. When folk got up to see, they found that a sparrow had squeezed through the middle of the dial and made a nest in the wheel which moved the hands. More than once a sparrow’s nest has been discovered in a letter-box at the gate of a country house, and the hen- bird will not move from her eggs if she ia

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chItterbox. 389 sitting, though the box may be opened now and then to take out letters. A nest of the hedge-sparrow was built by a pair in the flowering top of a tall cabbage of the curled sort. The gardener left it alone, but, unfortunately, a heavy shower of rain one afternoon drowned the little ones while they were half fledged. The dipper is a bird fond of the water, still no one would have expected to find a nest of this bird where one was discovered. It was on the side of a stone wall, over which the waste water ran from a mill. Every time these birds went to the nest they had to pass sideways behind and under a torrent of water. Few birds are so fond of odd places as is the tom¬ tit with its long tail. It will put a nest in the hat of a scarecrow, or in the top of an old pump, or in a wide-mouthed bottle lying by the wayside. A tom¬ tit has been known to choose an old straw bee-hive which was deserted by bees. Another tomtit hopping about a garden saw a pile of four empty flower-pots placed above each other, and managed to put his nest in the lowest one, so that he had stairs down to his nest and up again. Very often the tomtit seeks out a hole in a tree, and he does not mind if it is a deep one. He has been known to make a nest in an empty wasp’s nest on some dry bank. One day a gentleman who was seeking for nests came upon one which had been a chaffinch’s, and, to his surprise, he found that a party of humble bees had taken it for their home. J. R. S. 0. A CARELESS GIRL. «\H me ! I’ve smashed a china dish ; )J What will the mistress say ? She’ll be in such a rage, I fear She’ll send me right away. And if she did, where could I go When not a home have I ? ’Tis sad to be an orphan girl — And such a girl am I ! Oh dear — oh dear ! I think I’ll say It was her favourite cat That knocked the dish out of my hand, (I’d have the tale quite pat). And yet ’twould be a fib, if I Such words as these should speak. And mother often used to say Her very heart would break If I, her girl, should tell a lie To shield myself from blame ; No, no ! I cannot bring disgrace On her beloved name. I’ll rather tell the truth at once — The mistress may forgive : Then never more Ill break a dish So long as I may live ! D. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE, {Continued from 'page 335.) some great crisis of our life, it often happens that a trivial incident will decide what we are powerless to do for our¬ selves. So it was with poor Ann Pennell, and her first impulse was to save herself at any cost from the fatal exposure which would lower her in the eyes of her husband, and, still more terrible, that would shake little Ruth’s perfect trust in her. Some instinct told her that this must be the key of a certain small ebony box, found in the child’s trunk, and which she had never dared to open, lest by so doing she might find a clue to her darling’s identity and so, perhaps, lose her. At the first moment, with a natural reluctance to break the lock, she had put the box aside on the shelf unopened ; then as time passed on, and Ruth was not claimed, and became dearer each day, she was haunted by a strong conviction that the clue was hidden there, and the thing remained a constant reproach to her every time she looked at it. Now the years had brought their revenge ; the child herself had found the key, and she it was who now settled for ever the poor woman’s trembling doubts. ‘Mummy, dear, what is it that troubles you? You look so white and strange ; are you ill ? ’ she asked, with a tender, loving caress. Then, as a fresh idea struck her, she added : ‘ Do you think the key would open that funay little black box on the shelf there? You told me once that it was locked and had lost its key. That was a long time ago, when I was little, and I wanted to see the inside of it.’ ‘ Yes, Ruth, I think it will,’ was the calm reply. ‘ We will try it.’ It was a moment of keen anxiety to them both which followed. The key was slightly rusty, and stuck in the lock at first ; but after it had been care¬ fully oiled, and tried again and again, there was a little click, and the ebony box was opened. The child gave a cry of eager delight, and came forward to look inside the mysterious casket, which had so long excited her curiosity. But with a sudden move¬ ment of her hand, Ann abruptly checked her. ‘Stay, Ruth. We must not open it by ourselves; it is too important. Will you ever forgive me, dear, when I tell you that this is yours, and that I found it in the trunk with your clothes, after the wreck ? I will go and fetch Jonas.’ He was always spoken of between them as ‘Jonas;’ for with the stern honesty of his cha¬ racter, he had refused to let the child call him by the endearing name of ‘father,’ and so give him a privilege to which he was not entitled. When Ann Pennell had left the room with hurried, faltering steps, the young girl stood still for a minute, in utter bewilderment. What could be the rea'son of that strange exciteme'nt? What had she

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340 CHATTERBOX. A Careless Girl. to pardon ? Surely if the key was lost, the box could not have been opened before ! So she quietl}' set to work to collect all the things which were on the floor, and to arrange them neatly, and put them back in their place. So strong was her instinct of obedience and patience, that it never even occurred to her to touch the forbidden thing. Meantime Ann had startled the two friends below by suddenly opening the door, and standing there with a look of anguish on her white face and her trembling hands tightly clasped. ^Why, what has happened, wife?’ cried Pennell, rising in alarm. Her agitation was so great that she could not speak at first, till, with an effort of self-control, she managed to utter the words : ^ Jonas, I have some¬ thing to tell you.’ Upon this,* Mr. Selwood, feeling that he was in the way, got up from his chair, and would have left the room. But Ann Pennell stopped him. ‘ No, no ; you must stay too ; we may want another witness.’ The two men looked at each other in dismay. What had come to this calm, placid woman, whose whole life was spent in the quiet fulfilment of her duty? Could this be some terrible, sudden mad¬ ness ? There was a moment’s fearful silence, while tears slowly^ trickled down her wrinkled face, before Ann

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“ There was a little click, and the ebony box was opened.' summoned up courage to speak. Then she came forward, and stood erect as though before her judges, while she told the whole story. It seemed that when she unpacked the trunk, which had been washed up on the shore from the wreck, on that memorable night, so many years ago, she had found amongst the child’s clothes, a small black workbox. It was locked, and she had searched everywhere in vain for the key ; but at the time it did not occur to her, strangely enough, that it might contain means of identifying the little girl. She had already found out the name, Kuth Delamere, and in those early days, when her husband was making every inquiry, she felt sure that kindred or friends would turn up. It was only after some time, Avhen no claim had been made to the little darling whom

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342 CHATTERBOX. she had grown to love more than anything else on earth, that she began to think of what that box might contain, and to look upon it as a secret enemy. “^Eut I never hid it from you, Jonas,' she added, piteously, ‘ and if you had so much as asked one word about it, I would have told you everything. And there it has stood on the shelf all these years, and I tried to forget all about it, for it would be worse than death now to lose the child ; till this day it has never been opened, and now she has just found the key herself in the lining of the trunk.' ^Do you mean to say, Mrs. Pennell,' exclaimed Farmer Selwood, indignantly, ‘that all this time — why, it must be nine years now — you have never opened a case which might have contained the means of identifying our dear little Ruth, and restoring her to her friends ? ' It was too true — that was exactly what she had done; and as the poor creature stood there self-con¬ victed, she felt that she deserved this anger and con¬ tempt. She scarcely dared to raise her eyes and look at her husband, for more terrible by far than py punishment, was the feeling that she was guilty in his sight. There was a brief pause in which her heart seemed almost to stand still ; then she felt the kindly grasp of his strong hand, as he answered her unspoken appeal; and it seemed to her, in her extremity, that never had words more power to help and comfort. ‘ It is not for us to judge you, dear, for yours is a more true and wise and loving soul than ours. God only can read the secrets of the heart, and weigh the temptation which lays us low. He alone knows how you may have gone astray, in deed rather than in 'loill. And hath He not said, “ Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much ? ” ' ‘ Ruth, dear, will you let us see what there is in this box of yours, now that, after all these years, you have found the key of it ? ' It was Jonas who spoke in his usual quiet tone, as though it were quite a simple, every-day matter to solve, perchance, the mystery of the past. But in truth, it needed all his self-control to speak calmly at such a rnoment, and hide his own anxiety for the sake of his wife, whom he had carefully placed in an easy chair, near the table ; for she was still so agitated and distressed that her trembling limbs would scarcely support her. Meantime, he and his friend Selwood drew near in silent expectation, as the child joyfully obeyed the summons, full of excitement and pride in the feeling of ownership. ^ The precious box was of polished ebony with a simple border of inlaid brass, and it stood on four curious little claws of brass. As Ruth opened it, there w’^as a faint odour of some delicate scent, which seemed almost to pervade the room, like the breath of a long-past life. The inside of the lid was daintily quilted with crimson silk, and lying uppermost, in a Innd of tray, the first thing that met the eye was a thin packet of old letters, tied together with a white satin ribbon. There were several other small parcels ^ the same shape, wrapped up in silver paper, but Ruth w^as too impatient to open them in her curiosity to know what was beiQw. So she lifted up the tray and revealed the lower-p^prtion of the box, which was full of cases of various sizes, some covered with morocco and others of cardboard, all neatly arranged to talie up as little space as possible. Almost holding her breath wdth excitement, she gently took out one and opened it, and there before her were two long pendants of shining gold, set with bright, transparent, red stones. ‘ Oh, look!’ she cried; ‘ did you ever see anything so beautiful.?' Ann opened her eyes wide in amazement ; in by¬ gone days she had seen the Squire's lady with whom she lived wearing earrings, but never anything so lovely as these. Yet greater surprises were in store for her, as the child took out from their cases, one by one, all the glittering jewels and laid them on the table, with ever-increasing admiration and delight. There were necklaces and bracelets and brooches, and especially rings of great beauty; one with a large oval of diamonds, and another with a circle of opals, and others of various stones. ‘ Why, there is quite a fortune here for the child,' said Farmer Selwood to his friend. ‘ That oriental pearl necklace alone is worth a lot of money, and surely this is set with diamonds!' be exclaimed, taking up a large gold locket in his hand. As he turned it about, he accidentally touched the spring, and it flew open, disclosing two miniatures, face to face, inside. One was a painting of a very beautiful young girl, with large deep-blue eyes, and curls of golden-brown hair ; while on the other side was the portrait of a young otficer. ‘ What have we here ?’ he cried, full of interest in his discovery. ‘ Come and look, Ruth ; this lady is the very image of you.' She was by his side in an instant, and as she took the locket in her hand, her eyes filled with tears. The poor child had suddenly realised, what she had for a moment forgotten, in the sight of such won¬ derful treasures, that these relics from the past might reveal to her the mystery of her birth. If this was indeed like her, could it be the picture of that unknown mother, on whom her thoughts so constantly dwelt.? And the other portrait, she scarcely dared to think that it might be her father ! Outside the locket were engraved the initials F and R, in a kind of true lovers’ knot, and below was the single letter D. There still remained the contents of the tray to examine, and as she took up the little parcel wrapped in soft paper, and eagerly opened it, a plain gold wedding ring fell out. Besides, there was only a long tress of golden-brown hair and a tiny, soft, fair curl, folded inside an unfinished letter. Ruth tried to speak, but her voice was choked with sobs, as she gave the crumpled sheet of thin paper into the hand of Jonas, with a sign that he should read it. It was a moment of been suspense, for they all felt that here was the very heart of the secret. There was no date or address, and the faded ink and delicate pointed handwriting made it difficult to read, and moreover, in many places, it was blotted and obliterated ; but this is what he made out. ‘ I must try and write to you, dear husband— but I am very weak — how can I tell you the terrible

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CHATTERBOX. 343 news? We were so happy and full of hope . and to be with you again, dear — only the other day, and now all this sorrow has come . By this time you will know the Maroons have revolted and some of our people joined them . They set fire to our house one night, it w’as Sunday and mo help at hand — and oh, Fred, my poor dear mother, the shock killed her, and she had been such a good, kind mistress to them all . ’ There was a long break here, and the paper was all blistered with tears. The rest of the letter was apparently written at a different time, in most indis¬ tinct, uncertain characters. ^ I don’t know how I lived thro’ that awful night ; they took me to Port Eoyal to a safe place. It was that dear, good, faithful Nan who saved me and our little Ruth from the flames, at the risk of her life, but all our things were burnt or plundered, only Nan managed to carry off my jewel-box with your precious letters, and a few clothes for the dear child . I was very ill and knew nothing for many days — they tell me my baby boy is dead . ’ Here the handwriting was quite illegible, but lower down, Jonas managed to make out the words : ‘ to see you again, dear husband . places taken in Royal George^ bound for Portsmouth. You will meet . Nan such a treasure. So tired to¬ night ..... will write more to-morrow . Here the letter broke off abruptly. Did that mor¬ row ever dawn, on earth, for the weary hand and heart, or was this the last chapter of the young wife’s pathetic story ? The silence that followed was more eloquent than any words; it told of unutterable pity and sympathy. Kuth had turned very pale as she stood there drink¬ ing in every word, like one spellbound. Ann, who had been watching her anxiously, saw that she was overwrought and had reached the last limit of endur¬ ance ; so she silently led her out of the room, to pour upon her in secret all the treasures of affection in her motherly heart. She felt that any outburst of passionate grief would be better than this unnatural calm. {Continued at page 346.) OLD CUSTOMS. A NIGHT’S WALK BY LINK-LIGHT. the time when even the im¬ portant and larger streets of London were very badly lighted, and when the bye- streets, as well as the roads out of London to the country were not lighted in any way, people were obliged to ob¬ tain lights for themselves, if business or pleasure took them out after dark. Plence, one of the common sights in the evening during the reign of George III. — and, indeed, long before that — was to see one or more persons going along with a Gink’ to show the path. Some have wondered why folk in former times did not use lanterns more than they seem to have done, as there was a law that the inhabitants should hang lanterns up above their doors at night; also, it was usual for the watchmen to carry them. But really the old lanterns gave a dim and imperfect light to wayfarers, for the old-style lantern had no reflectors, and the sides were filled in with sheets of thin horn. From the link, which we might call a sort of torch, a better street light was obtained. It was made of iron, hollow at the top. The inside was filled with pitch, and a wick of tow at the top was set on fire. Of course, these links often smoked rather un¬ pleasantly, and they could not be blown out. Before this had been contrived, some persons carried a cresset to guide them along at night : this was a metal box, having the sides partly open, in which they burnt wood or coal, and it was fixed upon the top of a pole. ^ Goodly and great he sails behind his link,’ said Dryden of the poet Shadwell, describing him on his journey home from a party at Temple Bar to his house at Chelsea — rather a long journey to take after dark in the seventeenth century. One part of it was over the Five Fields, where now are several of the West-end squares, then a noted resort of highwaymen. Few persons cared to risk crossing this part alone in the evening, and at certain hours parties were formed for the perilous journej^, escorted by link- bearers and some of the foot-guards. About the chief streets of London, when the sun had set, there were to be found both linkmen and linkboys, who offered their services to people who were passing along, and had not lights with them. The employ¬ ment was one that many idlers and bad characters took up. The linkmen were often thieves, or the friends of thieves ; hence the caution given by the poet Gay : — ‘ Though thou art tempted by the linkman’s call, Yet trust him not along the lonely wall ; In the midway he’ll quench the flaming brand, And share the booty with the pilfering band.’ Those who could possibly avoid doing so did not employ the linkmen, but took their own lights, or had them carried by their servants. Several of the London squares, such as St. James’s and Grosvenor Square, have still attached to the iron railings fronting the houses the link-extinguishers which were used by the footmen in the reign of George III., when they had attended their masters and mistresses to an evening party. We read that these portable lights are connected with some of the memorable events that have hap¬ pened in the history of London, such as the Gordon Riots of A.D. 1780. Under the illumination of hun¬ dreds of blazing links, the disorderly mob broke open prisons, burnt down houses, and committed fearful acts of violence, which could not be stopped till the soldiers had orders to fire upon the rioters. Some¬ times, in those fierce street fights which occurred formerly about London streets, but which our police now would speedily stop, links were used as weapons — rather dangerous ones, too.

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CHATTERBOX. 34 G THE CHILD OF THE LIGHT¬ HOUSE. {Continued from page [HEN Jonas and Fanner Selwood were left alone there was a long pause, for both men were most deepl}^ affected by this strange and unlooked-for reve¬ lation of the past. The light¬ house-keeper still held in his hand the touching letter which had brought home so vividly to little Iluth her mother’s tragic story. He who loved her as his own child could do nothing to help her to bear the burden of her sorrow ; alone with her God she must suffer and endure, and find strength to meet the future, whatever it might bring forth. Within that inner sanctuary of the heart not even the dearest friend can enter to share our highest joy, our deepest grief. Mr. Selwood was the first to recover himself. ^Well, bless my heart!’ he e.x claimed, Hhis is the saddest tale I ever heard, and it is the most wonder¬ ful thing as it should all come out in this way, too. Why, just think of it : that poor black woman who did as you told her, and threw the child into your arms, must have been the Nan spoken of in the letter. And when the poor mother died, that good, faithful creature must have been with her at the last, and have cut off a lock of her hair, and put it with her wedding-ring, and the baby’s curl together, to bring to the husband in England.’ He paused to brush away a tear with the back of his hand, and then he went on somewhat hoarsely, 'And now comes the question. Where is he ? How can we find Kutli’s father ? Why did he never answer your advertisement in the papers ? ’ ' If we are to judge from that picture, he must have been an officer,’ said Jonas, thoughtfully. ' And in this tei’rible war-time, who can tell what has become of him P But we are forgetting that packet of letters. Look here, Mr. Selwood: you can’t go home while this storm lasts, so what do you say to sitting down, and reading all those letters through, and so we will find out all we can? It is the best thing we can do for our child now,’ he added, with a sigh. His friend readily agreed, and so they opened the package, and unfolded, one after the other, the large, thin sheets of x^aper, written over with faded ink, and which had been sealed with red wax. They were all addressed on the outer side to ‘ Mrs. F. Delamere, care of Mrs. Colville, Colville Place, Port Koyal, Jamaica,’ and the story they told was briefly this : The writer was evidently an officer in the Royal Artillery, and his regiment had been stationed for some time in Jamaica, probably at Port Royal. There Major Delamere must have married this young lady. Miss Ruth Colville, whose widowed mother had large estates in the island. So much could be gathered from various remarks in the letters, which seemed to have been written during the first sepa¬ ration of husband and wife, for, in the spring of the year 1793, soon after the war with France broke out, on the execution of King Louis XVI., Major Dela- mere’s regiment had been recalled to England, but at first without any prospect of active service. His wife being in delicate health at the time, he seems to have left her and his little girl with her mother in her old home, hoping that slie would be able to join him in the autumn in his own country. It was very touching to read all the playful allusions and tender messages of love in those old letters from husband to wife, which, under happier circum¬ stances, it would have seemed almost profane for other eyes to look upon. When he had finished his sad task, Jonas reverently folded up the thin sheets, which were almost worn out with much handling, and then he began to put away all those glittering trinkets which seemed to speak of youth and beauty and gay doings, in tragic contrast with the sorrowful reality. He was carefully replacing all the treasures in the ebony box when he noticed another letter, which had been overlooked, under some soft paper in the tray. It was unlike the others, being quite fresh and untouched, and to his surprise he saw that the seal had not been broken. He showed it to Mr. Selwood, who at once remarked that it had a foreign X>ostmark and a later date than the others. ' Why, Jonas,’ he exclaimed, 'it must have arrived after the poor lady’s death, and, no doubt, the faith¬ ful negress could not read, and possibly, in the hurry of leaving Port Royal, she put it away in safety with the other things.’ ‘ I suppose we must read it,’ said Pennell, reluc¬ tantly breaking the seal. ' This may give us the latest news of Ruth’s father, which is really what concerns us most.’ It tui-ned out to be a brief, hurried note from Major Delamere, to say that he was writing on board the Greyhound frigate, bound for Toulon, where he was to serve under General O’Hara. His order to embark had been so sudden and so immediate that he had only time to beg his wife to delay her journey to England till she heard from him again. And so he ends with many tender messages, and will be ' mon¬ strous glad’ to have news of her and his darling Ruth. As they finished reading this letter, the same idea struck both men at once. Surely here was the solu¬ tion of the mystery — the reason of that long silence, which hung like a pall over the years that were pa^t. That fatal name of Toulon ! What painful memories it recalled of that memorable day when, in bitterness of spirit, they had driven together into Yarmouth and crossed to Southampton to crave for Harry’s pardon. For it was just then that the news had arrived of the English defeat at Toulon, and this had no doubt contributed to the readiness with which Harry and his companions were received into the navy. ' That name of " O’Hara,” it seems familiar to me,’ said Farmer Selwood. ' Wasn’t it the General who was taken prisoner at the siege of Toulon ? ’

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CHATTERBOX. 347 ‘If SO, then perhaps Major Delamere was taken Erisoner too,’ exclaimed Jonas. ‘ Just think, he may ave been eight years in a French prison 1 ’ ‘ Or he may have been killed in battle — surely a more merciful fate/ was the reply. ‘ Oh, my poor boy ! What has become of Harry.?’ added the poor father, piteous!}^, as his thoughts went back to his own anxiety with a pang of remorse to think that he should have for one moment put it aside. ‘It is, indeed, an anxious time for you, my friend,’ said Jonas, with deep sympathy ; ‘ but God has been so good to him hitherto that I do earnestly believe that he will be restored to you. Even if that report of him as “ missing ” should mean that he is a prisoner, we may have peace any day. They say that Bonaparte is tired of our victories at sea.’ ‘ I should like to know something about those French prisons and what chance there is of getting out of them,’ said Selwood, as a new idea struck him. ‘I can’t fancy any walls which would keep Harry in if he made up his mind to escape.’ The next morning dawned bright and clear, leaving no trace of the storm on the stedfast, un¬ changing downs, or the broad expanse of ocean glimmering in the sunshine. With a heavy heart. Farmer Selwood was pre¬ paring to go back to his lonely home, when Jonas suggested : ‘ \\’hy not take the little maid with you, I for a change ? It will be company for you both, and i cheer you up. She looks very sadly, and, indeed, it is I a heavy burden of trouble for one so young.’ i It was a kind, unseltish thought on his part, to sug- j gest parting with the child, even for a few days, for i she was the very light of his eyes. 1 ‘ Eight glad shall I be to have her,’ replied John I Selwood, warmly, ‘ and my old housekeeper will cluck i . over her like a hen with one chick ; and to-morrow is ^ market-day, and we will drive into Yarmouth together — what do you say, liuth ?’ The child willingly accepted; it was always a treat to pay a visit to the farm, and be in the midst of all the animals and the varied interests there. So the matter was soon settled, and the few simple prepara¬ tions made, and as they set off for their walk across the Down to Freshwater, the unspoken feeling of mutual sympathy lightened the burden of sorrow which each one had to bear. On the morrow, directly after the usual early breakfast, the chaise came round to the door, and Euth proudly took her place in it beside her old friend. With the blessed faculty of healthy child¬ hood for living in the present, she was keenly awake to any novel sight and sound, and welcomed each R simple joy which met her in her daily path. She felt so useful and ‘ grown up’ when she was allowed to hold the reins, and to drive into the courtyard of the ‘ George Inn,’ at Yarmouth ; and then take old Jenny’s basket of eggs and butter to the usual stall in the market-place, and do some small shopping on her own account. But the greatest delight of all was to sit up to dinner in the place of honour by Farmer Selwood’s side at the ‘ Ordinary,’ for all this and much more was included in going to market. It was rather late in the afternoon when they started to drive back, and the dusk of an October evening was closing round them, when they came in sight of the familiar white road up to Afton Farm. ^ Who is that ?’ cried the child ; ‘ it looks just like Harry.’ ‘ Nonsense, little woman ; my poor boy is far enough away,’ replied the farmer, hastily, with a feeling of resentment at this sudden reopening of his wound. ‘ That ragged fellow 1 why, he is some vaga¬ bond after no good, I’ll warrant ! ’ Euth was silenC'M, but not convinced. Her quick eye* liad noticed the general look of the man in front of them — tbe straight, upright figure, the quick, swinging walk ; and as they drew nearer, she even fancied that she could hear him humming a familiar tune. More excited than he would have cared to own, John Selwood gave his tired horse a sharp touch of the whip, and in a few minutes they had overtaken the stranger. ‘It is Harry!’ cried the child, as, scarcely waiting for the chaise to be pulled up, she sprang to the ground, and ran towards the young man, who lifted her up in his arms and kissed her. Yes, it was true, Harry Selwood had come back. By one of those extraordinary coincidences which sometimes happen in real life, at the moment of the father’s deepest despair, his son had been restored to him. No words can describe the heartfelt joy of that meeting — a joy in which all the household shared. As for the old housekeeper, she could not feast her eyes enough on the sight of the young master — her own lad. Like the returning Prodigal in this : he was to be clothed afresh, for he had come home in rags, and almost barefoot ; he was to be feasted and rejoiced over, for, in another sense than that of the old story, the happy father could say, ‘ This my son was dead, and is ahve again ; he was lost, and is found.’ Not till the poor fellow was thoroughly rested and refreshed was he asked a single question about the past ; but as he sat that evening by the wood fire on the hearth, in perfect ease and content, he told the story of his adventures. {Continued at page 354.) A MAN OVERBOARD I MAN overboard 1 Oh, terrible cry 1 And must he' be left there to struggle and die ? Oh, no I ‘ Man the boats ! ’ — the command is obeyed By brave steady seamen, who are not afraid To risk their own lives, a poor comrade to save From a vain, useless struggle — a watery grave. See, see, they come I how they bend to the oar, They shout words of hope ; but, alas 1 the wild roar, The hissing and rushing, the din in bis ear Of bewildering waves but increases his fear. He looks up to Heaven with despair in his eye : ‘ Oh, Jesus, have mercy, and save, or I die I ’

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348 CHATTERBOX. A Man Overboard ! And now dull oblivion falls over his soul; No longer he sees the wild waters that roll O’er his head ; but in place a sweet vision he sees, His dearly loved wife, with her babe on her knees. ' Sleep, little one, sleep ! ’ thus she croons her low song, ^ Dear daddy is coming ; it cannot be long Till we see him come in at the little green gate ; Ah, me, how I’ve watched for him, early and late ! Oh, Jesus, protect him, and bring him safe home. No more o’er the wildering waters to roam ! My dearly loved husband, oh, soon may I see. No more to be parted from baby and me.’ ^See, see, we have got him ! lads, pull with a will, Back, back to our good ship, the life’s in him still. Poor chap, he is senseless, but God’s gracious hand Is over the wild waves as well as the land. Here, comrades, we’ve got him ; now heave us a line. And haul him on board — ay, in double quick time ! ’ They soon gather round him ; hot coffee they give, The icy-cold body begins now to live. He speaks in a faint voice, and holds out his hand : ‘ Good comrades, you’ve saved me, and, when we reach land. You’ll come and see Jeanie, my own dearest wife; She’ll heartily bless you all the days of her life.’ YOHN'GSTEIIS INT POPIJIiAR TALES. ALADDIN.* Mustafa, the tailor, lived in one of the richest and most extensive kingdoms of China. He himself was not rich. Indeed, he was so poor that at times he found it very difficult to find food for his wife and one son, Aladdin. * ‘ Aladdin; or, The Wonderful Lamp,’ is one of the best- told stories in that charming book, Tlie Arabian J^ights.

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Aladdin was not, by any means, a comfort to his parents. He was idle, obstinate, disobedient, and mischievous, and regarded nothing his father or mother said to him. He wasted his time in the streets with other boys, as idle as himself. When he had reached an age at which he should have been learning a trade, his father took him into his shop and began to show him how to use a needle. But neither praise nor punishment were able to keep him at work. Directly his father^s back was turned he ran off, and returned no more during the whole day. Aladdin’s bad conduct deeply pained his father, and the worry and vexation brought upon the poor tailor an illness so severe that he died. Aladdin’s mother, who saw that her son would

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350 CHATTERBOX. never follow his father’s trade, shut up the little shop and sold the stock and tools, and upon the money which she thus obtained, added to what she earned by cotton-spinning, she and her son lived. The boy became worse than ever when the fear of his father was removed. He even went so far as to threaten his mother whenever she reproved him. When Aladdin was about fifteen years of age, he was playing with his companions in one of the public places, when a stranger, who was passing, stopped and looked at him. This stranger was called the African Magician. He was a native of Africa, and had arrived from that country two days before. ^ Was not your father called Mustafa, and a tailor by trade ? ’ he said. ^ Yes, sir, but he has been dead a long time now,’ replied Aladdin. Embracing the boy and weeping as he did so, the African told him that he was his dead father’s brother, and that he had been journeying for years. He put a purse into the boy’s hands and bade him tell his mother that her late husband’s brother would visit her. The following evening the stranger did so, taking with him several bottles of wine and different sorts of fruits. The widow was surprised to see him, as she had not known that her husband had a brother, but she made him welcome. ‘ What do you employ yourself about ? ’ asked the magician of Aladdin. ^ Are you acquainted with any trade ? ’ At this speech our hero hung down his head and his mother answered for him, ‘ Aladdin is a very idle boy.’ His ^ Uncle ’ told him that this was not right and made him an offer which flattered his boyish vanity. It was nothing less than to procure him a shop and furnish it with rich stuffs and fine sorts of linens. Both the widow and her son were delighted, and all doubt that he was her husband’s brother vanished from the mind of the widow Mustafa. Two days later we see Aladdin, dressed in brand- new clothes and with money in his pockets, accom¬ panying the African magician on a walk through the most beautiful gardens. It was a very long walk, but it ended at last in the neighbourhood of some mountains. They stopped in a narrow valley, and the uncle told his nephew to collect some of the pieces of dry stick which were scattered about in order to make a fire. Lighting them and scattering a certain perfume which he had ready in his hand upon them, the African magician warned Aladdin that he was to see some extraordinary things. A thick and dense smoke immediately arose, which seemed to unfold itself when some strange words were pronounced by the magician. At the same instant, the ground slightly shook,^ and opening in the spot where they stood, Aladdin saw a square stone of about a foot and a half across, with a brass ring fixed in the centre for the purpose of lifting it up. Under the stone, which his uncle bade the astonished boy to remove, was a hollow three or four feet deep, and at the bottom of this a small door, with steps to go down still lower. ‘ Go down into this cavern,’ said the magician, ^ descend some steps which you will see, pass through an open door and you will find yourself in a large vaulted space, which is divided into three successive halls. At the end of the third hall there is a door leading into a garden, planted with beautiful trees, all of which are full of fruit. Go on straight forward and pursue a path which you wiU perceive and which will bring you to the bottom of a flight of fifty steps, at the top of which there is a terrace. When you shall have ascended to the terrace you will observe a niche before you in which there is a lighted lamp. Take the lamp and put out the light. Then throw away the wicJc and the liquid that is within, and put the lamp in your bosom. When you have done this, bring it to me. Do not be afraid of staining your dress, as what is within the lamp is not oil, and when you have thrown it out the lamp will dry directly.’ His uncle also told him that he might gather any of the fruit in the garden that he pleased. The magician placed upon Aladdin’s hand a ring, which would protect him against every evil, and, bidding him be mindful of everything that he had told him, he desired him to start on his errand. Aladdin, with a willing mind, jumped into the opening and went down to the bottom of the steps. He found everything exactly as the magician had described it. {Concluded at page 359.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. ' 57. — Decapitations. 1. What part of a ship beheaded will name a fish ? 2. What fruit beheaded will name an organ of one of the senses ? 3. What musical instrument beheaded will name a spirit ? ■ 4. What part of a ship beheaded will name a tree ? 5. What part of your dress beheaded will namo a gardener’s tool? 6. What animals beheaded will name a kind of corn? 7. What vegetable beheaded becomes a liquor ? 8. What part of yourself beheaded becomes a tree ? 9. What fish beheaded becomes a woman’s name? 10. What bird beheaded becomes another bird ? G. 0. 58. — Chahades. 1. My first in winter loads the burthened plain, My next of fluid is a portion small ; My whole, when spring resumes her gentle reign. Smiles on the mead and hope restores to all. 2. My first is a lie, and my second’s a lie ; Yet my whole is an emblem of innocence. 3. My first is a contemptuous term applied sometimes to a favourite animal ; there are not many of my second ; and my whole was once heard all over England, but is now only rarely met with. 4. My whole does affliction denote. Which my second is destined to feel ; My whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal.

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CHATTERBOX. 851 59. — AKITHMOGE/iPII. POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. A LAEGE kingdom in Asia, formerly very powerful and of great importance, but, the people giving way to luxury, the country was conquered by a more warlike nation. 1. — 3, 5, 4, 2. Get up ! 2. — 6, 4, 1. A creature which caused the death of a royal person. 3. — 1, 6, 5, 3. More than one and less than three. 4. — 4, 1, 5, 3, 2. Pointing upwards. 5. — 5, 4, 2, 3. A river in Germany. 0. — 4, 1, 0, 3, 2. To forgive, to be frugal. 7. — 4, 2, 5, 3. A mountain in Arabia. 8. — 6, 4, 1, 5, 3, 2. To aim at something above one’s self. 0. C, 60. — Anageams. Words loith Definition, 1. Fish. Mice. — Done by idle hands. 2. Scream P. — To run away quickly. 3. Mist. Chat. Seen. — Punishment. 4. Men. Coal. Cent. — Secresy. 5. Air. Grace. — A vehicle. 6. Cato. Chloe. — A pleasant beverage. 7. Hip. Bag. Boy. — The history of a life. 8. Trip. Hum. — Great joy, success, victory. 9. Ice. Ling. — Over your head. 10. Pure. Cone. Ant. — Most useful at night. 11. Lace. Islet. — Heavenly. 12. Cap. Lie. To. — Belonging to verse, C, C. 61. — Puzzles. 1. What is that which has feet, but never walks, and nails, but neither fingers nor toes ? 2. What pudding makes the best cricketer? 3. What vegetable products are most important in history ? 4. Why should soldiers be tired on the 1st of April? 5. Which is the heavier, the full or the new moon? 6. Why should turtles be pitied ? 7. What is worse than raining cats and dogs? 8. Which is the most wonderful animal in a farm¬ yard? 9. When does a man cease to be a man ? 10. When has a man four hands ? {Answers at page 367.] 53.— 1. Gate. Date. Dote. Doer. Door. 2. Love. Lave. Late. Hate. 3. Bose. Bope. Hope. Hops. 4. Cane. Case. Base. Buse, Bush. 54. — 1. Anemone. 2. Salvia. 3. Gladiola. 4. China aster. 5. Nasturtium. 6. Carnation. 7. Lobelia. 8. Orchis. 55. — 1. Hawthorn. 2. Lime. 3. Poplar, Elm. 4. Willow, Ash. 5. Aspen, Date. 6. Sycamore. 56. — 1. Barnet. 4. Marston Moor. 7. Boyne. 2. Naseby. 5. Evesham. 8. Agincourt. 3. Bosworth. 6. Hastings. EPPING FOBE3T. PPING (formerly Waltham) Forest, where kings hunted in the olden time, enjoying much royal sport, once covered the whole of Essex, extending almost as far as London. In the course of time, however, various en¬ closures gradually curtailed its extent from 60,000 acres to 12,000 in A.D. 1793, and to less than 4000 in A.D. 1871. At this date the Corporation of London undertook the pre¬ servation of all that was left, as well as the recovery of all the more recent enclosures. As an outcome of their praiseworthy exertions, and at a cost of nearly half a million of money, 5600 acres of Epping Forest were declared free to the public by the Queen (May 1882), and it still remains a glorious place alike to the naturalist and the mere holiday-maker, its nine square miles of almost unbroken woodland forming one of the most extensive and beautiful pleasure- grounds in Europe. In the far-off times, when the whole of Essex was forest-land, it was the seat of a powerful tribe, the Trinobantes, whose famous chiefs, Caractacus and Boadicea, are supposed to have held their courts in the wilder parts of the forest (Picture No. 1), from the fastnesses of which they warred gallantly against the Komans, though at last compelled to give way to the powerful invaders. The story of Boadicea is best remembered by the poems of Oowper and Tennyson. In Picture No. 2 we have a lovely part of the forest, described as a Green Hide, where a broad avenue^ of velvety turf, bordered on either side by magnificent trees in fullest foliage, presents a scene of sylvan beauty scarcely to be rivalled anywhere in Europe. The deer, watching with apparent uncon¬ cern the retreating figures in front of them, seem to suggest to us how seldom the footsteps of human beings are heard in this lovely locality. Separated by a stream from Epping Forest is Hainault Forest, the 'garden fair’ of Sir. Besant. On the borders of this forest is situated the pretty village of Chigwell (Picture No. 3). Its Maypole Inn is familiar to all readers of Charles Dickens’s Barnahy Budge. Here, too, there is a Grammar School, founded by the Archbishop of York (Samuel Harsnet) in a.d. 1629, and improved and enlarged since, in a.d. 1871, at a cost of 10,000/. In this neighbourhood, till a.d. 1820, stood Fairlop Oak, the scene of a July fair, as famous in its way as the old Epping Stag Hunt on Easter Monday. Epping Forest is easily reached from Loughton, Chingford, and other stations. In Picture No. 4 we have a representation of the celebrated Oak Glade, which is situated near Ching¬ ford, and is remarkable for the gigantic size of the trees and their gnarled and twisted trunks and stems. Some of these oaks are of great age, and this beautiful locality is a favourite resting-place for pleasure- seekers in the forest. D. B. McKean.

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Epping Forest. 1. Ambresbury Banks. 2. A “Green Ride.” 3. Chigwell Village. 4. Oak Glade, near Cbingford.

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CHATTERBOX 353 An Artful Terrier.

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354 CHATTERBOX. AK ARTFUL TERRIER. OME short time ago I was on a visit to a friend in the country. He had two dogs, the one a large mastiff, and the other a small terrier. Both of them slept in the same kennel. The mastiff con¬ trived to secure the warmest corner for his bed during the night, leaving the terrier near the door in the cold. After a short time had passed, it was observed that the terrier had contrived a very clever plan to outwit the mastiff and secure his warm corner. He would come out into the yard and bark very violently, as if some intruder was near. This brought out the mastiff, and while he was looking round the terrier would slip behind him, and quickly take possession of the warm corner. THE GOAT-SUCKER OR FERN¬ OWL. Though it is not very handsome, nor yet remark¬ able as a songster, yet the Goat-sucker, or Fern¬ owl, is a British bird which, whenever we have the chance of seeing or hearing it, has an attraction for us, because it is singular in its habits. Some of our native birds have a fine stock of names, but I doubt if there are many which can equal the goat-sucker. More than twenty names have been given to it in different counties. Several are odd-sounding indeed ; often they refer to the habits of the bird, such as ^ spinner,’ ^ razor-grinder,’ and ^ moth-hawk.’ Of course, ‘ fern-owl ’ alludes to its night-flying habits, also to its having been sometimes seen amongst the tall ferns which grow in some woods. ‘ Goat-sucker ’ tells us of an old superstition, that the bird came to goats for the sake of their milk ; it was also supposed to fly round and round the heads of children and young animals, trying to heat them with its wings, which, if it did, they would never grow any more. Such foolish fancies have not quite gone yet, though people ought to know the ways of birds better now, but the fern owl is still disliked by some country folk. Thus, a Hampshire villager was walking with a visitor over a common where the fern-owls are often seen, and he said, as he pointed one out, ‘ It is an ill-meaning bird ; it hez a lot of poison about it ! ’ and he added that Ht makes a noise like a door-latch rattling up and down.’ That is one idea of the sound; others have compared it to the noise produced by grinding a razor or a pair of scissors, hence two of the names given to the bird. 'Night-jar’ is another name for it, which alludes to this jarring note, or cry. Some persons fancy, when it is louder than usual on a summer evening, that the next day will be very hot. But, though the fern-owl has such a curious cry. it flies quietly. Its movements are rapid and graceful, not unlike those of some owls. It has a peculiar way of wheeling or floating round trees in pursuit of in¬ sects, and, no doubt, it hovers about cattle, catching the flies that tease them, which accounts for the name of goat-sucker ; but it is really a friend to animals, not an enemy. Gardeners also may speak well of the goat-sucker, since it devours many cock¬ chafers, which, as grubs, do much harm to plants, and it seeks out other beetles which haunt ferns, besides various moths and flies. An odd-looking bird, we must say it is, when at rest : the brown and grey feathers almost hide it from view amongst the herbage ; the eyes are large and bright, the mouth wide, fringed with long bristles which prevent an insect from escaping when it has been captured. This bird makes no nest ; the two grey-and- white eggs are simply laid on a hollow in the ground be¬ neath the trees. The parents give their little ones plenty of insects to eat. If alarmed, the hen carries her eggs or young to a place which she thinks more safe. The fern-owl is not one of the birds which live in England all the year. It comes to us from abroad, arriving near the middle of May, and goes away at the beginning of September, to catch insects in some warmer country. J. Cliffoud. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHT¬ HOUSE. {Continued from page 347.) U must have heard aU about the battle of Copenhagen from the Gazette and other papers,’ began Harry Selwood. ' It was the warmest work I ever saw, and our dear Admiral was splendid. Unfortunately he was only second in command, under Sir Hyde Parker, who would have lost the day without him. For in the thick of the fight, what does Sir Hyde do but order "Thirty-nine,” the signal to l^ave otf action, to be hoisted ! But Nelson wouldn’t see it. He had only one eye, he said, and he had a right to be blind. ' " Keep mine for closer battle flying ! he cried. " That’s the way I answer such signals ; nail mine to the mast.” ' The other captains, looking only to Nelson, did the same, and so the battle was won after a terrible fight. That was the man to serve under, father ! But if I begin talking about him we shall never get to my poor story, so we will leave that for the long winter evenings. ' Well, after that northern business was all over, when I thought I was coming home with a good record and a tidy share of prize-money, if there doesn’t come a scare that Boney was going to invade us, and so my ship was one of those sent off to Boulogne, and the boats of the squadron had to make a night attack on the French fleet in the harbour.

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CHATTERBOX. ^It was no plan of Nelson’s that fighting in boats, and a sad losing business it was, when we couldn’t tell friend from foe in the dark. The enemy was fully prepared ; every vessel was protected by iron spikes, and strongly manned with soldiers. Many of our men were killed or made prisoners, and in the fierce hand-to-hand fighting, I must have leapt over¬ board— for I never knew any more till I came to my¬ self, a prisoner on board a French man-of-war.’ ^ My poor Harry ! ’ exclaimed his father, who had been listening with breathless interest. ' But those French chaps must have saved your life, my lad, so there is something to be said for them.’ ‘ Yes, that they did ! and no one could have been kinder than were some of those French officers. All braves are brothers,” as one o^ them said. But the worst was to come. We had to say good-bye to our new friends, for I and the other prisoners were sent off as soon as the fighting was over, under a guard of soldiers, to march to Arras, a city with a strong fortress, about fifty miles off. Oh, how we suffered in that three days’ journey !’ ^Did the prisoners have to' walk all that way?’ asked Buth, anxiously. ' Yes, excepting the wounded, who were taken in waggons, half filled with straw, and drawn by oxen who crawled slowly along in front of us. It was in August, you know, and the burning sun on the back of the head made us faint and stupid, while the clouds of dust on the road choked us. How thankful we were for the mid-day halt, when we each had a glass of wine of the country and a piece of bread ! We walked on till late at night, and started again at four in the morning, to avoid the heat somewhat; but after all I had gone through, that march was too much for me, and on the second evening before we got to St. Pol, I had fallen down by the road-side, and they had to put me on the straw in the waggon. By the time we reached the great military prison of Arras, next day, I was too ill to care what became of me.’ At this point in his adventures, Harry paused and drew a deep breath. ‘ To think that you were laid up in a foreign land, my lad, with not a soul to care for you !’ said his father, tenderly. ^ Why, you might have died in that outlandish place for all they cared!’ 'Nay, father, there you’re mistaken, for I found friends when I least expected them. It seemed that the infirmary of the prison was full, so I was lucky enough to be taken to the Commandant’s house adjoining, of which some rooms were given up to the wounded prisoners. The Commandant’s wife, Madame de Bercet, devoted all her life to good works, and nursing the sick was what she liked best. She couldn’t have been more devoted to me if I had been her own son, and but for her I never should have pulled through that bad turn of brain fever.’ ' How did you manage to understand the lady ? ’ asked Farmer Selwood. ' For I don’t suppose you know much of their French jargon.’ 'Well, you see, Madame de Bercet understood a little English, and her confessor, Monsieur rAbb(5, was an Irishman, and he could explain what I said. She asked me aU about my home, and when I told her you had no one but me in the world, her eyes were full of tears, and she said that it made her think of her own old father away in the mountains. Oh, she was a good woman ! ’ ' But you haven’t told us yet how you got away from Arras ?’ cried the child, impatient to hear the end of the story. ' Don’t you be in a hurry, Kuth ; I’m coming to that,’ he replied with a smile. ' As soon as I was well enough, I was sent off to the prison, and that was a very different matter, I can tell you ! I happened to be shut up in the same cell with an English officer, who told me that he had been a prisoner for eight years. Poor man, he had been moved from the citadel of Verdun, because he had made so many attempts to escape from thence.^ ' I m sure I don’t wonder 1’ cried the farmer, hotly. T would give them no peace till I got away, if they shut me up.’ jy j ' Ah I but you don’t know how well those prisons are guarded, father. I must tell you one story my friend told me — how he nearly succeeded. He and his companion made a kind of saw with their watch-springs, and after months of labour they had nearly succeeded in sawing through one of the thick iron bars of the window. Then, when he was taking exercise in the courtyard, he managed to pick up and hide the rope belonging to the well, and they hoped to escape that night. But the rope was missed and suspicion was aroused ; their cell was searched that very day, and though the officer had the presence of mind to hide the rope in a water jar, the poor men were moved to another cell, and all their labour was lost.’ * ‘ Oh, dear ! ’ exclaimed Ruth, who had listened with breathless interest, ' I am so sorry 1 What a dread¬ ful pity that they were not left in that cell one night longer ! Was that the way you got out, Harry ?’ ' No ; rny escape was really managed for me. I very soon fell ill again with a return of the fever, and that good Madame de Bercet hearing of it from Monsieur I’Abb^, who constantly came to see me, she never rested till she had me back to nurse in her own house. I was getting stronger, and was in constant fear of being sent back to prison, when one day — it was some big festival, and I suppose the guards were careless — I was made to understand that the doors were open if I chose to walk out. Monsieur I’Abb^ himself gave me a bundle, in which I found a French workman’s blue blouse, a knitted cap with a point which hung over the face, and a pair of wooden sabots. In these I was soon disguised, and with a basket of vegetables on my arm, I walked straight out of the Com¬ mandant’s house. I was armed with a watchword to give when challenged by the sentinels, and I had a few whispered directions and a little money in case of need. So I went on across the courtyard to a small door, which led by a private way through the ramparts and strong out- works, down to the river Schelde.* ' As I got safe off on a barge laden with coals, how I wished that poor Major Delamere could have escaped with me - ’ There was a sudden startled cry from Ruth. ' W hat name did you say ? Who was it you met ?’ * A true incident.

Page 368

Harry Selwood a Prisoner of W ar. ^ Why, the English officer, Major Delamere, of the Eoyal Arlx 1ery, of course. Didn’t I mention his name before ? ’ he asked in sm’prise. ^Oh, Harry, Harry ! You don’t know what you’re saying ! ’ cried the child, as she leant forward with clasped hands. ^ Don’t you know my name is Delamere, and that must have been my father?’ It was now young Selwood’s turn to be startled and bewildered. He looked towards his father in silent appeal. Could this thing be true ? ^ Yes, my lad, you may well look surprised,’ he said. ^ But it is quite true, and we found all about it in the most wonderful way.’ Then he paused and hesitated, as he remembered the part which Ann Pennell had played in the matter. ^ It’s a long story, and I will tell it you another time.’

Page 369

Blackberrying. ^ Well, if I Lad only Imown he was Euth’s father, nothing would have moved me to come away and leave him there ! ’ cried Harry. ‘ What a fool I was not to think of it ! ’ * But you didn’t know,’ said the girl, almost sobbing with excitement. Then followed the eager questions : ' Oh, tell me all about him ! Did he look ill P Did he seem very unhappy ? Did he talk about my mother, or the little girl he had lost? What was he like? Was he like this?’ she added, suddenly remembering the precious locket, which she wore under her pinafore, and holding it towards him. Her voice was so full of eager longing, that the oung sailor would have given mucli to say * yes ; ’ ut as he looked at the smiling miniature of the gay young odicer, and thought of the sad-eyed man, pre¬ maturely worn and aged and grey-haired, whom he had met, it was very difficult to trace much likeness. Fortunately Farmer Selwood came to the rescue. ‘ Well, you know, for the matter of that, people change so,’ he exclaimed, in his loud, hearty voice, which carried conviction to the hearers ; ^ and then those artist fellows do flatter one! Why, Euth child, look at the portrait of me over the chimney-piece, done when I was first married, and my wife opposite. You don’t see much of a likeness, do you ?’ The child raised her eyes from the familiar face of her old friend, and looked up at the fat, rosy, self- satisfied young man in the picture, probably painted by some village artist, and was forced to own that she should never have recognised it. (Continued at page 362.)

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358 CHATTERBOX. BLAC.KBERRYINa. /T was the middle of Sep¬ tember — bright, pleasant days, still warm in the sun¬ shine, although the breeze was cool and fresh — when George Lee found out that the blackberries were getting ripe, and that the time was coming when he and his ^ brothers and sisters might htwe a treat about which they had long talked — the whole of a day to be spent in the fields ^hlackberryino'.’ I can’t tell you how long it had been talked about ; how long they had watched the berries grow, and turn from green to red ; now they were nearly black, nearly at their ripest; and, when George brought home the welcome news one day on his return from school, there was a shout of rejoicing from six small people, who made the house ring ajjain with their noise. Mother, coming into the parlour to hear what caused the sudden rejoicing, was besieged by the whole number, who rushed to her, talking all together. And midst the tumult she could only catch the words, AVhich day?’ ' Blackberries,’ ‘Eipe,’ and May we, mother P ’ so that she was obliged to ask them all to be quiet, and let one speak for the Mary did, the eldest girl, nine years When Mrs. Lee really understood what Mary wished, she was very willing to promise that the blackberrying party should take place. So they fixed the next Tuesday, and George was promised a holi¬ day for the occasion, and the rest of the children who had a governess at home, were told that, instead of having Miss Grey at lessons, they should have her out in the pleasant fields in the sunshine, helping to blackberries. Then George and Mary, bein^ the eldest, and able to write well, sent two little notes each to some young friends, whom they wished to join the party ; and, as they wrote back to sav that they should like to come very much, it seemed that the blackberrying party promised to be delightful. 1 can assure you there was little else but the weather spoken of during the five days that had to pass before that Tuesday. But at last it came, of course, as long-expected days always do at last ; and then, to the great joy of a good many young hearts, it was as bright and glorious a September day as could have been wished for. Mrs. Lee had provided all manner of good things m hampers for the party, who were to have a pic-nic dinner in some pleasant spot where the grass was short and dry. The waggonette and a small basket- chaise were round at the door at ten o’clock, and with a little packing and squeezing they were all quickly seated, and driving along on the road to 1' ulham, where were the finest bushes, which were not so quickly found and cleared by the village children as those which were nearer. , Mow pleasant it was ! The birds sang high up in the trees, as if the bright sunshine made them think that summer was beginning, instead of just leaving off ; but the children scarcely heard them because they were making so much more noise themselves The drive was not long, and then the children were soon scattered about the fields, all having a basket or a little tin pail to fill with the ripe fruit. At first, I must admit, there was more going into mouths than into baskets ; but after a while they were anxious who could collect the gi-eatest quantity to take home for puddings and pies. How busy they all worked, talking merrily the while ! The boys took the highest branches, which the others could not reach, while the girls cleared the lower branches of the bushes. The little ones did not get on very fast, certainly ; but they sat on the grass with stained lips and fingers, feeling very pleased when some one would put a few berries into their tiny baskets in passing by. A few frocks were torn by the brambles ; but, as no one had put on their best clothes, there wasn’t much harm done. A great many fingers were torn, too, but none of them minded that, because, of course, when children go blackberrying, they must expect such accidents to happen. But the sun was getting high, and the young folk grew hungry, which Mrs. Lee had quite expected; so, while they were working at the bushes, she and Miss Grey had been unpacking the hampers, and setting out the dinner in a pleasant spot, where there was shade from a group of trees near by; and I can assure you there was not a child amongst the number who wasn’t very glad to be summoned by the bell which had been brought, so as to call them all to¬ gether. {Concluded at page 366.) THE KING AHD THE SENTIHEL. ^EORGE THE THIRD often went to Weymouth with the Queen and Princesses for change of air. One morning he was taking his usual walk, which he did alone and about the palace, very early, when he fell in with two sentinels, and was challeno-ed by one of them, as being on forbidden ground, with ‘ J[ say, ^ old man, you have no business there.’ The king’s dress, the morning being cold, was a great¬ coat, which concealed his person, and made the new recruit mistake him for a country farmer. The sentinel and the king had a few words together, when the latter gave him a crown, in true kingly style, knowing that the man only did his duty, and meant no harm, and that strano*ers were forbidden entrance into that part of °the premises. On the king’s retiring, and before he was out of hearing, the challenger went up to the other sentinel, and shaking the money in his hand, said, ^ I have done the old man out of five shillings ; ’ when he was thunderstruck by his companion saying, AVhy do you know that was the king ! ’ ’ The king heard it and passed on, leaving the poor Sentinel ready to shrink into the very earth. Two years" after, he was going into the House of Lords, at the meeting of Parliament, and passino-

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CHATTERBOX. ^^59 between two files of soldiers, from the carriage to the door, he recognised the recruit who had so politely accosted him at Weymouth, and, turning round, he said to him, ^ I say, have you done another old man out of five shillings since I saw you last ? ^ The king went smiling into the House of Lords, but the soldier was too amazed to be able to join in the laugh of his comrades. YOUNGSTEHS IN POPULAR TALES. ALADDIN. ( Concluded from page 350.) v^as not long before Aladdin ascended the steps and presented himself at the entrance of the cave, where the magician was impatiently waiting for him. He was the bearer of immense riches, in the shape of precious stones, pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises, ame¬ thysts, and the like, which he had found growing upon the trees in the gardens. He did not know the price¬ less value of the stones, but he had been pleased by their lovely colours, and so he had filled his pockets and his bosom between his robe and shirt. As soon as Aladdin saw his uncle he shouted, ‘ Give me your hand, uncle, to help me up ! ’ ‘ You had better, my dear boy, first give me the lamp, as that will only hamper you,’ replied his uncle. ^ It is not at all in my way,’ said Aladdin, ^ and I will give it you when 1 am out.’ The magician still persevered in wishing to get the lamp before he helped Aladdin out of the cave ; but the boy had, in fact, so covered it with the fruit of the trees that he absolutely refused to give it till he had got out of the cave. The African magician was then in the greatest despair at the obstinate resistance the boy made, and put himself into the most violent rage. He then threw a little perfume upon the fire, which he had taken care to keep up, and he had hardly pronounced two magic words before the stone which served to shut up the entrance to the cave returned of its own accord to the place with all the earth over it, exactly in the same state as it was when the magician and Aladdin first arrived there. When the pretended uncle found his hopes and expectations ruined he returned to Africa, and left his reputed nephew buried alive in the cave. Aladdin, finding what a terrible position he was in, shrieked aloud, and with tears called upon his ‘ uncle ’ to liberate him. But all his tears and im- plorings were useless. By enchantment every open¬ ing had been closed and he was shut into this dark cavern. For two whole days the unhappy boy remained in this plight, and during the long hours he found leisure to think upon his own wilful conduct, and to | bitterly bewail his miserable temper. On the third day, believing that his time to die was drawing near, he lifted up his hands, and joining them as in the act of prayer, he resigned himself to his fate and began wringing his hands. In this action of joining his hands he happened, without at all thinking of it, to rub the ring which the African magician had put upon his finger, and of the virtue of which he was ignorant. Upon its being thus rubbed an enormous figure instantly rose, as it were, out of the earth before him. The figure was that of a Genius, who was so tall that his head touched the vaulted roof, and he addressed these words to Aladdin : ^ What do you wish ? I am ready to obey you as your slave ; as the slave of him who has the ring on his finger, both I and the other slaves of the ring.’ Aladdin answered without the least hesitation, ^ Whoever you are, take me, if you are able, from this place to my own home.’ He had scarcely pro¬ nounced the words, when the earth opened and he found himself at his own door. So delighted was Aladdin at the turn affairs had now taken, and with the sight of his old mother, that his feelings overcame him and he swooned away. When he came to himself his mother tenderly fed him, and he lay down to rest himself ; when he awoke he requested the widow to bring him some breakfast. Now, sad to say, there was no food in the house, and there was not enough cotton spun to sell. Aladdin therefore asked his mother for the lamp, pretending that he was going to sell it and buy food with the money. . . t i i ^ Here it is,’ she said to her son, ‘ but it is, I think, very dirty ; if I were to clean it a little, perhaps it might sell for something more.’ Her diligence was strangely rewarded almost as soon as she began to scour it, for a gigantic form rose out of the ground, and cried in a voice as loud as thunder, ‘ What do you wish ? I am ready to obey you as your slave, and the slave of those who have the lamp in their hands, both I and the other slaves of the lamp.’ The good woman was terrified, and fell down in a fit. But her son, who had seen a similar appearance in the cavern, never lost his presence of mind or judgment. Seizing the lamp, he answered in a firm tone of voice, ‘ I am hungry; bring me something to eat.’ Instantly the Genius covered the sofa with delicious viands served up in silver dishes, and he vanished as soon as he had obeyed the orders. Aladdin, now that he was possessed of such a wonderful treasure as the lamp, did not need to con¬ sider what he should do for a livelihood. He had, as we have shown, experienced much trouble in obtaining the lamp, but once in his possession he frequently summoned the Genius to fetch him every¬ thing he could desire or fancy. How Aladdin came to marry a princess, the Sultan’s only daughter, and to possess a beautiful castle and untold riches, are all fully set forth in the charming story, which every one should read for himself or herself. The cunning trick to which the African magician resorted to regain the lamp, together with his sad end, are also described. .James Cassidy.

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360 CHATTERBOX

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Ann Pennell and Ruth Delamere set sail for France.

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362 CHATTERBOX. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. {Continued from page 357.) the days that followed, a great change passed over Ruth Delamere, and she seemed to become mature in thought and feeling, far beyond her years. From that moment when she heard that her father was in a French prison, her one pas¬ sionate desire was to obtain his freedom. She questioned Harry Sel- wood about every minute detail of his escape from the citadel of Arras, and his journey from thence to the coast, until the whole country which he had travelled through seemed as familiar to her as her own Downs. Her interest never flagged. She made him^ tell her all about Madame de Bercet and Monsieur I’Abbe so often that she came to look upon them as friends of her own, and was fully persuaded that, as they had helped him to escape, they would surely do as much for her father, if she could but reach them to plead her cause. Nothing short of this was her ambition, but at first she could not persuade her friends to consider it seriously. The scheme was too wild; it was hope¬ less, impossible ! But, by degrees, the girl’s faith and enthusiasm had their effect on others, and she found her best listener in Ann Pennell. The poor woman was constantly haunted by the remorseful memory of her deception in leaving that ebony box unopened, from the ^ selfish fear of losing her darling. The news of Major Delamere had come upon her with a great shock. She would lie awake at night, thinking of that poor father — from whom she had so cruelly withheld the knowledge of his child’s safety — ^wasting away his life in a French prison. What atonement could she make to him for such a deadly wrong ? It was not long before the answer came. One day the whole party were at the lighthouse, when Harry, who was looking through the telescope, exclaimed: T can see a small lugger down there under the cliff, just like the one which brought me across from France, the other day.’ 'Then why can’t I go back in it?’ cried Ruth, eagerly. 'If they put me down anywhere on the coast, I am sure I could find my way to Arras ; but I dare say they would land me at the nearest point.’ ' That would be St. Valery on the river Somme, so Monsieur I’Abb^ told me,’ remarked the young lieutenant, only thinking of his own adventures. 'I told you about my journey there ; it was only about forty miles, but I was unlucky enough not to find a coasting vessel, and had to go a long way round the coast before I met with one.’ ' My little maid, you really must put such thoughts out of your mind,’ said Farmer Selwood, gently, as exchanged glances with Jonas; ‘we couldn’t let you set off on a journey like that by yourself.’ With a sudden instinct, the young girl looked towards Ann, and seemed to read her very soul, for she at once replied, ‘ But I shouldn’t be alone ; •! know that mammy would go with me ; would you not, dear?’ ^ There was a moment’s pause of breathless expecta¬ tion, and then the answer came, clear and decided : ‘ Yes, that I will, Ruth. If you get leave to start on this journey, I will go with you.’ It was a startling announcement, and took them all by surprise. That a quiet elderly woman should be prepared to leave her home in that solitary lighthouse, and go forth into a foreign land — to meet with unknown perils and adventures — was so strange as to be almost incredible. Jonas alone could dimly understand the reason of this almost heroic resolve ; but he was silent, for it was no subject for public discussion. It was Harrv who pointed out the fij’st difficulty. ‘ You must remember, Ruth, that for a journey of this kind you will want money. The captain of that lugger would not take you across to a port of your choosing without being well paid for it ; not to mention that you and Mrs. Pennell could not tramp along the roads on foot, and sleep anywhere, as I • did.’ ‘We can get plenty of money by selling some of those pretty trinkets,’ said the child, rather sadly. ‘ You said they were worth a great deal, didn’t you, sir ? ’ she added, turning to the farmer. ‘ Yes, but don’t you sell them, dear ! ’ exclaimed John Selwood, hastily. ‘ You may want to wear them some day. Leave them to me, and I will manage about the money.’ From that moment, it was plain that Ruth had won her cause, and presently Jonas gave his solemn consent. ‘ If it is the Lord’s will that you should go, my child, and all seems to point that way, then so be it, for what am I that I should fight against it? And may His blessing go with you.’ When the matter was once settled, it was won¬ derful how soon they all became used to the idea of it. Young Selwood undertook to make all the arrangements for the journey, and in the interest and excitement of doing this, he almost forgot the risk and uncertainty which he had felt so strongly at first. If, with his experience of foreign travel, he no longer raised a warning voice, it was no wonder that simple country folk, like his father and the Pennells, should treat the hazardous expedition with all the courage of ignorance. After some delay, he managed to find a small sail¬ ing vessel which was bound for the coast of Normandy, and of which the captain was willing, for a consideration, to take some passengers to St. Valery. ^ It was well not to be too inquisitive as to the special business in which Captain Bowles was engaged, for, in that time of war between the two countries, any communication between England and France had to be carried on, at some risk, by private adventure. While waiting for the day of sailing, which would not be for some weeks — as the cargo had to be collected from a distance — it occurred to the young sailor that if Ruth had even a slight knowledge of French, it would be very useful to her. So he set

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OT-TATTERBOX. 363 himself to the task of teaching the child all the simple phrases which he had picked up at Arras and on the road home. This turned out to be quite a success, and he was amazed at the quick intelligence and memory of his pupil, and the eagerness with which she soon learnt all that he could teach her. Then he laboriously set to work to write a letter to his friend, Madame de Bercet, telling her enough of liuth’s story to interest her in the child, and begging her to use all her influence on behalf of Major Delamere. The young lieutenant would willingly have gone too, but he had reported him¬ self at headquarters, and was hourly expecting to be appointed to some vessel on active service. As for the question of expense, that had been easily settled, for Farmer Selwood had taken charge of the jewels which Kuth wished to sell, and deposited them safely at his bank in her name, and then had himself advanced all the money which he thought could be required. At Harry’s suggestion, it was changed into French money, and he advised Mrs. Pennell to put most of it away safely, sewing it up somewhere inside her dress, that she might have it in case of need. In order fully to appreciate what a serious under¬ taking was this journey to France, we must remember how very different travelling was a hundred years ago. There were no railways, no cheap steamers, nothing to tempt ordinary foUi to leave their homes ; in fact, people only took a journey in case of urgent necessity, or from some unusual spirit of adventure. Moreover, at that period, in the j ear a.d. 1801, the dif¬ ficulty of foreign travelling was increased a thousand¬ fold by the great war with Napoleon, when to cross the channel was to encounter certain risk and danger. Under all these circumstances, that a helpless woman and child should set out from the Alum Bay lighthouse, with the French prison of Arras for their destination, was a deed heroic in its boldness. All their humble preparations were quickly made, and the eventful day fixed for their departure arrived only too soon. Never in after years did Kuth forget these last few days, when, hand in hand with Jonas, she went round to all the dear familiar points of the open Downs and the sandy shore under the cliffs, where so many happy days of her young life had been spent. With a brave face, though full of inward misgivings, Ann Pennell said good-bye to her husband. It had been arranged that an old coast¬ guard friend should live with him at the lighthouse, and help him in his duties there, so that she had no cause for anxiety on that score. But it was a ter¬ rible uprooting for this simple, homely woman, and nothing short of her love for the child of her adop¬ tion, and her secret longing to atone for her fault. Would have moved her to undertake such a journey. As for Jonas, he hid his own sorrow, and devoted himself to cheering his wife and poor little Buth, who quite broke down at the last moment of parting from him. Their eyes were dim with tears as they watched the white tower on the hill, standing up before them as a beacon of home and country, until a turn of the road hid it from their sight. By the time they reached Yarrnouth, the dull November evening was fast closing in, and John Selwood, who had come with his son to see them off, cursed his own folly in having given his consent to such a wild scheme, as he left the helpless woman and child on board the rough lugger. But it was too late to draw back then, and it needed all Harry’s, assurances that they would be all right, and that they were suie to meet with kind friends, even in France, to restore him to any peace of mind. It had been arranged, as a measure of security, that Captain Bowles should receive the payment for his services on his return voyage to Yarmouth, when he was to bring a letter with news of the safe landing of his passengers on the French coast. Fortunately it was a calm night, for the Black- eyed Susan was by no means a luxurious vessel, and the stuffy little cabin was the worst part of it. But next morning, when the weather changed and raw gusts from the north-west came sweeping over the deck, Ann Pennell, who was a bad sailor, felt as if her last hour had come. Buth, on the other hand, enjoyed the freshness and novelty of it all immensely, and was quite sorry when, after what seemed an un¬ necessary amount of tacking and delay, the lugger crept stealthily into the harbour of Fecamp, in a valley between high cliffs, at nightfall. Ann asked if they might go ashore, but was told, somewhat to her surprise, that the Black-eyed Susan would be sailing again before daybreak. Her crew certainly seemed to have a strange love of darkness, for all that night there were bales of goods being landed, and a mysterious cargo taken on board, with much rolling and thumping about over the heads of the travellers. So far the voyage had been prosperous and un¬ eventful, but a change was at hand. There was an angry discussion next morning, for the captain was anxious to take advantage of the westerly breeze, and to sail straight away for their destination at the mouth of the Somme, keeping well out in mid¬ channel ; but the men, who seemed to be all partners in some queer business, wanted to keep close in against the shore, to call at several places where they had merchandise waiting for them. Evidently against his better judgment, Captain Bowles yielded to them, although Buth heard him say that he had been warned of a French war vessel cruising about those parts, and keeping a sharp look-out in all the creeks and harbours. The event proved that his fears were only too well justified, for about mid-day a big three-masted vessel hove in sight, and, after some minutes of anxious suspense, it was quite clear that instead of continuing her own course, she was veering round towards the Black-eyed Susan. {Continued at page 374.) THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD-BOY. A True Incident. THBOUGH a tangle of purple heather, Where a wimpling burn ran deep, A lad in his Highland bonnet Came driving a flock of sheep.

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“Why, lad, yon lady Is the grandest you’ve ever seen ; j Her home is Balmoral Castle, And she is the English Queen ! ” But ere they had reached its border, Half hidden in shining moss, Where the sheep-walk sloped to the shallows, At which they were used to cross — The flock, in their silly shyness. Turned suddenly startled back, Because in the path before them, Kight over the beaten track,

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Frank carried in triumpli by his Schoolmates. A sketcher sat with her easel, So busy she had not stirred ; And the noise of the hoofs that pattered Behind her she had not heard. ‘ Get out of my road ! ’ the shepherd Bawled lustily from the steep — * Get out of my road ! ye scatter And frighten away the sheep.’ From the coppice a liveried gillie Stepped suddenly to his side — ‘ To whom do ye speak so rudely ? ’ With a tone of rebuke he cried. ‘ Why, sure, to the lady yonder, Who has not the sense to know She’s bloclring the sheep-walk fairly — And, sir, you must tell her so.’ ' I tell her ? Why, lad, yon lady Is the grandest you’ve ever seen ; Her home is Balmoral Castle, And she is the English Queen ! ' ‘ Well, how could I know her ? ’ answered The boy, with a captious frown : Why doesn’t she hold her sceptre ? Why couldn’t she wear her crown ? ’ Maugahet J. Pheston,

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366 CHATTERBOX. BLACKBERRYING. {Concluded from page 358.) 'HEN dinner was over the children did not feel so much inclined to hunt for blackberries as they had done in the earlier part of the day ; besides, the baskets and cans were almost full. So they sat still a while, and then one of the children said how pleasant it would be if some one told a tale. All agreed to this, and. then Mrs. Lee said that she would tell the first; after her Miss Grey remembered something which she thought would interest them ; and then George Lee said he would tell them a tale about something that happened at their school. This was delightful indeed! George was the eldest of all, the only schoolboy of the party, and so they looked upon him with a great deal of admira¬ tion. ‘ There’s a big fellow at our school,’ began George. * It wouldn’t be fair to tell his name, so I’ll call him Lewis, — ^but no one likes him, although the little chaps are frightened of him, he bullies them. He is the biggest sneak in the school,’ continued George, getting excited with the thought of Lewis’s mis¬ deeds, ^ and if I was old enough I would thrash him myself! Well, just before last holidays, when all the boys were trying for prizes, Lewis was trying for one too — the prize for drawing, for he can draw very well indeed. Another boy can match him, though, whom I will call Frank ; and the rest of us, who had no chance of the prize, and weren’t trying for it, were wondering which of these two would win. We all hoped that Frank would, because we liked him best. ^ At last the prize drawings were finished, and we all felt sure Frank’s was the best, though there wasn’t one of us who liked to say so, because we are all rather afraid of Lewis. Then they were put in one of ^ the class-rooms, and each boy had been told to write his age and name on the back of his drawing. Trank hadn’t done it though — he is a careless fellow, though we like him so — and the last day before the prizes were to be given he remembered this, only hn dare not ask to go in and get his drawing, for he is always having a blowing up ” for being so forgetful. ‘ So the prize-day came, and each boy was to talve his piece up to the head master before us all. Frank was one of the first, and, of course, he knew his own drawing, and was just going up with it when he saw a name written on it — Lewis’s name ! We couldn’t think what made him turn first red and then white, and look so confused ; and Dr. Henderson called out impatiently for the next boy, saying Frank had missed his turn, and he must come last. You may guess what a jolly good-natured young fellow he is when I tell you he saw Lewis take up his drawing, on which he had been mean enough to write his own name, because he felt sure that it was better done than his own, and would gain the prize. Frank saw this, and yet he never said a word. He handed up Lewis’s drawing as if it were his owm, and stood by and saw Lewis get the prize, which was by right his, without telling Dr. Henderson what a shabby trick had been played him. His eyes were full of tears; but we soon made him feel jolly by carrjdng him three times round the playgi’ound, cheering him all the while, just as if he had got the prize ; and we hissed Lewis whenever he came near, which I can tell you wasn’t often, for he knew that we had found him out, and he kept out of the way with his prize, and I dare say felt precious glad holidays came next day, so that we should have time to forget all about it. But we haven’t forgotten, though, and I know there’s many a boy would like to tell Dr. Henderson all about it, only somehow we are a bit afraid of Lewis, as I told you when I began my tale.’ Thus George^ ended his story, and, though his mother’s and Miss Grey’s had been, perhaps, prettier and better told, I don’t believe the children liked them so well as this, which was about such a won¬ derful place as a boys’ school. They all wanted another story, but Mrs. Lee re¬ minded them that as it was September, not mid¬ summer, they could not stop till evening. So they roamed about the fields for a while, just picked enough blackberries to fill up their baskets, and then the waggonette and pony-chaise carried them all back to Mrs. Lee’s house, where they finished up the day with many merry games, and then wished each other good-night, and ‘ many happy returns of black- berrying time.’ PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. Metagrams. 62. — 1. A USEFUL grain growing in hot countries. Change the first letter, and the following transforma¬ tions will appear. 2. Pleasant ; a town in Italy. 3. Very troublesome little quadrupeds of dishonest propensities. 4. Used at games of chance. 5. Second in rank ; wickedness ; a substitute ; an iron press. 63. — 1. A town in Ulster ; not up. 2. A dress mostly worn by women, but sometimes by men. 3. More than a village and less than a city. 4. Laid in the ground. 5. Cut down. 64. — 1. A seaport town in Kent. 2. A wanderer. 3. One who possesses a strong affection for another. 4. To conceM, to protect. 65. — 1. A yellow, semi-transparent substance used for ornaments. 2. A colour ; an African bird. 3. Not quite extinguished. 4. A game at cards. Reverse the last two letters. C. 0.

Page 379

OHATTEUBOX. 367 66. — ^Enigma. I’m a strange contradiction, I’m new and I’m old, I’m often in tatters, and oft decked with gold ; Though I never could read, yet lettered I’m found ; Though blind, I enlighten ; though free, I am bound. I’m always in black, and I’m always in white ; I’m grave and I’m gay, I am heavy and light. In form, too, I differ, I’m thick and I’m thin ; I’ve no flesh and no bone, yet oft covered with skin. I’ve more points than the compass, more stops than the flute ; I sing without voice ; without speaking, confute. I’m English, I’m German, I’m French, and I’m Dutch ; Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much. I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages, And no monarch alive has so many pages. F. H. 67. — ^WoRD Puzzles. 1. I AM a word of five letters by which a lady is often called ; take away the first letter and it becomes a man’s name. . 2. A word of five letters expressing something often sought for by statesmen, politicians, mechanics, servants and labourers ; take away the first letter and it becomes an ornament to a lady’s dress; behead again and though only a unit is left it may be of great importance. 3. Find two words each containing four letters, three of which are the same. , 4. I am a word of five letters expressing one of the raost useful products of nature ; behead rne and you will see one of the properties necessary to bring the first word to perfection ; behead again and you will see a word which suggests its final destination. 0. 0. [Answers at page 378.] 2Sr S 'W E I2.S - 57 —1. Keel. 4. Helm. 7. Kale. 9. Skate. 2. Pear. 5. Shoe. 8. Spine. 10. Fowl. 3. Drum. 6. Goats. , 68.— 1. Snow-drop. 3. Curfew. 2. Lily. 4. Wo(e)-man. 59. — Persia, 1. Kise. 4. Spire. 7. Seir. 2. Asp. 5. Iser. 8. Aspire. 3. Pair. 6. Spare. 60.— 1. Mischief. 7, Biography. 2. Scamper. 8. Triumph. 3. Chastisement. 9. Ceiling. 4. Concealment. 10. Counterpane. 5. Carriage. 11* Celestial. 6. Chocolate. 12. Poetical. 61. — 1. A yard measure. 2. A good batter. 3. Dates. 4. Because they have just had a March of thirty-one 5. The new moon, because the full moon is much lighter. 6. Because theirs is a hard case. 7. Hailing omnibuses. . , , ■, 8. A pig, because he is first killed and then oureci. 9. When he turns into a lane. 10. When he doubles his fists. POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. SCARBOROUGH. SCARBOROUGH, generally considered to be the 0 queen of watering-places, is situated in the North Riding of Yorkshire, about 230 miles north of London. So much can be said in praise of this fresh, breezy, beautiful, and health-giving place that it is really difficult to know where to begin. Pictu^ No. S. — First of all, we would say that its situation is almost perfect, backed as it is by Oliver’s Mount (500 feet in height), it rises like an amphitheatre round a beautiful sandy bay, protected on the^ north by a castle-crowned headland, beyond which is the North Cliff. The South Cliff and the old town (below the castle) are separated by a picturesque gully which is spanned by the cliff -bridge, 414 feet in length, and by another bridge further up, known as the Ramsdale Valley bridge, a more recent erection than the other. Scarborough is a very old place, for it is on record that in the year of the N orman Conquest (a.d. 1060) it was ravaged by Harold Hardrada, and in a.d. 1181, it received a renewal of an earlier charter. It has a great many beautiful buildings, a splendid aquarium, museum, and market-hall, the huge Grand Hotel, and the Spa, whose two saline and chalybeate springs were discovered about A.D. 1620, and which is now surrounded with charming grounds. The tidal har¬ bour, with a lighthouse and a fl.oating dock, is enclosed by three piers. On the North sands is a promenade pier, 1000 feet long ; also a promenade, nearly 4000 feet long, built at a cost of 50,000/., and opened by the late Duke of Clarence. The jet manufacture is a special trade of Scarborough, and gives employment to many persons. Picture No. 1. — ^Here we see the ruins of Scar¬ borough Castle, now nothing but a shattered Norman keep, but with a history of its own. It dates from A.D. 1136, but was rebuilt as a royal fortress by Henry II. It was captured by the Earl of Pembroke from Piers Gaveston, the unworthy favourite of Edward II. Again this fortress was captured by Bruce in a.d. 1318, and once more by the Earl of Westmoreland from the insurgent Lord Stafford, A.D. 1553. But the history of Scarborough Castle was not yet closed. Twice over it was taken by the Parliamentary forces during the Civil War, a.d. 1644. After so many assaults we need not wonder to hear that it is now nothing but a shattered ruin. Near it is St. Mary’s, the church originally of a Cistercian Priory, a.d. 1320. This church suffered much during the siege of a.d. 1644, but was restored in a.d. 1848, at a cost of 7000/. In Picture No. 2, we see some wonderfully rugged rocks at Flamborough Head, a promontory of the Yorkshire coast, eighteen miles south-east of Scar¬ borough. It terminates a range of steep chalk cliffs, nearly 400 feet in height. Its rugged sides are pierced with many caverns, and in the sea close^ by are picturesque chalk rocks, swarming with a variety of sea-birds. On the Head itself is a lighthouse, 214 feet above the sea-level, and itself eighty feet high, the light from which can be distinctly seen at a distance of twenty-one miles. D. B.

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Scarborough. 1. Scarborough Castle. 2. A Bit of Plauiborough Head. 3. General View, showing Spa. &c.

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370 CHATTERBOX. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. EVA AND TOPSY.* ’ OW old are you, Topsy ? ’ li^’ ^Dun no, missis/ said the little black girl, with a grin which showed all her teeth. ‘ Don^t know how old you are ? Didn’t anybody ever tell you? Who was your mother?’ asked the lady, who had been wash¬ ing and dressing the poor, neglected, ill-used little slave-girl just come into her possession. ‘Never had no mother!’ said the child, with another grin. ‘Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you born ? ’ ‘ Never was born 1 ’ persisted Topsy; ‘ never had no father, nor mother, nor nothin’.’ ‘ flave you ever heard anything about God, Toi^y?’ J o > The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual. ‘ Do you know who made you ? ’ ‘Nobody, as I knows on/ said the child, with a short laugh. The idea appeared to amuse her, for her eyes twinkled, and she added, ‘ I ’spect I grow’d. Don’t think nobody never made me.’ ‘ Do you know how to sew ? ’ asked Miss Ophelia, her new mistress. ‘No, missis.’ ‘ What can you do ? What did you do for your master and mistress ? ’ ‘ Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub hnives, and wait on folk.’ ‘ Were they good to you ? ’ ‘ ’Spects they was,’ answered Topsy. Miss Ophelia rose. What could she make of such a child? The following morning she began to instruct Topsy in the art of bed-making. ‘Now, Topsy, I’m going to show you just how my bed is to be made. 1 am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactly how to do it.’ ‘ Yes, ma’am,’ said Topsy, with a deep sigh and a face of woful earnestness. ‘Now, Topsy, look here: this is the hem of the sheet this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong ; will you remember ? ’ ‘ Yes, ma’am/ said Topsy, with another sigh. And so the good lady patiently continued her instructions. Meantime, Topsy, not noticed for a moment by Miss Ophelia, had snatched a pair of gloves and a ribbon from the table near by, and had slipped them into her sleeves. ‘ Now, Topsy,’ said her mistress, ‘ let me see you make the bed,’ And she pulled off the clothes and seated herself to watch. * The beautiful story of these two little girls is to be found in Uncle Toon's Cahin^ by Mrs. Efurriet Beecher Stowe. The little black girl went through the exercise very well, patting and smoothing completely to Miss Ophelia’s satisfaction. Just as she was finish¬ ing, however, a fiuttering fragment of ribbon hung out of her sleeve, and attracted that lady’s atten¬ tion. ‘ What’s this ? You naughty, wicked child — you’ve been stealing this I ’ ‘ Laws ! Why, that ar’s Miss Feely’s ribbon, ain’t it?’ said Topsy, with a look of innocent sur¬ prise. ‘ How could it a-got in my sleeve ? ’ ‘ Topsy, you naughty girl, don’t you tell me a lie. You stole that ribbon ! ’ ‘ Missis, I declare for’t, I didn’t ; never seed it till dis blessed minnit.’ ‘Topsy/ said Miss Ophelia, ‘don’t you know it’s wicked to tell lies ? ’ ‘I never tells no lies. Miss Feely,’ said Topsy, gravely ; ‘ it’s jist the truth I’ve been a-tellin’ now, and an’t nothin’ else.’ ‘ Topsy, I shall have to whip you if you tell lies so.’ ‘ Law, missis, if you’s to whip all day, couldn’t say no other way,’ said Topsy, beginning to cry. ‘ I never seed dat ar ; it must a-got caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve.’ Miss Ophelia was so indignant that she took the child and shook her. The shake brought the gloves on to the floor, from the other sleeve. ‘ There you 1 ’ said Miss Ophelia, ‘ if you will confess all about it, I won’t w^hip you this time,’ This pro¬ mise at last brought confessions from Topsy. ‘ Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other things since you have been in the house, for I let you run about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything, and I shan’t whip you.' ‘Laws, missis! I took Miss Eva’s red thing she wars on her neck.’ ‘ You did, you naughty child ! Well, what else ? ’ ‘ I took Rosa’s yer-rings — them red ones.’ ‘ Go, bring them to me this minute, both of them.’ ‘ Laws, missis, I can’t — they’s burnt up ! ’ ‘ Burnt up ? What a story ! Go, get them, or I’U whip you.’ Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, declared that she could not. ‘ They’s burnt up— they was.’ ‘ What did you burn them up for ? ’ said Miss Ophelia. ‘ Cause I’s wicked — I is. I’s mighty wicked any¬ how. I can’t help it.’ Just at this moment Eva St. Clare, the little daughter of the master and mistress of the house — a beautiful, lovable little creature — entered Miss Ophelia’s room, with the coral necklace round her neck. ‘Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace?’ asked that lady. * Get it ? Why, I’ve had it on all day,’ said Eva. ‘ Did you have it on yesterday ? ’ ‘ Yes ; and what is funny, aunty, I had it on all night. I forgot to take it off when I went to bed.’ Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered, the more so as Rosa, a slave-servant, at that instant came into the room, with a basket of newly ironed

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CHATTERBOX. 371 linen poised on her head, and the coral drops shaking in her ears. T’m sure I can’t tell what to do with such a child ! ’ said Topsy’s mistress in despair. ^ What in the world did you tell me you took those things for, Topsy?’ ^ o » missis said I must ’fess; and I couldn’t think of nothin’ else to ’fess,’ said Topsy, rubbing her •But, of course, I didn’t want you to confess things you didn’t do; that’s telling a lie just as much as the other.’ ‘ Laws, now, is it ? ’ said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder. Eva and Topsy were striking contrasts as they stood side by side. Eva’s fair golden hair, blue eyes and white skin, were the very opposite to Topsy ’s black locks, black eyes and skin. Their characters and dispositions were equally unlike. When Miss Ophelia told Eva of Topsy’s naughti¬ ness, the white child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but she said sweetly, ^Poor Topsy, why need you steal ? You are going to be taken good care of now. I’m sure I would rather give you anything of mine than have you steal it.’ {Concluded at page 382.) TOI7GUE-TWISTEIIS. Read the following aloud, repeating the shorter ones quickly half-a-dozen times in succession: — Six thick thistle sticks. Flesh of freshly fried flying-fish. The sea ceaseth, but it sufficeth us. Give Grimes Jim’s great gilt gig whip. Two toads, totally tired, tried to trot to Tedbury. Strict, strong Stephen Stringer snared six sickly silky snakes. She stood at the door of Mrs. Smith’s fish-sauce shop, welcoming him in. Swan swam over the sea ; swim, swan, swim ; swan swam back again; well swum, swan. A haddock, a haddock, a black-spotted haddock, a black spot on the black back of a black-spotted haddock. Susan shineth shoes and socks ; socks and shoes shines Susan. She ceaseth shining shoes and socks, for shoes and socks shock Susan. THE WOOD AHD THE FIRE. Afire lay smouldering in a wood. As it felt that its end was approaching, it thus addressed the wood : ^ Give me a little room, and some of your useless branches; then in winter-time, when everything is covered with snow, I shall be able to warm you. Everybody knows that I am the sun’s brother. In the hot-houses I do great wonders, and I am willing to serve you too, if you will let me.’ This offer seemed honest and straight-forward enough, so the fire was given room, and a copious supply of dead branches on which to feed its dying energies. Presently sparks fly out, the wood begins to burn gently, and then to roar with violence. A great flame is kindled, which soars upwards and catches the trees around. These in turn set fire to others, and soon the fine wood is in a blaze. The next day, when the weary traveller passes that way, instead of finding shelter from the heat, nothing meets his gaze but a few blackened stumps. Mohal: Fire and water are good servants but bad masters, and as such they require keeping under. Adapted from Ivan Russian Poetical Fables. CURIOUS CHURCH-YARD CUSTOMS. 'HOMAS TALBOT FOR- SUCH, a London citizen of the olden time, left by his will nine pounds a year to the minister of St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch, to keep in order the grave of his friend, John Olney. On the 24th of March, what¬ ever money remained over was to be put on this grave in ten-shilling pieces. These were to be taken up after service by poor folk, chosen because they had been most regular in attending their parish church. He left the same amount to the minister of St. Botolph, Bishopsgate, for the preservation of his mother’s- grave there ; the money not needed for repairs to be spent in the same fashion. A similar custom still prevails at St. Bartholomew’s Church, Great Smithfield. On Good Friday the Yicar puts twen^-one sixpences in a row on a certain grave. 'Ehe money is picked up by the same number of widows, kneeling, who have just before attended service in the church. Such doles at the grave were not uncommon. Leonard Dare, in a.d. 1611, by his will directed, on Christmas Day, Lady Day, and Michaelmas Day, the churchwardens were to buy, bring, and lay on his tomb-stone, thi’ee-score penny loaves of good, wholesome bread, which were to be distributed to the poor of the parish. William Robinson, sheriff of Hull, who died a.d. 1708, left money to purchase a dozen loaves of bread, costing a shilling each, which were given to twelve poor widows at his grave every Christmas Day. In some cases the will directed that the people were to scramble for the dole. There is a story of two poor sisters walking to London to claim an estate. They reached Paddington, weary, hungry, and foot-sore. The good folk gave them relief. In course of time the sisters made good their claim, and, as a token of gratitude, they left money to be spent on bread and cheese, which was to be thrown from the roof of St. Mary’s, Paddington, among the people assembled below. This custom continued to the present century, for, in a.d. 1821, it is noticed in the newspaper as an annual practice to throw bread

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Curious Churchyard Customs. and cheese from the belfry of the church at eight o'clock on the Sunday before Christmas Day. At Barford, Oxfoidshire, is a piece of land known as Whitebread Close, the rent of Avhich was formerly spent in buying bread to be scrambled for at the church door. In a.d. 1824 this led to such scenes of riot and fighting that it was stopped. A Mr. Tuke of Botherham, who died in a.d. 1810, left money to pay for forty dozen penny loaves to be thrown from the church leads at noon on Christmas Day for ever. For some time this was done, but the crowd here, too, became so disorderly that onl}^ six dozen were scrambled and the rest were given away quietly.

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CHATTERBOX. 373 “ Won’t you let me help you to peel those apples?” MINCE PIES. COOKIE, darling ! won’t you let me help you to peel those apples? or, better still, if you are going to bake a tart, do, do give me a bit of dough, and let me make a cake of some kind. It is just work which I delight in. Oh, how I wish I was a cook ! ’ Then cook looked round with her kindly, good- humoured face. ‘ Of course. Miss Alice,’ she said, ^ if your mother, allows you, you may come and help me ; I shall be quite glad of your help.’ ^ But mother has gone out,’ said Alice quickly, ^ so I cannot ask her ; but I know she would allow me — I am quite sure of it. So lend me one of your aprons, cookie dear. I just long to begin.’ ‘ My dear, I could liot do it,’ said cook, shaking her head. ‘ You must wait till you hear what your mother says ; but. Miss Alice, I am to make mince pies to-morrow. Now, if you get permission from your mother when she comes home to-day, then you may help me with the mince pies to-morrow.’ ‘ Oh, but I want to begin at once,’ said Alice, a little fretfully. ‘ I hate having to wait.’ ' Yes, dear, we all want to have our own way just at once, but we often cannot have it. Try to be patient, dear, and I will see that you have a real happy iDaking-day to-morrow.’ Alice was wise enough to take cook’s advice, and on the following day she did thoroughly enjoy her¬ self. Cook gave her a piece of dough and a neat little rolling-pin, besides six tin moulds in which her mince pies were to be baked. When dinner-time came, think how happy the little girl felt when her father declared that a better mince pie than the one made by his little daughter he never had tasted before. ‘ Then, you don’t think that I am wasting my time when 1 peel apples or bake pies, father P ’ she said. ^ Aunt Anne says that young ladies should have nothing to do with kitchen work, and should never meddle with such things at all.’ ‘ 1 can’t agree with her,’ said her father. * I cer¬ tainly would not have you neglect your lessons by any means, but I am always glad to think that my

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- - — - - - — - 374 CHATTERBOX. little girl can make herself useful in household matters when a chance offers. Only, my dear, keep everything in its proper place. Duty first and pleasure afterwards. If you attend to this, Alice, you will be a happy girl, and your mother and I will have reason to be proud of our daughter ! ’ D. M. THE CHILD OP THE LIGHTHOUSE. sTi) vu {Continued from page 3(j3.) go ! all clear!’ shouted Captain Bowles, and the off still closer in along shore, where it would he harder for the bigger follow ; for there was no longer any doubt frigate, and that she was in pursuit. As a last re- . source, the captain had a Trench flag hoisted, but this manoeuvre had no effect on their pursuers, who had now come within range, and began to fire away at the lugger to make her heave to. Captain Bowles had no intention of doing this if he could help it, with the suspicious cargo he had on bopd ; but it was desperate work, for the shot came flying pretty thickly after them, and struck the ropes and cut them, and made eyelet-holes in the sails, until at length there was a great crash as the fore top-mast was shot away. All hope was now over, the Black- eyed Susan struck, and the firing ceased. In the first excitement of the chase, Mrs. Pennell and her little charge had been forgotten as they crouched down in a corner of the deck ; but before the end came, they had been hurried down below and shut up closely in their cabin. There, in almost total darkness, they spent the most awful hour of their lives, and could only guess what was going on by the sounds overhead. From the sudden cessation of firing, then the shouts and tramping of many footsteps, they gathered that the Frenchmen had boarded them, and waited in painful suspense for what should happen next. ' Presently little Ruth whispered: ^ Never mind, rnummy dear ,* they can only take us nrisoners, and then perhaps they will send us to Arras, to the same prison where my father is, and that will be all right.’ But poor Ann found no comfort in this thought ; the whole adventure was so terrible to her, and bitterly indeed did she repent of. her folly in coming on this wild expedition. She thought of her home, of Jonas. What would become of him when the news of this disaster reached him ? Was not her first duty to her husband ? Had she not done wrontj* to allow any other claim to come before his ? ” 1 Wn by conflicting emotions, the poor woman was on her knees in prayer, when there was a sound of footsteps descending, and the cabin door was burst open. It would be difficult to say who was the most startled, the French officer who paused in dismay at door at the sight of a helpless woman and child, whom he naturally took for the captain’s wife and daughter, or Ann Pennell, who, as the lio-fit streamed in through the open door, saw before h^ a man in officer’s uniform, with a drawn sword in his hand, and expected death every moment. It was Ruth who, in her childish confidence and LOBSTERS. r OBSTERS are found in almost all the salt waters of the habitable globe, but are more abundant and also better flavoured in northern latitudes than towards the south. These shell-flsh c^e in such demand in our own country, that, notwithstanding the numbers annually taken on the British coasts, we are obliged to import large quantities from other countries, more especiall^^ from Norway, the rocky coasts of which furnish an almost endless supply. The lobster feeds upon small fish, shrimps, and marine insects 5 of prawns he is exceedingly fond pursuing them with an avidity which clearly shows that his taste quite lies in that direction. The usual method of taking these crustaceans is by a peculiarly shaped trap called a lobster pot. This is a sort of basket stretched on hoops, and covered over with netting, in the centre of which a circular hole IS made, and the pot baited with fish, and sunk by means of heavy stones attached to the hoops. When the traps are examined, they are often found to contain rich spoil ; not only lobsters, but large edible crabs, conger eels, kc., being found huddled together, with very often a large lobster clinging to the outside of the pot, unwilling to relin¬ quish a sight of the bait, but too bulky himself to effect an entrance into the trap-hole. When the net is drawn, the fishermen must be nimble indeed, if rhey hope to secure this outsider, who, as soon as he finds himself above the surface of the sea, shoots off to a distance of several feet, and sinks in deep water like a stone. ^ Lobsters shed their shells annually; and durino’ this process are unfit for the market. While the transition is going on, the poor crustacean retires to some secure crevice out of the way of those enemies wlm would otherwise attack his unprotected body. they are extremely pugnacious, seizing one another with such ferocity, that nothing but the loss of a limb can induce them to relax their hold. When a claw IS thus lost a new one forms in a very short time, so that few lobsters are found in which the claws are of equal size. It has been stated that upwards of a million lobsters annually in Billingsgate alone; and when we _ bei the quantities used in Manchester, Liverpool, and other large towns and cities, w^e may see that some millions of these shell-fish are required for the consumption of the British Isles every year. The flesh of the lobster is so delicate, and it is so useful ior making salads and sauces to eat with ether fish, that it will undoubtedly always be the most popular ot the large and important family of the mwiiie crustscGci. jyj-

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CHATTERBOX. ignorance of danger, was the first to recover her presence of mind. She came forward and explained as heat she could, in the phrases which she had learnt bj heart, that they were on their way to Arras to see Madame de Bercet, the wife of the Commandant there, and she showed the letter addressed to her from Harry Selwood. The officer took it from her, and, after considering for a moment, made signs for them to follow^ him on the deck. He was very cour¬ teous, and gave them time to take their things, which were ready packed for landing. It was a painful moment when they passed through the midst of their sailor friends, all bound and securely guarded, while some of them seemed to have been badly wounded in the struggle. As Ann brushed against the poor captain, he found time to whisper : ‘ Don’t trouble about us, ma’am. We’re a deal too useful to both sides to be hardly treated. And let your folk at home know when you are safe on shore, that we may get our passage-money.’ This she readily promised, and Kuth was able to give him a friendly farewell before they were taken across in a small boat to the French frigate. Here they had another time of suspense to endure, for there was evidently a serious consultation on board with the commander as to what was to be done with them. At last a young lieutenant was sent for who knew English well, and the letter to Madame de Bercet w*as given nim to read and translate. This was it : — 'Freshwater, England, November 4th, 1801. 'Honoured Madam. — How can I ever thank you enough for your great kindness to me in time~ of sickness and trouble ? You gave me life and hope. I make bold to commend to your care my little friend Buth, who will herself tell you her story. My father sends his duty, and joins me in praying for your health and happiness. ' From your grateful and obliged servant, 'Harry Selwood.’ This short epistle had taken a great deal of care and trouble to write, as it was meant to convey more than appeared on the surface, and also had to be most guarded in language, as it was uncertain into whose hands it might fall. After reading the letter, the French officer was directed to ask Kuth a few questions, which she answered with fearless honesty, and the result was that the commander, with a good-natured shrug of the shoulders, remarked that he did not make war against women and children, and that he would land them at the nearest port. This fine sentiment was received in true French fashion, with an outburst of applause from the bystanders, and before long Ann and Kuth found themselves in a small boat being rowed ashore. Their new friend had explained to them that they would be left at the little fishing village of Cayeux, and that their best plan would be to go by liver as far as the town of Abbeville, and then make their way across to Arras, which was less than fifty miles off, with a good road all the way. As they drew near the shore, Kuth suddenly ex¬ claimed : ' Look ! look, dear ! there’s a lighthouse standing up on the cliff very like ours. It almost seems like going home ! ’ I It was wonderful what a comfort and encourage¬ ment it was to both of them to meet with such a familiar sight in a foreign land ; it was to them a good omen, and gave them fresh hope and courage. When they landed it was late in the afternoon, and the day’s work seemed to be over, for the fishermen were mostly standing about in groups or leaning over the low sea-wall, smoking and looking on with languid curiosity at the arrival of the frigate’s boat. A few words from the sailors, before they turned to row back to their ship, happily paved the way for a favourable reception of the strangers. Ann and Kuth went up from the beach, past the fishing- boats and the nets spread out to dry, towards a row of cottages where the women were standing in the open doorways, knitting while they talked to each other, and the children were playing about on all sides. One fat little creature, in a loose blouse and tight-fitting blue-cotton cap, was so startled at the sight of the new-comers, that she lost her footing and rolled over on the stones. In a moment, Kuth sprang forward to pick her up. ' Oh, you darling ! ’ she cried, taking the child up in her arms and covering her with kisses. The little one opened wide her great brown eyes with wonder, in doubt whether this -was a friend or foe ; but she could not resist that bright smiling face so close to hers, and began to stroke and pat it, and so the day was won. The bystanders looked on with interest, and the mother came forward from her doorway, still placidly knitting with her busy fingers — a sunburnt, pleasant-looking young woman ill her tall white cap. Her heart was touched by Kuth’s kindness to her hM, and she was full of pity for the forlorn couple. With a little help from the universal language of signs, she invited them into her cottage, and then Kuth made her understand that they wanted some supper and a night’s lodging. Ann tried to help by holding out a piece of French money to show that they could pay for it, but the fisherman’s wife put the offer aside, with a smile and a shake of the head. Everything was new and strange in that Normandy home, from the dress .of the woman and her children, the clattering wooden sabots which they wore instead of shoes, the quaint crockery and pans, to the great earthen pot in which the soup was cooking over the closed charcoal stove, instead of the open coal fire used in England. Ann Pennell looked very doubt¬ fully at all these new-fangled ways, at first ; but she was so tired and hungry, and so thankful to be safe on dry land after the terrible alarm of the last few hours, that she enjoyed the pot-au-feu and even found nothing to complain of in the soft bed of dried seaweed, made up in a corner of the kitchen, where she and Kuth passed the night. Next morning, after an early breakfast of soup and black bread, and a little dried fish, they had to start at once, for .lean Marie, the fisherman, had promised to take them to the place from whence the barge started to Abbe¬ ville. Ann tried again to persuade his wife to take some payment for her hospitality, but, as the kindly woman still refused, she slipped a piece of money into the hand of one of the children, and they parted with many friendly farewells. {Contimied at page 378.)

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378 CHATTERBOX. A PALLET FOE. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. My worthy friends/ said Chanticleer, ‘ I’ve asked you to assemble here, That you might have a look At that most hideous thing up there : When first I saw it, 1 declare With fear I almost shook ! * Those cunning eyes, those grinning teeth, The sight quite took away my breath. And made me stand and stare ; For you, my friends, must all admit There’s something very strange in it ; How did he get up there ? ^ And where are his swift-running paws. All armed with strong and hideous claws ? (’Tis mystery to me) ; And though I see his bushy tail — A sight which used to make me quail — Where can his body be ? 68. — Tkanspositions. Transpose the following so as to make sentences of the nature of proverbs. 1. To deceive to betray nor listen speak never. 2. Of wit of discretion a pound one ounce worth is. 3. Than hatred open bitter rebuke secret is. 4. The worst of time that is of all wastefulness. 5. No faith tale-bearers in put. 6. Often yourself seldom others pardon. 7. Age reckless rueful youth makes. 8. Through day the roughest patience time and ruru 9. Your enemy rejoice when stumbles not. 10. A temptation you conquer till it resist. 11. To your trust faithfully restore what committed is. 12. Injuries but forgive revenge not them. 13. The mother sloth poverty is of. 14. The picture should be speech the mind of. 15. The parent sincerity truth is of. 16. Antidote employment best sorrow’s is. C. C. [A7isa-ers at page 399.] TtS. * I’m half inclined myself to think That we are on the fateful brink Of some tremendous blow. And that, when we to roost have gone, That creature whom we gaze upon Will then drop down below I 62. — 1. Bice. 2. 63. — 1. Down. 2. Gown. 64. — 1. Dover. 2. Hover. 65. — 1. Amber. Nice. 3. Mice. 4. Dice. 5. Vice. 3. Town. 5. Mown. 4. Sown. 3. Lover. 4. Cover. 2. Umber. 3. Ember. 4. Ombre. ^ Oh, horrid thought ! I think I see The head come running after me, The tail between its ears. My friends, I fear Pd die of fright If I saw such a dreadful sight At my advancing years. ^ What say you, Mrs. Duck ? You gaze So anxiously upon my face. You’ve something, sure, to say ? Then don’t be shy, I beg, my dear ; But, since we’re all a.ssembled here. Why, then, just fire away ! ’ The duck, an honest, good old soul, Replied, ‘ Well, sir, upon the whole, I think our fears should cease ; For that the fox is done for now. Why, even a gander must allow. And so we shall have peace. * Indeed, we all must feel and see He’s done tormenting you and me ; The fox we hated so Will never eat my ducklings more. But hang for ever on that door — An ugly fallen foe ! ’ B. 66. — A book, 67. — 1. Madam, Adam. 3. Lull, loll. 2. Place, lace, ace. 4. Wheat, heal;, eat. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. {Continued from page 375.) hope and courage renewed after the friendly hospitality which they had met with in the village of Cayeux, Ann Pennell and Ruth continued their journey across the north of France. Jean Marie, the fisherman, had kept his word and seen them safely em¬ barked on the timber-barge, where they found a snug corner, somewhat sheltered from the broiling sun, where they had nothing to do but rest, and lazily watch the rippling water as they smoothly glided over it. After a quiet, uneventful day, slowly sailing through the valley of the Somme, passing between meadows, and orchards, and peaceful hamlets, where all was new and strange to them, the travellers at length reached Abbeville just as the evening shadows

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CHATTERBOX. 379 were closing in. They had tried to find out from the bargemen where they could get a comfortable lodging for the night, and one of the men had pointed out to them an old wooden house on the quay, with a signboard hanging in front, on which was written ^ Les Deux Carpes.’ Mrs. Pennell did not much like the look of the place. It was a little inn where rough-looking men were being served over the counter with wine and spirits, and cus¬ tomers were constantly coming in and out. But not knowing what else to do, they went into an inner room and sat down by a table, where some people were eating fried fish and omelette. They were served, and were having supper, when Ann happened to look out through the narrow window which opened into a courtyard. A big red-faced man with an apron, who looked like the host, was pointing towards them and making mysterious signs to a wretched-looking boy, who seemed to shrink from the order he re¬ ceived. Thereupon he was knocked down with a furious blow, and Ann thought that she had never seen such a picture of evil passions as that man’s face. Trembling in every limb, though she knew not what she feared, the poor woman waited till Kuth had finished her meal ; then she gave the waiter a piece of silver, from which he brought her back a handful of extremely small copper coins, and, watch¬ ing her opportunity, she hurried the child out on to the quay, and next down the narrow street, never pausing to look behind in her terror of being pursued. ^ It was not a nice place,’ she explained; ^ we must seek another lodging.’ But whether her fears were well founded or not, she was so thoroughly alarmed, that she did not dare to enter any of the inns or cafes they passed. There seemed nothing left for the two poor, forlorn, homeless creatures, but to wander about the dark streets all night, when they suddenly came upon the great porch of a church. The door was half-open, and there were dim lights within, and as she looked towards them with wistful eyes, Ann seemed to feel by instinct that here was peace and rest for the wanderers. She took the wondering girl by the hand, and led her into a quiet corner of one of the side-chapels, where behind the shadow of ,the great columns they would be unnoticed by the few people who were still moving in and out. They sat down on the high-backed wooden chairs, and presently little Buth, tired out with the long day’s journey, and hushed by the solemn stillness, fell asleep while her old friend kept watch by her side. Ann never forgot that strange vigil in the House of God, to which she always believed that she had been guided, as to a haven of safety in her sorest need. In the cold dawn of the early morning, as the first coloured rays of light were streaming in through the painted-glass windows, the old sacristan found them, to his great dismay, for he knew that he was to blame for not having seen them the evening before. But he was a kind-hearted man, and, pitying their desolate condition, he took them home to his wife, who gave them a kindly welcome and a breakfast of warm milk and bread. She was a bright-eyed, in¬ quisitive little woman, who wanted to know all about them, whence they came and where they were going. and when she made out that the fair-haired girl was going to see her father who was in prison, nothing could exceed her kindness and sympathy. She ex¬ plained to them that there was a diligence which went to Arras, if they had money to pay for it, and when she was satisfied on that score, she took them to the inn from which it started, and took places for them, and put them under the special care of the driver, who was a friend of hers. Nor did her kind¬ ness end here, for she went with Ann to the market¬ place, and helped her to buy a basketful of bread and meat and milk for the journey, which proved a most useful precaution, as it was difficult to get food on the road. The coach journey was slow and tedious, for it was a great lumbering vehicle, heavily laden with passengers and luggage, and drawn by four horses which were not often changed. When they came to a steep hill, a yoke of oxen would be taken from their ploughing in the fields and fastened on in front, greatly to Ruth’s amusement, for she and Ann sat up on the top in the banquette near the driver, and had a fine view of all that went on. It was early in the afternoon of the second day that the travellers came in sight of Arras, the city of their desires, rising out of the plain, with its fortified citadel, its towers and churches. The long suspense, the excitement, the fatigue, seemed suddenly to over¬ whelm the poor child ; she clasped her friend’s hand tightly and burst into tears. Now, after all these difficulties by sea and land, with her journey’s end in view, her heart was full of fear and anxious thought. ^ Oh, mummy dear,’ she whispered, ‘ what will my father be like ? Will he know me ? Will he own me ? Will he love me as you and Jonas do, for you have been my real father and mother ? ’ It was impossible to answer such questions ; all that Ann could do was to soothe and comfort her darling, and bid her have courage and hope now that the end was so near. When they reached the city, the diligence drove up to the ^ Mouton d’Or ’ in the Market-place, and here their good friend, the coachman, specially recom¬ mended the travellers to the care of the kindly, good- tempered landlady. She took them up at once to a quiet room under the roof, with two small white beds on a polished floor, and which seemed a very home of luxury to them after all they had met with since they left England. Here they waited till the chief bustle of the day was over, and the coach had driven away with much barking of dogs and cracking of whips; and the market-people had cleared their stalls in the market¬ place, and loaded their carts and paid their reckoning, and driven off to the country again, till next week brought them back again. Not until then had Madame Benoit a moment to spare to devote herself to her guests, and bring them down into her own little snug room to have supper with her, on such dainties as bacon and winter cabbage and omelette, and cheese and walnuts for desert. She also began talking to them very loudly to make sure of their understanding ; but, alas 1 in vain, till Ruth bethought herself of showing the letter addressed to Madame de Bercet. Then they made out something from her admiring tone, and the oft-

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A Haven of Eest. repeated word ^ Good, good !' which she had probably learnt from some passing Englishman. Kuth then made signs that they must go to see her, but this the landlady earnestly negatived. No, no ; it was not for strangers to go to the Citadel or the Commandant’s house. But Madame de Bercet was good, like an angel ; she went to see every day a poor, lame boy, the child of her cousin, the concierge at the Hotel de Yille, and they must go there and try to meet her. It took some time and much repetition before Ruth understood much of this, and then it was with a feeling of dism?y. To be so near and yet so far from the object of her journey was a cruel disappoint¬ ment, and filled her heart with the sickness of hope defenvd. {Continued at page 390.) 0

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CHATTERBOX. 381 Father and Son in search of the Lost Will. THE LOST WILL. IHEN old Miss Winton died, great excitement was caused among the villagers in the neighbour¬ hood of Greylands when the fact became known that her will could not be found. That she had made a will— and, indeed, two wills — was w^ell known, and of these two wdlls one could be produced, but, then, where was the other ? This lady had lived for years in the house of her brother-in-law. Colonel Grey, of Greylands. He had married her sister many years before, and on the death of Mrs. Grey he had requested Miss Winton to remain at Greylands and look after the household, and she gladly agreed to do so, as she had always felt a great regard for the Colonel, as well as for his only son, George Winton Grey, her nephew. Now Miss Winton, though a warm-hearted old lady, was rather eccentric and hasty of temper at times. Only once in the course of ten years had she and Colonel Grey ever differed so much in opinion on any subject as to cause a break in their friendship. We need not enter into this difference, but at the time it had seemed so serious that the impul¬ sive old lady had gone to her solicitor and dictated a will, in which all her property, which was very considerable, was devised to a certnin charitable institution. This will was duly signed, and the in¬ stitution had been made aware of the fact. Upon the death of Miss Winton they had applied for this legacy, but had been met by Colonel Grey with the assurance that, to his certain knowledge, another will in favour of George Winton Grey, had been executed at a much later date, although this will could not as yet be found.

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382 CHATTERBOX. Here was certainly food for the lawyers, but in the meantime father and son resolved that every nook and cranny of the old house of Grey lands should be searched, so as to find the lost will. But why should the Colonel be so sure of the existence of this later will as he seemed to be ? Well, for a very good reason. On Miss Winton’s death-bed she had said to him, although in very feeble accents, that when he read her will both he and her dear nephew George would feel pleased. She had also said that her will would be found in her strong-box. This was all that passed between them before the death took place. And now we may be sure that a thorough search for the lost will was set on foot, although what box Miss Winton could mean when she spoke of her strong-box no one knew. An examination of her bedroom revealed the fact that she had several tea- caddies and sweet-meat boxes — in most of which money was found, but no papers of any kind were forthcoming. Then the shelves of the library passed imder review ; every book was taken out of its place and shaken, every box was opened, and its contents examined, but without result ; and what to do next they could not tell. It really seemed as if, after all their troubles, the case must be decided by the lawyers. But it was not so to be, for just when the Colonel and his son had given up all hope of finding the will, a housemaid rushed into the room with a quantity of paper tom into strips in her hand. ^ Look, sir ! look ! ’ she exclaimed, excitedly. ' These scraps of paper, are they not pieces of poor Miss Winton’s will .P’ The Colonel took the soiled and dusty fragments in his hands, and, after a hasty examination, he said, ‘ I do believe you are right, Anne ; but where did you find these fragments ? Take time, my good girl,’ he added, ^ and speak slowly.’ Then Anne related the following particulars. She had been scrubbing out her pantry, as usual. Every drawer had been pulled out, every shelf scrubbed down. While busy at this work, she had lifted an old wooden box, in which fire-lighters used to be kept, when out jumped a mouse, which, after running round the pantry in a panic, had disappeared down a hole in the skirt¬ ing of the wall. A further examination of the wooden box revealed the fact that four very small baby mice were inside, all of them lying on a soft layer of woollen rags and torn fragments of paper, which had evidently been gathered together by the mother mouse for the comfort of her little family. Attracted by the look of the torn fragments of paper, Anne had examined them, and had been able to read these words : ^ Last will and testament.’ In a moment it had dawned upon her mind that this was her poor mistress’s lost will, and she accordingly had run to her master with the torn scraps in her hand. To make a long story short, Anne’s idea proved to be a correct one. The pieces of paper were pasted to¬ gether, so that not only could the will be easily read, but the date being more than a year later than the date of the first will, no one could dispute the fact that old Miss Winton’s property must go to her nephew, George Winter Grey. The only mystery which remained uncleared up to the last was this : ‘ Where had the mouse found the will ?’ K. THE LITTLE BIRD’S SONG. ^ LITTLE bird with feathers brown Sat singing in a tree ; The song was very soft and low, But sweet as it could be. And all the people passing by Looked up to see the bird That made the sweetest melody That ever they had heard. But all the bright eyes looked in vain, For birdie was so small, And with a modest dark-brown coat. He made no show at all. ^ Why, father,’ little Gracie said, ‘ Where can the birdie be ? If I could sing a song like that, ^ I’d sit where folk could see.’ * I hope my little girl will learn A lesson from the bird. And try to do what good she can. Not to be seen or heard. ^ This birdie is content to sit Unnoticed on the way. And sweetly sing his Maker’s praise From dawn to close of day. ^ So live, my child, all through your life. That, be it short or long. Though others may forget your looks. They’ll not forget your song.’ YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ^ EVA AND TOPSY. (^onclvded from page 371.) OPSY was soon a noted charncter in the establishment. Her talent for every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry — for dancing, tum¬ bling, climbing, singing, whistling, imitating every sound that hit her fancy, was amazing. In her play- hours she always had every child in the establishment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration and wonder. Topsy was smart, energetic, and quick at learning aU the little things which she had to do. No one could make a bed better than Topsy when she chose, but then she didn’t very often choose. If left alone for an hour or two, she would hold quite a carnival of confusion. Instead of making the bed, she would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow¬ cases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till

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CHATTERBOX. feathers were sticking out in all directions. She would climb the posts, and hang head downwards from the tops ; flourish the bed-clothes all over the apartment; dress the bolster up in Mies Ophelia’s night-clothes, and enact various performances with that — singing and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the looking-glass. ^ Topsy ! ’ Miss Opnmia would say when at the end of all patience, ^ what does make you act so ? ’ ^Dunno, missis — I ’spects cause I’s wicked! ’ ‘ I don’t know what I shall do with you, Topsy 1 ’ ^ Law, missis, you must whip me ; my old missis allars whipped me. I ain’t used to workin’ unless I gets whipped.’ * Why, Topsy, I don’t want to whip you. You can do well if you’ve a mind to ; what is the reason you won’t ? ’ * Laws, missis, I’s used to whippin’ ; I ’spects it’s good for me.’ Miss Ophelia tried whipping, and Topsy made a terrible commotion, screaming, groaning, and imploring, though half an hour later she would express the utmost contempt for the whole aflFair. It was Sunday afternoon, and Miss Ophelia and Eva had returned from afternoon service, when Mr. St. Clare heard loud exclamations proceeding from that lady’s room. The cause was very soon made known to him by Miss Ophelia dragging in Topsy, saying as she did so, ' I zoill tell your master.’ Before going out she had shut Topsy up in her room, and given her a hymn to study. The naughty child had found the key of the bureau, got a bonnet¬ trimming, and cut it all to pieces, to make dolls’ jackets. There was a little glass room at the corner of the veranda, which Mr. St. Clare used as a sort of read¬ ing-room ; and while he and Miss Ophelia were talk¬ ing over the best methods of dealing with Topsy, Eva had made a silent sign to the black child to follow her, and together they disappeared into this place. Kaising a curtain which covered the glass door, St. Clare and Miss Ophelia watched the two chil¬ dren. They sat on the floor, opposite each other. Careless unconcern was on Topsy’s face, but large tears stood in Eva’s eyes. ‘ What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Whv won’t you try and be good ? Don’t you love hody^ Topsy ? ’ ^ ^ Dunno nothing ’bout love ; I loves candy and such¬ like, that’s all,’ said Topsy. ' But you love your father and mother ? ’ ^ Never had none, ye know. I tolled ye that. Miss Eva.’ ' Oh, I know,’ said Eva, sadly ; < but, hadn’t you any brother, or sister, or aunt, or - ’ ‘No, none of ’em — never had nothing nor no¬ body.’ ‘ But, Topsy, if you would only try to be good, you might - ’ ‘ Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger if I was ever so good,’ said Topsy. ‘ If I could be skinned, and come white, I’d try then.’ ‘But people can love you if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you if you were good.’ Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh. ‘ Don’t you think so ? ’ said Eva. ‘No, she can’t bar’ me, ’cause I’m a nigger! She would as soon have a toad touch her. There can’t nobody love niggers, and niggers can’t do nothin’. 1 don’t care,’ said Topsy, beginning to whistle. ‘Oh, Topsy, poor child, /love you!’ said Eva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin white hand on Topsy’s shoulder. ‘ I love you, because you haven’t any father or mother, or friends —because you’ve been a poor abused child ! I love you and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan’t live a great while ; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good for my sake ; it’s only a little while I shall be with you.’ The round keen eyes of the black child were over¬ cast with tears; large bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. Eva had found the way to poor Topsy’s heart. ‘ Oh, dear. Miss Eva ! dear Miss Eva ! ’ said the child, ‘ I will try ! I will try ! I never did care nothin’ about it before.’ Eva was right. Her little life on earth was to be a very short one, shorter even than she imagined. ‘ Father,’ said Eva one afternoon, soon after this talk with Topsy, ‘ I just want auntie to cut off some of my hair ; there’s too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to give some of it away.’ It was soon cut off, the beautiful hair, and the household, assembled by Eva’s wish, the dying child gave to each a curl of her hair, and some loving words of parting. One by one the servants left her room weeping, and she thought all had gone, when a voice pleaded, ‘ Oh, Miss Eva, I’ve been a bad girl, but won’t you give me a curl too ? ’ ‘ Yes, poor Topsy ! to be sure, I will. There — every time you look at that, think that I love you, and want you to be a good girl ! ’ ‘ Oh, Miss Eva, I is trying ! ’ said Topsy p earnestly ; ‘ but it’s so hard to be good ! ’Pears like I ain’t used to it, no ways ! ’ ‘ J esus knows it, Topsy ; He is sorry for you ; He will help you.’ Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently sent away from the apartment by Miss Ophelia ; but, as she went, she hid the precious curl in her bosom. The next time the black child looked upon the white child’s face was when, pallid and cold, it lay stiff in death. Quietly Topsy stole in to lay her offering, a simple flower — a half-blown tea-rose — at the feet of the dead Eva. She placed it there, and then, with a wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept and moaned in her anguish. ‘ Oh, Miss Eva ! Oh, Miss Eva ! I wish I was dead, too — I do ! She said she loved me. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! there ain’t nobody left now — there ain’t ! ’ ‘ I can love you,’ said Miss Ophelia, ‘ though I am not like that dear little child, and I will try to help you to grow up a good Christian girl.’ And, learning from Eva’s example. Miss Ophelia kept her word. James Cassidy.

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384 CHATTERBOX. “ Topsy, what does make you act so ? ”

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CHATTERBOX 385

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386 CHATTERBOX. i I i 1 i SAVED BY A BAGPIPE. A HIGHLAND bagpiper was one evening going from a village to a neighbouring town, having only collected a few coppers after playing all day. On his way he asked a Doy to show him the nearest way to the town which he wished to reach. The boy told him to go across some fields, which he pointed out to him, and which would bring him to a road leading directly to the town. After the bagpiper had got to the middle of the second field, he noticed a bull coming at full speed towards him. He had heard that some animals liked music, so he took out his bagpipe and began playing. The bull stopped as soon as he heard the music, and seemed much pleased, but at each attempt of the man to escape the bull’s anger returned. It became evident that he must either play all night, or be gored by the bull ; but, presently, help came in the shape of the farmer with his dog, who drove the bull off, and so rescued the poor bagpiper from his dangerous position. SEEKIlilG FOB GOLD. /"HEUMATIC fever,’ said the doctor. Joe Hart, the sick man, groaned. Mrs. Hart caught her breath and wondered how they were to live ; Deb and Jack, standing just outside the tent, looked dismayed. Well they might, poor child¬ ren ! They were at the Ben¬ digo Gold Fields, in Australia, thou¬ sands of miles away from friends. Joe Hart, their father, had done badly in Eng¬ land ; he had never been able to say ‘No’ to temp¬ tation; and so, though not vicious, he was always in trouble. When there was a rush to the newly found gold diggings in Victoria, he too caught the ‘gold fever,’ threw up his situation (a very poor one), and with wife and children started for the colonies. This might not have proved a bad move, after all, if he would have consented to settle down to steady work in Melbourne, or even in the bush ; but steady work was not in Joe’s line— he was in a hurry to be rich. Now, many strong working-men made fortunes at the gold-diggings at this time ; but for every one who made a fortune, there were about nine hundred and ninety-nine who did not. Some of these paid their way comfortably, many more failed utterly, and some few died of want in the very midst of that golden harvest. Before Joe had been at the Bendigo diggings many weeks, the hard work and the exposure had been too much for him, and he was now down with rheumatic fever. ‘ What’s to be done?’ said Deb to Jack, as the doctor hurried away ; doctors were scarce there, and their time was valuable. ‘ I suppose I’ve got to be father now,’ replied Jack, slowly. ‘ If we could only do something for the diggers,’ said Deb. ‘ Mother said this morning that she would wash, only her wrists are so weak ; and besides, she must look after father. If only - ’ ‘ I have it I ’ cried Jack ; ‘ were near the best bit of drinking water hereabouts ; if we could only take it down the gullies ju^t when the men are hot and thirsty, eh ? ’ ‘ They wouldn’t pay much just for water,’ said Deb. ‘ No ! but they would for lemonade^ cried J ack. ‘ Look here. Deb, I’ve some coppers and so have you ; we’ll buy lemons and sugar, maKe lemonade, and I’ll sell it.’ The children’s coppers only bought one lemon and half a pound of sugar; but this made four glasses of lemonade, which they easily sold for sixpence a glass. The next day they made a larger quantity, which they sold quite as readily. ‘ Deb, I’ve another idea,’ said Jack that evening. ‘ If I could go further off I could do better still ; we are only outside the diggings, you know. I’ll strap the can on to that barrow — only the can is too small to hold all I want to make.’ ‘ I believe mother could spare that old treacle cask inside ; I’d scrub it out. Only we mustn’t tell vet what it’s for, because we want to surprise mother with our money soon. Then we’ll wrap wet towels round the cask to keep it cool just before we start.’ ‘ But, Dei), you can’t go so far.’ ‘ Oh, yes ; the men are rough, but never rude. I’m safe. I’ll take turns wheeling, and mind the barrow while you take tinsful among the men. "W on’t that do?’ ‘'Well, as we’re partners, and you’re eldest, I suppose you must have your way,’ replied Jack. Mrs. Hart willingly lent Deb the barrel ; she was too anxious about her husband, and too thankful at seeing her children cheerful and bus}^, to make searching inquiries. So next day the little barrow was wheeled a mile or two off, where water was scarce, and Deb and Jack began work in earnest. A few weeks passed. The sick man was no better, only growing strangely patient, Mrs. Hart thought. She was sitting beside his rough bed one evening, while Deb and Jack were seated just out¬ side. The tears, unknown to herself, were running down her face. Deb looking in saw this, and rushed to her mother’s side. ‘ What is it ? Is father worse ? ’ ‘ No, child ; but the flour barrel’s just empty, the bacon gone, not an eatable thing scarcely left, and your father not likely to work for months. God help us ! What are we to do ? ’ ‘ God will help us ! God has helped us ! ’ said Deb. And she went outside to Jack. A few whispered words, and the two dug up a little bag hidden behind their tent, and brought it to their mother. ‘ Guess what’s here ! ’ cried the children. ‘ Bits of quartz or mica, I suppose,’ replied she, trying to smile, as she saw their bright faces ; ‘ some childish “ treasures,” I suppose.’ For answer they unfastened the bag, and poured into her lap sixpences, shillings, coppers, and, most valuable of all, some tiny bits of gold dust, given by

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CHATTERBOX. 387 good-natured successful diggers, who sympathised with the little purveyors of lemonade. It was with a feeling almost of awe that she listened to the account the children gave. She would not interfere with their plan, only now they had the advantage of her skill and experience. Every week through the hot season they brought her home a profit of from twenty to thirty shillings. The money did not go very far with a sick man to care for, but it kept them all well fed. Joe Hart recovered from the fever only to find that he was a cripple, and could never do hard work again. For weeks he was too weak to move about ; but he was an altered man. He would never dig for gold again ; but he was seeking a better treasure. Among the few things that they had brought with them to the diggings was an old Bible. If it had had a market value it would have been sold long ago, but it was old, and Joe prized it only because it had been his mother’s, and contained the family register of births, deaths, and marriages. This was why it was with them at the diggings. But now, in those dreary weeks of convalescence, the book became interesting for itself, Joe had nothing to do; the children were away, his wife busy ; there were no other books to read. He read the Bible at first for something to read, and then because he found in it treasures which would outlast the gold that so many were killing themselves to gain. No wonder he became patient, and gentle, and humble. He had found the true riches — the love of God as shown in the life and death of Christ. The children felt the new influence, so did their mother. All worked with lighter hearts. When the cooler weather came, Deb and Jack gave up lemonade, but sold hot coffee and ginger-bread instead. When their father was able to move, he gave them all the help he could, and the two children prospered wonderfully. The rough diggers were constant customers, and as time went on the Harts were able to do more than pay their way — ^they began to put by money ; and Deb and J ack had a little cart and donkey to carry their goods to the miners. Years passed, and the two children, now grown up, have a good business in Melbourne, and their father is able, by steady but light work, to support himself. They have enough of this world’s goods, and are thankful to the Providence that guided them through that dark time at the diggings. ONLY A SOLDIER’S BLANKET. WHEN the gallant Sir Ralph Abercromby was mortally wounded in the battle of Aboukir, he w^as carried in a litter on board the Foudroyant. To ease his pain, a soldier’s blanket was placed under his head, from which he experienced great relief. He asked what it was. ‘It’s only a soldier’s blanket,’ was the answer. ‘ Whose blanket is it ’ he asked, half lifting him¬ self up. ‘ Only one of the men’s.’ ^I wish to know the name of the man whose blanket this is,’ insisted the dying commander. * t is Duncan Roy’s, of the 42nd, Sir Ralph,’ answered the attendant. ‘ Then see that Duncan Roy gets his blanket this very night,’ said the brave man, not forgetting, even in the last agonies, the welfare and comfort of another soldier, however humble his rank. HUNTING- THE POLAR BEAR. The Polar bear of the Arctic regions is a very formidable animal indeed. It has a narrow head and pointed snout, while its neck is much longer than the neck of other bears. The soles of its feet are remarkably hairy, which enables the animal to walk or run with ease on slippery ice. It feeds mainly on fish and seals, rarely attacking other animals. It is the largest of bears, often measuring nine feet in length, and is also very strong. It is also more aggressive towards man than any other of the bear family. The dwellers in the far north, as well as men en¬ gaged in Arctic explorations, are fond of hunting the Polar bear, as its flesh is quite worth eating, while its fat is most useful for burning, and its skin for converting into warm rugs and other clothing ; but as it is a bold and fierce creature, no man pursues this animal, either on land or water, without being well armed, sure of his rifle, and a good marksman, for once in the grip of a Polar bear, ihe hunier would have but small chance of escaping with life. On one occasion a boat’s crew, having left their ship embedded in the ice, went off on a bear-hunt, partly for the fun of the thing, and partly that they might obtain a supply of fresh meat, so needful for men who have to live from day to day on salted rations. They were all trusty men and true, but they little knew what lay before them. They had intended to land on the ice and deal with the animal on the solid surface, but, to their consternation, they found their boat suddenly in the grasp of an enormous male bear, which had swum towards them without their seeing it, as its head alone was above water. With the greatest boldness, the bear reared itself up, and seized the boat with its huge paws, at the same time attempting ta clamber into the boat. After the first surprise, the men quickly prepared to give their visitor a warm reception. As the boat was in danger of being upset by the weight of the bear, one man, with his ice-axe, tried to chop off its legs, and thus disable it ; but he was scarcely close enough to the bear to do this all in a moment. He tripped over the legs of the man next him, and fell into the bottom of the boat, and could not quickly recover himself so as to renew the attack. Meanwhile, however, one of his comrades, a man of great skill and daring, had taken a cool and steady aim with his rifle, hitting the animal right between the eyes. But, though the wound was fatal, the animal did not at once die. With the blood spout¬ ing from its wound, it made one more effort to board the boat, but the man with the axe, who had by this time recovered his footing, felled the creature with a blow. It fell back into the water quite dead ; but, lest it should sink beneath the surfacej

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Hunting the Polar Bear. and thus be lost, all four men seized it by its shaggy hair and its huge limbs ; then, fastening it by a rope to the stern of the boat, they returned to their ship. But, although all’s well that ends well, this little adventure might have had a very different termina¬ tion. Without a good deal of cool courage on the part of the men, the bear, by its sheer weight, would certainly have overturned the boat, when their posi¬ tion would have been one of the gravest peril. B.

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CHATTERBOX. 389 THE CHRYSAHTHEMXJM. The Chrysanthemum, a beautiful and favourite flower, is, in its wild state, a native of nearly all the temperate parts of the old world, where, under various names, it p^rows abundantly in fields, meadows, and other places. It has large flowers with white rays and a yellow disc. Of the cultivated chry¬ santhemums, the variety is very great, and is added to every year, the most beautiful of them all being a pure white double flower of large size, and with long petals. The Paris Daisy, or Marguerite, now so popular as a bedding plant with deep yellow blooms, is one of the endless varieties of this plant. Long before the chrysanthemum was known in England, the gardeners of China and Japan were enthusiastic cultivators of this beautiful flower, which gives its name in the latter country to the highest order of honour, viz., ^ The Order of the Golden Flower.’ The colours of the cultivated varieties are exceedingly varied and beautiful, while the fact that the chrysan¬ themum blossoms late in autumn and far into the winter months, when other flowers are scarce, renders it a universal favourite. D.

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390 CHATTERBOX. A PRETTY STORY ABOUT CARLYLE. The grim old Chelsea hermit when he was a child saved, in a broken tea-cup, a little fortune of three bright half-pence. One day, however, a poor old beggar came to the door with a bad arm, and Carlyle, touched with pity, at once gave him all his treasure. In after life, in referring to the incident, he used to say, ‘ The feeling of happiness was most intense. I would give 100^. now to have that sensation for one moment back again.^ THE CHILD OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. {Continued from page 380.) T was a fortnight later, and with the opening days of Decem¬ ber, the winter had begun in earnest. There had been heavy snowstorms, and the country around Arras looked very bleak and desolate; but nowhere in all that wintry landscape was there a more dreary spot than the Citadel, as it stood out with its massive walls ^ against the grey sky. In a gloomy cell, in the very heart of the prison, a man was bending over a book which he was trying to read by the dim light which came in through a narrow grated window, high up in the wall. At first sight, the bent figure, the white hair and deeply marked lines on the face, gave him all the appear¬ ance of age, but Major Delamere was really only in the prime of life ; it was trouble and anxietv, not the lapse ©f time, which had so worn and weakened him. Poor man ! eight long years in one French prison after another might well leav& him the wreck of his former self, for it was on the 21st of Decem¬ ber, 1793, that he had been taken prisoner when Toulon was regained by the French, under the young Corsican ariillery officer, Napoleon Bona¬ parte. hat a contrast there had been between the fate of the two men whose prospects for the future were somewhat similar in those days! Napoleon had rken to the highest position which, perhaps, the world had ever seen in those eight years, and was nearly at the zenith of his power, though still only first Consul and not yet Emperor. As for the un¬ fortunate English officer, he had been suddenly checked in his career : his hopes of distinction and promotion were destroyed, and he himself con¬ demned to a living death. ■Major Delamere seemed indeed to be absolutely friendless and forgotten. In. the early days of his captivity, he had made desperate efiForts, and given almost all he possessed, to obtain news of his family, left behind in Jamaica; in this he had suc¬ ceeded, with the result that the terrible story of the death of his wife and child had come upon him with crushing force, and left him without any care or interest in life. He had heard no more, and knew nothing of the sailing for England of the faithful nurse and his little Kuth; and no rumour of the shipwreck and his child’s escape had ever reached him through those prison walls. Without hope and almost without faith — em¬ bittered against God and man — it would have been difficult to find a more wretched man than he was, on that December afternoon. He could hear, from the courtyard without, the sound of noisy voices and even laughter from some of his fellow-prisoners who were snow-balling each other ; but that any of his companions in adversity should be so callous and reckless only deepened the gloom for him. Pre¬ sently he heard footsteps in the corridor outside and the door opened, but he did not even raise his head, for he supposed that it was only the young midship¬ man who shared his cell. He was roused by a gentle touch on his shoulder. ^How are you to-day, my friend?’ asked a genial voice, with a strong Irish accent ‘ Would it not be well for your health to take some exercise out of doors in this cold weather ? ’ ‘ Why should I care for my health, M. I’Abbd ? ’ he asked, looking up at the new-comer, a pleasant little man, wearing a worn black cassock and a shovel hat. ‘If there be no other way of leaving this dungeon, surely one need not greatly wish to delay being carried out,’ he added bitterly. ‘Nay, Major Delamere, such words are unworthy of a brave man like you,’ said his friend, as he sat down on the low bench by his side. ‘ But do not fear, I am not going to preach to you; we have often talked the matter over, and you know all that I should say. Indeed, I do feel so deeply for you that I would do anything to cheer you. Have you finished your book? Are you ready for me to lend you the next volume ? ’ ^ ‘ No, M. I'Abbi^ ; I cannot read, I cannot thinkV sighed the poor man. ‘ I can only count the long weary hours as they crawl away. Good Heavens, man 1 how much longer is this to go on ? ’ ‘This terrible war cannot last for ever,’ replied the priest gravely ; ‘ we may have peace now at any time. I was afraid that you would find this gloomy weather trying, and I have come to have a talk with you. I have often wondered that you do not rouse your friends to exert themselves on your behalf. It is no unusual thing, surely, for prisoners of war to be exchanged ? ’ ‘I have no friends now,’ was the sad reply. ‘Tho^ I had in former years have forgotten me, and it may be to the interest of some people to believe me dead. My poor wife must have inherited large estates in Jamaica from her mother, and no doubt her cousin, .Joseph Colville, has taken posses¬ sion of everything.’ ‘ Had you no children ? ’ asked his friend, looking up searchingly at him. ‘ Surely, for their sakes, you should assert your rights.’ ‘ I had one little daughter,’ he replied, after a moment’s pause. ‘ Only think of it, M. I’Abbd, if she had lived, she would have bteu nearly eleven years old ! ’ ‘ What was her name ? Tell me all about her ! ’ ‘ She was a little toddling, fair-haired creature,

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CI-IATTERBOX. 391 and we called her liutli after her mother. But I cannot talk about her/ he added in a voice broken with emotion. ‘ She must have died with my wife, when Colville Place was burnt down by the Maroons. Why do you torture me by recalling the past?’ ^Indeed, my friend,’ was the earnest reply, ^you must pardon me as you would a physician who probes the wound which he seeks to heal.^ By a strange train of events, this letter has fallen into my hands ; will you look at it ? ’ and he held out the sheet of thin paper, yellow and discoloured, which had been found in Ruth’s casket. Major Delamere took it in his thin wasted fingers wdth languid curiosity ; but as his glance fell upon the handwriting, he gave a start and trembled so much that he could scarcely hold it. His friend, who was watching him anxiously, gave a sigh of relief, for until that moment there had been a lingering doubt in his own mind. Now he rose to take leave, quietly remarking: ‘Madame de Bercet expects you in her salon to¬ night at six o’clock, by special permission of the Commandant. She wishes to speak to you.’ The poor man was so absorbed that he made no reply at the time, though, later on, he bitterly regretted that he had not demanded an instant ex¬ planation of the mystery. With passionate eager¬ ness, he read again and again his wife’s last letter, written in mortal anguish and blotted with her tears, which came to him after all these years: a voice from the dead. Left alone once more in his prison. Major Dela¬ mere sat there, with his face buried in his hands, lost in thought and quite unconscious of everything but this sudden fiash of hope which seemed to dazzle and bewilder him. What were those strange words which his friend had spoken? ‘The physician probes the wound which he seeks to heal.’ Surely for sorrow such as his there was no healing on this side the grave. It was not strange that he was very slow to rouse himself from the sullen, dull despair in which he had lived so long, and which had become a second nature to him. Again he roused himst-lf to look at that precious letter and tried to decipher the faded characters. What was the meaning of that last broken sentence, ‘Places taken in Royal George^ bound for Ports¬ mouth .... you will meet .... Nan such a trea¬ sure ....?’ Could it be possible that, after her mistress’s death, good, faithful Nan, the black nurse, had sailed with her little charge, Ruth, in the Royal George after all ? It could have no other rneaning, and by slow degrees he came to the conclusion that the child must have been living when that letter was written. What could Madame de Bercet have to say to him ? W’^hat news might she have ? He scarcely dared to think of it. The great clock in the tower struck four, and he found himself, as usual, counting the strokes; but now what a different meaning the flight of time had for him! There was some¬ thing he looked forward to of such keen, over¬ whelming interest, that he felt he could barely live through those two hours of suspense. But time, unresting and unhasting, tarries for no man’s hopes or fears, and at the appointed hour Major Delamere found himself following his guide along the stone corridors and through the massive doors, each of which had to be unlocked and locked again with a clank which seemed to send a chill through his heart. ^ , As he passed onwards into the Commandants house it was all like a dream to him, accustomed as he was to nothing beyond the bare walls of his prison ; but presently he noticed that he was step¬ ping on a polished floor at the threshold of a large chamber dimly lighted by wax candles. The flicker¬ ing gleams of a wood fire fell upon him as he entered, and'the first thing he noticed was his own reflection in an oval mirror on the wall. He started uncon¬ sciously at the sight. Was it possible that his was that gaunt figure in threadbare garments, with white hair and long un¬ trimmed beard ? It was so long since he had given one passing thought to his appearance- — why should he, indeed, when only his companions in misfortune and his gaolers ever saw him ? As he gazed, the dim memory rose up before him of a gaUant young officer who was used to far other society, and held an honoured place in it. Suddenly he became conscious of the soft rustling of a lady’s dress, and looking up he recognised Madame de Bercet, who had once visited him in sickness. She was dressed entirely in black, and her small, slight figure had the stateliness of one accus¬ tomed to authority. She was no longer young, but still bore traces of beauty, and her great dark eyes shone out like lamps in her pale face. She held out her hand to her visitor, and said gently in French, ‘ M. I’Abb^ will have prepared you for what I have to say. I think you knew the handwriting of the letter he gave you, monsieur ?’ ‘ Yes, madame ; but I cannot conceive how it came into his hands. I pray you do not keep me in sus¬ pense from mistaken kindness. If you have any news, tell me at once, madame,’ he pleaded. ‘ I have gone through so much already that the bitterness of death -is past ; nothing worse can befall me, and happiness does not kill.’ For one moment she paused as in doubt, then, pointing towards a young girl sitting by the fireside, whom he had not yet noticed, she said, ‘ That child brought the letter. She has had a long and perilous journey from Fngland to come here, and she told me a strange story. Shall she tell it to you, monsieur ? He tried to speak, but no sound came ; then he made a step forward, and Ruth took courage to look up at him. This stern, grave man, with the sad eyes which seemed to pierce her with their questioning gaze, was not the father she had dreamt of, and it was all she could do to keep back her tears. Madame de Bercet saw it all with the keen instinct of sympathy, but she felt powerless to help. ‘ My little Ruth,’ she said tenderly, in her imperfect English, ‘ show to him the locket with the picture of your mother.’ . • i,* He started at the name and buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh, my Godl’ he murmured, ‘if this be true I will never doubt Thee more.’ {Continued at page 394.)

Page 404

Page 405

CHATTERBOX. 393 Lord Mayor’s Show in the Olden Time,

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394 C MAT KR BOX. OLD CUSTOMS. LORD MAYOR’S SHOW IN THE OLDEN TIME. MID all the changes of this present century, the City cere¬ monial or procession called the Lord Mayor’s Show, be¬ cause he is the leading per¬ sonage in it, has kept its position as a popular and attractive sight, and the day when it takes place is a sort of holiday in Central London. Our forefathers were even more fond of sight-seeing than people are now, so that all important public affairs had usually a display or pageant attending them, and the old-fashioned Lord Mayor s Show was a specially important event, the citizens trying to give it much pomp and gi’andeur. The beginning of this yearly procession dates from the reign of King John, early in the thirteenth cen¬ tury — the first Mayor of London being appointed about A.D. 1216. It was then the rule that, after a new mayor had been chosen, he should present him¬ self before the king, or else before the Justices. Hence arose the procession to Westminster, since the royal palace was there, also the court where the Justices sat. At first the Lord Mayor’s Day fell on the 29th of October, but, when the new style was adopted and the reckoning altered, the date was changed to November 9th. Through some centuries, it appears that the Lord Mayor on this day did actually come into the royal presence ; indeed, he was accounted a person of im¬ portance, the equal of an earl. At the coronation banquet in man)^ reigns, he attended the table as chief butler, receiving the gift of a gold cup. Edward III. gave the City leave to have gold and silver maces carried before the mayor and sheriffs, and there is also a sword-bearer belonging to the City. One rather peculiar attendant upon this dignitary was his hench-boy, who is shown in the engraving, walking beside the mayor’s horse. This name was properly haunch-boy, from his office, and he wore a gold chain, while he bore aloft a staff, at the tip of which was a bunch of flowers, secured by a handkerchief of fine lace, the end of which were made to wave underneath. For many years, the mayor rode, as seen in our illustration, on horseback, not in a carriage. The last who went thus was Sir Gilbert Heathcote, a.d. 1711, while Anne was queen. Many people can remember when part of the journey was made by the river: the Lord Mayor and the chief personages ^ took water ’ at Blackfriars for YVestminster, and returned the same way, joining the procession again, which waited in the road near the bridge for their return. The mayors began this practice in a.d. 1463, Sir .lohn Norman having then a splendid barge built for himself, and he was rowed along the Thames with silver oars. Twelve of the chief London companies also had grand new barges. One of the remarkable parts of the old Lord Mayor’s Show was the pageant, consisting of giants, gipsies, blackamoors, men strangely masked, and a variety of odd figures. Then there were persons representing the City trades, archers, pikemen, torch- bearers, and bachelors with furred gowns and satin hoods. Before the procession, there often ran youn^ men who were called ^ whifflers,’ carrying clubs, and it was their business to clear the way ; sometimes they threw squibs for this purpose. Another singular thing was, that the procession stopped now and then, and some of those taking part in it recited poems, or made speeches; sometimes they performed a dance. We have an interesting account of the show when Sir Wolstone Dexu was mayor in a.d. 1585. London was represented by a lady, in splendid robes, and she rode under a canopy of gold, attended by maidens in various characters, such as the nymph of the Thames. Children were also dressed up in costumes of different countries and periods, and walked in the procession. The show of the year a.d. 1613, in the reign of James I., is said to have been one of the most expen¬ sive and magnificent ever known. It was not merely a display for an hour or two, but the processions went about the City streets from morning to night. After the Kestoration, King Charles II., with his queen, and his brother, the Duke of York, joined the Lord Mayor’s Show several times, accompanied by many of the nobility. In a.d. 1672, there were five pageants, and we are told that they carried in the procession ^ artful pieces of architecture.’ The coach in which the Lord Mayor now rides on November 9th was designed and carved by Cipriani in A.D. 1757, and cost over a thousand pounds. The State sword is believed to have been presented to the City by Queen Elizabeth ; the large gold mace was the gift of Charles I. J . R. S. C. . THE CHILD OP THE LIGHTHOUSE. {Continued from page 391.) Major DELxYMERE was not conscious that he had spoken aloud, and it seemed to him as though the child had answered his secret thought when she said, gravely and simply, ' Yes, it is all true, and now that God has brought me safely back to you, I will never leave you again — my father !’ At that word the spell was broken, and the poor prisoner clasped his long-lost daughter in his arms. A few minutes later, her eyes full of tears, the Commandant’s wife stole gently out of the room, with the delicate sense that such a meeting was too sacred for a stranger’s presence. It was only a fortnight before that she had first met Ruth, as the landlady of the ^ Mouton d'Or ’ had arranged, at the bedside of the little lame boy she was in the habit of visiting. To a woman of her true charity it had scarcely needed Harry Selwood’s letter to interest her in the girl who had so bravely set forth on her perilous journey to Arras in search of her unknown father, and she had been deeply

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CHATTERBOX. 395 touched by the pathetic story of the little waif of the sea and her homely foster-parents. Her con¬ fessor, M. I’Abb^, who was a great friend of Major Delamere, had been taken into their confidence, but he was more cautious in his judgment, for, knowing the prisoner as he did, he felt that, should they be mistaken about the child’s identity, the disappoint¬ ment would be too terrible. However, Madame de Bercet persuaded him to take that one letter, which she selected, to his friend as a teat, and she had also made arrangements for the meeting in her own house, though with much difficulty, for the officer had already made such desperate attempts to escape that he was guarded with special severity. This the Commandant, a kind-hearted man of chivalrous feeling, deeply re¬ gretted, and he had often tried to persuade Major Delamere to give his word as an officer and a gentle¬ man that he would remain at Arras, as in that case he should have all the freedom and privileges of the other prisoners on parole. It is impossible to describe the eager anxiety with which Ruth had awaited that eventful day, the crisis of her fate, which was to decide whether all her hopes had been unfounded, or whether, as in her inmost heart she never doubted, her unknown father would own and claim her. It was a marvellous and almost incredible change for a child who had known no other home than a lonely lighthouse on the seacoast, to be suddenly transported to the very heart of a French military town. For although it was impossible for Ruth to share her father’s prison, yet Madame de Bercet, who did not approve of the ‘ Mouton d’Or ’ as a residence, had found a lodging for her and Ann Pennell close to the gate of the Citadel, and she spent a great part of every day inside the walls. Under the altered circumstances. Major Delamere had been readily persuaded to give his word of honour not to make any attempt to escape, and as a prisoner on parole the Commandant allowed him to meet his little daughter every day. When Ruth understood the reason of this freedom, she was at first greatly distressed, for had she not come all this distance to obtain his release and help him to get away ? She was dismayed to find that such a scheme would have been absolutely hopeless, for when she timidly ventured to ask if the Commandant’s wife could not help, as she had done in the case of Harry Selwood, that lady explained to her that several circumstances had combined to make it possible for him. In the first place, when the young lieutenant had been brought to the prison of Arras, he was ill with brain fever, and could not give his name, and afterwards, by some omission, he had never been entered in the list of prisoners for whom General de Bercet was responsible. As it was, his escape had caused great excitement and trouble, so that Madame de Bercet had bitterly reproached herself for yielding to her pity for the poor lad, to the neglect of her duty to her husband. No, there was no hope from this quarter, and Ruth had to learn the stern lesson of patience, as day after day, by her father’s side, she paced up and down the covered corridor outside the prison, or, on fine days. the esplanade below the Citadel, from whence she could look down on the lower town and the river flowing onwards — the silent highway to that for- I bidden freedom for which they craved in vain. I But it was now, in the hour of trial, that the I character which had been slowl}’’ moulded by a j master-hand in those peaceful days of childhood I stood forth in its full strength and beauty. I Major Delamere, a man of intellect and refinement, had felt some natural misgivings at first as to what painful ignorance, and even possible vulgarity of mind, he might discover on nearer acquaintance in a child brought up by homely folk, such as Jonas and Ann Pennell. To his surprise, however, he found in Ruth, day by day, more to interest and delight him ; there was such a wonderful charm about the perfect simplicity and transparency of her nature^ which had been shielded from all evil, and had beco me a home for eveiy beautiful and ho-ly thought. A& she grew less timid and more at ease with him, she told him all about those wild open downs, and the sea, and the sky, and the long talks with Jonas of the unseen world, all of which seemed to have become part of her very life, until he felt that her bright, fresh spirit had the reviving influence upon him of a balmy breeze, laden with the perfumes of spring. She seemed to him like another ‘ Una,’ who had passed unscathed through every danger and tempta¬ tion, and bearing with her the atmosphere of the ‘ House of Holinesse,’ had come to rescue him from the ‘ brazen towre’ of his misery and bring him to the ^ perfection of all hevenly grace.’ He inwardly vowed that never, through fault or neglect of his, should that pure spirit be sulhed or distressed. With the coming of his little daughter, his whole life had become transfigured, and he was roused from the stagnation of despair and death to a keen new interest, and energy, and hope ; more especially, at first, in all that might concern Ruth. His very appearance was changed ; he no longer moved about with downcast head, careless of his dress, and taking no notice of any one, but he walked erect, with a firmer step and newly gained self-respect. During those long years of misery and depression, he had neglected his worldly matters entirely; but now, with fresh claims upon him, he made strenuous efforts to get money forwarded to him from England, and made application for the arrears of his pay, for after this lapse of time there was difficulty in obtaining any rents from the Jamaica property. A legal notice was sent, however, to Joseph Colville at Port Royal, announcing that the husband and daughter of Mrs. Ruth Delamere were living, and claimed their inheritance. The first urgent need which Major Delamere had felt for money, had been in the difficulty and expense of keeping up any communication between Jonas Pennell at Alum Bay and his wife at Arras ; for in his profound gratitude to them for all they had done, he felt that this was the least return he could make them. He was not slow to discover that a golden key can open most doors, and that ^ private adven- tm’e ’ and coasting vessels could go anywhere, if sufficiently bribed. He had taken advantage of this to write to Jonas, thanking him in the warmest

Page 408

The Commandant allowed him to meet his little daughter every day.” terms, on his own behalf and Kuth’s, for the priceless service he had rendered them. In all his plans for the future, some munificent scheme for the benefit of the old people, to whom he owed his treasure, found a place. For now, in his fresh view of life, when hope had taken the place of despair, he dared to look forward. Even if the longed-for peace should be delayed, he might be exchanged for a French prisoner; indeed, he .happened to hear from the Commandant, that there was a M. Vergette, a distinguished engineer, in the English prison of Norman’s Cross, near Peter¬ borough, for whose release the First Consul would make any sacrifice. What bright pictures he and Kuth used to paint of what they would do in the days to come, when they should be free to travel, to

Page 409

live their own life, to make a home — blessed word for the poor exile ! So the winter passed away, and during those cold dreary days of frost and snow, and hitter winds, of all the English colony in Arras, perhaps Ann Pennell was the one most to be pitied. When she left Jonas, and tore herself away from the familiar life which had become a second nature to her, she had formed no clear idea of the time the journey would take, but she had not meant to be away very long. But now the weeks had lengthened into months, and, as far as she could see, there was no reason why this dreary time of waiting should ever come to an end. Even if it had been possible for her to face alone the risk and danger of travelling back to the lighthouse, all her motherly instincts rose up against the thought of leaving her nursling in a strange, foreign land, amongst people whose queer talk and ways were a constant trial to her. Then, too, thankful as she was that she had been suffered to make atonement for her fault, and that liuth had been restored to her father, the poor woman would have been more than human if she had not felt, with a touch of sadness, that her child was drifting away from her. Ruth had now so much to interest her, for, besides her daily meeting with her father, she spent much time with Madame de Bercet, who took a pleasure in teaching her French, and the delicate embroidery in which she herself excelled. Ann knew that she had no longer the first claim, and as she realised this more each day, her heart went back with full devotion to the one faithful soul, whose unselfish love for her had never changed through all the long years of her wedded life. How could she ever have left him ? If Heaven would but grant her a safe return to Jonas and her home, she would ask for nothing more. {CoTicluded at page 402.) “ Now I wonder if it can be really true?”

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398 CHATTERBOX. CAN IT BE TBUB? ILBA GREY was an only child, whose home was in a quiet country , where she had few young companions. Her holiday hours w^ould have been very dull times for her, had it not been that she was very fond of reading, and could sit for hours with a book in her hand, without feeling weary. Like many young girls, she delighted in fairy-tales. She has just read one, and has thrown down her book, and sat gazing into the fire, and saying to herself, ‘ Now, I do wonder if that story can be true ? ^ Let me tell my young readers the story, and they can judge for themselves whether or not it could be true. The story was this : — In a poor Irish hovel, standing on the edge of a bleak piece of waste ground, there lived at one time a very poor widow, with four children — a tall girl of thirteen, other two girls of eleven and nine, and a dear little curly-headed boy of five years. The widow was very fond of her children, but she was so poor that she could scarcely give them bread to eat. One day she was returning home with a basket of peats for the fire, and a little tea and sugar which a lady had given her. AVell, well,’ she said to herself, ‘the dear children will have something to eat to-night, bless them all.’ As she entered her little cabin, she saw that her eldest girl was there, who told her that the three little ones had gone out to play. ‘ You should not have let them go at this hour of the night,’ said the mother, anxiously. ‘ Where can they have gone to ? Run to the hill, Biddy my darling,’ she added, ‘ and see if you can see them.’ Then Biddy went to th%door, and soon she ex¬ claimed, ‘ Oh, mother, I can see my two sisters, but Dennis is not with them ; they must have left him behind ! ’ ‘ Oh, wisha, wisha,’ cried the poor woman. ‘ Can the fairies have taken him, my darling Dennis, my beautiful boy. Oh, Biddy, run and bring your sisters in ! ’ Then the little girls arrived, both of them crying bitterly. They said they had been running down the lane, picking blackberries, when suddenly a heavy cloud passed over the sun, and it grew dark and cold. They were just turning to go home, when they saw a grand, beautiful carriage coming along, and in the carriage was a lovely lady all beautifully dressed. She smiled down upon them, and, leaning over the side of the carriage, she whispered to little Dennis, * Wouldn’t you like to go with me, my darling boy? wouldn’t you like to go to my beautiful home, where there are many children who are always so happy and gay ? ’ Dennis said, ‘ Yes, he would like to go,’ but the girls held fast by his hand and said to the beautiful lady that mother would be expecting them home. ‘ Very w'ell, dears,’ said the lady, ‘go you on first, and the carriage will follow behind.’ Then the children walked on in silence for some time, while the carriage followed, until at length they saw a beautiful apple go rolling along the lane in front of them — the lady had thrown it out of the carriage. Little Dennis clapped his hands, and with a shout of joy he ran after the apple, though his sisters tried hard to prevent him doing so. Then the carriage began to go faster, the wind rose to a gale, the horses kicked up great clouds of dust, so that the bewildered little girls could neither see Dennis nor the beautiful apple, but they heard a loud peal of mocking laughter, and these words, ‘ Your brother is gone, you will never see him more.’ The wind then ceased, the dust cleared away, but the carriage had disappeared, the lovely lady was gone, and alas, alas, the dear little curly-haired Dennis had disappeared also. After the terrible story had ceased the poor widow remained with her face buried in her apron, while her loud sobbing was all that her poor children could hear. At last she spoke, ‘ Shut the door, Biddy,’ she said, ‘ and keep them terrible fairies out ; if I’ve lost my one little treasure. Heaven help me to keep the others ! Come close to me, my darlings ! Ah, your sweet little brother ! Oh, may we never again see such a terrible day as this ! ’ Many months passed away after the sad dis¬ appearance of little Dennis, during which time his sorrowing mother could hear nothing of his fate. One night, however, after the whole family had gone to bed, Biddy, the eldest girl, who felt somewhat restless and sad, was lying awake watching the dull red glow of the turf fire when she saw the outer door gently open and her lost little brother Dennis entered the room. He looked all round him smiling softly the while, but he did not speak. ‘ Mother,’ said Biddy in a low voice, ‘ he has come back again, our lost little darling. Oh, mother, rise and speak to him !’ But before the poor weary woman fully under¬ stood what Biddy was saying, the little figure had crept to the door and with one last look of love at his old familiar home, Dennis again disappeared. Ho was never seen more. This is the story which Hilda Grey has just read. She is saying to herself as she gazes thoughtfully into the fire. ‘ Now I wonder if it can be really true ? ’ What do my young readers think P B. M. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 69. — Ackostic. A CELEBRATED navigator who lived in the fifteenth century. He made many great and important dis¬ coveries in the New World ; but, this exciting the envy of others, he was treated with great in^atitude, and it was not until after his death that justice was done to his memory and his great services fully acknowledged. 1. A fine fabric first made at a city in France, from which it takes its name. 2. A tree in which a king took refuge after a battle in which he was defeated. 3. Full of perplexing turnings.

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CHATTERBOX. 399 4. A division of a neighbouring country; an outer garment. 5. A planet ; a medicine. 6. A mound of earth ; a place for keeping money. 7. Two islands of the Hebrides, called North and South. 8. A town in Kent ; a group of islands in the Pacific Ocean. C. C. 70. — MBTAaRA.M. 1. Departed. 2. Solitary. 3. Part of the framework of a living creature. 4. The seed of a tree. 5. Not any. 6. A girdle ; temperate, hot, cold. 7. A sound. 8. Finished. [Answers at page 410.] .A.nSTS'WEIi.S- 68. — 1. Never speak to deceive, nor listen to betray. 2. One ounce of discretion is worth a pound of wit. 3. Open rebuke is better than secret hatred. 4. Of all wastefulness that of time is the worst. 5. Put no faith in tale-bearers. 6. Pardon others often, yourself seldom. 7. Beckless youth makes rueful age. 8. Patience and time run thiough the roughest day. 9. Bejoice not when your enemy stumbles. 10. Besist a temptation till you conquer it. 11. Bestore faithfully what is committed to your trust. 12. Bevenge not injuries, but forgive them. 13. Sloth is the mother of poverty. 14. Speech should be the picture of the mind, 15. Sincerity is the parent of truth. 16. Sorrow’s best antidote is employment. POPULAR PLACES OP RESORT. ON THE YORKSHIRE COAST. Filey, a rising watering-plaee on the east coast of Yorkshire, nine miles distant from its gay neighbour, Scarborough, occupies a picturesque site on cliffs overlooking a bay of the same name. It is a quiet and pleasant, but yet bracing and healthful place, with a broad sweep of hard, smooth sand, stretching in one unbroken length of five miles, delightful both to those who ride and those who go on foot. As one might suppose, the sea-bathing in this favoured locality is most excellent. A deep ravine, laid out with terraces and plantations, and crossed by an iron bridge, separates the town from the church, which is well worth a visit. From the church, one may pass down to the sands, and from thence to Filey Brigg, a long, projecting and peculiar¬ looking reef of sand-stone of which we have an excellent representation in Picture No. 1. In stormy weather, the sea washes tumultuously over this reef, which is at all times rather a dangerous locality, unless for very sure-footed persons; but a delightful resort of the naturalist, who can find here an endless variety of corallines, mol uses, sea-anemones, star¬ fishes, and hermit crabs. In Picture No. 2, we see part of Bridlington, or | Burlington as it is generally called, an old-fashioned j town about twenty-three miles distant from Scar¬ borough. On a bay of the same name, a mile "to the j south-east, is Bridlington Quay (the port of the ; town), which has of late years risen to repute as a ! watering-place. It has fine sands, a good parade, and i a sheltered harbour now and then full of ships. Close to the quay there is a chalybeate spring, and in the harbour itself a spring of the purest fresh water. It is Bridlington Quay which we see in the picture i before us. This place has some historical interest, as | it was here that, in a.d. 1643, Henrietta, queen of • Charles I., landed from Holland, with arms and ammu- | nition for her husband, bought with the crown jewels of England. She was allowed to land, but Bridling¬ ton was cannonaded for giving her refuge. The population of Bridlington Quay is nearly 9000 persons. In Picture No. 3, we see the ruins of Whitby Abbey, but, before saying anything about this vener¬ able ruin, we must describe Whitby itself. This ancient seaport and watering-place is twenty-two miles north-west of Scarborough, and is the seat of the jet trade. Jet, as some of our young readers may know, is a variety of lignite, or bituminous fossil wood, sometimes perfectly black, very light, and capable of being easily cut and carved into ornaments. It is capable, too, of receiving a very beautiful polish. There is reason to believe that this substance was known, and made use of in the manufacture of trinkets, so far back as the early bronze period, and it is probable that even then it was procured from Whitby, where the principal supply and the finest quality of jet is still obtained. Whitby stands looking northward over the German Ocean at the mouth of the river Esk, which here emerges from its wooded dells, and forms a wide tidal pool, walled in by jet-veined cliffs of shale. A stone bridge, 172 feet long, connects the two halves of the town. Its older portions, on the east side, with steep, narrow streets, and red-tiled houses, climb tier upon tier up the cliff, where in decaying beauty stand the ruinous abbey of St. Hilda, and the ancient parish church of St. Mary. The abbey, founded by Hilda in a.d. 657, was presided over by her till the day of her death. It was burned by the Danes, a.d. 867, but in a.d. 1078 was founded anew by William de Percy as a Benedictine Abbey for monks alone. The oldest portion of the ruins dates from the twelftli century, and are the ruins of the church. This stately edifice was 300 feet long ; but all that remains is the choir, north transept, and part of the nave, the greet central tower having fallen A.D. 1830. Outside the ruins observe the clerestory windows of the choir with heads at their corbel stones, also the pinnacle-capped buttresses of north transept and the whole north front. Whitby and its neighbourhood offer a rich field for geological research, and its museum contains a fine collection of fossils obtained in the locality, including large specimens of the crocodile species. fteture No. 4 is a representation of Runswick Bay, a very picturesque spot in the neighbourhood of Whitby, much frequented by jet-diggers, who find veins of this material in different parts of the cliff. D. B,

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Yorkshire. 2. Bridlington — The Quay. 3. Whitby Abbey. 1. Filey Brigg. 4. Runswick Bay.

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“ The glad tidings of peace echoed far and wide.”

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402 CHATTERBOX. THE CHILD OP THE LIGHTHOUSE. [Concluded from page 397.) was the 28th of March, of the year 1802, when the people of Arras were roused from their sleep by a sudden out¬ burst of joyous peals from the cathedral of Notre Dame, and the oratory of St. Waast, and the belfry in the market¬ place. On that bright spring morning, the glad news that the treaty of peace was signed soon spread from house to house, and from street to street, and the joy was universal. At length it had come to an end, that terrible war which had drained the nation’s strength, and robbed her of her most gallant sons ! But it was to the prisoners of war in the Citadel that the message came laden with all its full and blessed meaning ; a clarion trump of freedom to call back the exiles to their native land. The day of deliverance had come to them almost without warning, for only dim rumours had reached their prison of the great congress at Amiens, where the envoys had met from England, and France, and Spain, and Holland, and where the peace was concluded. Within the prison walls there was a scene of over¬ whelming excitement, when an official messenger arrived from headquarters, and at length the order of release reached Arras, and the Commandant read through the roll-call of the prisoners committed to his charge since the war began, a.d. 1792. But not all of these answered to their names : several had been shot in endeavouring to escape, other had died in prison, and some few had been exchanged for French prisoners. Of those who remained, there were scarcely two men who took their dismissal alike. Some wel¬ comed it with shouts of triumph, others were struck dumb. Strong men burst into tears, and one little midshipman hid his face and sobbed aloud at the thought of going home and seeing his mother and sisters again._ The Sron had not entered into his soul,’ as with others, whose captivity was not measured, like his, by months, but by years. To some, again, the sudden shock of ]oy at their deliverance was almost too much for tlieir reason, and they could scarcely be persuaded to leave the shelter of the prison walls, and go out into a world which they had almost forgotten. Perhaps, in the whole number of men of all ages and conditions, there were few indeed who, in their inmost hearts, had not a lingering dread of what the home-coming might mean for them ; for what might not have happened in that long absence ? Major Delamere was full of active sympathy and help, for many of his fellow-captives were quite destitute, and he was glad to give a thank-offering from his larger means ; but for Ruth’s courage and devotion, he knew that his fate woidd have seemed the darkest of all. She was his only tie to life, but he felt that with her by his side he could take heart, and dare to face the world again, and look forward to a future bright with hope and promise. He hoped to have been the first to tell her the news ; but with the joy-bells ringing and the flags flying on every side, the very air was full of it ; and half-way up the narrow street his little daughter came to meet him, radiant with joy. She had no fears or misgivings for the morrow ; the happiness of to-day was enough for her. ^It seems too good to be true,’ she cried, Hhat peace has come at last, and this cruel war is over ! Just think, father, now we can go wherever we please, and you and I may be together all day long, and ask no one’s leave — never, never any more ! What shall we do ? ’ she asked, looking up at him eagerly, with those deep- blue eyes, which always reminded him so vividly of her mother. Never before had he seen her like this — almost dancing for delight and her cheeks rosy with ex¬ citement. As he looked at her with loving pride, he realised that the demure little maiden to whom he was accustomed, with her fair hair smoothly braided round her head, her quaint, old-fashioned clothes, and her quiet ways, was, after all, but a merry child at heart. ' You ask me what we shall do, my darling ? We will go back to England first,’ he replied, taking her hand, ' and you will be glad to hear that a message has just reached me from that young Lieutenant Selwood to whom we owe so much. He tells me that he has been lucky enough to be commissioned to the frigate Centaur, which is now lying off the coast, at Etaples, in readiness to take any of us English prisoners home.’ Th, father, that will be delightful ! ’ cried Ruth, almost wild with joy at the thought of meeting her old friend again. ^ I do want you to know Harry.’ ^ But you forget, my dear, that he was my fellow- prisoner here for some time,’ he replied with a smile. ‘ Ah ! but then you didn’t know who he was,’ she persisted. * I can’t think what I should have done without him all these years ! When he was away, his letters were our greatest delight, for he told us all about the great world. He was so good to me, he could not have been kinder if he had been my brother.’ ‘ Yes, Ruth, I do know more about him than 3^ou think,’ said her father, earnestly. ^He is a fine, gallant fellow, and I should be proud indeed if he were my son.’ Even as he spoke a sudden thought passed through his mind, as he looked at his daughter’s radiant face. If he could read the closed book of the future, what might it not have in store for them ? There was a pause, then he went on softly, with a far-away, dreamy look in his eyes : ^ My little girl shall teach me to know all the friends who have been so good to her, and together we will wander along the sea-coast and over the open downs — the very thought of them seems to give me a new life — and then - ’ The poor exile paused, overwhelmed by all the vague and splendid possibilities which freedom opened out before him, after his long years of imprisonment. And as the glad tidings of peace echoed far and

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CHATTERBOX. 403 ■wide, over land and sea, they reached the distant lighthouse, on the Needles Point, and gladdened the heart of a lonely watcher. With clear eyes, Jonas saw what this would mean for hina and his wife in the future ; the child of their adoption would pass away out of their life. But in the pure unselfishness of his love for her, he could forget his own loss, and rejoice and thank God for His great mercy in restoring to Ruth her father, and granting her heart’s desire. LONG-FELLOW’S LITTLE BOY. There was one little hoy of whom Longfellow was very fond, and who often came to see him. One day the child looked earnestly at the long rows of books in the library, and at length said, ‘ Have you got Jack the Giant-killer f ^ Longfellow was obliged to confess that his library did not contain that venerated volume. The little boy looked very sorry, and presently he slipped down from his knee, and went away ; but early the next morning Longfellow saw him coming up the walk with something tightly clasped in his little fists. The child had brought him two cents, with which he was to buy a Jack the Giant-killer to be his own. MARL AND MARL-PITS. SAID a teacher one day, to a class of boys tolerably advanced in their studies, ‘ Boys, can you tell me what marl is, and what it is used for ? ’ There was not one able to reply correctly, though several tried guesses. Marl is now almost, or quite, gone out of use amongst farmers, but during many years it was an article frequently put upon theland to make it better, and help on the growth of plants. It was given up about the end of the reign of George III., partly because it had been used too freely, and land was marled which did not require marling at all ; partly owing to the discovery that other articles are better or cheaper fertilisers. This marl was dug- from the ground, marl pits being quite as common as chalk pits in some counties I of England ; indeed, one kind of marl was called chalk I marl, being a mixture of clay and chalk. This was tlie j oldest used, since it was known to the Greeks and ! Romans. Clay marl is nearly all clay, only having a I little sand with it; other kinds are rock* marl and : shale marl. Not pleasant was it to walk upon land freshly marled, but not dug in, as the article stuck to the feet, and daubed the legs, too, especially after rain. There was a law passed in the reign of King Henry III., about A.D. 1225, which gave every tenant the right to sink a marl-pit, if he wished. Such pits were not always made in one way, but generally they were dug shallow at one end and deep at the other, so that the marl could be easily dragged or carried up the slope of the pit. Sometimes the pits gave names to fields, where they happened to be dug, such as Marl- field, Pitstead, Star pits, and Marled Heys — for in the country many fields have had names given them, often rather curious ones. Those who dug marl were called marlers, and in some places standing to cheer anybody is called ‘marling’ him, because the diggers of marl were accustomed to ask a money present if a stranger passed the pit. Having got it, they then formed a ring around the giver, and raised a cheer, shouting also ‘ Largess ! largess ! ’ They had to each party of marlers a head man, to whom they gave the name of ‘ Lord of the pit,’ and in Cheshire, digging marl was formerly known as yoiving. Sometimes, however, the farmers got marl without making a pit, by simply scraping down the side of a hill. Visitors to one district of Cheshire are sure to come upon a reminder of the old marl-pits of years gone by, because many of them have never been filled in, but time and the rainfall has turned them into ponds. Boys are fond of going to these ponds. Sometimes there are several quite near together, and they are deep enough to drown anybody ; but in a dry summer the water becomes shallow, and the fish may be caught easily by nets. Some of them are supplied with water from small springs, and they contain most fish, chiefly carp and tench. In shape, some are round, others square or oblong, and a narrow bit of land, not more than a yard wide, now and then separates two of these ponds, which once were pits. Several of them have along their sides a beautiful growth of water plants, and upon the surface we may see floating white or yellow lihes. In the evening, we hear at a distance singular sounds coming from them — it is the croaking of numerous frogs, holding a water party ! J. R. S. C. THE ROSEATE SPOONBILL. ONCERNING this singular bird but little re¬ liable information has been obtained. It is a native of America, and is met with nearly always on the sea-shores, from Brazil to Georgia. Some¬ times in summer it has been observed wandering along the banks of the Mississippi. In Jamaica, and some of the West India Islands, in Mexico and Guiana, it is more common; but its favourite dwelling-place is the sea-shore and the mouths of rivers. A traveller (Captain Henderson) says it is frequently seen at Honduras. It wades about in the water in search of small fish, marine insects, and small crabs, and when pressed by hunger it will swim and dive in pursuit of its prey. The young spoonbills are of a dark chestnut colour the first year, of a rosy colour the second year, and of a deep scarlet the third. An adult of this species measures about two feet six inches in length ; the bill is about seven inches long. The colour of the bill for about half its length is of a blackish hue, and covered with hard scaly protuber¬ ances resembling the edges of oyster-shells. The nostrils are placed in the middle of the bill, and are oblong in shape; the croAvn and chin are bare of feathers, covered with a greenish skin. The skin below the under mandible is dilatable, like that of

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The Eoseate Spoonbill. the pelican ; the space round the eye is of a bright orange colour; a stripe of bare black skin in the form of a crescent extends from the crown down each cheek. The neck is long, covered with short white feathers, some of which on the upper part of the^ neck are tipped with crimson. The breast is white and tinged at the sides with a delicate brown. From the breast hangs a long tuft of fine hair-like plumage of a pale rose-colour ; the back is white slightjy tinged with brown, the wings are of a pale rose-colour, the shoulders of the wings are covered with long hairy-like plumage of deep and splendid carmine ; the upper and lower tail coverts are of the same beautiful colour, the feathers of the tail are of a bright brownish orange, while the legs and part of the thigh are dark dusky red. W. A. C.

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CHATTERBOX. 405 “ Dear girls, be sure that you are kind 'J'o those who loved you long ago.” NURSE’S BIRTHDAY. ARY with the golden hair, MAs Mary with the gentle eyes, See her standing knitting there, In hope to win a valued prize. Now tell me, girls, what prize is this That Mary wants ?~01d nurse’s kiss ! For Mary loves the dear old friend, Who was her helper and her all When father, and when mother too, Had gone abroad at duty’s call ; Leaving behind the little one, Dearer than all beneath the sun. But now, dear nurse, so weak and old, Can w’ork and plan for her no more 5 But how she loves to sit and watch Beside her cheerful cottage door. Until she sees her nursling dear, Coming to comfort, help, and cheer !

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406 CIIATTKIRBOX. And nurse s birthday soon will come, And the dear girl has made a purse, Besides a pair of knitted gloves, To warm the hands of dear old nurse, Wbose eyes with happy tears will fill. To think that she is valued still. Dear girls, he sure that you are kind To those who loved you long ago ; Give them your arm, when you are strong. And they so feeble, old, and slow ; For this will please our Saviour dear, Who loves to see us help and cheer. D. DOINGS OP CEYLON ANTS. riRi\ GENTLEMAN who lived some time in Ceylon was very much interested in watching the doings of ants, for there were many of their colonies or cities about the estate on which he lived. One thing which he noticed was that these little creatures seemed to have certain days for doing certain things. Upon some days all the ants of the colony were seen to be busily engaged in clearing out the sand which had washed into the nest, or been blown in by the wind. Long processions went backwards and forwards, each ant carrying a pellet of earth or gravel, which it took to some distance oif the nek, and then went home to fetch another. Now and then it happened that these ants, going back empty-handed, as we might say, crossed the path of some of their brethren coming out loaded. It would have been polite on their part to stand aside and let them pass, but, instead, they very often walked over them quite coolly. Most of the ants took up such a piece as could be carried in their jaws, but some of them had larger fragments of earth, which they pushed along from the nest, turning for a change to drag it behind them. Then there were days when the greater number of the ants went out foraging, or to get provisions, leaving at home, no doubt, the nurses for the young and the guards that kept the entrance. They returned from time to time, singly or in parties, bringing home all sorts of things — berries, young shoots of plants, flies, moths, and other insects. Now and then a gang of twenty or more would be seen pulling together, partly dragging, partly lifting the body of a large beetle or a dead worm. It was a funny thing to notice also that an ant, returning to the nest with something, might chance to meet a friend who tried tc take away his load, and the two would struggle together for its possession. A leech was put in the path of some of them, but they all carefully avoided this creature. One day, when a foraging party, made up of a good number of ants, had started out, and gone some dis¬ tance, headed by a leader, the observer of their movements took this ant away suddenly. The front ranks were much perplexed, and stopped, looking round anxiously for the missing leader, while soon others came crowding up from behind, till there was a black mass of ants. At last the tail end of the party came up, and, after a pause, they formed a new line, and moved back again to the nest, probably to obtain a fresh leader there. J. R. S. C. RESTLESS GIANTS. The elephant is so bulky that we can hardly believe that he is really a most restless creature, and the natives have a saying that ^ an elephant’s shoulder is never still.’ A curious instance of their restless habits is given by a sea-captain in whose steamer forty elephants had been shipped. The vessel was anchored in a perfectly smooth sea off the coast of Zanzibar, but, to the great surprise of the passengers, the steamer began to roll. At first they supposed the motion to be caused by the ground-swell, but when the motion kept increasing there was general alarni, and the captain made an inspection of the ship. Then it was revealed that the elephants had in some way found that by swaying to and fro all together, a rocking motion was produced which seemed to please them immensely. So the great heads and bodies rolled and swung in unison, until the steamer, which had no other cargo, and rolled light, was in imminent danger of rolling clean over. The drivers were hurried down into the hold, and, after a great deal of shouting and thumping, they made the elephants ^ break step,’ so to spealv, and thus stopped their dangerous amusement. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ERIC.* 10 WILLIAMS is twelve years old when he is first introduced to us. His father is a civilian in India, and is about return¬ ing to England after a long absence. Eric, our hero, was born in India, but had been sent I England by his parents at 1 early age in charge of a dy friend of his mother. When he arrived in England, he was entrusted to the care of a widowed aunt, Mrs. Trevor, and her daughter Fanny. Eric’s first school was a small grammar school, presided over by a Mr. Lawley ; he learnt very little * Eric : A Tale of Roslyn School. This capital book for boys is written by the present Dean Farrar, who was for¬ merly Head Master of Marlborough School. From the first page to the last it is full of interest, and will be read again and again after the first perusal. It may be borrowed from almost any good library.

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CHATTERBOX. 407 ■while attendino- it, and did pretty much as he liked. Kosljn School was quite a different affair. When Mr. and Mrs. Williams had been at home with their two boys — for Eric had a little brother, Vernon, born in India after he left it — for about a month, it was decided that in another week Eric should go to school in the Isle of Koslyn. Mr. Williams had hired a small house in the town of Elian, and intended to stay there for his year of furlough, at the end of which time Vernon was to be left at Eairholm with Mrs. Trevor and Fanny, and Eric in the house of the head master of the school, Dr. Rowlands. It was a delightful idea to Eric, for he expected such grand things at school, and longed to be a ^ Roslyn boy.’ Now, it must be confessed that his first day at school hardly came up to his expectations ; he was placed in the lowest form, next to a boy named Barker — a bad, mean, bullying fellow, as Eric after¬ wards found “to his sorrow. Barker was very dis¬ agreeable, snatched his Latin book away when the ‘ new boy ’ tried to look over it, and stared rudely when Eric asked him to point out the place. When the fourth form were called up, Barker, a great dunce as well as a great bully, hopelessly floundered about when told to construe, and a general titter, in which Eric joined, resulted. When Eric went back to his seat, he found a piece of paper laid upon his desk, on which was clumsily scrawled, ‘ I’ll teach you to grin when I’m turned, you young brute.’ It was only too evident that on that first morning he had made an enemy. The many mean ways which Barker chose to annoy and worry Eric are well set forth in the story, showing Eric’s provocation to fight upon that first morning. Eric’s cheek soon bore unmistakable traces of Barker’s handiwork. The opponents were not allowed to finish the fight, for a cry of ^ Cav^, cave,’ arose, and the lads dis¬ persed in all directions, as Mr. Gordon, fourth-form master, appeared. ‘What, Williams— fighting already Take care,’ said Mr. Gordon. This seemed to Eric the most cruel cut of all. ‘ So,’ he thought, ‘ a nice beginning ! it seems both boys and masters are against me.’ The first kind words he received were from a boy named Russell. This boy had lent him his Ccemr during school hours, and he now made an apology for the bad conduct of his fellows. Eric was melted by his new friend’s kind words, and asked permission to speak to him often. It was granted cheerfully, and, shaking hands, Eric left the field and wandered home. He told his mother how kind Russell had been, and he admitted that he had been a little teased. Mrs. Williams drew her own conclusions from the marks on the boy’s face. Besides Russell, there were three boys whom Eric liked best and respected most — Duncan, Montagu, and Owen. They were very different boys, but all of them had qualities which deserved his esteem. Duncan was the most boyish of boys, intensely full of fun, good-nature, and vigour ; but he never got on well, because he could not be still for two minutes. Montagu was a thorough little gentleman ; ‘ such a jolly little fellow ; ’ he managed to do very fairly both at work and games ; he was two exclusive to make many intimate friends. Owen was a very different boy. His merit was a ceaseless diligence. He was reserved and thought¬ ful, but unfitted for, or indifferent to, most games. He was anything hut a favourite with the rest, and Eric rather respected than liked him. ‘ How is it, Russell, that fellows stand by and let Barker bully as he does ? ’ asked Eric, one day of his friend. ‘ You see, Williams,’ said Russell, ‘ Barker is an enormously strong fellow, and that makes the younger chaps, whom he fags, look up to him as a great hero. And there isn’t one in our part of the school who can thrash him.’ ‘ Well,’ sighed Eric, ‘ I hope my day of deliverance will come soon, for I can’t stand it much longer.’ Eric’s deliverance came very soon, and from his own father, who was an unobserved spectator, upon a cer¬ tain afternoon, of Barker’s unprovoked assaults upon his son. The bully had given blow after blow to Eric’s head; he had kicked and knocked him about shamefully, until, fainting and bleeding, he flung his victim off and turned upon Russell, who would have defended him. Barker had just tripped Russell up, when he found himself collared in an iron grasp. It was the strong hand of Mr. Williams that gripped Barker’s shoulder. The boys in the playground came crowding round, and Barker in vain struggled to escape. Mr. Wil¬ liams held him firmly, and said in a calm voice, ‘ I have just seen you treat one of your schoolfellows with the grossest violence. It makes me blush for you Roslyn boys,’ he continued, turning to the group that surrounded him, ‘that you can even for a moment stand by unmoved and see such things done. You know that you despise any one who tells a master, yet you allow this bullying to go on, and that, too, without any provocation. Now, mark! it makes no difference that the boy who has been hurt is my own son ; I would have punished this scoundrel whoever it had been, and I shall punish him now.’ With these words, he lifted the riding -whip which he happened to be carrying, and gave Barker by far the severest punishment he had ever undergone; the boys declared that Dr. Rowland’s ‘swishings’ were nothing to it. He then made Barker pick up Eric’s cap, which he had been using for a football, and walked home with his son leaning on his arm. Barker found his own way of revenging this chastisement upon Eric ; but we shall pass over this period of our hero’s school-life for the time when he became a boarder, his father and mother returning to India, and Vernon being left at Fairholm. He was removed from the fourth form into that which intervened between the fourth and fifth, called the ‘ Shell ; ’ the master of this form was a Mr. Rose, who, from the beginning, took a great interest in Eric, and spoke to liim with much kind¬ ness. {Concluded at page 411.)

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CHATTERBOX. 409

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410 CHATTERBOX. THE CHRISTMAS BOAR’S HEAD. “'N England in old time the Christmas feast was kept with great rejoicing. In the hall of some lord or baron the Yule log would blaze on the hearth, and tenants and vassals and servants would all assemble to share the Christmas banquet. Rank and ceremony were laid aside, and all were deemed equal in remembrance of Him Who, on the first Christmas Day, ^ though fie was rich, yet for our sakes became poor.’ On the huge oaken table were placed the platters and drinking-horns, ready for the various dishes. One of these was a boar’s head decked with laurel and rosemary — which was brought in with much state, often with a flourish of trumpets. Our picture shows it carried by the cook, but often it was carried in by some chief, with attendants who sang a carol about it. Here is one of the carols from the collection of Wynkvn de Worde. It is a mixture of dog Latin and English : — ^ Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The boar’s head in hand bring I, With garlands gay and rosemary; I pray you all sing merrily : Qui estis in convivio. The boar’s head I understand. Is the chief service in this land ; Look wherever it be faude : Servite cum cantico. Be glad, lords, both more and lasse. For this hath ordained our steward To cheer you all this Christmasse, The boar’s head with mustard.’ In the records of the Inns of Court, it is told that A*p. 1170, on the day of the young prince’s coronation. King Henry I. ca,me to the table as server, carrying the boar’s head himself, according to the custom. V arious reasons are given for this use of the boar’s head. One is, that Freya, the Scandinavian god of ' peace and plenty, used to ride on the boar Gullin- bursti. Freya’s festival was held at Yule-tide, when a boar was sacrificed in his honour. At Queen’s College, Oxford, the custom of bringing in the boar’s head is still observed every Christmas, and the reason given is this. A student of the college was attacked by a wild boar while he was studying his Aristotle as he walked near Shotover hill. His book was his only weapon of defence, so he thrust it down the boar’s throat, crying out, ^ It is Greek I ’ The boar found Greek bad to digest and died on the spot, and its head was brought back to college by the student. Ever since, for more than five hundred years, a boar’s head is brought into the college hall in procession on Christmas Day. The boar’s head was the crest of the Gordons, as the first chieftain of the clan slew, in the forest of Huntly, a wild boar which was the terror of the district. The Boar’s Head Tavern, made immortal by Shakespeare, used to be in Eastcheap, in the City of London. MY CHATTERBOX. IN the garret of my memory Lies a book that’s old and worn, And its pages turning yellow. Like the sunshine of the morn. ’Twas printed in the land of dreams, Where the cradle always rocks. And now it almost seems That I could touch this Chatterbox. There was a picture with each story, Of the fairies I thought were true — The Ogre in his untold glory. These 1 read through and through. While its leaves I’d turn with pleasure, Through my childhood’s paradox ; Still my heart does fondly treasure The pictures of my Chatterbox. Though for many years it’s lain On the rustic shelves of time, Yet its pages seem as plain. Mingling the same sweet rhyme. As in the days of my childish learning, Filled with life’s most sacred stocks. In my memory still are turning The leaves of my Chatterbox. When my life is almost ended. And I’ve passed three-score and ten, With life’s joys and sorrows blended, Will its leaves be turning then ? Or will they form a golden bond With my curls, then silvery locks. That rU take to the grave beyond, With my treasured Chatterbox ? Fued. FI. Yaple. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. s. 69. — Columbus. 1. Cambric (first made at Cambray). 2. Oak. 3. Labyrinth. 4. Ulster. 5. Mercury. 6. Bank. 7. Uist. 8. Sandwich. 70, — 1. Gone. 3. Bone. 5. None. 7. Tone. 2. Lone. 4. Cone. 6. Zone. 8. Done.

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CHATTERBOX. 411 YOUNaSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ERIC. (Concluded from page 407.) 0. 7, the dormitorj^ in which Eric slept, was cursed by a boy named Ball, who had a degraded and corrupting mind. The first time that Eric heard indecent words in dormitory No. 7, he was shocked beyond bound or measure. Dark though it was, he felt himself blushing scarlet to the roots of his hair, and then growing pale again, while a hot dew was left upon his forehead. Ball was the speaker ; but this time there was a silence, and the subject instantly dropped. The others felt that a ^ new boy ’ was in the room; the^ did not know how he would take it. Eric decided to tell Kussell, his pure-minded friend, how matters stood, so the following day he asked him to ‘ Come for a stroll to Fort Island.' Monty joined them, and soon the conversation turned upon dormitory talk. ‘ Do the fellows ever talk in that way in either of your dormitories ? ’ asked Eric. ‘ No,’ said Russell. ‘ Yery little,’ said Montagu. ‘ Let me tell you,’ said Russell, solemnly. ^ My father (he is dead now, you know, Eric) when I was sent to school warned me of this kind of thing. The very first time such talk was begun in my dormitory I spoke out. What I said I don’t know, but I felt as if I was trampling on a slimy poisonous adder, and, at any rate, I showed such pain and distress that the fellows dropped it at the time. Since then I have absolutely refused to stay in the room if ever such talk is begun. So it. never is, now, and 1 do think the fellows are very glad of it them¬ selves.’ ‘ Well,’ said Montagu, ‘ I don’t profess to look on it from the religious ground, you know, but I thought it blackguardly and in bad taste, and said so. The fellow who began it threatened to kick me for a conceited little fool, but he didn’t, and they hardly ever venture on that line now.’ ‘ It is more than blackguardly, it is deadly,’ answered Russell ; ‘my father said it was the most fatal curse which could ever become rife in a public school.’ After further conversation, the lads rose from the grass slope, on which they were seated, and walked home ; but from day to day Eric put off performing the duty which Russell had advised, viz., a private request to Ball to abstain from his offensive talk, and an endeavour to enlist Duncan into his wishes. Delay proved dangerous, and remonstrance became harder and harder to begin. Eric made one or two faint attempts, and ended by finally allowing the poison of evil communication to enter his mind and flow into his veins. One morning of the Easter holidays — which holidays, as they were short, the boys spent at school — Eric, Montagu, and Russell started for an excursion down the coast to Rilby Head. After spending a very happy morning, they started home¬ wards in the afternoon, determining to stop a little at the Stack on their way. The Stack formed one of the extremities of Elian Bay, and was a huge mass of isolated rock, which could be reached at low water, but entirely surrounded at high tide. Reaching the Stack, they spent too long a time on it, nor noticed that the tide had surrounded them, and cut them off by a narrow gulf of sea from the shore. ‘ There’s only one way for it,’ said Eric ; ^ if we’re plucky we can jump; but we musn’t wait till it gets worse.’ Vigorous Eric and plucky Monty managed it, and shouted to Russell to ‘Jump for his life.’ Russell stood on the rock, pale and irresolute, and when at last Eric passionately cried, ‘ Oh, Edwin, Edwin — dear Edwin, do jump !’ he stepped back, ran to the edge of the rock, missed his footing, and, with a sharp cry of pain, fell heavily forward into the water. He was badly hurt, and it was all that he could do, as he rose to the surface, to cling desperately to a projecting bit of rock, by the aid of which he gradu¬ ally dragged himself out of the water. His friends saw that he was hurt, but implored him ‘ for the love of God ’ to try once more. ‘ I can’t,’ came faintly over the gulf ; ‘ my leg is hurt.’ ‘ Oh, God, what can we do ? ’ cried Montagu, as he burst into tears. ‘ We can never save him, and all but the very top of the Stack is covered at high tide.’ Eric, however, had not lost his presence of mind, and it was entirely owing to his wonderful pluck and his noble efforts that he succeeded in reaching Russell, and supporting his now unconscious friend’s bleeding head on his breast for six or seven hours, while Montagu ran for help ; and the helpers, who speedily turned out, were able, as the sea became less violent and the tide turned, to venture to their assistance. Poor Russell’s leg was broken, and he had sus¬ tained such severe injuries that he lay unconscious for weeks. When consciousness returned it was found that amputation of the broken limb was necessary. Very patiently Russell bore his pain, and, for a short time after the operation, seemed to amend, and the removal of the perpetual pain gave him relief. A greater relief was coming. It was a little before ten on a calm J une evening that Eric, Upton — Russell’s cousin — and Montagu were summoned to the sufferer’s bedside. He was sinking fast ; and as he had but a short time to live, he expressed a desire to see them, though he could not see any others. The death-bed scene of this gentle, holy boy is beautifully drawn. His last words were, ‘ God bless you, dear fellows ; God bless you, dear Eric ; I am going — to God.’

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A terrible scene of boyish anguish followed, as they bent over the lifeless brow. But quietly, calmly, Mr. Rose checked them, and they knelt down with streaming eyes while he prayed. The Second Part of the book begins with a year after Russell’s beautiful death, when the memories of Eric’s once dearly loved friend were getting dim, and the resolutions made during that friend’s illness had vanished ; and the bad habits, laid aside after his death, had been resumed. It introduces a notoriously bad character, Brigson, and shows how his evil influence worked the down¬ fall and moral ruin of our hero and of many other promising lads. James Cassidy.

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g^o Not Forget That . MINARD’5 LINIMENT Is for INTERNAL as well as - EXTERNAL use. Ij'OK MAN AND BKAST. rURES /TATARRH OLDS.^t^ I RAMPS.jt.3t I ; jROUP IvHOLERA WOUGHS WHILLSjA.3t.^t W fOLIC RACKS ;HAPS 'UTS.jt It was originated in 1840 by the late Dr. Levi Minard, an old- fashioned, noble-hearted Family Physician, to cure all ailineius that are attended with inflammation. It acts promptly. It is always ready for use. It is the best. It is the oldest. It is superior to all others. It is used and recommended by physicians everywhere. It has stood upon its own intrinsic merit and excellence, while genera¬ tion after generation have used it with entire satisfaction and handed down the knowledge of its worth to their children as a valuable in¬ heritance. Could a remedy have existed for over 55 years except for the fact that it possesses great merit for many family ills ? It has healed and cured more diseases and relieved more suffering than any other medicine. . Will cure asthma, abscesses, bites, burns, bruises, bronchitis, all forms of sore throat, earache, headache, la grippe, lame back, mumps, muscular soreness, neuralgia, rheumatism, etc. .jtjt^EVERY MOTHER.3t.3».3» should have it in the house to heal and cure the many common ail¬ ments which occur in every family as long as life has woes. It soothes every ache, every lameness, every pain, every muscu¬ lar soreness everywhere, whether internal or external, and in nine cases in ten speedily relieves, heals and cures. ^aD"\7"IOE TO nVEOTHEDFLJS- MRS. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP THE BEST HOME GAME. Adapted for either children or adults. CL o pin U The Royal Game o£ India. No Household complete, No Home happy without it. IV’o Parlor Table Game has ever been published which has had so great a sale. Tor 20 years the bcstfamilies have had it ht their homes^ and so enjoyed it that now it is always called for wheti the question arises^ “ What shall we play T* THE BEST CAME EVER PUBLISHED. Sold by leading^ Book, Stationery, Toy and Department Stores in the United States, or mailed, x)ostpaid, by SELGHOW & RiGHTER, 390 BROADWAY, N.Y. should always be used when children are cutting teeth. It relieves the little sufferer at once ; it pro¬ duces natural, quiet sleep by relieving the child from pain, and the little cherub awakes as “ bright as a button.” It is very pleasant to taste. It soothes the child, softens the gums, allays all pain, relieves wind, regulates the bowels, and is the best known remedy for diarrhoea, whether arising from teething or other causes. Twenty-Five Cents a Bottle. Be sure and ask for Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, and take no other kind. FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS in every part of the world. Cures Croup^ Whooping Cough Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, Catarrh, etc. Established Vapo=CresoIene being administered by 14 Years. inhalation, gives the safest and most effectual means of treating the throat and bronchial tubes. Its efficiency in Whooping-Cough is wonderful, often effecting a cure in from three to five days. Its antiseptic virtues render it in¬ valuable in contagious diseases, such as Diphth- teria. Scarlet Fever, etc. Descriptive pamphlet, with doctor’s tes¬ timonials, sent on application. Sold by Druggists generally. VAPO-CRESOLENE CO., 69 Wall St., New York. SCHIEFFELIN & CO., New York, Sole Agents for U.S. Bvans & Sons, Dt’d., Montreal, Sole Agents for Canada.

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^ ^ CAPITAL BOOKS FOR BOYS, at os EY JA/^ES 0Ti6 The Boy Captain. By James Otis. Illustrated by George Foster Barnes. A stirring story of the sea, full of the interest¬ ing and exciting adventures of a brave young seaman who reclaimed and brought back to New York a vessel driven by storms and aban¬ doned by its crew on a portion of the Chinese coast, infested with native pirates. Small $1.50 8vo,cloth,fine cover design. Teddy and Carrots; Or, Two Merchants of Newspaper Row, by James Otis. The fourth volume in the series of which “Jenny Wren’s Boarding House ’’was the first. Illustrated by W. A. Rogers. A highly entertaining story of street arab life in New York City, giving the trials of two boys in their endeavors to successfully establish themselves in business. $1.25 Square l2mo, cloth. ZIGZAG STORIES of History, Travel and Adventure. Selections of the best stories from the Zigzag series. Thoroughly illustrated. The new size will be square izmo, cloth, with a handsome new cover design. When the Century Was Young. By M. M. Blake, author of “ Courtship by Command.” Illustrated with numerous plates from original drawings by the author. Large $1.50 izmo, cloth. A story of the life and adventures of a young English lad, who takes part in the Peninsular war against Napoleon and is present at the battle of Waterloo. An exciting story which all boys will be glad to read, giving at it does such a vivid picture of those stirring times. , Winning the Victoria Cross. I By L. Thompson, author of “The Royal Eagle,” and 1 illustrated by W. B. Wollen, izmo, cloth, colored i edges, with handsome cover in gold and colors. I Rex is a boy after one’s own heart and is bound to make many friends. ' He starts out at an early age to win the Victoria Cross, and the story of his I adventures by land and sea and the final accomplishment of his aim, will find many eager readers. Sayings and Doings in Fairy Land. By D. S. Sinclair, author of “The “Enchanted Princess,” “Sugar Plums for Children,” etc Beautifully illustrated by Paul Hardy. Square lamo, cloth. All who delight in wicked enchanters* ogres with bad tempers, dwarfs, fairy princesse.«5, fai^ godmother’s and all the other good things that are to be found in fairy-land, — and what child does not, — will rejoice in this addition to the list of fairy tales. In this little volume the personages of our old nursery rhymes are made to go through many and varied adventures such as children love to read of. The King's Pardon. By Robert Overton, author of “A Round Dozen,” etc. With iz illustrations by W. H. Margetson, izmo, cloth. Colored edges, handsome cover. Mr. Overton has the knack of writing books for boys, and in this he has surpassed himself, in “ The King’s Pardon.” He tells of the perils and escapes of Bart Arber, in finding and saving his father who has been unjustly convicted and transported to Australia. Schoolboys in France. By Andre Laurie. Trans¬ lated by E. P. Robins. The fourth volume in this popu¬ lar series illustrated with numerous original desijjjis by J. Geoffry. Small 8vo, cloth, with an orig¬ inal and very hand- $1.50 some cover design. ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers, BOSTON.

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Two Charming BooksforLittle Girls. Cricket at the Seashore. By Elizabeth W. Timlow, illustra¬ ted by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. A sequel to “ Cricket.” The flatter¬ ing reception accorded the first vol¬ ume leaves no doubt as to Mrs. Tim- low's high standing as a writer of juvenile literature, and the present volume bids fair to surpass its predecessors in point of $1.00 interest. i6mo, cloth. CRICKET ; A charming story of the haps and mishaps of a little girl and her friends. By Elizabeth W. Timlow. Illus¬ trated with eight full-page plates from original $1.00 designs by Harriet Roosevelt Richards. i6mo, cloth. “ A delightful story for the little folks to read about the haps and mis¬ haps of a little girl and her friends. It is told in a bright and vivacious spirit with enthusiastic warmth of feeling and throughout with purity and in a strain of charming simplicity. The writer is new to the world of childien, bu^ her success thus far i romises to make her name a household word with the young people. She has but to maintain the line of her present achieve- m 4ni.” — Boston Courier. ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers, BOSTON. STORIES OF AMERICAN HISTORY By James Otis, author cf “Toby Tyler,” “Jenny Wren’s Boarding House,” etc. Each story complete in one volume, with 17 original illustrations by L. J. Bridg- 75c. man. Small r2mo, neatly bound in extra cloth. Each Under the Liberty Tree. A story of the Boston Massa¬ cre, by James Otis. The fifth volume in his stories of Amer¬ ican History Series. Illustra¬ ted with seventeen drawings by L. J. Bridgman. An extremely interesting story of one of the incidents that led up to the American Revolution. Small i2mo, cloth, hand- 75c. some cover design. 2. The Boys of 1745 at the Capture of Louisbourg. 3. An Island Refuge: Casco Bay in 1676. 4. Neal the Miller : A Son of Liberty. 5. Ezra Jordon’s Escape from the Massacre at Fort Loyall. “ The readers of this newspaper need no introduction to James Otis. He has given them many a stirring story of modern life, and new popular¬ ity is likely to be his^ in his latest contribution, that series of stories of American history which has enlisted, perhaps, his best efforts thus far in the field of literature.” — The Bostori Herald. ESTES & LAURIAT, Publishers, BOSTON. Two Excellent Children’s Books. THE LOLLIPOP’S VACATION. AND OTHER STORIES. By Sophie Swett, author of ” Pennyroyal and Mint,” etc. For years the readers of St. Nicholas have been delighted with the charming short stories by this author, the bist of which are now attractively presented in book form. The best of the original illustrations are used and a large num¬ ber of others, by Ethelred B. Barry, the well-known illustrator of children’s stories have been added. Square, 12 mo, cloth, hand¬ some cover design. $1.25 FIVE MINUTE STORIES. By Laura E. Richards, author of Caotain January,” “ Melody,” ” Queen Hildegarde,” etc. A charming colli c- tion of short stories and clever poems, for children. Square i2mo, cloth. With illustrations by E. B. Barry, A. R. Whelan and others. ” Every mother who takes her little child upon her knee will feel the worth of this book for story reading. Mrs. Richards seems to have anticipated every mood and every liking of children in the variety of story and verse she has provided for their delectation. Inno¬ cent fun, bewitching jingle, touches of tenderness and bits of wisdom are all mingled together as bright a- d flieting as are the varying emotions of the little folks who will enjoy them.’’ — Privtary Education. ESTES & EAURIAT, Publishers, BOSTON. VERY LITTLE GIRL OR BOY 4 to 10 years old, should get a copy of OUR LITTLE ONES AND THE NURSERT the only magazine for littlest people in the United States. Every month 32 pages of stories and pictures, jingles and jollity and AN EDUCATION IN ITSELF Tales of wonderful animals and plants, stories teaching truth, honesty, gratitude, obedience and kindness, the best in¬ struction. THE PICTURES by best artists are an art education for little people. Written entirely to suit the intelligence of youngest readers, but the older children enjoy it, too. $1.00 a Year, 10 Cents a Copy. Special Offer: 3 Months on Trial, 10 Cents. LAURENCE ELKUS, Publisher, 196 Summer Street, Boston, Mass.

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