Chatterbox 1900

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PRICE THREE SHILLING^ PRINTED IN HOLLAND ~ r'' ' . ; , [

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■ ISN’T IT SWEET.

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Pago A Baby Hippopotamus . 214 A Blizzard . ... 411 A Chinese Solomon . 98 A Cowardly Sailor . 188 A Cure for Conceit . ... 266 A Doll that Stopped a War . 2 A Duckling Astray . 205 A Friend in Need . 251 A Humble Petitioner . ... 387 A Kitten’s Game with a Pelican ... 151 A Little Tragedy . 86 A Military Dog . 234 Among Icebergs . 220 A Novel Duel . 60 An Oyster Rat-catcher . 247 A Quiet Pool . 116 A Roadside Caravan . 379 A Rustic Bridge . 79 A Sledge Express . 10 A Smuggler’s Hiding-place . 78 A Spoiled Picture . 378 A Still Salt Pool, and its Inhabit¬ ants, 54, 68, 101, 125, 147, 180, 195, 237, 259, 307, 323, 348 A Talk about Asuaragns . 402 A Talk about Bells . 38, 46 A Tiger’s Greeting . 5 A Timely Lesson . 267 A True Story of a Collie Dog . 70 A Tug of \Var . 46 Australian Animals, Wild and Tame, 163, 198, 215, 229, 259, 286, 311, 373, 382, 399, 411 A Willing Helper . 397 A Wreck . 253 Back to the Doodle-bugs . 362, 374 Barring the Way . 365 Bear-hunting in Russia . 28 Brothers in Arms . 99 Caesar’s Tower ... . . . ... 106 Catching a Sheltio ... . 189 Chattering Monkeys . 51 Children’s Days in Belgium . 350 Chris Wharton, 270, 274, 282, 291, 302, 306, 314,324, 334, 342, 350, 354, 366, 371, 352, 390, 394, 402 Cossacks . 399 Counting Them . 283 Courage in Oabul . 191 Deserted and Found . 175 Dinan . 319 ' Dug Out ’ 403 Elephant House-breakers . 58 Page Facing a Bull . 94 Feeding Wild Birds in Winter ... 247 Frederick tho Great and the Spider 260 French Schools Sixty Years Ago ... 131 George III. and his Page . 226 General Gordon’s Schoolboy Tricks 42 Grannie . ... 174 Greek Shepherds . 3 Homes and Haunts of Bats . 59 How an Owl’s Head goes Round ... 62 ! How a St. Kilda Man Feels . 18 f How the Colours were Saved . 15 In Battle . 36 Irish Peasant Girl . 101 * Jasper ’ . 175 Killed by a Lion . 54 Kind Words . 188 Klein’s Adventure with a Lion ... 98 Loch Ard . 395 Major . 206 More about the Earthworm . 3 * My Master is always in * . 355 Neil Campbell’s Adventure . 239 Nile Water-wheel . 196 Not bo Bad after all . 301 Paid in their own Coin . 138 Paste this up in your Mind . 18 Protecting the Defenceless . 109 Puzzlers for Wise Heads, 14, 27, 47, 54, 79, 91, 106, 118, 138, 154, 174, 191, 203, 219, 238, 251, 267, 286, 299, 319, 347, 363, 378, 398 Quails . 157 Rather Impudent ! . 164 Reggie’s Reminiscences, 194, 202, 210, 218, 226, 234, 242, 254, 262 Reindeer . . 188 i Reynard and the Wild Boar .. . 259 Reynard’s Forlorn Hope . . 87 ! Roger . . 118 Rooks . . 92 Saved by a Monkey . . 299 Saved by a Swan . „ ... 163 i Scott’s Self-control . . ... 395 Page Searching at Low Tide . 196 Shooting Humming-birds . 82 Shrimp -catchers . 131 Sir Walter Scott’s Heroes and Heroine^ 126, 130, 182, 190, 198, 222, 230, 244, 250, 278, 28G, 316, 331, 339. 357 Snake-charming . 67 Soldiers Routed by Bees . 55 Something about Stamps ... ... ... 295 Squabblers . 206 Squirrel and Acorns ... 355 Stealing a Pony’s Hair . 123 Surprised by the Wolves . ... 116 The Baby Puma . 283 The Best Reason . 82 The Bishop and the Barker . 275 The Constable’s Stories, 90, 106, 119, 155, 162, 258, 276, 322, 370, 386, 406 The Deaf Mother . 299 The Deserter . 330, 338, 346 The Early Days of Sir Walter Scott, 2, 14, 38, 58, 85 The Elephant’s Revenge . 93 The Entrapped Fox . 154 The Esquimaux . 341 The Field of the Cloth of Gold ... 214 The Fisherman’s Home . 220 The Foes of the Diver ... 379 The Holly and its Names . ... 410 The Lame Pigeon . 142 The late Duke of Beaufort ... 18 The Monkeys and the Gloves . 151 The Muffled Bells . 19, 26 The Partridge’s Nest . 295 The Patient Shop-boy . 203 The Peace-maker . 170 The River Reuss, at Lucerne . 154 The Thistle . 76 The Toper’s Dinner . 170 The Wild Cat and its Prey . 363 The Wolf and the Sheep . 307 The Zebra at Home . 327 Truth from Indian Lips . 67 Under a Cloud ... 298, 308 Vasco Island, 6, 10, 22, 30, 34, 42, 50, 62, 70, 74, 82, 94, 102, 110, 114, 122, 134, 142, 146, 158, 166, 170, 178, 186 Walford’s Revenge What he could not Sell 290 238 Youngsters in Popular Tales, 66, 76, 139, 148

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CONTENTS. A Contrast . Pago ... 35 A Failure . ... 163 A General Favourite... ... 182 A Joyful Return . ... 284 A Kind Reception ... 13 A Lost Opportunity ... ... 21 An Object Lesson ... 291 An Unexpected Move ... 269 A Snowy Adventure ... ... 410 POE ragq At Niglit . 331 At the Stile . 347 A Useful Lad . 244 Caught in a Shower ... ... 311 ‘ D on 't Count your C hickens before they’re Hatched ’ 138 Fish Stories- . 134 TRY. Idle Words . Page ... 275 Lame Marjory . ... 27 Lessons from a Watch ... 323 Loss or Gain P . ... 403 Ned and his Pupil ... ... 18 Song to Spring . ... 47 _ Page Summer . . . 215 The Magpie and the Owl ... 230 The Market-place . 210 The Reason Why . 390 The Song of the Workers . 141 The Tongue . 55 The White Hand . 87 Through the Meadows ... 133 ILLUSTRATIONS. A Baby Hippopotamus ... 210 A Baby Puma . 284 A Brave Defender . 109 Acorn Shell and Barnacles 308 A Dog that would go to the Front . 233 A Doll that stopped a War 1 A General Favourite . 181 * A group quickly collected about the boys * 265 A Hard Hit . 289 A Humble Petitioner ... 388 A Kind Reception . 13 Among Icebergs . 220 An Irish Peasant Girl ... 101 A Novel Duel . 61 An Oyster Rat-catcher ... 248 A Rustic Bridge . 80 A Sledge Express . 9 A Snowy Ad venture . 409 A Song of Spring . 48 A Street in Dinan . 320 A Tiger’s Greeting . 5 At the Stile . 348 A Tug of War . 45 A Useful Lad . 244 A Willing Helper . 397 A Wreck . 253 Barring the Way . 365 Bats on the Wing . 60 Bear-hunting in Russia ... 29 ‘Beside the little wooden gate* . 141 * “ Bring this boy some¬ thing to eat, and plenty of it,” said Mr. Linton * . 361 Brothers in Arms, British and Egyptian . 100 Caesar’s Tower, Warwick Castle .. 105 Catching a Sheltie . 1S9 Caught in a Shower . 312 Chattering Monkeys . 52 Chris Wharton (Illustra¬ tions to), 272, 273, 281, 293, 304, 305, 313, 325, 336, 344, 352, 353, 368, 372, 384, 392, 393, 401 Egg - case of Thornbad Skate . 349 Elephant House-breakers . 57 Esquimaux building Snow Hut . 341 Foiled of a Meal . 117 Coloured Frontispiece - ‘ISN’T IT SWEET!’ Page Frank Stap meditates a Practical Joke . 20 Frederick^the Great and the Spider . 261 French Shrimpers . 132 George the Third and his Page . 225 Gipsy Caravan . 381 Grannie visits her Married Daughter . 173 Greek Shepherds . 4 ‘He died protecting the colours * . 16 ‘If you do not give me eighteen-pence, I will hand you to a police¬ man* . 297 ‘ I gather the daisies in my lap ’ . 28 In a Blizzard . 412 Incident at the Battle of Tamai . 37 ‘ In stalked the head mas¬ ter * 41 ‘ Jim realised with a thrill of horror that it was one of his old pets * 405 Loch Ard . 396 Low Tide . 197 ‘ Master, I want shelter I * . 329 Ned and his Pupil . 17 Needless Alarm . 40 ‘Nelly was the chief suf¬ ferer through her ill- humour’ . 301 Nile Water-wheel . 196 * “ Nn must, in f.Tio nncn ” was the decided reply ’... 309 ‘Now it was that the two old people beheld their strange visitor’s features for the first time ’ . 337 ‘Oh, Tweed, you rascal! how did you manage to get here?’ . 69 One of the Foes of the Diver— the Thresher ... 380 ‘Our Scotchman had full sympathy with a lady in dibtress * . 240 ‘ Out of this, and on deck with you ! ’ 188 Paid in their own Coin ... 137 Prawn, &c . 324 * Pray, sir, let me stay here ’ 252 ‘Puss seemed to think it good fun’ . 152 Quails . 157 Reggie’s Reminiscences (Illustrations to), 193, 201, 212, 217, 228, 236, 2*1, 256, 264 Reindeer . 188 ! Remorse . 21 j Reynard’s Forlorn Hope ... 88 i River Reuss, Lucerne ... 153 1 Rooks . 92 ! Saved by a Monkey . 300 Sea Anemone . 148 Sea Cucumber, &c . 349 Sea Daisies on Wlielk-shell and Hermit Crab . 180 Sea Hedgehog . 68 Shooting Humming-birds . 81 Sir Walter Scott’s Heroes and Heroines (Illustra¬ tions to), 128, 129, 184, 200, * iSa1*, &±D, SCO, SOO, ’ 317,332, 340,357,360 Snake-charmers . 68 ! Soldiers routed by Bees ... 56 Spider Crab . 196 Squirrel and Acorns . 356 Stabbing Thistles . 76 Star Fishes . 125 Stealing a Pony’s Hair ... 124 Summer . 216 * Take that bag, which con¬ tains a number of copper coins, as a present from me ’ 97 The Blacksmith . 36 J The Constable’s Stories (illustrations to), 89, 108, 120, 156, 161, 257. 277, 321, 369, 385, 408 The Cossacks : Feats of Horsemanship . 400 The Cuttle-fish . 260 * The elephant deluged the little maiden with water ’ 93 The Fisherman’s Home ... 221 Page ‘ The hen made her escape from the elder boy, and the younger trod by acci¬ dent on the eggs * . 296 The Home of the Carp ... 116 ‘ The Lancer caught up the child and brought him to a place of safety ’ . 176 The Lion drags off man, camp-bed, and all . 53 The Market-place . 209 ‘The old birds followed closely ’ 269 The Patient Sliop-boy ... : 04 The Peace-maker . 169 The Sea-mouse . 101 The Stray Duckling . 205 Thievish Crows . 165 Through the Meadows ... L33 Toby and Major hunting for Sliell-fish . 208 Touching up the Artist’s Picture . 377 Two Wounded Trooners saved by their Officer... 192 Yasco Island (Ulnstr*t'ons to), 8. 12, 24, 32, 33, 44. 49, 64, 72, 73, 84, 96, 104. 11*2, 113, 121, 136, 144, 145, 160, 168, 172, 177, 1*5 Water Worms . 237 ‘“Why, life is like the sky,’’ he said* . 292 Wild Cat attacks a Fawn . 364 ‘Will you go and tell the owner I wish to see him?* . 376 * With splendid fish the nets were filled’ . 285 ‘ With unsteady legs lie descended the step - ladder into the parlour’ . 345 * “ Yes, captain, I’m a sailor born *” . 389 * You cannot dream your way through life; you have got to work* ... 267 Youugsters in Popular Tales (Illustrations to), 65, 77, 140, 148 * You scoundrel, I have got you ! ’ . 25 Zebras pursued by a Hunts¬ man . 328

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2 CHATTERBOX. .No. I. A DOLL TEAT STOPPED A WAR. IT is not very generally lmown, though it is a matter of history, that on one occasion a doll prevented a war between the United States and the Apache Indians. The American Government allotted the Indians certain territory which the latter did not feel inclined to accept, and war began. One day a little Indian child strayed from its father’s wigwam and was found by the American soldiers. It was crying bitterly, and they were not able to console her. The commanding officer then thought of a doll which had arrived that day for his little girl, and he gave it to the Indian papoose, who soon ceased crying. Soon after a detachment of soldiers escorted the little child to its father’s wigwam, and its arrival caused great excitement. The Indian mother appeared at the American tents the next day with the doll, to return it, but she was overwhelmed with joy when she heard that her little girl might keep it. The result was that the incident created a change of feeling among the wandering Indians, and led to negotiations which ended in their going quietly back to the land set apart for them by the United States Government without any trouble. THE EARLY DAYS OP SIR WALTER SCOTT. I. ALTER SCOTT was one of a large family, many of whom died while yet young. He has left us a brief ac¬ count of some of his brothers and sisters. The eldest brother he remembered was Robert, who was of a hold and haughty temper, and not always as kind and brotherly as he might have been to Walter. When Robert was in a happy mood he would tell tale3 of bold adventure and narrow escape, for he was in the navy, and took part in many battles ; but when he was ill-humoured he gave us,’ wrote Walter, ‘a practical test of what was then man-of-war’s discipline.’ This same Robert could not stand much harsh usage himself, and, disgusted at what he considered the severity of his superior officer, he left the navy and entered the service of the East India Company, and died very soon afterwards from the ill effects of the climate. There was another brother, John, three years older than Walter. John was in the army, hut his health gave way, and he died while yet a young man. Anne was an only sister ; she seems to have been an unfortunate little lady, and her brother Walter wrote of her — ‘ Her childhood was marked by perilous escapes from the most extraordinary accidents. Among others I remember an iron-railed door leading into the area in the centre of George’s A-ClUAi | Square being closed by the wind, while her fingers were betwixt the hasp and the staple. Her hand was thus locked in, and must have been smashed to pieces had not the bones of her fingers been remark¬ ably slight and thin. As it was the hand was cruelly mangled.’ At another time she was nearly drowned in a pond or old quarry-hole. The worst accident of all happened when she was only six years old. She was alone in the room and her cap took fire, and before any one could get to her to render assistance her head was dreadfully scorched. This sad accident was the cause of a long, dangerous illness, from which she recovered, but never again to enjoy perfect health, and at last, after a very short illness, sbe died. She was a kind-hearted and affectionate child, hut her temper was not of the best, and it was not at all improved by the shock which she sustained to the nerves. She was, like her brother Walter, of an imaginative turn of mind, and lived, he has said, 1 in an ideal world.’ Tom was the next in years. He followed, for a time at all events, his father’s profession — that of a Writer to the Signet (a lawyer), but, unlike his father, he did not keep to his proper line, and, engaging in work which he knew little about, he was most unfortunate, and wras glad enough to become pay¬ master to a regiment. He died in Canada, leaving a son and three daughters. The youngest of Walter Scott’s brothers was Daniel. He was, perhaps, the most to be pitied, and the least to he imitated, of the family. He was indolent and of very ordinary intellect, and he had but little proper pride, which would have rendered even ‘ the most detested labour better than dependence or contempt.’ Walter Scotts birthday was on the 15th of August, and the year of liis birth a.d. 1771. The house in which he was born belonged to his father, and was situated at the head of the College Wynd in Edinburgh. It was pulled down to make room for the northern front of the College. Little Walter was a fine healthy baby hoy, hut when about eighteen months old a change took place. One night, like many small children, he showed great unwillingness ‘ to be caught and put to bed but, the nurse insisting, wee Walter was, of course, captured and undressed. In the morning he was very feverish, and was kept in bed for three days. The fever was probably due to the cutting of some large teeth. On the fourth day, at bath-time, it was found that he had lost the power of his right leg. His grandfather — his mother’s father, a learned physician —and doctors came to look at the poor limb, and did all that they could to effect a cure, but they were not successful. Walter’s grandfather, Dr. Rutherford, advised that the boy should he sent to live in the country, as he wisely thought that natural exertion would be excited by free air and liberty. And so lame Walter went to stay at the farm-house of his paternal grandfather, Mr. Robert Scott, of Sandv- knowe. That he might not be an inconvenience and trouble in his grandfather’s family, his mother took care to send with him a maid-servant to attend to his wants and to take charge of him. Now, this girl had ^ a lover in Edinburgh, aud she became very anxious to get away from Sandy-knowe, and

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No- L CHATTERBOX. 3 return to the city where she might see him. As she was not allowed to do so, she began to hate little Walter, whom she regarded as the cause of her detainment. A dreadful temptation came to the girl, which, fortunately for her small charge, she confessed to old Alison Wilson, the housekeeper. She said that she carried the child up the Craigs, intending to cut his throat with her scissors and bury him in the moss. The old housekeeper, determined that no such temptation should overtake the girl again, took the child from her, and looked after him herself. The wicked young maid-servant, was dismissed, and it is said she afterwards became a lunatic. It is. perhaps, charitable to believe that she was mad at the time such wild thoughts entered her mind. [Concluded at page 14.) MORE ABOUT THE EARTHWORM. AS a boy I often went fishing, and I sometimes had trouble in getting a supply of worms for bait. If it happened that digging was not successful, I used to try the plan of stamping on the ground near the stream where I fished. Usually, though not always, this would bring worms to the surface of the earth — a curious fact, which might puzzle many people. However, the reason is said to be, that if a worm hears or feels the ground shake, it is afraid that a mole is approaching, and so escapes above. The common earthworm is called in some places by the name of lob or lobworm, which does not seem suitable, as it means anything heavy or clumsy, but a worm is not that — though slender m form, it is both strong and skilful. Nobody knows exactly how many months or years an earthworm lives. Its body is made up of no less than a hundred and twenty rings, and some worms are to be found about a foot long. It has not any eyes, nor has it gills, but it may have the power of hearing, and its sense of touch is wonderf ully quick. There is need enough for any worm to be sharp, since its enemies are many and active. Besides the mole, it is pursued by the hedgehog; numerous birds hunt it, frogs devour small worms, also they are attacked and carried off by ants. It is wonderful to see how the earthworm makes its way into the ground, seeing that his body is not hard, as is that of most digging insects. He thrusts the pointed head into some small opening, then fixes himself for a moment by the little spines that lie along the front part of the body ; he then draws up the hinder part, which gives the whole body a push forward, and so he works his way. The food of the worm is vegetable — leaves, soft roots, and decaying matter ; it also eats a good deal of earth ; this, after a time, is thrown out again, forming what are well •known as worm-casts. These certainly do not im¬ prove the appearance of a grassy lawn, but they are of use, for they make the soil richer, In several ways worms do the gardener good service, though no doubt they damage the roots and crowns of some plants, and are especially troublesome when they get into flower-pots. They devour or break up decaying vegetables which are lying on the surface of the ground, and then these become nourishment to other plants. Also they help on drainage : by their boring and travelling under the earth, the worms make channels or openings, by which the air and moisture enter to do good. Each worm has generally its favourite hole, by which it comes up when it wishes, and below which it runs its burrows or tunnels. Mostly, a worm stops the entrance of the hole during the day by pushing in bits of leaves, fragments of straw, stick, or feathers. Now and then a worm piles up above the hole a little heap of pebbles or small fragments which are about. This may be done to keep out enemies of the insect sort, and slugs, which are foes of the worm. A gentleman one day watched a worm collecting tiny stones, and saw how carefully it drew these together, putting them in a little circle round the hole. Another time, along a garden- walk, he noticed a number of worm-holes which were closed with the fallen leaves of the weeping willow. A curious thing was that nearly all these leaves were put the stalk end uppermost, the leaf being rolled into a sort of plug. Most of the holes had in them about twenty leaves or more. Therefore, without eyes, by the sense of touch, a worm can do some wonderful things, and somehow it always knows night from day. J R. S C. GREEK SHEPHERDS. IN our charming picture of a scene in Greece we see two Greek shepherds who have been startled by the yell of wolves. They are anxiously listening and watching, with their faithful dog, at the edge of the rocks to find out the whereabouts of the enemy, for their flocks require to be very carefully guarded against wolves. Indeed, the life of most shep¬ herds in Greece is very different from the peaceful life of shepherds in England. The sheep there are in great danger when they stray away, and the shepherds are often searching many hours in glens and hollows to find a missing lamb, and they are very sad if the search is in vain, not only because they care so well for their flocks that they willingly risk their own safety to save one lamb from harm, but also because most of these men have to pay their masters for accidents or losses. The sheep, though generally docile, sometimes get restless and jump into dangerous places, and injure themselves. Some get discontented and wilfully stray from the flock and ramble a long distance, but at last become frightened at finding themselves in a strange place; then they begin to bleat piteously and run hither and thither as if distracted. It is seldom that such truants are safely rescued, for their cries are generally heard quickly by some of their powerful enemies — the wolves, jackals, lynxes, or by the brigands — the robbers of the moun¬ tains — who catch them with little trouble Of course the Greek shepherds have their dogs to assist in the work of taking care of the flocks, and

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Grtek Shepherds. these noble animals deserve all the praise they get for faithfulness and usefulness. Sheep and goats are very numerous in Greece, especially in the mountainous tracts of Northern Greece, and most of the inhabitants are shepherds. At the approach of winter the Hocks are guided from the sides of the mountains- to the plains near the coast, and again return to the higher districts in the month of April. The docks follow the shep¬ herds, who lead the way, and it is usual in Greece, as it always has been in Eastern lands, to give names to the sheep, which they know and will answer, and when their shepherd calls them it is pleasant to see how eagerly they run to- him. D.

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No. I. CHATTERBOX. A TIGER’S GREETING. NOT so many years ago nearly all shops had a sign of some sort or another ; now we seldom see one except at an inn or tavern, though an occa- 1 sional grocer may exhibit a golden teapot, or a provision dealer mount aloft a gilded ham. In the eighteenth century, going along a London street, we might have noticed a dealer, who. sold Indian goods,"disp!aying for his sign the 1 Tiger’s Head.’ Probably it would not have been designed so well as the one in our illustration, which gives us i good idea of the formidable aspect of this most monster ‘cat.’ All who have studied the habits of wild beasts tell us that there is none to be more dreaded than the tiger; even the kingly lion is less to be feared. In several of those countries where the tiger abounds it is not only dreaded, but held in reverence. Amongst some hilly places which it haunts it has been called ‘ Lord of the Rock.’ The natives have a superstitious unwillingness to kill it, though their friends and their flocks may have been victims to the daring ferocity of one of the family. One of the singular occurrences that has now and then been witnessed, in lands where both live, is a fight between a lion and a tiger.. The Asiatic lion is said to be fiercer than the lion of Africa, yet it does not always succeed in conquering its striped foe. We are told that the tiger, when¬ ever it can, avoids a meeting with the shaggy

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6 CHATTERBOX. No. I. monarch. Like others of the cat tribe, the tiger has the habit of quietly and steadily following some person or animal that it hopes to seize, and an officer has given an account of his perilous experience in Madras. He was travelling with a sick friend borne in a palanquin, when, from a sudden freak, the bearers ran away, so he had to leave his friend and hurry back alone to the last village they had passed, on the chance of getting others. His path lay be¬ tween tall bamboos and canes. It was moonlight, and, glancing back, he saw a dark object, wheiAhe thought flashed into his mind that a tiger was fol¬ lowing him ! He said to himself, ‘ This is a foolish fancy ; hasten on for the sake of your friend.' Un- fortunateN he had no weapon of any sort. After walking a little way the officer felt that he must turn round again, and beheld too plainly a large tiger, which crouched to the ground as he looked. In a fit of desperation, he threw up his arms and shouted with all his strength. To his great, joy, the tiger silently disappeared amongst the canes, ‘though "lie could hardly believe that it had gone. However, he mustered courage to fling a large stone towards the spot where the tiger vanished. Feeling encouraged, he walked quickly on, for this produced no result, and he had traversed some distance before he ven¬ tured upon another glance at the jungle. To his alarm, he saw the tiger walking stealthily along a glade, almost in a line with himself, doubtless keep¬ ing its eye upon his movements, and intent upon pursuing him. Should he try another shout ? He did, shouting as loud as he could ; but the tiger took no heed. I hen he resolved to walk on with all pos¬ sible speed, looking neither to the right nor left. He t eared to run, lest his enemy should give chase. He began to think that the tiger might have turned off after some prey, but beyond a bend in the path he suddenly saw the animal, and was horrified. It had got before him, and now stood in his way, checking any advance on his part. What could he do P If he were to turn hack, this movement might lead the tiger to spring upon him. As he stood,'' there came to his ear a distant murmur of voices, and he learned the fact that a party of travellers was coming along the road, and they might come in time to rescue him. He tried to call out, but he could not speak. The next thing he knew was that he was lying on the ground, while somebody gave him a restorative. Afterwards he was told that he had dropped in a faint, and the Indians, as they ap¬ proach ed, saw him and the tiger, so they cried out, ‘ A tiger! a tiger!' and the gentleman whom they were carrying along jumped out of his palanquin with his rifle, but the animal was on the alert and speedily escaped. This might have been one of the man-eating tigers, which are specially dangerous in some parts j of India. Sometimes many vain attempts are made ' to kill them, by pitfalls, poison, or spring-guns, and | at last they have Jo he hunted down in their retreats by parties of soldiers. Though the tiger is naturally | an animal so fierce and blood-thirsty, it has been ' tamed when brought up in human society from a ' kitten, and it will even become affectionate, showing what can be done by skill and patience. j. r. s. c. i VASCO ISLAND. By Fox Russell, Author of ‘ Best of Friends,’ &c. ON the afternoon of a day of intense heat, a tall, spare man, grey - bearded, and dressed in a white linen suit and pith helmet, stood gazing out of the long, wooden-palisaded house which did duty as the British Residency in Vasco Island, and above which hung, in listless folds, the sun-faded colours of the Union Jack. The man’s eyes looked across a lovely vista of tropical vegetation and rested upon the deep blue sea beyond. The waters came rippling gently in, hardly a breath of air to disturb them. On the other side of the island, and to the left of the Residency, could he seen on the adjacent mainland hill upon hill, each one capped with palm-trees, and. rising one behind the other into the glorious blue of the heavens above. But although his eyes rested absently on this lovely scene, it was not of the view that the grey-bearded man was thinking. Far more serious matters engrossed his active mind, and caused him an anxiety which he would not show to any one ; would hardly, in fact, admit even to himself. Sir J ohn Palgrave had been a soldier for many years, and had seen much service during the terrible time of the Indian Mutiny in a.d. 1857 : he had lived amongst the dark races most part of his life and knew their ways, as he knew their language, thoroughly. The signs of hidden disaffection amongst the natives which his practised eye detected, coupled with the reports brought in by his Malay spies, left him in no doubt that the country around Vasco Island was fast ripening for revolt. Revolt against what ? The British rule had ever been a beneficent one ; people who in past times had not dared to call their souls their own, were now living in pence, and enjoying the fruits of their toil ; neighbouring land-owners who, for untold gene¬ rations, had fought and squabbled, each trying to seize upon his fellow’s property, now knew that the English Government was no respecter of persons: that no man, however powerful, should be allowed to take a rood of his neighbour's land, after the Commissioner had marked out the limitations of each property ; rich and poor alike were made to obey the 'aw, and encouraged in the ways of peace and in¬ dustry. All these things had come with the hoisting of the Union Jack; all would as surely disappear should that flag he hauled down, and yet — well, even the Garden of Eden held a serpent. In Vasco Island, the particular serpent's name was Ritakraja. Sir John knew him well, and whenever there was mischief of any kind brewing in the island, the Resident used to set a watch upon the crafty Malay’s comings and goings, and he managed, by means of a trusty native spy, one Orang Tibut, to keep himself pretty well informed as tcT the wily gentleman’s doings. For Ritakraja was enterprising — very enterprising: but although his main object in life was to upset tbe British rule and establish himself in its place, he had so far, kept himself well out of reach of that long arm.. of the law, of which he had a wholesome dread. Ritak— raja had been a small native prince, and lord of many acres, when. the. British took possession of the island!

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No. I. CHATTERBOX. 7 — the acres were on the mainland, and when, unfor¬ tunately for Ritakraja, it transpired that over one half of those acres had been stolen from adjacent land-owners, too weak to resist spoliation, he was politely, though firmly, given to understand that he must restore what he had seized. Stripped of half his estates, llitakraja, whilst outwardly friendly with the English authorities, lost no chance of secretly fomenting a rebellion, and trying to stir up the more warlike of his countrymen to overthrow the invaders and drive them into the sea. The fact that he afterwards intended to seize upon the head-ship of the whole country, first deposing and then killing its present ruler, he carefully kept to himself. The ruler referred to was a weak-minded young man of twenty-five years of age, the only surviving son of the late King. Kanakra’s rule was really the wise rule of the British Empire, as represented by Sir John Palgrave. The iron hand beneath the velvet glove had been used for six years or more by that .extremely able man, and if the young prince had possessed wise counsellors, all would have been well. Unfortunately, he had of late listened to the vapourings of a few hot-headed youths who mistook fiery sentiment for patriotism, and he had also given ear to the lying tongue of the wily Ritakraja who, was his first cousin and — had he only known it — his greatest enemy. The consequence of all this was that, unsettled in his mind by evil counsels, he had lately been showing a spirit of restlessness which had given Sir John much uneasiness and rendered the task of governing, through the young prince, wdio was merely a figure-head and puppet in the Resident’s hands, an extremely difficult one. Sir John knew pretty well whence the trouble came ; but Ritakraja and his followers were far too careful to show any outward disrespect for the British authority. They bided their time, and so did Sir John. But, just now, the British Resident was feeling rather anxious, and with good cause. For he had discovered that, without doubt, Ritakraja had suc¬ ceeded in talking over the weak young prince, and that the two of them were now doing their best to mislead those who had always hitherto been on the side of law and order in the country. * % * * * Eight years before the events took place which are now about to be narrated, the English had possessed no more footing in the land than was represented by a mission station, where dwelt an excellent old clergyman, his wife and four children. For a lengthened period he carried on his minis¬ trations in the face of much opposition and ill-will ; converts were few and far between, but still, in no¬ wise disheartened, he persevered in his good work. At last, one evening, a sudden determined attack was made upon the Mission-house, and after less than an hour, it was burnt over the heads of himself and his unfortunate family. They rushed from the burning building in despair, only to meet their fate by being brutally clubbed and speared to death by the cowardly attackers outside. England was, of course, in honour bound to resent this terrible outrage and insult to her flag. The Home Government promptly called upon the Malay potentate to take steps to punish the murderers and also demanded a money reparation at the same time. Heedless of that long arm which the mistress of the seas can, and does, stretch out to punish those who ill-treat her sons, the King returned an insolent answer, declining to move in the matter, or to permit any foreigner even to land on his territory for the purpose of making any inquiry into the affair. The British lion is a peaceful animal, and will stand a great many twistings of his tail before he rouses himself to fight ; but when once on his feet, and with that same recently twisted tail waving high over his back, his enemies have found that it would have been good for them if they had not twisted it quite so much. In this case, the lion just sneezed, and where were the Malays ? For when one morning, in due course, two British line-of -battle slops let go their anchors close in-shore, and well within view of King Rahputunga himself, as he sat in his palace engaged in the con¬ genial occupation of bullying his ministers and eating his breakfast, the sight quite took his appetite away. The tempting morsel which ho was in the act of conveying to his mouth he set down again untasted. He had never seen such monstrous vessels before ; he was quite suro that he never wished to see such things again ! Hastening to the window, he gazed long and anxiously at the huge floating engines of destruction : their decks seemed to be filled with red-coated soldiers and alive with blue-jackets. As to the enormous guns they carried, well, words failed the great potentate to express the qualms which came over him at the thought of what mischief they might do, and what his palace would look like after a ten-minutes’ bombardment. For a few moments he raged and shouted loudly for his guards to arm themselves and prepare for resistance ; but a brief explosion of temper and another look at the war-shjLjps calmed him down, and when the English Admiral came ashore and held parley with his Majesty, the latter was quick to see things in an amiable light. Admiral Conway had assured him that nothing was farther from his own personal wishes than to blow the king’s palace sky-high, but his Government had given him no discretion in the matter, and, if King Rahputunga did not see his way to agree to the terms imposed, he, Admiral Conway, would ho under the painful necessity of performing the disagreeable duty just mentioned. The King, however, with a furtive glance at those two great ironclad monsters in the bay, did ‘ see bis way,’ and matters were very quickly arranged. Shortly afterwards a Residency was built on the island for the British representative; great and beneficent changes were made in the governing of the country subject to Rahputunga’s sway; and, in due course, the Resident arrived, and the ironclads went away. Some two years later Rahputunga died, and Kanakra, his son, reigned in his stead. Kanakra, up to the time of this story, had taken his orders from the British Resident. If he had continued in this course, it would have been so much the better for his throne, his country in general, and Vasco Island in particular. ( Continued at page 10.)

Page 13

8 CHATTERBOX. No. I. “ For a few moments the King raged and shouted loudly for his guards to arm themselves.”

Page 14

No. II. CHATTERBOX. 9 / o

Page 15

10 CHATTERBOX. No. II. A SLEDGE EXPRESS. THE frosts and snow of the winter months, which stop some amusements, also travelling at times, have their benefits as well — they bring both fun and frolic to many of the young folk who live in the Alpine districts. Out they come with their sledges when the air is clear and frosty, their cheeks glow, their eyes sparkle, and their laughter can be heard from afar in the clear mountain air. # Children of all sorts enjoy the sledging-season ; girls and boys swarm along the roads, or make their way through the forests, and, should you be a bye- passer, you have to look out for your toes ! To run a sledge over a level bit of ground is very well, but it is much more exciting to take a rush down-hill at high speed. . Properly, the sledge should only have one boy or girl inside it ; frequently they manage to seat two, as shown by our illustration, though it is in rather a dangerous way. The older boy usually lies flat on the sledge, and a smaller boy holds on ; the guidance is given by the feet ; rapid as is the speed, accidents seldom happen. When it is needful to return, the sledge has to be pushed up, empty perhaps, or with but one boy inside, by the united strength of a couple. In England, many years ago, sledges were u?ed in the large marshes now dried up, over which people had to travel while they were frozen over. Some¬ times, too, the boys made a kind of sledge out of a large block of ice, upon which a boy sat, and the others pushed it over the sheet of ice with all their strength. Another odd game, now out of use, was to whirl several sledges round and round from a central pole by means of ropes; often the sledges and riders would roll over together. J. R. S. C. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 7.) - R JOHN PALGRAVE raised his head sharply as a slight crackling of the bushes struck upon his ear. The noise was made by a native peasant only, as he approached the verandah with a basket of tropical fruit upon his arm ; nevertheless, the Resident’s face broke into a smile. No man living could have been more welcome to Sir John than the Malay then slouching carelessly up ; for this was the spy, Orang Tibut. The man proffered the contents of his basket directly he had saluted his master. Sir John, for appearance sake, in case any curious eye should be upon them, picked up a large green banana. ‘Well? ’he said. Orang handed out some dates, taking, at the same moment, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around him. ‘ Twice to-day Ritakraja has visited the young King. Last night he was at the palace for more than three hours. I could not get to see Kibungat, or I might have heard what was the subject of their conversation.’ ‘ Will he be present at the Residency reception to¬ night?’ ^ ^ . ‘ \ es, he will be there to keep up appearances.- Ritakraja is clever’ — and Orang Tibut showed a wondrous sharp-looking set of teeth, all filed to a point, as he grinned at the thought then passing; through his brain. The Resident merely nodded. ‘Watch him again, and very closely, to-morrow, Orang Tibut,’ he said. ‘ Come again to me at the same time — or no, keep him in sight as far as possible, until he goes to the palace. I know he is to be there an hour after the King has had his mid¬ day sleep. Then paddle across here and report to me what his movements have been throughout the day. If you should see me on the mainland — I may be there some time to-morrow — salute me and pass" on. By no means speak to me until you come over here. You understand.’ Orang Tibut grinned again. The work of a spy suited him extremely well. Like most of his country¬ men, he did not at all relish hard work ; this loafing about and keeping an eye upon Ritakraja — a business for which he was very highly paid — was much more to his taste. Saluting Sir John again, he picked up his basket of fruit, and slowly sauntered off down to the beach, got into his sampan, and leisurely paddled away again across the blue, smooth strip of shim¬ mering sea which divided the island from the main Malayan shore. Sir John sighed and walked slowly into his house as the native spy disappeared. He had heavy interests at stake — political, mercantile, and social — to consider in dealing with the rebellion of which he could see signs everywhere around him. Above all the rest, he had a daughter and a niece living with him under the charge of their aunt, his dead "wife’s sister ; and, too brave to give a second thought to his own danger in the event of a general rising, he had anxious fears when he thought on their helpless position. As yet the ladies had no idea of the existence of any danger. On one excuse or another Sir John had hindered their visits to the mainland of late ; they did not suspect anything. They merely imagined that the sampans were out of order, or that, their boatman was making holiday. No thought flashed into their minds that it might not be safe for them to wander about amongst "the Malays. Sir John knew the excitable temperament of the people ; lie knew, moreover, that when a Malay becomes excited he becomes dangerous ; that the murderous weapon is ever too ready to his hand, and that, although no actual move had yet been made against the British rule, the very appearance of an English face might be the occasion of an outbreak. For himself, he was quite willing to take the chances of an attack, and still w'alked about freely amongst the people ; but he naturally refused to risk his"\vomen-folk in the same way, and therefore, without alarming them, he contrived to keep them on the island on one pretence or another, where they would be more out of harm's

Page 16

No. n. CHATTERBOX. 11 way. Very few Malays lived upon the island itself ; beyond the establishment of the Residency, whose servants, all told, numbered less than a dozen, only a few native fishermen dwelt in the place. Although no English soldiers were formally quartered there, Sir John had about him eight excellent men, who had served in the Royal Artillery, and well knew how to handle the two long guns mounted on earth¬ works within the Residency forecourt, 4 merely for the purpose of saluting and answering salutes said the British Government of the day. Quite true, so long as no attack should ever be made upon the place which sheltered England’s representative ; but they were t useful ’ guns too, and ‘ no playthings, as Sergeant Tom Lobb, R.A., was wont to observe to his fellow-artillerymen at times. These eight gunners, with their wives and children, occupied a long, low range of wooden barracks, not more than a quarter of a mile from the back of the Residency, and half of their number were always on duty, in an informal manner — gardening, working about the house, painting, or making good fences ; and at night the four were always accustomed to sleep at the Residency ; thus was protection afforded without any appearance of distrust towards the natives. Some of these ex-soldiers were also employed to wait at ceremonious functions, such as the ‘political’ reception given on alternate Wednesday evenings by the Resident. At these receptions there was no more regular attendant than Ritakraja. Cunning beyond compare, he was quite awake to the advantages of ‘ putting in an appearance * at the enemy’s camp, and the Malay prince never missed the chance of showing himself at the island 6 Wednesdays.' Pretending to be a friend of the English, he became proficient in their language, and even affected, to a certain degree, the° European dress on important occasions. He was rather a handsome man of about fortv years of age, and his qualities were of a curiously mixed kind, for he was at once brave and crafty, a fearless soldier and a plotter of plots, and he would play with a kitten or execute an offending* servant with equal zest. Now, Ritakraja was perfectly well aware that the Resident did. not believe a word he uttered, nor trust him ‘ round the corner,’ as the saying goes. He also had a very strong suspicion that his own movements, his goings and comings, were closely watched, but he did not know by whom. Neverthe¬ less, he was determined not to show any sign of dis¬ trust, and, when he greeted Sir John at the door of the long reception-room at the Residency on W ed- nesdav evenings, any casual looker-on would have thought that Ritakraja and the British Resident were warm friends. . Sir John had seen and heard enough to assure him that unless prompt steps were taken to stop the progress of Ritakraja’s conspiracy— none . of the details of which, however, had reached his ears— the whole country would soon be up in arms. Ihe Resident’s position was a very difficult one, at tins juncture. He had no force at command except the eisrht ex-artillerymen and some half-dozen English, including the doctor, living pretty close to the Residency. There was no force to resist the Malays if they should attack the Residency. Less than a week had elapsed since Sir John had dispatched a message asking for a British ship of war to be sent to his aid ; but it might be many weeks first. Mails were very irregular, and he knew that he must do all in his power to delay any. outbreak of hostilities. He determined to have a little talk to Ritakraja himself that night. # ‘ So glad to see you here ! ’ exclaimed Sir John, addressing the wily Malay, who, all bows and smiles, was paying his respects to Nita Palgrave. ‘ So glad to see you here — because then I know you are not brewing mischief elsewhere,’ he added, to himself. * What a glorious night it must have been for the paddle across, eh F And how are things going on in the mainland ? Have you seen the Ring lately ? * No, my dear Sir John, I have not; in fact, I have not set eyes on His Majesty for over a week.’ This was a lie, and the Resident knew it. ‘You do not think he is ill, do you? It is un¬ fortunate that he was not able to see me when I went to the palace yesterday. I wish very much for an interview with his Majesty because well, you. Prince Ritakraja, I know, are so greatly in his confidence that it will not be indiscreet on nay .part if I mention to you that I wish to ask the King if he has heard any rumours of the people showing signs of restlessness?’ — and Sir John Palgrave looked Ritakraja full in the face as he spoke. That dusky gentleman, however, returned the look with an appearance of sympathetic interest which neatly overcame the Englishman’s gravity, knowing what he did of the other’s active share in the conspiracy. ‘ YTou do not mean it seriously, Sir John ? Oh no, you must be joking with me. Unrest amongst the people ! Why should there be unrest ? Are they not governed well and wisely by — Sir John Palgrave himself, wisest of a wise nation’s counsellors P Are thev not well off under such government ? ’ ‘ Yes, they are,’ answered Sir John, speaking , slowly and deliberately ; ‘ yes, they are. But there are always certain self-seeking men who make them¬ selves so-called “ leaders of the people/’ and who, for their own purposes, stir up the peasants by appeals to their worst passions. These men we must look after.’ , ... , ‘ Ah, if indeed there are such men — winch, pardon me for saying, Sir John, I rather doubt you, witn. vour force here’ (Sir John thought he detected a covert sneer in the allusion) ‘ should deal with them severely. I should send them to prison.’ . < I shall hang them,’ drily replied the Resident, ‘ when I can lay hands on them. Ritakraja’s face underwent a momentary change. In an instant, however, he had recovered himself, and again smilingly turned to his host. ‘ Make vour. mind easy. I am sure there is nothing to fear. Ihe King would have heard of it; he has spies every¬ where, and had he known of anything of the kind, he would have told me. Should any rising occur here, of course the whole thing would be hopeless. . I suppose you have plentv of ships and soldiers with- in call ? ’ “ , T1 ‘Yes; England has plenty of ships. I have alreadv sent for a war-ship which could easily restore" order, quell any rebellion, or reduce the place to ashes.’

Page 17

“ No man living could have been more welcome to Sir John than the Malay.” I You have already sent the letter — a letter summoning a war vessel P ’ I I have. I considered it safer.’ ‘ And 1/ thought Ritakraja, ‘ considered it safer still to abstract that letter from the mail- bag, my good friend, and light my cigar with it ! ’ For a long time Ritakraja had been considering in what way he could best serve himself in the event of a rebellion, and some six months before the time of which we are speaking he had decided upon his plan of action, which was : To win the king to his side, and induce him to throw over the authority of England ; to attack the British Residency and murder the Resident himself ; to then dispose of the young King, and proclaim himself sovereign in his stead ; to invoke the aid of either France or Spain, both of

Page 18

' Kindness makes affliction s cross Muck easier to bear, ” which had adjacent possessions, and in return for acknowledging a suzerainty, demand to be confirmed in his possession of the throne. 1 England,’ argued the Malay, ‘ would probably not care enough about the business to take the place again by force of arms ; if she did, why, then she would have to encounter the Great Power — either France or Spain — to which he had accorded the suzerainty/ Such ideas would have shown . a singular ignorance of the State of European politics in the Western mind ; to the Eastern despot in his own little state it seemed clear enough— and remark¬ ably easy. . Fearing that Sir John might see fit, on learning ot the turbulent condition of the people, to send for a war-ship, Ritakraja had caused the mail bag to be strictly watched for over a month past, and his patience was rewarded by his being, at length, enabled to intercept the letter he sought. Ritakraja, like the majority of his race, was treacherous to the last degree, and the thought of taking and opening other people’s letters being hardly the work for a prince never even occurred to him. He was playing a deep and dangerous game, a game which he was thoroughly determined to win at any cost of human life, if that became necessary ; and, for the moment, in suppressing Sir John Palgrave’s letter, he, Ritak¬ raja, felt that he had done a clever stroke. ( Continued at pafja 22.) A KIND RECEPTION. PHY, dear me, see, there’s poor old Grant _ Now coming up the lane, And in five minutes there will be A heavy shower of rain. ‘ Here, Tom, your legs are young, my lad, And you can run — aye, fast ; Go, call him in to shelter here Until the storm is past.’ Thus to his son spoke Farmer Nunn — A kindly man is he ; And Tom obeyed his father’s word And ran out speedily. And soon returned with poor old Grant, Whose sight is very dim, And he is also very deaf, And pain has weakened him. Into the kitchen he was led And guided to a chair, And he was thankful, for he felt That he was welcome there. The farmer and his busy wife, And Tom, their bonny lad, Spoke very kindly unto him And made bis old heart glad.

Page 19

14 CHATTERBOX. No. II. They made him stay to dinner there, They gave him of their best, They treated him as if he were A most important guest. He thanked them gratefully, and then, In trembling tones, said he, ; If all showed pity on the poor As you have shown to me, * Then in this world there 'would not be Of grief so large a share, Tor kindness makes affliction’s cross Much easier to bear.’ * * * * Yes, this is so. Yes, noble they Who always kindly speak, And do all iu their power to help The aged and the weak. But there are some by whom rough words And mocking jeers are hurled ; Ah ! they are cowards , they increase The sorrow of the 'world. E. PTJZZLEBS FOB WISE HEADS. 1. — Geographical Anagrams. 1. One pair, lad. A town in Turkey in Europe. 2. My old bar. A country in the north of Italy. 3. Some rest. A southern county of England. 4. Rick now. The chief town of an eastern county of England : it has a beautiful cathedral, built in the reign of William Rufus. 5. I raise B. A large country in the north of Asia. 6. Glad one. A county in Ireland. 7. Grin, E. A river in Africa. 8. My rose. A province in India. 9. N. leaps. A beautiful bay in Italy. 30. Poor nag. A city of Hindustan. 11. Vain Nora. A sea-port of Greece. 12. Go on, lad. A province of Nubia. C. C. 2. — Metagrams. (a.) — 1. Change the first letter of a visible sign of weariness, and the following transformations will appear. 2. The break of day. 3. A graceful young animal ; to flatter meanly. 4. An attendant upon royalty, Church dignitaries and persons of rank : a pledge. o. A delicate woven fabric; a grassy plain. G. Cut asunder. (b.) — 1. Thin, spare. 2. A place to keep money; a mound of earth. 3. A receptacle for water. 4. A high position in society. 5. Damp, moist ; a Persian silver coin. 6. A skein of silk or thread. (c-) — 1* An unpleasant state of atmosphere. 2. Giving artificial light. 3. To climb, to leap about. 4. A humorous character in a popular novel. 5. The resting-place of an army. (d.)— 1. Far from the first, 2. Not slow. 3. A cardinal point. 4. Part of a ship. 5. Very spacious or large. 6. Quite over and gone. C. C. 3. — Arithmograph. A town in Lincolnshire, the scene of an important battle, in which the reigning sovereign wa3 killed. 1. — 4, 6, 2, 7, 8. Anger. 2. — 1, 2, 4. A courteous salutation ; a weapon. 3. — S, 5, 3, 7. One who entertains guests ; an army. 4. — 3, 2, 5, 7. Condensed smoke. o. — 1, 2, 5, 7, 8. A shelter built of slight materials. 6. — 1, 6, 2, 4. The edge of a hill, or any high place. 7. — 8, 2, 5, 7. The cry of a bird of night. 8. — 3, o, 6, 7. Kind or species; to separate, to select. C. C. [A/iszm'S at page 27.] THE EABLY DAYS OF SIB WALTEB SCOTT. I. (i Concluded from page 3.) MONO the odd remedies which were tried to cure my lame¬ ness,’ writes Scott in his auto¬ biography, ‘ some one had recommended that so often as a sheep was killed for the use of the family, I should be stripped and swathed up in the skin, warm as it was flayed from the carcase of the animal. In this Tartar¬ like garb I well remember lying upon the floor of the little parlour in the farm-house, while my grandfather, a memorable old man with white hair, used all sorts of plans to make me try to crawl. I also distinctly remember the late Sir George MacDougal of Makerstown .... joining in this kindly attempt .... and I still recollect him in his old-fashioned military habit (he had been Colonel of the Greys), with a small cocked hat deeply laced, an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, and a light- coloured coat, with milk-white locks tied in a military fashion, kneeling on the ground before me, and dragging his watch along the carpet to induce me to follow it.’ Walter was in his third year when this happened. Soon after this his grandfather died, but his grand¬ mother still kept on the farm, assisted sometimes by a near relative. Although Walter was not quite four years old at the time of his grandfather’s death, he distinctly remembered when an old man, the ‘ writing and sealing of the funeral letters, and all the ceremonial of the melancholy procession as it left Sandy- knowe.’ Ike weekly visits of the relative who came to assist old Mrs. Scott were eagerly looked forward to by Walter, who, young as he was, liked to hear the

Page 20

CHATTERBOX 15 war news, The American War was then raging. The tiny feilow was quite a politician* and Ardently loved the causa of the Jacobite King* Stories were told in his bearing of cruelties committed by the other side at Carlisle and the Highlands Ilia Grand to i it her Scott often told him tales of the border— sometimes these were grave, at others gay, and these made a deep impression on the boy. In the long winter days hia hind aunt. Miss Janet Scott, of whom ha wrote many years afterwards with great affection, would tarn over the pages of old books and search out such things as she thought likely to interest and amuse her intelligent little nephew. Again and again she would patiently read long f&asages to him until h* could repeat them by heart. An acquaintance of the family has left us a word* picture of the home at Sandy-ttuowe. She tells of old Aire, Bqott, sitting with her spinning- wheel at one side of the dre, in a very clean parlour; the grandfather a good deal failed in his elbow-chair opposite ; and the little boy lying do the carpet at the old man's feet listening to the Bible, or whatever good bock Miss Jenny wo* reading to them.' When Walter was four years old some one suggested to his father that the waters at Rath might do good to his little lame son. The boy's health, during the time he had staved at the farm* had improved. When the day was 4in« he was carried out, end laid down beside the old shepherd among the crags or rookn round w hich he fed his sheep. When the boy wished to go indoors*, the cow-bailie would blow a particular note on his whittle. The maid-servants heard this in the house he low', and would come and carry the child home* Waiter Scott tisod to nay in his old ago that the sort of fellowship lie had formed with the sheep — railing along on the grass all day long in the midst of the Bock* had ‘ impressed hiH mind with a degree pf affectionate feeling towards them which had Lasted throughout life.* Uns day, out on the knolls, he woa forgotten, and a thunder-storm came Otl. Hia aunt run out to bring him home* and found him lying on bis back, clapping hia hands at the lightning, and crying out * Bonny, bonny t ’ at every flub. It was during these days on the hill-side at Sandy- knows that, setting so many things around him which he wished to get at, he began, by degrees, to try and stand, and then to walk* and at last to run. Hk poor Limb remain id shrunken and shortened, but otherwise ht was healthy, I ugh -spirited, and sturdy. The time had come when he was to be taken from ftandy-knowe to try the waters at itoib. The 1'ourncy from SooUand to London, on the way to lath, wm made by sea in the Bucket? of Ruccfetuih. Id London, Walter md hia aunt stayed for a abort time, and visited, amongst other places, the Tower of London and Wart minster Abbey. The little boy stayed for a year at Bath, but the waters did not at all help hia lameness. While in the city he attended a day school kept by an old dame- The school wna quite close to Walter and his aunt’s lodgings* Writing years afterward* about this time in Ins life he says : * But the moat delight¬ ful recollections of Rath are ds'od nftrr the arrival of my uncle. Captain Robert Scott, who introduced me to all the little amusements which suited my age, and, above all, to the theatre. The play was A* To it Like It, and the witchery of the whole scene is olive in my mind At this moment. I made, I believe, noise more than enough, and remember being so much scandalised at the quarrel between Orlando and his brother in the lir.it scene that I screamed out, “ Aren't they brothers '?*" Walter seems to have thought Bath a pleasant- enough place, and recalls the 1 beauties of the parade (which of them 1 know not), with the river Avon winding around it, and the lowing of the cattle from the opposite hills . . . , and the splendours of a toy-shop near the orange-grove.' lie seems at this time to have been strangely afraid of statuary of all kinds, until his uncle banished his fears by taking him quite close up to a statue of Neptune which stood (and perhaps stands) beside the Avon* When the year at Bath mi finished, Walter was taken home to Edinburgh, and afterwards to Sandy - kROwt*. There he stayed until about eight years old, when it wad thought that sea-bathing might do good. Aunt J fi net took her nephew to Prefltnn-pano, and in that little village he made the acquhintauca of an old military veteran named Dalgcthy. This old gentleman, called by courtesy * captain,* had been in all the German wars, and could tell many fairs likely to interest the little hoy, and long chat a took place between the two. From Fre^ton-pans Our hero once more returned to hid father's house, where he stayed until he woa twenty-six years of age. Our next chapter concerns his school life, James Cassidy, HOW THE COLO UBS WE BE SAVED. UltlNG the Austro Prussian War a body of Prussian soldier* came upon a ditch half full of wounded and dying Austrians. Amongst those who were badly wounded was a young officer. They found him lying on bin hack in the wot ditch. Touched with pity f'»r him, some id the Prussian* went to him and wished to rexiiuv» bitu, so that he might be attended to by the surgeon. But he besought them to leave him alone, telling them thAt lie felt quite com for table. Soon after this he died. Then, whan they lifted bis body, they found why ha had begged them to leave him alone. He had been the standard-bearer for bi£ regiment. In the terrible battle of that day the Hag had been torn into tatters, and when he was sore wounded, *i that he soon must die* bin soldier spirit was still ] strong within him, and, rather than let the ‘ bit of rag ' fall into the cneruy s hand, he folded it up and placed it beneath him so that none might see it. This whs why he would not lot himself be moved by the kindly Prussian soldiers. IIb would die protecting the precious Hog, His foes were so touched by hia noble action that they would not take away the trophy, hut wrapped it around him, that it might bo buried with him,

Page 21

Page 22

No. III. CHATTERBOX.

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18 CHATTERBOX. Xo. III. NED AND HIS PUPIL. ED BANKS lias a bullfinch — a fine little fellow, Xf Though quite a young bird, it is tame as can be; And when on his finger with pleasure it perches, The sight is delightful, as you will agree. This bird, I must tell you, each day lias some lessons, And Ned is its teacher, as you may have guessed ; The tune to be learnt is the tune to 4 The Springtide/ Because it is one of the gayest and best. The young pupil listens, and soon makes an effort To mimic the beautiful strain it has heard ; And Ned, feeling sure of success in the future, Will not groyf impatient at teaching his bird. And when it can whistle the air to perfection, The heart of its teacher will throb with delight, For he will be able to sell it, and quickly — His dear little pupil, so clever and bright. lie needs money badly for food and for clothing, And earn it he cannot by work which is hard ; For two years ago, by a terrible fever, The plans he had made for his future were marred. The news of his illness and wearisome weakness A kind-hearted neighbour — a poor woman — heard, And hoping to cheer him she took him a present : A wicker-work cage and a handsome young bird. ‘ The bird is a mavis/ said she ; 4 and when able I think you can teach him a tune, if you try ; Just whistle it softly and whistle it often, And he will repeat it to you by-and-by !’ Well, Ned from that evening began to be cheerful, And soon was amused by the bird’s pretty ways ; It learnt very quickly to know and obey him, And soon was a warbler of wonderful lays ! This mavis — the present which proved such a blessing — We see in its big wicker-cage on the wall; But Ned has no thought now of selling this singer, To him it will always he dearest of all, Because he was led by its charming behaviour To make up his mind to be trainer of pets, And great is the pleasure he feels in the teaching, And great the success which the kind laddie gets. Bough touches and speeches make fear and con¬ fusion, Affection and trust for a time are destroyed ; But great the success to the work of a teacher If kindness and patience are always employed. D. H. PASTE THIS UP IN YOUR MIND. YOU may he ever so pure, but you cannot associate JL with had companions without falling into had odour. Evil company is like tobacco-smoke — you cannot be long in its presence without carrying away a taint of it. HOW A ST. HILDA MAN FEELS. HOME time ago, a simple-hearted man, who had 0 lived all his life upon the tiny island of St.. Hilda, wras persuaded by some friend to visit the great world, and see a little of life. The friend proposed in the first place to take him to the island of Mull (a world in itself, as it seemed to the poor St. Kildian). While sailing there, some men in the boat began to chaff him about his ignorance of many things which were quite familiar to them. He, however, parried their questions with great coolness and good humour. At length one of his tormentors asked him if he had ever heard of God in St. Hilda ? Then the poor islander became quite grave. 4 To what place do you belong ? ’ was his reply. 4 Describe it to me ! ’ 4 1? I come from a land of rivers and plains, wheat and barley, fruits and flowers !’ was the answer. 4 Is that the land you come from ? ’ asked the poor St. Kildian. 4 Well, I can quite see that in such a lovely land as that, you may forget God ; but at St. Hilda it is hardly possible to forget Him. Perched on the top of a huge rock, hanging over a precipice, or tossed upon a wild ocean, how can we forget our God P Why, we and ours lean always upon His arm!’ “ D. B. McKean. THE LATE DUKE OF BEAUFOBT. A LTIIOUGH few kinder-hearted men have ever jtl. lived than the eighth Duke of Beaufort, yet he detested anything in the shape of snobbery or 4 pushing.’ He would raise his hat to a charwoman with the same politeness that he would to a duchess ; but, a pattern of good manners himself, he had no toleration for bad ones in others, whether they were princes or peasants. At a 4 Lawn Meet/ as it was called, of the Badminton Foxhounds — a pack kept and paid for solely by the Duke himself — there was, as usual, a large assemblage of his Grace’s own particular friends and members of the hunt. The Duke, on this occasion, gave a Hunt breakfast, for those he personally invited, at Badminton. A certain baker not only rode to the meet on the lawn, but coolly walked into the house, and took a seat at the breakfast-table. The Duke, kindly as he was, could not stand such impudent conduct as this, so, rising from his seat, he said quietly, 4 When we want the buns, Mr. Smith, we will send for you, thanks;’ and the baker beat a hasty retreat. Another of the stories told of the owner of Badminton is, that on the occasion of the French horse, Gladiateur, winning the Derby, the Duke was greatly disappointed at the failure of a horse of his own which was running in the race. A very forward Frenchman, who only knew his Grace by sight, pushed through the crowd towards where he was standing, and said tauntingly, ‘ The French have avenged Waterloo, Duke ! ’ The Duke calmly looked down at the speaker and. replied, 4 Yes ; I am told the French ran very well at Waterloo /’ *F. B.

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No. III. CHATTERBOX 19 THE MUFFLED BELLS. A Talo of Now-year’s Eve. II RX STM AS, with its long- expected pleasures, was past. Since that glad morning the sun had risen six times, and the last day of the year had come round again. The quiet little market-town of Thormley, with its thousand odd inhabitants, was very dull at the best of times, and Frank Stap, who had his home there, found it duller than psual that grey December afternoon. Of course, he knew plenty of boys of his own age, and one or two school-fellows who lived in the neighbourhood, homo for the holi¬ days like himself ; but somehow or other, on this afternoon, he had, as it were, drifted from his com¬ panions, and found himself thrown entirely on his own resources for amusement. After mooning about the house a good, while, trying to make up his mind how he was to employ himself, he remembered that it was freezing outside, and he resolved to try the thickness of the ice of a pond lying about a mile beyond the village. At once he took down his skates, slung them round his neck by the straps, dug his hands into his trousers-pockets, and off he went to the pond. The frost had scarcely been keen enough, however, to make the ice quite safe, and it was owing to this circumstance, probably, that Frank had the pond all to himself ; so he soon took off his skates, and started back for home, more disgusted than ever. It was then a little past three, and already the ruddy sun was sinking out of sight behind the high ridge of hills in the west, and twilight would ere long be deepening. Trudging smartly along the high road, be presently drew level with the old parish church of St. Mary’s. It lay remote from the town a good furlong, and stood back from the road-side. Frank stopped in his walk, and, leaning on the breast-high stone wall of the graveyard, be gazed thoughtfully at the ancient structure, with its grey hell-tower and Gothic window's and porch. How hushed and deserted all was ! How cold and bleak the tomb-stones looked ! The prospect was not one to raise his spirits, but, singularly enough, it appeared to have a precisely opposite effect, for a smile all at once overspread his features. Then he consulted his watch. 1 .1 can do it in a quarter of an hour,’ he muttered. ‘ There will still be a bit of daylight left. I had better see if the door is open, though, first. The game is off if it happens to be locked.’ On examination, he found that the door was open, whereupon he resumed his homeward journey at a brisk pace. In a little more than ten minutes he was on the scene again, carrying a big bundle under his arm. He went up the broad path leading to the porch, and entered the sacred building. Making sure there was nobody within save himself, he mounted the winding staircase of the bell-tower. He knew this portion of the church very well, from having so often, been to see the ringers practise. Passing the ringers’ room, he mounted still higher, till at length he gained the belfry itself. There were eight bells in the peal, which was renowned in that part of the country for its excellence of tone. The chamber was almost dark, the fading daylight find¬ ing it3 way through shutters in the sides of the walls; but this did not seem to interfere very greatly with Frank’s errand there. He unrolled his bundle, which proved to be a square of well- worn carpet, and, with his sharp clasp-knife, he cut it into eight pieces of about equal size. Next he took from his coat-pocket a ball of strong twine, and began to firmly lash round one of the bell-clappers a piece of the carpet. Having served each hammer m this fashion, he descended the stairs and left the church. It would be nearly midnight before Frank’s little joke would come into effect. At Thormley they had kept up one of those pleasant old customs which our forefathers were wont to observe. This was the ringing out of the Old and the ringing in of the New Year. On New- year’s Eve, the bell-ringers performed in the pre¬ sence of the Squire, parson, and other personages more or less connected with the church, and, the labour of hell-pulling being proverbial, a huge jug of foaming ale was, on that night brought from the * Red Lion ’ by mine host himself, and served out to the perspiring ringers in turn. Master Frank chuckled with immense relish at the ridiculous picture which rose before liis mind’s eye. He saw, as plainly as if he had been present, the looks of consternation and horror of all assembled in the chamber when, on the signal being given to start ringing, nothing but a hoarse muffled jar re¬ sulted from the pulls of those at the ropes. Few people, we believe, look upon practical jokes with approval, and very properly so. They often bring trouble on those for whose especial benefit they are devised. But this little pleasantry of Frank’s was an exception to the rule, as you shall shortly see. Since the middle of the preceding October, one Jerry Boswell, a gipsy, with his wife and small family, had taken up their winter quarters at a j cottage on the outskirts of Thormley. Jerry had I not made himself very popular with the villagers — quite the contrary, in fact. This, however, was a circumstance that did not distress him very much ; indeed, he seemed to derive a sort of pleasure from the fear and dislike which he excited in the ignorant country people. He appeared to be com¬ fortably off too, though whether his means were always honestly come by was more than the Thormley folk could assert. He seemed to earn his living by gathering the longest and straigktest stems* of the common gorse-bush, which, when he had boiled and scraped, he sent away to be made into walking and umbrella sticks. Now, Pank, the butler at Mr. Stap’s house, must have been a ‘ pal 5 of Boswell’s before that gentle¬ man ever set foot in Thormley ; for be was on very familiar terms with him from his first coming,

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Frank Stap meditates a Practical Joke. though he took pains to hide the fact. Often, when freedom from his duties permitted, he paid a visit to the gipsy’s cottage after dark, and on one of these occasions, a week or so before Christmas, Boswell and he were seated in the ‘best’ room, holding earnest conversation ; they spoke in low tones, as if afraid of bt-ing overheard. A faggot fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and, lest its light should expose them to the gaze of any inquisitive passer¬ by, they had taken the precaution to securely close the wooden shutters of the low four-paned window. A rum bottle, about a quarter full, a jug of hot water, and a couple of tumblers, stood on the three- legged table which had been drawn up between them before the blaze. ( Concluded at page 26.) TV

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Remorse. A LOST OPPORTUNITY. An Old Man’s Christmas Story. SOW can I welcome Christmas ? To me it is a hand Which opens memory’s window and leadeth me to stand Before a solemn picture which wakens many a tear, And leads me back in fancy to Christmas week last year. That Christmas morn was snow-clad, and free from touch of gloom, The sun was shining brightly across my cosy room, As I sat by the fireside and read, alas ! with scorn, This letter which had reached me upon that Christmas morn : — ‘ Please, sir, to you I’m writing from depths of my despair, Oh ! do take pity on me and turn not from my prayer ; I’m starving, ill, and homeless; indeed, my tale is true, And this is why I’m begging a little aid from you. * I beg, sir, for five shillings ; oh! be to me a friend ; I know ’tis in your power, sir, and if this help you send You never will regret it; believe me that, indeed, You will look back with pleasure to helping me in need.’ Then followed a suggestion, and also his address ; He hoped I would send some one to see that his distress Was genuine, as stated. ‘Ha, ha, what next? ’ I cried, Then sat down to my breakfast and tossed the note aside. I told myself that surely if I should grant that plea A dozen more such letters would come to bother me; And so I quite decided that letter to ignore, And so held back from helping the writer, sick and poor. But still his sad petition came often to my mind ; I tried in vain to drown it and good excuses find For not responding to it. ‘ He has no claim on me,’ I said, but could not stifle the memory of that plea. At last it seemed to haunt me ; my nerves got over¬ wrought, And three days after Christmas I started to the court From whence had come that letter, and I resolved to see The writer, and to ask him why he had sent to me. 1 Can I see Edward Jones, please?’ I asked of her who came In answer to my knocking. She started at the name. * Well, yes, sir, you can see him,’ she said with puzzling air, Then guided through a passage and up a narrow stair. I

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22 CHATTERBOX. No. III. And when she reached the landing she entered on her right A tiny room. I followed, and . . . met an awful sight, Which shocked me beyond measure. Yes, on a wretched bed I saw the man. I trembled, I cried aloud, ‘ He’s dead 1 ’ 4 He is,’ the woman answered. ‘ We have had a fearful fright ; He kept himself so close, sir, we knew not till last night That he was really ill, sir — 7twas then I heard him moan, And hurried in, and found him as cold and stiff as stone. * I saw death in his face, sir, so sent for Doctor Gee, Who said : ‘ He’s starved, poor fellow, as sure as sure can be.' The sick man raised his eyes then and owned such was the case : Ah ! ’twas an awful thing, sir, to happen on the place. * He wrote, I think, for help, sir, twa3 Christmas Eve when I W7ent out to post his letter; he watched for the reply, Dut nothing ever reached him. Ah, have I guessed aright That it was you he wrote to— that you are Mr. Knight ? ’ I whispered ‘ Yes,’ then quickly she from her pocket drew A packet, and said, ‘Here, sir, he gave me this for you. I think 'tis something special by liow he looked when he Rose up in bed, poor fellow, and handed it to me.’ With mingled fear and wonder I opened it, and, oh ! An awful fact was shown me, and I was plunged in woe : The dead man was the dear son of my dead brother Lee — Poor Ted, whom rumour stated was drowned long since at sea. I groaned aloud in anguish, and then felt turned to stone, The woman saw my sorrow, and left me there alone ; i hen to the bed I staggered and by my nephew knelt : Can you not guess the sharpness of the remorse I felt ? Ah, me ! when Lee my brother was led, poor man, astray, I bitterly reproached him, then turned from him away, And cut myself off from him ; but after he was dead I tried to find my nephew — ‘he’s all that’s left,’ I said. But Ted, poor lad, hid from me, for he was sore at heart, Because I had not acted a noble brother’s part ; But when, at last, so stricken by hunger and by pain, He sought for my assistance— he sought, alas! in vain. My punishment is heavy, my heart is sad, indeed ; May you who read my story consider and take heed; A nd when a chance is given you to help a fellow-man’ Oh! use it gladly, use it as quickly as you can. A. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 13.) ?W O months before this story opens, one of H. M. ships- of-war, the Cleopatra , ar¬ moured cruiser, had touched at Vasco Island, and whilst there the officers had been made very welcome to the Residency, and all sorts of entertainments had been got up in their honour. There had been picnics and riding parties, whilst the gallant tars in return had contrived, out of very slender material, to rig up a stage and give some excellent entertainments on board their ship. All went merry as the proverbial marriage-bell, until, some two days before the Cleopatra had to sail, the First Lieutenant, Jack Chesney, wa3 suddenly seized with a bad attack of ague and fever. Chesney had been, from the outset of the ship’s visit, a great favourite at the Residency. Sir John liked him because he was clever and amus¬ ing, and a thorough gentleman in all his ways. The ladies were equally attracted to the young sailor for all these qualities, and, in addition, by the fact that he was always in capital spirits, ready and eager to fall in with all their plans, and quite at home at any sport or entertainment which they could devise. So when the ship’s surgeon was hastily summoned ashore by Dr. McNab, the resident medico, to a consultation , —for the Lieutenant had been staying the night at the Residency when the illness seized him — and between : them they had agreed that their patient was suffering | from fever so badly that it was open to doubt as to I whether he would ever get over it, Sir John insisted that he should not he moved until either the . disease, or the bright young life it was assailing, had won the mastery in what looked like being a pro- j longed and desperate struggle. The ship’s doctor returned on board and duly 1 reported the matter to the Captain. Captain Cochrane was deeply concerned, for his First Lieu¬ tenant was also one of his dearest friends. He at once went ashore to the Residency, called upon Sir John, and was by him conducted to the* sufferer’s room. They found him quite light-headed and clearly un¬ conscious of what he was saying. Captain Cochrane approached the bedside and said: ‘-Do* you think you could be moved aboard, old fellow ? ’ 6 Yes, yes, I’ll come, I’ll be there in a minute — only I can't find my hammock — I can’t go on deck without a hammock.’ The Captain shook his head at Sir John; then drawing him aside into a corner of the room, he said : ‘ It is evidently hopeless to think of taking him along with us. I have seen tlie same sort of fever before on this coast; nothing can save him, I believe, but absolute quiet. The fever, too, so the doctor tells me, is as often fatal as not, and he bit his lip hard to keep the tears out of his eyes as he spoke, for between

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No. III. CHATTERBOX. 23 Jack Chesney and himself there was manly affection | * passing the love of women.’ 1 Yes/ answered Sir John, in grave tones, ‘ it is a •deadly fever — hut one which none need catch here, if they will only avoid the miasma off the marshes at night. I ought to have warned him of the danger, but I did not realise . that he was going to this horrible place on a night shooting expedition. It lurks in the system for a full week — sometimes for ten days — before declaring itself, and it is perfectly clear to me when and where he caught it.’ ‘It is not infectious, I hope?’ said Captain Cochrane anxiously; ‘ your daughter — Miss Stanley, too - ’ ‘ Oh no, not at all. We run no risk whatever m keeping him here, I assure you. He will be well looked after by McNab, who is a really clever man, in spite of his Scotch notions, and we have got a • dear old soul of a Malay servant here, who is a born nurse — she shall attend to him. You may go away with the assurance that by leaving your friend where he is, 3rou are giving him the best chance for his life i which human aid can give.’ j Captain Cochrane gripped Sir John’s hand in silence : he walked softly across the room to the bedside once more, stooped quickly over the sick man : and kissed his forehead. ‘I may never see him i again.’ Then, as though ashamed to show so much feeling, he strode quickly out of the room. For over a month J ack Chesney tossed about, at one time in high fever and then shaking in ague iits; j at the end of that time, Dr. McNab one day came ) down-stairs and announced that the ‘ Leeftenant’ was out of danger, and that if he could but recover his strength, ‘ he would be a man again.’ From that time the young sailor began to steadily mend, and the three ladies at the Residency made it their special duty to sit with and read to the invalid, to amuse him with their conversation, and to retail anvthing by way of news which ever came to that far-off and lovely isle of the sea. ' Truth to tell, Lieutenant Chesney seemed quite content to do without news of the outer world, For one reason, he was still too weak to feel much interest in things at large, and for a second, the sight of Nita Palgrave’s sweet face seemed to satisfy all his earthly wishes for the present. At the end of another month, the invalid was ^walking gently each day in the tropical garden or strolling along by the sea-shore, idly watching, the blue waters rippiing in upon the beach. Sometimes lie was accompanied on these little expeditions by Nita Palgrave, who had acted throughout his illness almost as head nurse, and when she was with lnm, his thoughts were all of her, and of the near 1 approach of the time when he must rejoin his ship. No man living could be keener on his professional duties than Jack Chesney ; but leaving Vasco Island, for him meant leaving the girl he loved better than life itself. It was no ‘ sailor’s love ’ this ; the young Lieutenant had had many a little flirtation, but never in his life had lie been able to say of any women the 'magic words ‘I love her,’ until Nita Palgrave appeared upon the scene. But whenever such thoughts as these began to give .him visions of resigning his commission in order to set him free to woo and win her, he would brace himself up, whistle a stave of ‘ Rule, Britannia, and try his hardest to put duty in the forefront of every¬ thing. And to a certain extent,. he had succeeded; at least, he had never evon hinted at the state of his feelings, either to Nita herself or to her father. . One glorious summer morning when the Residency party were all assembled at breakfast in the garden and beneath the shade of a great plantain-tree, a budget of letters arrived by ono of the irregular and uncertain mails. With mutual apologies, all opened and read their letters. The news seemed good all round; every face wore a happy look and a smile ; whilst after perusing the last one of his own packet, Sir John burst into a loud laugh. . 1 Here is fun for you all : Uncle Roderick is coming to make a long stay with us. He has always said that he would, but I never thought that we should see him here in the flesh. You will be glad to see him again, your only brother, Margaret, he said, turning to his sister-in-law. ‘ I shall indeed, John. It must be seven years, at least, since I saw him last/ she replied. ‘ He had not long retired from the Navy at^that time, and he has become an Admiral since then/ . ‘ This is what he say 3 in his letter. Sir John picked up a large sheet of note-paper and read these words : — ^ ‘ Bitterne House , Southampton . ‘My Beau John, — You always said I should never come out to stay with you at that extraordinary out- of-the-way nigger depository of yours. W ell, very soon after you receive this letter, you will iina tnau you are wrong, for 1 shall follow it up so sharply that you will hardly have time to set another kmie and fork before I am amongst you all. Tell Maggie how I look forward to seeing her after all these years. Tell the girls that Uncle Roderick is bring- iner them out some toys from England, to play -with.’ (A shout of laughter from the two girls interrupted Sir John. Then he resumed :) ‘ I want you to give up this nigger-ruling and come home with me ; but I shall stop a jolly long time, first, with you and the family. I shall bring Bill out with me— you remember Bill, my coxswain, butler, vale., courier, and everything else ?— tine fellow hut a big fool : have to tell him so every day of my life, and he always agrees with me that he is — never says any- thing in reply, but' Right, Admiral! ’ and there you are, you know ! , , • , 6 Your affectionate brother-in-law, f Roderick Benfleet/ ‘ Admiral Benfleet is one of the finest characters I know/ said Sir John as he folded up the letter again and addressed his invalid guest. ‘As a sailor ot the old school, you will find him very interesting, 1 expect. You must not be offended at anything he says, or with the way lie says it ! He is the kindest- hearted man on earth, but, like the gales he has been accustomed to fighting, he is blusterous and rougJa. There is not a man I have ever met that I w° ul a rather have beneath my roof than Roderick 1 Benfleet.’

Page 29

I shall en joy meeting- him, immensely,’ answered Ohesney, warmly. There is nothing I like better than to hear an old sailor talk, and to try and o-et some benefit from his experiences.’ a j Ve cf olf Admiral! ’ exclaimed Nita to ber cousin, Adela Stanley, * won’t we have some fun with him ! Directly he arrives we will have a picnic in the hills over on the mainland— won’t we, father? Sir John's smile faded from his face, for men- tmn of the mainland recalled unpleasant thoughts, and his voice was low and his face troubled as be answered 1 erhaps, dear — perhaps.’ And almost before the preparations for his reception could be completed, the ship which carried Admiral Roderick Bentieet was signalled off the Heads. ( Continued atpa<je 30.)

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No. IV, CHATTERBOX, 26

Page 31

2G CHATTERBOX. No. IV. THE MUFFLED BELLS. (Concluded from page 20.) OW look here, Pank,’ said Boswell, the gipsy, to Mr. Stap’s butler, 4 speak out your mind plainly. There is nobody to hear what we may have to say, and you have known me long enough to know how I hate this beating about the bush be¬ tween pals ; if we are to work any little game together, let us go straight to business.’ ‘I was only preparing the ground, Jerry,’ said Bank. 4 1 certainly had an idea in my head when I came here, but I was doubtful how you would take it.’ 4 Out with it, man,’ retorted Jerry gruffly. 4 There is no need to be in a funk about it/ is there P If the notion is a good one, I will say so, and if it is not I will say so, and there is an end of it.’ ‘Well,’ said Pank, ‘you may not know that master owns a small cabinet containing a lot of old gold coins. It stands on a table in the drawing¬ room. The coins are very valuable. We could sell them for a hundred pounds. Divide that by two, Jerry, and you will find it comes to a nice plum.’ 4 Go on,’ said the gipsy. 4 Now, what is there to prevent a couple of sharp fellows from relieving Mr. Stap of this cabinet?— which is doing no manner of good where it is at present.’ Pank paused here as if for a little encouragement to go on, but J erry merely waited in silence for biro to resume. ‘How could it be done?’ Pank went on, as though the other had asked him that question. 4 Why, I flatter himself, I know a safe way. It is a custom of master’s to invite a few' gentlemen— friends of his boyhood — to a late supper on the 31st of December, to usher in the New Year. The guests, of course, arrive very late, and they sit down to supper a bit after eleven o’clock. Now, I could easily contrive to slip out of the room, dart into the drawing-room (and light or dark it is all as one to me), snatch up the cabinet, hurry with it to the narrow window with the white sashes on the west side of the house, near the corner — you know it ?’ (the gipsy nodded) — 4 and, you being beneath the sill on the pathway to receive it, I could be back in the supper-room again in less than two minutes; they would never have missed me. The success of the move would all depend on your being at the window precisely at the before-appointed time ; for it would mean utter ruin if I had to wait for you. But there would have to be no skulking about, mind; there will be a morsel of moon, and it is just possible that you might be seen and suspicion aroused. No; vou would have to hide in the hedge bottom till *the proper minute arrived, and then cut across the lawn for the swag; after that you would get it put out of sight as quickly as you could. That is the idea. Do you like it ? ’ ‘ I do,’ was the short but emphatic rejoinder. 4 Good. Then I shall expect you at the window at half-past eleven exactly — it is best to make it even figures. To the second, remember. You can manage that, I suppose ? ’ Boswell’s countenance fell as the butler repeated the importance of being at the window on the stroke of the half-hour, but it brightened up a moment later as if some threatened difficulty had been removed. 4 1 understand, Pank,’ he said, 4 and you may rely on my being at the right spot at the right time. It is a bargain — halves, of course. Here is my hand on it,’ and the worthy pair shook hands like the two precious rogues they were. By the time Frank Stap got home from St. Mary’s Church, and had had his tea, he had forgotten the bell -muffling incident, and when the Old Year had but a few minutes more to live, he was sound asleep. Below, in the dining-room, Mr. Stap and four or five companions were assembled for the time- honoured New-year’s supper. 4 Kirton is late — very late,’ the host was saying, glancing at the clock on the mantel-shelf. ‘1 am afraid something must have happened to keep him away, for he would hardly forget, I fancy. He never was late before — never late in keeping this late engagement, I mean,’ with a short laugh. ‘ I think we may safely conclude that he is not coming. I am sorry, but it can’t be helped.’ So, it being taken for granted that Mr. Kirton, from some cause or other, was unable to be with them that night, the supper was served. Bapidly the hands of the timepiece began to widen out, farther and farther yet, till at length the great pointer was stretched exactly down the middle of the dial — half after eleven. Mr. Stap was relating some amusing anecdote which completely held his guests’ attention, or it might have been remarked that the butler was not m the room. Had his movements been watched, it would have been seen that he made his way quickly and noiselessly to the drawing-room, possessed him¬ self of the cabinet of coins, and ran swiftly away with it down several dark passages, when he finally turned into the apartment which was partly lighted by the -window with the white sashes. He opened it softly. The fragment of moon was shrouded behind a heavy bank of clouds, and the night ap¬ peared dark and gloomy. A footstep on the foot¬ path outside fell on his ear. A figure approached the window. 4 All right, Jerry,’ whispered Pank. 4 Catch hold. Now be off with you, sharp,’ and without uttering a word in reply, the man took the cabinet in both hands. Pank shut the window and returned to the supper-room unobserved, Mr. Stap being still occupied in telling his story. For a moment or two after Pank had closed the sash, the recipient of the cabinet stood like a statue. Had it been possible to have seen his face, there would have been revealed a visage blank with sheer

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No. IY. CHATTERBOX. 27 amazement. The reason was simple— the butler had mistaken his man. Ilis supposed confederate was no other than the tardy Mr. Kirton, who, taking a not satisfied with this merely. He wanted now to catch the butler’s accomplice. Where was Jerry? Lurking about somewhere not far off, he felt assured. Why had he not been at the window, though, when Bank passed out the cabinet ? Tie could not guess. But would he turn up? Anyhow, he would hide round the corner a short space and see what would jhappen. A keen northerly wind swept round the angle of the building where Mr. Kirton watched, and he soon felt its icy sting. He became impatient. He drew out his watch, and by holding it close to his eyes he succeeded in telling the time. It was nearly twenty minutes to twelve. As he replaced it in Ins pocket a sudden peal from the old church bell-tower clanged wildly out on the still night air. They were ringing out the old year. Thanks to his strange adventure, he had forgotten all about the bells and the death of the year. He fancied, however, that they were behindhand in getting started, though, before he had had time to ask himself the reason thereof, he noticed a dark form stealing rapidly across the lawn, and making in the direction of .tho window. Ihere could be no mistake whatever — it was Jerry. Oh, miserably deluded Jerry 1 it was a rash promise you made when you promised to be at the window to receive the cabinet exactly at half-past eleven, for, having no watch, you trusted that the bells would begin to ring out the old year precisely at 11.30. It is true that had not Master Frank taken it into his head to play that mischievous trick of his in the belfry, all would have gone smoothly ; but, unfor¬ tunately for you, the indignant bell-ringers were several minutes in undoing that young gentleman s handiwork, and thus, waiting for the. first note, of the chimes, you were nearly ten minutes behind the appointed time. Mr. Kirton was a powerfully built man m the prime of life, and he felt quite equal to tackling that slinking thief. With an excited exclamation of * You scoundrel, I have got you !’ he sprang from his hiding-place, and grappled the surprised gipsy round the waist. Jerry wriggled desperately to free himselt trom his unknown adversary’s vice-like grip, but a lamb in the coils of a boa-constrictor was scarcely less ^ 4 It is no use, my good fellow,’ observed his captor coolly ; 4 no use. ‘ I shall only let you go when X hand you over to the village constable; and, as 1 do not intend staying out here until he arrives, you had better come inside peaceably ; otherwise, I shall have to drag you in.’ 4 I’ll go quiet, guv’nor,’ growled Jerry. ‘ It is six months’ hard, I suppose, for me and Pank.’ Nor was he mistaken — both he and the butler were duly sentenced to undergo a term of imprison¬ ment in the county gaol. Walter Foster. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 4. — ArITHMO G RATH. The chief town of one of the northern counties of Scotland. It contains a very ancient church and a University, manufactories of cotton, and woollen goods, and has important quarries of granite. 1. — 5, 7, 1, 8. A Church dignitary. 2. -6, 1, 4, 8. To gain money by work. $ _ 2, 4, 3, 1, 5. A common but most valuable food. 4!— 8^ ?! 3* 5.’ Necessity. 5.— 1, 5, 6, 8. A sea-port in Asia. ‘ - A plant which grows near water. A term of affection ; beyond the real 6. -4, 3, 6, 5 7. -5 , 6, 1, 4. value. 8. -3, 5, 6, 8. 9. -6, 4, 8, 7. 10.— 2, 3, 1, 8. AITSWERS. 1. — 1. Adrianople. 2. Lombardy. 3. Somerset. 4. Norwich. 2. — (a.) — 1. Yawn. 2. Dawn. 3. Fawn. 4. Pawn. 5. Lawn. 6. Sawn, (c.) — 1. Damp. 2. Lamp. 8. Ramp. 4. Gamp. 5. Camp. 5. Siberia. 6. Donegal. 7. Niger. 8. Mysore. (B.)- 9. Naples. 10. Nagpoor. 11. Navarino. 12. Dongola. -1. Lank. 2. Bank. 3. Tank. 4. Rank. 5. Dank. 6. Hank. (d.) — 1. Last. 2. Fast. 3. East. 4. Mast, 5. Vast. 6. Past. 3. — Bosivorth. . 1. Wroth. 3. Host. 5. Booth. 2. Bow. 4. Soot. 6. Brow. 7. Hoot. 8. Sort. The first garden named in the Bible. A lake in Ireland. A name given to several kinds of vegetable seeds. 11. — 8, 3, 1, 4. Not far distant. . 12. -7, 4, 1. A period of time marking some special ’ event. ‘ , c- °* [Answer at page 47.] LAME MAR JOKY. By the Author of ‘ Earth's Many Voices.* JP, up, up ! and down, down, down l ’ Marjory sang one day ; She sat by herself in the daisied gras3, And laughed at the children’s play.

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1 How can you laugh, poor Marjory ! When you cannot dance nor run ? Why don’t you cry while you sit apart And look on the merry fun ? 7 6 Why do you say u Poor Marjory ! ” And why should I cry and pout P It is up, up, up ! and down, down, down ! And turn and turn about. ‘ I cannot dance, and I cannot run, And I cannot play, you see ; But the world, if it seems most gay to you, It seems most kind to me. * I gather the daisies in my lap, You tread them under your feet ; And it may be Health may lose some joys Which Suffering finds most sweet ! ’ BEAR-HUNTING IN RUSSIA, N Russia, hunters have often to attack a bear in his winter retreat, and the business has its danger. Certainly, it is not so perilous as 1 bearding the lion in his den,’ for the king of beasts is swift and terrible in his movements; the bear is slower at his best, and specially when the chill of winter has touched him. All the year round bears are hunted and killed, not only on account of the harm they sometimes do to cattle or horses, but because there is a demand for bear’s flesh, fur, and fat. Indeed, bear’s fat used to be esteemed a most excellent article to apply if the hair of any one was thin, or falling off ; pots of 1 bear’s grease ’ are still commonly sold in shops — how far it is genuine, I cannot say. Then there was a popular belief that the fat of a bear had virtues in it to cure several complaints if it was well rubbed into the skin. Russia, Norway, and Sweden are the countries where the bear is chiefly found.

Page 34

Bear-hunting in Bussia. A tine, well-nourished bear is sometimes more than six feet long, and it will weigh seven hundred pounds. The colour may he nearly black ; dark or light brown is usual ; and a few have the fur tipped with silver grey — these are prizes to the hunters. At all seasons of the year bears are hunted when there is a chance of getting at them. A traveller in Norrland met a peasant who said he had killed ten bears during one season. The bear, however, is not an animal that is inclined to attack mankind; it rather avoids human beings. Its hearing is very quick, and so is its sight, and if any one approaches it quickly hides itself. The winter habits of the bear are peculiar. All

Page 35

80 CHATTERBOX. No. TY. over the northern lands, which are his home, the cold is severe in winter, so, about the end of October, the bear looks out for a safe retreat, where he can wait till the weather becomes warmer, and food is plentiful again. When he retires, a bear is generally plump, but, by the time spring comes, he is'lean, for he seems to eat nothing during the winter. An old tradition is, that lie keeps himself alive by sucking his paws, but this, of course, is only a fable. What he does is to seek out a deep cleft of a rock — some hears go into a hole that is twenty feet deep at least — or should he not find the kind of hole he fancies, then a bear will dig for himself a winter den. Whether it is found or made, the animal takes care to line the hole with moss, heath, and soft twigs of the spruce fir; then he tucks his head into his fur, and lies doubled up till warmer weather arrives, or he is disturbed, for, should heavy rain or melting snow enter his den, a bear has been known to move out and seek another, or else lie clears out the old lining, if damp, to put fresh twigs and moss. Towards spring he is restless, and by the beginning of May he is quite ready to start afresh. . When hunters have discovered a bear’s winter lodgings, they fiing into the opening stones and pieces of wood, till the creature is thoroughly roused; then they fire upon him, aiming at his head and fore-quarters, for it is little use peppering a hear in the rear. Bruin likes both animal and vegetable food; he can eat juicy stems or soft roots, also he enjoys berries, such as those of the rowan-tree and the whortle-bush. Insects of various kinds are an attraction to bears after their winter sleep, and some bears commit ravages among3t the herds. A power¬ ful hear is strong enough to carry along a heifer or horse. J. R. S. C. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from 'page 24.) 0 sleep for me, thank you ! ’ cried Admiral Benfleet, who had duly arrived at the Residency two days after his letter, as the suggestion of a doze after luncheon was made to him. ‘ You must be a lazy lot of beggars out here if you are always thinking of sleep! Do you take afternoon naps, John P ’ Sir John laughed. / Well, you see, you have not been out in this climate long enough to feel the effects of it yet, and that i3 why you scorn sleep in the day-time. * I have not indulged much in the practice myself — lately, that is.’ And truth to tell, Sir John Palgrave had a mind too ill at ease to make daylight sleeping possible for him just now. Orang Tibut continued to give him almost daily reports of the state of affairs existing between Ritakraj a and the court of the weak-minded young King on the one hand, and the excitable popu¬ lace of the mainland on the other, and it was abundantly clear to the Resident that nothing he could do by way of bint to Ritakraja would bo likely to delay that arch-schemer in his wicked work for more than a short period. All he could do was to prepare for any possible sudden attack on the Residency, and await, with what patience he could summon up, the answer to the request he had made for a British war-ship's aid — that request which, thanks to Ritakraja’s treachery, had never got a mile on its journey. Just now, however, there was a slight lull in the storm brewing. The fact was that the prime mover in all the mischief was not yet ready to strike Ins blow. Ritakraja had looked with loving e}res upon the fair English girl who had so often received him at her father’s house on the island, and he had made up his mind that, before the rising took place, she I should he seized and conveyed away to a beautiful residence of his, some way up amongst the hills, where white men very rarely penetrated. She should be his wife. She would resist at first, per¬ haps ; but once let her realise that she alone survived of all her race that were in former possession of. the land, and that the British rule was at an end, and the rest would be easy. So, at least, he thought, : and Ritakraja acted accordingly. Orang Tibut, with his basket of fruit as an excuse for speaking to his employer, was lying lazily on the beach of Vasco Island, awaiting the Resident’s arrival. Orang was very pleased with himself. He hated Ritakraja, and his heart was in the work of well-paid spying; he had been enabled during the past twenty-four hours to gather the important information that a postponement of all operations in the revolt against the white authority had most certainly been resolved upon, if not already ordered, | and this, lie guessed, would be very welcome news to I Sir John. On the previous night, Orang Tibut, I artfully concealed behind a heavy mat curtain, had i overheard a scrap of conversation between Prince Ritakraja and one of the more important officers of the royal household. ‘ Why are we to wait P 3 demanded the latter ; ‘is not everything ready ? Each day that passes renders it more likely that the Resident - - ’ ‘Bah ! the . Resident ! What can the Resident do?’ cried Ritakraja, in fine contempt. ‘He does more than suspect — he has known that things are not well for the whites these many weeks ! Yet, what does he do ? He sends for a war-ship, but somehow, the letter never reaches its destination! | That is strange, eh? I tell you he can do nothing. They are at our mercy to strike when we like.’ ‘Yes, but why should we wait?’ repeated the other, in sharper tones. ‘ Because I choose that we should wait ! ’ returned Ritakraja. . ‘ I have my own reasons — private reasons which I do not choose to communicate to anybody, and which concern no one but myself. It may even be a month before I am ready.’ ‘ You ought at least to tell us what this weighty reason is — for I suppose it must be a very weighty reason — fnr rlftln-u.’ and so the conversa- reason — for delay; I shall tell nothing,’

Page 36

NTo. IV. CHATTERBOX, 31 tion, as far as Orang Tibut was concerned, had ended. ‘When, some quarter of an hour later, Sir John Palgrave pushed his way through the thicket fringing the beach, and stood before the spy, the latter sprang to his feet, and quickly told his employer all that he had overheard. The "Resident listened in silence to the end, and then repeated the words, ‘ the letter never reaches its destination ! ’ — ‘ then what can have become of it P ’ ‘ Ritakraja has it — depend upon that ! { Another letter must be sent off, and at once ; but a special messenger will have to be employed — a man whom we can trust — to take it as far a3 Bunkarang, well out of Ritakraja’s reach. Can you find me such a man, Orang Tibut P ’ Faithful to his salt, the Malay thought long before answering. Then he said, ‘ No, just now I know of none; but I will find a messenger in a week or two, or I will go myself/ 4 1 would rather not spare you from this place if it can be avoided/ answered Sir J ohn. ‘ Still, it is of the utmost importance that the letter should go quickly, and that it should not fall into the enemy’s hands again/ ‘ Ritakraja has something to do — something he will not speak about to any one — before making any open show of attack. He spoke of delaying a month, perhaps; during that time all will be peaceful.’ ‘ Yes, the calm before the storm/ said Sir John, bitterly, as he thought of the horrors probably in store for the devoted little handful of white men and women on the island. ‘ If I thought I could nip the rebellion in the bud by so doing, I would cross to the mainland with half-a-dozen resolute men, arrest Ritakraja, and hang him to-day.' Orang Tibut shook his head. ‘It would be no good, master. It would bring about the rising* at once, when our hopes can only rest in delay until the English ship comes, My people are children/ he added, rather scornfully. ‘They believe everything — every lie that Ritakraja utters. They would avenge his death by a general massacre of the whites/ The Resident sighed. He knew not how to act for the best. After a long pause the Malay raised his eyes from the beach, where they had been absently regarding the pebble stones. ‘No, master/ he said, earnestly, ‘you must think of the white ladies — think of all the white lives on the island. Ritakraja knows you do not trust hip, so you must be all the more careful not to give him any occasion for open offence. Pretend your distrust is over. Ask him to your house as usual. Do not appear to suspect that he has anything to do with the rebellious ones. And now I will go back. He has no suspicion that I am watching him. He takes me for a harmless fruit-seller, whose best customer is your Excellency.’ Then with an amused grin he added, ‘ Yesterday* I actually sold him some fruit. Would that it had poisoned him ! ’ lie ended, with a flash of native savagery ‘ You hate this man. Why ? ’ ‘He killed my newly-wedded wife!’ ground out the Malay, his hands clenching and his eyes rolling | dangerously as he spoke. ‘ One day I, Orang Tibut, . wili take a revenge that even he, the crafty fox, cannot foresee — no, nor guard against ! My day is coming — coming fast ; then let Ritakraja look to • himself ! ’ The transport of passion, like a dark squall across the face of the blue heavens, was over almost as quickly as it had begun, and the spy was smiling again a minute later when Sir John asked him if it would be safe to let the ladies go across to the mainland. ‘Yes, it is quite safe. No one will move until Ritakraja, or one of his officers acting under him, srives the word/ and with his customary salute, Orang Tibut took his leave. ‘ We are going to have a picnic in the forests, Uncle Roderick/ exclaimed Nita Palgrave one night at dinner, about a week after the Admiral’s arrival. ‘ Mr. Chesney is quite strong enough to do anything now, so Dr. McNab says, and we will ask the Beverley girls and young Mr. Curzon, and two or three more* You will come, won’t you F ’ ‘ Of course I will, my dear ; of course I will, said the Admiral, heartily. Whatever liis real age (and he always declined to talk of the subject), his spirit was as young as any boy’s, and nothing pleased him so well as being with the young people, and taking part in all their amusements. In spite of a certain roughness of speech and manner, ‘ Fighting Roddy, as he had been termed in his younger days in the Navy, was a universal favourite. A genuine type of the brave old sea-dog, the Admiral had a heart as tender as a woman’s under an exterior which was almost uncouth. 'Whilst Second Lieutenant of the Hermione, he had headed a cutting-out expedition, and shown such bull-dog bravery as to turn the fortunes of the day in favour of his own side after their prospects had looked desperate. At the successful termination of that engagement, his superior officer had said, ‘ Benfleet, I shall not for¬ get the pluck you showed ; you really saved the whole of us from disaster/ and the young Lieutenant, although he only murmured to himself ‘ Rubbish ! ’ ; felt extremely pleased at the compliment. Since that time he had seen much service and always acquitted himself manfully. Fie was a fine 1 seaman, tough as nails, and still a formidable foe to 1 come to close quarters with. In appearance he was rather short, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built; he had black, bushy eyebrows, and thick, curling white hair. Sir John Palgrave, relying on the advice of Orang Tibut, had consented to the request for a picnic on the mainland. Nothing hostile would be done, the Malay assured him, yet awhile ; the ladies would be safe from the populace until the treacherous Ritakraja should ‘ let loose the dogs of war/ ‘Ask Ritakraja to be one of your party/ suggested Orang Tibut, grinning and showing his white teeth. ‘ It will keep him out of mischief, and also let him see that you do not fear him/ . Thinking the advice sound, Sir John had told his daughter to invite the Malay prince, and she had done so. {Continued at yage 84.) , k

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32 CHATTERBOX. No. IY. The spy, Orang Tibut, overhears a treasonable conversation. 'v

Page 38

FOR VALOUR.

Page 39

\ \ F

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34 CHATTERBOX. No. V. VASCO ISLAND. (Continued from page 31.) tS [SsH MERRY little party it was that A § /Jvvl\\ ^ se^ ou^ ^rom the f°r 1 /JlAWv the picnic in the hills, con- sisting of the two girls, Nita yMfW\^\ Palgrave and her cousin — c^\Aii'7' their aunt was unable to x/7 $ come from an attack of tooth- C ache; Lieutenant Chesney, who had shaken off the effects of his recent severe attack of fever; the Admiral; two or three young people, friends of the Palgraves; the Resident himself, Dr. McNab, and some half-dozen servants, two of whom were the English ex-artillery¬ men. As their boats grated on the shingly beach of the mainland, the party was joined by the smiling Ritakraja and another wealthy native, Trinang Bentong, a frequent guest at the British Residency, and very well liked by all the Europeans living on the island. They brought with them several bearers to assist in carrying the hampers. The distance to the appointed spot in the forest was not great, so it was resolved to walk it. From the outset Ritakraja joined Miss Nita Palgrave, and hardly left her side throughout the early part of the day. The party walked through scenery which was very beautiful as soon as they had got clear of the precincts of the native village. Even Sir John's observant* eye failed to detect the slightest hostile sign amongst the people as they passed on their way. Orang Tibut, then, was right : even if the storm was destined to break, the time was not yet. ^ And Sir John had every hope that ere that time arrived a British war-ship would be lying at anchor off Vasco Island, in which case he would feel small fear as to the result of any outbreak. The natives were armed with old and rusty guns and rifles, and though many of them were full of courage, they lacked that strength which only drill and discipline can give. Against even a small force of blup-jackets, well armed and well led, the Malays would stand a poor chance, unless they were enabled to meet their foes in over-whelming numbers. Comforting himself with these thoughts, Sir John put away all idea of danger for his party, and gave himself to the enjoyment of the hour. In truth, his over-strung mind needed a rest. For the last six weeks or two months he had hardly been able to sleep, unless, as the Americans say, it was e with one eye open/ and the strain was beginning to tell upon even his iron constitution. So, on this occasion, revelling in the glorious weather and the beauty of his surroundings, he determined .to enjoy all that nature was so lavishly offering him. In the grateful shade of the forest trees, bordering a deep, peat-coloured lake, the whole party sat them¬ selves down, whilst the native servants busily un¬ packed the hampers and spread their tempting contents on a linen cloth. Lieutenant Chesney had, for this occasion, managed .to steal a march on the wily Ritakraja, and obtain the seat next to Nita Palgrave ; on the other side of her stood the trunk of a palm-tree : so, with the best grace of which lie was capable, the Malay prince took up another position, where he was only just within speaking distance of Miss Palgrave. The young naval officer did not at all approve of Iiitakraja’s attentions to the young lady. First, lie did not like the Malay : why, he could not tell, for Sir John had never breathed a word of his knowledge of Ritakraja’s treacherous conduct; but above and beyond everything else, Lieutenant Chesney had a very strenuous objection to anybody, white or coloured, venturing to pay attention to Nita Palgrave. In short, Mr. Jack Chesney was in love, and, like any one else in that condition, he had the strongest possible objection to any poaching on what he had now come to consider were his own preserves. He had said nothing to Nita of his state of mind, it is true, but he was now determined to do so as soon as he had a fair chance. After a merry meal, the men lighted cigars and cigarettes, as much to keep away the mosquitoes as for their own personal enjoyment ; and then some of the party wandered away by twos and threes through the glades in the surrounding woods, whilst the rest remained where they were, chatting and resting. To Chesney’s great annoj^ance, Ritakraja had volunteered, as soon as luncheon was finished, to show Nita Palgrave and her cousin a beautiful view of the bay, with Yasco Island in the distance, which was to be obtained from a high point of land some three-quarters of a mile away from where they were. Chesney would have accompanied them, but he had felt vexed with Nita for not declining the Malay prince’s invitation. Pride had compelled him to remain behind when he would have given a great deal to accompany the two girls ; pride still kept him from any idea of following them, and he remained, listening, with ill-concealed impatience, to the 1 sailor’s yarn ’ which the Admiral was spinning. Later on in the afternoon, George Curzon, the young planter living on Yasco Island, who had accompanied the party, engaged the Lieutenant in conversation with more success. Mr. Curzon, truth to tell, was very much devoted to Adela Stanley, and therefore there was a great bond of sympathy between the two young men. At the present moment each was feeling distinctly aggrieved. For a time they smoked on in moody silence. Then Chesney murmured in tones so low that only Curzon could hear : 1 Poor sport these picnics, don’t you think P Scenery is pretty, of course, and all that, but somehow or other one feels so slack after luncheon ; nothing to do, i3 there ? ’ * I thought you said you liked picnics, though, yesterday ? ’ returned the other. ‘ I— oh, yes — yes, I think I did say something of the kind; but under certain circumstances, you know — under certain circumstances. For instance, when the ladies of the party are not carried off by a black i man/ said Chesney. ‘ I agree with you there. That fellow Ritakraja has got the most unbounded u nerve 1 ” The cool cheek of the man, carting both the girls off in that manner — it is simply amazing ! ’

Page 41

No. y. CHATTERBOX. 35 1 Amazing* ! yes, and it is still more amazing to me that they should have gone. Why did they not both decline ? ’ 1 Well, of course, Miss Palgrave, as hostess, ought to have declined. I do not see how Miss Stanley could have helped going after her cousin had consented.' ‘ -£ don’t agree with you, my dear fellow ; I don’t agree with you at all,’ returned the Lieutenant. ‘Miss Palgrave, as the hostess, might have felt her¬ self bound to go with that dark-skinned pagan, but there was no duty imposed upon Miss Stanley in the matter, and besides that - ’ But here Curzon broke out into a good-humoured laugh ‘ My dear Chesney, we are making a couple of fools of ourselves. I dare say neither of the girls •cared a straw whether she went or not with the more or less fascinating nigger. And here he is back again Hullo, Prince ! you have returned without your precious charges ? ’ Ritakraja, smiling, came up to the group lying and sitting around the remains of the repast before replying: 'Yes; Miss Palgrave had brought her sketching-block, and declared that she would not leave so charming a spot until she had taken down at least the outlines of the view. Miss Stanley stayed with her, so I returned here to smoke with you/ ‘ That is right ; sit down here, bring yourself to an anchor/ said those whom he addressed. Chesney and Curzon felt in better spirits at the return of the Malay, and were all the more inclined, therefore, to accord him a welcome. Ritakraja, still smiling, sat himself down on the ground, drew out and lighted a cigar, and then he said: 4 I suppose, Sir John, that you know the country round about here pretty well ? * 1 Not well, Prince. It is a very beautiful piece of land and sea together that we are now looking on. By the way, may I ask where you have left the young ladies P ’ 1 Oh, not far from where we are, Sir John— less than three-quarters of a mile. It is an almost straight track through the forest; they cannot miss their way.’ 4 1 do not think it is safe for girls to be left alone in a Malayan forest ! ’ blurted out the Admiral. 4 Why did not you stay with them, sir ? ’ Ritakraja looked astonished at this out-spoken speech. lie was not used to find himself taken to task in such a manner. He drew himself up rather haughtily, and shot an angry glance at the bluff old seaman. But quickly recovering his temper — at least, outwardly — he * calmly observed : 4 Oh, I hardly imagined that the ladies would like me to watch them as they sketched, and - ’ 4 John/ interrupted the Admiral, paying no attention to Ritakraja’s explanation, 4 if you are not a fool you will send some one to look after those girls without a moment’s delay. I will go myself.’ Sir John smiled and laid a restraining hand on the impetuous old sailor’s arm. 4 We can all stroll along in that direction/ he said. 4 1 do not suppose any possible harm can come to them so close at hand.’ But though his words were confident ones, the very tone in which he uttered them showed that his mind was somewhat ill at ease. 1 Still, we may just as well walk that way as not/ he added, and, rising to his feet as he spoke, his example was at once followed by the others. Ritakraja laughed rather scornfully. 4 Bear Sir John/ he said, 4 you have surely lived long enough amongst us to know that we are not all savages ! The noble Admiral, as a stranger, does not. You must know that no more harm could happen to them in the spot where I left them than if they were on Yasco Island itself. Why not await their return here ? ’ 1 1 say that we ought to go and look after them ! 1 cried the Admiral. 4 Besides, we want the ladies back with us.’ 4 1 think we had better stroll along and join them/ added Sir John, trying to tone down his brother-in- law’s forcible remarks (which he saw were greatly offending the Malay prince) by the mildness of his own tone. 4 After all, we need a stroll, and may as well walk in that direction as any other.’ 4 Very well, then ; if you are determined, I will act as your guide/ observed Ritakraja, and he led the way in the direction of the forest, through which he and the girls had gone earlier in the afternoon. ( Continued at page 42.) A CONTRAST. THE blacksmith's shop in Wickam Bell Was closed for quite a year, And then was opened in the name Of sturdy Blacksmith Freer. And some folk shook their heads at him, And showed a solemn face, And said : 4 Oh, what a stupid man To start in such a place ! 4 Why, Blacksmith Bean was there two years, And when he left he said He couJd not earn enough to keep A roof above his head. And things are now as dull as then, No changes have been made, So there’s no chance for Blacksmith Freer To do a better trade.’ But wiser folk, who took more heed Of how success is won, Quite understoodjdiat men must fail Whose work is’ not well done. And they knew well that Blacksmith Bean, Who took a sudden flight, Would not have lost his trade if he Had done his work aright. And they were pleased to see the start Which Blacksmith Freer had made, And thus they said : 4 If he is one Who really knows his trade,

Page 42

CHATTERBOX. No. Y. “ All that I find worth doing, lads, I find worth doing well.” ( And perseveres, and does good work, He will full soon be seen To find the custom which was lost By careless Blacksmith Dean.’ And these wise people watched the case, And soon to them ’twas clear That their own motto was the guide Of sturdy Blacksmith Freer. ‘ All that I find worth doing, lads, I find worth doing well.’ Ah, yes! he followed this, and won Success in Wickam Dell. Polite, industrious, honest, prompt, He proved himself to be ; He won the custom back, and now A splendid trade has he. Stick to his plan— work well, my lads ; Indeed, you can’t afford To do bad work ; you know it leads To failure, not reward. D. IIammonde. IN BATTLE. HOW many deeds of quiet heroism are done in battle; how many acts of self-sacrifice and devotion take place, of which the unthinking, and often-times unseeing, world takes no heed ! Burin o- the last Egyptian war there was much hand-to-hand fighting— a thing which scientific soldiers of the day often tell us is a thing of the past. Yet so long as England is forced to wage what are called 1 little wars’ in her foreign possessions against barbarous nations, so long will there constantly be the death-struggle within arm’s reach of the foe- m Fighting against Arabi’s savage troops, ill-armed and badly equipped as they were, was no laughing matter. They were bold fighters, these half-naked blacks: they feared not to cast themselves upon the cold steel of their civilised enemy. It was in one of these desperate combats that Private Edwards gained his well-merited Victoria Cross ; and it was also during this campaign that an incident occurred which is crreatly to the credit of one of the Highlanders engaged. Seeing a wuunded comrade hotly attacked

Page 43

Incident at the Battle of Tamai. by three of Arabi’s blacks, he rushed to his assist¬ ance, and arrived only just in time. With a thrust of his bayonet, he mortally wounded one of the enemy, the second took to flight, whilst the third rushed at his foe, slashing at him with the terrible knife with which they were mostly armed. The Highlander made a desperate thrust at the chest of his adversary ; but the latter seized the rifle-barrel, and the bayonet passed harmlessly under the savage’s right arm. Before the Highlander could recover his balance and make another thrust, the barbarian turned and fled; and the bold Scotsman safely brought his wounded fellow-soldier out of the fight. F. R.

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38 CHATTERBOX. Xo. V. A TALE ABOUT BELLS. O - 0 W varied are the uses of "bells at present, and I believe they had even more in the olden time. Yet what a simple thing- a bell is, just an outside and an inside, the cover or case that we see, and within its clapper or tongue. But an immense number of changes can be made in the ringing of even a small peal of bells ! Naturally, we think first of the church bell, which serves so many purposes now, and formerly some that have long been dropped : for there was, centuries ago, a Curfew bell rung daily to warn the people by its sound that they must put out their lights, and go to bed. On Shrove Tuesday rang out the Pancake bell, telling the folk they were to treat themselves with pancakes. Sorrowfully they heard the Passing- bell, asking them to pray for some one dying. There are still some villages where this is rung if any one is seriously ill. Then we hear the bells summoning us to church; also ringing joyfully at weddings and on special days, like the Queen’s Birth¬ day ; tolling- at a funeral ; once a year announcing that the old year has gone, and the new one begun. Now that schools are numerous over the land, "there are few places where, morning and afternoon, we do not hear the clang of the school-bell, calling the scholars in to their daily tasks. Most houses have bells at their gates or' doors, and a great many are furnisiied with them inside for household uses. At every railway station, the bell is a familiar sound, calling attention to the arrival and departure of trains. There are still seme towns where the dust¬ men announce themselves along the streets by ringing a bell, though the practice seems to have ceased in London. But there, as elsewhere, the vendors of crumpets and muffins use a bell to attract customers on their morning or afternoon rounds. The town crier, in those towns which have such an official, as he goes from. street to street, rings his bell each time before he cries, or reads loudly, whatever he has to tell the inhabitants. The fools or jesters, about whom we read in English history, one or more of these belonging to the king's court, had a cap and bells. They showed, too, upon the smart dresses that the morris-dancers wore iu the olden time, who went about playing and dancing on festivals or holidays. . Bells were arranged round their caps, also round their arms and legs, making music as they walked or danced. Mostly they had what were known as latten bells, which were made of thin plates of brass, lapping over each other. We have the earliest account of the wearing of bells in the Bible, where they are named as part of the adornment of the Jewish High Priest. This was meant to give notice to the people that he was about to enter the Holy Place. In some Eastern countries, king3 and gre^t men wear bells on their robes, the tinkling of which lets others know that they are approaching, and warns them to bow down before they come near. The prophet Zechariah speaks of horses which wore bells, and it is thought that in the old time soldiers put these upon the bridles or foreheads of war-horses, so that they might be used to noise. It is still a custom in some English country places for the farmers to adorn their horses with bells upon holidays. In the Alps, some of the cows feeding- upon the hill¬ sides have bells, which help them to keep together, and for the same reason, where a flock of sheep is feeding in a large field, or marsh, or on a common, one of them is provided with a hell, by our shepherds — a pleasant tinkle to listen to when in the country. The first church bells are said to have been made in Campania, about the year a.d. 400. Before that time rattles were used in some places to call people to church. In England, there were a few single bells during the seventh century, and they are mentioned by. the Venerable Bede. Croyland Abbey, Lincoln¬ shire, is stated to have had the first chime of bells, in a.d. 960. Some of the Chinese cities have enormous- hells, and Russia has the largest one of all at Moscow,, presented by the Empress Anne. ( Concluded at page 46.) THE EARLY DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT* II. VERY different was the life led by our hero after his return from Preston-pans to his parents’ house in Edinburgh. He writes, ‘ I felt the change from being a single, indulged brat, to becoming a member of a large family, very severely ; for under the gentle government of my kind grandmother who was meekness itself, and of my aunt who was exceedingly attached to me, I acquired a degree of licence which could not be permitted in a large family. I bad sense enough, however, to bend my temper to ray new circumstances.’ In secret, the little boy suffered very much, and when he became a man, and had children of his own, he trained them; with great care, one of his chief thoughts in their' training being to prevent them from acquiring habits, of self-willed caprice. During this unhappy time of his boyhood, Walter was comforted by his mother, who was of a bright and happy disposition, and loved to devote such time as she could spare from her family duties to the study of poetry and works of the imagination. Dull and gloomy were the Sundays endured by Walter and his brothers and sisters in their Scotch home. . Walter writes of them that the Sabbath discipline was ‘ severely strict,’ and mentions ‘one dull sermon succeeding another.’ True, the tedium was a little relieved for them by the permission given to read Bunyan’s Pilgrim's Progress, and Gesner’s Death oj Abel, and one or two books of the same kind ; hut still Sunday remained to the children a dull day, and all were heartily glad when it was over. The week-days passed more pleasantly ; yet evem

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No. V. CHATTERBOX. 39 these would scarcely have pleased the highly favoured lads of to-day. Sometimes interesting visitors enlivened the Scott household. One of these was a lady, and her visit took place in the winter, and when Walter was a little past six years. She writes, i He ’ (Walter) 'was reading a poem to his mother when I went in. I made him read on; it was the description of a shipwreck. Ilis passion rose with the storm. He lifted his eyes and hands. “ There, the mast is gone,” says he. (< Crash it goes! they will all perish ! ” After his agitation he turns to me. u That is too sad,” says he ; “ I had better read you something more amusing.” I preferred a little chat, and asked his opinion of Milton and other books he was reading, which he gave me wonderfully/ Another lady tells a pretty story of the little boy. She speaks of the sickly child sitting at the gate of the house with his attendant, when a poor, old, and woe-begone beggar approached and asked for charity. Help was given, and then the servant remarked to the child that he ought to be thankful that Provi¬ dence had placed him above such want and miser}r. The little Walter looked up and said wistfully, ' H omer was a beggar ! ’ ‘ How do you know that ? ’ asked the servant. * Why, don’t you remember/ said the child— * “ Seven Roman cities strove for Homer dead, Through which the living Homer begged his bread.”’ Some of you will notice that Walter’s memory failed him as to the cities : Homer was a Greek. Walter was quite a small boy and very young when he was first sent to the High School of Edinburgh. He was behind the boys of the class in which he was placed, both in age and progress. This discouraged him a great deal, and he did not make such good progress as he might have done had he been in another class. He writes of himself, ‘I was never a dunce, nor thought to be so, but 1 was an idle imp who was always longing to do something else than was enjoined him.’ One day at the top of his class, the next at the bottom, he Avas a severe trial to his kind master, who perhaps knew that his negligent pupil had talent. Walter’s good nature and powers of imagination, which made him quite famous as a teller of romantic stories, accounted for his popularity amongst his school-fellows. He says, ‘ In the winter play-hours, when hard exercise was impossible, my tales used to assemble an admiring audience round Lucky Brown s fireside,’ and happy was he that could sit next to the story-teller. One of his school-fellows tells how Walter once made a great leap from the bottom to the top of his class. A dunce sitting on the doWs bench was asked, 'What part of speech is cum? ’ (Latin for 'with.’) He could give no answer. He was then asked, 1 What part of speech is "with”?’ and stupidly answered, ' A substantive/ The master paused a moment and then thought it worth while to ask the head boy of the form — the Dux, or leader, as he was called, 4 Is “ with ” ever a substantive P ’ but he was silent. Each succeeding boy was tried in turn, but none could answer, until Walter was reached, who was then near the bottom of his class. He instantly responded to the master’s question by quoting a verse from the book of Judges: 'And Samson said unto Delilah, If they bind me with seven green wit/is that were never dried, then shall I be weak and as another man.’ Here is a second story of Walter’s school days, and one less to his credit. He told it himself, when an old man, to a friend. ' There was a boy in my class at school who stood always at the top, nor could I, with all my efforts, supplant him. Day came after day, and still he kept his place, do what I would; till at length I observed that when a question was asked him he always fumbled with his lingers at a particular button in the lower part of his waistcoat. To remove it therefore became expedient in my eyes, and in an evil moment it was removed with a knife. Great was my anxiety to know the success of my measure, and it succeeded too well. When the boy was again questioned, his fingers sought again for the button, but it was not to be found. In his distress he looked down for it, but it was to be seen no more than to be felt. He stood confounded, and I took possession of his place ; nor did he ever recover it, or ever, I believe, suspect who was the author of his wrong. Often in after life has the sight of him smote me as I passed by him, and often have I resolved to make him some reparation, but it ended in good resolutions. Though I never renewed my acquaintance with him, I often saw him, for he filled some inferior office in one of the Courts of Law at Edinburgh.’ A master who gave Walter great encouragement in his school work, bestowing careful praise and blame as he thought them deserved, was Dr. Adam, the rector. 'I saw,’ Scott afterwards wrote, 'that I was expected to do well, and I felt bound in honour to vindicate my master’s favourable opinion.’ Of Dr. Adam he also wrote, ' He remembered the fate of every boy at his school during the fifty years he had superintended it, and always traced their success or misfortunes entirely to their attention oi negligence when under his care.’ Dr. Adam often approved Walter’s Latin verses. Ilis mother kept one of these little pieces, and putting it carefully by, wrote on the cover in which it was folded, ' My Walter’s first lines, 1782.’ So that he was eleven years old at the time. You will like to read the verse : — 6 In awful ruins ./Etna thunders nigh, And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky Black clouds of smoke, which still as they aspire, From their dark sides there bursts the glowing fire. At other times huge balls of fire are toss’d That lick the stars and in the smoke are lost; Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn, Emits huge rocks which instantly are borne With loud explosions to the starry skies, The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies, Then back again with greater weight recoils, . While ./Etna thundering from the bottom boils/ Our next chapter will contain an account of our hero’s first school fight. James Cassidy.

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CHATTERBOX. No. V. Needless Alarm. PICTURE WITHOUT WORDS.

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42 CHATTERBOX. No. VI. GENERAL C-OHDON’S SCHOOLBOY THICKS. TT7 HEN General Gordon was a lad at school he was V V as mischievous as most boys. When the boys had done anything wrong, they were shut up in a large, barely-furnished room, and set to write lines from a Latin author. Gordon was one of the most frequent prisoners in this room, and he used to be annoyed by the boys, who were free, coming to the door, and jeering at him through the keyhole, telling him what a fine after¬ noon it was, and inviting him to come out and 4 lick’ them. Though he could not oblige them in the former, he resolved to do his best for them in the latter par¬ ticular. He got a large syringe, and taking it with him the next time he went to write lines, he went round to the various desks and sucked up the ink into the syringe. By-and-by, he heard stealthy footsteps coming down the passage. Nearer and nearer they came, and at last halted outside the door. 4 They are peep¬ ing through the. keyhole/ whispered the future General, and placing the syringe to the keyhole, he squirted the contents through with all the energy he could muster. There was a smothered exclamation of disgust, and then some one fumbled with the handle of the door. It opened, and in stalked the head master, his race black with wrath, and his once snowy shirt- front black with ink. We must draw a veil over the painful scene which followed. and the Admiral grunted out, 4 Well, what is the matter now P Why don’t you go on P ’ 4 1 really owe you gentlemen an apology. In spite of my knowledge of the woods about here, it seems that I must have mistaken the way and brought you wrong. I very greatly regret it, but I fear we must retrace our steps in order to get into the right path.. To strike across these growths of underwood would be to lose oneself hopelessly.’ There was nothing for it but, as Eitakraja had said, to retrace their steps and find the right path. This they did, but an hour was wasted, at the very least, in so doing. The young men chafed at the delay, Sir John was feeling more and more uneasy, and by the time they had made their way to the spot at which Eitakraja had left the young girls, the- glory of the afternoon had waned. 4 It was just here I left the two ladies/ exclaimed. Eitakraja, as they stepped out of the shady wood¬ land track, and stood on a bare eminence overlooking- a splendid vista of blue sea, with a foreground of cocoa-nut trees, palms, and bananas growing almost down to the water’s edge. 4 It was just here that I left them/ he repeated, looking sharply around for any traces of the girls. After a swift scrutiny, seeing nothing in the shape of what Indians call 4 sign/ he gave a slight sigh of relief. 4 They must have returned by another track. They would hardly have gone on farther into an unknown country. Besides, they told me they would be returning very soon after I left them.’ Sir John Palgrave was now seriously alarmed. Eitakraja he had never trusted, nor could he rely upon whether he spoke truth or not in this matter. And yet, what devilry would the Malay attempt, so close at hand ? He would not dare — and yet - ’ 4 Before going back to our camping-ground, we may as well just have a look round the place/ said the Eesident. 4 It is just possible they are near at hand.’ 4 Of course we will, John! — of course we will ! * exclaimed the Admiral. 4 Now, my lads/ he con¬ tinued, in his best quarter-deck style, ‘spread out and hunt about these tracks wherever you see them. If they have not already gone back, they may have walked down one of the little paths worn by beasts coming out to drink. I will cruise away off on the port tack — left, I mean ; you take that track in the middle, and you the other on the right. And shout, my lads, make your voices heard! Boar, Bill! Roar ! ’ And the obedient Bill at once let go a howl which might have awakened the Seven Sleepers. It dicl, as a fact, astonish a couple of small apes* which had been interested observers of the party’s, proceedings. They at once took refuge in the top- branch of a tree. But no responsive cry was beard. The apes chattered and shrieked, *tlie birds flew up with startled note, but no human sound came in answer. Nearly half-an-hour was spent in searching and calling loudly, but it was all in vain, and at the end of the time Sir John decided to get back to the place where they had taken luncheon. Surely the girls must have passed them in the forest, following some other track, and got back already! They VASCO ISLAIDo ( Continued from page 35.) A^0ZEN deferent jfijgjgj gjjfj. tracks, beaten by the feet either men or beasts, ran through the beautiful tro- !»f tljj! pical vegetation. Eitakraja c^ose one of these and Jmm, 'ifl plunged straight through th0 slight undergrowth, and -W'jr the whole party, for the ‘ most part in single file, fol¬ lowed him. They tramped along, exchanging a few words upon the' beauty of the scenery here and there, but on the whole it was rather a silent march. Sir John was secretly feeling ' anxious, and the Admiral indignant. Bill Batson, the Admirals man, who followed close at his master’s heels, was inwardly execrating the long thorns which he so constantly blundered into, and Eitakraja — well, Eitakraja’s thoughts were a curious compound oi triumph, anxiety, and fear. He had so much at stake, this arch - schemer, that but for being so good an actor, he must almost have betrayed himself. J At the end of about half-an-hour’s slow walking through the woods, the Malay came to a sudden halt. The rest of the party, of course, all stopped, |

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No. YI. CHATTERBOX. 43 would waste no more time in the fruitless search for them here. Rapidly, and in silence, the party marched hack again to the little camping-ground where they had all been so merry but a few hours since. Then, in reply to their hurried, anxious inquiries, they were told that the girls had not returned, and a cold chill ran through the heart of more than one man there who heard the intelligence. For a moment or two, Sir John — cool, clear-headed soldier as he was — was dumb. Then, with an effort, he steadied his nerves and recovered himself. The girls must have got lost in the forest. ITe took Ritakraja on one side, holding him by the arm, and said, ‘Prince, you have numbers of men employed around here. I want you to set them all — every man you can find — to search this forest all night long, until the girls are found. I will pay for any number you can employ — the more the better. Will you do this for me ? ’ The Malay smiled. ‘ My dear Sir John, you know you have only to express the wish, and every¬ thing shall be done. I feel myself, as it were, indirectly the cause — the innocent cause— of all this trouble, and you may depend that no effort shall be wanting on my part to find the ladies. But at the same time it is very unlikely that they are in the forest at all. It is a very small forest; ‘ And yet large enough for you, a native of the place, to have lost your way in it to-day,7 broke in Sir John. ‘ Ah, true ! But as I was going to say to you, it is much more likely that, thinking they might not care to traverse the gloomy path without some escort, they preferred to make their way down to the shore, hire a sampan of one of the fishermen there, and get taken across to the island. If they did go through the forest, depend upon it, they have emerged on the north side of it and taken shelter in some hut until they can be brought back home again.’ The Resident thought over the situation. Ritak- raja’s first suggestion seemed possible. They might have walked down to the shore, found one of the fishermen, and got him to paddle them over to the island. It was, at any rate, a more comforting suggestion than that they should be wandering about in the forest, exposed to the attack of reptiles, wild beasts, and still wilder men. The very thought sent a thrill of horror through hi3 breast. ‘ They are not lost, Sir John/ said Ritakraja, confidently — and in this, at least, lie well knew that he was speaking the truth. ‘They are not lost, you can take my word for it. They are much more likely to be at this moment at the Residency than on the mainland. Let me beg you to return there and see. I promise to put on all my men to search the forest, and also I promise to be at the Residency in an hour’s time from now. I will come over to you there, if you will permit me, and then return here to see with my own eyes that my men are performing their duty all right. No effort shall be wanting on my part to find the ladies.’ ‘ Thanks, Prince, many thanks. It will indeed be good of you to come across and tell us if any news has been beard. But I hope your first prediction will .turn out to be the correct one, and that we shall I find the girls have already returned to the island. ! It may be so. I only fervently trust that it is.’ | Ritakraja strode quickly off in the direction of | the forest without another word ; the rest of the party wended their way down the hill towards that part of the shore where their sampans had been left, the servants remaining behind to pack up the hampers. ‘ What do you make of this, John? ’ grunted the Admiral, as soon as they were seated in their boat. ‘ I think we had better go back to the mainland directly we have had a bit of dinner, unless they have come home. Shove off, you fellow ! ’ this to the paddler, who was looking at a native on the shore, now hurrying down towards them, with curious eyes ‘Why don’t you shove off P 7 ho roared ; ‘ we don’t want any fruit ! ’ But still the paddler remained motionless. Sir John looked up, and the next moment Orang Tibut was at his side, proffering his basket of bananas. Sir John picked up a bunch, and, speaking in the Malay language, said, ‘ IIow much P ’ and then quickly in an undertone, so that the paddler3 should not catch what he said, * What news ? ’ ‘ Much ! ’ came the quick reply. ‘ I think I know where the ladies are.’ ‘ No, I will not give so much as that for the bananas, they are too dear,’ rejoined Sir John, aloud; then quickly in an undertone, ‘ Are they safe ? 1 ‘ At present, yes. I will come to the Residency to-night — in an hour — and bring you the fruit, master; it is not dear.’ Then in an indistinct sort of mumble, he added, ‘ meet me at 1;he same spot,' then smiled, sainted, and strolled away back up the beach, wdnlst m obedience to a sign from Sir J ohn the sampan-men pushed off and paddled rapidly across to the island. There the news awaited them that the girls had not returned, and perhaps, not even excepting Sir John, no one suffered more acutely than Jack Chesney, He not only loved Nita Palgrave, but he also felt the deepest gratitude to her for the way in which she had nursed him back to life through his terribly sharp bout of fever. Meantime, the Resident had to possess his soul in patience until the arrival of Orang Tibut. He retired to his room and paced anxiously up and down until it was time for the Malay’s arrival. Then he left the house quietly and strolled down to the spot which served for their try sting-pl ace. The spy was there before him. It was now dark, and no fear of prying eyes rendered any pantomime with the fruit-basket necessary. ‘The ladies — what of them?’ asked Sir John, ir, agitated tones. Listen, master. I cannot tell for certain, but 1 think they have been stolen by Ritakraja. He - - But hero Sir John hastily interrupted, ‘No, no, it would hardly have been possible for him to do it — even if he dared — in the short time he was absent from us. He was not gone more than - ’ ‘ I know all. lie was never out of my sight.’ Sir John started in amazement. ‘Never out of your sight! What, to-day, do you mean ? ’

Page 50

“ Bill let go a howl that might have awakened the Seven Sleepers.” ‘ To-day. Yes, I was there all the time.’ ‘ I never saw you.’ ‘No, no more did he. But I saw you, master, and eould tell you all you did up to the time I left the place where you had picnic to follow JRitakraja and the two young ladies through the forest/ ‘You followed them ? Yes — well ? ’ exclaimed Sir John, his anxiety becoming almost painful in its intensity. 1 It was as Ritakraja told you. He conducted them to the place which he afterwards showed you, he pointed out the beautiful view to them, and then he left them and returned to you at your resting- place. That is all true/

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No. 71, CHATTERBOX 45 A Tug of War. 11 vou iust what suits his own ends to tell ; that, id nothing more. But I am glad he is over here : •hen he leaves the island in about an hour or two s me, I shall leave it also— in his company. I shal e very close to him, but he will not see me ; I shall ratch where he goes, and at daylight I shall be ack here to tell you if I have discovered any- bing. And now, I will sleep for an hour; 1 am ired.’ (Continued at page 50.)

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46 CHATTERBOX. No. VI. A TUG OF WAR. EVEN young chicks are soon able to stand up for their rights, as well as larger two-legged creatures, and our illustration shows a couple that are both determined not to give way if possible. A worm has been seized while crawling: no doubt it was scratched out of the ground by the mother-hen, and each chick believes it has a right to one end of the worm, but the difficulty is, who is to have the middle P People usually feed newly hatched chickens with sopped bread, or other soft substances, and some seeds ; but. they very soon begin to eat insects, which they seek for themselves, under the guidance of their mother. They eat ants, little grubs or caterpillars, and also, of course, worms not too large, and juicy slugs. A brood of chickens varies in number, sometimes there is quite a dozen, and on the whole they agree very well, but they have their little quarrels. The other day I saw a picture of a chicken that had mounted a large stone, and the rest of the brood, standing below, are looking at him with surprise or envy, as if wondering how he got up, and wishing that they could do the same. Meanwhile he walks about proudly; but he must come down at last, when possibly he may not get a welcome from the others. It is wonderful how soon chickens get to know what birds are dangerous to them; they would not be alarmed at a large, harmless bird, even if noisy, but they will speedily run to the shelter of the hen’s wings should a sparrow-hawk or kite approach. But some chickens have a good idea of defending them¬ selves. A family of young bantams, kept in a yard, were much annoyed by the sparrows which came and ate up their rice. One day a chicken seized a sparrow by the head, and held it firmly for about five minutes. The sparrow cried out and struggled ; the noise attracted a cat, which ran to the spot, making the chicken let go, when the sparrow flew off, glad to escape. Then, a chicken can be grateful for kindness, we are told. A gentleman picked up one which had straggled away from its parent, and, after wandering a time, was lying exhausted in the July sunshine. He sprinkled some water upon it and revived it; this kindness the chicken never forgot, and when it saw him would run towards him, allowing him to touch it, though shy of other people. Some hens, we notice, are very careless mothers; ] they go about clucking in a rather pompous manner, proud of their brood of chicks, yet in danger of treading upon those which run too near the hen’s heavy feet. J. R. S. C. A TALK ABOUT BELLS. {Concluded from page 38.) THROUGH many hundreds of years of English history the bells which pealed from the church towers in towns and villages held an important place in the daily life of the people. We do not wonder, then, that both old and young looked at the belfry when they passed it, or saw it from a distance, with reverence — sometimes with pleasure; there might sometimes be a little fear. Of course, there were persons who did not like the bell because it rang curfew, and they did not care to be roused from sleep, perhaps, at four in the morning, also obliged to put out all lights and be indoors at eight, summer or winter. But one thing must be remembered — that the curfew law helped to prevent fires and street quarrels in the evening. There is a story connected with the old bell of Bow Church, Cheapside, that those who were bom within the sound of it had the name given them of ‘ Bow-church babies,’ or afterwards, that of Cockneys. From what we read about it, this must have been a loud bell, and in the quiet of the good old times probably could be heard a long way beyond the city walls. On the top of the steeple of St. Mary-le-Bow was the figure of a dragon, which is often mentioned. Likely enough the bell of Bow was a more powerful one than that of old St. Paul’s. It is said that the bell of the present St. Paul's Cathedral has been heard as far off as twenty miles from London. It is a big bell, made partly out of the fragments of a bell called ‘ Great Tom of Westminster.’ Bells, it is evident, were rung much more by our ancestors than they are by the folk of this period. Many occasions were found for ringing out a joyous peal, and the summons to church services frequently came not with the ting-tang which we so often hear, but as a melodious chime. In some places the bells were rung after service, to cheer the people on their homeward way. There are still villages in England where, should one of the inhabitants die, the church bell is tolled for a few minutes to announce this fact to the dwellers around. This is indeed a remnant of the old custom of ringing what was called the Passing Bell whenever anybody, no matter what age they were, lay dangerously ill, and wa9 not likely to get better. It was done from a belief that the sound of the bell would keep off evil spirits. Not only so, but people hastened to the church in a violent thunder-storm, or a tempest of wind, thinking that as the bell clanged through the air, it would calm the disturbance of the sky. More than this, an old author quotes an in¬ scription on some old bell, part of which are the words, ‘ Men’s cruel rage, I do asswage.’ Doubtless, there is a soothing influence in the soft chimes of a ring of bells, especially when they come to us wafted from a distance or across a river. It is not much to be wondered at that our ancestors had a great love for their bells ; they gave them names, and thought of them as very important parts of the church fabric. At one time, it was usual for the ringing to be performed by a priest or deacon, unless it was needful, owing to the size of the bell, for several persons to assist. Sometimes a number of ringers were employed. We read about a remark¬ able bell at Canterbury, which was generally rung by a party of twenty men. One of the droll ideas in old times was, that if a bell happened to be moved away from a place where it had been for many years, it would make a trip back at night to the old spot. Some foreigners of the olden time called England the ‘ ringing island/ so famous was it for its bells. There are countries where no bells are used to summon people to worship or prayer, but

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No. YI. CHATTERBOX. 47 instead of them, wooden hammers are struck on hollow boards. At Hatherleigh, in Devon, it was, centuries ago, a custom to make every morning as many strokes on the bell as there were days in the month, almanacks being scarce then. In old days there was a special service held when the names were given to bells, and they were not rung till they had been baptized. A bishop sometimes performed the ceremony, and while the service was being read, the bell was washed and anointed, finishing up with a solemn blessing. J . R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 5. — Word-making. (a.) — 1. A letter of exclamation. 2. A much-used preposition. 3. Another useful preposition. 4. A strong place with means of defence. 5. A river in Scotland rising in Ben Lomond. 6. The position occupied by a very variable month. (b,)— 1. A vowel. 2. An article. 3. A small horse. 4. To win, to obtain by success. 5. A seed ; a small weight. 6. Exposure to the air or a fire. 7. Falling from the clouds. 8. Educating ; preparing for physical exercises, (c.)— li A vowel expressing personality. 2. A conjunction of doubtful meaning. 3. A forest tree belonging to the pine tribe. 4. A good servant, but a bad master. 5. Comparative of the reverse of coarse. 6. To make pure. 7. One who makes pure. (d.) — 1. A consonant. 2. Depart 1 3. A large rough piece of timber. 4. A valuable metal. 5. To take as a temporary home. 6. Composed of a precious substance. C. C. 6. — Conundrums. Rivers in England . 1. What river runs between two sea^ ? 2. A material for ladies’ dresses. 3. The most sensitive parts of the human frame, transposed. 4. My first reversed makes, a bright colour; my second is the past tense of a verb. 5. Beheaded, I express what no lady likes in her dress ; leave out one letter, I form a movable habita¬ tion; take out two letters, and you double the first number. 6. Part of a very irregular verb repeated. [Answers at page 54.] ANSWE 22.- 4. — Aberdeen . 1. Dean. 4. Need. 7. Dear. 10. Bean. 2. Earn, 5. Aden. 8. Eden. 11. Near. 3. Bread. 6. Heed. 9. Erne. 12. Era. SONG- TO SPRING, how pleasant it is to be here once again %j/ Said a lad with a smile on his face, As he stood with his sister beside the old stile In the paddock — their favourite place. Just two years had passed since he looked on that scene, But his thoughts to it often would roam — In the midst of the bustle of life in a town, He had pictured the calm of his home. It was early in spring, and the beautiful green Of the grass was a boon to the sight, And its freshness and tenderness pleased the good cows, And they fed with a quiet delight; And they frequently strolled to the edge of the stream, And looked down on the water’s clear face, As it wended its way to the wonderful sea At a rapid and musical pace. It was earljr in spring, and the twigs of the trees Were with delicate leaves being dressed; And the birds, of course, knew where the foliage hung Like a curtain surrounding a nest. And they warbled with joy in the rays of the sun, And there seemed a new note in the song Of the dear little robin, and that of the finch, And of others that sang in the throng. But as John and his sister stopped close to the stile, There was, just for a moment, a hush ; Then the first thrilling note of another song rose, And the singer of this was a thrush. And they heard him upraise a grand carol of praise, For the proofs of a kind Father’s love : For the sunshine and food, for the brook and the flowers, And the rest of the gifts from Above. And, indeed, by that song a new portion of joy In the hearts of that couple was made, And the lad, to catch sight of the singer in brown, Fixed his eyes on the trees in the glade ; And a few moments later he saw what he sought, And he quickly exclaimed with delight — As he pointed towards it — ‘ See, Meg, it is there, On the top of that ash to the right 1 ’ Then in silence they watched till the end of the song, And the singer had flown from the tree ; Then said John with a sigh, i Ah ! how often the birds Are more thankful to God than are we.’ ***** 1 Let each thing that hath breath praise the Lord' — Shall the birds Be more eager to praise Him than we ? Surely not ! If we count all our gifts from Above, We never ungrateful shall be. D. Hammonds.

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48 CHATTERBOX. Mo. VI.

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No. VII. CHATTERBOX. 49 “ The spy paddled noiselessly in the wake of the first boat.” H

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50 CHATTERBOX. Xo. VII, VASCO ISLAND. (Continued from •page 45.) INNER at the Residency was a silent and dreary function that night. Most of those present were suffering from intense anxiety and depres¬ sion. Miss Benfleet was still going through the agonies of tooth-ache, and did not come to table. Only the Admiral talked — or, more correctly speaking, fumed — throughout the time. ‘What I say is, if they are not in the wood still, where are they, eh ? — just answer me that ! ’ As nobody could answer anything of the sort, and as the correct answer to that question was just what ail those present wished to know, the Admiral’s inquiry was met only by a depressing silence. Ritakraja, who had come over to report the result of the search, made a short stay, and then said to the Resident, ‘ 1 will get back to” see that my men are searching the woods as thoroughly as they should, my , dear Sir John. Believe me, I feel as anxious as you yourself can be in the matter. I shall feel it a sort of slur upon my countrymen, as well, if they fail, within a very few hours, to restore the ladies in safety to you. It is my one wish — I pledge you my honour as — a Malay.' As Ritakraja left the verandah of the British Residency, a grin wrinkled his features. His mind was full of his own evil schemes. But the one which gave the greatest joy, by far, was conjured up by the vision of a girl’s beautiful face — distorted, perhaps, by fear of himself, but beautiful, never¬ theless. Absorbed in these pleasing reflections, he did not notice a sleeping dog lying across the path which he was taking to the water’s edge, and made a slight stumble over it. Ritakraja gave the poor brute a savage kick, and the dog yelped loudly, as it jumped up and ran away. That simple act had far-reaching consequences for the Malay prince, little as he knew it at the time. Eor Orang Tibut, worn out by many hours of in¬ cessant watching, lay in a dreamless sleep, close by the verandah of the Residency. He would have slept on, and missed the passing of the man he was ‘ shadowing,’ but for the sharp, yell of pain given by the dog as the Malay kicked it. The sound changed Orang Tibut, in the twinkling of an eye, from a state of sleep into that of the keenest watch¬ fulness. Ritakraja, muttering a curse on the hapless dog, passed rapidly on his way to the boat awraiting him. At the same moment, a dark form rose stealthily from just outside the verandah and stole silently after him. ‘ Paddle quickly,’ cried Ritakraja as he seated himself in his sampan. The two boatmen bowed their backs over their paddles, and drove the sampan swiftly through the moonlit waters towards the opposite shore, where a few lights twinkled in the King’s palace. Hardly had the prince’s boat gone a hundred yards from the island, when a second sampan was cautiously pushed out, and Orang Tibut, stepping into it, paddled noiselessly in the wake of the first. And now let us return to the moment when Ritak¬ raja, having conducted the two English girls to a spot overlooking the bay, and pointed out the beauties of the situation to their admiring eyes, took his temporary leave of them. ‘ You have brought your drawing materials, I see, Miss Palgrave’ he said. ‘ Will you make, a slight sketch of this charming scene whilst I go a little way back on our path through the wood, to search for my cigar-case P I must have dropped it but a short distance away, as I felt it in my pocket not a hundred yards from where we are now.’ ‘ jDo not be long, Prince ’ said Nit a Palgrave as she prepared to get her pencils and drawing-paper ready for use. ‘ 1 am quite sure neither Adela nor myself would ever be able to find our way back again, even if we had the courage to try, and about that I am very doubtful ! ’ Ritakraja laughed again pleasantly. ‘Mv dear ladies, you may rely upon me. I shall not be gone- more than a quarter of an hour at the outside. Farewell!’ and, with a smile and a low bow, he: sauntered away and along the track by which they had come through the forest. Once out of sight and hearing of the girls, his whole demeanour underwent a sudden and startling change. He walked about half a mile, then stopped, listened intently for a few moments, and twice he imitated the cry of the green parrot. A few seconds passed, and this cry was distinctly repeated from another part of the wood. Ritakraja smiled. For five minutes or more, he remained motionless. Then some slight sounds were heard, caused by the breaking of dead underwood ; the bracken was parted and a tall Malay, somewhat richly dressed and wearing heavy gold rings in his ears, stepped out on the narrow path. He saluted the prince, and stood silently awaiting his orders. ‘ Lose no time, Lant Mapang,’ said Ritakraja ; c take the English ladies up to the house. They will go with you when you show them this,’ and he quickly wrote a few words on the leaf of a pocket-book. ‘ Listen, this is what I have written/ And in the native tongue, he read out to his servant the vrords which he had written in English : — ‘I have sent my servant to guide you back, as I am still searching for my lost cigar-case. It is a very valuable one and I much wish to recover it. Pray forgive me. Follow my man and he will take you, by a nearer w’ay than we came, back to your party. I may perhaps be back with them before you. ‘ Your devoted slave, Ritakraja.’ ‘You will show this to them, but not leave it in their possession. They will allow you to guide them to the house ; but they may object to entering it. They will ask for an explanation, but as you speak no English, you cannot give it. If they altogether refuse to enter the house, call your wife and some of

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No. VII. CHATTERBOX. 51 the women, and between you, you must force them into it ; hut mind, you are to do all you can by per¬ suasion before resorting to force. You quite understand this ? — every art, every device you or your wife can think of, must be employed before a hand is laid upon them. The English are a vengeful race ; and if we did not succeed in driving them out of the kingdom, they would take a terrible revenge upon us for imprisoning their women. But these two must be kept in the house at all costs — until I come to-night, then I will give further directions about them. They are to be treated as princesses ! ’ The Malay serang received his command in silence. This man was not only Ritakraja’s head servant, but he was also a trusted leader of the disaffected portion of the people who were now ripe for the coming revolt. ‘ You remember everything? — then here is the piece of paper to show them. Now go.’ The man silently saluted, and then stepped back through the underwood by the way he had come. The close-growing branches closed in after him and the sound of his retreating footsteps died away in the distance. Ritakraja then resumed his walk, and a quarter of an hour later arrived at the resting- place of Sir John Palgrave’s party, as we have already seen. ‘ Our dusky friend is a long time in finding that precious cigar-case of his/ laughed Adela Stanley. She had gathered a bunch of the richly coloured blooms which grew so luxuriantly around the spot where they sat, and was busily engaged in tying them by their stalks with a long withy stem. ‘ Well, for my part/ replied her cousin, working away at her sketching-block with a will, ‘ I hope he will not return for at least another ten minutes. If he does, he really will have to wait. I cannot tear myself away from here until I get a rather better picture of the scene from this spot, than I have suc¬ ceeded in doing up to now. After all, sketching seems a poor thing in this country of gorgeous colouring, and photography is as bad. One cannot get any of the effects without colour.’ ‘No, perhaps not/ said Adela, musingly, as she finished tying up her flowers and then laid them at her feet. ‘ I should rather like joining the others again now, Nita — shouldn’t you ? They will think us rather rude for leaving them ; but when Ritakraja proposed to show us the way to this spot, and we accepted, I thought that some of the rest would volunteer to come too, didn’t you ? ’ ‘ Well — yes, I did. Ritakraja is all very well, but Malays — all Malays, I mean— are rather distasteful to me. If Uncle Roderick, for instance, had come, if even Mr. Chesney had been with us, it might have made our little expedition so much more pleasant.’ ‘ I think I hear Ritakraja coming back at last. Yes, here he is — no, it is not Ritakraja. Good gracious ! who is it, then ? ’ For, with a grave salaam, Lant Mapang no^w ap¬ proached the place where the two girls were sitting. They certainly had not expected to see any one there except the Malay prince, but Mapang was not the kind of person to excite alarm ; he was well dressed and looked eminently respectable. Still salaaming and with a most deferential air he approached Miss Palgrave, and held out a slip of paper for her inspection. Rather surprised, she took it into the hand not employed in holding the sketch-book, and read the words pencilled on it. Then she laughed gaily, ‘ Poor Ritakraja cannot find his precious cigar- case ! What a terrible state the poor man must be in ! He cannot tear himself away from the search, so he has sent this grave-looking personage to act as our guide and protector through the forest to join the rest of them again. Well, I suppose I must pack up then and go. Come along, Adela, and do not forget to bring those lovely flowers with you.’ Lant Mapang led the way through the forest, the girls thinking that they were being conducted back to their trysting-place. The country all around being strange to them, they noticed no difference in the route to that along which Ritakraja had brought them. Even had they done so, the crafty Malay prince had provided for that difficulty by the words in his note, ‘ Follow my man and he will take you, by a nearer way than we came, back to your party.’ And so, talking and laughing, they went on with light hearts until emerging into a sort of clearing of the forest they were suddenly confronted with a very handsome native summer house of superior workmanship, and such as could only belong to some rajah, or wealthy great man. The house was enclosed in high, strong bamboo pali¬ sading. The girls stopped, but Mapang courteously signed to them to pass through the palisades and enter. ‘ What does he mean, Nita ? And where are we ? Can you not muster up enough of his horrible language to tell him he has made a mistake, and that we want to get back to our people, not to go into Malay houses. Perhaps this is a sort of “show place ” and he is a guide.’ 1 1 do not know how to make him understand a word. Oh, what are we to do ? I should be frightened out of my life to go into the house.3 (Continued at page 62.) CHATTERING MONKEYS. ^ VSHir MONGST the negroes, there is a very common saying about monkeys, that they can talk vn W fcl if thev like, but they won't ^wf\ ikfPWWsfh ^or ^ear the w^te men’ ! Wvn lest should make them \ work. Lately, I read in a newspaper that a gentleman had given much time and WfM \ trouble to an attempt to make mJ /V/ / |l!i 1 these animals speak. He tried ./// / ii- experiments with several kinds of them, and really, so it is stated, did succeed in teaching some to pronounce words. Whether the monkeys understood what they meant is rather doubtful. Some monkeys are silent certainly, but many of them are noisy enough, though they do not

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52 CHATTERBOX. No. VII. Chattering Monkeys, talk. We have a specimen party of such in the illus¬ tration. Probably, the monkeys themselves have a sort of language which they understand, and their chatter has more meaning to them than we may think. Sometimes it has a meaning to human beings which is quite plain, and the angry, shrill cries which they often make, when they see travellers approaching one of their haunts in a forest, tell them that the monkeys do not like the intrusion. One of the monkeys which is remarkable for its displays of voice, has on account of this received the name of the Preacher Monkey. Jt is a native of Brazil and Guiana. It is clothed in long, glossy hair, has a round beard, short ears, a long tail, and can climb well. What is most noticeable is a peculiar formation of the throat, which has great strength, so that the animal is enabled to produce those terrific bowlings which are heard resounding through the forests where the species is common. But a chief cause of the name is a special perform¬ ance which they have been observed to go through, usually at early morning or dusk, or when the weather appears like a storm approaching. A monkey mounts high up in a tall tree, and a crowd of his brethren sit or swing about the lower branches, while he sets up a succession of shrill howls. Then suddenly he stops and waves his hand : at this signal all the others join in a sort of chorus — the noise is terrific. He gives a flourish of his hand again, and all are silent ; then he begins again. How long this proceeding goes on is un¬ certain, The preacher monkeys frequently eat the hard Brazil nuts, and as they hurt the teeth if used to crack them, a monkey will sometimes break the husk by putting a nut on a stone, and striking it with another stone. Now and then it happens that m doing this, the tail gets a knock, by getting in between the two stones, which accident causes the monkey to rush away, howling frightfully. Many apes and monkeys make noises. Thus, the

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The Lion drags off man, camp-bed, and all. Gibbon or Ungka Ape, which is about two feet high, has a squeaking or chirping note when it is pleased ; but should it be offended, it gives a hollow bark, and, when frightened, a loud call which sounds like ‘Ila-ra-ra.’ This kind of ape has a wonderful power of leaping, and one will go over a space of thirty feet from branch to branch. In some countries, where the homes of the moukevs are near settlements of the natives, parties of these annuals come out at night to steal fruit from orchards, or vegetables from gardens. Often, when they do this, there are sentries or watchers, evidently chosen by the rest of the party to raise an alarm, if there is need. Should these see danger, they utter a shrill cry, and the others, taking the hint, rush off as fast as -possible. J. R. S. C.

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54 CHATTERBOX. No. VII. KILLED BY A LION. AN Englishman employed in surveying the East African Protectorate, accompanied by his wife and his children, was encamped near the river Voi. He had with him a number of native servants. He was suffering from a severe attack of fever. He retired to sleep with his tent open, but was awakened towards midnight by the shouts and cries of the natives. On rising, he saw a lion a few yards from the tent, and found that all his natives had tied. Notwithstanding the fact that he was so weak as to be hardly able to walk, he seized his gun and tried to kill the animal. The night was dark, however, and the animal made off into the bush. A few hours later his wife was roused by the shouts of her husband. On rising, she found that the lion had returned, had forced its way through the opening of the tent, and was attempting to drag off her hus¬ band, camp-bed and all. Her shouts and the struggles of her husband roused the servants, and with great difficulty the lion was again beaten off, but the Englishman had suffered such severe injuries that he died soon afterwards PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 7. — "Word Puzzles. Supply the blanks in each sentence with words of the same sound, but not having the same meaning and spelt differently. 1. That careless boy put his hand through a - of glass, and cut himself so badly that he nearly fainted with the - . 2. Have you - that book with the bright - binding ? 3. How did you get that pretty - bottle ? It was - to me as a present from a friend m America, and it only cost twenty - s. 4. You - not be so long - ing that bread. 5. Did you see that man coming down the - s? 1 wonder what made him - so. 6. As I was - my letter, a part of the - fell down upon me. 7. The brave - continued his dangerous journey through the forest all the long dark - . 3. You - to have been a very long time doing that short - . 9. She is as - as a peacock, and as changeable as a - . C. C. 8. — Double Geographical Acrostic. The Chief Towns of two European Countries. 1. A large province of Hindostan. A great river runs through it and divides it into two parts ; the manu¬ factures and the natural products are both very numerous. 2. A large river in Spam flowing into the Mediter¬ ranean Sea. 3. A county in Ireland in the province of Connaught. 4. A very cold, desolate country m the north of Europe. 5. An island in the Archipelago. 6. A city of China, formerly the capital ; it is famed icr a remarkable tower. 9. — Anagrams. Prime Ministers during * the present Reign. 1. Peril, beer, sort. 2. Ball, surry, do, is. 3. 0, number, rolled. 4. Storm, pardon, ell. 5. Bee, lorn, dread. 6. Stole, wed, nag. _ 7. Falcon, robed, slide. 8. Dross, hull, lo, Erin. 9. Bread, forty, heel. [. Answers at page 79.] ANSWERS. 2. Of, 3. For. 4. Fort. 5. Forth. 6. Fourth. (c.)-l. I. 2. If. 3. Fir. 4. Fire. 5. Finer, 6. Refine. 7. Refiner, (b.)— 1. a. 2. An. 3. Nag. 4. Gain. 5. Grain. 6. Airing. 7. Raining. 8. Training. (n.)-l. G. 2. Go. 3. Log. 4. Gold. 5. Lodge. 6. Golden. 6.— 1. The Thames between Chelsea and Battersea. 2. Tweed. 3. Severn (nerves). 4. Derwent. 5. Trent, tent, ten. 6. Isis. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS ITT HABITANTS. I. H R E E years ago I wrote a few little papers in Chatter ■-* box' on the life -history of some of our common sea- shells, and as the fascinations of the shore are endless to young folk, perhaps a little chat, one - sided though it must be, may be of interest to boys and girls who know that the true use of eyes and ears is to keep the brain busy and amused. Let us begin by ‘playing at/ as the little ones say, wandering along a rocky coast — not a bare stretch of sand like St. Leonards or Manhattan, but a series of curving bays, shut m by walls of cliff, where patches of sand are broken by ridges of jagged rocks; miniature Alps to climb at low water, and solitary peaks round which the waves break and foam when the tide is filling the bay. Such coasts are met with to perfection in Cornwall, North Devon, and the Channel Islands, as well as in Nova Scotia and New England. It is spring tide to-day, and the greeny-blue waves have betaken themselves as far i into the distance as they can, leaving us at liberty to climb these fascinating ranges to our hearts’

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No. VII. CI-IATTEEBOX. 55 content, and away we go ! up peaks, down ravines, and along ridges beside deep, narrow crevices, 1 most tempting to bestride.’ The sunshine is very bright, and a delicious breeze blows up from the sea as we make our way along in high enjoyment. Suddenly one of our leaders pauses with uplifted hands, and exclaims, 1 Oh, how lovely ! and hurriedly we all scramble up to see what she is looking at. ‘ it is only a many-cornered pool, a little •drop of the ocean imprisoned" by rocky walls, left to hear as Tennyson sang, 4 The plunging seas draw backward from the land their moon-led waters white.’ , The blue sky is mirrored in its depth, as are the surrounding rocks and the seaweeds which fringe its •edges, waving their many-coloured branches as the light puffs of air from time to time skim over its .surface. For a minute we all stand spell-bound, then 4i voice says, 4 Oh, it is awfully jolly, but it is only a little rock pool; I vote we do not waste our time nny longer ’ — and away some of the party scamper in quest of further adventures. AVe who are left find ourselves convenient perches, 4ind gaze down into the shining water, marvelling at the wealth of life, animal and vegetable, inhabiting •that one pool not much larger than a fair-sized dining- table. . i i . A saucy little fish shoots out from its weedy lair, looks up at our intruding faces, and with a con¬ temptuous jerk of his tiny tail darts across to covei on the further side. Shrimps and prawns leap and frolic in careless play, heedless of the deadly embrace of the watchful anemones, which, like flowers of the sea, spread their tentacles — pink, crimson, green, and gold— in the sunlight. w A trail of vivid colour flits across the rocky bottom as a Sea-mouse glides along, and a huge whelk-shell emerges from the forest shade, borne by a Hermit 'Crab, whose rapidity of motion is impeded by the weight of a tall Sea-daisy, which lia3 elected to settle itself on the roof of his house. At one corner of the pool a dark slimy arm protrudes from beneath an overhanging rock, presently another comes into view, and then a lialf-sleepy Cuttle-fish appears bent on • enjoy incr the warmth of the sun. \et a few minutes more, and like a tiny edition of the mysterious ball rolled up-hill by the jugglers, a circular shell, covered thickly with bristles, makes its way up the rock out of the water, and enters one of the deep, dark fissures. Look 1 look !’ I whisper, 4 you may not often see that .again It is "a Sea-hedgehog, more commonly known as a Sea-urchin ! ’ And then a chorus arises, 4 Oh, what a wonderful creature ! Oh, Sissie ! do tell us something about him:’ and I answer, 4 With pleasure, but not just now, for Mr. Hedgehog is a gentleman with such an interesting career that the tide might return botore I had finished, and wash us all out to sea together, .hedgehog and all ! But one moment before we move . have you noticed that Star-fish which is making Ins way down to the water over there P He also oelongs to an interesting family of which I expect you will like to hear more, as well as of the sea-mouse, the cuttle-fish, and some of the other inhabitants of this “ Still Salt PooL’” Helena Heath. THE TONGUE. THE boneless tongue, so small and weak, Can crush and kill, declares the Greek. < The tongue destroys a greater horde,’ The Turks assert, 4 than does the sword.’ The Persian proverb wisely saith, 4 A lengthy tongue— an early death.’ Or sometimes takes this form instead, ‘ Don’t let your tongue cut off your head.’ 4 The tongue can speak a word whose ^speed,’ Say the Chinese, 4 outstrips the steed.’ While Arab sages this impart, ? 4 The tongue’s great storehouse is the heart. From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung, i Though feet should slip, ne’er let the tongue. The sacred writer crowns the whole, 4 Who keeps his tongue doth keep his soul.’ SOLDIEHS TtOUTED BY BEES. THE Scottish Highland dress, with its kilt, in which the trousers are lacking, has certain advantages for a soldier, and certain disadvantages as the Highlanders who accompanied Lord Roberts on one of his expeditions to Afghanistan once found out to their cost. Lord Roberts. tells the story of the occurrence in his Forty -one P ears m India. As the troops were advancing, Lord Eoberts was employed for a little time within an enclosure at Alambagh, when he heard great confusion, as of a panic, among the troops on the plain. Getting on the roof, he looked out over the plain, ^ and saw the troops flying in every direction, lhere was no firing, and the enemy was not in sight, but evidently something serious had happened to throw the men into such confusion. „ _ The general mounted and rode to the scene, lhere he found that the enemy was not Afghans, but a cloud of infuriated bees, which were especially active about the bare legs of the Highlanders. The general promptly decided that discretion was the better part of valour in such a contest, and he withdrew the company in as good order as possible to a position remote from the scene of the attack. Then he made an inquiry, and found that the stampede had been the result of the thoughtlessness of an officer of the 9th Lancers, who had thrust his lance into a hive of bees. _ < There were no serious consequences, Lord Ro berts concludes; ‘but the Highlanders were heard to remark that their uniform was not suited for an I encounter with an enemy of that description. . Curiously enough, the simile of bees chasing, an army is found in Deuteronomy, i. 44, where the writer says that the Amorites 4 came out against you, and chased you, as bees do.’

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Soldiers routed by Bees.

Page 63

No. VIII. CHATTERBOX 57 i

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58 C HAT TERBOX. No. VIII. ELEPHANT HOUSE-BREAKERS. SEVERAL elephants belonging to a circus which had been visiting Bournemouth were passing through Christchurch, when two of their number walked into a corn-dealer’s yard. One of the animals smashed open a door of the corn-store, but found that the entrance was not wide enough to admit his body. The smaller elephant, however, managed to get into the store, and quickly devoured a quantity of dog-biscuits, and kept tossing some of them into the road-wav for the benefit of the other elephants, who could not secure them otherwise. The depredation was stopped by the arrival of the keeper, who had to recompense the corn-dealer for his loss. THE EARLY DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. in. E High School playground was called by the boys the Yards, and it was in the yards that our hero made his mark. He was quite a ‘new boy’ when a dis¬ pute arose, and Walter’s opponent said, tauntingly, ‘ There’s no use in a hargle- bargle with a cripple ; ’ but, nothing daunted, the lame lad replied, ‘ If 1 may fight mounted , I will try my hand with any one of my inches.' Upon this an elder boy standing by suggested that ‘ the two little tinklers might be lashed front to front upon a deal board/ and it was thus that Walter entered into his first serious fight, and was severely wounded in the fray, and most of all in the nose ! Before he left the High School, so well had he overcome the difficulties caused by his lameness, that he had become one of the boldest and nimblest climbers of ‘ the kittle nine stones/ a difficult passage with few steps up the steep sides of the black granite of the Castle rock. Sometimes Walter was engaged with his school chums in the manning of ‘ Cowgate Port.’ It was the delight of the most fearless boys to mount, in winter, the gateway, and pelt with snowballs the town-guard, who then formed the only police of Edinburgh city. When Walter was an old man and only able to walk with difficulty, he liked to recall the doings of these dread-nought days. A far more dangerous mode of fighting than boxing was permitted in the streets of Edinburgh. There was but little boxing at the Scottish schools. The more dangerous mode was this: The boys hailing from one particular quarter of the town would hand together to fight against those who t lived in another quarter of the town. Those of the West would fight those of the East ; or, those of one square the lads of another, and rough bickers fre¬ quently took place, and sometimes very serious accidents occurred. ^ There was no feeling of ill-will or malice between the parties, but the whole was a kind of horse-play. Walter’s parents residing on the Southern side of the city, the boys of the Southern quarter arranged themselves into a sort of company against the boys inhabiting Cross Causeway, Bristo Street, the Potterow, and the neighbouring suburbs. These boys were of lower rank, but ‘ hardy loons who threw stones to a hair’s breadth, and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters/ It often happened that the skirmish lasted the whole evening, until one side or the other was victorious. In his account of these bickers , W alter Scott writes : ‘ It followed, from our frequent oppo¬ sition to each other, that, though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the .most remarkable of them. One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal leader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always the first in the charge, the last in the retreat.’ The nickname of this boy was Green-breeks, as the principal part of his clothing was a pair of old green livery breeches ; he entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet. One day, Green-breeks, who had been charging his opponents fast and furiously, was about to seize the banner of the Southerners (this banner had been presented to Walter Scott and his party by a young lady of distinguished family) when he received from a zealous enemy a blow on the head sufficient to cut him down. Nothing so serious had until this time occurred, and, frightened at the consequences, both parties fled different ways, leaving poor Green-breeks on the ground, his bright hair all dabbled in bloody The terrified boys swore solemn secrecy, and their remorse and terror were very great. Green-breeks was taken to the Infirmary, and it was found that his wound was not, after all, so serious as had been supposed. While in the hospital he was questioned as to who had done the deed, but not a word would he say that could get his adversary into trouble. When he recovered, Walter and his brothers made known to him, through a baker of ginger-bread where both parties were customers, that the South¬ erners wished to pay him ‘smart-money.7 Green- breeks, poor and ragged though he was, refused to ‘ sell his blood/ but at the same time he declared that he would never tell tales, which he said would be ‘ clam ’ — that is, base or mean. When much pressed to take something, he at last agreed to accept a pound of snuff for the use of some old-woman rela¬ tive v^ith whom he lived. But the bestowal and acceptance of the gift did not result in the friendship of the contending parties ; bickers were more agree¬ able to both. While Walter was attending the High School, he spent one hour daily at a small separate school of writing and arithmetic, and to this school girls came as well as boys. One of these little girls sat at the

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 59 same desk with Walter, and she has set down some recollections about him. 1 He attracted," wrote this lady, ‘the regard and fondness of all his companions, for he was ever rational, fanciful, and lively, and possessed of that urbane (polished, courteous) gentle¬ ness of manner which makes its way to the heart. His imagination was constantly at work, and he often so engrossed the attention of those who learnt with him, that little could be done, Mr. Morton (the schoolmaster) being forced to laugh with the little scholars at the odd turns and devices he fell upon ; for he did nothing in the ordinary way, but, for example, even when he wanted ink to his pen he would get up some ludicrous story about sending his doggie to the mill again. He used also to interest us in a more serious way, by telling us the visions, as he called them, which he had lying alone on the floor or sofa, when kept from going to church on a Sunday by ill-health.’ As Walter told his tales, those who heard him noticed that the expression of his face changed, and showed deep feeling, as if he were awed by what he was saying. Even as a boy it was his habit to keep his eyes turned downward as if thinking, and on his face appeared a smile as if he were enjoying his thoughts. It was just about this time that Mr. and Mrs. Scott received into their house, as tutor to their •children, a Mr James Mitchell. Most of the chil* •dren (there were then five at home) attended public .schools, and it was the duty of the tutor to assist them to prepare their lessons for school and to train them to goodness of character. Mr Mitchell has left us some account of his life while in Mr. Scott’s family, and writes very favourably of his pupil Walter’s conduct and power of mind 4 I seldom,' he says, ‘ had occasion, all the time 1 was m the family, to find fault with him even for trifles, and only once to threaten serious punishment, of which he was no sooner aware than he suddenly sprang up, threw his arms about my neck and kissed me ’ Of course, the punishment was no longer thought of; in a moment his tutor had forgiven him, and the two became more fast friends than ever. On one occasion, when passing through the High School yards, Walter found a half-guinea piece on the ground ; being an honest boy, he did not saj * Finding is keeping,’ but he looked around to see if possible to whom it might belong. He soon espied a countryman, and, calling to him, he asked him if he had lost anything. The man searched his pockets, and then replied that he had lost half-a-guinea. Walter's pleasure was great as he restored to the loser the missing coin. At home, when lessons for the day were over, Walter and his brothers and sisters used to amuse themselves and their young friends, and entertain their parents, by getting up theatricals in the dining¬ room. Walter was always the manager, and had the whole charge of the affair. The favourite piece was Jane Shore , Walter taking the part of Hastings, and his sister that of Alicia. They also attempted Richard III,, who you will remember was a hunch¬ back. Walter played the part of the Duke of Glou¬ cester, saying that 4 the limp would do well enough to represent the hump.’ But here we close the story of our hero’s school- life. Our next chapter takes him back again to his Aunt Jenny, and gives some account of his college career. J ames Cassidy. HOMES AND HAUNTS OF BATS, 0 M E H 0 W or other, many people, both young and old, seem to have a dislike to bats; indeed, I have heard persons express a feeling of this sort who have never seen a bat, except in a picture. Now, really, there is nothing at all unpleasant about bats; no doubt they are curious- looking creatures, especially if you see them in front, with wings expanded. I am afraid that artists, in drawing pictures, have helped on this dislike to hats, because they have shown one or more on the wing, when they have been depicting some dismal scene at night. It is true the bat, as a rule, flies during the dusk of evening or later — such is its habit ; but so do several kinds of birds, and many insects. Some quadrupeds also stir by night. Bats belong to the quadruped division, though in flight they resemble swallows; most of them move rapidly, and they are useful m removing many insects which are trouble¬ some in gardens or fields. There are dangerous bats — the Vampire, for instance, which, in some hot countries, attacks sleepers, and draws their blood if the feet are left uncovered. Since bats take their excursions chiefly at night,, the appearance of one by day being unusual (it happens more often m winter than in summer), they seek hiding-places and retreats where they are away from the sunshine, and safe from enemies, in the winter months they are generally out of view During quite half the year they stay at home, old and young together; apd those people who have discovered bats in their haunts have been surprised to see bow close they keep to each other, no doubt for the sake of warmth. They bang by the hind claws, with the bead downwards. It is not always above-ground that we find bats byber- nating — as spending the winter is called. Parties of them are found in mines and caverns, in chalk-pits which have hollows along the sides, or they may creep even into rabbit-burrows. Many make their way into hollow trees, and others resort to ruins, to old barn-roofs; some manage to settle themselves in church towers. Most people have seen the Common Bat or r litter- mouse, which is about the size of a mouse, and has mouse-like ears and short brownish fur. What we call the wings are really the four enormously long toes of the fore-feet, which are joined by a mem¬ brane which stretches over the hind legs and to the tail. This bat is fond of skimming over still water, upon which insects hover after sunset in country places. Bats themselves are rather thirsty creatures, and seek moist spots ; sometimes they get more water

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Bats on the Wing. than they like. A gentleman, one August day, heard an odd squeaking come from his rain-water butt, and on going to it he saw about a score of bats there ; some were drowned, the others were clinging to the wood, or else struggling. He found that they had come through the shoot or pipe which brought the rain-water down, and next day by moving this he dis¬ turbed three dozen more, all of them big enough to fly. Another kind of bat is known as the Barbastelle ; it has a smooth forehead and short ears. In December, a boy who had climbed the pole of a shop-signboard found one day a sleeping barbastelle behind it. When he got it down, the bat did not rouse up till it had been thoroughly shaken, but as soon as it revived, then it made a spitting, like an angry cat, and tossed up its queer little nose, seeming to be offe» ded. Rousing still more, it began to fly, going round and round a room rapidly. The Great JBat or Noctule is not really large, but looks so beside its relatives of less size. Its flight is high, and accompanied by a sort of rattling noise ; it is seldom seen singly. During July, parties of them hawk about, preying upon beetles, especially the midsummer dor or cockchafer. Pretty is the*Pipi- strelle, for the body is covered with white down, and the wings, being transparent, have a beautiful blush appearance. Specimens have been taken under the eaves of an out-house. Then the Horse-shoe Bat, which is rather scarce, is remarkable, because it has upon the nose a growth resembling a horse-shoe. This is supposed to have to do with the sense of smell, which is very sharp in most bats ; also that of touch, which enables them to go along dark passages, and avoid knocking against the walls. J. R. S. C. A HOVEL DUEL. A CURIOUS duel was seen in Milton Park, at Peterborough. A heron was fishing in the pond near Milton House and captured a fish. Another heron, which had been on the watch, at once tried to take the prize away. The result was a desperate combat. Both birds were full-grown, and tall and stately. They fought with bill and wing, uttering frequent shrieks of anger.

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No. VIII CHATTERBOX 61 A Novel Duel. The battle waged so furiously that the combatants seemed to be in the midst of a cloud of feathers, when suddenly one rolled over, and the other, with a victorious ‘ frank/ stretched its long legs behind it and soared to the trees. An examination proved that the other bird had been killed outright, and it was the would-be robber, too, which had fallen in the fray.

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' 62 CHATTERBOX. No. VIII. HOW AH OWL’S HEAD GOES HOUND. T>OYS who have tried to ‘put salt on a bird’s tail , JL) generally come to the conclusion that birds can ‘ see behind them/ and some almost believe that the heads of these quick little creatures are hung on pivots. How easily one could conceive such a notion appears from the following anecdote. A contributor to the American Naturalist , who had read a funny story about an owl wringing his own neck by looking at a man who was walking round him, tested the matter by an experiment. He obtained a fine owl and placed him on a post. 1 It was not difficult/ says the writer, ‘ to secure his attention, for he never diverted his gaze from me while I was in his presence. I began walking rapidly around the post a few feet from it, keeping my eyes fixed upon him all the while. ‘ His body remained motionless ; but his head turned exactly with my movements. When I was half-way round, his head was directly behind. Three- quarters of a circle were completed, and still the same stare followed me. ‘ One circle and no change. On I went, twice round, and still that watchful stare and steady turn of the head. On I went, three times round, and I began really to wonder why the head did not drop off, when all at once I discovered what I had failed to notice before. ‘ When I reached half-way round from the front, which was as far as he could turn his head to follow my movements with comfort, he whisked it back through the whole circle so quickly, and brought it facing me again with such precision, that I failed to detect the movement, although I was looking intently all the time. ‘ I repeated the experiment many times afterwards on the same bird, and I had always to watch carefully to detect the movement by which he kept his eyes upon me all the time/ sisted of only two stories, though it covered a large space of ground and evidently contained many rooms. Lant Mapang had brought the two English girls thus far, but no further would they go. All the Sevang's silent invitations to enter, made in the most deferential manner, availed nothing. They would not enter the place. Mindful of his strict instructions, and knowing also, only too well, the tigerish disposition of his master in the event of any disobedience by his inferiors, the ser¬ vitor had exhausted every device he could think of for getting the girls inside the house, first, by himself, ani then by the aid of his wife and two or three other native women whom he had summoned to his assistance. At length the girls held a short consultation, turning their backs upon the over-polite serang , and as a result of that talk, they started off resolutely, at a sharp walk, away from the house. 1 We will try to find our way down to the shore somewhere, and get one of the fishermen to put us across to the island/ said Nita. ‘ I do not like the look of our black friend, in spite of all his polite ways, and I certainly do not intend to enter his house. Why did we ever let Ritakraja leave us ? It was rather stupid, was it not ? ’ But before Adela could make any reply, Lant Mapang had overtaken them, accompanied by seven or eight native women-servants. This time there was no mistaking his gestures, when he laid a hand on Nita’s arm— still very respectfully — and pointed with the other to the house. ‘No. no — we shall not go back; we do not wish to enter the house/ Nita knew that the Malay did not understand a word of English, still the words would come. The man saw that trickery had failed and only force remained. He gave a sign, and the Malay women at once seized upon the now thoroughly frightened girls, and half pushing, half carrying, conveyed them back towards the bamboo building. ‘ Be brave, Nita. Do not let these wretches think that we are afraid of them, whatever you do. .Pro¬ bably they will not do us any harm : and our friend, Ritakraja — or some one else — is sure to find us soon. The man here showed us Ritakraja’s handwriting, we are both sure it is his ; so he, at least, will pro¬ bably know all about it. It is some silly mistake : do not be frightened, dear, whatever happens/ So spoke Adela Stanley, but a little gulp which she gave at the end of her speech, showed that she was net quite so easy in her own mind as she would have had her cousin suppose. ‘ But I am frightened, Adela, horribly frightened. What can they be going to do with us P Shall we be put in some prison, do you think ? Oh, surely they would not dare to do that ! Perhaps these creatures do not know who we are, or they would hardly risk getting into trouble with the Government/ ‘ I don’t know. I only hope they will not separate us. Do you think they will ? 3 Before* Nita could return any answer, their captors had brought the two girls within the wooden pali¬ sades surrounding the house. The gate was closed after them and all hope of escape cut off — at all events, for the present. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 51.) lv }~ fry V jll SHALL certainly not go /|fr if into the house/ said Adela I fa Stanley in determined 0 tones, as after some five B minutes of making signs, B " 011 the Parfc of Laut Ma“ fi Jm pang, and of fruitless en- WPIIJI’ deavours to understand & ^ them by the two girls, affairs came to a deadlock. ' ‘Nor I either, unless they carry me/ chimed in Nita, stoutly. ‘What in the world can be the man’s object in wishing us to enter the house when our one desire is to get back to our own party ? 7 The house in front of which they were standing was a handsome summer residence, built, pavilion fashion, from teak and ornamental bamboo. A long, low verandah ran round the bungalow, which con-

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Ko. YIII. CHATTERBOX. 68 But we must return to Kitakraja. Pie stepped out of his sampan as he heard its stem grate upon the beach. ‘ I shall not want either of you to come with me,’ he said to his rowers. ‘ I know where to find you when I want the sampan again. Go.’ The Malay prince strode off up the beach and through the sleeping village. His plans were nearly all settled: he would go up and see his captured prey now, this night, and having got these helpless girls into his clutches, the time would be ripe on. the morrow for the great event, the revolt of the natives, led, nominally, by the King, but actually by him¬ self. Kitakraja felt that, with the daughter and niece of the Resident in his possession, he could dictate his own terms, and they would not be easy ones. In his own savage way, Kitakraja was greatly in love with Nita Palgrave, and having a very good opinion of his own attractions, he imagined that, once in his power, it would not be an impossible task to obtain her consent to marrying him If she would do this, he was quite prepared to either allow Miss Stanley to return to her people, or to keep her as companion for his English wife ; if not, he would keep them both as hostages, for the present. By-ancl- by, he would put strong pressure on the Resident’s daughter to induce her to consent to Ins plans, perhaps threaten to cut the throat of her cousin if she, Nita, proved obdurate. He would have an interview with Nita Palgrave now, as soon as he reached the house ; then one of his lieutenants should carry word to his trusted chiefs to assemble their men at daybreak on the morrow, and bid defiance to the Kesident in proclaiming the end of the British rule. Kitakraja had caused his sampan to be run ashore much to the westward of the usual landing-place for visitors from the island. By this he had saved some of the distance he had to walk to the summer house where the girls were then really prisoners, though their attendants treated them as they had been instructed — ‘like princesses.’ He strode on, crushing the tropical flowers .under his heel at every stride, just as he meant to crush down all opposition to* his ambitious schemes for power, influence, and perhaps sovereignty, in the near future. Half-an-hour’s quick walking, up-hill for most part of the way, brought him to an eminence which overlooked a large portion of the forest in day¬ time. Now, however, as he paused for breath ,and looked ahead of lnm, his liawk-like eyes fell only on a few twinkling lights, coming from the summer house which held his captives. ‘ The birds are safe. They are mine,’ he said in low tones to himself. He walked on again, at a slower pace, and only stopped when, about fifty yards from the palisading, he fancied he heard the breaking of a dead twig, a short way behind him. The pause was only for a moment; then muttering ‘ No, it is impossible that I can have been followed here./ he went on, and pushing aside a heavy mat hanging in the doorway, entered the house. At the same moment a lithe, dark form which, like a shadow, had been in close though unseen attendance on him all the way from the Kesidency, stepped inside the palisading, and took up a position on the verandah by the open window of the largest room. The girls had been taken to a spacious apartment on the upper floor when they first arrived. This room opened out into another, from which it was only separated by a hanging mat. This smaller apartment was plainly meant for a sleeping-place. So far, then, it did not look as though the prisoners were to be separated. After trying in vain to induce Lant Mapang’s wife — who, it seemed, was acting as their chief attendant — to carry a note, written by Adela, in pencil, to the Resident, in¬ forming Sir John of what had happened, they had settled down to await the progress of events with what patience they could command. Some one, they argued, must shortly hear of their plight and come to demand their release. Surely Kitakraja, who had sent them the note in the afternoon, must guess what had occurred, and, as a friend of the British Kesident, he would certainly make an effort to find them and set them free. The idea of the man’s possible treachery — of his connivance at their capture — never even crossed their minds. Had any one told them that it was to Kitakraja that they owed their present imprisonment, they would both have flatly refused to believe such a thing. And so when, about half-past nine o’clock, a Malay girl entered their room and announced that Prince Kitakraja had just arrived and was waiting in.the room below to see Miss Palgrave, both girls rejoiced at the prospect of a speedy deliverance from their unpleasant position. ‘ Oh, I am so glad, Adela 1 I felt sure all the time that this was some foolish mistake, and that Kitakraja would soon hear of it and set us at liberty. You know he has almost unbounded power over these people. I feel so delighted at the idea of getting back to father — perhaps even to-night — that I really could kiss Kitakraja’s horrid black face ! ’ Adela laughed gaily. ‘ I am very thankful too/ she said; ‘let us go down and see him/ But at the door of their room the Malay girl stopped Adela, shaking her head to show that both girls were not to go down. She laid her dusky linger on Nita’s arm, showing that Miss Palgrave alone was to accompany her to Kitakraja’s presence. Miss Stanley must remain where she was. Although somewhat surprised at this, Nita thought it better to agree without demur. .After all, what did it matter ? Probably in ten minutes’ time they would both be free. So, turning to her cousin, she said, ‘ All right, dear, I will go down and see him, and then be back here again with you at once. I do not know why he should ask to see me alone; but the Malays always seem to me a people full of curious fancies/ and nodding gaily to Adela, she followed the native girl down into a brightly lighted, long room, across the farther end of which Kitakraja was somewhat impatiently pacing up and down. ' He at once stopped his rather tiger¬ like performance, and with the greatest courtesy he bowed to Miss Palgrave. Then, with a wave of the hand, he dismissed the attendant from the room ( Continued at page 70.)

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“ The Malay women seized upon the frightened girls.” CHATTERBOX. No. VIII.

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THE DIVER.

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. K

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66 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. Y OTJH G-STERS IX POPULAR TALES. TOM BURE.* 4 “ Hearts of oak ! ” our captain cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse of the sun.’ WONDER what makes Tom so late ? ’ said Uncle Bob to himself as he opened his eyes and looked around him. 4 Why,’ he added, 4 it is precious nearly three bells in the second dog-watch, as sure as I’m a living sailor. Living ! Well, there isn't a deal of life about me, for the matter of that; but I am right about the time.’ For seven long years Uncle Bob had lain an invalid in his little cot on -wheels. He was very patient and always hopeful, the paralysis from which he suffered being accidental. It was a sweet May evening when Uncle Bob made the speech we have quoted ; he had been hauled out of doors in his cot, to enjoy the air, by his kind-hearted brother, Dan, a boat-builder whose home stood just over the way yonder, across a little rustic, private bridge that brought you to the pleasant and tree-shaded spot -where Bob’s cot was safely moored under the shade of the eedar. In fine weather it was cheerful enough for Uncle Bob here, because Dan worked close beside him in the boat-shed, into which he could wheel the cot if a shower threatened. Dan’s property — he always called it his own property — was situated on high ground, or what is called high ground in this part of the world, for Norfolk is not Switzerland, so that from between the trees Bob could catch glimpses of the far-off country-side, at which he never tired of looking. 4 All for you, Uncle Bob,’ said the sweet voice of Uncle Bob’s niece, Ruth, a pretty girl of thirteen, as she brought him a bunch of lovely wild flowers. In front of Ruth bounded a beautiful black-and-tan collie-dog, answering to the name of Meg. Uncle Bob was very fond of his little niece, but fonder far of Tom, for when the boy was not away at school, or scouring the woods and hills with Meg, he was the invalid’s constant companion. 4 Tom won’t be very long now, Meg, will he P ’ said Uncle Bob when Ruth had disappeared. 4 Ha ! you are cocking your ears, old lady. Do you hear young master?’ 4 Hip, hip, hooray-ay !’ and Tom stood at the foot of the cot, a Times newspaper in his hand, and shouting. 4 Whatever ails you, sonny ? Where have you been to, and what have you got ?’ 4 Why, the Times , Uncle Bob. I walked all the way to the Hall, round by the broad, to borrow it, * Tom Bure is the hero in Hearts of Oak, a story of Nelson and the Navy. This inspiring book is by Gordon Stables, M.D., C.M. after my tutor told me the news. ’Cause why, Uncle ? ’Cause I knew you'd like to read the news with your own old-fashioned eyes. Oh, glorious news, I can tell you ! That is what Mr. Curtiss called it. The French are going to fight again— at least he thinks so. Won’t it be glorious P Won’t it be fun? After supper, Uncle Bob, after supper — oh, not now ! It is too good to be scamped and hurried over; besides, I am so hungry — and, poor Uncle, so must you be. But there, I haven’t told you all the news; the most glorious part of it is to come. I w’ent to the Hall, you know. Well, I saw Lady Colmore, and she sent the footman into the garden with me and told me eat as many strawberries as I could hold, and to-morrow little Bertha Colmore and her maid are going to brifig you a big, big basketful all to yourself, and I am to feed you with them, and not eat one.’ Then Tom laughed so merrily that he was forced to lie down on the grass and roll, and Meg was by no means slow to follow his example. Uncle Bob laughed too, though there was not any¬ thing very special to laugh about, but the sight of happiness in others always pleased Bob. 4 Look here, you young rascal,’ said Uncle Bob at last. 4 That’s me,5 cried Tom, springing up. He stood at attention, after touching his cap. 4 Away aloft, young sir, and have a look round the horizon. Take the glass, sir.’ 4 Ay, ay, sir,’ said Tom. 4 Away aloft it is ! ’ And next moment he was swarming up the rigging with all the agility of a practised sailor. Up, and up, and up, hand over hand, till his head touches the bottom of the crow's-nest, and then he enters it from below, and settles himself to have a good look round through the glass. The crow’s-nest was a large and strong barrel, which had been hoisted up in one of the poplar- trees, and firmly secured at a distance of forty feet above-board — that is, above the level of the lawn. The tree, which was a very beautiful one, with one strong trunk, which reached a height of five-and- twenty feet, then bifurcated into two, which tapered skywards for fully fifty feet more, grew almost in the water of the little lake, and strong ratlines or rigging, similar to that of a ship, led upwards to the nest. Above this nest was a kind of Jacob’s ladder, up which Tom could swarm for twenty feet higher, and seat himself on what he and Bob called the top¬ gallant cross-trees. From near the bottom of the nest hung a stout rope, and up this Tom could climb when he chose, or come down by the run. This outlook or crow’s-nest was one of the plea¬ sures of poor Uncle Bob’s lonesome life. It was a pleasure even to look at it when Tom was not there, but when the lad did come home — and his arrival was one of the chief events of the day with Bob — hardly had he exchanged greetings with his uncle ere the order was, 4 Away aloft, lad ! ’ Then, stand¬ ing in the. cosy nest, or seated high up on the cross- trees, Tom would keep the invalid informed, for half an hour at a time, or even a whole hour sometimes, of all that was going on at sea. Upon this particular occasion Tom witnessed an

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. G7 exciting scene. It was nothing less than the wreck of a brig on the Corton sands. The brig was a smuggler ; a yawl was coming down with a cargo to her, and a long, low, curious-looking craft, which the people of those parts called ‘ the devil in disguise/ was a Government sloop. A boat was put off from the sloop, and the sloop herself filled sail, and stood off right away to the north in pursuit of the yawl. The boat tried to run in-shore and land at Corton. Tom's idea when he saw the turn affairs had taken was to ‘run all the road to Sunton Cave/ and get Ashley’s yawl under way to go round to Corton and meet the navy boat, and then try to save life from the wrecked brig. He found Ashley, the old fisher¬ man, and his two sons, and Davies, a Welsh fisher- man, at home. Their home was a cave. Tom was glad to see that their little craft — a yawl — was all ready in a little harbour which the men had dug close to the cave in which they lived. This cave had once been a smuggler’s den, but was now a comfortably furnished home. The Fairy yawl was a handy little craft, and the Fairy's crew just as daring as they looked. Watch Ashley’s yawl now as she rushes out into the mist and darkness of a squall, the spray dashing inward over the bows, while the cutwater rises and falls, striking angrily at each advancing wave. Tom accompanied the brave crew, and lay snugly curled up in his oilskins, and watching as intently as any of his companions. When they had been out battling with the winds and waves for a good hour and a half, the fisherman Davies sighted the sloop’s boat, and in the neatest possible way every one was got off her into Ashley’s life-saving yawl. It was a lieutenant of the Royal Navy who came on board with his men and prisoners — five only had been saved off the brig — about a third of her crew. The lieutenant’s name was Merryweather. He and his men and prisoners were hospitably enter¬ tained in the caves by Ashley and his family, Merry- weather and Tom upstairs in a commodious and well-furnished cave, and the rest in the lower and poorer cave. ‘There, captain/ cried Ashley as Tom entered, ‘ that is the chap you have to thank for saving your life.’ ; Of course Tom turned very red over it, and looked very shy, but in five minutes he and Ashley were the best of friends, and Tom had extracted a . promise from the lieutenant to accompany him home. It occurred to Tom that he might as well take Lieutenant Merryweather in to see Uncle Bob first. But he was scarcely prepared for what followed. Uncle Bob had turned his eyes towards the door, but they positively seemed to grow as large and round as saucers when they alighted on the sun- browned features of Lieutenant Merryweather. Nor did the latter appear one whit less surprised than Uncle Bob. But he recovered himself sooner. ‘What!’ he cried, ‘can it be possible? My old shipmate, Bob Brundell, that sailed with me for years in the old Turtle , and was in my own watch ? Wonders will never cease. Why, I heard you were drowned ever jbo .long ago ! And then followed warm words of appreciation, not unmixed with sorrowful regrets at poor Uncle Bob’s sad condition, unable as he was to ‘ move a toe.’ {.Concluded at payc 7G.) TRUTH FROM INDIAN LIPS. IN a curious little book, written by two Omaha Indians, the following incident is told by Inshta- Theumba, the educated Christian daughter of the chief, Iron Eye : — ‘ We were out on the buffalo-hunt. It was evening. The tents had been pitched for the night and the camp-fire made. I was a little bit of a thing, playing near my father. A little Indian boy came up and gave me a bird which he had found. I was veiy much leased, and tried to feed it and make it drink. After had amused myself with it for some time, father said, “My daughter, bring your bird to me.’’ He held it in his hand for a moment, gently stroking its feathers, and then he said, “ Daughter, I will tell you what you might do with it. Take it carefully in your hand out there where there are no tents, where the high grass is, and put it softly down on the ground and say, ‘ God, I give You back Your little bird. Have pity on me, as I have pity on Your bird.” ‘ T said, “ Does it belong to God ?” He said, “ Yes, and He will be pleased if you do not hurt it, but give it back to Him to take care of.” ‘ I was very much impressed, and carried the bird into the high grass, saying my little prayer as it flew away.' Iron Eye, the chief who taught this lesson to his child, could neither read or write English. His .daughter calls attention to the fact that it is the same lesson which Coleridge teaches in his wonderful poem of the Ancient Manner — 4 He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God Who loveth us, He made and loveth all.' SNAKE-CHARMING. IN India the so-called art of snake-charming is largely carried on by jugglers and others, who perform all sorts of feats with these loathsome rep¬ tiles. As a matter of fact, although the snakes are often of the most venomous kinds, their poisonous fangs are first extracted, so that the juggler does not run the terrible risk he appears to do. The serpents are allowed, to crawl over the ‘ charmers/ wind round their necks and along their limbs. Different people, of course, regard such exhibitions as these in dif¬ ferent lights, but personally I must confess to a strong dislike for the whole affair. 1 have only witnessed such an exhibition once in my life, though I have travelled in many ‘ snake ’ countries, and that once inspired me with such disgust that I would never willingly see another. F. R.

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68 CHATTERBOX. No. IX 'f A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. II— THE SEA HEDGEHOG, OR ECHINUS. THE family of the Sea Hedgehogs rejoice in nearly as many names as Royalties. Echinida is the ancestral title, which takes the place of Guelph or Hohenzollern, but they are more commonly known as Sea-eggs, Turbans, Diadems, Mermaid’s Skulls, Mermaid’s Hearts, Fairy Stones, or Sea Urchins. As far as naturalists have observed, the baby hedgehog assumes its shelly coat when very young and tiny ; but as it grows the creature increases the number of plates forming its armour, adding to the edges of some, and putting in extra ones from time to time. The plates are supported by ten divisions, running, as we may say, from the north to the south, just as meridians do on a globe, and to these all the com¬ plicated arrangements of spines, sockets, and hinges are fixed. The interior construction of the sea hedgehog is very involved, and includes a number of valves, by which sea water is taken up and rejected, as well as a quantity of spongy matter, which, uniting with certain chemical products of the water, form the brick and cement wherewith the little architect enlarges his dwelling. The water system inside the animal is as useful to him as is a mill-pond to a miller, not only in assisting him to construct and repair his castle, but in enabling him to move about at pleasure. When Mr. Hedgehog desires to find a dinner, or to pay a visit to a friend, he opens some trap-doors in a circular vase in his interior, and immediately a number of tube feet, usually mere soft bristles, become filled with water, and stiff and strong enough to permit of his walking and climbing with ease. Generally he marches sedately on the flat base of his shell, but sometimes he may be seen pitchpolling round and round like a wheel, after the fashion of street boys, and it is probable that his in¬ dulging in this form of recreation has gained for him the title of Sea Urchin, as other¬ wise he seems to be a sedate, well-conducted person, by no means given to unseemly gambols. Like most families of note, the sea hedgehog has certain hereditary enemies, chiefly of the fish and worm tribe ; but, considering that his coat is furnished with something like twelve thousand spines or bristles, we may believe that these foes must be very hungry before attempting to devour such a thorny prey. Five teeth fall to the share of the echinus, and with these he easily breaks the shells of the unfortunate little molluscs, who have the honour of supplying his larder with animal food; but, happily for them, he has also a taste for vegetable diet, and selects from the marine pasture-grounds such deli¬ cacies as please him. When hunting, he has the power of protruding long tubes, which, after the fashion of the elephant’s trunk, catch the prey and convey it to the mouth, where it is held fast by a Sea Hedgehog. fringe of suckers. The sea hedgehogs flourish best in warm climates, and it is no doubt the influence of [ the Gulf Stream which makes them abundant on British shores. In the South of Europe they have always been accounted good eating, and both Greek and Roman authors sing: their praises as highly delectable as well } as digestible, especially when cooked with vinegar, honeyed wine or mead, mint and parsley. I have appended a little sketch of a sea hedgehog’s

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“ Oh, Tweed, you rascal ! how did you manage to get here ? 51 shell, picked up at the Land’s End; but, as its occupant had vanished, I have imagined a few bristles at one end, that you may recognise it as the creature which you saw climbing out of the pool. 1 wish that you could take the shell into your hand and hold it up to the light, as you would then see that the centre of each of the dots depicted is a tiny circular hole, through which both the defensive spines and the useful tube legs are protruded. Next time you go to the sea-shore, ask any good-natured fisherman if he can find you one', and you may repay his trouble by telling him in your turn something of the internal economy of this most interesting creature. Helena Heath.

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70 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. A TRUE STORY OF A COLLIE DOG-. TWEED, for that was his name, lived at a farm near Linlithgow in Scotland. One day, in his eager pursuit after a strayed sheep, he leaped over a wall and came down on a sharp bit of a broken bottle, which cut one of his paws. His master, seeing the blood running, tied up the paw carefully and took the dog home. ‘ He will not be able to go with me to Edinburgh Market to-morrow,’ he said to his wife. f You will have to lock him up then,’ she answered. There is no doubt Tweed was listening and taking in the conversation, and his master had great diffi¬ culty in getting him locked up ; but he succeeded at last, and put him safely, as he thought, under lock and key in a coal-house. Next morning the farmer rose early, got his sheep and lambs together, and travelled with them by road into Edinburgh. He was just entering the Grass- market when, to his utter surpiise, he saw Tweed limping along with his tied-up paw, and a shame¬ faced sort of expression on his face. ‘ Oh, Tweed, you rascal ! said his master, who could not help feeling proud of his dog at the same time that he scolded it, 1 how m all the world did you manage to get here?' Tweed just wagged his tail and cowered about his master’s feet, afraid that he would be sent home, and great was his joy when his master patted him kindly and allowed him to remain. It was the weekly market, and Tweed knew the day, and was deter¬ mined not to be kept away. So he bad managed to squeeze himself out belo-w the door of the coal-house, and had travelled all the road by himself m spite of Ins sore paw. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 63. ) AM glad to see you again. Prince/ began the girl. *' Adela and I were really beginning to get quite frightened at our kidnapping/ and here she laughed merrily. 1 1 am so pleased you have found us out. How did you do it ? I am sure it is very clever of you. Or is it all a mistake on the part of the man who brought us your note?’ Kitakraja looked straight in the girl’s face. * Note— a note from me, Miss Palgrave ? I sent no note ! ’ he replied, without moving a muscle of his face. { Not send a note ? ’ faltered Nita, falling back a step in sheer astonishment, ‘ but your hand¬ writing — — ’ 1 Must have been cleverly imitated, my dear Miss Palgrave; in fact, I fear from all I have been able to learn, that you were tricked into coming here/ ‘ Tricked? Yes, I suppose we were; but you can order our release, Prince ? You can - ’ ‘ I am not so sure, dear Miss Palgrave. Pray sit down; I have something of importance to say to you/ Nita seated herself, wondering exceedingly at the unexpected turn events were taking. Why could not Kitakraja release them and take them away from their prison-house ? Why was he here at all, if he had not the power to do this ? But at that point her train of thought was broken in upon by the voice of the Malay prince, saving, ‘ You are in the house of a very powerful chief, Miss Palgrave — a man, I regret to say, of notoriously bad character. Now, this deeply concerns me, and that is the reason I am here to-night.’ He came across the room and seated himself nearer to the girl as he spoke, and the bamboo verandah outside the window gave the faintest possible creak, as a man’s form swung itself lightly up to a point whence the greater part of the room could be seen. ‘ it concerns you, Prince, you say ? — in what way ? 1 asked N ita, with a feeling of uneasiness stealing over as she spoke. ' I will tell you. There is a movement now on foot which will greatly change my condition in life. You have hitherto known me as the prince of a very small native state Before many more days have passed you will see me proclaimed as king. Never mind how or why — you will see that what I say is true. Miss Palgrave, although not of your race, I have long loved and admired you. Will you share the throne that must, ere long, be mine ? ’ Nita Palgrave was speechless with astonishment. The idea of having inspired such sentiments in a Malay — prince or peasant — had never entered her wildest dreams Before she could find utterance for the thoughts in her mind, Kitakraja resumed, in the same suppressed tones which he had used through¬ out, ‘ The man who has decoyed you here to-day is, as I have said, extremely powerful, and unless you leave here as my affianced wife — in which event even he would not dare to stop you — it is extremely unlikely that you will ever be permitted to leave here at all.’ The girl turned sick and faint for a moment, then, recovering himself, she said, ‘ Oh, Prince Kitakraja, such a thing is impossible. I thank you, of course, for the high honour you have done me, but — but it is, as I say, impossible. As to this man, whoever he may be, who ventures to keep us here against our will. I simply cannot believe such a thing would be attempted. My countrjunen would hear of our imprisonment, they would storm the place, and - ’ ‘ And this villain would then kill both of you, hide your bodies, and then deny ever having seen you. Besides, you forget that the English have no soldiers— no sailors — here now. They would be powerless/ 4 Can you not help us to escape ? You could at least go to my father and tell him where we are, and leave it to him to deal with the matter in the way he thinks best/ ‘ Y3S, I could do that, but believe me, any attempt at releasing you would result as I have said. And why, may I ask, is it so impossible, Miss Palgrave, for you to — to ’

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. ‘ To marry you? Oh, I could not, Prince. Pray do not think me rude or — or ungrateful for the great honour you have sought to do me, hut— please say no more about it, and do get us out of this horrible trouble if you can. There is nothing my father will not do, I am sure, for you in return/ and she clasped her hands as she spoke, and looked beseechingly into his face. Another creak on the verandah, and the man who had been lying there with his head close to the window-sill, dropped quietly off the balcony and set out with rapid strides for the sea-shore. * Listen. If you wish to save your own life and the life of your cousin, you must consent to become my wife, and your consent must be given to-night.’ The tone of the Malay’s voice had changed ; he spoke sternly and with decision. The girl rose to her feet. ‘ I do not understand you, Prince. I have already said that I cannot marry you - ’ ‘And I have already said that you must/ inter¬ rupted the Malay, the thin veneer of civilisation rapidly disappearing, and leaving the savage beneath plainly revealed to the trembling girl, lie took a step towards her and grasped her sharply, by the arm as she shrank away from. him. ‘ l)o you hear P You must marry me, or — or 7 •'Or what?’ she contrived to say; ‘or what?’ Iler self-control was gone now ; she was white with terror, and her voice only came in gasps. A movement outside the window arrested Ritak¬ raja’s attention. He dropped the girl’s arm and strode across the room to look out. A messenger had arrived bearing an important dispatch for him from his chief officer — he who on the morrow was to lead the attack upon the Residency at Vasco Island. The man presented his papers and waited whilst Ritakraja hurriedly ran his eyes over them. Then, muttering a curse, he bade the fellow begone with a message that he himself would come down to the shore almost at once. Turning again to Nita Palgrave, who had not moved from the spot where he had left her, he said, ‘ This call will give you a few hours for reflecting on my proposal, Miss Palgrave. I am obliged to be away for five or six hours ; otherwise, you 'would not have left this room until you had consented.’ The girl shuddered as she saw the devilish grin on Ritakraja’s face. ‘ Take my advice whenever there is no choice — and you will find there is none here — between yes and no : say yes, so that whatever comes, you will be able to accept the situation with the better grace. I shall return at daybreak.’ And with these half -threatening words, he pushed aside the mat which guarded the doorway and disappeared, leaving his terrified victim to sink back on to a seat, more dead than alive. Sir John Palgrave paced up and down the verandah of the Residency for nearly two hours. He felt himself to be indeed in a terrible situation. Though a man of action, he was fettered from the outset by chains of iron. Any hasty move might result in the murder of those near and dear to him ; any false step might be the signal for their undoing ; he dared not move until he should know something more definite from the spy as to what had, in fact, happened to his daughter and niece, and the time of waiting proved a sore trial indeed. The expediency of being beholden to Ritakraja was also most re¬ pugnant to his feelings. Throughout the evening he had been forced to keep the more reckless spirits in order, and to forbid the Admiral, Curzon, and Ohesney from proceeding to the mainland again, as they wished to do. They might, "with no experience of the natives and their wavs, and with no knowledge of the country or of the language, bring about the very disaster which he (Sir John) was so anxious to avert. So, ■whilst the others sat within the house smoking moodily, and chafing* at their enforced inaction, the Resident continued his solitary vigil outside, waiting for the return of Orang Tibut. At last the welcome footfall struck upon his keenly listening ear. He hurried forward, ex¬ claiming ‘ Well, the news?’ ‘ It is just as I thought, master. When Ritakraja left this house to-night, I nearly missed him, as I was worn out with the long hours of watching, and had fallen asleep. He kicked over a dog, and the beast yelped and ^voke me. Prom that moment I had him m sight all the way to a summer house of his in the forest, not far from where you all were to-day. 1 climbed to the verandah and saw your daughter - ’ ‘ Ah, she is safe then ! ’ — and a sigh of relief burst from Sir John’s overcharged heart. ‘ At present/ returned Orang Tibut. He did not wish to alarm the anxious falher ; at the. same time, knowing his cautious temperament and the absolute need of losing no time in effecting, if possible, the girls’ deliverance from Ritakraja’s tender mercies, he would not make light of the danger of the position ; ‘ at present/ he repeated, ‘ but they must be rescued without delay - this night, master, you under¬ stand.’ „ , t Of course You did not see my niece at all r < No ; but she is there. I have good reason to know it/ * We can muster about a dozen good men to start at once. You can guide us to the bouse. We will force open the place and - ’ < And you will find the bodies of the ladies with their throats cut, or— perhaps you will not even find so much as that/ interrupted the spy. coolly. ‘No, master, you are clever and a great fighter, but you do not know Ritakraja. And as for your twelve men, he has at least thirty armed native servants at the summer house; they could hold it for a weeli against your force — for a far longer time than it would take to escape with the ladies much farther up into the jungle, where he has his big-game- shooting-liouse, and where he could defy an army of white men.’ ‘ Then what can we do ? You know this scoundrel thoroughly ; tell me how to fight him so that I can get the ladies out of his power, and at once. If you do this, your reward shall be - ’ ‘ Ritakraja'1 himself ! ’ hissed the spy, his hands clenching as he spoke. ‘ Let him be the bone thrown to the tiger. I claim him as my right ! ’ Sir John was silent for a moment. Then lie said, 6 Your plan — wliat is it ? ’ ( Continued at page 74.)

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Page 80

No. X. CHATTERBOX. 73 L

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74 CHATTERBOX. No. X. VASCO ISLAND. [Continued jrom page 71.) HEN Orang told Sir John his plan, 4 Two or three/ he said, 4 must come at once with me to the house. 1 must contrive to get into the room where the ladies are kept prisoners, and somehow we must get them out of the house without the servants hearing us, and then down to the beach, and across to the island. But I want you to bring some good men — those you can trust to fight stoutly, if needful — to within a quarter of a mile of the house, and there wait for us. We may need their help ; we may not, if we are but favoured by for- j tune. And now, who will you choose to accompany me P I want two : young, active, silent/ Sir John had small choice ; he went indoors and at once told his news to the Admiral and the two young men. 4 Chesney and I will go/ said the Admiral in decisive tones ; ‘ sailors are the only boys for this sort of fun/ ' 1 think, Roddy, that Chesney and Curzon - ’ 4 Sailors, 1 tell you ! * responded the old tar, promptly. 4 Yes; but Roddy, you must allow me to choose the sort of men that Orang Tibut wants. Besides, your services will be much more required to back up the party in case they are attacked as they escape.’ 4 Oh, very well ; that makes a difference, of course/ said the Admiral, somewhat soothed by the thought that, at all events, he was to come in for his share of the fighting. The two young men, who had been eating their hearts out through the evening, and fuming as much as did the Admiral at their enforced inaction, were only too thankful at the prospect of doing something at ' once. They quickly changed their dress, and were outside the house and waiting Orang Tibut's directions. The spy explained his plan to them, and, without a moment’s delay, they started for the beach. Meantime Sir John and the Admiral began to get together from the huts some half-dozen of the stalwart artillerymen ; the faithful Bill was requi¬ sitioned, then the doctor, McNab, was sent for, and told to hold himself in readiness ; and, within half an hour, the second rescue party, ten strong m all — for a trusty native servant was taken as guide — had embarked in sampans, and, by the light of the moon, were swiftly paddled across to the mainland. Chesney and Curzon, accompanied by the silent SP7> had landed, and, without waiting for Sir John's party, set out for the summer house. Each man well knew the perilous nature of the task he was engaged on; if Ritakraja’s savage retainers should | discover them, they w’ould sell their lives dearly, but, in that event, they could hardly hope to escape. They would probably all be murdered long before Sir John’s little party could assist in any way. Their one chance of success was by silence, stealth, and stratagem. Onward they tramped, skirting a small stretch of jungle. They must avoid, by all means, the risk of meeting with any of the Malay prince’s servants. If they were to do so the alarm would be given, and all chance of rescuing the girls from their perilous position w’ould be gone. The two young Englishmen, despite their furious anger against Ritakraja, and their desperate eager¬ ness for action, had quite admitted the fact that they were neither of them so well qualified to direct the operations as was the Malay. Therefore it was that they agreed to obey Orang Tibut, and to take all their directions from him. As soon as they were within sight of the pagoda¬ shaped roof of the house, Orang enjoined the strictest silence during the last part of their ap¬ proach. Just inside the palisades he whispered: 4 Stay here , do not move away unless you hear any one coming. If I want j’ou, I will fling down one or two little stones at your feet. Then come. And without another word the Malay, after looking to see that his razor-edged kriss was loose and ready for service, slipped away through the palisades, and disappeared in the darkness of the night. Creeping noiselessly along the verandah, Orang Tibut gently lifted the corner of a heavy grass mat and peered into a darkened room. All was still; the Malay who was supposed to act as watchman outside was, as is not unusual amongst his class, fast asleep, and the spy almost stepped over him, with a smile on his face. 4 If the dogs watch thus, their masters are an easy prey/ he muttered, continuing his progress through the empty room, and emerging into a kind of hall near the main entrance of the house. He then found himself near the foot of a broad bamboo ladder, and this he ascended, swiftly and silently as a cat. He crept round the gallery, and pushing aside the mat hanging at the doorway of a long corridor, he stole down it almost to the end. Here, proceeding with the greatest caution, he was just able to make out in the gloom the figure of a man lying across the doorway of what was evidently the entrance to a sleeping-room. Orang Tibut knew the house as well as he knew his own : he knew that this was the only 4 state ’ sleep¬ ing apartment, and he knew that the two rooms were connected with each other. This led him to believe that the ladies would have been most probably imprisoned there-, and in this belief he was right. The fitful rays of the moon entered at the window openings and fell, cold and clear, from time to time across the floor of the gallery. He saw that to reach ins goal, he must do two things : he must take ad¬ vantage of a dark interval when a cloud should be across the moon, and he must silence the Malay, who was now lightly slttmbermg at the doorway which he wished to pass through.

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No. X. CHATTERBOX. 75 Orang Tibut dropped silently upon his knees, and thence flat upon his stomach. He slung his kriss over his shoulders in case he should need it, and then he crept towards the sleeping sentinel. Within three feet of him, the spy paused and came to a dead stop ; a momentary flash of moonlight had fallen on the sleeper’s face and revealed the fact that it was Lant Mapang who had thus undertaken the duty of keeping watch and ward : and, unluckily for himself, slumbered at his post. Orang Tibut glided over the last few inches that lay between them, the Serang drew a deep breath, awoke, and sat up. In the same moment, the spy had him by the throat, choking back the yell which would have brought a score of retainers to the rescue. Orang Tibut’s thumbs were mercilessly pressed upon the other’s windpipe, and despite Lant Mapang’s tre¬ mendous efforts to free himself, he was quickly forced back on the floor until he lay full length with Orang Tibut’s knees upon his chest. Holding on with a grip of iron, he gradually felt the body of his victim relax, become limp, and then — and then, Orang Tibut rose to his feet, knowing that the first act in this night’s tragedy had been played out. 4 Ritakraja would have strangled him to-morrow had he shown himself after the ladies had escaped,’ muttered the spy. 4 What matters it that he dies to¬ night instead P 3 No noise had been made during the struggle, and Orang Tibut found no farther obstacle to bar his progress to the big room. Quietly lifting the grass mat at the door, he crept across the floor, and then entered the room beyond. As he had guessed, the girls had been put in there to sleep, and one of them sprang up with a half-smothered cry of alarm as he raised the hanging mat. Fortunately, however, Nit a knew his voice at once, though he only raised it as high as a whisper. 4 Be still,’ he said, 4 your lives now depend on your silence.’ They had lain down fully dressed upon the soft, rich mats, ready for any emergency. They were both firmly convinced that an attempt would be made at a rescue within a very few hours, but that such effort should take this particular form had never occurred to either of them. Why was all this secrecy needful? For a moment Nita hesitated: all her knowledge of the treachery of the Malay race rose up before her. Orang Tibut might be no better than the rest of his countrymen. Was this a trap of some sort? The girl shivered as she thought of their helpless condition, then she turned, to Adela for counsel and assistance. 4 What are we to do ? Shall we trust this man or not ? 3 she whispered. Adela did not know as much of the spy as did her cousin, but she was a girl, cf strong common sense. She fully realised the position They were in, she knew also that Sir John trusted Orang Tibut, and she quickly made up her mind that Nita and she must do the same. 4 We must go with him, Nita. Here we are in Ritakraja’s power entirely; we cannot be more so wherever this man leads us to ; besides, I believe he really is sent by Uncle John.’ 4 Then we will go with him. Come.’ "With the greatest caution, Orang Tibut first crept outside the room and half-way down the gallery to see that the way was clear. His intention had been to try to effect the ladies’ escape by the way by which he himself had entered the house; then he remembered having seen a broad bamboo ladder fixed outside, against one of the windows, on this side of the house. He signed to the girls to remain where they were, whilst he rapidly retraced his steps, passed across the large outer room and looked out of the two windows. At the second, he discovered the ladder. A smile wrinkled the corners of his lips, this dis¬ covery simplified matters very much : now he would summon the young men outside. They were not standing at the angle of the house where the big room was situated, but, by entering the smaller or sleeping apartment, he could attract their attention. He went to the window, drew some stones from his wallet, and threw them gentty down just inside the bamboo palisades, and as near as possible to the spot where he had left the young men when he had first entered the house. An immediate answer was returned to his signal* The bushes rustled and two indistinct figures stole cautiously to the foot of the ladder, where they paused irresolute ; evidently uncertain as to whether they should ascend or not. Their doubts were quickly solved by Orang Tibut, who from above, softlv whispered to them to stay where they were, until the ladies should descend. The Malay then quickly disappeared from the window and all was again still outside. In less than a minute’s time, the mat which pro¬ tected the window at the top of the bamboo ladder was again silently lifted, and first Nita, and then Adela, stepped cautiously on to the topmost rung. Helped by the spy, they began the descent into the garden. The ladder was no great height, and a few seconds later, Curzon and Chesney had received them in safety below. 4 Oh, Mr. Chesney ! I am so thankful to find - ? began Nita, when Orang’s warning voice from the window above cut short the exclamation. ‘Silence,’ he whispered, 4 there is much danger still. Follow me,’ and he slid down the ladder and began to quickly make his way through the garden, to an opening in the palisades. Next to him walked the girls, their hearts still beating painfully. Chesney . and Curzon came last, revolver in hand. Tliev made their way in silence and safety through a thick shrubbery at the side of the house, crossed the principal pathway and were in the act of passing through the palisades, when suddenly a woman’s scream from somewhere in the interior of the build¬ ing, broke upon the still night air. This was followed by a loud hubbub and confusion of many voices, all shouting at once, mingled with the hurried trampling of feet. The girls turned cold as stone ; too well they guessed what it all meant. Doubtless, they had been missed, their flight and the dead body of the Serang (though, of course, they knew nothing of Lant Mapang’s death) had been discovered. All Ritakraja’s savage retainers had started in pursuit of the fugitives, who they knew could not have got far from the house. ( Continued at page 82.)

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Stabbing Thistles. THE THISTLE. THE Common Thistle, with its jagged leaves and its large purple flowers, is a most trouble¬ some weed when it once takes possession of a field, as it is very difficult to root up. It is common in Britain, and now too common also in America, where it is called the Canada Thistle. In Australia it is fast becoming a serious plague. Some particular soils seem to be more favourable than others for the growth of this troublesome plant. In Lincolnshire farmers used to wage war upon it, walking through their fields with a stout stick in their hands, this stick having a sharp cutting blade at the end, with which they destroyed these troublesome weeds. The thistle is the national badge of Scotland, with this motto, * Wha daur meddle wi’ me ? ’ D. B. McKean. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. TOM BTJKE. (Concluded from page 67.) THAT evening was a memorable one for the Nor folk party and their visitor. They talked over old days, and Uncle Bob and Dan told the lieutenant Tom’s story, and a very interesting story he found it. Tom’s late father, Captain Bure, when he was near dying, had committed his little motherless Tom to the care of Dan and Bob, and faithfully had they treated that trust. His father had left a little money to pay for his keep and to give him an education. The next morning breakfast was not long over (they breakfasted in Uncle Bob’s wing, so that he might join in the conversation), when Bertha and her maid Brown came in with that basket of beautiful strawberries for Uncle Bob. ‘ What a charming little lady ! 1 said Merry weather, who had been looking at Bertha. Like most sailors, he was fond of children, ‘ Come hither, dear, and talk to me. — Do you know,’ he said, laughing, ‘ you are very pretty, Bertha ? ' 1 Oh, yes,1 she answered, her head a little on one side ; ‘ I know well enough, but mother says people are not to tell me so/ * Why, dear P' * 'Cause it spoils me, of course. Mother doesn’t spoil me No! Everybody else spoils me, though/ Then she noticed the scar on Merry weather’s brow, and touched it tenderly with her little forefinger. ‘Have you been fighting with the cat?7 she asked innocently. ‘ Yes, dear; a big, disagreeable old cat/ Seeing her gazing admiringly at the big bunch of seals which dangled from his fob, he pulled out his gold watch and placed the whole in her lap. ‘ Is all this yours?’ she asked wonderingly. * Yes, little one/ ‘ Your own own yours ? 9 * Yes, my own own/ ‘ And your mother doesn’t take them away, and say. “ By-and-by, dear, whpn you are grown up ” ? ’

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Horatio Nelson working on his father’s garden. ‘No, my mother lets me do as I like.’ ‘ How lovely ! ’ She was examining the seals. ‘ They shall be all yours/ said the Captain, ‘ all your own cnvn, if you marry me.’ ‘ All my own cnvn mine ? ’ Her eyes were bigger now than ever. ‘ Yes, dear.’ ‘You see/ she said thoughtfully, ‘ I am going to marry Tom ; and you is not so pretty as Tom.’ ‘No, he certainly has the advantage of me in good looks; but then I have so many nice things that Tom has not, you know.’ ‘ Yes, and you spoil me. Tom does not. I dare say/ she added after a pause, ‘ I must not marry both/

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78 CHATTERBOX. Xo. X. ‘ Oh, no ! that -would not he allowed in this country ; you must decide to have me or Tom.’ She looked at Tom, and she looked at the jewels. ‘ I think/ she said at last, ‘ I must marry you, and poor Tom can marry Brown.’ ‘ Hurrah ! ’ cried Merry weather. ‘ What a perfect little woman it is ! Tom, you are jilted. Now, Bertha, get on my hack and we will go off out into tire sunshine and spend our honeymoon; And away they went galloping and rollicking around the garden paths, and it was evident from the shouts of merry laughter, that Bertha thought very little of her discarded lover, ‘ Now/ she cried at last, ‘ let us all go and see the long-dead men’ (those who had perished in the wreck) 6 all in rows and rows. Hoo-ray !’ More than a hundred years have passed since Tom started off with his friend, Merryweather, in the saucy sloop he commanded, on a visit to the home of the man who in future was destined to he Britain’s greatest naval hero. The weather was fine, and the short voyage had no events After they landed, they had some distance to walk, but it was early morning, and Tom Bure felt quite equal to a journey of fifty miles, he told his friend, so on they marched right cheerily, till they came to the little village of Burnham Thorpe, and inquired for the parsonage. It wras not far from the old-fashioned square- towered church, with its rather untidy graveyard — not a beautiful house by any means, nor a large one either, little more, in fact, than an old-fashioned, high-roofed Norfolk cottage with an additional wing to it, which latter, seeing what a large family the clergyman (Horatio’s father) had, was very much needed indeed. It was evident to Tom that Merryweather and old Mr. Nelson had met before; they were well known to each other. ‘ You will find Horatio in the garden, doing a bit of work/ said his father, the clergyman. ‘ He is far from well, poor lad, and he frets and fumes and worries so. I wonder he is alive, or so healthy as he is. You will find him if you go round. And this bold little man ?’ ‘ A boy whom Horatio will be glad to see for the sake of old times. He is determined to go to sea/‘ ‘ Go to sea, eh ? Well, I pity him. Better a millstone were placed about his neck, and he were cast into it. But there, I won’t say another word to discourage the youth.’ Merryweather laughed, and went away to look for Horatio. They had not to walk far to find him. In an old coat he was, old shoes, old everything, and looking veiy serious over his work of digging and raking some ground, from which potatoes had been dug, in order to stick a few cabbages in. ‘ Shall I run down and ask that old gardener fellow/ said Tom, ‘ where the lad is ?5 ‘ What lad ?’ said Merryweather. 6 The sailor ; the lad his father spoke about.’ 4 Why, that is our hero. That is the boy him¬ self. What ho, there, Horatio ! What cheer, mv hearty?’ J Nelson turned towards them, pitched away his spade, and ran up to shake hands with Merry¬ weather. It was about a year later when Tom Bure, whom death had deprived of his kind friend, Uncle Bob, found himself on shore at Wells; his object was to visit Captain Nelson, and beg him to take him with him even as a cabin-boy. Nelson was gone, but his father was there, and Tom sat in a high-backed chair and talked to the kind old parson for fifteen minutes. At last he plucked up courage to ask, ‘ And now, sir, may I write to your son ?’ ‘ Down you sit, lad, right here at this desk, and scribble away. ‘ I will forward vour epistle in one of mine.’ Here is Tom Bure’s letter to Horatio Nelson ; — ‘Dear Captain Nelson, — This comes hoping you are well and fighting the french. 0, sir, I want to fite the french too. My father was a galant offiser and fought the french and the Americans, and Spanish and all. So did you, sir. You, sir, wanted the admiralty to give you a cockle-boat if you could not go as captain, if I cannot go as midshipman sir, i want to go as a cabin boy. ‘ Yours Respectably, ‘ Tom Bure.' How Tom afterwards talked to Nelson on board the glorious old Agamemnon; how he received his ‘ baptism of blood/ and fought in the great battle of the Nile, and distinguished himself in other histo¬ rical battles, becoming a famous hero, are all told in a manner which kindles enthusiasm, inspires patriotism, and enchains the reader’s interest. The story concludes with an account of our hero’s marriage to Bertha Colmore, in presence of Jack Merryweather, Lord Raventree, and honest Dan him¬ self. James Cassidy. A SMUGGLER’S HIDING-PLACE. ON the Earl of Shaftesbury’s estate at St. Giles, Dorset, an ‘Ease Hole’ has recently been dis¬ covered, in which, during the old smuggling days, contraband goods were hidden whenever it was thought prudent whilst the smugglers were on their way from the coast between Poole, Studland s Bay, or Christchurch, to the towns inland to dispose of their wares. The discovery was made by an accident. A team of horses was working at a plough wffien the leader suddenly fell through the surface into a deep hole, from which it was extricated without injury. The place was then examined, and a cellar was dis¬ covered cut out of the chalk of the subsoil. To this cellar there was a side entrance. Many years ago this land used to be open common, with copses of woodland which afforded good cover to the smugglers; and there is little doubt but the villagers of the district were nearly all accomplices in the illegal traffic. Indeed, it was almost reckoned an honour to be a smuggler in those days, and a man was rather looked up to thau otherwise for ‘ running a cargo.’ E. R.

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No. X. CHATTERBOX. 79 PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 10. — Geographical Anagrams. 1. I mangle not. A town in Warwickshire. 2. Gala, ma. A city in Spain ; it grows abundance of fruits, and is famed for its wine. 3. She should sit. A town in Durham containing several salt-works. 4. This red rose. A county in the south of England ; a range of chalk hills divides the northern part from the south. 5. A mat, L. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. 6. Grin not, lad. A manufacturing town in Durham. 7. Turn me, S. A division of a sister country. 8. Reach nails. A county in the north of England famed for its manufactures, especially cotton. 9. He rides, B. A group of islands off the coast of Scotland. 10. Their lads run, A county in England only fifteen miles long. 11. Say, Ben. A village in England, near which was iought a great battle during a civil war. 12. Nan, lobe. A mountain in Syria. 13. He drives on. A county in the south of England famed for its beautiful scenery. 14. Can he let, U. A canton in Switzerland. 15. And crumble. A county in the north of England. 16. Rosy me. A large province in Hindostan. C. C. 11. — Buried Proverbs. (a.) — You will never be able to get across the road at the foot of the bridge ; you must go on until you come to a part that is a little quieter. (b.) — 1, 2, 3. There are some pretty new stitches in that book ; have you seen them ? 4. No, I have not yet had time to look at them. o, 6. Do save some of those cakes for the children ; they are out now playing a game of ninepins. (c.) — 1, 2, 3. I really do think it is not so warm to-day as it was yesterday. What do you say to a walk ? 4, 5, 6, 7. Would you mind waiting a little ? I shall be quite ready as soon as I have done this piece of work ; but I do not want to put it by unfinished. (d.) — 1. What are you looking at so earnestly? 2, 3. That poor child before the window ; don’t you see him ? , 4. He looks very hungry; give him some of those little apples. C. C. [Answers at page 92.] ANSWERS. 2. 3. 4. 5. Pane, pain. Read, red. Bcent, sent, cent. Need, knead. Stair, stare. 6. Sealing, ceiling. 7. Knight, night. 8. Seem, seam. 9. Vain, vane. 8. — Berlin — London . 1. B e n g a L 2. E b r O 3. RoscommoN 4. LaplanD 5. I m b r O 6. N a n k i N 9. — 1. Sir Robert Peel. 2. Lord Salisbury. 3. Lord Melbourne. 4. Lord Palmerston. 5. Lord Aberdeen. 6. W. E. Gladstone. 7. Lord Beaconsfield. 8. Lord John Russell. 9. The Earl of Derby. A RUSTIC BRIDGE. LEA SANT is it, when you are taking a stroll or a ride, to come upon a stream, which is crossed by an old-fashioned bridge, such as is seen in our picture. Possibly, should you be upon a bicycle, you may have to dismount, for the ascent and descent of such bridges is sometimes rather steep. It is very natural to stand upon a bridge and look round ; perhaps you may like to sit on the wall or parapet for the sake of the view — not only of the objects at a distance, but of the stream and the banks close by. There may be many things to see, such as insects flitting over the water, fishes sport¬ ing or feeding, for they often cluster near bridges, and birds flying about, possibly attracted to the spot by the flying insects, or crawling ones. To me, and I dare say to others who are fond of wild flowers, it is an amusement to notice what plants may happen to grow about and upon the bridge. First, and close to us, we see plants which can do with only a little moisture, and flourish along the sides of the path, or even in the middle, if it is not much trodden. There may be the humble yet much-loved daisy ; the yellow groundsel, enjoyed by the finches; the common hedge mustard, with tiny flowers of yellow, and dusty- looking leaves ; the starry dandelion, flowering at all seasons; and the taller hawk-weed, also yellow. There are almost certain to be upon a bridge some plants of the dock tribe, useful on their way, though not pretty ; or the knot-grass, its small red flowers nearly hidden by the dark leaves — a favourite plant with birds, but disliked by farmers. Now and then the little white convolvulus grows along a bridge, and festoons its walls. Then, by peering about, we may discover plants growing out of the cracks amongst the bricks or stones, seldom tall, but usually trailing their stems as they hold on to the surface. Some walls exhibit the pearl-wort, its stalks like threads, the tiny flowers greenish white. Then the wall speedwell shows its short stem and flowers of bright blue ; it. may be close to the spreading, ivy-leaved toadflax, a miniature snapdragon. White is the bloom of the mouse-ear chickweed, the leaves egg- shaped, sometimes sought as a remedy for coughs, and yellow that of the stonecrop, which grows in patches, while grey lichens and sundry grasses add variety. There are also many plants which flourish in the shallow water below', or on the bank near a bridge, water-grasses, sedges and reeds, the fragrant mints and the starry-flowered woodruff, the tall loose-strife, the glossy silver- weed, the large-leaved water-dock, perhaps the favourite blue forget-me-not. J. R. S. 0.

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 81 Shooting Humming-birds. M

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82 CHATTERBOX. No. XL SHOOTING HUMMING-BIRDS. 0 Y S like to shoot at any¬ thing, but it is more exciting to aim at what is alive, even if it is missed, which of course often happens. Our picture shows two persons going out to shoot humming-birds, and, bright though their colours are, making them visible in the dazzling sunshine, it is not easy to shoot them. It is stated that in California — probably, too, in other warm regions of America — the ladies go out with light guns to shoot these beautiful birds. Very small shot are needed, or else the plumage of the tiny birds would be spoiled. Humming-birds are sought along the edges of woods ; they hover in parties over the blossoms and flowers Now and then, as we see in the picture, a lady will be accompanied by a lad belonging to the estate, a half-caste or negro. He is engaged in the same employment, trying to bring the humming-birds down with the peas blown from a tube. The hum¬ ming-birds are not shot for the sake of amusement, which would be cruel; they are stuffed for collec¬ tions, and many of them are sent to other countries where such birds are not to be found. Museums have displays of them in many countries, but the stuffed birds, though pretty to look at, give us no idea of their rapid and graceful move¬ ments w^lien they are on the wing. One of the beautiful American humming-birds is the ruby- throated, which appears to change colour in different lights, the throat and neck of ruby tint changing to golden or to deep brown. Its head and back are greenish gold, the breast white, and the wings a purple brown. Very splendid is the sapphire and emerald species: this is found in South America and the West Indies, where are found the smallest, hum¬ ming-birds, not much more than an inch long. The harlequin is three times as large, with a great variety of colours ; the long-tailed is larger still, green, gold, and black, - with a velvety head and showy tail. Birds of this family are always read}r to do battle, not fearing other birds which may appear much stronger. Their nests are made of lichens, leaves, or moss, and lined with soft vegetable down. .1. R. S. C. THE BEST REASON. HENRY IV., King of France, one day went on a journey into the provinces. At the gate of a town, the Mayor came to receive his Majesty with great ceremony, and began his speech with these wrords, 6 Sire, we have omitted to fire a salute of cannon for one hundred reasons; the first reason is that our town does not possess any cannon ; the second is - ' But the King at once stopped him saying, ‘ I have found the first reason so perfect that there is not the slightest reason for your troubling to tell me the ninety-nine other reasons wdiich remain." VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 75.) RANG TIBUT still thought that, under cover of the darkness, the party might escape. Hurrying the ladies, therefore, as much as wras possible, he< made straight for the edge of the forest where Sir John’s party was to be in readiness if needed to cover their retreat. For a minute or two the noise behind them sub¬ sided ; then it broke out again with greater fury than before, and much closer to them. One of the Malays had — although this was, of course, unknown to the fugitives at the time — discovered the exit in the palisades through which the little party had passed. Adel a, in hastily getting through the aperture, had torn off a small piece of her white- skirt, and this had betrayed their way of escape. Like hounds on a burning scent, the Malays gave- tongue and leaped forward in the chase. Well might they be keen on the hunt. They knew their master’s savage temper only too well,, and that if, on his return, they had to tell him that the captives had escaped them (although they wouldi naturally have put all the blame upon the dead1 Serang), his wrath would be terrible and dangerous. It was likelv that three or four of them would bei sacrificed to Ritakraja’s fury upon his discovery, that his intended prey had slipped through his fingers. Closer and closer came the cries and shouts in the fugitives track, until it was plain that another minute or two must witness them overtaken.. Then it was that Orang Tibut, seeing that silence was of no further avail, blew a shriil whistle by way of signal to Sir John's party. Instantly it was answered by a loud shout of English voices, less than a hundred yards away. Then came the hurried tramp of feet pressing on towards the five runaways, and approaching them from different directions : the Malays on one side, the English on the other. Louder and louder became the noise until, from out of the darkness, Sir John’s sharp, commanding tones were heard : ‘ Halt ! they must be close here now.’ The next minute dark forms loomed out near them, and Nita was quickly clasped in her father’s arms. Hardly had he embraced her when the Admiral bellowed out, as he espied a whole body of Ritak¬ raja’s retainers rapidly approaching: ‘Ahoy there! where are you swabs all coming to P Heave to, or - ’ But a fearful yell of triumph from the Malays drowned the rest of his sentence. The}r had found the girls ! They had also found an extremely determined, if small, body of Englishmen ; and, before thirty seconds had elapsed, it had forced itself upon their understandings that this small party would be a tough nut to crack, though the Malays far out¬ numbered their opponents.

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I he moon shone down upon a strange, weird scene, of which the background was formed of the tall forest trees. A momentary pause, a silence as though men were gathering in a long breath, and then came the first shock of conflict. And that first shock, as in a flash, opened the eyes of the Malays to the fact that before they could regain possession of their escaped prisoners they would have to dispose of the party of English down to the last man ; these whites meant fighting. The pale light fell upon the writhing, active bodies of the natives, as they wrestled and fought with their heavier, but greatly outnumbered foes. In dogged silence fought the Britons ; with direful yells and ear-splitting screams the Malays. Even Orang Tibut shrieked in his fury, as he krissed the first of the foemen he met. The Admiral had brought a revolver, but, as was not unusual with the careless old sea-dog, had forgotten the cartridges; a Malay rushed at him, kriss in hand, making a stroke at his head. The Admiral dodged, and received the cut on his left hand, whilst with his right, grasping the barrel of the revolver, he hit his opponent full and square on the nose, felling him like an ox. Chesney and Curzon, having first hurried the girls into the background— a task in which they were assisted by Sir John— rushed back, and in the thick of the fight * took it out,’ as the young sailor called punching, of the natives for all their bottled-u'p wrath against Ritakraja. Hardly a shot was fired; the whole affair had arisen like a sudden storm, without sufficient warning for either side to prepare for action ; at it they all went, fighting tooth and nail. The sturdy artillerymen and their leaders struck out manfully, and many a lithe form was levelled with the ground before their smashing blows. But several of the English party were getting some¬ what badly mauled. Curzon, in the act of catch¬ ing one of the foe by the throat, received a slash across his head from a kriss, which beat him down on to his knees, and, but for the timely aid of Sir John, who fired one of the very few shots of the skirmish, and killed the Malay on the spot, things would have gone very hard with the young man. Three of the artillerymen were slightly wounded, and the Admiral, although revelling in the liand-to- fighting, was now so exceedingly ‘ blown 7 as to be hardly capable of defending himself. Orang Tibut still laid about him with his murderous-looking, crooked weapon, and Chesney was also giving a very fair exhibition of what long pent-up wrath is capable of when at length it is set free. 1 i will teach Ritakraja to kidnap English girls ! 7 lie muttered, as with a vigorous left-hander he floored a tall Malay, who had over-reached himself in lunaing out at him. ‘ Mr. Blacky shall see if he can play these games and then get off scot free ! 7 he added, as he closed with another, and stopped the discordant yelling he had been indulging in by throwing the man on his back, knocking all the wind out of his body. Just then one of the gunners received a fearful thrust with a spear. The man was pierced through the lungs, and within a very few moments it was all over with the poor fellow; Dr. McNab could do nothing for him, though he tried his best Then another of the men fell, badly hurt. Sir John him¬ self was struck in the face with a club, and rendered quite incapable, for the time, of further directino- the efforts of his gallant little band. The Malays, who had also suffered severely at the hands of their adversaries, now tried, by a piece of concerted action, to bring the conflict to a close and capture the girls. He who appeared to be their leader, followed by four more, executed a quick flank move¬ ment, and then, whilst the Englishmen were still gamely standing their ground and beating the main body of their savage assailants, these five suddenly attacked them from anew quarter. 6 Pumped out7 as he was, .the. gallant old Admiral still had suffi¬ cient ‘ go 7 in him to deal a terrific punch in what he called ‘ the bread-basket 7 to the leader, which blow fairly 6 folded him up,7 and left him gasping like a fish out of water, rolling about on "the ground, speechless. Chesney caught the next comer a smashing blow on the mouth, whilst Curzon and two of the gunners closed with the others. The Malays stood their ground only a minute longer, then they broke and drew off hastily. So far the En offish were victors. But although they had gained a temporary triumph, they could all see that it was likely to be an extremely short-lived one. The savage retainers had only withdrawn to a short distance, and were apparently intending to hang on their foes7 move¬ ments, and do them any harm of which they were capable. 'The only thing to be thought of was the retreat to the boats. By this time Sir John had partly recovered his senses, and was able to rise from the ground and walk, though still bleeding freely from the blow he had received. McNab did what he could for him under the circumstances, and then the Resident raised his voice and cried : ‘ Get together, all of you ; put the ladies and the injured in the middle, and then we will make a try for the shore. Those of us who have revolvers had better form the rear rank in case of an attack.’ Without a moment's delay they carried out Sir John s instructions. The two girls were guarded on either side as they set out on their march down to the beach, and the wounded and disabled— all of whom, fortunately, were able to walk, or, at least, hobble— were placed on the inside of the little square, which, still compact and resolute, every now and then turned and faced about when the Malays hanging on their flank approached within shooting- distance. In this manner they gradually got through the forest-path to the edge of the cliff. At the descent to the beach below, Orang* Tibut warned Sir John that the Malays were likely to hurl big stones on top of them as they went down, and he suag’ested that he himself, together with Chesney and Curzon, should stand guard at the top until the party were safely on the beach ; then they would scramble down as best they could after them, and take their chance of dodging the stones. Sir John saw the wisdom of adopting this course, and, each of the three named having armed himself with a revolver, the rest of them began the last stage of the retreat to the boats. With some difficulty the two girls, their thinly shod feet cut and bleeding, were got down the steep cliff- side on to the beach below ; then the wounded and

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disabled were given a helping hand whenever it was needful, and finally the whole of the little party excepting the rear-guard trio were ready to embark in the waiting sampans. They looked up and saw their three defenders, revolver in hand, still keeping their faces towards the Malays, who hung about, but feared to attack them again, not being provided with firearms. At length Chesney, looking round, saw Sir Johns party standing on the beach in safety, and signalling to them to come; then he said: ‘Now for it! we had better fire a shot or two at these fellows to drive them back a little, and then make a bolt for the beach- Are you both ready?— well then, let drive/ And the three men advanced a few paces, making

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 85 a feint of rushing at their foes, and each firing a couple of shots. The Malays, expecting a desperate rush from the * mad English/ as they were used to calling them, drew hack hastily ; none of them had any particular wish to fall a victim to a 6 pot-shot,’ brave and reckless though they were. Then, with¬ out a moment’s loss of time, the three men turned round and rushed for the cliff-path at break-neck speed. So quickly had this manoeuvre been executed that, before the Malays could recover from their surprise and run to the edge of the cliff, the fugitives were over it and almost half the way down. From that point to the end of their descent, however, the natives rolled big stones and short spears, aud other missiles at them. Curzon was struck on the cheek¬ bone and slightly cut ; the others escaped with no worse injuries than the scraping and skinning of their shins and knuckles. They hurried over the strip of beach, jumped into some sampans lying there, and the whole rescue party, with a shout of triumphant farewell to Eitakraja’s men, standing on the high ground above them, paddled across the strip of water by the light of the newly risen sun, and landed in safety once more upon the shores of Vasco Island, ( Continued at page 94.) THE EARLY DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. IV. UR hero was growing fast, and his health had become rather delicate from this rapid growth, so that his father readily agreed to let him spend half a year at Kelso with his kind aunt, Miss Janet Scott, and Walter passed a very enjoyable half-year with her. Miss Scott was then living in a small house with a large garden to the eastward of the church¬ yard of Kelso, which extended down to the Tweed. Aunt Janet lived alone except for a niece and an old maid-servant, as Walter’s grandmother was now dead. While with his aunt, Walter did pretty much as he liked. He was expected to attend the village school for about four hours daily. The teacher of this school was Mr. Lancelot Whale, a man very sensitive about his name, whom nothing made more angry than any punning on his name, or any allusion to Jonah. Mr. Whale was himself a good scholar, and took a keen interest in his new pupil’s progress. As Walter grew older, his love of reading if possible increased, and he seized every chance to read any books of history, voyages, travels, and poetry, 1 not forgetting/ he has recorded, the usual — or ten times the usual — quantity of fairy tales, Eastern stories, and romances. A favourite book of [ Walter’s was Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry . He read the volume with keen delight and for the first time, sitting beneath a huge platanus- tree in the ruins of what had been intended for an old-fashioned arbour in his aunt’s garden. Here is what he says when writing many years afterwards about this time : 4 The summer day sped onward so fast that, notwithstanding the sharp appetite of thirteen, I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety, and was still found entranced in my intellectual banquet.’ Kelso was just the beautiful and romantic place to awaken in our hero that love of natural beauty, picturesque old buildings, and ancient legends, for which he became so famous. It was at Kelso that his reverence for these things was called forth to such an extent that he wrote, when recalling this place and time and the influences at work upon him, ‘ My heart felt too big for its bosom.’ r But he was not to stay longer at Kelso ; he was called home to Edinburgh, and placed in the college classes. Almost all his companions who had left the High ’ School at the same time as Walter knew a little i Greek, but Walter knew none. His ignorance dis¬ couraged him, and feeling that any effort to make up for lost time would be useless, he determined not to learn it. There was in the Golle^e a young man named Archibald, the son of an inn-keeper, and him- : self a good Greek scholar, and he boldly determined to call upon Walter, and point out to him the silli¬ ness of. his conduct in refusing to learn Greek, and ; professing for it a contempt which he did not feel. He told him he was distinguished by the name of the Greek blockhead , and begged him to try and redeem his reputation. He also offered to help him to catch up to his class-fellows, and promised him that, if he would accept his help, he should soon be one of the foremost in the class. Walter’s pride and self-conceit stood in his way, \ and he spurned the offer of the inn-keeper’s son, who i went away sorrowfully, and whom he never met Ft again. Our hero also attended classes in mathematics, ethics, history, and law, but he seems to have done but poorly in all these. He was, however, an in- f dustrious reader when left to follow his tastes. i, Writing, later, of his youthful neglect he says : 4 It is with the deepest regret that I recollect in my manhood the opportunities of learning which I ne¬ glected in my youth ; through every part of my literary career I have felt pinched and hampered by my own ignorance, and I would at this moment gLve half the reputation I have had the good fortune to acquire, if by so doing I could rest the remaining part upon a sound foundation of learning and science/ Ilis class-work was interrupted by a severe illness, so severe that his uncle, Dr. JRutherford, considered his recovery from it almost a miracle. During the time that he was laid aside, his sweet temper and l calm courage won him golden opinions. The doctor’s restraints were most severe, part of the medical treatment which his complaint required being to keep the windows open in spite of the coldness cf the weather. His bed was covered with

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86 CHATTERBOX. Ho. XL books, nearly all works of the imagination, which he read for himself, or listened to from John Irving, a college friend, who came daily to see him and cheer him. Chess was also recommended, and hour after hour he and Irving played it together. But Walter never continued to play chess after his boyhood ; he used to say it was a shame to throw away upon mastering a mere game the time which would suffice for the acquisition of a new language. ‘ Sarely,’ he said, ‘ chess-playing is a sad waste of brains/ There was at least one tiresome habit which be¬ longed to the juvenile manners of Walter Scott, in common with Burns and Byron, and — must we add P — of many ordinary lads of our own day. It was that of reading at breakfast. In vain were the good- natured remonstrances of his uncle, Dr. Rutherford ; he never, even when a very old man, laid the habit entirely aside. When he was about fifteen years of age he made his first visit to the Highlands, to one of his father's clients. Here is a description of one of his High ¬ land visits. On reaching the brow of a black eminence overhanging the primitive tower, and its tiny patch of cultivated ground, he (Walter Scott) found his host and three sons, and perhaps half-a- dozen attendant gillies, all stretched half-asleep m their tartans upon the heath, with guns and dogs and a profusion of game about them, while in the court¬ yard far below appeared a company of women, actively engaged in loading a cart with manure. The stranger was not a little astonished when he dis¬ covered, on descending from the height, that among these industrious females were the laird’s own lady and two or three of her daughters ; but they seemed quite unconscious of having been detected in an occupation unsuitable to their rank, retired pre¬ sently to their ‘ bowers,’ and, when they appeared in other dresses, retained no traces of their morning’s work, except complexions glowing with a radiant freshness, for one evening of which many a high¬ bred beauty would have bartered half her diamonds. He found the young ladies agreeable and well-in¬ formed ; the evenings of their busy days were en¬ livened by song and dance. I must not forget his admiration for his lairds first course, namely, a gigantic ‘ haggis’ (a Scotch dish), ‘borne into the hall in a wicker basket by two half-naked Celts, while the piper strutted fiercely behind them, blow¬ ing a tempest of dissonance’ (discord). On Saturdays, when Walter was free from college work, he and his friend, John Irving, used to climb up the rocks m search of high places where they might sit, sheltered from the wind, and read, and the more inaccessible these places were the better they liked them. Walter, as we know, was a very agile climber. ‘Sometimes,’ says Irving, ‘we got into places where we found it difficult to move either up or down, and I recollect it being proposed on several occasions that I should go for a ladder to extricate him ; but I never had any need really to do so, for he always managed somehow either to get down or ascend to the top. The number of books we thus devoured was very great, I forgot great part of what I read ; but my friend, notwithstanding he read with such rapidity, remained, to my surprise, master of it all, and could, even weeks or months afterwards, repeat a whole page in which anything had very greatly struck him at the moment. After we had continued this practice of reading for two years or more together, he proposed that we should recite to each other turn about such adventures of knight-errants as we could ourselves contrive, and we continued to do so for a long while. He found no difficulty in it, and used to recite for half an hour or more at a time, while I seldom continued half that space. The stories we told were, as Sir Walter has said, interminable, for we were un¬ willing to have any of our favourite knights killed. Our passion for romance led us to learn Italian together. After a time we could both read it with fluency, and we then copied such tales as we had met with in that language, being a continued suc¬ cession of battles and enchantments. He began early to collect old ballads, and, as my mother could repeat a great many, he used to come and learn those which she would recite to him. He used to get all the copies of these ballads be could, and select the best/ The friends took constant walks together, as they loved to visit the quaint old castles which abound in Edinburgh and the neighbourhood. Walter was specially fond of Rosslyn, and the two frequently walked there before breakfast, and after breakfasting there they walked all down the river¬ side to Lasswade, and thence home to town before dinner, lame Walter resting one hand upon his friend’s shoulder and leaning with the other upon a stout stick. Then it was that there arose in young Walter’s mind a wish that he could use his pencil well. He took lessons in oil-painting from a little Prussian Jew, but never made much progress. This man told him many stories of Prussian battles in which his father had fought. He also had lessons from another teacher, named Walker, whom his pupils nicknamed ‘ Blue Beard/1 on account of his remarkable plainness. But here we end an account of our hero’s school and college days, and take leave of Walter in his father’s office, where he served as an apprentice to the law, and learnt many useful lessons, and amongst others a steady attention to duty, which stood him through life in good stead. James Cassidy. A LITTLE TRAGEDY. UCKOO ! cuckoo ! We all know and love the voice of the ‘ Herald of Spring,’ and some¬ times we catch a glimpse of the bird, with its long tail and slow, awkward flight. Owing probably to her short stay in this country, the cuckoo has not time enough to hatch and bring up her young. She therefore lays her eggs singly 111 the. nest of other birds smaller than herself, choosing by instinct those whose food is similar to her own. The egg is curiously small for so large a bird, but the young cuckoo grows very quickly, and when only two or three days old is strong enough to turn out of the nest all other eggs or baby birds. Thu3 it gets the whole care of its foster-parents. Birds hatch their eggs with much patience, and after the shells are broken they watch over their

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 87 young- ones until, fully fledged, they are able to feed themselves and fly. The following little anecdote shows to what length the mother -bird will carry her devotion to tier young. We were at breakfast one sunny morning in July, when we noticed a large ungainly-looking bird sitting on a cord, which attached the tennis net to a peg on the lawn. It was opening its mouth from time to time as if hungry, and its evident helplessness attracted our attention. Observing it more closely, we saw that it was a young cuckoo, just fresh from the nest. As we watched it, a little wag-tail hopped along with a worm or insect in its mouth, with which it fed the cuckoo, who promptly opened his mouth for a second helping. Another wag-tail now came upon the scene with a tit- bit, which he popped into the outstretched beak, and turn about the industrious birds fed him until his hunger was abated. It was a funny sight to see these tiny birds diligently catering for one already so much bigger than them- | selves. No doubt they wondered how it was that \ they came to have such a big, ugly, greedy child. It was beautiful weather, and, as the tennis net remained in its place, we watched this little comedy with much amusement for several mornings. There was a shrubbery facing the tennis lawn, where probably the wag-tails had their nest, and having found it a happy hunting-ground, it saved them the trouble of going further afield to find food for their hungry nestling. But one morning the male bird failed to appear. Possibly he had grown tired of working so hard to satisfy the appetite of his giant child, or perhaps some accident had happened to him. At any rate we never saw him again, and we hoped that he could not have been so ungallant as to desert his little wife in the midst of her trying work. We heartily pitied the poor little mother, who toiled backwards and forwards, while the cuckoo lazily sat on the tennis cord, his big mouth constantly open. A day came when Master Cuckoo opened and shut his mouth in vain. No kind mother came to satisfy his wants, and presently the pangs of hunger were too much for him and lie hopped off his perch and disappeared into the shrubbery in search of his own breakfast, a work which we felt that he should long ago have taken on his own shoulders. Curious to know what had become of the little wag-tail we w^ent down to the shrubbery to see if there were any signs of her, or whether she had at last grown weary of her task and deserted her foster- son. We were not prepared for the sad sight which met our eyes : close to the lawn, with folded pinions and fast-glazing eyes, lay the poor little wag-tail. Brave little bird ! We could not but think that she had died of fatigue, in her attempt to feed the cuckoo. It may not have been so, but there was no sign of any wound upon her, and we concluded that she had dropped down, worn out by her exertions. At any rate she had been so devoted a mother, and had toiled so patiently, morning after morning, for her thankless son, that we buried her near the scene of her struggles and mourned her tragic fate. E. O. Young. THE WHITE HAND. An Historical Legend. 'If’N the days of long ago, Jc, Oswald went to dine ; Bishop Aid an, by his side, Blessed the meat and wine. Came a courtier to the king : ‘ Sire, the people crowd, Hungering for bread and meat. And their cries are loud.’ 4 Take the meat, untasted still. Let the poor be fed; And my silver dish break up — With it buy them bread.’ Aidan seized the Koval hand. Blessing it, he cried — *May this hand never grow old. Though all else have died.’ But the times were full of war; Oswald fell in fight, Battered, torn, his limbs destroyed^ And disfigured quite. Yet amidst the cruel sight, So old legends say, The ( white hand,’ still beautiful, All uninjured lay. Thus, though broken all our plans, Crumbling to decay, One blessed deed will shine out still, And will live for aye. A. A. D. W. REYNARD’S EORLORN HOPE. . \ FARMER and his family were a about sitting down to tea — VW/N the table had been laid and \\ f maUmJr the lamp prepared — when a vul sound of running hounds was M\j UK 1 heard. In an instant a fox \ came bounding through the open doorway. The frightened W^lAV>\ animal took immediate refuge w vl! V'/lik * under the table. M 1 /yf / r Before any one could shut ' ' * ' the door, the foremost hound was over the threshold, and in an incredibly short space the room was full of yelping dogs — the whole pack of fifty-two having forced their way in. The table was upset, the crockery and lamp broken to fragments, and vases and flower-pots and nick-nacks of every shape and kind were broken or damaged. Poor Keynard had no chance under such circum¬ stances, and was soon torn to pieces. When the whip entered, the dogs were compelled to beat . a hasty retreat, leaving the living-room of the house in a state of indescribable confusion.

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88 CHATTERBOX No. XI,

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90 CHATTERBOX. No. XII. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. A STRANGE POISONING CASE. iELL, since you put the question, sir, I must own to a strange hankering, at one time of my life, for what was mysterious and uncanny ; but that was before I courted Molly, sir, and exchanged my love of the hor¬ rible for love of a better sort. I remember a certain year, when there was quite a run in the poisoning line — though I believe that we Britishers do not take kindly as a rule, sir, to that underhand way of sending our enemy to kingdom come. There were few detective stories written in those days, you understand, that have made folk more familiar, so to speak, with the puzzling science of crime. But there was always the daily paper, which I spent every spare minute in reading, and it used to strike me, sir, that a doctor — I mean especially the medical expert — can often do far more towards discovering the truth than the cleverest detective. However, as one shocking murder suc¬ ceeded another, the excitement overcame me to such an extent that my healthy sleep became a night¬ mare, and I could get no rest, which all led up to a queer experience, sir, that, I am thankful to say, was the only one of its kind.’ It was a fine moonlight night in early June, and we were enjoying a quiet stroll together — the old ex¬ sergeant and myself. Of course, I pressed him to re¬ late to me this experience, and, nothing loth, he at once complied. Well, it happened to me, sir, when I w\as on duty in another part of the country, and away from these dear old Surrey Hills. Such a dead-alive place was that as you never did see, and myself the only con¬ stable within a circle of three miles. I had been there already about seven months, and not even a burglary had turned up, so that I was just longing for action of some sort or other, when my powers were quite suddenly called into play. It was on a Saturday afternoon, I recollect, that I walked past the ‘ Three Fiddlers,' which was the best inn in those parts, and that is not saying very much, sir, in the way of praise. It being my time off, you see, I was on my way to the cri‘cket-g:round, a game to which I have always been very partial ; indeed I was hoping to play myself to keep my muscles from growing rusty, and as I had no wish to appear ridiculous, I wore my plain clothes. Anyhow, I was only a stone’s throw from the inn when out rushes the bow-legged landlord like one distraught. He overtakes me in a jiffy, and seizes me eagerly by the arm. ‘ Here, Lundy,’ he cries, ‘you are the very man I want. Come in at once, 1 beg of you, and give me your advice.’ Upon which he hurried me indoors, and into the best parlour, where a most distressing sight met my eyes. On the sofa lay a young, fair-haired lady, who seemed to be in her last agony, to judge by her contortions. Her husband — a dark-browed, ill- favoured man — stood gazing at her open-eyed, but making no attempt, as I noticed, to afford her any relief. ‘ The ladv was took mortal bad since dinner,’ the landlord exclaimed in a state of panic. ‘ Unluckily, the doctor is away from home, and I do not know what is to be done.’ ‘ It is a case of cramps and colic,’ says I. ‘ Why don’t you give her some brandy ?’ ‘AVell/ he replies, ‘the gentleman tells me as how she is a total abstainer, and won’t touch a drop.’ ‘ Come with me this minute/ says I, ‘ and draw me a glass of your best.’ ‘ The fact is,’ says he on our way to the bar, ‘ there has been high words atween them ever since they arrived here yesterday. Indeed, Lundy,’ he added cautiously, ‘ I have my doubts that all is not as it should be.’ This at once confirmed my suspicions, as you may imagine, sir, so that when I got back with the brandy, what I did was to force it down the lady’s throat willy-nilly, while her husband remained rooted to the spot like a block of marble — a chap without any heart. After that I began to look .-about me a bit in a professional sort of manner. ‘What did they have for dinner?’ says I, quite doctor-like. The landlord eyed me rather grumpily, I thought. ‘ Some rare good soup/ says he, as if he was proud of it, ‘ oxtail, and followed by boiled mutton with caper sauce.’ ‘ Anyhow, you must call your wife and get the lady to bed.. But first go to the kitchen,’ I said to him in a stirring whisper, ‘ and stop them from leash¬ ing the soup-plates / The landlord stared at me as if he thought I had gone mad. ‘ Don’t lose a minute, man ! ’ I added sharply, ‘ for things may go against you if you do.’ Whereupon he hurried off to do my bidding, and presently we carried the lady into the next room, and left her in the care of the landlady, who was a decent, kind-hearted body. Meanwhile, my gentleman seemed to have made up Lis mind how he was to behave himself. Suddenly he takes up his hat and informs me, all in a fuss, that he must go and fetch a doctor. ‘You cannot do that, sir/ was my stern repl ‘ You have just heard that he is away from home c business. What is more, he won’t be back until to-morrow morning.’ ‘Then I must find another/ says he, quite deter¬ mined-like. ‘ By jour leave, sir/ says I, ‘ you will have to stay where you are, for I am a constable of the peace, and it’s my opinion, sir, as how you will be wanted.’ | What on earth do you mean ? ’ he stammers, and turns a good deal paler. V. on says ‘Why, the circumstances are downright ugly/ 7s I. ‘ Until the doctor returns, sir, Trnust put. , you under arrest, and now my meaning is clear.’ ‘ Arrest ! ’ mPQ Witt an ail. r\£ amnnnm ‘ What for ? : he cries, with an air of amazement*

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No. XII. 0 CHATTERBOX. 91 ‘ Poisoning/ says I, "boldly, i There are all the symptoms of lead-poisoning. Moreover, you have quarrelled with your wife.’ ‘ Never V he declares in an injured voice. Tam obliged to shout because she is deaf.’ 6 Be that as it may/ says I, firm as a rock, * until to-morrow morning you will please to consider yourself my prisoner. I shall have to run you in at once, and you had best go quietly.’ Of course, he had got a lot to say for himself. Not >that a police-officer ever pays much heed to mere empty words, sir. And when he saw that nothing moved me, he threw up the game. So in a few minutes I marched him off to the little police-station, and left him to his own reflections ; but before we went I just gave the landlord another reminder .about the soup-plates, for I felt pretty certain that, with the doctor’s help, those soup-plates would solve the mystery. The effects of the poison had been immediate— though I am told that, as a rule, it kills no one straight away, except in the theatre ; but, on the other hand, sir, I believe there is no such thing as slow poison, except in the romance books. However, when I called the next morning to inquire after the lady, I was thankful to hear that she was still alive ; but I was greatly surprised to hear that during the night two of the servants had been taken ill in the very same manner. Could it be possible that the poison had been dropped into the soup-tureen itself P Such a clumsy device, . sir, would have shamed the youngest beginner in crime. Anyway, when the doctor arrived at noon he informed me that I had done quite right to mistrust the soup, for it was poisoned, indeed, though not by the same means that I had suspected. He pro¬ nounced, after testing it, that there were traces of verdigris about it. The landlord, on being questioned, was bound to confess that the soup had been boiled in a large copper pan. It was a vessel, he explained, that, had been used in the house for years. Moreover, it was one of his wife’s wedding presents, to which she was much attached ; but for what length of time the soup had been shut up in that copper pan, sir, will always remain unknown. It is a piece of carelessness that may quite easily come about, you see, even in the better sort of houses. Why, not very long ago I know that the same thing happened in one of the first-class London hotels. Of course the affair was hushed up and made light of by the managers ; but it was one of the victims who told me that over a dozen had suffered besides himself. Well, the landlord was in a terrible fright, as you may well imagine, and so, for the matter of that, was the constable. For what on earth should 1 say to the poor gentleman whom I had wrongly taken in custody ? It is quite possible, sir, to err in having over¬ much zeal; but though I have no wish to excuse myself, I have always thought it better to overstep the bounds in that direction, than to dilly-dally over things. However, I am glad to tell you that the ladjT, as well as the servants, found themselves a vast deal better after swallowing a strong emetic ; and then off I go to let out my prisoner, in a state of mind that cannot well be described. Ah, that was a true Christian gentleman, sir, and no mistake. Of course, I fully expected that lie would threaten to lodge a complaint against me in Scotland Yard, and with good reasons, too ; but you may imagine my feelings when, instead of taking any such revenge, he held out his hand — the hand of forgiveness— to me, on the spot. Flora Schmalz. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 12.— A Famous Riddle. By Dr. Samuel Wilberforce. bishop of Winchester. I have a large box, two lids, two caps, two musical instruments, two established measures, and a number of articles which a carpenter cannot do without. I have always about me a couple of good fish and a great number of a smaller size and tribe, two lofty trees, fine flowers, and the fruit of a common English tree. I have two playful animals, and very many of a smaller and less tame kind. I have two halls or places of worship, a number of weathercocks, the steps of a hotel, the House of Com¬ mons on the eve of a division, two students, or rather scholars, and some Spanish grandees to wait on me. All pronounce me to be a wonderful piece of mechanism, but few have numbered the strange medley of things which make up my whole. 13. — Anagrams. (a.) Words with Definitions, 1. E. sold tea. Lonely, forsaken. 2. Sure ends. Unpleasant conduct. 3. I fag Leo. Abundant in a forest. 4. 0 ! scamps. Very useful to travellers. 5. Tin trees. Payment for a loan. 6. Armed Experienced mostly in sleep. 7. Certes. Not to be sold. 8. I rouse S. Grave, very important. 9. Kite, Sam. An error. 10. Thicken. A part of a houBe where very important affairs are transacted. 11. What pay ? No garden complete without it. 12. Heads, sir. An eatable root. 13. In rags. Small weights'; seeds. 14. Nice fuel, N. A very important gift. 15. Hot drug. Sometimes the cause of great disasters. 16. Go ! rue. A dishonest person. 1. 2. 3. 4. (b.) Buildings , Pelt me. No, ten, harp. A dog, pa. B. is late. 5. Dale, chart. 6. Tar’s money. 7. Play clear, cats. 8. Ah ! clean grey ox. C. C. 14. — Puzzle. I’m found in the stable, or, as you pass by, At fancy bazaars I bring you great gain ; . Behead me, and then I shall raise my head high ; Behead me once more, see how much I contain. {Answers at page 106.]

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92 CHATTERBOX. No. XII. Rooks, ANSWERS 10 —1. Leamington. 2. Malaga. 3. South Shields. 4. Dorsetshire, 5. Malta. 6. Darlington. 7. Munster. 8. Lancashire. 9 Hebrides. 10. Rutlandshire. 11 Naseby. 12 Lebanon, 13. Devonshire. 14. Neuchatel. 15. Cumberland. 16. Mysore. 11. — (a.) Never cross a bridge until you come to it. (b.) A stitch in time saves nine. (c.) Do as you would be done by. (d.) Look before you leap. ROOKS. 11EIE Crow family is a very large one, represented, - indeed, hy nearly two hundred species, distri¬ buted over most parts of the world. In Britain, however, there are only four species of crow — the raven, the rook, the hooded crow, and the carrion crow. Of these the most common and best-known is the Rook. It is a very wise and wide-awake bird, exhibiting much acuteness and sagacity in choosing suitable trees on which to nest, and in posting sentinels who warn the others when danger threatens. Curiously enough, rooks are all very much afraid of a gun, though they soon come to know and despise scare-crows. Rooks build their nests on lofty trees, all close to one another, and it is quite amusing, during the nesting season, to watch the constant quarrelling and impudent robbery of materials that always goes on among these birds ; for they are .by no means shy, but will quarrel and steal, all the time cawing so loudly, that a rookery near to one’s dwelling-house is sometimes not very desirable. As to whether rooks maybe regarded as friends or as foes of the farmer, opinion seems to be divided. They certainly follow the plough, and frequent newly ploughed land, but this is that they may pick up the worms, grubs, and insects of all kinds which are turned up, and in so far must be considered as the farmer’s friends ; but it is equally true that they root up gras3 and young corn, greatly to the displeasure of the grower of grass and grain. The truth seems to be that, in moderate numbers, rooks are useful, but when too numerous they become injurious. D. B. McKean.

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The elephant deluged the little maiden with water.’ THE ELEPHANT’S REVENGE. AN extraordinary incident occurred at the Jardin des Plantes. The elephant-house adjoins that in which the camels are located, and a young camel recently introduced had great attention lavished on him to the neglect of a big elephant, which had hitherto had most of the public favour in that quarter. The elephant grew more jealous day after day, and matters came to a climax when, failing to attract the attention of a dainty little maiden, who was caressing his young rival, the elephant filled his trunk with water and deluged the offending damsel from head to foot.

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94 CHATTERBOX. No. XII. FACING A BULL. A YOUNG lady was one day walking with a com¬ panion across some fields, when she saw coming towards them a fierce bull, roaring and tossing about with his horns in a most terrifying manner. The young lady’s companion was greatly alarmed and screamed loudly, but the brave young lady told her to walk away behind as quickly and as quietly as she could, whilst she herself stopped short and bravely faced the bull. As the animal approached, the young lady eyed him with a fixed and determined counte¬ nance. The bull stopped, pawed the ground and roared, but kept at a safe distance. She then walked back a few steps, still facing the bull. The bull followed. She stopped again ; he stopped. In this manner, walking backwards a few steps at a time and then stopping, she got to the gate, where tier companion stood nervously awaiting her, holding the gate open. The young lady then quickly turned, closed the gate after her, and got clear out of danger. VASCO ISLAND. (Continued from page 85.) [I what feelings of devout thankfulness the girls once more entered their own home on the little island may be better imagined than expressed in words. They well knew that they had escaped a great danger, and possibly a life worse than death itself could ever have been. They did not, as a fact, yet know the depths of infamy which lay hid beneath the exterior of Ritakraja’s designs, for his intentions had been to make Nita his ‘ wife/ and Adela, whom he hated for calling him 1 a black/ her slave, unless it had suited his purpose to release her. A man capable of any and every villainy, he would not have hesitated an instant to employ his powers to the full in working out his own wicked designs. Nita had inspired him with a mad infatuation, and he had determined to possess her at all costs. He well knew that to make her an offer of marriage in the ordinary way would be a waste of time, and merely mean humiliation for himself, for he was already married to two wives, and, being a Mohammedan, like most of the inhabitants of the sea-coasts of the Malay Peninsula, he thought nothing of taking another. He knew that Nita Palgrave would never have consented to be his wife. The whole of the wearied-out party quickly lay down to rest after their terrible night's experiences, the good Scotch surgeon excepted, for he was busied for some hours (after they had all taken a hasty meal) with the sufferers. . Luckily, none of the wounded were in a dangerous condition, but they had to bemoan the loss of one valuable life, the unfortunate artilleryman who had been speared in the over-night encounter, and the task of offering consolation to the unhappy widow also fell to the rough but kind- hearted doctor. Between nine and ten o’clock in the morning, and whilst the exhausted girls were still sleeping peace¬ fully, Sir John, Admiral Benfleet, Chesney, McNab, and Curzon had assembled in the long, low dining¬ room of the British Residency to hold a council of war. Orang Tibut was lying down asleep just outside the windows, and at the Resident’s suggestion he was aroused and brought in to take part in their deliberations. 1 Sure you can trust that blacky ? ’ growled the Admiral, suspiciously; ‘ don’t like blackies myself — never believe in them — always give you away if they can.’ ‘ My dear Roddy, you could hardly have seen the way he fought last night, if you have any doubts about his sincerity. And the service he has rendered to me at different times, and especially during the harassing two months or so we have just passed through, is beyond all praise. Do not fear ; I would trust Orang Tibut with more than untold gold — I would trust him with my life.' So Orang Tibut was summoned to the room, and silently took his place behind Sir John’s chair, his hands clasped m front of him. He had been to the edge of the sea and washed off all traces of the previous night’s conflict. With the exception of a white surgical bandage bound around his left wrist there was no sign whatever that he had even been present at the fray. So little had the killing of the Serang affected him that he had not even given the matter a second thought. Why worry about such things ? Lant Mapang would have killed him. The man was' unfortunate, and he, Orang Tibut, was lucky — that was all! 1 What will be Ritakraja’s next move ? ’ was in the mind of each one present. Sir John was the first to voice the question. Turning to the spy, he said, 1 What of RitakrajaP Where was he last night, think you ?** ‘ When I left his house to come here and tell you that I had found the ladies he was still there, and 1 thought he would have stayed the night. Some¬ thing of great importance, I should say, it must have been to take him away. However, there is no doubt he was away when we got the English ladies out of the place. Ritakraja would have come out and fought hard before letting them escape. No, he was not there ; he had gone away ; but where, and for what purpose, I cannot tell.’ Sir John was silent in thought for a minute, then he said, ‘ The man’s scheme is a pretty plain one, I think. He must have considered that all was ripe for a revolt, or he would not have kidnapped the girls yesterday. With them in his possession, I suppose he thought a double purpose would be served. First, that he would get the whip-hand of us, having such precious hostages; and, secondly, that it would be easier to capture them in that way than to attempt doing so when he attacked the Residency. In fact, the whole matter, of the rising and of the kidnapping of our girls was a mere question of timing the- arrangements;. That has

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Ho. XII. CHATTERBOX. 95 evidently been the villain’s game all along ; and, now that the beginning of liis scheme has fallen through, I wonder what he will do next.? ’ ‘I think we ought to fortify the [Residency, John, and at once. At once, I say 1 In fact, why haven’t we fortified the place already, I want to know ? ’ and the Admiral brought his fist down on the table with a bang, as if he had hit upon a most serious omission. ‘ Don’t be afraid of that, Roddy,’ replied Sir John, with a grim smile, ‘ I have attended to that matter, and if Ritakraja were to attack us in force this very hour, he would find us prepared.5 ‘ How would it be to see the king, Kanakra P asked Curzon. ‘ No use. Had it been the old king, Rahputunga, things 'would have been different. But this young fellow seems to have blindly given over his fate into Ritakraja’s hands. No, it, is no good looking for help in that quarter. We must be prepared to stand a siege. I am sure Ritakraja will not delay his attack long. We have no sufficient force here to take the offensive. All we can do is to defend the island, and wait for help to come. I believe it would be easier, on the whole, to get the soldiers from Idagostui — though it is a hundred miles away up the river — than wait in hopes of a war-ship coming to help us. We have not had any safe chance as yet to even send our letter away, and months would probably elapse before a ship could arrive. The main difficulty, of course, would be to find a trustworthy messenger to go up the river to Idagostui, and the messenger's difficulty would be to keep out of the way of the head-hunters and other such murderous scoundrels with which the whole of that part of the country is infested. Do you think you could find us a messenger, Orang Tibut ? ; The Malay shook his head. ‘ I only know one man who is trustworthy in the village.; and he is afraid,’ was his answer, ‘ You would go yourself ? ’ ‘ Yes, master, I would go ; but you will want me here. It will be needful to go over to the mainland from time to time to find out what is doing, and to watch. Nevertheless, I will go up to Idagostui if you wish it. It is only for us to die once,’ he added, with a shrug of his shoulders. Sir John well knew that the Malay was a brave man. It was from no want of courage that he was unwilling to leave Vasco Island and make the dangerous journey up the river, and he fully admitted to himself that Orang’s presence at the Residency — if, indeed, they were to be put into a state of siege — would be of the utmost value. He hardly knew what to do. And just at that juncture a servant entered the room and made an announcement which not only upset all his thoughts and calculations for the time being, but was so utterly astonishing in its nature that he could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. Did he hear aright, or was he dreaming? No, it was broad daylight — he was wide awake, and his servant had stood at the door and announced, ‘ Prince Ritakraja ! 5 With all the cool assurance in the world, and as though nothing had happened which was calculated to break off his former relations with Sir John Palgrave, the Malay prince stepped jauntily into the room and advanced to meet the Resident with frtce" beaming and outstretched hand. Sir John put his own right hand behind his back, and with freezing stiffness inclined his head towards his visitor. Then, turning to the rest, who sat silenced by thecolossal impudence of this wholly unlooked-for ‘morning call,5 Sir John said: ‘Will you kindly leave us in this room, gentlemen, for a few moments ? Thank you.5 Hardly waiting for the room to be cleared, Ritak¬ raja began : — ‘ My dear Sir John, I can clearly see you are angry with me, and you have good cause to be so, I frankly confess. The fact is I am here this morning to admit my error and to apologise for it, not only to you, personally, but also to your daughter and niece if you will permit me. It is a humiliating thing to say, but the truth is that last night, after dining with you, I committed an excess, a great excess — I drank deeply in the native village and really know nothing of what 1 did or said during the whole of the evening. It was a most unusual occurrence for me.5 ‘ Very,’ remarked Sir John, dryly, knowing quite well that, being a Mohammedan, the prince never touched any alcohol at all. ‘ Yes, I was drunk, a most humiliating thing to confess - ’ ‘ For a Mohammedan — yes.5 Ritakraja was a little taken back for dhe moment, he had thought this fact might have escaped Sir John's notice. 6 Ah, he went on glibly, ‘ the best disciples of our religion sometimes disregard the injunctions of the Prophet, and when we do so, not being accustomed to the unholy thing, we suffer more acutely than perhaps others who know the taste of the fiery stuff better. But do not, my dear Sir John, let our friend¬ ship be utterly broken by a fault which I am only too anxious to apologise for,5 and the prince put on his most fascinating manner and again held out> his hand — in vain. ‘Whatever happened last night, and, as my daughter is still asleep, I have had no chance of hearing any very full account from her own lips yet; and, whether you were intoxicated or not, I desire - an explanation of the outrage which you, by means • of your servants, committed, in forcibly carrying' off these two girls— British subjects, I may remind you, prince. You were not intoxicated during the after¬ noon, at all events/ ‘ That was all a mistake which 1 can explain at once,’ returned the ready tongue, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘My Serang, Lant Mapang, a very faithful fellow, who, I regret to say, was murdered last night by one of your people, mistook certain instructions I had given him. Instead of going to offer himself as guide to bring the two young ladies back to their party, he thought I said “ conduct them to my house,55 and he stupidly perhaps, but still acting m perfect good faith, carried out what he thought to be his master’s instructions. Poor Mapang ! he has paid very dearly for his stupidity, for it has cost- him his life.5 ( Continued at page 102.)

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98 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. A CHINESE SOLOMON. A DISTRICT magistrate of Shanghai had brought JLV. before him a man charged with stealing a table. The man denied the charge, alleging that he was so feeble from ill-health that it was impossible for him to commit such a crime. The magistrate listened gravely to the tale, and professed his sympathy and sorrow for the poor man. ‘ Go home,’ he said, ‘ and get cured ; and, as you are very poor, take that bag, which contains a number of copper coins, as a present from me.’ The prisoner made obeisance, threw the heavy bag over his shoulder, and departed. He had not gone far before he was arrested and taken back, and found guilty, the magistrate remarking that a man who could carry off a heavy sack could easily take a table. until the failing light made it necessary for him to halt, and give up following the cow. But another trouble soon occupied his mind. What was he to do about his own safety, for night was closing in with the sudden darkness of a tropical cli¬ mate, he was far from human help, and without any means of defence P But he was a boy full of resources, and was not long in making up his mind what to do. Rather than face his master without the lost cow, he resolved to remain where he was till morning, when he could renew the search. Accordingly, after marking with his stick the spot on which he had left the spoor, he looked about for some tree among the branches of which he could pass the night. He soon selected one which seemed suitable, and lost no time in climbing up and settling himself in a fork of the branches. Having eaten a little of his food, he then lashed himself to the main branch with his waist-belt and drew his sheepskin blanket over his head. Very soon the weary boy was sleeping as though he had been in his truckle bed at the farm. Suddenly, however, he awoke with a start, and, struggling up to a sitting posture, he listened attentively while his heart beat wildly with fear. What sound was that which had broken in upon Ins slumbers ? He could not tell, for everything now was ominously still. Ah, there it is again, full, deep, and terribly close at hand — a sound which awoke all the echoes for miles around, the awful roar of a hungry lion ! The boy looked cautiously from one side to the other, but, though the moon was shining, no living creature was to be seen. At last his eyes were bent downward, and there he saw, but somewhat indistinctly, a large, black-maned lion, seated at the very foot of the tree, and, worse still, with its glowing eyes fixed upon himself, and its body motionless, save for an ang^ lash of its tail now and again. It was a dreadful moment, and the hours that followed were more dreadful still, for the savage beast never for one moment ceased to watch its intended victim. Once it rose with a roar, and sprang at the tree high enough to make the poor boy’s blood run cold, though not high enough to reach him Disappointed in this effort, the animal clawed and scraped at the tree with a horrible sound which made the boy’s heart die within him. In spite of this terrible scare, the poor weary boy again fell asleep, but was finally awakened by the raw cold air which precedes the dawn. Once more he turned his anxious eyes downward to see if the enemy was still at the foot of the tree, but for some time it was too dark for him to distinguish anything clearly. All too soon however the light grew stronger, and he could discern the grim form, the cruel eyes still glaring up at him, even the gleaming white teeth became visible, the black mane, the savage face. Through all that long night the lion had not stirred. More wretched hours passed away, the sun rose, hot and scorching, darting its rays on the poor lad’s head till his brain seemed to be on fire. The lion, too, was evidently distressed by the heat, for his tongue lolled out of his mouth, while his tail lashed uneasily from side to side. At last, towards noon, the lion rose, and began to move slowly away. Then he paused and looked back with a low growl, after which he again stalked away a few paces, till, having reached a pool of water, he quenched his thirst, and hurried KLEIN’S ADVENTURE WITH A LION. years ago a little Hot- vt tentot boy, twelve years of age> underwent an expe- rience which might well have shaken the nerves of a grown-up man. The lad, ha whose name was Klein, was a bright, brave little fellow in the service of a Dutch farmer in the Orange River territory, South Africa. His duty was to drive his master’s cattle to pasture every morning, and to take them back to the farm every afternoon before sun-down. There were so many wild beasts of various kinds in the district, that there was danger after dark. Klein did not much mind wild beasts; he knew that they remained under cover during the day, and would not venture into the open till long after he and his oxen were safely at home. But Klein’s great diffi¬ culty was how to amuse himself during the long hours that he was obliged to remain with the cattle. He could not take a book with him, for poor Klein could not read, so he fell upon the plan of hunting for birds’ eggs, butterflies, or any other curiosity that might fall in his way. Sometimes he wandered so far that the cattle were out of sight, but somehow he always contrived to get safely back to them, and to find that none of them were missing. One afternoon, however, he was not so fortunate. On running back to his valuable charge, he found that a fine cow had strayed away from the others ; to search for her at that moment was impossible, he therefore drove the other animals quickly home, and was delighted to find that no one counted them over, so as to find out that he had been unfaithful to his charge. After getting them off his hands, the boy set off once more in quest of the truant, taking with him some dried meat, and a gourd contain¬ ing water, feeling sure that if the cow could not be found, his shoulders would feel his master’s whip of rhinoceros hide. An hour or two of daylight still remained, therefore he had no difficulty in finding the tracks of the wanderer, which he carefully followed j

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 99 "back to liis post. Then the poor prisoner felt as though all hope were gone, ancl with a despairing heart he saw daylight fade away. Another night had come. We need not describe the second night, or the following day. They were worse than the first, for body and mind were alike worn out with terror and utter weariness, while the boy was afraid even to move lest he should arouse the lion to fury. On the third morning, however, the poor lad climbed painfully still higher up the tree, that he might turn his eyes in the direction of his master’s farm. Surely they would not leave him to perish without at least attempting to discover what his fate had been. The rage of the lion when he saw his intended victim move was fearful to witness, he tore up the ground, bit the tree, and furrowed it. with his claws. But the boy paid no heed to this, for it had been evident from the first that the lion was unable to leap high enough to reach him. After watching for many a weary hour in hope of seeing some one from the farm, his eye was at length caught by four dark objects, apparently approaching in his direction. lie strained liis weary eyes, and watched them anxiously. Were they men or animals? For some tune he could not tell ; but, oh, how anxiously he watched ! After a time he was better able to distinguish their forms, and he could see that they were four men on horseback, and evidently coming from the farm in search of him. But, amid his transports of joy at this discovery, Klein was well aware that, a slight rising ground would hide the lion from any one approaching the tree from the direction in which the farm lay, until they were within twenty yards of the savage animal. He therefore took off his sheepskin, and i waved it over his head, shouting, with all his strength, j 1 A lion, a lion ! ’ long before his voice could reach ( his deliverers. They, meanwhile, came steadily on, and now he could recognise them, the old farmer himself heading the party, two of his stalwart sons, rifle in hand, and a Hottentot servant. The lion, maddened by the boy's cries, was raging furiously, but Klein did not care, all his anxiety was to warn the advancing party of their danger, before they came upon the animal unawares. Suddenly the Hottentot servant, who had dis¬ mounted, and was following the spoor on foot, stopped and looked up, his quick eye had caught sight of the waving sheepskin ; he pointed it out to his companions, and then in an instant he was on his horse, and the whole party advanced at a brisk gallop. When | almost close to the tree, they suddenly halted — they had seen the lion. Yes, and the animal, at the same moment, had seen them. He rose, and with leisurely • pace advanced to meet them, still uttering a sup¬ pressed growl. Meanwhile the men had hastily dis¬ mounted, and tied their horses together with their | heads turned away from the lion, lest terror should render them unmanageable. They then advanced steadily on foot. The old farmer, who had shot many a lion in his day, headed the party, the others follow¬ ing close behind, each man with his finger on his trigger. The lion suddenly crouched with his head resting on his forepaws, and remained so till his enemies were within twenty paces of him; he then began slowly and noiselessly to rise to his feet. But as slowly, as noiselessly, did the old farmer drop on his knee, the others following his example. At the same moment all four raised their rifles, and, as the lion was in the act of springing, a sharp crack was heard, a terrible roar of pain, and the animal, bound¬ ing forward in his agony, fell at the feet of the farmer and his sons. How poor Klein got down from the tree he never knew. He remembered nothing until he stood by the dead lion. The farmer pronounced him the finest lion he had ever seen, and was so rejoiced at his death, and at the safety of his servant lad, that Klein escaped the punishment the dread of which had almost led him to a horrible death. As for the truant cow, less fortunate than her keeper, only the larger bones were found not far from the scene of this adventure. D. B. McKean. BROTHERS IN ARMS. COURAGE and endurance are good qualities which are often displayed on the battle-field, and be¬ sides them we sometimes have beautiful examples of kindness and sympathy. In one of the battles during the Soudan War the English and Egyptian soldiers often fought side by side. There was a private of one of the Egyptian regiments who had been severely wounded in a sharp struggle. Owing to circumstances, the troops had to shift their ground, and he was left to the tender mercy of the furious Dervishes. But two soldiers came to his rescue : one of these gave him something to revive him , the other, who belonged to a Scotch regiment, fired at the retreating enemy, and in a little while, by the aid of these men, the poor Egyptian was helped to a place of safety Such acts of brotherly kind¬ ness are to be found in all wars ; indeed, it has been said that the greater the danger, the faster the friendship amongst soldiers true to their cause and country. In the time of the Crimean War, when England was at war with Russia for the defence of Turkey, there was a skirmish in which a Turkish soldier received a severe wound, and dropped. His com¬ rades left him, but an English regiment was passing near. One of the men stepped out of the ranks and hoisted the Turk upon his shoulders, carrying him regardless of the bullets which came from the enemy. There are also stories of the soldiers who, even in the heat of battle, have been generous to a foe. Early this century our country was carrying on a war iu Spain. During a fight between some English and Spanish troops, one of our soldiers saw a Spaniard lying wounded. He went towards him, and the man cried out for water piteously. The Englishman unbuckled his flask, and was coming to his aid, when the wounded man suddenly raised a pistol, and fired at him. However, he went up to him, saying with a laugh, ‘ 1 was going to give you all the contents of my flask, but now you shall only have the half.’ Often, too, women have shown themselves to be both brave and kind, if they had to be in a battle or siege, attending upon the sick and wounded. At the siege of Mat a gar da, the water ran short in the place where the wounded lay. A nurse asked a drummer-

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Brothers in Arms, British and Egyptian. hoy to fetch water from the well, which was near where the besiegers’ shot fell. He refused, so she went herself, and though a bullet cut the cord by which she held it, she succeeded in getting the pail filled. In the American War of Independence, it is told that General Eurgoyne’s army was suffering from thirst, and the only way of getting water was from the Hudson River. Soldier after soldier tried to make his way to the river, but they were all cut off by the enemy’s bullets. At last a soldier’s wife offered to make her way to the river, and when the enemy saw who she was and for what purpose she was going to the river, they stopped their firing, and she was allowed to bring water again and again from the river. J. R. S. C. |

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 101 An Irish Peasant Girl. IRISH PEASANT GIRL. IN many parts of Ireland the peasants are very poor indeed and live in mud cabins, 'which they often share with the pigs and poultry. These latter give them much of the necessities of life, and the pig is spoken of as ‘ the gentleman that pays the rent.’ Bare-footed are most of the children and young girls, like the one in our picture. With a very damp and rainy climate, the staple food of the Irish peasantry — namely, potatoes — often get the disease, and are unfit for human food. When this is the case, there is always great danger of famine in the land which has no natural resources to fall back upon. The peat, which is cut from the numerous bogs around, serves the poor for fuel. Meat, except pork, is almost an unknown luxury amongst them. F. R. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. in.— THE SEA-MOUSE, OR APHRODITE. YOU will remember that gliding along the bottom of the clear pool we saw a curious creature which I told you was a Sea-mouse. Lest you have forgotten its form I have drawn one, though a mere black-and-white picture can give very little idea of this marvellous zoophtye. Its beauty lies in its brill ant hues and, still more, in the iridescence or effects of light in changing and blending its gorgeous colours. The Aphrodite is wonderful in many ways, being simply a worm, a class of creatures from which we are not wont to expect personal attraction, chiefly because their lives are mostly spent creeping about in mud. The Sea-mouse. The plumage of the humming-bird suits its sur roundings of tropical plants, brilliant sunshine, and lovely scenery; but to find the colouring of this bird reproduced, and even excelled, by a worm at the bottom of the sea, may well make us amazed, until we remember that long before human beings were called into life, the Great Creator surveyed His work in the waters, and saw ‘it was very good/ You will remember that the aphrodite glided smoothlv along with just the imperceptible motion of a mouse, although at a slower pace, which is not wonderful,

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CHATTERBOX. Xo. XIII. 102 seeing that the creature has no legs like his qua¬ druped namesake, but depends on certain bundles of bristles beneath its body for the power of moving. With the exception of the centre of the back, the sea-mouse has a tine hairy coat, but at the sides are rows and rows of bristles or spines, which serve as a means of defence, and it may be also that the vivid colouring of these quills has the effect, as it passes along, of terrifying its enemies. Each of these bristles, seen under a microscope, is a most complicated weapon, having several sharp barbs, like the spears used by the inhabitants of certain islands in the Pacific, misnamed Friendly ! When Mr. Sea- mouse goes to rest in his secure mud-walled dwelling, he takes off his armour, as did the knights of old in times of peace. Whereas, however, the tired warriors hung* up their shields on the surrounding walls out¬ side their, persons, the sea-mouse family stow them inside their furry coats, and expand this armour in a second on the approach of danger. It does not sound exactly a comfortable arrangement to have some hundreds of many-pointed spears drawn inside a soft body, but all danger from them is carefully precluded by each weapon being provided with a sheath which closes over the barb when drawn in, and opens when its owner desires to be warlike. Naturalists tell us that sea-mice are often from four to six inches long, but my own acquaintances of the family in the Channel Islands have been much smaller. They have eyes as well as tentacles on their heads, and evidently appreciate the comfort of having a home, as they seldom wander far. Their chief hues are orange, scarlet, and blue, but these blend like the rainbow so harmoniously that, as vou may have noticed, the eye of the observer is at first only conscious of a gleaming mass of colour. When put into an aquarium, the chief object of the aphrodite seems to be to keep as much as possible out of the light, and he spends his time between bits of stone or under sheltering seaweeds. Ilis natural home is in very deep water, so it is possible that the effect of light is painful, and he avoids it as far as possible. Helena Heath. VASCO ISLAND. (Continued from page 95.) this time Sir John was won¬ dering to himself what was the Malay’s real object in coming to him. \Vas it because he was not quite ready for declaring himself in his true colours, and head¬ ing the revolt against the British authority P Did he seek to delay the moment for striking P or had he come to see what preparations the Resident was making for resistance to that attack, which could not be much longer delayed, to spv out the nakedness of the land? ‘ I wonder,’ was what Sir John kept repeating to- himself, as he looked with immovable face at the Malay’s ever-changing countenance. 1 And now, Sir John, you must tell me that I have been forgiven, and I will no longer detain you from your important business affairs. You will shake hands ? ’ The Englishman clasped his hands behind his back, whilst the lines about his mouth grew harder and his whole aspect more severe. 1 No, Prince Eitakraja, I will not shake hands/ he said, in cold, hard tones, ‘ you have w'orn the mask for a long time, and I, hoping to avert the horrors of a rising, which I know well that you are doing your best to bring about ’ — here the Malay gave an invo¬ luntary start of surprise at finding that his designs were known — ( I have also played a part, pretending to believe in you as a friend. But now the need for such acting exists no longer. We may each throw off the mask. Do you think I am so foolish as to believe the story you bring to me to-day, concerning the deliberate entrapping of my two girls, which you allege to be a mistake? You will find, indeed, that it has been a very costly mistake for yourself, before we have squared accounts, you and I. And the poor, pitiful lie you tell me about you — a rigid Mohammedan, and therefore forbidden by your creed to. touch strong drinks — about you being so overcome with liquor that you did not know what you were doing ! the whole thing is too absurd, and you have been wasting your own time and mine if you think I can be so easily deceived. Prince Ritakraja, I may tell you that the whole of your treasonable doings are perfectly well known to me — ah, you are a little surprised at that ! but, as one meets force with force, so does one encounter craft with strategy. I have not been sleeping during the whole of the- past two months, prince, believe me ! And now I warn you, that for all your crimes — to which you have just added the very serious offence of abducting two British subjects— your life itself is in jeopardy. I give you ten minutes’— and here the Resident' took out his watch and kept it in his hand whilst he spoke — ‘ I give you ten minutes to clear out of Vasco Island. You will, doubtless, attack us here, now that you see the game of deceit can no longer be carried on by you with any hope of success. Do so, and if you fall into my hands I shall deal with you shortly and summarily. Do you remember, one evening in this very house, I told you what I should do to the man I found to be prime mover in the rising ? I repeat what 1 then said, now, I shall hang him!’ and, drawing himself up to the full height of his tall, soldier-like figure, he looked the Malay squarely in the eyes. It was a terrible struggle for the semi-barbarian to keep outwardly calm; but he succeeded, and then a sneer overspread* Ins features. Walking to the door- way, he raised the grass mat, and, turning to the Resident, he said, ‘ You would not dare ! ’ Sir John, with a wave of his hand, declined any farther argument, . A last furtive glance at the stern, resolute face sufficed to cause an uncomfortable qualm in the Malay’s breast as he haughtily left the apartment and strode off in the direction of the beach.

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 103 In a perfect whirlwind of baffled fury, Ritakraja strode away from the Residency and down to the beach where he had left his sampan. He stepped in, and bade the rowers paddle across as fast as they could. Hardly had the sampan got into mid-channel when Orang Tibet presented himself again before Sir John. This lime he was accompanied by a fine- looking young man of about twenty years of age, whom he introduced to the Resident’s notice as his brother-in-law. t This is the young man I spoke of as being the only one trustworthy to carry your message in the whole village, master ; and I told you then that he was afraid. Look ! he says that he is not afraid. He is ready to start up the river to-night to summon the English soldiers from Idagostui. It will take him many days. He will go up in a sampan ; you will pay him a reward when he returns with help ? ’ ‘ With all the pleasure in life/ responded Sir John ; 4 and the reward shall be a high one, I promise you, if you succeed. I will write a letter explaining the situation to the officer commanding the detachment there, and then, the sooner the young man starts, the better chance he will have of eluding Ritakraja’s men/ 6 He will start directly after nightfall, master. It must be dark before he can get away in safety, for Ritakraja will cause the river to be watched — perhaps staked/ Sir John nodded. Then he took from a drawer some loose money, and handed it over to the young man, whose face inspired him with confidence. ‘Take this; you will need to buy some things for your, journey — stock the sampan well, and do not go ashore more than you are obliged. There are wandering tribes of head-hunters always prowling about. For the last part of your journey the country is even more dangerous, but they will not come within twenty or thirty miles of either this settlement or of the soldiers at Idagostui/ ‘ Thanks, master/ replied the young Malay, grate¬ fully taking the money from Sir John and placing it in his wallet; ‘Kiang Riboug will not fail you, if he lives to reach Idagostui ; 7 and with a low bow he left the room to prepare for a journey the risks of which he hardly even knew. To get up the river for a hundred miles, escaping any prowling parties of head-hunters ; to maintain himself during that time, with only a few hurried visits to the shore, and to reach the soldiers quartered at Idagostui, was a prettj^ formidable task, and one requiring no little courage; but Kiang Riboug was young, full of health and strength, and a stranger to fear. He was much attached to his brother-in-law, Orang Tibut, and, knowing how well the English had always behaved to him, he was the more determined to serve them faithfully and well. He provisioned his sampan during the afternoon with his favourite food of stale fish, stale eggs, and other Malay delicacies, provided himself with a new paddle, put his gun in order, and had everything in readiness for a start as soon as the friendly darkness should afford him the chance of getting away up river unseen. Meantime, Sir John and Admiral Benfleet were busy putting the finishing touches to the defences of the’ Residency. Chesney and Curzon were also impressed into the service, and all the other Europeans living on the island were warned to be ready at a moment’s notice to come into the Residency. It was impossible to say what Ritak¬ raja’s forces would do, but Sir John thought that probably it would be feasible to hold the Island. If they could not do this, then they must fall back upon the Residency*. Knowing, however, how much greater Ritakraja’s chance of success was if he could operate from the shores of the island as a base, Sir John determined that every effort must be made to hold it and prevent a landing ; they would only give it up and retreat to the house when compelled to do so. The two long guns had been uncovered and loaded. Ex-serjeant Tom Lobb was in his element. A fine soldier in every way, he had always been known whilst in the service as a good shot, cool and accurate, and a very tower of strength to the little band now determined to defend Vasco Island against a vastly superior force. He had five artillerymen as assistants — steady, reliable men ; of the two others, comprising the total of eight generally kept there, one, as we know, had lost his life on the preceding evening, and the other man was so badly wounded a3 to be quite incapable of work. Jack Chesney also was no mean hand at laying and training a gun, his naval experience standing him in good stead both for this work and general handiness. Sir John was thankful that he had the young sailor’s valuable assistance. George Curzon was a fine sportsman and a dead shot at big game. He would also be of great service. Admiral ‘Roddy’ was not of much use as regarded arms of precision ; the punching of heads was more in his line, and the Resident had every hope that it would not come to hand-to-hand fighting — they would be hopelessly outnumbered in any such event as that. Clearly, they must do their best to keep the natives from landing on the island. A small fatigue party was started on the busi¬ ness of strengthening the earthworks upon which the long guns were mounted. Before they had completed their task Ritakraja made his first move in the life - and - death game then about to be played. From the opposite shore a sampan bearing a white flag and manned by two paddlers, with an officer of King Kanakra’s household seated in the stern, put out, and was rapidly driven across towards tb.e island. Sir John and the Admiral slowly walked down to the narrow strip of beach where alone a landing could be effected, the rest of the island being surrounded with marsh-land and tall reeds, and awaited the sampan’s coming. The bearer delivered his letter, and sat silently awaiting its answer. The message proved to be from the King, inviting Sir J ohn to a conference at his palace ‘ in consequence of the insult received by Prince Ritakraja/' So ran the note. Continued at page 110.)

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104 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII.

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106 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. CAESAR’S TOWER. /TESAR’S TOWER, at Warwick Castle, is one of \J the spots whose name gives a false impression of its origin. This massive old building is not unworthy of having been erected by the Romans, that nation of great builders, whose works still remain with us in grand memorials, such as the walls of York and Chester ; but in fact Csesar’s Tower had no connexion with Julius Caesar or any other Roman Emperor. It was built by the Normans — a people little behind the Romans in the art of masonry. Possibly Saxon labourers were employed to help in the work, but, anyhow, the result reflects infinite credit alike on the masters and workmen. No scamping can have been allowed, else Caesar’s Tower would not have stood unmoved for 800 years, and witnessed all the changes which time and accident have wrought upon other portions of the grand castle of Warwick. ANSWERS. 12. — The human body, which has a chest, two eye¬ lids, two knee-caps, two drums of the ear, two feet, and a number of nails. It has two soles and many muscles, two palms, two lips, and the apples of the eye; two calves and very many hares, two temples, many veins, and an instep, eyes and nose, two pupils, and tendons. 13. — (a.) — 1. Desolate. 2. Rudeness. 3. Foliage. 4. Compass. 5. Interest. 6. Dream. 7. Secret. 8. Serious. 9. Mistake. 10. Kitchen. 11. Pathway. 12. Radishes. 13. Grains. 14. Influence. 15. Drought. 1G. Rogue. (b.)— 1. Temple. 2. Parthenon. 3. Pagoda. 4. Bastile. 5. Cathedral. 6. Monastery. 7. Crystal Palace. 8. Royal Exchange. 14.— Stall, tall, all. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 15. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. There were 336 passengers in a railway train. The second-class passengers were twice as many as the first ; the third class were as many as the first and second together. How many were there of each class? 2. A man and his son are aged 36 and 8 years respec¬ tively. In how many years will the father be twice as old as the son ? 3. A. has three times as much money as B. They each give five shillings to a charity ; A. has then five times a3 much money a3 B. How much had each at first? 4. A father is three times as old as his son. Five years ago he was four times as old. What is the present age of each ? .o. .A sum of 50 shillings is received from fifty people. Some contribute Sd. each, and some Is. 6d. each. How many contributors were there of each kind ? 6. A sum of 3?. is divided among 50 men and women, the men each receiving Is. 6 d. and the women Is. How many were there of each ? 7. A boy spent one-third of his money in cakes, one- fourth in apples, and one-fifth in oranges ; he then had 6 Ml. left. How much money had he at first ? 8. A person has a piece of silk 20 yards in length ; he cuts off one yard every day. How long will it take to cut up the whole ? C. C. 16. — Word-making. (a.) — 1. An important article. 2. A much-used preposition. 3. In your sight at this moment. 4. Amiable, benevolent. 5. To quench thirst. 6. Comparative of No. 4. 7. Relations. (b.) — 1. A vowel. 2. A preposition. 3. An action necessary for the support of life. 4. A cardinal point. 5. A word which indicates rank. 6. A large fortified dwelling. 7. A province in Spain. [Mttszse/’s at page 119.] THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. A CHRISTMAS GIFT. ES, sir/ said Sergeant Lundy, ‘ a lot of queer stories could be told about empty houses. Haunted,, indeed, they often are, and not only by spirits, as some folk say. It is the “ rag- tag and hob-tail” of humanity that sometimes find a refuge there, and contrive to elude even the watchful eyes of the force. Strangely enough, sir, the incident I have in my mind has to do with another Christmas Eve, many years ago, and just as cold and blustering a one as wo have to-night.’ The weather (as Sergeant Lundy remarked) was unfriendly to a degree, and, having dropped in to give my old friend a Christmas greeting, I was, as may be imagined, in no great burry to exchange his cheerful fireside for my solitary bachelor diggings. So I begged him to favour me with the story to which he had just alluded, while his wife completed her festive preparations in the kitchen ; and, having filled our pipes and drawn our chairs closer to the hearth, he at once complied with my request. Well, sir, as I was saying, the wind blew straight from the north, so keen and cutting that, what with the hitter cold and its being Christmas Eve, I never in my life felt less inclined to set out on my rounds. 1 This is just the night when you will he glad of your comforter/ says Molly, as 6he tied it round my neck; and though I was always dead against wrapping up my throat, yet as she had knitted the thing for me herself, and likewise on account of the season, you see I could not well refuse her. For it is a knack that women have, sir, to seize their chance when it offers ; and we would he brutes, for certain sure, not to let them have their kindly way in such trifles. She had also stuffed my pockets with an extra supply of sandwiches and a can of hot tea.

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No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. 107 ‘ You ought to do the part of watchman as well,’ were her parting words, ‘ and call out that it is Christmas Eve, for, if I am not mistaken, there are some folk who sorely need reminding of it.’ Now we had just been speaking of old Benjamin Sadler, who lived in Ivy Cottage at that time, so I knew it was him that Molly was hitting at ; and, as I started off on my beat, thinks I to myself that I would take a peep as I passed the house and find out how Ben was making ready to keep Christmas — for the old chap was notorious in all the country-side, you must understand, sir, for his scraping, miserly habits. Plenty of money he was reported to have had from his father, but hating to spend a penny more of it than he could possibly help. Upon getting near the cottage, I noticed that the sitting-room was very nearly in the dark. The drawn blind left a space of two or three inches beneath it, and I stooped down to look inside. There was old Sadler sitting all alone beside a morsel of fire in the grate that would not have warmed a mouse, sir. Not a soul at hand — not even a cat. And when I thought of the wretched, frozen heart he must carry about inside of him, a great wave of pity swept over me, so that I just longed to melt it. However, I was forced to leave him there a counting out his savings — for I saw he was busy, and could guess what he was up to ; and, as I turned away, the picture of my own happy home rose up before me, and filled me with a feeling of deeper thankfulness. Well, sir, Ivy Cottage is situated on the outskirts of the village, and a short way from it stands a house which had not been occupied for several months, and which the landlord had asked me to keep an eye on. So I went up the narrow garden path as usual to examine the doors and windows, which, of course, I had carefully marked in my private method, and could easily detect if they had been tampered with. But I had no sooner reached the front door under the wooden porch, than I found a great surprise awaiting me. First of all, I stumbled over what seemed to be a large covered basket, such as laundresses use to carry home their clean linen in. Then with the help of my lantern I perceived that the shawl had been moved a little aside, and upon raising it further, what should I discover m the basket, pushed close against the door, but a sleeping child ! It was a boy of, may be, ten months old, and as fine an infant as ever breathed. He was well cared for, too, and though evidently a deserted child, he had not the smallest appearance of one. Well, I was standing and staring at him, all in a maze, when he suddenly wakes up and begins to cry. Here was a pretty pickle ! No doubt the boy was both cold and hungry — but what on earth was I to do with him P Then all at once he caught sight of me, and gave up sobbing, and held out two little dimpled hands towards me. By this time I had learnt how to handle a baby without any fear of dropping it, so I lifted him out of the basket and rocked him in my arms until he grew quieter. ‘Now, my bonny chap,' says I, with a laugh, ‘I bave got an idea. Moreover, it is the brightest idea, 1 do believe, that ever entered this queer head of mine, as Molly calls it. So we will cover him up, warm and snug in the shawl. One, two, buckle my shoe — and away we go ! ’ With that I makes off down the garden, and back to Ivy Cottage, where my bold rat-tat soon brings out old Benjamin. ‘ Ha, Lundy ! ’ he mutters, in testy, surprised tones. ‘Now what can a constable want here at this hour of night P 5 ‘ It is not nine o’clock yet,’ says I, quite coolly, as I steps inside, ‘and by your leave, Mr. Sadler, I would like a word with you.’ So he was forced to let me into the parlour, and then I unwraps the child. ‘ See what I have found,’ says I, ‘ in the porch of the empty house next to yours. A baby boy that has been cast off and left there to starve, and may¬ hap to die, on this bitter Christmas Eve. Now, I am going to ask you to take care of the wee mite, Mr. Sadler, until I return on my rounds and can carry him home with me.’ ‘ Goodness gracious me ! ’ ho cries, angrily ; ‘what will the man propose next P What can I do with the brat ? ’ ‘ Stop a minute,’ says I, pretending to be in a terrific hurry, ‘ and 1 will just run back for the basket that I found him in. Then he will lie quiet, and maybe fall asleep, Mr. Sadler, and you will hardly know that he is there. Just catch hold of him for half a minute, will you ? ’ Upon which I puts the boy in his unwilling arms, and bustles off on my errand. And as I faced the blast once more, I was not sorry to pull up Molly’s comforter round my neck after all. Well, sir, and what do you think I got back for to seep Why, if that blessed baby wasn’t clucking and crowing over the old man’s shoulder like fun. First it would poke a pink fist into one of his eyes, and then it would clutch desperate at his grey hair, while he stood look¬ ing half-ashamed of himself, but all the same, I could see, as pleased as Punch. ‘ He seems to forget as how he was so cold and hungry a few minutes since,’ says I, placing the basket on the hearth; ‘ but if he remembers it, Mr. Sadler, perhaps you can give him a sup of milk ? ’ ; Not I,’ says he, turning sour and crusty again. 5 There i3 only a drop for my own breakfast in the morning.’ Then he eyed me, with suspicion in his looks. ‘ Have you got no cold tea or coffee about you ? says he. ‘Well, yes,’ I was obliged to admit, as I drew it out, ‘ here is a can of tea.’ Then he put the baby down in the basket and went to a cupboard in the wall. He brought out a second rushlight, fixed it in the other candlestick, and lighted it from the first. ‘ Well, I must be off,’ says I. ‘ I will leave you the tea, and I will look in on my road back, Mr. Sadler.’ ‘ You can take your tea with ye,’ says he, as grumpy as possible, ‘ for the child won’t need it.’ Here he next produced a basin of milk. ‘ And as for looking in again, Lundy — why, I will be asleep ; in fact, we will both be asleep, and you had best not disturb us until the morning.’ At this point the baby set up a sudden howl, and, feeling greatly tickled and elated at the success of

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my plan, I was fain to take to my heels. And Molly seemed inclined to laugh and cry at once, sir, when I told her of the trick I had played on poor Ben Sadler.. i 1 will bet you a new half-crown,’ says she, 1 that if no one comes to claim it he will not give up the child, neither to you nor any one else. But you will have to slip along presently and find out how the land lies ’ — for we were sitting over our breakfast — we and the children — on Christmas morning, sir. * My dear, I never bet afore church-time,’ says I, with a twinkle, for I knew I bid fair to lose ; and whatever the women-folk may do, sir, I find that Molly always expects me to pay these little debts of honour promptly, as being a man that sticks to his word.’ ( Concluded at page 119.)

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I A Brave Defender. PROTECTING THE DEFENCELESS. WHAT should we do without our domestic dogs? The dog is the friend of man in most of the countries where the animal is found. There are many touching stories told of dogs and their attachment to their owners, hut we are not giving any of these Dow; unless, indeed, our picture, which tells its own tale, may he regarded as such. The dog tribe is a very large one ; it includes all the animals commonly known as wolves, jackals, foxes, and wild dogs, to¬ gether with the various breeds of domestic dogs. These, together, make up the family Camdce. Domestic dogs trace their origin to wolves and jackals, not foxes, as is commonly believed. * Domestic dogs,’ observes Mr. Bartlett, i exhibit many of the

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110 CHATTERBOX. No. XIY. habits of wolves and jackals, such as the scratching up of earth with the front feet, and the pushing back of it with the hind feet/ Have you not seen your dog turn round several times when about to lie down to rest upon the hearth-rug P This is a habit inherited from their wild ancestors, who had to press down the grass. There is a great number of varieties of domestic dogs, nearly two hundred in all, and these have been grouped into six divisions : (1) Wolf-like dogs ; (2) greyhounds, (3) spaniels, (4) hounds, (5) mastiffs, (6) terriers. In our illustration, we see a little rabbit, defended by its dog friend from some approaching foe. Most boys (and girls too) at some time in their lives have kept pet rabbits, and know something of their ways. They know that the young labbits are born in a blind and nearly naked condition ; at six months old they are quite ‘ grown up/ so that a colony of rabbits increases very rapidly. The rabbit, since its introduction into Australia and New Zealand, has increased until it has become quite a serious hindrance to agriculture. A gentleman in New South Wales (Australia) thought that it would be a good thing to import a few rabbits into the colony, as they would serve for food and sport. He therefore imported three couple of rabbits, and they were turned loose upon the land. He was soon sorry for wrhat he had done, for the rabbits became a plague. They devoured tbe grass which was needed for the sheep, the bark of trees, and every kind of fruit and vegetables, and many farmers were ruined by them. It is said that thirteen millions of rabbit-skins are exported every year from New South Wales, and about the same number from New Zealand. J. C. VASCO ISLAND, (Continued from page 103.) R JOHN’S mind was made up at once. Although instinct told him that this was pro¬ bably a trap, yet, as the King had not openly defied the British authority, and as he himself was the representa¬ tive of Britain, it was clearly his duty to go — to go and accept whatever risk it in¬ volved. 1 Tell the King I # will be with him in an hour from this/ was all he said. The official made a 3ign to the paddlers ; the sampan was shoved off and at once left for the mainland. ‘Now give me the small change of this chap’s gibberish, John/ said the Admiral, impatiently. Sir John briefly told him, and the Admiral burst out with : 1 And you will be fool enough to go ! Why, a baby could see that it is a dodge to murder you ! A child would not walk into such a booby-trap as that!’ ‘ No, a child would not, Roddy/ said the Resident, gravely ; ‘ but I, as the representative of the Queen, must consider other matters than my own personal safety. I must go/ ‘ I wasn’t known in the Service as a funk, but I would not go myself ! ’ blurted out ‘ fighting Roddy.’ ‘ A man is mad if he walks straight in to his death in such a fashion as that ! ’ ‘ Roddy, I believe you are right. But think for a moment of my position here ; or, better still, try to put yourself into my place. Suppose that you, as commander of a ship, were to receive such an invitation as this, would you refuse to s° ? 1 The Admiral was silent. ‘ At least, John, you will take a small escort — just two or three men well armed P I feel sure that mischief is meant/ 1 And so do I,' replied the Resident, calmly, ‘ but ‘ Oh, duty must be done ; yes, I know/ interrupted 1 fighting Roddy/ ‘and you are quite right, John, quite right, I dare say. But look here, old boy, take me with you, anyhow ; and you and I will have a rare old turn-up with the niggers before they wipe us out ! * Sir John grasped his hand. ‘ Thanks, Roddy/ he said quietly ; ‘ thanks. I know you would risk your own life in a moment to help me, but this is a thing which I must do alone. Without another word the two men walked slowly back to the house. Half an hour later Sir John, having made arrangements by which the defence of the Resi¬ dency should be carried on if anything happened to i him — for he was firmly persuaded in his own mind j that Kanakra meant treachery — entered his sampan, and was paddled across the little channel to the mainland There he was met by two of the palace guards, who conducted him into the presence of the I Eing- To say the truth, his weak-kneed majesty was ; rather astonished to see the Resident there. Each man judges another by what he would do himself ; and the timid though half-savage Kanakra would no more have thought of intrusting his own precious person to the tender mercies of any rival Malay potentate than he would have thought of flying over the moon ; and the sight of the iron grey-bearded Englishman standing there alone and entirely defence¬ less was rather an upsetting one to the Oriental mind. Ritakraja was not present. The weather being hot, the King was sitting out m the garden under an awning. Alongside the garden, and right under its walls, flowed the sea, calm and cool-looking, the tropic vegetation growing almost down to the water’s edge. Several of his counsellors stood around Kanakra’s chair, and with them he consulted from time to time during the interview. At the first Kanakra, like most weak men, was inclined to bluster in order to hide his own infirmity of purpose ; he had evidently been primed with information by Ritakraja, and also coached by that wily gentleman in what lie was to say and how he was to treat the Resident.

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No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. Ill But the latter did not heed the bluster, and despised the threats which the young King every now and then used in his speech. Sir John well knew that his own life was in peril ; but, as an experienced soldier, he also knew the value of keeping a bold front to the foe. The Admiral sadly watched his brother-in-law’s departure from the island on his dangerous mission to the semi-barbarian king. He knew that Sir John was right in going, it would never do for ‘ one in authority ’ to shirk such a duty, however great the risk involved in carrying it out. ‘ If he only had some — some sailor chap with him/ thought the Admiral, who could never bring himself to believe that sailors were as other men, one sailor, in his estimation, counting for at least three ‘ landlubbers. Then suddenly a bright idea struck him. ‘ Bill ! that is the man. Now, if Bill were with him, I should feel a deal more comfortable. But how to get him there P I know ! I will send him across with a letter “ on urgent business,” capital ! ’ and the old salt quickly disappeared into the study to emerge again, five minutes later with a letter written in his own enormous, sprawling hand. Then he roared at the top of his voice, ‘ Bill ! ’ Half a minute passed and then the shout was repeated. ‘ Ay, ay, sir,3 came the answer, and Bill was at his master’s side, trying to conceal some rope-yarn which he had been unravelling in his pocket. 4 What have you got there ? grunted the Admiral. ‘ Bit of rope-yarn, your honour. ’ ‘ What for P 3 ‘Well, your honour, a bit of rope-yarn always seems to come in handy like — and it sort of reminds a man of the old ship : gives a bit of a sniff of the salt water, your honour/ replied Bill. ‘ Ah, you are hankering after getting afloat again, young man/ said the Admiral, trying to look severe. ‘ Not content with your lot on shore, eh ? not satisfied with soft tommy, but must want to go back to ship’s biscuit? fresh beef and vegetables not good enough for you, but you must hanker after salt -junk. Well, Bill, I must confess I feel a bit that way myself at times. But now look here ; I have got a serious job for you, and, if you do not like the looks of it, it shall not be said that I made you go, you shall choose for yourself. It is a pretty dangerous bit of work, and if you fight shy of it, say so, and I will go over myself.’ And then the Admiral detailed to his faithful henchman his little plan for sending an active fighting man (Bill ^vas a big bronzed, tough, and hairy-looking specimen of the British tar, forty-two years of age, and a mass of muscle all over) to the Resident’s side, in case he should need assistance, carrying a note merely as an excuse to account for his presence there. The old sailor did not conceal the danger of the mission. All that Bill said when his master had finished was — < Yes, your honour. Where is the letter? ’ Meantime, the Resident had been undergoing a severe trial to his patience at the hands of the half- insolent, half-timid young king. At one moment, Kanakra, urged on by the desire to please his treacherous kinsman, Ritakraja, would utter a threat; at the next, fearing he had gone too far, his tone would become almost apologetic. Then he would break out again in weak, silly invective against the ‘injuries’ done him by the British rule, and Sir John could only shrug his shoulders and wait until the feeble exhibition of passionate rage had expended itself. The upshot of the whole interview was this, that, unless Sir John would consent to haul down the English flag and pledge himself to leave the island within thirty days, he, Kanakra, would attack the Residency and sweep the English into the sea. In reply, Sir John told the king that the whole thing was too absurd for serious argument; that even if he were cowardly enough and false enough to his trust to do any such thing, his act would be of no effect, and that the English Government would simply send out another Resident in his place and things would go on as before. Kanakra did not think it advisable to hint at the plan of another European power planting its flag on Vasco Island directly the Union Jack was removed. He also said that it was his duty to solemnly warn the king against any overt act directed against the Residency, as England would take a dire vengeance on any who molested her representatives. The king gave a weak little laugh at this. ‘ England ! ’ lie exclaimed scornfully ; ‘ where is England ? thousands of miles beyond the great seas. How long would her ships take in getting here? many things might happen before England ever knew ! ' 1 Your Majest3r forgets the English soldiers at Idagostui,' replied Sir John. The next moment, he could have bitten his tongue out with vexation as lie remembered that his messenger’s sampan was still lying on the beach, and that Kiang Riboug could not start before nightfall. It was a slip which might give the enemy a clue to his intentions, and perhaps cost the messenger his life. The king looked up sharply. ‘ Between here and Idagostui lies a dangerous country/ he said, ‘ it is not easy to communicate with the soldiers there. And now to pass to another subject; you have, this morning, insulted my kinsman, Prince Ritakraja - 5 ‘ Prince Ritakraja is a cunning scoundrel/ inter¬ rupted Sir John, speaking in calm, deliberate tones. ‘ I have his measure ; I know him to be plotting against us, and inciting, the people to rebel. And I warn you, King Kanakra, that you will one day bitterly repent having cast in your lot with this man. I believe he is "as false to you as he is to us. He and I have an account to settle yet, English girls cannot be forcibly taken away with impunity.’ . ‘ Nor can houses be attacked at midnight without serious consequences!’ blustered the king, hotly 1 My daughter and niece were kept there against their "will ; "they are British subjects. I had every right to rescue them.3 ‘ Let us not talk any more of these things/ returned Kanakra, impatiently. ‘Ho you refuse to accept mv terms ; to give up your position here and leave within a given time ? ’ ‘I do. My duty compels me to remain/ said Sir John, promptly and firmly. (< Continued at page 114.)

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112 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. “ Where is England? Thousands of miles beyond the great seas.”

Page 120

THE COTTAGER’S DAUGHTER.

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No. XV. CHATTERBOX. Timely arrival of Bill on the scene of action. Q

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114 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. VASCO ISLAND. [Continued from page 111.) AN A Kit A again consulted the two young counsellors standing at his right hand. They both spoke in eager, excited tones, and were apparently urging the king on to do something of which he seemed to doubt the wisdom. At last, how¬ ever, his scruples seemed to have vanished, for, turning again to Sir John, he said, with a mocking smile : 1 1 cannot take that for a satisfactory answer to my demand. I am tired or being in tutelage to the English. I am a king without a kingdom, a ruler without being allowed to rule. Sir John Palgrave, you must remain at the Palace, until you see fit to act as I wish.’ Which plainly meant that the British Resident might consider himself a prisoner. Before Sir John could consider his position a slight hubbub at the garden gate attracted his attention, and a moment later one of the Malay servants approached him with the Admiral’s note in his hand. Asking Kanakra’s permission to read it, Sir John broke it open and read : — < Bill is bringing this, he may be of use to you, clear out as soon as you see half a chance. R. B. The faithful Bill had been forcibly detained out¬ side, whilst the note had been taken from him and brought into the garden. Sir John felt as if he had suddenly received a large reinforcement. Turning to the king, he said coolly: T shall return to the Residency at once, and it will go ill with anybody who attempts to stop me on my way.’ ‘ See that he does not pass ! ' cried Kanakra, anguly to the attendants. ‘ Stand back, all of you! ' exclaimed Sir John, who in a trice was seen to have a brace of revolvers in his hand. Without the least haste apparent in his movements, he walked steadily to the garden gate, the Malays failing back on each side as he advanced. But the gate itself was fast. He turned and Set his back against it, keeping the revolvers pointed in the direction of the nearest of his foes, not one of whom dared be the first victim to fall to the deadly weapons. The king’s attendants did not know what to do in face of the unexpected fight shown by their intended victim; all was confusion, when, with a vigorous rush through the natives guarding the gate, from the outside, Bill reached it, and wrenched it open. Sir John was through it and standing on the other side in a moment. 1 Jump the wall on the shore,’ cried Bill, ‘ the boat is there, sir ! ’ In a minute the Resident and Bill leaped over the low wall and dashed across the beach for the sampan, in which the latter had just paddled over from the island. Hotly pursued by the Malays, who were rapidly overtaking them, Sir John turned, and, deliberately aiming at the leading man, shot him dead, and this brought them to a moment¬ ary check ; but, before the smoke had wreathed itself awav over their heads, another rush was made and two Malays laid hold of the sampan as the* fugitives were trying to shove her off. ‘ Drop it, you ugly swab ! ’ cried Bill, enforcing his speech by such a terrific i facer ’ that the Malay s- naturally flat nose became almost level with the rest of Ins facG. He went down like a sack of flour. Sir John seized the paddles and with the edge of it struck the second man a sharp blow on the knuckles, causing him to let go the side of the sampan with a howl of pain. In the same moment the two Englishmen quickly shoved off, and then paddled for their lives in the direction of the island. With sampans and prahus lying on the beach in all directions, the Malays lost very little time in continuing the pursuit of the two men over the strip of sea which divided them from their island sanctuary. Amid all sorts of discordant yelling, the various small craft were pushed off into the water, the savasre rowers and paddlers leapt in and strove their utmost to overtake the fugitives. Unluckily, the sampan in which the Resident and the faithful Bill were was only provided with one paddle. This Bill plied vigorously and to good purpose, making the light canoe shoot over the blue sea at tremendous speed. But the natives were not only strong — their skill greatly exceeded that of the rough British seamen, and it soon became apparent that the Malays were rapidly overhauling their quarry. ‘ Yes, yes, your honour, I knows!’ quoth Bill, casting a glance over his shoulder at the yelling horde behind. ‘ I see we can’t get away from them ; they go faster than we, but we a,re not going to give up as long as we can move this old bit of bark ’ (this was Bill’s contemptuous term for all sampans) ‘ through the water. And you, sir, can send them another bullet or two afore we has to give up. This here craft just astern of us will catch us up in less than a minute now.’ But still he plunged his paddle furiously into the blue water — the seaman was not made of the stuff that lightly surrenders to adverse fate. Tough in muscle^ he meant 4 giving them a run for their money,’ as he quaintly phrased it, before resigning all hope of life, and so he drove the sampan along. A prahu, propelled by four rowers, and having three other Malays in bow and stern, had got within a distance of about twenty feet of the fugitives when Sir John fired half-a-dozen shots into it, aiming not at the men, but at that part of the craft which was below the water-line. Almost instantly the prahu began to sink, and those in her sprang into the water ; but three more prahus quickly closed in upon the two Englishmen, and their crews, paying no heed to the cries for help of their fellows struggling in the water, pressed on to the capture. Just" at that moment the dull boom of artillery came over the water and struck with surprise on the ears of pursuing and pursued alike. The Admiral had been anxiously scanning every movement visible from the island through his telescope, and, when he saw the chase and realised that the fugitives must

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No. XY. CHATTERBOX. 115 certainly be overtaken, he rushed for Sergeant Tom Lobb, and told him to fire a charge of blank cartridge in the direction of the prahu9, by way of a gentle hint as to what they would get if they did not give up the pursuit. At the same moment that the long gun was fired, a sampan, manned by Jack Chesney and Curzon, shot out from the Yasco beach. The two young men paddled quickly to a point about two hundred yards into the channel, then stopped and picked up their Winchester repeating rifles. Two sharp cracks, two white puffs of smoke, and the bowman of the leading prahu fell over his oar, dead. Another rower at the same moment pitched headlong over¬ board, mortally wounded. Again the two reports, and two more Malays fell. Sir John was making deadly practice also with his revolvers, fighting desperately against odds which it would have been impossible to cope with but for the fortunate circumstance that the Malays had started in such haste that they had brought no firearms with them. Thrown into utter confusion by this new and unexpected attack, and greatly disconcerted by the accuracy and deadliness of the Winchesters, they wavered, hesitated, resumed the chase for a few moments, then gave it up altogether as they saw other sampans being pushed off from the island to the aid of the Resident, manned by the English. Sir John and his faithful follower were saved, Hostilities having now been begun in earnest, and all pretence of friendly relations between the Malays and the British authority being abandoned, nothing remained to those on Yasco Island but to 1 put their house in order ; by strengthening their position and preparing for a stubborn defence of the Residency. Sir John’s first act was to clear out all the Malays, fishermen or otherwise, on the island. To this rule an exception was made in favour of some half-dozen trusted servants in his own household, and about a similar number, all told, at the houses of Curzon and the two other European residents. All the rest had to leave within an hour’s time of the warning being given them. Next, the ex-artillerymen, their wives, and families, were all ordered to take up their quarters at the Residency, and the European families told to hold themselves in readiness to retreat within the same hospitable walls in the event of its being found impossible to hold the island itself. About this matter, however, the defenders were very hopeful, on account of the marshes lying all round it, except for a space of fifty yards or so, just opposite that part of the mainland where the king's palace stood. Here it was that the enemy must land, if at all, and this place was most effectively covered by the big guns. What Sir John chiefly had to fear was an attack in large numbers under cover of the night. This it might be found extremely difficult to resist. However, it was fortunate that there was so small a space for the landing of boats. Had a landing been easy on other portions of the island, the task of defending it with the limited resources at his command would have been hopeless. As it was, the defenders were able to concentrate all their energies upon the one landing-place, and both the big guns were trained on to that spot. A long sleep bad done much to enable the t wo girls to recover from their fright and the fatigue of their adventures of the night before. Nita Palgrave had slept so late into the day that, fortunately for her peace of mind, she had known nothing of Sir John’s perilous visit to the king’s palace until the booming of the long gun had aroused her. Even then her impression was that some salute was being fired, and it was only when the report of small arms broke upon her ears that she began to be at all afraid. By that time her father’s danger was, to all intents and purposes, over, and, looking from her window, she soon saw the sampans landing, containing the Resident and Bill, Curzon and Chesney, and several more of the small band attached to the Residency, who had hurriedly put off to the rescue. Admiral Beufleet met the returning party on the beach, and, hearing m a few words from Sir John what had taken place, he indulged in some opinions on Malays in general, and the king in particular, which were — well, let us say, outspoken ! ‘ Did you punch any of them, Bill ? ’ asked the Admiral. Bill saluted as though he still stood on the deck of a man-o’-war. ‘ One, your honour ! ’ 1 Only one ? 1 repeated the Admiral in somewhat disappointed tones, 6 Well, what happened ? ’ ‘ Nose flattened, your honour ! ’ ‘ Well, that is something, at any rate ; but, still, it is not quite satisfying.’ * No, your honour ! ’ 1 Must do better next time, Bill.’ i Yes, your honour ! ’ Bill again saluted solemnly and walked off; the Admiral joined bis brother-in-law, and the two girls, who were standing together, talking over Sir John’s fortunate escape, and the prospects of the coming struggle. Sir John had considered it quite useless to try to disguise from the girls or their aunt the fact that they would shortly be called upon to engage in a severe struggle ; the knowledge of such a thing could only be postponed, at longest, for a few hours. Neither of the girls was at all alarmed at the idea of an attack. It would be so different to be assailed when in the midst of friends to the horrible position they bad so recently occupied as prisoners in the house of a fierce semi-savage like Ritakraja. Danger loses half its terrors when shared with others. They therefore thanked Heaven, in their hearts, for being safely on the island, and awaited events m a perfectly calm, if not peaceful, frame of mind. Miss Benfleet, on the other hand, was inclined to be rather hysterical at the thought of an attack by ‘ those horrid blacks,’ as she called them. She supposed that they would all be murdered in their beds and wake up one morning with their throats cut At this point the Admiral interfered. ‘Margaret ! 1 am astonished at you. Why should you imagine we are going to let the blackies get aboard our ship — house, I should say ? Have we not a right good crew ? and a skipper we can trust P You believe me, we shall very soon beat off these chaps.’ ( Continued at page 122.)

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116 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. The Home of the Carp. A QUIET POOL. THE pool lies still and quiet amidst its fringe of pollard-trees and bushes. An angler is patiently awaiting the coming of some sign of the fine carp he knows to be lurking within its cool and shady depths : it is ju9t such a place as that shyest of shy fish loves to dwell in. But wary as is the carp, the angler will outvie him in patience once the tempting morsel of bait is taken fair hold of ; hook and line will soon complete the good fish’s discom¬ fiture and reward the fisherman’s skill. F. R. SURPRISED BY THE WOLVES. AMONG all wild beasts, I do not think one can be found which has so bad a character as the Wolf. In fact and fiction both, the wolf appears often a creature to be fought or avoided, a terror to travellers, and a danger to villages and lonely cot¬ tages. Forests, hills, prairies, and all sorts of places afford the wolf a home, and it is the habit of the animal to hunt in large packs or parties, going over the ground with a steady, swinging trot. Few are the animals able to resist the attack of a single wolf, much less of a party ; even the well-coated bear often falls a victim. Still, a wolf has some good qualities. The parent.' are said to be very careful over the young wolves, and a wolf kept in confinement has shown affection towards the person who has to give it food. Oui illustration shows the peril which workers may have to encounter whose employment is amongst the forests. There is a wood-cutter’s tent, such as men use who are engaged in felling trees, and which the} can move from place to place as may be necessary. It is nearing the time for dinner, so they have made a fire, putting over it, in gipsy fashion, a pot of savoury stew. They have no suspicion that wolves are in the neighbourhood, but a troop is near ; they smell the tasty food, and rush eagerly towards it. The foremost of them soon discover that it cannot be touched, others that are farther off press on. Hap¬ pily, the men are provided with guns, which they will have to use. Sometimes a successful shot or two, killing one of the wolves, may scare off the rest — about this, however, there is no certainty. Some forests have huts put together for the wood¬ cutters, of strong logs, generally provided with a door, and a hole at the top to let out the smoke, should a fire be lighted inside. One of these huts proved very serviceable to a villager who bad to journey on horseback upon a lonely road, far off from any town, to take a message. It was getting dark when he came back passing the edge of a big forest, and to

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Foiled of a Meal. his alarm he saw the dim forms of wolves amongst the trees. He watched them prowling along, and felt convinced that directly he got into the open, they would pursue his track, and neither he nor his horse could have much hope of escaping with life. But he remembered that a small hut stood not far distant in the foxest, and towards this he went at / full gallop and reached it safely. His horse could not enter it, so he turned the animal loose, hoping that he might outstrip the wolves when he had no rider. Entering, he found not any bolt to the door, but, by the help of a mallet and some wedges of wood, he was able to fix it, so that it would not easily yield to outside pressure. Soon the wolves attacked him in force, and he heard them fling themselves against the door. Then he noticed them scratching outside,

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118 CHATTERBOX. No. XY. and he was afraid that, as the hut had no foundation, they would manage to loosen the boards somewhere, and make one of the sides give way. More alarming still, some mounted the roof, and he saw the glaring eyes of one peer down through the opening made for the smoke. For hours he was in suspense ; at last they rushed off. The man’s shouts, after awhile, were heard by travellers on the road, who came and rescued him. J. B. S. C. ROGER. UBING a summer spent in a pleasant farm-house on the Bay of Fundy coast, in Nova Scotia, I made the acquaint¬ ance of a fine sturdy family of boys. The boys were very fond of animals, and all on the farm, from the great Percheron horses down to the Maltese kitten, came in for a share of kind words and kind treatment; but of the many pets, Boger, a fine Scotch collie, was chief. He had been brought from Scotland when a pup by a sailor uncle, and had been presented to Bruce, the youngest of the boys. Boger was a thoroughbred collie, and full of the instincts of his kind. There were no flocks to herd in this rich marsh-land, but Boger employed himself in looking after the cattle, gathering them from the coverts of the wooded pasture, making warning bounces towards the stragglers, and patiently guiding refractory heifers, until the whole herd stood with tossing horns and gentle ‘ moo’s ’ at the barnyard bars, waiting to be let in. One day the family all went off on a berry-picking expedition, and I was left in charge, with Boger as protector. The long hours of the bright forenoon passed very quietly. Boger lay outside, near the kennel, sleeping with one eye open, and now and then walking down the path to scan the high road and to peep through the bars at Bruce’s Jersey calf, a pretty, delicate little creature that had been given to. him by a neighbouring farmer, who thought the ‘ sickly critter ’ not worth the trouble of rearing, ‘ even if it was a St. Lambert Jersey.’ After lunch, I lay down for a nap, from which I was awakened by a long, dull peal of thunder. I confess to being desperately afraid of thunder and lightning. The hollow roar of the incoming tide sounded loud and hoarse ; the big wave called the ‘bore’ was rushing up, a seething mass of foam, and behind the ‘ bore ’ a dense black cloud stretched from the sky to the angry sea. As I looked, forked lightning played along the cloud, then came a deafening crash of thunder. The tree-tops bent before the gale, and hailstones rattled on the roof. In terror I buried my head in the pillow, but pre¬ sently roused myself to see if Boger was at the porch door, waiting to get inside. There was no sign of him in the yard ; but, far away, bounding over the outer pasture fence, was the sagacious dog. He was after Bruce’s calf. All the instincts fostered by careful Highland shepherds in his ancestors were cropping out in Boger. The pouring rain and sharp hailstones of this unusual storm would be very trying to the tender little calf. So interested did I become in watching them that I forgot my nervous terror. The dog coaxed and drove by turns, and at last the terrified calf seemed to understand, for she trotted along the path with her pretty fawn coat close against Boger’s shaggy side. By the time the bars were reached, I had grown bold enough to go out and let them in. With a little bark of satis¬ faction Boger drove his charge into the open door of the cow-stable ; then, shaking his shaggy coat to get rid of the hail, he settled himself across the door-step to * keep watch and ward.’ Christina Boss Frame. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 17. — Word Puzzles — Terminations. (a.) — Find words from the following definitions all ending in the same shorter word, which means a place of safety. 1. Seen on the water and in a forest ; a sound made by an animal. 2. An ornamental, enclosed piece of ground. 3. A melodious singer. 4. A large, voracious fish. 5. To enter on board a ship. G. Strong, stiff. 7. xi coin ; a visible line or impression. 8. To land from a ship or boat. 9. To take notice, to observe. 10. An island in the English Channel. 11. A sign of fire. 12. Listen! (b.) — The seventeenth part of fifty-one divided by three. 1. A hard mineral substance. 2. A sound. 3. Completed. 4. A very idle creature. 5. The human frame-work. 6. One of five ; a girdle. 7. Lonely. 8. To compensate, to make amends. (c.) — A female relative. 1. To visit frequently. 2. « Quit my sight I ’ 3. Very thin. 4. To frighten, to discourage, o. To reproach with insult. (d.) — A word expressing power, capacity. 1. A very necessary piece of furniture. 2. An equine dwelling. 3. A large, strong rope or chain. 4. Fitted for its purpose. 5. A good quality for a book. 6. That can be carried. 7. A fiction with a purpose. 8. A valuable fur. 9. Intelligent, skilful ; having requisite qualifications. 10. An officer whose duty it is to try to preserve peace. 11. Very unhappy. 12. The pointed part of a roof. C. C. [. Ansioers at page 138.]

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‘No. XY. CHATTERBOX. 119 ANSWERS. 15. — 1. 56 first class, 112 second, 168 third. 2. 20 years. 3. A., 30s. ; B., 10s. 4. 45 and 15. 5. 20 at Is. 6 d. ; 30 at 8 d, 6. 20 men, 30 women. 7. 2s. 6 d. 8. 19 days. 16. — (a.)— 1. I. 2. In. 3. Ink. 4. Kind. 5. Drink. 6. Kinder. 7. Kindred. (b,)-1. A. 2. At. 3. To eat. 4. East. 5. Caste. 6. Castle. 7. Castile. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. A CHRISTMAS GIFT. (Concluded from page 108.) THE sun was struggling to break through, I recollect, and it tempered the wind a bit when I again made my way to Ivy Cottage, and the very first thing that struck me, sir, upon entering the parlour was the cheerful air it wore compared with the dreariness of the night before. There was a big wood fire crackling up the chimney, and its ruddy blaze fell full upon the baby that was rolling about the hearth most contentedly. The old man was clearing away the breakfast things, and, directly I goes in, he draws himself up and glares at me quite affronted, as it were. ‘ Hope I don’t intrude, Mr. Sadler ?’ says I, feeling rather took aback, for they looked so cosy and home¬ like, that queer- assorted pair. ‘ My wife sent me along,’ I continues, pleasantly, 1 to see if you would like to be rid of the boy you have so kindly sheltered for the night. In fact, I am to be sure and bring him back with me at once — those were her very words.’ ‘ In— deed ! ’ he drawls out, scornfully. ‘ So you have not got enough of your own that you must needs want another. It must pay mighty well to be in the Surrey Constabulary,’ says he, with a sneer. ‘No Christmas bills on your conscience, eh, Lundy?' ‘No, thank Heaven/ says I, drawing a sigh of relief. 1 But what about the baby, Mr. Sadler ?’ ‘ Well/ says he, coming up to me and speaking quite huffily, 1 he slept like a top, and he has had his breakfast, and enjoyed it. Don’t he look all right ? ’ ‘ As right as a trivet/ I answers, readily, ‘ and chirpy, too. But’ — and here I gazed at the child in a doubtful sort of manner — ‘ I guess he will be wanting his tub, Mr. Sadler, and it is not what you may call a man’s line of business to give him that.’ Old Ben’s countenance had suddenly fallen ; he became so downcast that I felt quite sorry for him. ‘ If you would care to keep him over to-dav/ I goes on, cautiously, 6 1 might send along Mary Sophia. She is a rare hand . at babies is Mary Sophia, and she would tidy him up in a jiffv .’ There was a short interval, during which the child tumbled over Ben’s feet, caught hold of a stray bootlace, and gurgled with delight. ‘ I suppose she had better come/ says he, at last, with a shade more of civility in his bearing. ‘ She might tip me a wrinkle or two, eh, Lundy ?' ‘ She will willingly do that. And now I must trot/ says I, as the Christmas bells rang out, for there is nothing upsets me more, sir, than to be late for morning service. ‘ If there is aught we can do to help, you have just got to tell my girl/ says I ; ‘ and if no one turns up to ask for the boy, why, Molly will be passing this way to-morrow, Mr. Sadler, and you can talk it over with her. Of course, we could not afford to take the child for good; but — well, there is always the Foundling Asylum as a last re¬ source, you know/ and I assumed a hard, official tone. * There is no call for many words on the matter, says the old chap, with a sudden change in his voice. * The child was brought to me on a Christmas Eve, to make me think again of the Christmas Child that I had well-nigh forgotten. It has been sent to me — a poor, lonely, selfish, old fellow — to keep me alive a while longer, and to bring me a blessing afore I quit a world that has only helped to harden me. Anyhow, I look upon the boy as a Christmas gift, and I mean to christen him Noel. There, constable, that is my message to Mrs. Lundy. And now go home, and send me your Mary Sophia/ Whereupon I took a step nearer and stretched out my hand. There was a lump in my throat that time, sir, and no mistake. ‘ A merry Christmas, Mr. Sadler/ I blurts out, and then hurries across the room, for fear I should make a fool of myself ; but at the door I turns and takes a last look at the baby, laughing and kicking, and as happy as a king, on old Benjamin’s knee. So the long and the short of it was that the child • stopped where he was, and that Mary Sophia went regular to the cottage every night and morning, to see to the washing and dressing and undressing of him. This continued until the boy grew old enough to be left to Ben’s care, and he paid her handsomely for her services — he really did, sir. In conclusion — as the Rector says in his sermon, when he thinks we have had enough — the boy’s parentage always remained a mystery, and I believe the old man was glad of it. Some years^ later they moved from the village, to go and live in a larger house, in Guildford. There Mr. Sadler set up a housekeeper, and did the thing comfortable, for he stinted and scraped no longer. The boy was well taught at a day school in the neighbourhood, and turned out a credit to his adopted father, to whom he was tenderly attached. About a year since, the old man passed away, leav¬ ing all he possessed to Noel. The young man is now a clerk in the local bank, and means to take home a bride, I hear, this Christmas-tide. ‘ It is the most blessed season of all the year/ says he, when I met him the other day in Guildford ; ‘and every time it comes round I shall dwell with deeper love and gratitude on the memory of mv dear old dad.’ Well, good night, sir, if you must be going. Nay, nay, sir, the kindness is all on your side, and I have only got to thank you for your welcome company. Flora Schmalz.

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Hope I don’t intrude, Mr. Sadler?

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11

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122 CHATTERBOX. No. XVI. VASCO ISLAND. (Continued from page 115.) 2 defenders of Vasco Island had not long to wait for the first move on the part of Ritakraja’s forces. About three in the after¬ noon those standing on the Residency verandah were able to plainly make out a movement on the main¬ land beach ; crowds of the n atives were gathered round what appeared to be a raft of some description lying near the water’s edge ; there was much running to and fro and a great deal of wild gesticulation, all of which could be plainly seen through strong glasses from the island — the watchers could even faintly hear the discordant shouts and yells of the workers, and the sound of axes and hammers being plied. . ‘ What, are they up to now with that raft — if it is a raft?’ said Sir John, lowering his glass after a prolonged look. ‘ I can’t think,’ answered Chesney, with a puzzled air, ‘ unless they intend to put a lot of men on it and tow it across here, hoping to land them and over¬ whelm us by sheer numbers/ The Resident shook his head. ‘ No. They know we have these two guns and could sweep them off the raft hy the dozen/ 1 Perhaps, sir, they are merely getting ready for a night attack.’ ‘ That is more likely, and would be far worse for us too. There is no doubt about it that the night is our most dangerous time. The landing-place must be thoroughly well watched. I have already sent three of the gunners to get as much sleep as possible now, so that they may be fresh and lively for watching to-night. By "the way, Chesney, are you willing to be put in command of the first watch, beginning at eight o’clock P ' ‘ I am entirely at your service, Sir John,’ answered the young man, cheerfully. ‘As you know, I am perfectly well again, and getting as hard as nails ; so send me where you like. Halloa ! what are they doing now P ’ For there was a fresh commotion on the opposite shore, and soon a large number of the natives could be seen dragging a field gun on its limber down to the edge of the sea : the large raft was got almost afloat, and then it was evident that they were making efforts to get the gun on to it. ‘ Oh, oh ! my beauties, that is your little game, is it ? ’ said the Admiral, who had joined his brother- in-law and Chesney on the verandah ; ‘ that is your little game — a floating battery. And not a bad notion either. They will tow it over within close range, and then let drive at the house. Is not that what they are trying to do, John ? ’ The Resident nodded. ‘ I don’t think they will hurt the house, Roddy,’ lie said ; 6 Sergeant Tom Lobb will have a remark to make on the subject as soon as they come within range of the long gun ! ’ And looking out before them they saw the serjeant, already hovering about his black-throated charge, lanyon in hand, accompanied by his faithful assistants. Sir John left the balcony and strolled down to the earthworks. The Malay plan of attack was quickly revealed. Under cover of the fire of their floating gun they intended to make an assault in force on the island, and already hundreds of sampans and prahus were being either got ready or launched, manned by natives wearing their full fighting costume, and armed to the teeth. They were evidently determined not to again make the mistake of encountering their English foes without firearms. But the rudely built raft was not yet afloat. The gun lashings seemed to be giving much trouble. After some hour and a half’s fevered work during which time the chief war prahu had got afloat and put back again no less than three times — all seemed ready for a start, and the great lumbering raft, dragged and shoved by scores of dark-skinned warriors, some in, some out of the water, at length plunged into the sea, bearing the big gun and some twenty Dyaks and Malays to serve it against the hated English. The raft was at once taken in tow by several small craft, and soon began to move slowly over the channel in the direction of the island. The whole of the little sea appeared to be alive with sampans full of Malay warriors, and as they approached in all the glory and hideousness of their war paint, copper rings through the ears, brass armlets, and so on, and waving their curved krisses in the air, and thumping tom-toms and cymbals, the sight, to the little band upon the island could not fail to be both an alarming and an unpleasant one. The chief war prahu, propelled by some dozen row^ers, headed the smaller craft, and, standing up in the stern, his European clothing discarded in favour of the savage native dress, stood Ritakraja, kriss in hand, for once in his true colours. . # # As we have said, the sight and noise combined was alarming, even to the strongest nerves ; the yells grew deafening as the Malays drew nearer and nearer. Poor ’Miss Benfleet, who had caught a momentary glimpse of the approaching enemy from a window, flung herself upon her bed and went into strong hysterics ; the terrified Malay women servants crooned on the floor, moaning and wringing their hands; Nita and Adela, though feeling upset and alarmed, bravely offered to load guns or carry ammunition, or, in fact, assist in any way in which they could be made useful. i No, no, girls,’ cried Admiral Roddy, as his rugged old face hardened at the sound of the horrid din. ‘ Run iu and comfort that silly old woman, your aunt. It will be the safest place also for you — the bullets may begin to fly about pretty soon.’ It was quickly seen that the prahu, though a small one, carried a brass carronade at her bows. This, and the raft-borne field gun, then, would form their artillery force. Sir John noticed this with a quick eye; then going behind the earthworks, he said to Sergeant Lobb : ‘ Aim low when you fire, and don’t

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No. XVI. CHATTERBOX. 123 fire at all until either the prahu or the raft are within close range. Neither of their guns will do ' much execution at anything over a quarter of a i mile ; they are old, and their powder is poor stuff, I know.’ Sergeant Lobb saluted in obedience. ‘ Who shall give the signal to fire, sir P ' he asked. ‘ Give it yourself, Sergeant ; give it yourself,’ answered Sir John, walking away. Meantime, the whole force of white men, including the ex-artillerymen, Curzon, the Admiral, and Jack Chesney, were standing on the beach behind the earthworks, fully armed, and prepared for the worst in the event of their foes effecting a landing. Every man, however, well knew the hopelessness of resistance in the event of that landing becoming an accomplished fact. It would be less than twenty white men against twenty score of savages, and the weakest must go to the wall. Still, they meant to sell their lives at such a price that the victors would have cause to repent of the bargain. Sir John had determined that he would shoot the girls rather than let them fall into the hands of the Malays, but, at present, he saw small cause for alarm. By this time the raft had been towed to within about four hundred yards of the island ; the sam¬ pans cast off their tow lines, and, as the raft gently drifted with the tide, the native gunners trained their piece to bear directly on the Residency. But, long before their cumbrous preparations were com¬ pleted, Sergeant Lobb was ready for them. With a last word to his men, he caught hold of the lanyard and pulled ; a thunderous roar, a flash of flame leaping from the iron throat, and, as the smoke gradually drifted away before the light breeze then blowing off the shore, a cheer went up from Vasco Island, for the shot had struck the enemy's gun, knocking it clean off the raft, to find its final billet at the bottom of the sea. Half a dozen or more of the gunners went with it, and near!}7- every man left on the raft was wounded by the flying splinters. i Sponge out and load again, quick my lads 1 Be smart. Remember we have only got one other gun !’ cried the Sergeant, briskly. * A splendid shot, Lobb, that ! ’ exclaimed the Resident. 1 Run to the other gun and give them the benefit of that before they can fire at us with the prahu’s carronade;’ and, whilst eager hands set about reloading the first gun, the Sergeant ran over to the second Training it on to the advancing bows of the war prahu, he was in the act of taking a final sight when the brass carronade was fired. The shot struck one end of the verandah, smashing it and sending the bamboo splinters in all directions. Then it buried itself harmlessly in the garden beyond. Shrieking, yelling, beating drums and tom-toms, and clashing great copper cymbals together, those manning the prahu, under cover of its own gun- smoke, made a quick dash at the landing-stage, the men in the forward part of the vessel firing shots rapidly at any one they saw standing on the shore. Suddenly the second gun roared from behind the earthworks ; and, in a moment, the hideous war- song, tom-tom beating, and cymbal clashing was 1 changed into shrieks of agony and despair, as the iron messenger plunged through the planking of the hull, and then made its way, in an upward direction, through the light deck, mangling rowers and armed men alike in its awful course. In less than two minutes the big war prahu settled down and sank like a stone, carrying brass carronade and at least forty men down with it. Some few of them were picked up by the sampans, but many who were badly wounded, either by the shot itself or the splinters caused by it, sank beneath the surface before help could be given them. In less than five minutes the attacking party were in full retreat. 1 1 am thankful none of them succeeded in landing,’ cried the Admiral. 1 1 could have welcomed one of them if he had landed here though, Admiral ! * cried Chesney — ‘ Ritakraja/ ‘ Right ! ’ cried the old tar ; 6 a quarter of an hour on the back lawn with him alone, eh p I should have enjoyed it ! ' Judging by the look in the Admirals eye, it is fair to presume that Ritakraja would not have done so. Sir John joined them at this juncture, looking more at his ease than lie had done at any time during the past two months. 6 1 am sorry that villain Ritakraja escaped un¬ hurt,’ he said ; ‘ I saw him jump into the water when the prahu went down, and clamber into a sampan a few yards away. The most fortunate part of the whole of to-day s business is that they have lost the only two guns which could have done us any real damage. The rest are, to the best of my belief, useless ; even these that have been sent to the bottom of the sea to-dav were no good unless brought into far less than rifle-range. If they had had anything in the way of effective artillery, of course they could have reduced the Residency to ruins from the opposite shore. I fancy our long guns could make the king’s palace pretty lively from here.’ ‘ I have no doubt about that,’ returned Chesney, laughing. ‘ The “ game of long bowls ” is the only one we must play, of course ; at close quarters they must almost certainly win, on account of their numbers ; ’ and then, as the young Lieutenant caught a fleeting glimpse of white dresses on the wrecked verandah, lie sauntered away in the direction of the house. (Continued at -page 134.) STEALING- A PONY’S HAIR. TTEI1E is a rather singular sight : a couple of crows JLL are perched upon the back of a pony, busily engaged in doing something, while other crows, poising on the wing close by, are watching the operation. Probably they are expecting to share the spoil, whatever it is. The fact is that the pony, from some cause or other, is losing its hair, and the birds, not content with picking up such as may fall, have settled on the animal to carry off bunches. The nest of the crow is generally placed high up, in the fork of a large tree; the structure is formed of bits

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Stealing a Pony’s Hair. of wood and twigs, these are cushioned with wool or hair, to keep out the wind from the young brood. Birds of several kinds have been said sometimes to sit upon the backs of sheep during the spring, when their wool is getting loose, to obtain materials for their nests. For this reason people who wish to entice birds to build in their gardens or shrubberies, have now and then hung up bags of the things that birds often make choice of, such as wool, hair, feathers, and moss. Birds have fancies for several odd things when nest-building : there are those which seek out soft roots, some like bits of bark of trees, these they break up with their bills. Usually,

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No. XVI. CHATTERBOX. 125 it is the larger birds that make the roughest nests, and they often mix up clay with the other articles chosen, to bind them together firmly. I might add, that birds are believed to perch at times upon the backs of cattle and sheep to pick up various insects which are lodged in their coats, or buried partly in the skin. J. R. S. C. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. IV.— STARFISHES (ASTEROIDEA). H E especial kind of Starfish which we saw climbing down the wall of our beautiful pool rejoices in the name of ‘ Uraster Rubens/ and is commonly known as ‘ Five Fingers.7 Like the Echinus, the whole tribe of Asteroidea propel themselves along by means of tube feet. Those of the starfishes are shaped like brass-headed nails, the head of which is inside the creature’s body and full of water, from which the protuding legs are supplied at pleasure. The mouth is underneath, and all the family are gifted with huge appetites, quite an ordinary specimen being equal to demolishing a large double-shelled fish. How the starfish persuades the oyster or mussel to open its closely fitting shells — which a human being can only do with an especial tool for the purpose — has never been quite solved, although learned folk have tried to account for it in various ways. The one certain thing is that Mr. Five Fingers might enjoy a longer life if he did not choose to compete with his betters in the choice of food, as a terrible slaughter of his fraternity goes on wherever an oyster-bed is established. Last season no less than five thousand bushel baskets of starfishes were taken from one large bed. If we only remember what a large thing a bushel basket is compared to a starfish, we may imagine the millions of the poor little creatures which go yearly to the farmers to fertilise their fields. One of our great naturalists has told us a way by which we may examine the complicated skeleton of a starfish to perfection, and next time I go to the sea-shore I intend to follow his advice, and suggest j that you should do the same. It is very easy to 1 find one on the rocks or sand, and as I am sure none of us would care to cause any living animal suffer¬ ing, we can easily find out if it is dead by putting it into sea water for a few minutes, and then suddenly turning it over, upside down. If alive, the tiny feet on the under surface will begin to move, and then we had better hunt about for another specimen. Next, we should go inland a little and look for an ant’s nest, and we are pretty sure to find one in any path leading down to the shore, and there we lay our starfish down and leave it alone. If we are anxious to have an especially good specimen, it is well to put the creature in a little box, either of card or wood, in which we have bored a number of fair-sized holes. In a few days every scrap of skin and flesh will have been taken away by the ants, and the skeleton will look like a curiously carved ornament of ivory. Sometimes we may be fortunate enough to find quite another specimen of Asteroidea , called Solaster papposa . As you will see from the illustration, this highly favoured individual has twelve rays, and it is usually of a beautifully bright red colour. From Uraster Rubens. Solaster Papposa. these superior attractions it is often known as the Sun-star, and it is worth a good deal of trouble in seeking at quite low water. Another great species of the Asteroidea is made up of the * Brittle Stars/ which have gained this name from their ability to break themselves up at the approach of danger. Most of these have small circular bodies and long slender rays — in fact, their form is more like that of the spider than of the starfish. Great quantities of these creatures come up in dredges, and yet it is rare to find one perfect, and naturalists have given most comical accounts of the fashion in which their hopes of attaining an unbroken specimen have been frustrated by the

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126 CHATTERBOX. No. XYI. ( animal coolly tossing off some or all of its arms, just as you or I might throw off our gloves or slippers. To a human" being, losing an arm or a leg means being maimed for life, but to the A. steroidea the loss is quite a trifling matter, as it has the power of growing limbs at pleasure. Some species of this family carry their babies in pouches, kangaroo fashion, others shelter them between their rays; but in most kinds the eggs are simply liberated, and such infant starfishes as are not demolished by hungry fishes, pass through various changes before attaining their final form. Helena Heath. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. ^ EDWARD WAVERLEY/ \)jfe wr / HEN first introduced to our * hero, Edward Waverley, he is about to take leave of his family to join a regiment of dragoons, in which he has obtained a commission. He was the son of Richard Waverley and nephew of Sir Everard Waverley, of Waverley Honour, to whose title and estates he was heir. The tale is of the time of King George I. of England, and Elector of Hanover, when there were yet many in this country who were lovers of the Stuart line. The brothers Waverley were attached to different sides: the aristocratic and Tory (Con¬ servative) Sir Everard to the unfortunate Stuarts ; while the younger brother, Richard, the father of Edward, entered life as a Whig (Liberal) and a friend of the House of Hanover. The noble lord showed his indignation towards his brother by ignoring him ; he almost made up his mind at one moment to disin¬ herit him, as not only had Richard Waverley joined the opposite side and accepted a position under the new government, but he had also married Judith, the heiress of Oliver Bradshawe, whose arms were the same as those of Bradshawe, the regicide.t It was quite by an accident that little Edward, when five vears old, encountered his uncle, Sir Everard. It chanced that the child with his maid had strayed one morning to a mile’s distance from the avenue of Brerewood Lodge, his father’s seat. Their attention was attracted by a carriage drawn by six stately long¬ tailed black horses, and with as much carving and gilding as would have done honour to my Lord Mayor’s. It was waiting for the owner, who was at a little distance inspecting the progress of a half-built farm¬ house. The child no sooner saw the coat-of-arms * Waverley is one of Sir Walter Scott’s best books, and it is from it that the Waverley novels take their name. f A regicide, as some of you may know, is a murderer of a king, and the king here alluded to was Charles I., whose death-warrant Bradshawe had signed. on the gilt coach and six than he determined to climb up into it. In vain the maid-servant, tried to persuade him away ; he was obstinate in his determination to see for himself the owner of the coach, that he might ride beside him. Sir Everard, who had no children of his own to inherit his title and estates, felt moved with affection as he saw the round-faced, rosy boy bearing his eye and name. The lad should be his heir. He spoke kindly to the child and gave way to the little fellow’s wishes to such an extent that he sent the boy and his attendant home in the carriage to Brerewood Lodge, and himself rode home on horseback. He also sent a message to Ins brother, which opensd the door to a better under¬ standing, and resulted in the little nephew spending much of his time at Ins uncle’s beautiful old Hall at Waverley Honour m the company of the kind and gentle Baronet, with whom he soon became as much at home as with his parents. Edward’s father seeing how things were, and secretly rejoicing in his brother’s affection for the boy, took little trouble about his son’s education, leaving it largely to the care of Sir Everard, who deputed his chaplain to look after his nephew s welfare in this matter. The chaplain, being an old man, and not always able to have Edward under his own control, our hero spent much of his time at home. The boy was very quick at taking in the lessons put before him by his teacher, so quick that he acquired knowledge in a slight and fiimsy manner — he read only for liis amusement. The library at Waverley Honour, a large room with double arches and a gallery, contained a great many books got together during some two hundred years. In this book-world Edward was permitted to roam at large. He read just as far into any book as it pleased him, and directly the volume ceased to excite his curiosity or interest he put it down, and took up another ! A long course of such idle reading rendered him unfit for serious and sober study. His mother died when he was seven years of age, his father was away in London for long spells at a time, and Sir Everard fancied that so long as his nephew was with his books he was working well. At sixteen, Edward was absent-minded and loved solitude. Then his uncle observing how marked m the lad was this love of being alone, tried various means to rouse him. Field sports, country business and pursuits were resorted to, but nothing attracted our hero for long together. His Aunt Rachel, feeling deeply concerned at her nephew’s bookishness and sensitiveness, persuaded Sir Everard to suggest to the youth's father that his son should travel with his tutor, and Richard Waverley agreed; but, soon after, happening to mention the matter to some powerful friends, he was offered for his son a com¬ mission in the Army, and so we are brought back to the moment of Edward’s first introduction to us. The kindly uncle had provided for his nephew a small retinue of twenty young fellows from the estate and five horses. These were to accompany him on his journey to Scotland. Sir Everard had taken care that all the recruits should sit down to a supper of beef and ale, by way of a parting feast. Edward carried with him a letter of introduction to

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No. XYI. CHATTERBOX. 127 a gentleman of the name of Bradwardine, a friend of his uncle and of the family of Stuart. Mr. Bradwardine and his daughter Rose lived in the charming old Manor House of Tully Veolan, which stood at about a bow-shot from the village. Certain square fields, surrounded and divided by stone wails, were distinguished as the parks of Tully "Veolan. The house was something between a castle and a private dwelling-house ; the windows were num¬ berless, but very small, and at each angle was a small watch-tower, so small that it suggested a pepper-box. In a corner of the courtyard was a fountain, and over its basin presided a huge bear carved in stone, and this was the wonder of the country for ten miles round. ‘ Bewar the Bar/ meaning ‘ Beware of the bear,' was the family motto. Life with the Bradwardines went happily enough for Edward for a period of six weeks or so, during which time he became as one of the household. But one morning, as our hero took his usual walk before the breakfast hour, he noticed signs of something amiss in the family. Four bare-legged dairy-maids, with each an empty milk-pail in her hand, ran about with frantic gestures, and uttering loud exclamations of surprise, grief, and resentment. The men-servants were alert, and from their faces it was evident to see that something unusual had occurred. A sentence from Rose explained the mystery. ‘ Your breakfast will be a disturbed one, Captain Waverley,’ she said. ‘ A party of Caterans have come down upon us last night, and have driven off all our milch cows.' The Caterans were robbers from the neighbouring High¬ lands. They were very bold, and stood at nothing. IN one were safe from their depredations, except such as paid tribute money — blackmail — to Fergus Mac- Ivor Vich Ian Vohr. Blackmail was a sort of protection money that low-country gentlemen and the owners of estates lying near the Highlands paid to some Highland chief, that he might neither do them harm himself nor suffer it to be done to them by others; ‘and then/ in the words of Rose Brad¬ wardine, ‘ if your cattle are stolen, you have only to send him word, and he will recover them , or it may be he will drive away cows from some distant place where he has had a quarrel, and give them to you to make up your loss.' Fergus Maclvor, like others of the same spirit and occupation, was admitted into the best society and called a gentleman. A quarrel had arisen between Vich Ian Vohr and Bradwardine, and the loss of the cows was due to the bad feeling between them Rose, fearing the worst, begged her father to be at peace with the Highland chief, and to pay tribute to him as others in a similar position did. It was therefore with thankfulness that she heard the friendly message sent by Fergus Maclvor, by his messenger, Evan Dhu, to her father, praying that the cloud that had arisen between them might pass away, and offering to restore the lost cattle. So it came about that Edward, wishful of making an excursion into the Highlands, accompanied Evan Dhu, at his invitation, on a walk of ten or fifteen miles into the mountains to see the place where the cattle were kept. After crossing the mountain and descending to¬ wards a thick wood he found himself on the banks of a large river or lake, where he sat down for a little while, obedient to the suggestion of his attendant (not Evan Dhu just then, he having gone forward to Donald Bean Lean’s, who, it was supposed, knew the whereabouts of the cattle). It was a romantic situation for our hero He sat on the hanks of an unknown lake, with an unknown man, whose language was also unknown to him, on a visit to some renowned outlaw, perhaps a second Robin Hood. He was aroused from his romancing by his companions touch. ‘ V on's ta cove/ he said, pointing across the lake, and Edward, looking, saw a small flickering light coming towards them, and heard the splash of oars. Presently the sound of a loud whistle reached them, and a boat, manned by four or five Highlanders, pushed for a little inlet near which Edward was sitting. Rising to meet them, he was at once assisted into the boat with his attendant, and the oarsmen rowed rapidly away As they shot across the surface of the lake they drew nearer and nearer to the light, a fire kindled at the base of a huge dark crag or rock rising abruptly from the edge of the water. As they drew closer to the fire, Edward saw that it was fed by two men, who supplied it with pine-wood, and that it was blazing in the jaws of a lofty cavern, into which an inlet from the lake seemed to advance. The fire had been lighted as a signal to the boatmen, and for their guidance. ‘The little boat passed the narrow point or platform of rock on which the fire was blazing, and, running about two boats’ length farther, stopped where the cavern ascended from the water by five or six broad ledges of rock, so easy and regular that they might be termed natural steps. At this moment a quantity of water was suddenly flung upon the fire, which sunk with a hissing noise, and with it disappeared the light it had hitherto afforded Four or five active arms lifted Waverley out of the boat, placed him on his feet, and almost carried him into the recesses of the cave. He made a few paces in darkness guided in this manner, and, advancing towards a hum of voices, which seemed to sound from the centre of the rock, at an acute turn Donald Bean Lean and his whole establishment were before his eyes.’ The robber's cave was illuminated by torches made of pine-wood, and by the red glow of a charcoal fire, round which were seated armed Highlanders; others lay sleeping in their plaids. In the robber’s pantry hung by the heels the carcases of several animals Donald Bean Lean was a thin man, and rather short, with light sandy- coloured hair and small, pale features. He was a well-proportioned, brawny man, very active and determined. Seated near the charcoal fire, a strapping Highland damsel placed before Waverley and his friends a strong soup, and this was followed by steaks roasted on the coals. That night our hero slept very soundly, ‘ without rocking/ as we say, till the morning sun shone high on the lake without, and glimmered in the King’s Cavern, as the abode of Donald Bean Lean was proudly named. (Concluded at 'page 130.)

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128 CHATTERBOX No. XVI.

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No. XVII. CHATTERBOX. “ There was no way out of the difficulty but for Edward to discharge his pistol.”

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130 CHATTERBOX. No. XVII. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. EDWARD WAVERLEY. ( Concluded from 'page 127.) F far different appearance was Vich Ian Vohr, whom W Waverley met a little later 1 lY/ [ C on when he had left Don- ^ • * aid’s cave. He was a finely built man, and dressed r vW> scar^et an(l white tar- tan. -^e cari’ie<^ a dirk, richly mounted with silver, and a fowl¬ ing-piece, and was attended by a page, wiio earned a claymore. In his martial bonnet was a single eagle s feather. His hair was black and curly. His manner was courteous and easy, but a good judge of character would have seen that his temper was hasty, haughty, and vindictive. Fergus Mac- Ivor Vich Ian Vohr had a sister of the name of Flora, who resembled him closely in appearance Flora’s most intimate friend had been Kose Brad¬ wardine, until the quarrel between her brother and Mr. Bradwardine had checked their friendship for a time. Flora was romantic, and fond of good poetry and music and she could sing with marked feeling. It soon became Edward’s delight to listen to her, and it was not long before he knew that he loved her; but then Flora was an ardent lover of the exiled Stuart line, and our hero, as we have seen, served Xing George. Yet he was not long to wear that monarch's uniform. Anxious to be present at a stag-hunt, he overstayed his leave of absence, and, receiving an insolent letter from his superior officer, he resigned his commission in the King's army, and did this the more easily as m a letter received from his father, Richard Waverley, he was told that the Government had acted badly to his parent, who had been informed that the king had no further need for his services. Sir Ev^rard also advised hi3 nephew to resent what he believed to be an injustice to his father, by sending in his resignation to the War Office. This, as we know, Edward did, although his love for Flora, and his knowledge of her dislike for the reigning fine and her loyalty to the Stuarts, strongly influenced him in his action. Not long after these events, trouble befell the home of Bradwardine, as Rose Bradwardine m a pathetic letter to Edward made clear. It told how warrants had been sent by the Government for the arrest of several Highland gentlemen, and, amongst them, her father. He had, however, with a party of forty horsemen, ridden away, and the day after his departure a body of soldiers had come to Tully- Veolan to search for arms and papers, hut these Mr. Bradwardine had taken care to remove. The soldiery had spoken in Rose’s hearing of Edward, and the devoted girl had written to beg him to try and secure his own safety. This unselfish letter touched the chivalrous nature of Edward, who immediately decided to hasten to Edinburgh to obtain help, in this emergency, from some persons of influence, to whom he bore letters of introduction from his father. With deep regrets he bade adieu to the house of Vich Ian Vohr, and set out on his journey. Of the adventures that enlivened his way we have yet to tell. At the first inn in the Lowlands, at which they stopped, known as the ‘ Seven-branched Golden Candlestick/ Edward met with a very im¬ pertinent and disagreeable man, Mr. Ebenezer Cruiek- shanks. This Cruickshanks proved an active foe to his guest. After resting the night at the inn, our traveller resumed his journey towards Edinburgh, accompanied by the surly landlord, who stated his intention of accompanying him as far as Perth. On the road, Cruickshanks’ horse cast a shoe, and entering the village of Oairnvreckan they came to the smith’s home, which was also a public-house. In the village a strange state of excitement prevailed, and Edward gathered, from the frequent mention of the names of various Highland chiefs, that they had, at the head of ttheir armed bands, entered the Low¬ lands In the din and confusion a quarrel ensued between Edward and Ebenezer Cruickshanks, who refused to deliver up our hero’s horse to him, pre¬ tending that he must keep it to repay himself for damage and expense, Edward, out of patience, hemmed in, and hustled by the rabble on every side, and every moment expecting personal violence, drew forth a pocket pistol and threatened to shoot whoever dared to stop him. The village blacksmith, who had been infuriated by his angry, gibing wife, seized a bar of red-hot iron and rushed at our hero. There wa3 no way out of the difficulty but for Edward to discharge his pistol. This he did, and the black¬ smith fell, and the owner of the pistol found himself dragged before the magistrate, Major Melville Cairn- vreckan. an elderly gentleman who had spent his youth in the military service. The man proved to have been merely stunned and frightened. But a more serious charge was preferred against Edward. ‘ The charge, Mr. Waverley/ said Major Melville, 1 1 grieve to say is of a very high nature, and affects your character, both as a soldier and a subject. As a soldier, you are charged with spreading mutiny and rebellion among the men you commanded, and setting them the example of desertion, by prolonging your own absence from the regiment, contrary to the express orders of your commanding officer. The civil crime, of which you stand accused, is that of high treason and levying war against the king, the highest crime of which a subject can be guilty.’ Then followed a long cross-examination, in the end, Waverley was detained in custody by order of the Major. Fatigued by the miseries of the day, Edward flung himself on his bed, and sunk into a deep and heavy slumber The following day he was handed over by Major Melville to the care of a Mr. Gilfillan, and his party of Roundheads, who were to conduct him, as a prisoner, to Stirling Castle . Our hero, however, never reached Stirling, as he was rescued on the way by a party of Highlanders and conveyed to Edinburgh Castle, where he again met his former companion, Fergus

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- - — - - - - — - - - - No. XVII. CHATTERBOX. 131 Maclvor Vich Ian Vohr, who introduced him to the adventurous Charles Edward, the Young Pre¬ tender. This royal representative of the House of Stuart received him graciously, and at once won his heart and received his allegiance. ‘ How do you like him ? was Fergus’s first question to his friend. ‘A. prince to live and die under/ was Waverley’s answer. The story goes on to tell how Flora Maclvor lost the love of Edward Waverley, and how his straying affections at last were riveted on the gentle Rose Bradwardine, but not before many dangers had been faced and battles fought. The brave, but misguided young Highland chief, Fergus Maclvor, to whose hospitality our hero owed so much, was taken prisoner by the Government, and beheaded, together with his faithful servant, Evan Dhu, at Carlisle Castle, and their heads were put up over the 6 Scotch Gate.’ Flora, benumbed by grief for her brother, to whom she was deeply attached, retired, after his death, to a French i nunnery. Rose and Edward were married, amid the re¬ joicings of those who loved and honoured the families of Bradwardine and Waverley. Sir Everard, Edward’s noble and generous uncle, and his devoted old Aunt Rachel, were amongst those who proudly greeted him — his father, Richard Waverley was dead; and so ends the story of Edward Waverley, the hero of the first of Sir Walter Scott’s famous novels. Those who have found this sketch interesting, should read for themselves this fascinating tale of j heroic deeds and hair-breadth escapes, and find out for themselves how Edward received the royal pardon of his offended sovereign, King George I. James Cassidy. FRENCH SCHOOLS SIXTY YEARS AGO. AN English gentleman who was travelling through France early in the reign of Queen" Victoria, having some difficulty about getting lodgings in Paris, was recommended to go to a boys’ school where they sometimes took visitors. He spent a few weeks there, and gives an account of the arrange¬ ments of this school at that time. It was most likely a specimen of other French schools. The boys of the present day have much better schools, not only in France, but in all countries. Care is taken of their health and comfort, and there are amuse¬ ments as well as lessons. When he arrived it hap¬ pened to be near bedtime, and he saw the dormitories, which had small gloomy windows and tiled floors. Only a few of the boys had a small round mat beside their beds. The washing arrangements were peculiar — only some basins which looked like pie-dislies, and water-jugs that might hold about a pint. The boys were roused soon after six, and marched to the dining-room, where they got the first breakfast of bread and milk. Then they went to their studies, from which they were called to a second breakfast of soup, with lumps of bread, followed by stewed veget¬ ables and a drink which suggested a mixture of ink and sour beer. The dinner (so-called) was at five — hard pieces of boiled beef, with beans, a few potatoes, and sometimes cold artichokes or salad. At the end of the day came bread and milk again. Outside the house was what they called a park, because it had a few trees in it. Here some poles and bars were placed for gymnastic exercises, but the boys did not appear to enjoy being there — the only game they played was running after each other. The usual punishments were standing against a wall for an hour, or going without dinner. Clifford. SHRIMP-CATCHERS. THE other day I heard a boy who had been enjoy¬ ing a feast of shrimps say, ‘ I wonder what a shrimp is ? It cannot be a fish, nor a shell ; I sup¬ pose it is a sea-insect.’ The sensible advice was given to him, ‘ Go and find out,’ so he went to the dictionary, and then he found that the shrimp is what we call a ‘ crustacean,’ like the lobster and the crab. But it is not far removed from the true insects, resembling them in having the hard parts of the body outside, while in quadrupeds, birds, and fishes the soft parts of the body are outside. The shrimp, we notice, has ten legs, insects only six, and — what is curious — the long tail has scales at the end | which spread out as a fan does. There are shrimps of various sizes' and shapes. The prawn is a large sort of shrimp, which has a spine resembling a saw. Probably there are shrimps to be taken in shallow parts of the sea along most countries of the world. We know they are plentiful along the English and French coasts. In our illustration we see a small party of French engaged in the work of catching shrimps along the coast of Dieppe. This employ¬ ment they follow at low tide, most of these shrimp- catchers being too poor to afford the expense of a boat, which would perhaps enable them to get a bigger haul. Though these poor people can¬ not entirely live upon the profits of shrimping, it adds something to their small incomes, and what¬ ever money the sale of the shrimps brings in is soon obtained, for they hawk them about the neighbour¬ hood, selling them for ready money. Not only men and boys, but women also may be seen at the work, paddling along with their clothes tucked up, bare¬ legged, a basket or bag slung over their shoulder, and the net pushed along in front of them. Now and then this is examined. Should the contents be worthless, they are thrown out; if shrimps are taken, they are stowed away in the basket, and a fresh start is made. So it goes on till they are tired, or have caught enough. Everybody in Britain, too, knows the shrimp. Along the coasts of Kent and Essex enormous quantities are taken. From the town of Gravesend little fleets of shrimp-boats go out all the year, more at some times than at others ; indeed, the people of that town are often called ‘shrimpers.’ You may see along the shore of the Thames a line of them, with

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French Shrimpers. their nets hung up and spread out over the masts, to dry them as it would seem. I expect the reason why the nets are so spread out to ary is that any holes in them, caused by sharp stones or other ob¬ jects under the water, may be discovered and mended. Another place rather famous for its shrimps is Pegwell Bay, whence many are sent to Margate, Ramsgate, and London. Common in our ditches and ponds is another smaller shrimp — the fresh-water kind, which is often netted by those seeking fish or insects to put into an aquarium. This little fellow rows about in a very amusing way, but he is apt to be gobbled up by a hungry fish. During the Golder weather of winter its habit is to bury itself in the soft mud, and there sleep. J. R. S. C.

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THROUGH THE MEADOWS. OP RING has dawned upon our hind; ii0 Little birds are gaily singing ; .Children run, a joyous band, Through the woods, their voices ringing. Purple violets they espy, Cowslips, and full many a treasure, On the dewy meadows lie, Yielding, oh; such boundless pleasure ! Hark ! upon the evening breeze, Liquid music, softly stealing; Tis the thrush among the trees, His shy presence thus revealing. Sweetest season, lovely Spring ! Let us thank our God in Heaven, A"d His praises gladly sing,. For the goodness He has given.

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184 CHATTERBOX. No. XVII. ▼ { TISH STORIES. WHEN a man doth wish to angle, A hook like this he loves to dangle. j He hath a line so good and strong, And catches a fish about so long, Before he gets home that fish doth grow, And he tells his friends that it stretched out so, But his friends who have a-fishing been, Know that the man has fibbed like sin, And they simply sit and smile and grin. Ethel Lupton. VASCO ISLAID. {Continued from page 123.) sJJBING the whole of the after¬ noon attack upon the Resi¬ dency, the young Malay, Kiang Riboug, who had volunteered for the dan¬ gerous journey up the river to Idagostui, was quietly preparing for the time when the friendly darkness would enable him to make a start. Upon seeing the fleet of sam¬ pans, together with Ritak¬ raja’s war prahu and the <run raft going across the channel, he had a thought of trying to get away up river during the confusion and excitement ; but a little reflection had convinced him that darkness would afford him by far the best chance of success. So he patiently awaited his time, and not until the sun had set a good two hours did he push off, and begin to paddle warily up stream. The river was fringed with trees almost down to the water’s edge on the mainland side, whilst, over towards the Island, dreary-looking marsh and swamp forbade a landing. Passing away from the Island, the stream ran between dense dark forests on either side,, and varied much in width, some places narrowing to little more than sixty or seventy yards, whilst in others the river broadened out into a'kind of lake. Kiang Ribouo* knew well that, if the river was being watched by any of Ritakraja’s men, his chief danger would lie in the narrow’s, wdiere, according to Malay custom, it could be staked across, thus preventing the passing of any boat. But the young man had strong faith in the fact that, an attack having been made upon the Residency, all the fighting men of the district would be gathered about Kanakra’s palace, ready to cross to Vasco Island should a chance arise. Knowing the river well, he paddled on as confidently in the darkness as he could have done in broad day¬ light. Before the moon had risen tw’o hours he was past the first large stretch of open water, and entering the narrows beyond. A light fog began to settle down, and the unhealthy vapour rose off the water to meet it. Soon the messenger and his sampan were completely hidden by a pall of white vapour, so that at times it was rather difficult to avoid getting on to the banks on either side. Then, without the least warning, the sampan suddenly ran against something solid, the river had been staked. Almost at the same moment a voice rang out from the right-hand bank, asking, in the Malay language, whose boat this was, and what was the owner of it doing here at this time of night P Kiang Riboug had no answer ready. Truth to tell, he had thought that he had escaped from Ritakraja’s patrol by now, and he was thus taken unawares. The hesitation was fatal ; five or six dark forms loomed out of the fog, and ran down to the river’s edge to seize the sampan. Like a shot from a gun the young Malay leapt from his canoe into the river and struck out for the opposite bank. Two or three shots were fired at random in his direction, but they splashed into the water harm¬ lessly, though near him. From the noises he could hear, he came to the conclusion that one of his would- be captors had put off in his, Kiang’s own sampan, after him, and a sudden idea of escape came into his mind ; he paused in his swimming, and awaited the course of events. After a minute or two he heard the paddle of the sampan approaching very closely to him. At the same moment a temporary lifting of the fog revealed its whereabouts, though he himself, with only his dark head showing above the surface of the water, remained unseen. The man in the sampan was standing up paddling slowly, and eagerly scanning the river for any sign of the swimmer. Kiang Riboug, who, like most of his race, was as much at home in the water as out of it, slowly sank below the surface, coming up again just astern of his own canoe. Suddenly raising himself from the water by placing one hand on the sampan’s side, with the other he gripped the leg of the paddler, and in a moment had jerked him out of the boat, narrowly escaping up¬ setting it as he did so. As the man pitched overboard, Kiang put his arm over into the sampan and took out his stone-headed club/and, when the other rose to the surface, the young Malay brought his weapon down on his enemy s skull. The man sank without even time in which to utter a cry. It was the work of a minute for Kiang to scramble into his sampan again, and paddle silently across to- the opposite shore. Here he landed, and pondered what would be the wisest course to pursue. He reflected that probably the rest of the river, could he only pass this one barrier of stakes, would be un-

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No. XVII. CHATTERBOX. 135 guarded. Ritakraja would conclude that this obstacle would prevent any communication with the dreaded soldiers at Idagostui. How to pass the barrier, then, was the question he had to solve. He again put off, after a short rest, and steered cautiously to the stakes again ; he felt bis way from about the middle of the barrier to the opposite side to that on which he had been attacked. Here, how¬ ever, a big watch fire warned him that this also was closely guarded, and again he stopped to consider whether any course was left- open to him except that of giving up the attempt and returning down stream to the Island. Then an idea occurred to him, he would go a little way down stream again, land there, empty the stores out of the sampan, carry that on his head to a point some half-mile, or more if it should be ne¬ cessary, up stream, making a long sweep in order to avoid the risk of meeting any of Ritakraja's look-out men on the way. He could then return, and carry round his stores in the same manner, hiding his sampan, meantime, in the tall, rank rushes of the river bank But he knew there was not enough left of the darkness to enable him to do this double journey in the one night, so he quickly made, up his mind to hide his stores, and carry the sampan to-night ; then he would lie concealed for the whole of the next day, and complete his transport arrangements on the night following, when he could again embark, provided he did not get killed in his bold attempt before then. Within an hours time he had landed at a point about a quarter of a mile below the watch fire, and unloaded the sampan ; then he carefully hid the contents in the rushes, and hauled the sampan itself ashore. He turned it over to get rid of the water it had shipped; then, hoisting it on to his broad shoulders, he began his laborious work of carrying it through the soft, reed-grown ground. t He skirted the shore until within iess than a hundred yards of the watch fire ; here he struck inland, and making a long half-circle, for safety s sake, only began to shape his way back in the direction of the river bank when he had passed the watch fire at least half a mile. The weight of the sampan tired him sorely on the heavy ground, but he did not attempt to hurry, knowing that he must of necessity wait for another night before he could get his stores round. To go without them would have been madness. Weary and exhausted, he at length found a secure hiding-place for his little craft amid the tall, waving reeds ; then, lying down at full length in the bottom of her, he calmly went to sleep, as if no foe were within a hundred miles of his r6tr68.t* When lie awoke, at dawn next morning, he could see the fire brightly burning still* so he judged that it would be wiser for him to lie where he was and not attempt to move until nightfall. He had brought food enough to sustain him over night, and so no difficulty arose on this all-important point. From the sounds which reached his ears, he judged that the Malay outpost had no intention of moving from their respective camps on either side of the river; he could even catch glimpses of them now and again as one or other would paddle across the stream to commune with his fellows on the opposite bank. The day passed wearily for young Kiang Riboug ; then, as soon as the darkness began to fall, he began to prepare for his second night journey, which, although it would be twice as long as the last, as he had on this occasion to make a return trip to his starting-point, would yet not be half so tiring, as the stores he would have to carry would be as nothing compared with the weight of the sampan. , , Night came quickly down upon the river, and the marshes which lay all around it ; the young xellow gave a keen look about him, and listened for any suspicious noises, then he started on his perilous journey. . . _ .. Not having much to carry, Kiang determined, it possible, to get near enough to the camp of Ritakraja s outposts to see what was being done there, nnd whether the men were making any search for him, or if they had concluded that he was drowned. With the greatest caution he managed to get within a hundred yards of the watch-fire, but at this point he abandoned the attempt on account of the risk of detection. The jungle-like growth all about sud¬ denly failed at that point, and there was not enough cover to hide a rabbit. So, quietly retracing his steps, he aa’ain made a wide sweep round, and crept slowly back to where he had left his provisions cunningly concealed. Here, however, he was delayed ; m the fo°* of the previous night he had not clearly marked the hiding-place, and now, in the darkness, he wasted at least a couple of hours before coming upon the spot he sought. Everything lay untouched, just as he had left it twenty-four hours beforehand. The Malays had probably made no search, concluding that the unknown man whom they had chased in tne river fog had met his fate by drowning, or else had been obliged to turn back and escape down-stream, in either of which cases their object would have been o-ained— no message could have been sent up to the soldiers at Idagostui. The body of the man killed by Kiang’s stone-headed club had, of course, floated away clown the river, and his companions * thought of him merely as a deserter, never for a moment suspecting his death. Kiang had to hurry in carrying his stores ot pro¬ visions round to the sampan, lest the dawn should surprise him before he could embark. Howevei, he managed to do this, and paddled silently away again up the river just as the sun was beginning to appear hrough a watery mass of misty clouds, and before he darkness had actually faded into dawn. . He vent on and on, up the silent, wood-fringed river, or seven or eight miles ; then ho paused, running lis canoe into the bank, for rest and a bathe. After l plunge into the stream, a good breakfast, and an lour’s light sleep, Kiang resumed his journey, and lid not pause again until the heat of mid-day com¬ pelled him to seek shelter under the heavy branches >f a tree overhanging the water’s edge. Here he nade fast the sampan, and, lying down at full length .n the bottom of it, soon fell asleep. ( Continued at page 142.)

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Kiang succeeds in jerking his pursuer out of the boat.

Page 145

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138 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. PAID IN THEIR OWN COIN. A GENTLEMAN living in the West of England had a dog, whose smooth white coat was ornamented with a number of black spots. This dog was of a quiet disposition, and the other dogs in the neighbourhood used to tease him, perhaps because they did not like the pattern of his coat. The gentleman wished to stop this. He borrowed a couple of white bull-dogs, and painted black spots on their coats. Then he sent them out near his house. The others dogs came round, and not knowing what had been done, began the attack, when the bull-dogs’ teeth made such a lasting im¬ pression upon them that the gentleman’s dog was always afterwards treated with the greatest respect. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS, 18. — Another Famous Riddle. By Lord Macaulay COME and let us look at it. It is a very ugly word, One which should make us shudder whenever it is heard ; It may not be always wicked, but it must be always bad, And speaks of sin and suffering enough to make cue sad. They tell us it’s a compound word, and that is very true, And then they decompose it, which, of course, they are free to do. But why of the twelve letters should they cut off the first three And leave the nine remaining ones as sad as they can be? For though they seem to make it less, m fact they make it more, And let the brute creation in, which was not so before Let us see if we can't mend it. It is possible we may.: If only we divide it in some other fashioned way; Suppose, instead of three and nine, we make it four and eight, You will say it will make no difference, at least not very great. : But only see the consequence, that is all that must be done To change a mass ot misery to unmitigated fun ! To ward off swords and pistols, revolvers, bowie- knives, And all the horrid weapons by which men lose their lives. It calls up Nature's voice, and oh ! how joyfully is heard The native sound of merriment compressed into one word Yes, four and eight, may that, my friend, be ever yours and mine Though all the host of demons rejoice in three and nine ! 19. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. What is that number whose third is eight more than its fifth ? 2. Change 107. 16.9. into half-crowns and florins, giving an equal number of each. 3. There are two numbers whose difference is 10 and one is three- fifths of the other. What are the numbers ? 4. Divide 1557. between A, B, and C, so that B may have 157. more than C, and A may have 207. more than B, 5. What are the two lowest numbers whose sum will equal four times their difference ? 6. A boy was sent to a post-office with 5s. 3d. to buy an equal number of penny and halfpenny stamps. How many of each did he get ? 1. Bark. [Ansivers at page 154.] -A.3ST SWEES. 17.— (Ac) Ark . 4, Shark. 7. Mark. 10. Sark. 2. Park, 5. Embark. 8. Disembark. 11. Spark. 3. Lark. 6, Stark. 9. Mark. 12. Hark. 1, Stone.. (e.) One . 3, Done 5. Bone. 7. Alone. 2 Tone. 4. Drone. ,6. Zone. 8. Atone. 1. Haunt. 2. Avaunt! 1. Table. 2. Stable^ 3. Cable. 4. Suitable, (c.) Aunt, 3. Gaunt. 4, Daunt. (d ) Able, 5. Readable. 6. Portable, 7. Fable. 8. Sable. 5. Taunt. 9. Capable. 10. Constable. 11. Miserable. 12. Gable. 4 DON’T COUNT YOUR CHICKENS BEFORE THEY’RE HATCHED.’ SILENTLY down the steps in the garden Pussy cat came one day ; There was" a gleam in her yellow eyes As she watched three birdies at play. i Which shall 1 have,' she said, with a frown, ‘ I wish I could catch all three, But I fear that’s not possible, so I’ll have one,’ And she crept behind a tree. Hungrily eyed their brown fat forms, And began to feel quite gay ; ‘ Won’t it be splendid, ob ! more than delightful. The dinner I’ll have to-day. That is the plumpest the one next me. I’ll have him as sure as I’m here ; A spring, and a dash, and a pat of my paw And good-bye to your life, my dear ! ’ — Just as she crouched, prepared to spring, Startled, they rose in the air, And pussy wrathfully glanced around ; ‘ Oh, where is your dinner, oh, where ? What has become of your dainty meal ? Ah ! puss, if you only knew, . u Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched ~ Is a proverb that is very true.’ B. P.

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■ - \ No. XYIII. CHATTERBOX. 139 YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ‘DICK’ RICHARDSON AND HIS FRIENr)S-* /"I S proper name was Basil Richardson, but his chums 1<G^ called him ‘ Dick,’ and the IgSjH Wpjy nickname suited him well. ^Sa'ljljl When we are first intro- * duced to him, he is on his ^FiE^fll way, in company with two school comrades from '**wr' Y^§ Mount joy Preparatory School, to the public school of Templeton, there to un¬ dergo an examination for admittance to this dis¬ tinguished institution. The head master of Temple¬ ton was Dr. Winter. He received the boys kindly, as with fear and trembling they entered his pre¬ sence in the examination room, and allotted them desks. 4 Richardson go to desk 6; Heathcote, desk 13; and Coote to desk 25/ he said. For two hours a solemn silence reigned in that examination hall, broken only by the scratching of pens and the secret sighs of one and another of the victims. The pictures on the walls, as they looked down, caught the eye of many a wistful up-turned face, and marked the devouring of many a penholder and the tearing of many a hair. ‘ Cease writing/ said the doctor as the clock struck two, ‘ and the boys at desks one to ten come up here.’ Then began the viva-voce examination, far worse than the written examination. Even Richardson, the brightest of the trio, stumbled ; and Heathcote, when his turn came, gave himself up for lost. The doctor’s impassive face betrayed no emotion, and gave no token either for joy, or hope, or despair. He merely said, ‘ That will do/ after each victim had performed: and even when Coote, after a mighty effort, rendered 0 temporal 0 mores 1 as ‘ Oh, the tempers of the Moors/ he quietly said, 4 Thank you ; now the next boy.’ At last it was all over, and the three found them¬ selves standing in the great quadrangle, not very sure what had happened to them, but feeling as if they had just undergone a surgical operation. They had been driven in a waggonette from Mount- joy school to Markridge, a mile frorn Templeton, and thence they had walked to their destination. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, of the Mo untjoy school, had sent them out well provided with sandwiches, and accompanied by a careful driver, Tom. ‘ I trust you not to get into mischief on the way/ had been Mr. Ashford’s parting words, and so far all had gone well. But now the ordeal over, and Markridge reached where Tom had put up the waggonette, leaving word that he would be back at three o’clock, a bright idea entered Dick’s mind. * I say,' said he to his companions, ‘ it would be great fun to drive home by ourselves. I vote we don’t wait for Tom.’ * This story is told by Talbot Baines Reid in his book, Follow my Leader. ‘ All serene/ said the others ; ‘ but we shall want the horse, shan’t we P ’ ‘ Perhaps we shall/ said Dick, with a grin, ‘ unless you would like to pull the trap. The horse is in the stable, and we can tip the fellow to put him in for us.’ The ‘ fellow ’ was quite amenable to this sort of persuasion, and he complied with the whim of the young gentlemen, secretly enjoying the prospect of Tom’s dismay. ‘It is no concern of mine/ said he. ‘If you tells me to do it, I does it.’ ‘ And if we tells you to open your mouth and shut your eyes, and you will find sixpence in your hand, you will find it there/ said Dick. *Of course you knows how to drive?'* said the 1 stableman. ‘ Rather ! Do you think we are babies P Here, shy us the reins. Come along, you fellows, there is room for all three on the box. Now then, Joe, give her her head, Come up, you beast ! Swish ! See if we don’t make her step out. Let her go ! ' With some misgivings Joe obeyed, and next moment the waggonette swayed out of the yard, very much like a small steam tug going out of harbour in half, a cap of wind. The drive ended in a complete capsize in the mud,, the horse having bolted. Fortunately, and thanks to Dick’s determination, no bones w’ere broken, but the- same could not be said for the shaft of the wag¬ gonette. In addition, a wheel was off, and the rail all along one side was torn away. ‘We "shall catch it and no mistake/ said Dick, dolefully. It was quite a mournful procession that started off from the damaged waggonette, which was left where it had fallen— just inside some large gates where Dick had contrived to drive the horse for Tom Tranter to see to upon his arrival — Dick, with the whip in his hand, leading the mare by the mouth, and Heathcote and Coote following slowly just out of range of the animal’s heels. ‘ What shall we say to Ashford ? ’ asked Heathcote, after a little. . ‘ Say P What do you mean ? ’ said Dick. ‘He is sure to ask us what has happened.’ ‘ Well, we shall tell him, I suppose.'* ‘ There will be an awful row.’ ‘ Of course there will.’ ‘ We shall get licked.' ‘ Of course we shall. What of it ? ’ ‘ Only/ said Heathcote, with a little hesitation, ‘ I suppose there is no way of getting out of it ? 9 ‘Not unless you tell lies. You and Coote can tell some if you like — I shan’t.’ ‘ I am not going to tell any/ said Coote. 1 1 have- told quite enough in my examination papers.’ ‘ Oh ! of course I don’t mean telling crams/ said Heathcote, who really didn’t exactly know what he did mean. ‘ I will back you up, old man,' ‘ Thanks. I say, as we are in for a row, mightn't we just as well take it out of this beastly horse ? ’ By a mighty effort of combined hoisting and climbing, the boys, one after the other, perched themselves as securely as they could well forward on the mare’s long back. In this manner, after a weary and not altogether refreshing journey,, the three jaded, tightly packed heroes came to a.

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standstill at the door of Mountjoy House, where one after the other they slid sadly from their perches, and addressed themselves to the satisfying of Mrs. Ash¬ ford's natural curiosity, only hoping the interview would not be protracted, and so defer for long the supper to which they all eagerly looked forward. But, alas ! no special supper of coffee and hot toast and eggs and bacon was apportioned the crest¬ fallen trio that evening ; they were ordered to join the ordinary school supper — bread and cheese and cold boiled beef. Two or three days after the misdeeds of Dick and his friends, a letter by post was brought in to Mr. Ashford in the middle of school. The three boys saw it ‘ We are gone coons,’ groaned Heathcote.

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No. XVIII. CHATTERBOX. 141 “ Beside the little wooden gate Which opens to the glen, I stood one summer’s eve, and watched A band of working men.” * Don’t speak to me/ said Dick. Coote said nothing, but wished one of the windows was open on a hot day like this. * This paper contains the result of the entrance examination at Templeton/ said Mr. Ashford. 1 Out of thirty-six candidates, Heathcote has passed fifteenth, and Richardson twenty-first. Coote, I am sorry to say, has not passed.’ (< Concluded at page 148. ) THE SONG OF THE WORKERS. BESIDE the little wooden gate Which opens to the glen, I stood one summer eve, and watched A band of working men. I watched them trudging to the farm With tools, and horse and cart, I guessed that every one of them Had gladness in his heart ; Eor on the balmy July air Their sturdy voices rang, And this the song, the worthy song, The workers gaily sang : — ‘ Hurrah ! for we are proud to be Amongst the noble band Of men who gladly spend their days As workers of the land ; For work is sweet and noble, too, And this we all know well, The idle folk lose more good things Than we can ever tell. No man who hath not striven by day To do the work he might, Can feel as honest workers feel When falls the shades of night. No idler shares the healthful sleep To honest workers sent, No idler is allowed to share A worker’s true content. The folk who can but will not work Are cumberers of the ground, And, oh, with such a class as this We never will be found. Hurrah ! we always mean to be Amongst the noble band Of men who gladly spend their days As workers of tne land ! ’ D.H,

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- - - — - 142 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. THE LAME PIGEON. A PIGEON fancier tells the following instance of J_Jl sagacity on the part of a pigeon. Some time ago, one of the 1 blue rocks ’ which frequent the square in front of the London Guildhall had the mis¬ fortune to damage its leg. The bird was promptly taken care of by one of the policemen on duty there ; and so well did the injured limb prosper that in a week or two it was able to join its friends, but not however, until the constable had tied about its leg a piece of red ribbon, so that he might know his patient and see how he was getting on. A short time afterwards a gentleman, who had also been interested in the sick bird, saw’, to his astonishment, among the pigeons feeding before St. Mark’s, in Venice, a ‘ blue rock/ which wore a red ribbon round its leg. He wired to the constable, whom he knew, ‘Have you missed pigeon with red ribbon ?’ The answer was returned, ‘ Yes ; three or four days since he has been seen.’ The bird must have known that bad weather was due in London, and taken a health excursion to Italy. The cane loop is passed over the head of the flying victim, and then a sharp jerk drives the spike into the nape of his neck. Kiang turned sick as he saw it; a band of the dreaded head-hunters was upon him. To drop his basket of fruit and start for the river was the work of a moment, and crashing through the undergrowth, he sped on the wings of the wind, the whole of the dreadful horde close upon his heels and hungering for blood. Young Kiang was almost within touching distance of the terrible weapon carried by the foremost Dyak. The wretch made a great effort to place it over the fugitive’s head as they ran, but, stumbling over some brambles, he tripped and came heavily to the ground. Profiting by this piece of good fortune, the hunted man redoubled his efforts, and, being a fine runner, he soon had the satisfaction of finding that he gained on his pur¬ suers a trifle. As the chase approached the river- bank, he was dismayed to see that the sampan, which he had not dragged high enough up out of the water, had just got afloat, and was beginning to travel slowly down-stream. Without an instant’s hesitation, Kiang dashed through the water and flung himself into the boat, scrambling over the side and falling flat on his face at the bottom of it. He was up again in a moment, and seizing the paddle, sent the sampan flying down the stream. But a couple of the head-hunters had been almost as quick, and the foremost swam up and seized hold of the side with one hand. Kiang, with the desperation of a man wdiose life hangs on a thread, flung down his paddle and caught hold of the stone¬ headed club. He brought it down on the Dvak’s head, and he went to the bottom like so much lead. The second man stopped on seeing the fate of his fellow. Kiang again seized his paddle, and in less than two minutes, aided by the current, he was out of reach of his pursuers, going, it is true, in the con¬ trary direction to that he wished to follow, but safe at all events for the time being. A couple of miles farther down the stream broadened out again, and paddling over to the far side, he ran the sampan ashore, and pushed it well into the long, reedy grass, and here he re¬ solved to wait until it was probable at least that the head-liunters had passed. For over three hours he lay in the bottom of his boat, silently keeping watch, not daring even to smoke, but at the end of that time his patience was rewarded by seeing a band of men pass down on the distant opposite bank. This band, he had small doubt, was the same one which had pursued and so nearly captured him. He waited a. full hour or more after the last of them had disappeared. Then, after a very cautious survey of the banks on both sides of the river, he pushed off again, and once more turning the sampan’s head towards the slowly flowing current, resumed his perilous journey towards Idagostui. Whether Bitakraja would devise some means for soon returning to the attack or, disheartened by the complete failure of the afternoon attempt, would abandon for the present all hope of overcoming the gallant little band which still sturdily held Vasco Island, the Resident had no means of judging. VASCO ISLAND. 4) {Continued from 'page 135.) T was nearly five o’clock when r$\ Kiang resumed his journey 1 *n a coo^er atmosphere. He H ma^e good progress, and during ; (// fS * the whole of that day saw no sign of human life on either bank of the river as he I f He slept the night through V • peacefully, and it was not until nearly mid-day on the morrow that, tempted by the sight of some wild fruit growing about fifty yards from the water, he ran his canoe ashore and leaped out, glad to work the cramped muscles of his legs again. From one clump of trees to another did he wander, eating bananas, dates, and oranges, all growing in wild luxuriance along the shore Then, striking inland for a short distance, he came to even finer fruit, and began to load a wicker basket lie had brought with him for the purpose. With his basket about half filled, a sound of trampling feet struck upon his ear. He began to move a little towards the river, but soon found that that was the direction from which the sounds came. He hastily tried to conceal himself amidst the brush¬ wood, but before he could do so a loud shout re¬ vealed the fact that he had been seen, and an instant later a party of Dyaks, well armed, their faces hideously bedaubed with paint, and carrying in their hands the deadly ‘ man-catchers,’ suddenly burst upon his terrified view. This ‘ man-catcher ’ is a curious and horrible im¬ plement, consisting of a long-handled cane made in a loop, and armed with a spike, which fits in just where the ends of the loop are fixed to the handle. ,

Page 151

No. XVIII. CHATTERBOX. 143 Orang Tibut’s sphere of usefulness as spy was nopr very much curtailed, as he had become a suspected person on the mainland, and, brave man as he was, he had no fancy for a sudden termination of his career by the thrust of a knife or the slashing stroke of a razor-edged kriss. Still, he meant to attempt the passage of the narrow channel as soon as it should be dark enough, in order to discover, if possible, what his countrymen were about, and what were their intentions in regard to the island and the British Residency. To do this in daylight, now that suspicion had been aroused in regard to j him, would have been too reckless, but no sooner had the sun set than he prepared to make the j venture. The party gathered together at the Residency dined that night as calmly as though they were enjoying a period of perfect peace. Not even a scratch had been received by one of the defending force during Ritakraja’s attack, whilst it was difficult to estimate the greatness of the advantage they had gained by destroying the only two guns in possession of the enemy which were really capable of doing them any serious harm. Their messenger, Kiang Riboug, had, they hoped, eluded Ritakraja s men, and got clear off on the road to Idagostui, and i they had good reason for believing that before very j many days the soldiers would have arrived and relieved them. Sir John’s chief anxiety now was in regard to their food supplies. For the present they had plenty of solid provisions on the island, and the water supply, fortunately, was abundant. But in ten days, at farthest, something would have to be done to replenish their larder, and to do this they must make a visit to the mainland. How could it be done, and how would it be possible to get any quantity of food across the channel? It was a difficult problem, and one which he was engaged, day and night, in trying to solve. He had specially instructed Orang Tibut to make cautious inquiries on this head if he succeeded in landing on the mainland this night. Sir John feared, however, that the channel would be closely patrolled by Ritakrajas men, in order to prevent any one from the island getting across. After dinner the two girls, who had already given Sir John a full account of their abduction by the Malay prince and of the terrible fright they had endured, played the piano and sang, quite in the usual way, and were not in the least degree alarmed at the exciting events of the day, nor at the thought of what the future had in store for them. Even their aunt, Miss Benfleet, forgot her hysterics for the time being, and came down to the drawing-room late in the evening to hear all about Ritakraja’s attack and its failure. Jack Chesney stood at the piano, turning over the leaves of Miss Palgrave’s music, and whispering from time to time his fervent thankfulness that she had escaped from Ritakraja s clutches. 1 1 could have struck him to the earth and killed him ! I should have killed him, 1 think, had 1 met him as we escaped from the summer house ! ’ ex¬ claimed the young lieutenant, hotly and clenching his fists as he spoke. i Nita smiled as she went on playing. ‘We — Adela and I — were terribly frightened, I must say. I had no idea that he was such an awful man before then. You know we had almost come to look upon him as a white man — one of ourselves, in fact — and not as a Malay at all, until this happened.’ Chesnev’s face clouded over for a moment; then he laughed softly. 4 Well, Miss Palgrave, I confess that at the picnic I began to think that you did look upon him as — as — well, as a friend, let us say; and as rather too intimate a friend to please me!' ( Why* m what way do you mean?’ asked Nita, as she stopped playing. 6 Please go on playing, Miss Palgrave,’ he said, ‘ or people will notice us What I mean is that — that — you seemed to give him the preference over all of us, then — especially when you left the rest of the party and went off after luncheon with him.; We need not record the rest of that conversation. It is enough to say that at the end of it Nita Palgrave had consented to be Jack Chesney 's wife Ten minutes afterwards the old Admiral stumped into the room. ‘ Humph!' grunted the old tar, ‘why don’t you two come out on the balcony, hey ? Trying to keep yourselves warm inside the room instead of getting the fresh air outside, hey ? * 6 Admiral, I must ask you to congratulate me, for your niece has just promised to be my wife.’ ‘Oh ho ! so that's the time of day, is it ? ’ said Admiral Benfleet, opening wide his eyes in astonish¬ ment; 4 so that’s the time of day, is it? Well, this is a funny sort of time to choose for love-making, 1 must say ! We are at the beginning of a siege, we have already been attacked and nearly bombarded to-day, and nobody knows how much of it we have still got before us. How should you like to have to spend your honeymoon without anything to eat but the upper part of an old boot, eh ? — because it might come to that yet, you know ! Ritakraja will very likely try to starve us out.' Jack Chesney laughed merrily. ‘Oh, we will take our chance of that, Admiral ! We can wait for marriage until all this trouble at Yasco Island is settled, one way or another.’ 4 Well, I do congratulate you — both of you,’ said the old man, heartily, ‘ and as I was the first one to hear the news, mine shali be the first wedding- present, and Nita herself shall choose it/ The two men gripped hands, as sailors should. Blood may be thicker than water, but it is not much thicker than salt water, after all. The bond of the sea is one which makes sailors, even of different nations, brothers. The three then strolled to the verandah and joined the rest of the party, looking out over the starlit sea. Presently, Chesney^ tearing himself from Nita s side with an effort, went up to Sir John and asked him to stroll down to the beach, as he had a matter of great importance to communicate to him The Resident courteously assented and, lighting cigars, the two men walked slowly away together. ( Continued at page 146.)

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144 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. Kiang pursued by the Dyaks.

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AN ONLY CHICK.

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u

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146 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from •page 143,) S soon as they were out of ear¬ shot of the house the lieu¬ tenant began to tell Sir John his brief love story. He had hardly got out a dozen words, however, when the voice of one of the artillerymen doing sentry duty at the landing- stage rang out sharp on the still night air. ‘ "Who goes there ? ’ Sir John, thinking the challenge was addressed to him and his companion, was about to reply, when a voice and the sound of paddles broke upon his ear. ‘ It is I — Orang Tibut ! ’ and this cry was soon followed by the sound of a paddle flung down in the boat, and of Orang speaking in a whisper to the sentry. Sir John and Chesney were with them in a minute. ‘ Quick, master ! 7 said the spy ; ‘ they are coming. They will be here in less than half an hour from now ! ’ ‘ Who ? What ? What have you heard P ' asked Sir John, eagerly. ‘ Listen, master! I landed unseen, and went straight to my friend’s house — to the house of Xiang Riboug’s uncle. lie told me that Ritakraja, furious at the failure of his expedition, had gone up to the palace, and had been upbraided by the King for his want of success. This made him ten times worse, and he swore that before he laid down to rest he would be into the Residency and burn it over the heads of the English dogs. I saw many sampans gathered on the shore; the fighting men also were in readiness to make a start. They will try to creep across the water in silence, then make a rush for the landing-place before the big guns can be brought to bear on them. If once they land - ’ and the Malay finished his sentence by drawing his forefinger across his throat. Without the delay of a moment, Sir John and Chesney hurried back to the Residency to warn the men and get the women out of harm’s way. ‘ Go to your rooms,’ he said in quiet tones to the girls, ‘ and take your aunt with you. I think there is no cause for alarm, however. The chief danger — a surprise — is already averted. Perhaps,’ he added, grimly, turning at the time to Chesney, ‘ whatever surprise there is in store will not be a welcome one for Ritakraja ! ’ In the silence and darkness, the little band of Englishmen moved about behind their earthworks, making everything ready. The big guns had their muzzles pointed to the landing-place, the three sentries were warned to seek cover, and fully instructed how to act, Sergeant Tom Lobb was once ag>*in at the breach of his pet weapon, and then all ears were eagerly strained to catch the earliest sound of mufiled oars or stealthy paddle-strokes. If Ritakraja could have seen all the life and. movement behind the earthworks and the prepara¬ tions which were being made for his reception, the- grin he wore on his face at thought of taking his- foes unawares might have given place to a less confident look. He relied very much on the fact that the English would not expect any further attack to followr the afternoon failure. They would be tired out, and, moreover, would expect him, Ritakraja, to be tired out also. No, they 'would certainly not suppose there would be any renewal of hostilities yet awhile, and it would be a simple matter to rush the sentries and land under cover of the night, and then — ah! then would come compensa¬ tion for all the defeat he had suffered at the hands of the 'English dogs’ — men and women. Yes, his revenge on both should be complete. ‘ And if we should want any light to do our work by,’ he said to his second in command, a great,, hairy-looking chief or headman of the village around Kanakra’s palace, ‘ we will use the Residency as a torch ! * Not a sound broke the stillness of the dark, though starry night, as the watchers waited behind the earthworks on the shores of Vasco Island. Orang Tibut had said that the Malays, led by Ritakraja, would be upon them in half an hour from the time when he himself had landed from his sampan ; but over two hours slowly passed away before the spy's quick ear detected a sound like that of paddles around which cloths had been swathed in order tO’ muffle their sound. 4 They must not be allowed to land ! ’ whispered-. Orang Tibut, fearfully. ‘ If they once gain a foot¬ ing, it is all over with every one of us here : they have ten — perhaps twenty men — to our one. We shall all be overpowered and our throats cut, and what will become of the two English ladies - ’ Sir John shuddered at the thought, whilst Chesney ground his teeth and clenched his fists. The Malay went on : 'Ritakraja will be in the lead¬ ing boat. Tell your big gun man to aim at that; if we kill Ritakraja, we kill our trouble altogether, for Kanakra is too weak to fight alone. He would give it up and make submission to-morrow, if it were not for Ritakraja. Ritakraja is the beginning and the end — all is Ritakraja.’ ‘ If I can only get at him ! ’ said Chesney, his fingers twitching ; but Orang Tibut in a perfectly mild voice, interrupted the young sailor : ‘He is mine. Ritakraja is mine,’ he said. ‘The Prophet will reserve him for me,’ he added with perfect Oriental fatalism. 1 Let me fire the gun that is directed at the sampan.' But to this suggestion Sir John would not listen for a moment. ‘ Guns were to be fired by gunners, and gunners only,’ he said, decisively. Orang Tibut sighed. ‘ Then he will escape you,’ he observed, in simple faith that it was his destiny to kill Ritakraja, the man who had robbed him of his sweet young wife. Nothing short of death itself could have deprived him of this fixed idea. Argument or reasoning of any sort would have been a perfectly hopeless waste of time. j

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No. XIX. CHATTERBOX. 147 Sir John would have chosen to lire upon the leading boat without allowing the flotilla to approach them any closer ; but, as has been said before, the night was dark and he did not wish to waste a shot. If they could beat off the Malays to-night, and had to afterwards stand a siege, they would want every ounce of powder they possessed. And he much wished, also, if it were possible, to dispose of the leader himself, for Sir John was thoroughly of Orang Tibut’s opinion, i.e., that with Ritakraja killed, or taken prisoner, the revolt -would quickly melt away ; Kanakra had no fibre, no spirit to carry on the struggle, unless urged thereto by one of Ritak- raja’s masterful temper. As the boats silently approached nearer and nearer to the watchers on shore, the strain became painful ; suddenly came a swirling sound of boats being rushed through the water at topmost speed. * Fire ! 5 cried Sir John. And instantly the big gun belched forth a cloud of flame and smoke, hurling its iron message into the very middle of the flotilla. Yells and curses rent the air in all directions. What damage had been done it was impossible, in the darkness, to see, but the charge of grape-shot must have spread destruction broadcast amongst the frail sampans and their half-naked occupants. Above the din, could be distinctly heard Ritakraja’s tones, exhorting his men to continue on to the attack, and crying that the island must fall an easy prey to them now that the big gun had done all it could. For answer, a sharp volley of musketry was sent into the boats, and then, as many of them remem¬ bered the fact that Vasco Island had a second big gun, there seemed a decided wish to give up the attempt at landing. But their leader yelled and cursed and exhorted by turns, and a few of the bolder spirits amongst them again made a dash for the shore. One or two of them even succeeded in scrambling out of their sampans on to the landing- stage, only to be promptly bundled over the side into the water again, in double quick time, by the artil¬ lery-men. But it was no use ; the night attack had failed even as the day attempt had ended in disaster. The 1 surprise ’ had been no surprise at all Ritak¬ raja cursed the day he was born ; some one, some enemy, had found out his plans and warned the English. Who was it, he wondered, as he fingered his kriss ? Who was it ? — and his eyes rolled with fury as he thought of what he would do, could he but find out the spy who had betrayed him. And the spy himself sat calmly behind the earth¬ works, and merely mildly wondered when the Prophet would bring him face to face with Ritakraja, for he firmly believed that his enemy must be delivered into his hand, and he was content to wait. t Now give them a parting shot, my lads ! cried the bluff old Admiral, as the attacking flotilla showed signs of making a speedy retreat, and once more the gun bloomed out over the waters, hurrying the movements of Ritakraja’s forces, though it did little actual harm, beyond sinking a couple of sampans, and wounding their occupants. And then, in high spirits at the thought of their success, the little party of Englishmen, after leaving a couple of their number on guard at the landing place, returned to the Residency to sleep for the remainder of the night. Sir John, tired out, flung himself down to rest with the comforting assurance that his messenger to Idagostui must have got safely through Ritakraja’s men and be well on his way by now. To see whether he was warranted in these comforting reflections or not, we will now return to where we left the young Malay, Kiang Riboug. Proceeding on his way up the river, the messenger, after his narrow escape from the band of head-hunters, kept a sharp look out on both banks, and only landed at long intervals, and chiefly after dark. He passed the native village of Korpang, whose glorious background is formed by the higli mountains of the interior, many of them with jagged outlines and sharp peaks. Great clusters of fan¬ leaved palms grew on the higher ground, whilst the low-lying lands, right down to the waters edge, were covered with groves of great cocoa-nut trees. Kiang did. not pause here for more than half an hour — during which time he gathered some fruit — and then pushed on resolutely, resolving to run no risks that he could avoid. Entering his sampan again, he paddled on steadily up-stream. [Continued at page 158.) A STILL SALT POOL, A STD ITS INHABITANTS. V.— SEA ANEMONES (ACTINEA). A ROSES,5. ‘ Strawberries,’ or ‘ Sea Daisies,’ are some of the names under which the Actinea family are known, and they may well be called ‘ flowers of the sea ; ’ for, as the richly coloured petals of the plant-world beautify the earth, so the gaily tinted tentacles of these lovely zoo¬ phytes enliven and decorate the waters. Without any skeleton, and to all appearance a mere mass of jelly, an anemone has externally a strong muscular system, which protects the delicate body and enables it to cling tightly to the rocky crevice m which it chooses to fix itself. Referring to the illustration, you will see in the centre of the body an opening protected by a circle of suckers. This is the mouth, and like the bristles of the sea- mouse, the suckers hold the prey whilst the creature slowly tucks in the tempting morsel — skin, shell, and all, packing in at the same time its own tentacles or arms. For awhile after this process it presents the before-mentioned appearance of a lump of jelly, but by-and-by, when the food is digested, the anemone leisurely unrolls its feelers, and disgorges the shell or whatever portion of the food does not suit it3 internal economy , and now, whilst having the

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148 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. beautiful appearance of a widely opened flower, it is in reality a predatory animal waiting for some¬ thing else to devour. The appetite of an Actinea is voracious, and woe be to luckless shrimps or little fishes that are left by the tide in a rocky pool, for however swiftly they may dart from side to side, before long they will be likely to touch in passing the outspread tentacles of some greedy anemone, and that one touch means death. The arms of the devourer are covered with tiny cells, so small that three hundred could be packed into a square inch, and in each of these is coiled a poisoned sting. No sooner does the unwary fish, crab, or shrimp come within reach, than a number of these delicate threads are let fly at him, just as an Indian on the Pampas throws his lasso round ostrich or mustang. Once arrested, the poor little victim has no chance of escape, for more and more arms spread their toils around him, and he is speedily drawn into the dreadful chasm, which is to be his living grave, "When a child, I have often watched with horrified eyes this process going on in Actinea Grassicornis. our own aquarium, where in a very short time the anemones reigned alone, having demolished every living thing which was put with them. Crabs, periwinkles, limpets, all went the same way, although the Actinea were fed frequently with little pieces of meat. In the Red Sea, the bottom is in places covered with anemones often measuring as much as two feet across and mostly richly coloured, whilst in the Chinese seas they attain a still larger size. The handsomest species found on our own coasts is the ‘ Crassicornis/ of which you will remember that we saw a splendid specimen in our own pool. That one was dark red, but it is found of many colours — pink, lilac, grey, green, and so on. The arms of this creature are, as its name signifies, thicker and larger than of any of its brethren, and you can never fail to see it when opened, though it is nard tc find when closed, as it covers its coat with scraps of shell and sand, and packs itself into such small compass that when shut a full-grown crassicom is often not larger than a penny piece, whilst open it would cover the crown of a hat. As children we were especially fond of the strawberry anemone, so J _ called from its deep -red body being dotted with yellow, after the fashion of that most tempting fruit, and there were also some tiny creatures of a pale silvery blue colour, which we knew as ‘gems,’ though I believe that they properly belong to the family of Madrepores or coral zoophytes. The most common Actinea is the 1 Smooth Ane¬ mone,’ which may be seen at low tide clinging to the rocks, and looking so like a small mould of red- currant jelly that its natural place would seem to be on a glass plate on the sideboard. If you touch it, however, it feels firm, and holds tightly to its place, and if you try to detach one, great care must be taken, as any injury to the base kills the poor creature. When open, it is rather dull in colour, usually pink and green ; but round the mouth are a row of beautiful blue dots very like turquoises, which are now supposed to be eyes. One more especial favourite of mine remains to be talked about — the ‘ Sea Daisy/ but as his doings are intimately associated with another animal, I must leave his history for another day. Helena Heath. YOUNGSTERS IN POPULAR TALES. ‘ DICK * RICHARDSON AND HIS FRIENDS. . \, (Concluded from page 141.) wf E must now follow Dick and \3 Heathcote to Templeton School. Of course, as new boys, they were subject to many practical jokes at the hands of the old Temple¬ ton ians. It cannot be said that Dick’s unbounded con¬ ceit over having won the ‘new boys’ race/ did not merit the taking down he received by two fifth-form fellows, when they sent him to prepare himself as Whipper-in for the Harriers to a bright manly fellow in the sixth, named Cresswell. It was perhaps as well for Dick that at the sight of the champion drawn up to his full height, with power and speed written on every turn of his figure, he recognised that the two fifth-form lads had been bent on ‘ making a fool ’ of him. In answer to Cresswell’s questions, here is the story artlessly told by Dick to Cresswell, himself the Whipper-in for the Harriers. ‘ They said/ he began, ‘ you were an awful muff, and couldn't run any faster than a snail, you know, and as I had pulled off the new boys’ race, they said they would make me Whipper-in of the Harriers instead of you, and told me to come and tell you so, and ask you to give me the whip.’ Cresswell laughed in spite of himself. ‘ Do you really want it P 3 he asked. ‘ Not now, thank you.’ ‘ 1 suppose you had been swaggering after you had won the race, and they wanted to take the conceit out of you P ’

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“ We have lost our way. Which road goes to Templeton ?” Heathcote, too, came in for his share of practical joking. The day after his arrival, a little out of humour with Dick, Heathcote strolled in from the Quadrangle to hunt up Aspinall, a delicate little Devonshire boy, one of the twenty new arrivals. He ventured to inquire of a junior who was loafing about in the passage, if he knew where the little new fellow was. ■ 1 suppose so.7 * And have they succeeded ? 1 i Well— yes,’ said Dick. i I think they have/ ‘ Then they have done you a very good turn, and you will be grateful to them some day. As for the whip, you can tell them if they will come here for it, I will give it to them with pleasure. There goes the dinner-bell — cut off or vou will be late/

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150 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX 4 In bed, of course/ said the junior, 4 and I would advise you not to let yourself be seen, unless you want to get in an awful row/ added be solemnly. 4 What about ? ’ asked Heathcote. 4 Why, not being in bed. My eye ! It will be rather warm for you, I tell you, if any of the fifth catch you/ 4 Why, it’s only half-past seven/ 4 Well, and don’t you know the rule about new boys always having to be in bed by seven ? ’ exclaimed the junior in tones of alarm. 4 No, I don’t believe it is the rule/ said Heathcote. 4 All right/ said the boy, 4 you need not believe it unless you like. But don’t say you weren’t told, that’s all/ and he walked off whistling. Just then a fifth-form fellow came along. He eyed the new boy critically as he advanced, and stopped in front of him. 4 What’s your name ? ’ he demanded. 4 Heathcote/ 4 A new boy ? ’ 4Yes.\ 4 How is it you are not in bed ? Do you know the time ? ’ 4 Yes/ said Heathcote, convinced now that the junior had been right, 4 but I didn’t know — that is — ’ 4 Shut up and don’t tell lies/ said the fifth-form boy, severely. 4 Go to bed instantly, and write me out two hundred lines of Virgil before breakfast to-morrow. I have a good mind to send your name up to Westover.’ 4 1 am awfully sorry/ began Heathcote; 4 no one told me/ 4 1 have told you, and if you don’t go at once, W^estover shall hear of it/ ^ The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted. Not even Aspinall was there ; and for a moment, Heathcote began again vaguely to . suspect a plot. From this delusion he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room and demanded, 4 Look here, what are you up to here P ’ 4 1 was — that is — I was told to go to bed/ said Heathcote. 4 Well, and if you were, what business have you got here? Go to your own den/ 4 This is where I slept last night/ said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied. 4 You did ! That is like your cheek.’ 4 Where is my bedroom then ? ’ asked Heathcote. 4 W hy didn’t you ask the matron ? I am not going to fag for you. There, in that second door ; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines.’ Heathcote whipped up his nightgown and made hastily for the door, finally convinced that he wa3 in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career. The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship’s cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably. The thought of the two hundred lines, certainly, was unpleasant. But 4 sufficient unto the day/ thought the philosophic Heathcote. Amid these reflections he fell peacefully asleep. The next thing he was conscious of, in what seemed to him the middle of the night, was the sudden removal of the clothes from the bed, and a figure holding a light, catching him by the arm, and demanding fiercely, 4 What do you mean by it ? ’ His first impulse was to smile at the thought that it was only a dream ; but he quickly changed his mind, and sat up with his eyes very wide open as the figure repeated, 4 What do you mean by it? Get out of this ! ’ The speaker was a big boy, whom Heathcote, in the midst of his bewilderment, recog¬ nised as having seen at the fifth-form table in Hall. 4 What is the matter ? ’ faltered the new boy. 4 The matter ! you impudent young beggar. Come, get out of this. I will teach you to play larks with me. Get out of my bed.’ Heathcote promptly obeyed. 4 1 didn’t know — I was told it was where I was to sleep/ he said. 4 Shut up, and don’t tell lies/ said the senior, taking off his slipper and passing his hand down the sole of it. The slipper-sole did its work, and Heathcote was bidden to stay and make the bed. The fifth-form boy insisted on the bed being made from the very beginning, including the turning of the mattress and the shaking of each several sheet and blanket — so that the process was a lengthy one, and, but for the frequent applications of the slipper, might have become chilly also. Turned out of the fifth-form bedroom, the new boy wandered about in the dark and draughty cor¬ ridor, hoping to find an empty chamber or one tenanted by a friend. Poor little Aspinall, too, had been the victim of a similar trick to that played on Heathcote. The two met in the corridor, and the timid Devonshire lad shrieked aloud, causing all the doors in VVestovers — Westover was the name of the particular master in whose house they were boarding — to open as if by magic Amongst the faces peeping out from the open doors, Pleatlicote recognised Dick’s. An explanation followed and both Heathcote and Aspinall found a bed. As Dick and his friends, assisted by kindly Time, left their 4 new-boyism ’ behind them, practical jokes ceased to trouble them, and more serious troubles attended their school life. Dick’s conceit and Ins strong love of popularity stood him in ill stead. The chief of his troubles, and one that spoiled the peace of many months for him began with the 4 Grandcourfc ’ match, the only cricket match of the season which Templeton played away from home. Once every other year, Templeton went forth to war in drags and omnibuses against its hereditary rival, and mighty was the excitement with which the expedition and its equip¬ ment were regarded by every boy who had the glory of his school at heart. Our heroes, being juniors, were out of the seventy who were nominated by the eleven and by lot, and very indignant they felt over their exclusion. Spirited Dick and easy -led Heathcote decided at all hazards to risk going to the match. Stowing themselves away under the seats of coach

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No. XIX. CHATTERBOX. 151 five, the Upper and Middle Fourth, who hoarded this vehicle, as they pitched their coats and wraps inside and mounted themselves to the top, knew not that they were hiding* the light of day from two inno¬ cents, who lay one under either seat, with their noses to the fresh air and their hearts very decidedly in their mouths. They enjoyed themselves thoroughly at the match, Templeton gaining an easy victory,, and putting Grandcourt to the disgrace of a single-innings defeat. There is no doubt, that had Dick Richardson and 'George Heathcote been lawfully present, their enjoy¬ ment would have been much greater; as it was, sheer cheek ’ led them through the day. It was ‘ cheek 7 ■that sat them down at the Grandcourt supper, and * cheek’ that enabled them to make a hearty meal. It is only fair to say that our heroes had all along- had a presentiment that their troubles would begin some time or other. They began after supper, when, all the coaches filling up, they were obliged to hang on to a piece of stray string at the tail of a coach, supplemented by two pocket-handkerchiefs for three or four miles. At last, as the horses bounded forward, the two handkerchiefs gave way, and that moment on the lonely road, five miles from home, sprawled Heathcote, with Dick in his lap, and two knotted pocket-handkerchiefs in the dust at their feet. For some distance the lads walked on doubtfully, for they were anything but sure of the road to Templeton, when coming to the cross-roads they saw, and how /gladly, a hulking form. ‘I say/ said Dick, advancing out of the shade, ‘we have lost our way. Which road goes to Temple¬ ton P ’ The big sailor gave a grunt and lay to m an unsteady way, which convinced the boys, unlearned as they were in such matters, that he wasn t quite ■■sober. _ Q , ‘ What do you want to go to Templeton for r •demanded he. ‘ We belong to the school, and we have got left behind.’ J . The sailor laughed an unpleasant laugh and took his pipe out of his mouth. ‘Ye belong to the school, do ye, and ye have lost your way ? ’ ‘ Yes; can you put us right ? ’ ‘Yes, I can put you right/ said the brawny young* salt, putting his pipe back between his lips. ‘ What will ye stand ? ’ ‘ We will give you a shilling/ said Dick. < Ye will P Ye will give me a sovereign apiece, or I will bash you.’ And he laid a hand on the arm of each of his victims, chuckling as he looked down on their puny efforts to escape. ‘ Turn out your pockets, nobs/ said he, giving them a shake. ‘ I haven’t got a sovereign/ said Heathcote. Dick did not even condescend to plead ; he fell headlong on his huge opponent, shouting in the midst •of his blows, ‘ Let us go, do you hear ? I know your name ; you’re Tom White, the boatman, and I will get you locked up if you don't.’ But Tom had no such intention. Everything that the lads had in their pockets— Dick’s half-sovereign and his mother’s photograph, and Heath cote’s twelve shillings, were all ruthlessly pocketed by the good- for-nothing tipsy thief, and to crown his villainy, he set the boys on the wrong road to Templeton. How Dick and Heathcote took their revenge, and what came of it, makes the story of ‘ The Boys of Tem¬ pleton.’ James Cassidy. THE MONKEYS AND THE GLOVES. A Fable. THERE once lived in a wood a troop of monkeys. They tried as much as they could to imitate ‘ man.’ One day one of the monkeys picked, up a pair of gloves, which he took to his friends in the wood. One of them said, ‘ I think man wears them round his neck.’ Another monkey said, ‘I think he wears them on his feet.’ At last a little monkey stood up and said, ‘ I have seen man holding them in his hands, so I fancy they must be something nice to eat.'1 At this suggestion, each monkey took a piece and ate it. Modal : Men who can only imitate other people, will surely in the end do some ridiculous thing as the monkeys did, and make themselves the laughing¬ stock of their neighbours. H. Berkeley Score. A KITTEN’S GxlME WITH A PELICAN, PI I N D a big, old-fashioned house in a great city there lived a large pelican (says Our Animal Friends). One day, when he was taking his morning exercise in the yard, a little kitten from the neighbour’s yard came stroll¬ ing along the fence. When she first saw the strange bird her eyes opened in won¬ der, her tail grew big, and her hair stood out. But pre¬ sently, as the pelican did not hurt her, she became used to him, and jumped down into the yard to see him more closely. The pelican picked her up, and, giving her a toss in the air, opened his huge mouth as if to catch her as she came down. Puss seemed to think it good fun. With a quick motion she turned over and came to the ground on her feet. The pelican turned, made another grab at the little cat, and. gave her another toss. Down came kitty again, landing safely on the grass, not at all frightened at this rather rough companion. She stood still to be tossed as if she rather liked it. The pelican got tired first. IIis master came out of the house with a good dinner of fish for him. He picked up a fish, gave it a toss, and caught and swallowed it. The kitten came in for a share of the pelican’s dinner, and they have been the best of friends ever since.

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“ Puss seemed to think it good fun.”

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 153 X

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154 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. THE RIVER REUSS, AT LUCERNE. 21. — Geographical Puzzles. have in our picture a plea¬ sant scene on the River Reuss, at Lucerne, one of the many in that beautiful country, Switzerland. A little arbour overlooks the spot where boats are moored when not in use. Trees cluster around, a poplar rising: at the back of the building beyond the quaint /rustic bridge. Behind are scattered houses, built : mostly of wood, as is common there, and these, too, are beautifully shaded by trees. The Reuss is a famous river: one of those memorable in Swiss history, and runs a long course, having many branches along its way to the mighty Rhine, where it ends, on the north border of the country. Lucerne is probably the most important town past which the Reuss flows, a notable old town, the first to lead in the union of the Forest Cantons. Close to it is one of the Swiss lakes, which some people think superior to the much- praised Lake of Geneva. On the shore of this lake is the market-town of Altorf, never to be forgotten, > because it is linked with the story of William Tell, j For it was in this town that the tyrant Gessler stuck ! up his hat upon a pole, demanding that the country folk who passed should bow before it. Near the ! edge of the lake, where the chapel bearing his name now stands, William Tell made his desperate leap to i escape from captivity, and there amongst the rocks ! he lurked, hoping to kill the cruel and wicked 1 governor by a shot from his crossbow. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 20. — Anagrams. Words with Definitions . 1. Rogue, sand. Unsafe. 2. Ice, try, tan. Without any doubt. 3. Luna, rat. Not artificial. 4. Shot, pail. A most valuable institution. o. Lug, hop. A very useful implement of agriculture. 0. Report. One who carries. 7. Hen, clan. A passage ; a water-course. 5. Get, miner. A body of soldiers. 9. Con, in, ten. Not guilty. 10. Reef, wall. A leave-taking. 31. Dealer. A commander; the chief or head of a party ; one who goes first. 12. Crape, loin. A fine earthenware. 13. Lily, rater. Used in warfare. 14. Nod, may. One of seven. 15. Bear, fury. One of twelve. 10. Ebro, tamer. Often consulted, but not always to be relied upon. 17. Gate, hurl. A distinctive human characteristic. 18. Page, rim. A short, witty saying. 19. Nore, grief. One from another country. J20. Ant, try. A severe ruler. 0. C. 1. A, A, I, I, B, N, S, S, Y. A country in Africa. 2. E, E, B, P, T, G, R, U, S, R. The capital of a large country in Europe. 3. O, O, U, H, M, P, R, S, T, T. A seaport town in the south of England. 4. A, E, 0, F, N, P, R, T, T, C. A town in Yorkshire containing a castle in which a king was murdered. 5. 0, U, M, P, H, L, Y, T. A town in Devonshire with a very fine harbour. 6. E, E, I, C, H, N, R, S, T, W. A city in the south of England famed for its beautiful cathedral. 7. A, I, F, K, K, L, R. A town in one of the middle counties of Scotland where an English king defeated the Scots. 8. E, E, I, B, H, L, M, N. A village in Bavaria where the Duke of Marlborough gained a great victory over the French. 9. A, A, I, B, G, L, R, R, T. A town and fortress in Spain belonging to Great Britain. 10. A, A, A, F, G, L, R, R, T. A cape in Spain near which was fought a great naval battle, in which the victorious English Admiral was killed. 11. E, E, 0, U, C, G, L, R, S, T. The capital of one of the south midland counties of England. 12. A, E, E, C, G, H, N, N, O, P. The chief town of one of the northern counties of Europe. C. C. 22. — Word Puzzles. I am a word of seven letters, expressing tho want of a most important necessary of life leading to dis¬ astrous consequences, particularly in the vegetable kingdom. Take away the first and last letters, and you will see something unpolished. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 will suggest the idea of duty. 7, 3, 4, 5, 6 is unpleasant when applied to food. 6, 3, 4, 2 is one of twelve divisions of time. 1, 2, 4, 5 is found in a chemist’s shop. 5, 3, 4, 7 is a very painful disease. Take away the second and last letters, and you will see a certain stage in the life of a loaf. 5, 3, 4, 2, 1 is the name of a plant of the melon kind. C. C. [Answers at page 174.] ANSWERS. 18.— Man-slaughter (Man’s laughter). 19.— 1. 60. 4. C, 35; B, 50; A, 70. 2. 48 of each. 5. 3 and 5. 3. 25 and 15. 6. 42 of each. THE ENTRAPPED POX. A Fable. A YOUNG fox was once rambling through the woods, when he caught his foot in a strong steel trap. He tried his utmost to get out, but could not. Many animals passed by in the course of a day, but did not offer to help him out of his difficulty, and as evening drew on Reynard became extremely faint | with hunger and thirst.

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 155 At length he espied two animals in the distance ; a jackal, and a wolf. They came close to him, and said that they were very sorry to see their friend in such a plight. A lion, who was passing by at the time, asked them what was the matter. Upon being told he exclaimed, ‘ What fools you must be! It is of no use saying how sorry you are, you ought to try and help him out of his difficulty.’ So saying, he set to work and soon got the fox’s foot out of the trap. Moral: Sympathy without relief is like a dinner - of mustard without beef. H. Berkeley Score. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. A BOOT’S INDICTMENT. ES, sir, it is sometimes Surprising how one bit of evidence will tend to convict a man when it seemed well-nigh impossible to find out the truth, and it happens now and again that the discovery of his guilt, when he believed him¬ self secure, will work upon the man to such an extent that he feels forced to confess his crime.’ Here the old ex-Sergeant lei¬ surely filled his pipe as we strolled up the lane together, and in order to keep him company I did the same. It was a still October evening, the sere and yellow leaves crackled beneath our feet, and the large harvest moon was slowly climbing up the sky. 1 Now, it is not surprising/ said the old Sergeant, in his genial fashion, ‘ that a policeman is often accused of being partial in the view he takes. In¬ deed, as I was interested in one of the parties con¬ cerned on this occasion, there is no doubt but what I might have found it hard to do my duty had things turned out different to what they did. However, I will let you have the main facts, sir, of the little affair, and you will see that I managed to steer clear of any approach to underhand dealing. ‘ It will b§ somewhere about twenty years ago that I was on the point of sitting down to dinner when a messenger arrived from White House. You may remember that the house stands in its own grounds, about half a mile away past the church, and is at present advertised to let It had been lately rented by a young widow lady, left with three little children, and who kept a fair staff of servants. You can tell Mrs. Chestnev he will be there as soon as ever he has had his meal,” says Molly to the young footman that brought the message. ‘ “No, my dear/5 I said. “ By your leave, I must go at once. Business is business, and the dinner will have to wait.” 1 Molly said no more, but as she had prepared a favourite dish of mine — and that is sheep’s head, sir — I could see she was a bit put out. So I stopped to soothe her down for a minute afore I was off with the footman. 4 “ There is something gone wrong at White House,” says he, in a mysterious sort of way, as we step alongside, “ though I do not know what it is. The mistress looks quite done up to-day, and I believe she is dreadful worried in spite of being so close about all her goings on. But no doubt she will take you into her confidence, Sergeant. For the matter of that, you must carry a good lot of secrets, I should imagine, under that big blue coat of yours.” 4 “ They are part of my stock-in-trade,” says I, with a laugh ; “ and, anyhow, I am able to keep them there.” 4 When we reached White House, Mrs. Ohestney was waiting for me in the morning-room, and she had a sadly flustered air, to be sure. * “ There has been a theft committed here, Sergeant Lundy,” she began, directly, “and I sent for you to help me in tracing the culprit. But first let me say that, until we are fully convinced on that head, I am most wishful that the matter should go no further than ourselves.” ‘ “ It is a wish that does you credit, madam,” says I, with a bow. 6 “ You see this writing-table, standing by the window,” she goes on, catching her breath a little. “ Well, there were two ten-pound notes in the desk, which have suddenly disappeared. You must under¬ stand, Sergeant Lundy, that I am a very forgetful person, I feel bound to admit. This morning I spent an hour or so in the garden after breakfast, and entirely overlooked the fact that my desk was open, as it is now. In this little compartment the notes were lying quite openly. When I remembered that it was so, I hurried back to the house; and then, who should I catch sight of, just outside the win¬ dow there, but Bick "Selby, the under-gardener. And perhaps I may as well inform you, Sergeant, without delay, that it is Dick Selby upon whom my suspicions rest.” ‘ At this I started, and could hardly hinder myself from exclaiming aloud. For Dick Selby, as I must explain to you, sir, is Molly’s only brother, and, being a good bit younger, was always a great pet in the family. So it was just as if Mrs. Ohestney had struck a blow at me when she made such a statement about Dick. 4 “ He had a spade in his hand,” she continues, “ as if he had been at work. But it struck me he seemed confused when I drew near the window. Indeed, Sergeant Lundy, he appeared so extremely anxious to get away that he actually forgot to touch his cap” 4 “ Aye, aye, Dick is a shy sort of chap,” I puts in, not without a quiver in my voice, though I thought it wise not to mention just then the relationship between us. ‘“Well, well,” says I, trying to pull myself to¬ gether, “you maybe sure that'l shall do my best, madam, to recover those ten-pound notes. Now, if you will kindly lend me a tape-measure, I will go outside and take a look round. I may discover something in the shape of a clue.” 1 So, instead of making for the front door, which might have attracted attention, with her permission, I flung myself over the broad window-sill and stood among the spring flowers in the bed below. There

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I was pleased to find that, owing to a little rain having fallen early that day, the soil was fairly soft, though firm and clinging ; moreover, there were two or three footprints close by the window, and I stooped down to examine them carefully. '“Dick Selby must own a smallish foot for a man,” says I, half to myself, “ and he must walk a bit heavily, considering that he is an active, slight young fellow. No, no,” thinks I to myself ; “if Dick was busy gardening here this morning, he never left the grass to go nigh the window.” And my heart grew lighter as I came to this conclusion. ‘ There was no need to measure the footprints, and, having noted all particulars, I hoisted myself into the room again.’ [Concluded at page 162.)

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 157 QUAILS. SOME of our British birds people can only get a chance of seeing now and then. The Quail is one of these, for it is not a constant visitor to our islands, and seldom makes a nest here. We are most likely to come upon it at certain parts of the eastern coast. However, there are places where we may often notice the bird exhibited after it is dead, that is, in shops and markets during the spring of the year. Pheasants and partridges cannot be had, so the smaller quail is wanted by those who like game, and a plump one may be bought for a shilling, or a trifle less. These, as a rule, have not been caught in Britain, but have been brought from the Continent, where the quail is much more common than with us. You might say, on a first glance, that the quail reminds you of the partridge, but the beak is finer and the legs have no spurs. Most of its long feathers are brown or black, the chin is white, behind the head is a line of yellow, the breast red¬ dish, spotted with black, the wings and tail are barred with yellow. The quail, though a bird able, when it chooses, to take very long journeys on the

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158 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. wing, is in the usual way rather apt to he lazy. Often, if nobody disturbs them, quails will sleep a good part of the day, lying bidden in long grass. They lie upon their ” sides, with the legs stretched out, and there have been instances where they have let people almost step upon them before they moved. Quails are not noisy birds ; the only sound they make is a sort of low whistle, as a call to each other, or a note of warning. Quarrelsome they are at times, the male birds engaging in desperate fights ; and, though they have no spurs, two of them engaged in single combat have been known to give and receive wounds which were fatal. Sometimes a party of them join in a sort of general scrimmage. Quail-fighting was an amusement of the old Greeks and Romans, a rather cruel one, and the Chinese are said to train these birds for the same purpose. They are quite different to their relative, the Partridge, in their power of travelling That bird seldom goes far from the fields or downs where it was born and bred, but quails make migrations for thousands of miles in immense companies. One of their familiar journeys is from Europe to Africa in the autumn, and back again in the spring, stopping to rest on the islands they pass. Thus, more than a hundred thou¬ sand have been caught in Italy during one day within a space of four or five miles. It is probable that the quails which fed the Israelites came from the north, being driven towards the Red Sea by a wind which took them from their course. The nest contains fourteen eggs or more, and the young birds are active directly they are hatched. J. R. S. C. ‘You cannot go up the river any higher. We have staked it right across, and are commanded to stop anyone from going up to Idagostui.’ Something in the man’s tone of voice suggested to Kiang that he was lying. .He turned again to his sampan and began pushing off into the stream. The three men at once advanced and seized the little craft. Kiang sprang for his stone-headed club, but before he could reach it, one of the men had made a slash at him with his kriss ; the young Malay dexterously avoided the stroke by springing on one side, then he dashed into the water and struck out for the opposite shore. In a moment, two of the men leaped into the sampan and shoved off in hot pursuit : but the stream was narrow at this point and Kiang was an expert swimmer; he clave the water with strong, clean strokes, and soon touched bottom on the far side. Wading up the bank as rapidly as he could, his eyes encountered a sight which sent the blood back from his brave young heart and almost turned him to stone. A large party of Dyaks — some of them with human heads slung at their girdles, and carry¬ ing ‘ man-catchers,’ the deadly weapon of the head¬ hunter — emerged from a group of palm-trees, behind which they had evidently been hiding, yelling and whooping so they made for the unfortunate messenger. Kiang saw his doom, and determined to meet it bravely. He had no time in which to destroy the letter he bore from Sir John to the Commandant at Idagostui ; alone, and unarmed — what would he not have given for his stone-headed club, so that he might at least have sold his life dearly ! — he was entirely at the mercy of these ruthless savages. Kiang awaited their onslaught standing still, his back turned to the river from which he had just emerged. As the foremost man rushed at him— for it was evidently to be a race for his head — the young Malay sprang upon him with the fury of despair. He caught him by the throat and hurled him to the ground with such force that he lay there helpless with a broken leg; but before the helpless messenger could reach the next of the head-hunting villains, a poisoned arrow struck him in the breast, and he stumbled forward on to his knees. Then the whole herd of ravening wolves fell upon him like hounds breaking up a fox. And "whilst Sir John Palgrave and those with him in the lonely British Residency, were thinking that their emissary had got safely through the worst dangers of his journey, and that help, in the shape of the "English soldiers at Idagostui, would soon be sent to their relief, poor Kiang Riboug, faithful to the last, had fallen a victim to the vultures who infested the banks and forests of the great lonely river, and his head was dangling at the waistband of a Dyak murderer. ‘ I wonder if that blacky, Ritakraja, has got pluck enough to attack us again F ’ mused Admiral Benfleet, standing on the shore with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. Then, turning to his trusty henchman standing at his side, he said VASCO ISLANDo {Continued from page 117.) a hard two hours’ work, /rr(\ f|5L Kiang perceived that the tortuous river turned so VY sharply, that he would be Y\\A. enabled to save at least two M //Bl3k miles of paddling if he got \ (*ut’ anc* hauled or carried ins light- sampan about a hundred yards across a bend vlriJJ'y Ih i This Proceec^e<^ t0 da- \\\/y f * making two journeys as he had done before, one to take the sampan, and the second to carry his provisions. He had completed his double journey, and was about to push off into the river again, when, from a cocoa-nut grove which fringed the water, three men — Dyaks — suddenly started up and demanded to know the young Malay’s business there. Kiang answered that he was proceeding up the river on a mercantile mission to Idagostui. ‘ Where is your merchandise, then ? ’ asked one of them, with an ugly grin. ‘ I am going to arrange for the future sales of merchandise,5 answered Kiang calmly, though he noticed with some alarm that the man he addressed was loosening his kriss as be listened.

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 159 4 Bill, what should we do with this flat-faced rascal if we had him in blue water ? ’ 4 Bun him up to the yard-arm, your honour,’ replied the faithful boatswain, touching his hat. 1 Eight ; and, Bill - ’ ‘ Yes, your honour ?’ 1 You are not such a fool as I told you you were yesterday.’ 1 No, your honour.’ 1 And, Bill.’ I Yes, your honour ? ’ 6 Here is a plug of the best to put in your pipe/ I I thank your honour.’ And Bill, once more saluting his master, retired to enjoy the newly acquired luxury in solitude. Although, from earliest dawn, watchers on the island were anxiously scanning the opposite shore, no fresh move on the part of the enemy could be discerned. Whatever Eitakraja’s plans might be, nothing gave any evidence of preparation for a fresh attack ; and, tired and harassed as was the little garrison from the previous day’s attempts, this, at least, was something to be thankful for, since it gave to all of them, by turn, a chance of securing that measure of rest and sleep, without which they could not hope to carry on the campaign for any long period. 4 Got plenty of grub, John, eh P ’ grunted the Admiral, as he lighted up a pipe. ‘ Perhaps the beggar means starving us out.’’ Sir John's greatest fear was now being voiced by his brother-in-law, and it made the Eesident feel somewhat uneasy in his mind. 1 That may be a serious difficulty, Eoddy, before very long,’ he replied. 4 We have enough for another two weeks, I think, and must catch as much flail as possible, so as to eke out the provisions we have. Thank goodness, there is no lack of good drinking water from the spring. I don’t know whether it would be possible to make a foray on the other side one night to get provisions, but I fear not. In any case we could only get eggs — probably very stale, as the Malays don’t care for them until they are rather high — and fruit. That sort of stuff is not of very much use for a hungry garrison.’ The Admiral puffed on in silence for a time. Then he said : 4 Do you think that young felloAv — Kiang, Kang, Kangaroo, or whatever the name is — has got through to Idagostui yet ? Of course, we could not hear any news of him, but what do you think of his chances? Are these head¬ hunters really as bad as they are described, think you ? 5 ‘ Yes ; I know they are. But I am in strong hopes that, if he has escaped Eitakraja’s outposts, he may also be able to elude the notice of any wandering band of head-hunters. Still, one can never tell ; he may do the whole journey up the river, and reach the soldiers’ barracks at Idagostui without en¬ countering anything worse than a tapir or a savage- tempered elephant — the latter not at all a thing to play with, by the way. However, all is guesswork in regard to him ; but, from what I know of Orang Tibut, I should be inclined to place great faith in Kiang Eiboug. I do not think lie will play us false under any circumstances, and that, at least, is a comforting thing to think of.’ Again the Admiral smoked on for a time. 4 Let us send Bill up the river to look after him.’ In spite of his anxieties and troubles, Sir John burst into a hearty fit of laughter at this speech. 4 My dear Eoddy, you would be courting disaster to do such a thing ; you would probably be sending the unfortunate man to his death by a very short route. How could he, ignorant of the country, not knowing a solitary word of the language even, hope to succeed in such a mission ? No, no ; Bill is a use¬ ful fellow enough in his wa y, but the poor mam would probably 44 lose his head” in not only a figurative, but also in a literal sense, if we sent him on any such wild-goose chase as that/ 4 Humph ! don’t know ; don’t know, I am sure ! murmured Admiral Eoddy. 4 Bill is a pretty smart man, though I am always telling him he is a fool, and although he always agrees with me that he is T However, you know best, I dare say ; you know best/ The day passed peacefully away. Any ship arriving in the channel, or anchoring off the island, would have come and gone without her crew guessing the warlike state of affairs existing between the rival races dwelling on the mainland and on the • little sea-surrounded world in which the British Eesidency stood. Whatever the Malays meant to do, it soon became clear that no attack would be- made at present. Three days passed tranquilly, and then, early in the morning of the fourth, a sampan, manned by Orang Tibut and a native fisherman, paddled across to see if their landing would be prevented. As they got to within a hundred yards or so of the beach, a dozen Malays rushed out of a bamboo hut, built near high-water mark, and promptly opened a brisk fire upon them. The two men then quickly sheered off and returned to the island. 4 They mean to starve us out, master,’ said Orang Tibut to the Eesident. 4 1 hardly think they will attack us again until, perhaps, we are so weak from hunger that we cannot resist them. It i3 their surest plan ; but their danger in carrying it out is the soldiers from Idagostui. Ha ! ’ he exclaimed excitedly, as a sudden idea struck him. ‘ What if they have found Kiang Eiboug, our messenger, and killed him ? Then they know the soldiers cannot be warned, and they can take their own time to starve us in perfect safety to themselves 1 That is it : they have killed poor Kiang ! ’ In which, as we know, Orang Tibut was mistaken. True, the messenger was dead, but his death was not owing to Eitakraja’s plans. Fate, in the shape of the head-hunters had, for the time, befriended Kitakraja ; no message would now reach the English soldiers at Idagostui ; no help could come to the British Eesidency from that quarter. But none of those on Vasco Island knew of this, and, in spite of Orang Tibut’s gloomy forebodings, Sir John still had the strongest possible hope and belief that the young Malay had succeeded in his mission, and that before very long their eyes would be gladdened by the sight of the redcoats marching to their relief. ( Continued at page 1G6.)

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160 CHATTERBOX. No. XX.

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Y

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16-2 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXI. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. (1 ^ A B00T,S indictment. IJggpKS {Concluded from page 156.) OW, madam,” says I, more briskly, “ if you have got 110 oBjections, we will have Lick Selby called at once, v- ' so T^iat 1 can as^ him a \ \\^rl certain question ; but you * may res^ assure(l ^at Irom the way I put it he shall not guess of what he is suspected.” ‘ Mrs. Chestney seemed a little surprised, and rather unwilling to back me up in the course I was taking. However, she sent for Lick, who lost no time in obeying the summons. ‘ *“ Now, Lick,” says I, quite quietly, “ I believe you have been working to-day at this end of the garden ? It would be about eleven o’clock, I suppose. And what I want you to do is to recollect if you noticed j any one about at that hour. When you came up ; outside the window, just before Mrs. Chestney re¬ turned indoors, did you happen to meet anybody on the way ? Rack your memory, if you please.” ‘ Lick looked uncommonly puzzled and kept turning his cap round in his hands over and over again. ‘ “ Now, then, speak up, my mail,” I urged, with a touch of sterness, in order to drive him to the point. *“ There was only old Betty Wilcox,” says Lick, suddenly and with an air as if he would rather not have said it. ‘ “ And whereabouts did you see her, Lick ?” ‘ “ Why, when I got near fhe window, she was just stepping round the corner of the house,” says Lick, pulling out his red pocket-handkerchief and wiping his brow with it. 4 “ That will do, Lick. You may go.” ‘So off he went in a jiffy, and I was then at liberty to speak my mind to Mrs. Chestney. “‘ Now, madam,” says I, in my most official manner, “perhaps you will not be much surprised if I de¬ clare that, according to my way of thinking, it was not Lick Selby that purloined those ten-pound notes. But I must next request you to send for Betty Wilcox, if you please.” ‘ “ Oh, dear me, Sergeant Lundy ! ” she says, in great distress ; “ 1 hope you do not suspect that poor old thing of having taken them?” 1 “ Poverty sometimes makes thieves of honest folk, madam,” was my reply. “ I am told that the widowed daughter of Mrs. Wilcox is laid up with bronchitis at this very time, so that the grandmother has the whole family on her hands. However, we will not be too hard on her, madam — that I can vouch for.” ‘ So some one was dispatched to bring old Betty from the village. Meanwhile Mrs. Chestney insisted that I should have something to eat, which, having- missed my dinner, I was nothing loth to do. ‘ “ Well, Betty,” says I, as soon as the old dame hobbled into the room, “ I am sorry to find you are so badly off for a pair of boots. Now, there is a large hole in that right boot of yours — not to speak of the heel being all worn away on the inside. Is it not so?” ‘“Lor, Sergeant,” she cries, in her piping voice, “since when did you turn conjuror?” ‘ But, all the same, I saw that she went a ghastly colour, while her few remaining teeth began to chatter. ‘ “ It is not likely you have had them mended since morning,” says I, very gravely. “ And I will take my davy that between ten and eleven o’clock, when you got as far as this window, the right boot was in that condition.” ‘ “ You can sit down, Mrs. Wilcox,” says the widow lady, in a pitying voice, for the old woman looked as if she were about to drop. ‘ “ Lord, have mercy upon me ! ” she mutters, as she sinks into a chair. “ Have mercy upon me, and I will confess my sin ! ” ‘ Then she began to sob and cry, as if her heart would break. So what does Mrs. Chestney do but pour out a glass of wine and make her swallow it. ‘ “ God knows,5' says she presently, “ how the money tempted me. It was yesterday, when I was here about the plain sewing, that I saw the paper notes. They lay there, in the open desk. There is Maggie’s children just starving at homeland the doctor ordering Maggie all the nourishing victuals, and me without a penny to get them for her ! ‘ Why should some folk have everything,’ says I to myself, ‘while others have nought ? The Lord will forgive me/ thinks I to myself, ‘for He knows our need.’ So this morning I came back again, and, as no one was about, I stretched my hand through the window and took the money quite easy. But, to tell you the truth, my lady, I have not had a moment’s peace since I got it. * The Sergeant w~as always a ’cute one, he was." But I am not sorry he has found me out; for I should never have had the pluck to spend it, I do believe.” ‘ Here old Betty produced the notes, and held them out, with shaking hands, to their rightful owner. ‘ “ Poor old soul ! ” says the -widow lady aside to me ; “I cannot help feeling truly sorry for her.” ‘ Then she turned to address the culprit. “ Mrs. Wilcox, if I let this matter slide, may I hope that it will be a lesson to you never again to touch what is not yours ? r ‘ “ God bless your sweet face, dear lady ! and, indeed, you may,” sobbed the old woman. ‘ After a few more words Betty Wilcox was dis¬ missed, and then Mrs. Chestney thanked me for my services in a way that was too flattering by far. You have done it all so quietly and tactfully, Mr. Lundy,” she was pleased to say. “I shall never forget how you have helped me to-day. But, if you would add to the debt of gratitude 1 already owe you, please do not let it come to Lick Selby s ears that I ever suspected him of theft. And as for Mrs. Wilcox, well, between ourselves, Mr. Lundy, I shall always blame myself most severely for having put the temptation in her way. If I had been in her place, and so sorely tried, who knows that I might not have yielded to it myself ? ” ‘ In conclusion, sir, I am glad to tell you that Lick never did hear a word about the matter, for he is a proud sort of chap, is Lick, mind you ; and to

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No. XXL CHATTERBOX. 163 know that he had been mistrusted might have dis¬ couraged him for life. ‘However, though a hit too hasty in her con¬ clusions, Mrs. Chestney was a kind-hearted lady, and no mistake, for I learnt through Molly as how she granted Betty Wilcox a pension of five shillings a week ever after. Moreover, as the story I have just told you never got abroad, the old woman kept her character for honesty in the village. There she lived on, to be loved and respected by her grandchildren, to a good and happy old age.’ Flora Schmat.z. SAVED BY A SWAN. URING the great flood of the Tyne, in September, 1829, a rat saved itself from drowning by getting on the back of a swan. Some people standing on the margin of the river, when the water was at its height, noticed a swan swimming towards them with a black spot on its plumage. As the swan drew nearer, they found that the spot was a live rat, which it was probable had been carried into the water on some floating object, and had escaped drowning by getting on the swan’s back. When the bird came close to the land, the rat leaped off and ran away. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. SUPPOSE you will expect me to tell you about the kangaroo, first of all the Australian animals ; but there is another still more important, namely, man. I have never known a native Australian in a wild state, but I have known a good many tame ones. Some of the young ones have very good faces, and in general the p iccannimes (babies) are dear little fat black things, with soft black eyes. The men are very quick at learning all sorts of work and games. I knew most of the black cricketers who went home years ago. They won a great many matches in England. Some of them had very strange names ; among them there was a ‘ Red-cap ’ and a ‘ Mosquito.’ They are all dead now ; indeed, there is only one aborigine left in the district, his name is ‘ Tar-pot.’ Most of the blacks speak better English than the white working men, but those who were old when the whites came never spoke English well. My greatest friend among the blacks was an old ‘lubra ’ (woman). She was very hideous, and had only one eye. She and her coolie (husband) used often to camp near us. She was very lively, used to sing and dance, and was a splendid mimic. Of course, when camped near us, they expected to be supplied with everything. Often when she was entertaining the children and servants, singing, and so merry, I would appear, and at once she would change from singing to a dreadful whine : ‘ Littie sugar, missie ; littie tea,’ and so on through such a long list, always including ‘ baccy,’ for both men and women smoke. After ‘ Charlotte’s ’ coolie’s death, she was taken very ill while here ; we sent for a doctor, who thought she was dying. When he had gone, she asked me if she was going to die ; when I said I feared so, she gave an exceeding bitter cry, but soon calmed down, and asked me to send her to God in our spring-cart. She also asked me to write to God, to Mrs. E., Mrs. F., and Mrs. P. (mentioning ladies who had been kind to her), saying ‘ poor old Charlotte died ’long of me.’ She recovered, however, and a few years after died ‘ ’long’ of Mrs. P. The blacks think that when they die they ‘ jump up ’ white fellow. They used to hang the dead on trees, but now they bury them in a sitting position, and hang the dead man’s billy and panican near the grave. A black man died at a station while I was staying there. After they buried him, some of his friends came to the mistress of the house and asked her for some newspapers. We went next day to the grave, and saw the newspapers hung round the fence, they said for him to read when he ‘ jumped up white fellow.7 M. C. ( Victoria , Australia). A FAILURE. ‘■JfNTO Lawyer Dawsons office went a tall, thin iiC, man one day — lie went there to seek to borrow, for he had some debts to pay : Yes, his creditors, who vainly many times their due had sought, Threatened now to try to get it through the local County Court. This induced him to determine to seek out his father’s friend, Lawyer Dawson, and to ask him if the money he would lend ; Though he had not seen the lawyer for a dozen years or more, lie felt certain of a hearing for the tale he had in store. ‘ You remember me, I think, sir,’ he began; ‘I am the son Of your late friend, Doctor Grayson — I’m the un¬ successful one.’ Then he told his tale, and added, ‘Sir, it was my wish to go In the way my father taught me, but I’ve failed, as now you know.’ Lawyer Dawson was a keen man, he was very candid too, And he said, ‘ You wished and hoped, sir, but you did not try to do. Not by wishes, or intentions, or by hopes can work be done ; No, indeed ; by making efforts what we wish for must be won. ‘ I am not surprised to see you in this plight, for well I knew That, unless you greatly altered, only failure was your due ; I remember that in boyhood, you were found, to our regret, Very loth to make an effort for a thing you wished to get.’

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164 CHATTERBOX. No. XXL “While the lawyer spoke, Hugh Grayson Stood with head bowed low in shame. ” Then he added very kindly, Tor your good old father’s sake, I will settle with your debtors, if a promise you will make, That the work which I will offer, and which can be done by you, You will undertake, and thus, sir, use a chance to start anew.’ Whilst the lawyer spoke, Hugh Grayson stood with head bowed low in shame, He had been an idle wisher, he deserved the words of blame ; And so deep was the impression which they made upon his heart That he gladly gave a promise to take up a zoorkers part. ***** Take a hint, my lads, I beg you — do not use an idler’s plan; Wishing, hoping, and intending cannot make a prosperous man. You must work for what you wish for, you must work with all your might, And success will surely meet you if you wish and work aright. D. Hammonde. RATHER IMPUDENT! DOGS large and small, smooth and rough, slim and fat, mostly agree upon one point: they are partial to bones, even if they have very little meat upon them. But possibly there are a few fancy dogs that would turn up their noses in contempt at any¬ thing so common — a hard, greasy article to which they would prefer dainty fare. When a dog has got possession of a bone, he guards it carefully. With many it is a risk even for the dog’s master to try and take it away from him. I have seen quite a large dog that was evidently hungry keeping an eager watch upon another much smaller, busy upon a bone, half inclined to seize it, but afraid of rousing the rage of the other. Once I noticed a dog in the street which was so fortunate as to come upon a couple of bones. His home was not far off, so he thought he would carry his prize there, as dogs often will. A stray dog, which happened to be near, trotted behind him on the look-out. Presently he dropped one bone, when the stranger quickly snapped it up and ran away. He turned to chase him, and in doing this he let fall the second bone, which a third dog came and seized. The other dog dodged him round a corner and escaped, so he lost both bones. Our illustration shows a St. Bernard dog, who has had several bones given him, which he has partly ;

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Thievish Crows. gnawed, but while he was taking a nap, a number of crows came round his kennel, looking for their dinner. Waking up, the dog makes vigorous efforts to drive them away. He struggles to get back the bones which they have been dragging out of his reach. Usually, if a dog has some bones given him, and be cannot finish them, he will go out into the garden, if there be one, and dig holes, where he buries them for another treat. Very likely one may forget just where he put them, and dig in the wrong place some¬ times, but dogs are thoughtful, and mostly have good memories. The St. Bernard dog is a strong animal. One has been known to throw a man down by jump¬ ing suddenly against him, though they are not ill- tempered nor quarrelsome. Their early home was

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166 CHATTERBOX. No. XXL amongst the Alps, and the St. Bernard takes its name from a convent situated in the region of snow. One of these dogs will plough bravely into a deep snow-drift when it is sent out to seek for any unfor¬ tunate traveller. Should it find one, the dog makes a loud cry of alarm, and then exerts .all its strength to clear the snow, if the person is buried in it. We have many St. Bernard dogs in Britain, but they do not appear to be much liked by dogs of other breeds. J. R. S. C. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 159.) j ITAKRAJA was, just at this time, a dangerous man to friend and foe alike. Hi3 fierce temper could ill brook the failure with which his attempts upon the British position had been met. He had committed that common and fatal mistake of under¬ valuing his enemy, and had suffered for so doing. He was most unwilling to wait for the slow process of starving Vasco Island into sub¬ mission ; but, at the same time, he did not care to run the risk of a third attack and failure. In such an event he could not trust his own followers to stand by him any longer. He had promised them, in glowing terms, that he would lead them to an easy and certain victory ; whereas, as a matter of fact, they had twice been met and defeated. He had foreseen the chance of a messenger being sent up the great river for help, and had had the stream staked right across at a narrow part, as we have seen. He had planted outposts there, and, according to them, there had only been one attempt made to pass them, and that had failed ; for his men had reported that the man who had tried to pass in the fog that night, and had been chased by them, had certainly been drowned. Ritakraja, therefore, felt quite safe from this quarter, and reckoned that, as no help could come from Idagostui, his victims would very soon be at his mercy. All he feared was that the English girls, rather than fall into Malay hands, would kill themselves. This arrange¬ ment would not have fitted in with the prince’s desires at all, but he was at his wits’ end to see how he could avoid such a termination to his siege of the Residency — unless by stratagem. The worst of it was that Sir John knew him too well to believe a word he uttered, and there¬ fore he must put some one else forward instead of himself. He at once bethought him of Kanakra. Now Kanakra, although a weak-minded youth, was much more likely to be- believed than was the arch¬ plotter himself. It was true that the young King had forfeited the Resident’s confidence by the attempt he had made to seize him whilst in his palace ; still, if he, Ritakraja, could induce Kanakra to ven¬ ture over to the island with pretended terms of peace, all would jet be well, and possession might be obtained of the place and the English girls by fraud. So to Kanakra he went, and was promptly admitted into that august young person's pre¬ sence. ‘ We shall have to starve out these dogs of English,’ began the prince ; 1 without cannon our¬ selves, we cannot face their cannon — that is certain ; and to wait until they are starved, or till we can get a piece of artillery which would really be of some use to us, will be a very wearisome affair. Now, why not go over to the Residency, see Sir John Palgrave - ■’ But here the King hastily interrupted him. ‘ How can 1 do that ? You forget, my good cousin, that little scene in the garden here when we tried to capture him and - ’ ‘ Yes, and failed. No, I remember ; but the English are curious folk : once they have succeeded in anything, once they have had their own way, they forget all their enmities, and offer their hands in friendship to those who have tried to destroy them. They cannot help it ; nature made them fools, and fools they will remain until the end of all things. You know perfectly well that, even after your attempt, upon Sir John Palgrave’s liberty, you would be as safe with him in the Residency a3 you are in your own palace.’ The King shook his head. ‘ Suppose they were to hold me a3 a hostage P ’ Ritakraja suppressed with difficulty an impatient gesture. Although Kanakra was his cousin, never¬ theless he was his King, aud it would not do to lose temper with him. ‘ The English are always prating about what they call their honour. I do not really know what it is, but it appears to be a very inconvenient thing, which always interferes with what they wish in their hearts to do. They would consider that their “ honour ” would be involved in your safety. Keeping you prisoner would be against this wonderful “ honour." So you would be quite safe/ ‘ Well, suppose I consented to go, what then P What should I say to the Resident ? ’ asked the King, hesitating whether to go and please Ritakraja, or to stay at home and please himself. 1 You would tell him that we wDh hkn and the English well; that we have no desire to hurt them in any way ; that we and they must forget all this trouble between us, and let things be again just as they were before, and that you will guarantee that no harm shall come to any of his party.’ * But all this — all these things — will be lies. Directly they consented to this you would - ’ ‘Oh, yes, certainly. Directly they consented, we might find it desirable to cut their throats,’ rejoined the arch-villain in cheery tones ; * the girls would be a spoil for the conquerors worthy of acceptance : the fair-headed girl, the Resident’s daughter, for me, the other for you ; the rest — well, I think they would be better out of the way — but. perhaps we could spare the lives of just two or three, and sell

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No. XXL CHATTERBOX. 167 them as slaves to the Dyak pirates, or to the Orang- benua ’ (men of the soil or inland tribes). 1 These big, strong English would be most useful to row a war praku — the 11 men of the sea 99 would give a large price for them, I am sure ; 7 and he concluded his speech with a grin. ‘ It — it hardly seems the right thing to do,’ began the young King in rather a lame kind of way. ‘As a good Mussulman - ’ ‘ As a good Mussulman, anything in the form of a Christian must be hateful to you. We are justi¬ fied in doing anything in order to rid our country of such pests. And the girl/ added Ritakraja, artfully, 1 the girl is very beautiful. You see, if she became one of your wives, you might convert her to the true faith/ The King -was but half pprsuaded in his own heart ; still, he thought he would go. He knew that his own person would be sacred even in the midst of his enemies. Yes, he would go. Ritakraja was delighted; and, within half an hour, a messenger was dispatched in a sampan, bearing a flag of truce in its bow, to ask for an audience, on the part of Kanakra, with the representative of British rule in Vasco Island. Kanakra’s messenger was permitted to land, and was at once escorted into the long room at the Residency, where Sir John sat at the table, writing a dispatch, the sending of which was causing him great anxiety. Practically, lie w’as cut off from communication with the world, for all the postal arrangements were in the hands of the Malays. That is to say, the mail-bag was always conveyed by natives to the nearest postal station, and Ritak- j raja would, doubtless, take very good care that no letters, even if sent — and that seemed quite impossible now — should ever reach their destina¬ tion. The messenger was a high official of the King’s retinue. Sir John bowed courteously and .hade him be seated. The Malay at once unfolded his mission, and asked if Sir J ohn Palgrave would receive the King in audience P , Rather surprised at the proposition, Sir John replied that, if it would tend to bring about an understanding between Kanakra’s people and him¬ self, he saw no reason why he should not receive the King. Kanakra might rest assured that he, Sir John, would do all in his power to meet the King’s 1 views, but it must be on the distinct condition that the British rule should be recognised ; otherwise all attempts at negotiation would be so much waste of time. The Malay bowed himself out in silence, and less than two hours later Kanakra, accompanied by four of bis chief counsellors, sat facing Sir John in the principal reception-room of the Resi¬ dency. The meeting was rather an awkward one for both of them. They had parted in anger, and with mutual threats ; and only by his own coolness and courage had the Englishman escaped capture — perhaps death. Both were unwilling to touch upon the subject ; both wisely concluded to get to the business in hand, and for the time being, at all events, ‘ let bygones be bygones.’ Kanakra looked round rather helplessly at his principal counsellor. The latter quickly bent forward and spoke half-a-dozen words in his ear. Then the young King turned to Sir John and began, — ‘It is very much to be regretted this state of affairs between the English here and ourselves. I am quite willing to end it. Are you ? ’ ‘ Perfectly,’ was the reply. ‘ Let me remind you that your people alone are the aggressors/ The King made an impatient motion of his head. ‘ Why upbraid me P WTiat have I to do with it P I cannot control my people ! ’ ‘ Then allow me to do so through you, and let us resume the relations which formerly existed between us.’ Kanakra smiled craftily. This proposal would much simplify his task. In effect, it w’ould mean surrender ; for, if he could get Sir John over to the mainland , and — well, ensure his safe-keeping — a small force of Malays could land on Vasco Island, rush the guns, and the Residency would be theirs. The girls would fall into his power ; the men he would ‘ take care of,’ he said to himself. He meant that he would probably kill them. Kanakra turned away to hide the smile that spread across his flat, sly-looking face, as he thought how readily this Englishman, reputed to be so clever, had suggested putting the whole game into the hands of his enemies. ‘By all means, Sir John — by all means. Let all things be as they used to be. 1 am content. Let us say nothing of what has happened just recently. You will come over to me, and soon ? We will then consult and - ? ‘ Yes ; I will come over to you — but on one condition.’ ‘ And that is ? ’ 6 That you first bring me our excellent friend, v Ritakraja* (who, I notice, has modestly kept himself in the background during this negotiation), and leave him here as, we will say, a kind of security against damage. Then, if anything should, unhappily, prevent my returning from the Palace to the Residency, the Residency may have the honour of Ritakraja’s company — at the end of a rope — for a few moments, at the close of which time, whatever is left of him shall be duly returned to his friends on the mainland.’ These words fairly staggered the King. He had thought this foolish Englishman was readily falling into a snare ; dropping, like an over-ripe pear, into the hands which merely touched it ; but, as he listened, and his eyes rested upon the grim features of the man sitting before him, and realised the strength of the position — although the proposal wa3 a fair one— which the Resident' had taken up, the Malay King began to feel that it was he, and not his enemy, who had 4 got left,’ as an American would sav. ‘‘ I— I cannot send Ritakraja,’ began the King, stammering and halting in his vexation. ‘ And why should you want him for a hostage ? Why do you talk of hanging my own cousin ? What has he done to offend you P ’ ( Continued at page 170.)

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z

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170 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXII. PSACS-MAKSEo ANY people, who know something about the doings and habits of monkeys, would not care to have one as a domestic pet. Certainly there are many kinds of monkeys ; they differ greatly in size, shape, colour, also in their ways ; but, if you take the tribe generally, there are few that behave well if they have freedom given them to wander over the house and garden. Of course a monkey may be kept chained up — tins seems a hard life for the poor creature. If he has freedom, unless constantly looked after, he is likely to do mischief, perhaps even serious damage, to articles, or cause injury, of course unawares, to some person. There was a gentleman who now and then received, from a friend in India, birds and other objects of Eastern countries. One day he had a curious monkey sent over, but the animal was so troublesome that he had to get rid of it. Next time he wrote he said to his friend, as he thought, 1 Please send me no more monkeys,'’ but the word ‘ no ’ was smudged. So it happened that afterwards he had a letter from the docks telling him six monkeys had arrived, and would he fetch them. His friend thought he wanted more ! Our illustration shows the end of a scene between a cat and a monkey or ape, where a girl has brought about peace by carrying away the cat, while the ape looks sulky and ashamed. Fights are apt to occur if the two animals are kept together in a house. People sometimes speak of leading ‘ a cat and dog life.’ I have noticed, how¬ ever, that a cat and dog used to each other get on very well. But it is not so with a cat and monkey. If the monkey is at all petted, the cat will be jealous, and look out for a chance of being spiteful. Should it come to a skirmish between them, the monkey generally has to retire, finding the cat’s claws rather unpleasant, while he is afraid to approach near enough to bite. Sometimes he will go a little distance off, and fling at his enemy any¬ thing which may be handy. There was a monkey which had a dislike to a cat, because she flew at him when he came too near her kittens. She had a couple, and, waiting his chance, he seized them both, and climbed to the roof of an out-house, grinning and seeming highly pleased. When the cat discovered her loss, she was greatly distressed, as she could not follow him where he had perched himself with his prize. People came beneath, they shouted to the monkey, then they tried to coax him, but he took no heed. At last he laid the kittens down in a safe place on the roof, slid down, and ran away to hide, as he used to if he had done anything wrong. By means of a ladder the kittens were reached, and brought unhurt to the mother cat. Of another monkey it is told that he had a spite against the small favourite cat of his mistress. ' One day the painters were busy with their work on the staircase of the house : the monkey waited till they went to dinner, then he seized the cat, took her to the paint-pot, and smeared her all over. Getting free, poor pussy began licking herself, and would have been poisoned if somebody had not quickly seized her aud removed the paint with turpentine. The monkey was severely punished, and pretended to he very meek and sorrowful, though only a few days later he was caught in the act of pinching the cat’s tail! ' J. B. S. 0. THE TOPER’S DIHNER. INSTEAD of going to their work on Monday a number of workmen entered a public- house, determined to spend the day there. About noon a woman looked in and said, addressing one of the party, ‘I suppose you are not coming home to dinner to-day, and so I have brought you your share.’ So saying, she placed a dish and plate carefully tied up in front of the toper, and went away. ‘Looks well after you, your wife does/ said a mate; ‘ suppose we taste and see what it’s like.’ ‘ Ay, let us have a taste,’ said the husband, as he untied the bundle. But the plates were empty ; there was a note with them which ran as follows : ‘ 1 hope you will enjoy your dinner; it is the same as the children are having at home.’ VASCO ISLAID. (Continued from page 167.) LI JOHN opened a drawer in the table he was sitting at and produced a closely written sheet of paper, from which he read the following words : ‘ The accused .... is charged with abducting, by means of a trick, and afterwards forcibly detaining in his dwelling-house, two British subjects .... and the said Prince Hitakraja is further charged with inciting to rebellion against the British rule, and with attacking by force, on two separate occasions, the official abode of the British Resident, and with conspiracy. . . .’ ‘ These are a few of the little matters which, sooner or later, Prince Hitakraja must settle with the English Government,’ went on Sir John, drily. ‘ And it does not look to me an unlikely thing that your esteemed cousin may find things made some¬ what unpleasant for him in the not far-distant future.’ The King began to think that the game of treach¬ ery was up, and his weak, wayward temper began to assert itself. ‘ Very well,’ lie exclaimed, ‘ then you refuse to leave the island and come over to me ? Is that your final decision P ’ ‘ No. As I have said, I will come and advise you as before if you will give me Hitakraja as a hostage.

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No. XAJlJL. OHATTERBOX. 171 I tell you frankly what shall be done with him if anything happens to me.’ ‘Do you not— be silent!’ he suddenly screamed, as his chief counsellor leaned down to say something to him, by way of suggestion. ‘ Do you not trust me ? ’ There was a pause ; then Sir John, looking steadily at the Asiatic said : ‘ No, Kanakra ; I do not trust you. You attempted either my life or my liberty, I will not say which, the last dav I saw you at the palace. And now you ask me to trust you again. Why should I ? ’ ‘ i)o I hesitate to trust myself here in your power ?’ replied the King in dignified tones. . ‘ No. But you know that whilst here you are under my charge ; that, so far from doing you any injury, I should defend you, if needs were, even at the cost of my own life. You know all this, Kanakra, as well a9 I do.7 Kanakra attempted a weak little sneer, but it fell very flat. ‘ This is what the English call their honour, I suppose P 7 Sir John drew himself up stiffly. ‘ Yes. And my countrymen have never hesitated to consider their honour first and their lives afterwards.’ The King’s head drooped before the straight, stern gaze of the blue eyes. Liar as he was, shifty and uncertain, he yet had enough good in him to feel, to know, that his enemy spoke the truth, and that he (Kanakra) was as safe in the .Residency as he would be in bis own palace. In short, Kanakra was beginning to wish for the old times when Sir John directed everything, and he himself was merely the mouthpiece of the Resident. It had always saved him so much trouble, and, somehow or other, although a 1 foreigner,’ Sir John was a man in whom he could always place the most implicit trust. He had half a mind to throw* Ritakraja over, and— hut, then, how could this be done? As to carrying put Sir John’s condition, and sending Ritakraja to the island, he knew that to attempt such a thing would he to bring about a revolt of the whole native army. With them Ritakraja had more influence, and was altogether more powerful than he was himself. And Ritakraja was so clever too ! and he — well, he supposed he must admit that lie was not clever or strong. The worst of it was that, directly he made up his mind to do a thing, he changed it. and did something else. Life wTas so much easier when Sir John used to make up his (Kanakra’s) mind for him ! However, he could not escape from his cousin now. No, Ritakraja was too strong for him. (1 suppose then, Sir John, that it will be quite useless to prolong this interview, though I assure you I would willingly revert to the old rule if — if ‘ If Ritakraja would let you, eh ?’ said Sir John. He knew, no one better, how weak the King was, and that, left to himself, he -would be easy enough to deal with. The King did not deign to answer; he merely shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and rose from, his chair. He made a formal farewell, and then, in a state of miserable doubt and uncertainty, be walked down to bis prahu. lying on the sea-shore. He was quite uncertain as to what his future plans should be ; the only thing which appeared to stand out clearly in his mind was a wish that his excellent cousin, Ritakraja, could be thrown into the deep sea with a round shot tied to his neck ! When Ritakraja reached the palace, only to hear of the ill-success of his cousin’s mission, he was almost beside himself with rage. Not daring to show temper to the King, he hastened away. After fuming up and down the shore for an hour, he calmed down in a measure, and said to himself that, the King being a fool, he, Ritakraja, could do nothing now until the small garrison at the Residency was starved into submission. And thereupon he set to work to redouble his precautions against the English obtaining food from the mainland. It would be quite impossible for the island to support them for any length of time, of that lie was well assured. Full of the hope that aid would soon he sent from up the river, and ignorant of the fact that the un¬ fortunate Kiang’s bones lay bleaching on its shore, Sir John and his little party determined to hold out till the last. A bright watch was kept day and night at the little landing-stage, the guns were always in readiness for action, and the utmost vigilance was shown in looking for any hostile movement on the opposite heacli. But provisions, after a time, began to run short. The Resident, who like a good General, neglected not the smallest detail which might tell in his favour, had carefully calculated what ration could be afforded to each member of his party, and that only was given out. The soldiers surely must arrive, he reckoned, from Idagostui within a week at farthest, and the pro¬ visions would last, with care, for another ten days. The question which haunted him day and night was, 4 Will the food hold out until they come, or shall we be starved into surrender ? ’ A week went by — so slowly for the half-fed people. For two days, Jack Chesney contrived to delude Nita Palgrave into eating half his share of the allotted rations, in addition to all of her own, and it was only when Ourzon made a bungliner attempt to hand on his portion to Adela, that Chesney was detected in his pious fraud. Nita’s soft eyes filled with tears when she saw the devotion of her lover, and she murmured gently to him : ‘Dear old Jack ! vou deserve a good woman for a wife, a better than - ’ . ‘ And I have got one ! the best in the world ! laughed the young sailor, bending down and kissing her? The laugh was still hearty, but bis cheeks were rather hollow. That night he drew Curzon aside, and said to him: ‘ George, what do you say to a foray on the opposite shore ? We might pick up a pig, or some fruit — a boatload of bananas would come in handy just now, wouldn’t it ? Anyhow, we could take a sampan across, and try our luck in the darkness. What do you say P ’ ‘ I’m on,5 replied Curzon. ‘ All the same. I expect the only thing we are at all likely to bring away with us is a bullet in the back ! 7 6 Well, we will chance that, if you will make tho try with me.’

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The other nodded, and after telling Sir John quietly •what they were going to do, the two young men slipped off down to the beach, launched a sampan and began to paddle across. 4 No good trying to land anywhere near the palace/ said Curzon. e We will make an attempt about half a mile lower down.’ They paddled slowly and cautiously on, not speak¬ ing above a whisper, until coming abreast of a good- sized bamboo house, built upon piles, and standing well out into the water. Here they rested on their paddles, and peered through the darkness ; all was still within the house. They gently ran their sampan ashore and got out.

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Grannie visits her Married Daughter. ( Now, my boy,’ whispered Curzon, 1 you spoke of getting a pig : you forget that pigs squeal ! — that would not do. We will go into this little orchard here though, and help ourselves to the fruit. I really do not believe there is a banana or a cocoanut left on the island, the trees are stripped bare. Bring the basket and come along.’ For a good ten minutes they worked to fill the large basket they had brought with them. Curzon then returned to the sampan, emptied his basket into it, and returned with it to where he had left Chesney, but the Lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. Half a minute later, however, he emerged from a shadow of a small pent-house, thatched with reeds, standing in a corner of the orchard. He carried a large rush basket in both hands : it was evidently full and very heavy. ‘ A find, my boy, a find ! ’ he said gleefully, but in low tones. ‘ The excellent proprietor of this place is evidently a fisherman, this basket is full of smoked fish. It may not be very nice, but we can manage to tackle it, and hand over our share of the better food to the girls.’ i Tackle it ! ’ exclaimed Curzon ; ‘ I could tackle a dromedary, hump and all, I am so hungry ! and now let us get hold of a few of these green vegetables, and then we will be - Hush ! what was that ? ’ Both men listened intently for a minute or two, then Curzon said, ‘Nothing — perhaps a monkey in the trees.’ 1 We had better carry this basket of fish between us to the sampan, and then come back for some vegetables.’ Ibis they proceeded to do ; the fish was stowed in the boat, and then the two young men cautiously returned to the orchard again. They began to get up some sweet potatoes, but they had hardly gathered a couple apiece when, from the shadow of the small pent-house, three brawny Malays leapt out, and made a rush for them. To hurl the potatoes full in the faces of their nearest opponents, and bolt over the low palisades was the work of an instant. The young Englishmen knew exactly where the sampan lay, and using their legs to good effect, they fled down to the shore at full speed. But the active, wiry Malays were close after them, shouting and yelling to arouse others to join in the pursuit. Luckily for the fugitives, no one else seemed to be about. One of the Malays had a gun with him, and whilst the other two continued whooping and screaming along in the chase, the first man dropped on one knee and took aim at Chesney. But the light of the stars was not a very certain one, and a man flying for his life over uneven, broken ground is not a very easy object to hit. However, a sharp cry of pain following the report of the gun told that the Malay had not fired in vain ; but it was one of his own countrymen who had captured the charge of shot ! The injured man turned like a fury upon his friend, and knocked him flat on his back,

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174 CHATTERBOX. No. AXIL and this chance gave the two young men time to shove off the sampan, and paddle away with the spoils of war secure in the bottom of the boat. ‘This sort of thing,’ said Curzon, peeling and ! tasting a banana, ‘ is more exciting than stopping all the evening, in a more or less starving condition, .on the island. Besides, w~e can really manage to give the Residency a square meal of fruit and smoked i fish. I wish we could have secured the sweet pota¬ toes. They really are good.’ * Glad we did not secure that charge of small shot,’ remarked Chesney, slowly paddling. ‘ That form of sport is just a little too exciting for my taste, unless . 1 am allowed to stop and take a hand in the shoot¬ ing myself ! ’ Nevertheless, and in spite of their adventure, they both determined that they would — if the state of siege at the island lasted much longer— pay another visit or two to the mainland, to try and get some food from their enemy’s stores. (' Continued at page 178.) GRANNIE. TT7HEN the tap, tap, tap of two walking-sticks ) V and the sound of a slow footstep were heard on the tiled floor, the little Browns used to shout, * That is Grannie ! ’ The old woman came nearly every day when it was fine; in bad weather she stayed in her home, which was an almshouse, for her daughter had married a man who had to work hard to support his children and could not afford to keep any one else. They were always glad to see ‘ Grannie,’ though sometimes they wished that she would not find fault quite so much. The old lady was fond of her grandchildren, but, like most people when they are getting aged, she thought old times and old-time ways were better than" present days and ways ; and she liked to talk of her youth, when, to her fancy, the world was better than it is now. However, ‘ Grannie 7 could tell many a strange tale of her childhood, with the little folk gathered round her. And then, when it was time to go back to the almshouse, one would help her rise out of the big arm-chair, and another would put the walking- sticks into her hands, and two or three of them would see her to her door, where she would bid them good¬ bye with a ‘ God bless you, my dears 1 Be good children till I see you again.’ But there came a day when they all wished that they had been even more fond of ‘ Grannie,’ wished that they had never pouted under her reproofs. That was the day when the old woman was found lying calmly as if asleep in her bed, but it was the sleep from which there is no awakening in this world. Never more the tap-tap of her sticks was to be heard, or the old voice heard saying, ‘Do not do this,’ or ‘ You ought to do that.’ There had been no illness, no sorrowful fear that the last good-bye was coming very near. No; Grannie had been to the cottage the day before and had seemed cheerful, talking of old times and telling the old tales about her own childhood. But yet the children wished that she could come once more, so that they might show her how much they really loved her. So, young foik who have a ‘ Grannie,’ never mind a reproof from her ; the day will come when you may long to have her back again. M. C. S. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 23. — Metagrams. Change the first letter of the following words. (a.) — 1. In what manner? 2. A most useful animal. 3. A sound made by the same. 4. A weapon used formerly ; a courteous move¬ ment. 5. Not to be rashly made, nor lightly broken. 6. Performed chiefly in summer and autumn. 7. Very inflammable. 8. At the present time. 9. To propel, but not on land; a vulgar dis¬ turbance. (b.)— 1. To look at closely or impertinently. 2. To call loudly ; to weep or lament. 3. What should be done to deserve success. 4. Twisted; on one side; distorted. , 5. Absence of moisture. 6. A savoury mode of cocking. (c.) — 1. Daybreak. 2. The most useful of vegetable products. 3. A musical wind instrument. 4. Wasted or spoilt by use. 5. Forsaken, lonely. 6. Separated by violence. (d.) — 1. A severe look. 2. An ensign of royalty. 3. A dull colour. 4. Increased in size. 24. — Conundrums. 1. What is that which becomes too young the longer it exists ? 2. Who is the only person in England allowed to sit before the Queen? 3. When is a lawyer like a horse ? [Answers at page 191.] 20. — 1. Dangerous. 2. Certainty. 3. Natural. 4. Hospital. 5. Plough. 6. Porter. 7. Channel. 21. — 1. Abyssinia. 2. Petersburg. 3. Portsmouth. 4. Pontefract. 5. Plymouth. 6. Winchester. 14. Monday. 15. February. 16. Barometer. 17. Laughter. IS. Epigram. 19. Foreigner. 20. Tyrant. 7. Falkirk. 8. Blenheim. 9. Gibraltar. 10. Trafalgar. 11. Gloucester. 12. Copenhagen. answers. 8. Regiment. 9. Innocent. 10. Farewell. 11. Leader. 12. Porcelain. 13. Artillery. 22. — Drought, rough, ought, tough, hour, drug, gout, dough, gourd.

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No. XXII. CHATTERBOX. 1 75 * JASPER.’ 0 XJ know what a "barometer or weather-glass is, but do you know that there is an animal which foretells wet, dry, and cold weather ? A curious animal, with a very strong shell, into which he can tuck his four stiff, scaly legs and grey skin-covered head — a Tortoise. A land tortoise, I mean, for there are four dif¬ ferent kinds of tortoises — land, marsh, river, and marine The land tortoise is not a native of England, some live in South Europe, others in Asia, Africa, and America; but a great number are brought to this country, and they do very well here, and often live to a great age. Three years ago a man came round our village with a truck full of birds and tortoises for sale. I knew my Persian cat, Jimmie, would never let me keep a bird long ; but a tortoise, I thought, would be a very nice pet, and so I bought one. I live in one of a row of houses, each of which has its small bit of railed-in garden in front, then there comes the path, and beyond that a lawn surrouuded by walls, which belongs equally to all the inhabitants of the row. Jasper, for so I named my tortoise because of his prettily marked shell, soon made him¬ self at home in my little domain, very much so indeed, for he liked all my favourite plants— to eat ; however, it was in the autumn, so he did not do much harm. When the weather grew colder he crept into a sheltered corner, under a myrtle, and would not stir out, or even eat the leaves I picked for him. I was afraid to leave him there, though some friends told me he would be all right, so I brought him indoors and put him into a box full of straw. There he stayed, fast asleep, till the spring; then one sunny day lie crept out of his bed and I carried him into the garden. At first he took shelter under the myrtle, and would only crawl out into the sunshine arid lie still, with his head stretched out of his shell and his eyes shut ; but, as the days grew warmer, he began to walk about on the tips of his toes and to eat. He liked all young shoots, and my garden suffered — and so did my neighbours’. I used to miss him for a day or two, then he would he brought back with — * Mrs. So-and-So’s compliments, and the tortoise had eaten all her sweet peas.’ I tried to bribe him to stay at home by giving liim straw¬ berries and young lettuces. He ate them, but he still wandered. Then I put netting round the rails, but he crept out whenever the gate was left open ; however, as the summer passed on and the leaves grew older and less juicy, fewer complaints were made, and my pet was a great amusement to me. He was never caught in the rain. However suddenly a storm came up, Jasper was always under shelter; and, on the other hand, as long as he re¬ mained in the open, I might be certain it would be fine. The frosts came early that year, and before I thought of taking Jasper indoors he disappeared. I expected him to be brought hack in a few days as usual, but time passed and" no Jasper appeared, so I gave him up for lost. However, at last, just before Christmas, one of my neighbours was having some bulbs put in, and the gardener, in digging up the ground, dug up Jasper. His instinct had told him it was going to be a cold winter, so be had hunted out a sheltered spot, dug a hole, and buried himself right under the earth. He would have been too weak to bury himself again after his long sleep, so I just put him in his box and he was all right. But when spring came, and I put him out, he wandered about and did so much mischief that I had to give him away. His new home was a large country garden, with nice strawberry and lettuce beds, and he was allowed to do exactly as he liked. But his mistress had a pet pug-dog, and Pixie, the dog, was jealous of Jasper, and one day the poor little tortoise was found dead. There were suspicious marks, as though he had been worried and knocked about, and though the culprit was not found out, I believe it was Pixie. 1 E. A. M. DESERTED AND FOUND, THE terrible war in South Africa has made us talk and read a great deal about the British soldier, and though we all must be sorry for the sad loss of life on both sides, we have seen the noble qualities of endurance and courage shown by our countrymen. Also we are obliged to own that our foes, the Boers, have been brave, though they fought for a had cause. No doubt some people have said hard things about our soldiers — and their life, both in barracks and during war, exposes them to much temptation — hut we may find Tommy Atkins, even when it seems unlikely, showing kindness, especially to the children he comes across. We have an instance of this m a little incident that happened during the Soudan campaign. When a party of Lancers were out reconnoitring, they came upon a small village which had somehow been deserted by its inhabitants, excepting one child which had been left. The poor little fellow cried as he saw the horsemen. A Lancer who was riding ahead caught up the child and brought him safelv to a place where he was fed and taken care of. This recalls a rather similar story told of some soldiers long ago. It was when the j English were fighting in Spain, I think. There had been a skirmish, and afterwards a party went back to bury the dead. Some gipsies had passed, and, having fled in alarm, they had left a child, which the soldiers found on the field of battle. They took it up, but it was too young to eat bread, so they went off to try and obtain milk. It had scarcely any clothes, but one of the men wrapped, it in a soldier’s tunic. Afterwards it was given into the care of one of the women settlers, and the hoy grew | up to become a soldier himself. J. R. S. C.

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CHATTERBOX No. XXII.

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I

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 177

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178 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXIII. VASCO ISLAND. {Continued from page 174.) HE privations and sufferings of the devoted little band on Vasco Island were now severe. The two girls and their aunt, thanks to the increasing care of the rest, were the last to feel the pangs of hunger, but even they were at length begin¬ ning to understand the desperate state of affairs. Day after day passed with¬ out bringing news of any sort, until even Sir John had given up all hope of his message having ever reached Idagostui. -twice, since the adventure just recorded, had Chesnev and Curzon paid a risky visit to the mainland at dead or nirrht, whilst Orang Tibut had also succeeded m landing there onceT They had never come away quite empty-handed ; but what, after all, was a sam¬ pan-load of fruit or sweet potatoes among.*! the beleaguered garrison P And so closely watched was the shore by night now, that it became a very hazardous matter indeed to attempt a landing. 1 Begins to look a bit blue for our chance, eli, John said the Admiral gloomily, as he and the Resident stood on the earth-works, watching the opposite shore. . , , , ‘ Yes/ said Sir John slowly. ‘ There is no doubt about what we must do : another messenger must be sent out, to try and reach Idagostui. But who is to o*o P Orang Tibut is the only man here having any¬ thin" like a chance of success, and he seems very loth to leave the neighbourhood of his arch-enerm , Ritakraja. Still, I must try to get him to make the attempt. I fear there is very little doubt but that Kiang has come to an untimely end.’ Two days before this conversation took place, Ritakraia, in his anxiety to know how near to the end of the struggle they were, bad been paddled m a small sampan to within a couple of hundred yards of the Residency to take observations ; but the de¬ fenders had espied him, and given him such a warm reception from one of the long guns, that the Malay prince, shaking his list defiantly at the gunners, had beat a hasty retreat. Already, however, m antici¬ pation, he had disposed of each one of the garrison according to his own wishes. Later on, after the affairs of Vasco Island were ofE liis hands, he would ‘ settle’ his Royal cousin’s business for him, and declare himself the reigning King in Kanakras place; there was, however, no hurry for this : one thing at a time, thought the crafty prince. He had succeeded in his schemes — in spite of his two attacks on the island — up to now, why should he not be equally fortunate to the end? Orang Tibut was not very willing to make the attempt to get up the river to Idagostui, mainly because he would be letting his arch-enemy out of his sight ; partly, also, because Kiang haying evi¬ dently failed, he, Orang rlibut, thought it highly likely that he also would not succeed in getting through, for, in the absence of all particulars of Kiano-’s death, he was bound to suppose that it had been caused by Ritakraja’s outposts, who, he thought, must have first staked' the narrows of the river to prevent any boat getting past, and then caught and murdered the messenger. However, on Sir Johns pointing out to him that they could not hold out much longer in the absence of either food or fresh, soldiers, he consented to go on Hie morrow. Ibis night he meant to see Ritakraja, if that could b\ any means be managed. ,, His plan was simply to paddle across, to the opposite shore after dark, and wait about in hopes of seeing his enemy either going to the Kings palace, or returning, perhaps, to liis own house ; it was only a vague chance, but the fires of hate burned so fiercely in his breast that he felt he could not go away on what might well be his last journey on earth (for he knew thoroughly of its dangers) with¬ out one more attempt to have Ritakraja s life. 1 Allah may give him to me this night he murmuied to himself quietly, as he had murmured so many times before. „ . , All that night did Orang Tibut hang about between the palace and Ritakraja’s handsome house, with the quaintly carved heads adorning, its eaves. Patiently, with the quiet and reserve of his race, he waited until the morning sun arose and warned him that he could no longer remain on the mainland with any safety. Then he slowly went down to the shore and stepped into his sampan. In the act of pushing off, he looked seaward, and there, to his great astonishment, he beheld a sight which filled him with joy. Standing in, and not moie than a mile and a half from the land, was a stately vessel, evidently about to touch at V a^co Island. Orang Tibut stepped ashore again and, ^for¬ getful of his own danger, ran along, to a point of the land more seaward and standing higher, in order to obtain a better view. As he reached his coign of vantage, the clatter of paddles in a praliu near his own little boat caused him to turn round and look. Ritakraja, dressed in his smartest attire, and with a richly jewelled knss at his side, was stepping into his prahu, manned, by four rowers. They shoved off, and rowed rapidly out in the direction of the ship. Five minutes later, Orang Tibut was also afloat, and paddling as hard as he could in pursuit. Some time beforehand, Ritakraja’s look-out had reported to him that, as morning broke, he could, see a large war-ship close in, and his master had given orders that rowers and prahu should be ready by the time he, Ritakraja, was dressed. With all speed he had arrayed himself gaily, and soon he appeared upon the shore and started. His object was to get ‘first ear ’ of the vessel’s commanding officer. If he played his cards well, this ships arrival would well serve the ends lie had in view. If the ship were either French or Spanish, or even German, all would be well, thought the Asiatic ; if English, well— that would be awkward, certainly, but even then it would be best to get his own version of affairs to the officers’ ears first. Ritakraja was like a good many other people

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No. XXIII. CI-IATTERBOX. 179 in this world, lie believed a great deal in having the first word. As bis rowers brought him nearer to the great ship, he saw, greatly to his annoyance, that it was a -British man-of-war. Nevertheless, he would go on, and have an interview with the captain, giving his own version of the ‘ unfortunate occurrences ’ at Vasco Island. Whilst he could not fail to see that lor the present, at all events, his bold schemes against the English would be brought to nought, and the siege, of necessity, raised, he thought that he could put things in such a specious light that, at least, no punishment would fall to his own share; whether he would have to put Kanakra in the wrong and lay all the blame on him, or not, he had not yet determined : if lie could save his own skin by so doing, he would certainly not hesitate a moment. Me, Eitakraja, would be quite prepared and willing nay, anxious even — to enter into any agreement or undertaking as to his future conduct, and then, directly the war-shij) was out of sight - ! let the whites beware ! This arrival of an English vessel was extremely bad luck on him, but, after all, it only meant the postponement, probably, of his plans. -Teo minutes later, he stood on the deck, his prahu waiting for him below; the commander came down from the bridge to greet him — it was Captain Cochrane ! For a moment, even Ritakraja’s stock of impu¬ dence failed him ; then he advanced with smiles to meet his ‘ old friend/ as he called him. ‘"Very glad to see you, Prince!’ cried the com¬ mander, heartily. ‘This is an early call, but you will stay on board now, and have some breakfast below with me, won’t you P Well, what is the news with all our friends at the Residency ? Is Chesnev well again ? ’ This was Ritakraja’s great chance. After as¬ suring his host of the .young Lieutenant’s recovery, he began : ‘It was most unfortunate, but, through an unhappy misunderstanding, everything had gone wrong at Vasco Island of late, and he, Captain Cochrane, must consent to act as mediator. It was true that an attack had been made upon the Resi¬ dency, but that he himself, though obliged by the King to take a leading part in it, had strongly counselled Kanakra against such a step : that his sympathies were all with the English, as the gallant captain would be well able to believe : that he had never ceased to regret the whole of the rising1 against the British rule.’ 1 That is a lie ! ’ said a voice coolly, not six feet away, from him. Orang Tibut had‘ clambered up the. side of the great ship, letting his sampan go adrift as. he had brought nothing to make it fast wifch. Eitakraja turned with a fierce oath on his lips. The spy stood smiling calmly : this he felt was to be the hour of his revenge. ‘ Who are you, dog ? ’ exclaimed Eitakraja. ‘The man whose wife you stole,’ was the unex¬ pected answer, given in steady tones. ‘ You have come here to lie ; I, to witness to the truth.’ All this, having taken place in the Malay tongue, was so much Greek to the commander. Turning helplessly from. the new-comer to Eitakraja, he said: < What does this mean, Prince ? You know I do not speak or even understand a word of your delightful language. I am just about to send a boat ashore to the island — will you, and this strange-looking countryman of yours, too, come with me P You seem to have some important difference - ’ ‘ Difference ! 5 cried Eitakraja, scornfully ; ‘ why, this thief is not of any rank whatever— a mere servant— a— a— I think he is one of Sir John Palgrave’s servants — a gardener or some such thing, the man must be mad ! 5 and raging in his heart, but not daring to show it outwardly, the prince walked over to the bulwarks, and, with a show of coolness, took his cigar-case from his pocket. Then, without a moment’s warning or a suspicion on the part of Captain Cochrane or of Eitakraja himself, of what was coming, Orang Tibut made a leap across the deck, and sprang upon his foe. He Hung his arms around the other’s neck, making a low sound like the growling of a wild beast ; then,°with a loud laugh, he forced his enemy backwards through the open port, and they both fell with a loud splash into the sea below. A moment later, they rose to the surface, locked together in a deadly embrace ; then, before anything could be done by way of rescue, even by the men in the prahu lying alongside the ship, the two Malays sank through the. transparent waters, never to rise again. Orang Tibut’s revenge wa3 complete, even though he had purchased it at the cost of his own life. Depressed by reason of the desperate nature of their situation, and -weak from want of food, the little party, still manfully holding out at the Resi¬ dency, had risen, morning after morning, only to gaze longingly, but without hope, up the river, and then across at the unbroken expanse of the azure sea. And each look had always hitherto given them back the same answer, ‘ No hope.’ Their 'joy, there¬ fore, when the earliest of the watchers — the Admiral on this occasion— had told them that help was at hand, may be w’ell imagined. . Admiral Benfleet had passed a somewhat restless night. The mosquitoes and the midges had ‘ mur¬ dered sleep ’ in the first instance, and his own half- suppressed hunger, in the second, had kept him wakeful. At a little before daybreak he had arisen, and stood at the window of his room, watching for the sun to rise. The old tar was a man who could not worry over any situation in life. Once or twice he had. said that he thought they were all in ‘a pretty tight place ; ’ but, beyond considering what he should be able to get for his day’s dinner in the very ‘ short condition of the larder, nothing really troubled him much. He had been in so many of what he called ‘ tight places ’ before during his long, eventful life, that one fix, more or less, did not matter very much, and certainly was not worth worrying about. ‘ I will have a pipe,’ said the Admiral to himself, as he turned away from the window. But, although the pipe was easily found, no tobacco was forth¬ coming, and the Admiral hunted round and about the room in vain for his pouch. ■When he turned again to the window, the first faint streaks of the dawning day gave place to a ray

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180 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIII. of bright sunshine over the sea. The old sailor’s eye at once detected behind a thin vapoury collection of mist and cloud, then slowly rising from the water, something unusual. Another minute and the haze had lifted, so that his practised eyes saw that it was a British ship of war. The Admiral was not a man much given to the showing of outward emotions, but his rugged features wreathed themselves into a quiet smile. < 1 always thought we should come out of this job right side uppermost,7 said he, softly, to himself • And now to rouse up the rest of them, and Jet them know we shall all have a square meal again to-day Bill 1’ he shouted ; ‘ Bill, roust out and give a holloa ! Roar!' and the dutiful Bill, who slept m the ad¬ joining apartment, sprang to his feet, and, obedient to his commanding officer’s instructions, gave forth a bellow which roused up every sleeper in the Resi¬ dency. ( Concluded at page 186.) A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. VI.— SEA DAISIES AKD HERMIT CRABS. R last talk was about sea ane¬ mones, and to-day 1 am going to tell you about 1 Sea Daisies’ whose ways differ a little from the rest of their species in so much that they have an inherent love of travelling, and clearly find the usual practice of settling on a rock, and spending their lives there, dull and uninteresting. Before I begin, however, I will mention one or two little facts about anemones in general which you may like to hear, one of which is that these creatures, like parrots, live to be very old. Sir John Dalzell brought one from the Scottish shore in a.d. 1828 and kept it until August, a.d 1887, so it must have been quite sixty years old. He named her Grannie, and, as m only six years she had over two hundred and fifty children, Mrs. Actinea certainly deserved her name. It is very amusing to watch the baby anemones float away from their mothers, and settle themselves in an empty shell or on a convenient pebble, and there is something very comic in the air with which the tiny creatures at once assert their independence and indi¬ vidual existence, spreading their tentacles wherewith to satisfy their appetite exactly after the fashion of grown-up anemones. Now I must tell you about what is oalled the ‘ Sea Daisy,’ though learned folk bestow fine names to distinguish between the various kinds of the long, slim creatures which represent this class of parasitic anemones, or those making use of other living bodies for resting-places and for getting from place to place. Sea Daisies on 'Whelk-shell and Hermit Crab. In infancy a 1 daisy ’ attaches itself to any shell, dead or alive, which comes in its way ; but, as the creature grows older, he becomes less easy to please, and is finally satisfied with nothing less than a large whelk- shell. Nor is one of these occupied by its lawful inhabitant quite to the daisy’s mind, as he desires not only a firm broad base to which to attach his slender body, but he desires a swifter steed to draw his carriage than a slow-paced whelk. Happily for his requirements, a certain species of the crab family have tails not covered with the usual plates of armour peculiar to the tribe, and, to avoid the inconvenience of having this unprotected part of his body nipped off by some other fish, Mr. Crab looks out for a comfortable house wherein to bestow his defenceless tail, and finds none to suit him better than an empty whelk-shell. Some of these are con¬ stantly being washed up by the tide, and into one he packs himself carefully, backing into its furthest recesses, and attaching himself firmly by pincer-like claws. Next, if he is of a quiet turn of mind, he seeks some retired spot beneath a stone, and enjoys life in a leisurely fashion, entitling himself to the name of a Hermit Crab. The majority of his species, however, are not peaceably disposed, but have a passion for war, and, fighting always under cover, they have an unfair advantage over their enemies.. It must be rather a queer sensation for a * soldier crab ’ to feel, when taking a little hard-earned rest under a sheltering pebble, a heavy soft body suddenly descend upon his back, and stick there so firmly that

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‘Three cheers for Dorcas Nunn we give, In health and strength long may she live ! ” no shaking can dislodge it. Sinbad’s dislike for the company of the ‘Old Man of the Sea’ somewhat expresses the situation, and henceforth, wherever the crab goes, the anemone goes with him. Happily for the latter, his long body is protected by a leathery coat, as he must get a fair share of whacks and bruises, as his caravan goes plunging along amidst rocks and stones. His beautiful crown of tentacles which gain him his name of daisy, can be drawn in at an instant’s notice, and completely protected. The crab is, after all, a philosopher, and on the principle that * what can’t be cured must be endured,’ finally, after many struggles, accepts the position of a beast of burden. After a while a friend¬ ship springs up between the creatures, what may be called an alliance offensive and defensive.

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182 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXIII. The anemone shoots out his little lassoes, holds and stupefies the prey, whilst the crab tears it to pieces, and the allies share the spoil to their mutual satisfaction. In like manner, when one is attacked, both defend, and, as union is strength, they usually score a victory over their adversaries. This mutual assurance society is quite recognised by naturalists as existing between creatures of different species, as well as between plants and animals, and in the former case is called * Commensalism ’ and in the latter ‘Symbiosis.’ Helena Heath. A GE ITER All FAVOURITE. 8MHIS nice old lady, Dorcas Xunn, JE, Has unexpected honour won, Tor she is introduced, you see, To Chatterbox’s company ! Yes, she is brought quite to the fore, And few deserve the honour more, And with this statement you will be, I’m sure, quite ready to agree "When you have read of what is done By this good woman — Dorcas Nunn. * n * Well, she belongs to that bright band, The brave and noble of the land, By whom unselfish deeds are wrought And who of Self take little thought. To be a friend to those in need She labours gladly — yes, indeed, She loses not a chance to go And do a kindly act — oh, no! Where any trouble falls, there she Is quickly summoned, for, you see, 9Tis widely known, this friend sincere Will do her best to help and cheer. The sick and aged she often tends, And many an hour, I know, she spends, By day and night, beside their beds, And there sweet peace and comfort sheds. Yes, in her eyes and smile we see The light of tender sympath}', And signs of love we plainly trace Upon her round and rosy face. Her voice — how pleasant ’tis to hear, It is so gentle, sweet, and clear, And many a heart is strangely stirred When she is reading from God’s Word — Yes, strangely stirred, for in her tone Such reverence for that Word is shown; And, oh, her lips would never frame A speech to stain another’s name, Nor utter words when one’s away Which to one’s face she would not say. She would not act so mean a part Hers is a true and honest heart. Wherever known, she is lovecl by all — By rich and poor, by great and small ; ( Three cheers for Dorcas Nunn ’ we give, 6 In health and strength long may she live ! ’ D. H SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES ANTE HEROIITES. 'THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL/ HEN first we are introduced to Nigel Olifaunt, the young Lord of Glenvarloch, he is seated, sad and solitary, in his little apartment in the ‘ mansion’ of John Christie, the ship-chandler. This room was constructed on the plan of a ship’s cabin. Nigel had come over to London in a trading brig from Kirkcaldy in Fife, with his serving-man, Richie Moniplies. The story is laid in the days of His Majesty King James the First of England and Sixth of Scotland. The King being a Scotchman, it was, perhaps, only natural that many poor nobles and needy Scots journeyed from their own Northern land to England, hoping to obtain special favours from the hands of their Royal countryman. But, although the united crown of Eugland and Scotland was worn by King James, it required a long lapse of time before the national prejudices which existed between the two kingdoms were removed. These prejudices were very strong during the reign of King James. His English subjects accused him of partiality to his Scotch subjects, while the Scots, with equal injustice, charged him with having forgotten the land of his birth, and with neglecting his early friends. But to return to our hero, Nigel Olifaunt, the young Lord of Glenvarloch. As good Dame Nelly, the hostess and the chandler’s wife, placed on the breakfast-table the piece of powdered beef, garnished with turnip and carrot, and recommended her Tewkes¬ bury mustard, and drew a jug of ale, for her guest, she noticed that he was in some anxiety. She found that he was troubled by the fact that his trusty and only follower, whom he had sent on the preceding morning to the Court at Westminster, had not yet returned. She tried to cheer him by chattering gaily. It was not merely for his serving-man’s safety that Nigel was concerned; he had papers of import¬ ance in his possession directed to ‘ The King’s Most Excellent Majesty.’ Breakfast finished, Nigel flung his cloak over his shoulder, and was about to belt on his rapier, when Richie Moniplies himself appeared, pale, and with torn clothes, and blood on his hand. It proved that he had been fighting with some Englishmen who had abused his country, and, night coming on, he had been unable to find the street where his master lodged, and he had slept in the open ail*. He had not been successful in his master’s business, nor was this to be wondered at.. The King, when Richie Moniplies caught sight of him, was surrounded by crowds of nobles and loyal followers, and was preparing to hunt or to hawk on Black- heath. Just as His Majesty, dressed in his hunting suit of green and gold, was mounting his grey horse, decked with gold and silver trappings, Richie dashed through the crowd and crammed the supplication

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 183 intrusted him by Lord Nigel into the monarch’s hand. But there was something else besides, his master’s important paper, and that was a little account of his own, setting forth that certain moneys were still owing from the King’s late mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, to the family of Moniplies, and begging the King to pay them. It was this that the King first read, as he glanced swiftly at the paper thrust into his hand. He flung down the documents among the horses’ feet, and ordered Moniplies away. At that time Ilis Majesty was continually annoyed by ‘ idle rascals and poor miserable bodies ’ bringing all sorts of petitions, many of them requiring payment for old debts. Indeed, so bad had things become, that a Proclama¬ tion was issued, forbidding skippers, masters of vessels, and others in every part of Scotland , from bringing ‘ such miserable creatures up to Court, under pain of fine and imprisonment.’ Under these circumstances, the King’s action, when he received the papers pressed into his hand by Moniplies, wa3 no more than might have been expected. The self- seeking servant, who had mixed up his own small concerns with Lord Glenvarloch’s, did not at first | tell his master about the paper he had tried to pre- j sept on his own account. That story came out owing to a quite unexpected incident. Nigel Olifaunt was visited by a good and worthy citizen, one Master George Heriot, a goldsmith, who was in great request by the King, a3 James would often have been at his wits’ end for money had it not been for the timely loans of this wealthy and loyal goldsmith. This citizen had in his youth been befriended by Nigel’s father, the old Lord Glen- varloch, and hearing that the young Scotch lord was in London, he called on him, and. offered his services both at the Court and in the city. Master Heriot, making bold to question Nigel, was told the serving-man’s story, that the King had refused to answer the young lord’s respectful supplication for the repayment of large loans advanced by his father for the service of the State in time of the King's need. Then it was that, by dint of questions put to Richie Moniplies, Master Heriot discovered why the King had acted with such seeming ingratitude, and, loyal citizen that he was, he assured Nigel that the King had not refused the supplication, arguing that he had not seen it, and, moreover, that His Majesty | was well disposed to hold the scales even between his English and Scotch subjects, and would see ' justice done him. The goldsmith revealed to Nigel Olifaunt that he was well acquainted with his troubles and the urgency of his suit. ‘ There is,’ he said, ‘ a mortgage over your father s extensive estate to the amount of 40,000 merks (about 27,000/.). , . ‘ I know nothing of a mortgage,’ answered the young lord, ‘ but there is a wadset * for such a sum, which, if unredeemed, will occasion the forfeiture of my whole paternal estate for a sum not above the fourth of its value, and it is for that very reason that I press the King’s Government for a settlement of debts due to my father.’ * A wadset in Scotland is the same as a mortgage in England. Before the good-natured and shrewd goldsmith quitted the young Lord Glenvarloch’s apartments, he had undertaken himself to place the supplication in the hands of the King. He had also pressed upon Nigel, as a loan to be repaid when . his fortunes mended, a hundred pounds to relieve his immediate necessities. It was not long before Master Heriot found opportunity to be as good as his word, by presenting the Scot’s petition to the King in person. It chanced that he had a rare piece of plate, a silver salver, to exhibit in his Majesty’s presence, for the King thought himself a good judge of such . matters. The King and his goldsmith, after chatting some time together over the beauties of the piece and the state of the royal purse, discussed the unmannerly way in which many of the Scots delivered their sup¬ plications into the King’s hand. Master Heriot expressed a wish to know the fitting and most seeming way to make such a delivery, and King James, being iu good humour, showed him. The goldsmith followed carefully the royal instructions, and when the King said, ‘ gliding, your hand into your pouch bring forth your supplication and place it in our open palm,’ Master Heriot drew quickly forth Lord Glenvarloch’s petition, and placed it in King James's hand, to His Majesty’s no small aston¬ ishment. At first the King was inclined to be angry at what he was inclined to consider a piece of audacity, but when the good citizen had recalled to the monarch’s memory hov/ willingly the old Lord Glenvarloch had raised money for the King’s needs, on his estate, placing large sums at the King’s service, and went on to explain how nearly Lord Nigel Olifaunt was to losing his estate by the want of money to redeem it, His Majesty took rubies from his old hat and gave them to the goldsmith for the advance of two hundred pounds to be made imme¬ diately to Nigel that he might buy clothes becoming his rank, to enable him to attend Court, and further gave him a written order to Master Heriot to raise a substantial sum from moneyed men for the King’s present use. Very soon after this interview between the ‘ gentle King, Jamie, and the benevolent jeweller/ there was a dinner at the house of Master Heriot, and among the guests were Nigel Olifaunt, attended by his servant, Richie Moniplies ; Master David Ramsay, the King’s clockmaker and a skilled mechanic and worthy citizen, with his daughter, Mistress Margaret; two citizens of London, an elderly clergyman, Sir Mungo Malagrowther, who in his early years had been the King’s whipping-boy — that is a schoolboy deputed to bear all the whippings deserved by the royal pupil, who was obliged to look on and witness another punished in his stead ! He had now grown old, deaf, and peevish, and was fond of making unkind remarks about everybody, holding up all their little peculiarities to ridicule. Master George Heriot pitied and endured him, and so he came to be one of the invited guests at his table. Aunt Judith was a severe-looking elderly female, who did the honours of the occasion, and by contrast set off the beauties of fair Mistress Margaret, the I watchmaker’s daughter and the goldsmith’s god- | daughter. ( Continued at page 190.)

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Dame Nelly strives to assure Nigel of the safety of his follower.

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“ They were all quickly rowed out to the great ship.” B B

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18C CHATTERBOX. So. XXIY- VASCO ISLAND. {Concluded from page 180.) Y the time that the Cleopatra's M) , boat, pulled by eight sturdy xa blue -jackets, was approach- • IS ing the little landing-stage, the whole of the hungry garrison, men and women ( alike, were gathered together Q' on the shore to give her a hearty cheer. Captain Coch- rane himself was in the stern sheets, and he stood up and ^ ^ • waved his hand to the little knot of people awaiting him. And, as he caught sight of his dear old friend and Lieutenant, Jack Chesney, standing there, the Cleopatra's commander muttered a quiet 4 Thank God ! ’ which was, in its way, as fervent a thanks¬ giving as ever rose from the heart of man, grateful on behalf of hi9 fellow-man. And when, after a cordial greeting all round with his former friends of the island, Captain Cochrane turned to Chesney and opened his lips to speak, no words came ; each looked into the other’s face, there was a hand-grip — and no more. Cochrane had left his friend, as he thought, dying, and had returned to find him well ; in that silence, which is more eloquent tliau words, their feelings were expressed in a way which both men fully understood. Almost before the Resident could begin to explain the situation which had existed until the Cleopatra s opportune arrival, Adela Stanley broke in with : * Lear Captain Cochrane, do please ask us all to breakfast on board! Uncle can explain so much better, 1 am sure, when he has had something to eat 1 ’ 4 You do not mean to say that it hns come to that, Sir John?' cried Cochrane. ‘ Are you actually getting short of food ? Well, this is a surprise to me. Come along, every one of you ; you can all get aboard in these prakus and sampans, can’t you ? And 1 will take the ladies with me in my gig.’ 4 Crafty man ! always did contrive to leave his wretched officers out in the cold!’ exclaimed Jack Chesney, laughing. ‘ You see, I am on dry land still, so 1 can chaff my superior officer here ! ’ ‘ Yes, but wait till 1 get you aboard ship, young man, and out into blue water/ answered Cochrane with a twinkle in his eye; 4 and then, if Isee^any signs of disrespect, 1 will deal sharply with you.’ "They were all quickly rowed out to the great ship and got on board. On the way Captain Cochrane heard Sir John’s account of their past troubles, and then the Cleopatra' s commander gave them a short description of the tragedy of the morning. It was not, however, until some little time afterwards that Sir John ascertained, beyond doubt, that it was the faithful Orang Tibut who had gone to the bottom of the sea with his enemy clasped in his arms. As to Ritakraja, the Resident considered that it was the best possible thing which could have happened. 4 No man ever deserved to swing at the yard-arm better than Ritakraja,’ observed the Admiral, just as they were going up the ship’s side. ‘I say, Cochrane, my boy, you keep this old tank ’ (every ship but his own had ever been an 4 old tank with the Admiral) 4 very smart and ship-shape. Not that I ever could like the modern 44 tea-kettle” half so well as the good old sailer. But I suppose they are more useful — and with this somewhat grudging admission he reached the deck. A boat-load of provisions for those left on the island was at once dispatched from the ship, whilst the stewards were quickly set to work to provide breakfast for those who had come aboard. The repast was laid out beneath an awning on deck, and perhaps few such meals had ever been eaten under happier circumstances. 4 1 must say vou are all looking rather high in the cheek-bone!’ laughed Cochrane, as he plied his hungry guests with the best of everything the ship could supply. 4 A lucky thing that we arrived before you had got to the cannibal state though Mr. Chesney looks to me as if he could eat Miss Palgrave without very much pressing.’ 4 You go on with your breakfast,’ was the reply of the young Lieutenant to his commanding officer, drowned as it was in a roar of laughter from the rest. The meal proceeded merrily to its end, and then, whilst the ladies strolled about inspecting the ship, and even penetrating to the Captain’s cabin in their natural curiosity, the men lighted their pipes and cigars and gathered together in a group aft to talk over the situation, and discuss what measures they should take for once more restoring the authority of the English, and reducing Kanakra and his people to order again. The principal upshot of these deliberations was that, whilst the ladies and such of the others as chose remained on board the Cleopatra , Captain Cochrane, accompanied by Sir John Palgrave and Lieutenant Chesney, stepped into the Captains gig, and were rapidly rowed ashore, landing amid a group of sullen-looking Malays, and marching, accompanied by a file of marines, which had followed in another boat just astern of the gig, to the King’s palace. Kanakra had, like Admiral Benfleet, looked out of his window early that morning, and the sight which met his eyes did not cheer him. An English war- vessel was the last thing he wished to see. In his heart of hearts he had always doubted the wisdom of dying in the face of the British authority, but, too weak to assert himself in the presence of his cousin, he had let Ritakraja persuade him against his will, and now he was confronted with the consequences of his foolish' conduct. After an outburst of peevish ill-temper, vented on his counsellors and personal attendants, ho had awaited the visit from the Cap- lain of the war-ship with his head bowed down in Ins hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Well, he must throw all the blame upon Ritakraja before the English Captain’s face, and leave all the un¬ pleasantness afterwards to be undertaken by Ritak¬ raja himself, little guessing that at that moment his troublesome kinsman was lying fathoms deep in the sea, still locked within the deadly embrace of the

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N o. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. 187 man whom he had wronged, and to whose vengeance he had at length fallen a victim. Captain Cochrane did not ‘ put on gloves’ to speak to the Malay king. He told him very squarely that it would be his duty to report everything which had been done against the Resident to the English govern¬ ment at home, and that, in the meantime, he, Captain Cochrane, would take measures which would check any more of such attacks directed against Yasco Island — -'measures which might not be very pleasant to Kanakra and those who had acted under him. Kanakra replied that the rising was not in any way owing to him — the captain must see Ritakraja; he would have to account for everything, and no doubt he would be able to put a different complexion on the matter. Yexed as he was at the trouble in which he found himself, Kanakra could hardly repress a smile when he pictured to himself the crafty Ritakraja twisting the blunt-speaking Englishman round his little linger at an interview. But that inward smile did not last long. The Captain’s next words dashed his hopes to the ground in a trice. ‘ The man you speak of is dead. He was drowned off my ship a few hours ago,* he said, in quiet tones. Kanakra looked up sharply to see if the words were true. ‘ Dead ! it is impossible ; I saw him here last night. You must be mistaking him for some one else ; and Ritakraja could not drown, he is as a fish in the water ! * ‘Yes,* replied Cochrane dryly, ‘ a shark, 1 should say; but be quite sure on that point, Ritakraja is the man who was drowned this morning, and, as to his swimming powers, it takes something more than skill at swimming to keep afloat with another man gripping your throat and choking you ! * As soon as these words had been interpreted by Sir John, Kanakra ‘ gave it up.’ If Ritakraja were dead, then indeed all chance was gone, Kanakra turned, in his helplessness, to Ins old adviser and former friend. ‘ You were always good to me, Sir John,’ he whined. ‘ Yes. And this lias been the way you have chosen to show your gratitude/ broke in the Resident, bitterly. ‘ You began by stealing my daughter and my niece - ’ *‘ I swear to you, Sir John, I knew nothing of all that until it was done and the ladies 'were safely back at the Residency/ said the King, earnestly. ‘Well, X am willing to believe you, there,' said Sir John. ‘ I always thought that Ritakraja was alone to blame for that precious piece of business, and all the evidence which poor Orang Tibut got for me went to prove it. We will say no more on that subject. But what of your trying to starve us out — what of your two attempts upon the Island ? ’ Kanakra was plainly going to ‘ take it, lying down.’ Tie offered no word of defence, except that ‘ it was all Ritakraja;’ ‘Ritakraja had been at the bottom of everything.’ As a wind up, be shed some unmanly tears, and said, ‘ You know me, Sir John ; you know I could not plan a rising — I could not scheme and plot — I am too great a fool!’ Sir John smiled, and all the grimness had gone out of his fa.ce as he looked at the weak, wayward lad — for he was little else except in years — now throughly humbled. The Resident saw tliat, with Ritakraja out of the way, there would he no further trouble with the King. After a brief consultation in Kanakra’s presence between Sir John and the Captain, it was resolved that the first condition to be enforced was, that Kanakra should at once send two boatloads of provisions to the Island, and the King gave orders that this should be done without delay. The next was, that Kanakra’s troops should be paraded on the following day, and that Kanakra himself, in their presence, should salute the British flag. Here the King’s waywardness again showed through; ‘why was he to humble himself before his own soldiers?’ he asked; ‘why was it not enough that he would agree to let Sir John guide his actions in the future; why wish to degrade him ? ’ Captain Cochrane, through Sir John, assured the King that no degradation could be implied from the salute he required, but Kanakra broke in with a half angry, half nervous refusal to do anything of the kind. Captain Cochrane replied that he feared he must insist. ‘And what if I refuse ? ’ ‘ Well, then, you see — and I assure you I have not the least desire to threaten — I shall have to take certain measures - ’ ‘ Such as ?’ ‘ Such as knocking this palace sky-high with one of the ship’s guns, taking you prisoner, and landing a force of marines and blue-jackets to burn the town.’ Not an attractive programme, this, in, Kanakra’s ears, and be saw in the plain, matter-of-fact, though perfectly courteous way in which the words were spoken, that beneath the velvet glove lay the iron band. One glance through the window at the great floating mass of iron within easy gunshot range of the palace proved very convincing. He sighed, and meekly accepted the ‘humiliating’ condition, as he called it. How he would like to kick one — it did not matter which — of his counsellors by way of out¬ let for his wrath ! However, no one being at band to receive this mark of the Royal favour, the King muttered a pious wish beneath his beard that the grave of Cochrane’s father might be duly defiled, and then he gave in a general assent to all the conditions which had been imposed. He left himself in the hands of the English without reserve. The Residency dinner-party that night was a merry one. Captain Cochrane and three of his officers were present, and the reaction from their past miserable plight produced the most boisterous exhibition of high spirits in the Vasco Island party. For a brief moment the merriment gave place to a hush, when Sir John asked them to join him in drinking to the memory of the faithful Orang Tibut, and all others who had lost their lives in befriending the little hand¬ ful of whites in their extremity. This was done in solemn silence, and many a kindly thought went out to those who had stood faithful amongst the faithless, and especially to the brave and skilful Orang Tibut. Just before the Cleopatra' s officers went on board again, the Admiral rose and said, ‘My lads — I mean ladies and gentlemen — it is not often in the course of my life’s voyage that I have bad occasion to get on my hind legs and spin a yarn, and I am not going to inflict a speech on you to-night, hut I want you to drink the

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188 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV. A COWARDLY SAILOR. A SHIP is ploughing her way through the heavy green seas in mid-ocean, her timbers creaking and groaning, whilst the howling wind whistles through her rigging aloft. The captain is looking- somewhat anxiously to see how his canvas is standing the strain ; every few seconds the ship plunges forward, burying her bowsprit in the masses of salt water and blinding spray, which afterwards come fly¬ ing along the deck. Suddenly the wind health of these plucky little ladies here who have stood our short siege and short commons bravely and well. They are both of them going to be spliced — I mean married — and one of them to a sailor, which shows good taste. Not that I have anything to say against other human beings, but still, they who are not sailors are — are — well, they miss a good deal of the best part of life ! ’ (Great applause and laughter from the naval officers.) 1 1 hope the girls will be happy ; I am sure they will, for they are marrying two good fellows. Boys — 1 mean ladies and gentlemen — we have two great things to be thankful for : one is that we have come through all our troubles, and the other is that we have been enabled to knock the stuffing out of Eitakraja’s schemes, and - 1 But a shout all round the table of ‘ the ladies ’ and the clatter of chairs, pushed back as the men all rose to do honour to the toas*, put a stop to Admiral Roddy’s vigorous speech. The End. freshens still more, till at last a regular hurricane is blowing. Small as the amount of sail is, it must be still further reduced. All hands are piped aloft; one of the men is missing. The captain rushes below and finds the fellow on his knees, and in terrible fright at the thought of the ship’s danger. * Out of this and on deck with you ! ’ shouts out the rough seaman, seizing the coward by his collar. ‘ God helps him who helps him¬ self, and this is a time to be doing your duty on deck, not slinking below to pray. Prayer is good, but there is a time for all things. Up on the deck, I say, or a rope’s end shall hasten you ! ’ “ Out cf this, and on deck with you P’ REINDEER. THE Laplanders depend greatly upon the reindeer for their daily existence. Reindeer give them the only milk they can obtain ; their flesh is the staple article of diet, eaten both fresh as venison, and also after having been dried in the smoke of their fires. The skin furnishes them with useful material for clothing, and the living reindeer is the beast of burden and draught animal of those bitterly cold northern climes. F. R. KIND WORDS. A FRENCH King once said, 1 If a civil word or two will make a man happy, he must be a churl indeed who would not give them to him.’ If this feeling were acted on, how much happier the world would be. We may say of this kindly temper that it is like lighting another man’s candle by one’s own, which loses none of its light by what the other gains.

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CATCHING A SHELTXE. WILD animals are now getting more scarce than they used to he in most countries. Certainly wild horses and ponies are ; yet there are still some of that small northern breed called the Shetland, after the islands which are their home. These shaggy, frisky ponies may be had by anybody who will take the pains to catch them while young. It is not an easy task. It would be no good at all to stand and hold out a sieve of oats, as you may have seen men entice horses in a field, so that they may put a bridle upon them. Vain, also, would be the attempt to drive one into a corner, and then seize him by the mane. A Shetland pony is not to be secured thus. The most likely plan is to have a lasso, which by dexterous hurling you may get round the neck of a little wanderer. Not at all liking to be

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190 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV. caught, the pony struggles, and even if he has been lassoed by a powerful man, the captor will have to put forth all his strength. The newly caught animal plunges, kicks, attempts to bite, stands upon the hind legs, so that much time and patience are required to make a wild Shetland pony useful. The Isles of Shetland, which are the home of this breed of little horses, number about a hundred — some, of course, very small. During the winter months this Northern region is not attractive: frequent are the showers of rain and sleet, while fierce winds seem to rouse the seas to fury. Then, at other times, there is a strange quietness in the air, and all the islands are wrapped in a thick white mist. Should you wish to visit the slopes where the Shetland ponies caper about free, you should visit the islands in early summer. Everything looks fresh and green ; lambs frisk along the pastures ; the juvenile ponies, looking very long-legged, are racing and gambolling, beside their elders, and round the shores rises the clang of thousands of sea-fowl. The strength of the Shetland pony is remarkable; one has been known to carry a heavy man upon his back for over forty miles in a single day. It has a short, well-arched neck, and the heavy mane which falls upon the small face reminds us of the Skye terrier. Wild horses are found in several countries of the world. One kind which is often caught and tamed is the mustang of the American prairies. Like the northern pony of Britain, when first taken it is fierce and savage, but it soon tames down. It is the habit of the mustangs to go in large herds, under a leader, 'whose guidance they follow. Usually these are caught by a lasso, about thirty feet long, one end fastened to the saddle, the other having an iron ring and a slip noose. J. R. S. C. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. ‘THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL/ from 'page 183.) was on the evening of the day that Lord Nigel Oli- faunt dined with Master George Heriot and his guests, that Mistress Mar¬ garet sent her maid Jenny for Dame Ursula Suddle- chop, the wife of Benjamin Suddlechop, the most re- nowned barber in all Fleet V'l ' ■ Street. Dame ( Ursley’ as her neigh¬ bours called her, was a woman of forty, of comfort¬ able appearance and good-natured face. She was supposed to know much of life and its windings, and gave, or rather sold, her counsels freely to per¬ plexed lovers. She was deep and dark in her real character, but owing to the useful services she rendered her neighbours she was in frequent request. Mistress Margaret Ramsay had a secret to tell this dame, and counsel to ask of her, and work for her to do, and as she was able to pay her well or to promise large future payment when she came into her own little fortune, the old busy-body was nothing loth to oblige her fair voung patroness. The matter Mistress Margaret would have Dame Ursula discover was what affair might have brought Lord Nigel Olifaunt. to Court, and the young lady, being very desirous of discovering Nigel’s secret, made big promises to the crafty and self-seeking dame. His Majesty King James received Nigel gra¬ ciously when that young lord was presented by an old Scotch nobleman, the Earl of Huntinglen, and, Nigel choosing an opportune moment, placed his supplication, that the royal debt might be redeemed, in his sovereign’s hand. The King, at first inclined to put off his humble petitioner, listened to the pleading of the loyal Earl of Huntinglen, and hastily wrote an order on the Scottish Exchequer for the sum. His Majesty hurried over his task, as he feared that Steenie — the Duke of Buckingham — and his Prince — ‘ Baby 5 — Charles would enter the room into which he had withdrawn for the purpose of signing the order, and loudly express their dis¬ approval of the King’s action, making an unpleasant scene; for, King though he was, James I. was not his own master. The appearance of that bold, proud, fierv-tempered man, the Duke of Buckingham, the King’s most powerful favourite, and one not always renowned for good and noble actions, was also the appearance of an enemy to our hero, and an enemy to be feared had Nigel Olifaunt been of a timid mind. At about the time that the Duke of Buckingham openly de¬ clared himself the enemy of Nigel, a certain Scotch noble, Lord Dalgarno, professed to be his friend; but there was no sincerity in the friendship. He was at heart a bad man, and sought the ruin of the unsuspecting Lord Nigel, introducing him to low characters, and such doings and company as dis¬ gusted even his faithful follower, Richie Moniplies. For although, as we have seen, Richie on one occa¬ sion sought his own ends when sent on his master’s service, yet, taken altogether, he wa3 a true-hearted servant and well-wisher of his master ; standing by him in the days of his poverty, and starving with him, cheerfully, when food was scarce. Unable to watch his dear lord go to ruin, as he thought, before his eyes, without being able to do anything to stop him, he determined to tell him what he felt about it all, and to appeal to his better judgment, and then to leave him and return to Scotland. Just before this memorable interview with his trusty follower, Lord Glenvarloch (for we must not forget his title) had removed from the little cabin on Paul’s Wharf to an apartment near the Temple ; much to the grief of good Dame Nelly, his hostess, and good-hearted John Christy, his host. Indignant at the treachery of Lord Dalgarno,. it happened that Nigel Olifaunt came upon him, with a party of friends, in St. James’s Park. There he taxed him with his falseness, and bade him draw and defend himself. St. J ames’s Park was within the precincts of the Court, and at that time quarrelling or fighting, or brawling of any kind, so near the King’s person, was

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No. XX I Y. CHATTERBOX. 191 regarded as an offence punishable, maybe, with the loss of a hand or foot, or by imprisonment and heavy fine. To save himself from any such misfortune, Nigel took refuge, or ‘ sanctuary,’ in Whitefriars — Alsatia, as it was then called. Alsatia was hard by the Temple, and at that time, and for nearly a cen¬ tury afterwards, was the abode of desperadoes of every description. There were bankrupt citizens, ruined gamesters, prodigals, duellists, even mur¬ derers ; and bad men from all conditions of life. Very sad and sorrowful felt the young Scotch lord, the representative of a noble house, that he should have to seek shelter from the law in such a place as Alsatia, and amid such a band of ruffians as dwelt there. He determined that, if he escaped from his perilous position, he would, indeed, become an altered man, and try, by all means in his power, to find some noble way of 1 redeeming the lustre of a name which was never sullied till I bore it.’ We will leave Nigel Olifaunt to his repentance, in his hiding-place in the house of an old usurer, named Trapbois, dwelling in Whitefriars, while we take a peep at Mistress Margaret Ramsay, the fair god -daughter of Master George Heriot, the gold¬ smith. Mistress Margaret loved the unfortunate lord ; it is true she was not herself of noble birth as was he, being the daughter of a worthy mechanic, a clock- maker. She had learnt, probably through Dame Ursula, that Nigel Olifaunt had met with ill-fortune through the evil designs and cunning doings of his pretended friend, Lord Dalgarno, the son of the noble old Earl of Huntinglen. (Concluded at page 198.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 25.— Puzzles. Find the names of animals hidden in the following sentences. 1. Here is an apricot for you and a peach for Mabel. 2, 3. My walk this morning has been very dull ; 1 only met one old man, and he said, ‘ Do get out of my Wa/j This is either the sixth or seventh time I have called you, and yon have not answered. 5. He will never be a real hero if he is afraid of suen trifles. , . , G. You must go at once, or you will be too late lor your train. ^ , 7. That mischievous boy took Ida s doll away from The Spanish Prime Minister has been assassinated. 9. What ‘a beautiful amber necklace Edith wore last evening! , , . ,, , 10. The accident aroso entirely through Arthur s mismanagement. 11. You must take a tram part of the way. 12. The apples must be shared among the children. 13. In Japan there are many active volcanoes, and earthquakes are very frequent. 14. That is the most musical family I over meu With. 15. The dog flew upon tho rabbit and shook it ten times. . n n 16. Did you ever hear a thrush sing? D. u. 26. — Familiar Proverbs with the Vowels omitted. 1. F, R, N, D, N, N, D, S, F, R, N, D, N, D, D. 2. H, N, G, R, S, T, H, B, S, T, S, C. 3. N, V, R, C, R, S, S, B, R, D, G, T, L, L, Y, C, M, T, T. 4. T, S, L, N, G, L, N, T, H, T, H, S, N, T, R, N, N, G. 5. M, K, H, Y, W, H, L, T, H, S, N, S, H, N, S. 6. N, F, R, P, N, N, Y, N, F, R, P, N, D. 7. M, R, R, Y, N, H, S, T, N, D, R, P, N, T, T, L, S, R. 8. M, R, H, S, T, W, R, S, S, P, D. 9. N, W, B, R, M, S, S, W, P, C, L, N. 10. W, S, T, N, T, W, N, T, N, T. C. 0. [Answers at page 203. ] ANSWERS. 23.— (a.)— 1. How, (b.)— 1. Pry. 2. Cow. 2. Cry. 3. Low. 3. Try. 4. Bow. 4. Wry. 5. Vow. 5. Dry. 6. Mow. 6. Fry. 7. Tow. 8. Now. 9. Bow. (c.)— 1. Morn. (d.) — 1. Frown. 2. Corn. 2. Crown. 3. Horn. 3. Brown. 4. Worn. 4. Grown. 5. Lorn. 6. Torn. 24.— 1. A portrait. 2. Her coachman. 3. When he is drawing up a conveyance. COURAGE m CABUL. ONE of the many brave deeds done in the march of the expedition which went up to Cabal to avenge the horrible and treacherous murder of bir Louis Gavagnari and his comrades by the Afghans, occurred at a point where our own troops came m contact with a very strong force of the enemy. Our cavalry were forced to fall hack, badly mauled, and, though they charged again and again, the mere weight of numbers gave the enemy the best ot it. Closer and closer pressed the Afghan troops, always fighting fiercely, and our men were forced gradually hack into a deep stream. Here two troopers’ horses were badly -wounded and fell rolling over their hapless riders in their frantic struggles. One of the officers, seeing the desperate situation of the men— for in another two or three minutes the enemy would have been upon them, and Afghans give no quarter — dismounted from his horse, which bolted, leaving him to make the best ot his way out on foot— and plunged into the water, waist deep. He dragged the dismounted troopers, one after the other, from beneath their horses, and brought them to a somewhat safe place. From this point they were all three in the end enabled to escape. v

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192 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV.

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194 CHATTERBOX. No. XXY. i i j I REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. CHAPTER I. HAVE been told that reminis- . cences are the fashion, and that all great men write the ^ history of their lives. Now, I am not a great man yet, hut I may be some day, and then, as my sister says, everything connected with my early life will be of interest. 1 think I had better begin with school ; even if I am some day a very great man. I do not think I can expect any one to be interested in me earlier than that. Other boys when they are quite small are generally very stupid, with nothing to say, or else they are horridly cheeky. 1 cannot distinctly recollect which sort I was, but mv sister tells me 1 was very much like other boys, so I suppose it must have been one kind or the other, and neither is much good, so I mean to pass over my nursery days, and begin with school. I do not think I am generally envious, but there is ■one set of fellows I really do feel jealous of, and those are the fellows who have things happen to them at school. At our school things did not happen. It was a good sort of school, only one day was very much like another, and this made the terms go by very quickly. I suppose exciting events would have made the weeks lonser — at any rate, they would have made some¬ thing to count by ; w*e could have said, 4 The week there was that awful row about Jones, minor,’ or •‘two days before Smith was expelled;’ but we did not have anything grand to mark the time. We did not get bullied — the masters were too sharp, and we were too much of an age — and we had not even a cruel or wicked tutor to make our lives miserable. Of course, we said the head master was a beast ; but, now I think it over, I am not sure if he was ; I am inclined to believe' he was a good sort of old gentle¬ man, and I wonder rather that he managed to keep out of a lunatic asylum. There were forty of us, and we all plagued him in different ways. We forgot his pet rules in grammar ; we climbed his trees and spoiled their branches ; we cut our names on his palings ; we broke his windows and chased his cats ; and thrqugh it all he managed to keep quite good-tempered. In those days we wondered that he was ever cross ; now I marvel that he was ever anything else. My brother and 1 were sent home to England to school from South Africa, where we had been born ; but our luck was just as bad on board ship as in other places. Nothing happened on the voyage. I had hoped that we might be chased by pirates, or, at leas*', be obliged for some reason to take to the boats; but, instead of that, we came calmly into Plymouth Sound, and all chances of adventure were over. We expected to be teased at school because we were Colonials, and I had already pictured myself the hero of a hundred fights, in which I had pro¬ tected my small brother from the attack of assailants twice my size ; but, here again, I met with dis¬ appointment. We were rather looked up to as travellers and adventurers, and Hughie was so much petted that he grew cheeky, and, instead of pro¬ tecting him, I was sometimes obliged to punish him. This was quite an unexpected turn of affairs, and another thing that took me by surprise was the chaff I had to put up with about my father. Of course, I had to answer the regular new-boy’s cate¬ chism : 4 What is your name?’ 4 TIow old are you ?’ 4 Where do you live, and what is your father ?’ To the last question I answered in words I had often heard my father use himself : 4 My father,’ I said, proudly, 4 is a self-made man ! ’ This was the signal for shrieks of laughter, and also gave a chance to one of the other boys, who drew rather well, to prepare a series of sketches which represented my father making himself. In one he appeared as a bricklayer building himself, standing with his head in his hands and just preparing to set it in the bed of mortar prepared on his shoulders. In another he was represented as moulding his legs in casts, into which he was pouring some liquid metal. There were other designs of the same nature, and, though I could not help being amused, I must own I did not find them quite as funny as the others did. The next cross-questioning I had to face was on the subject of a profession. 4 What are you going to be, Waterproof ?’ (My real name is McIntosh). 4 A missionary,’ I replied. 4 A missionary P Why, you will have to preach ! ’ 4 1 suppose so,’ I said, doubtfully. 4 Of course ; what else do missionaries do ?’ 4 1 know,’ said one of the elder boys ; 4 they . sit under palm-trees in top hats and teach the Catechism to black children.’ This was not my idea of a missionary career, but I was not going to tell them what my notions on the subject were, so I said nothing, and only smiled, in what I hoped was a superior manner, at Forster’s next artistic efforts, which depicted me going through various adventures, and, finally, into a huge stew-pan, stirred by the most gorilla-like of blacks. This was really a very harmless method of teasing, but I resented it at the time, and it led to one or two attempts at fights, which were arrested at such early stages that they hardly counted for more than scrimmages. But though, as I say, things did not often happen, there was one form of excitement which we could always provide for ourselves. It was called 4 Sneak¬ ing down to Mother BullseyesV ‘ Mother Bullseyes,’ whose real name, I believe, was Miss Hitchcox, kept the village post-office, which was also a shop for the sale of biscuits, buns, chocolate, and the famous bull’s-eyes, manufactured by the old lady herself. The shop was out of bounds, but we could frequently get leave to visit it on the pretext of needing stamps, or a ball of string, or marbles, or some other necessary of life ; and, of course, the masters knew very well that it was not the string that made our pockets bulge on both sides when we came home. But the exciting part, the

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No. XXY. CHATTERBOX. 195 •sneaking, was going without leave, and if we were •caught it meant an imposition, and very likely the •confiscation of the bull’s-eyes. If I was to grow up into a missionary, of course it was very important I should know how to escape from enemies, and 4 sneaking to Mother Bullseyes’ ’ I considered first- rate practice. The expedition had peculiar dangers, for the little swing-gate leading to the road out of the playing- field was in the corner farthest from our cricket pitch, and it was not easy to reach it without being called back for shirking the game — cricket, or foot¬ ball, or whatever it might be — which was then going on. The best way was to get two or three friends 'to cover one’s movements towards the gate, and to -make a sudden dash when the master was not look¬ ing, in the hope that when he next noticed the little group, he would not remember whether it had been composed of three members or four. Once out on the road the rest of the way looked simple enough, for it led straight to the post-office, and you could see right up to the door from just out¬ side the field. But the real danger lay in this. On one side a lane led into the main road, and this lane was a short cut from the lower end of the head master’s garden; so that, though the road might seem clear, you never knew whether some one might not appear down this lane before the space between 'it and the field could be passed. When once this treacherous by-way was left behind, a desperate rush would usually carry one safely into the shop, though •some fellows were unlucky enough to dash in while the head master was stamping his letters at the counter. Such very bad luck was rare,’ but there was always the feeling that it might happen, to add interest to the latter part of the journey. Once in¬ side the shop, we were in a harbour of refuge, for we were much too good customers to be allowed to get into trouble, and Mother Bullseyes had convenient hiding-places, where I have passed more than one bad five minutes, while 4 an enemy ’ held parley above my head. The most thrilling experience I ever had was an encounter with the head master on my way back to the field. There was no question of flight. •1 met him face to face. 4 Well, McIntosh,’ he said, 4 where have you been?’ 4 To the posi:-office, sir,’ I answered. 4 Had you asked leave ?’ "•No, sir.’ My heart was beating fast as I waited for his next words, and he kept me waiting, it seemed, a long time while he looked at the knobs made by apples in my trousers’ pockets, the swelling caused by Ban¬ bury cakes inside my jacket, and the distended side pockets which told of bull’s-eyes. 4 You might just as well have asked,’ said Dr. Harrington, quietly. 4 Do not eat all the good things yourself I’ And he passed on, leaving me to walk home with my spoils, feeling, somehow, very small ; but I was glad 1 had spoken the truth. If I had answered 4 Yes,’ instead of 4 No,’ to his first question, he would never have doubted me — it was not his way — but I should have felt jolly mean. ( Continued at page 202.) A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. VII. — THE CRAB FAMILY. VERY boy and girl who has paddling barefooted, of a forcible pinch from sharp claws, others of having a finger clutched when ex¬ ploring in some tempting crevice for seaweed or shell. Certainly every one must recall the armies of tiny crabs which infest reaches of sandy shores when the tide is out, and most of us will have enjoyed a sea-side supper off some huge member of the crustacean family. It is only a special kind of crab which has the privilege of being eaten by human beings, and the greeny-coloured creatures which run so fearlessly on the shore are useless for cooking- pots. It is one of the curious facts of nature that animals hunted for food fear man, and so, if on turning over a big stone, you see a great brownv- green crab, who immediately tries either to scuttle under cover or boldly raises his claws to fight yon, you will be pretty sure to have come across an edible specimen. Crabs are taken in deep water in baskets with roofs sloping inwards to an opening in the centre, and into these poor Mr. Crustacea enters as easily as a mouse into a trap, and with as little chance of getting out again. It seems strange that most kinds of the Crab family, even of real sea crabs, cannot swim, but walk along the sand, and that only sideways. Their feet are flat and surrounded by numbers of bristly hairs, which give a firm grip of the ground, and if you observe carefully you will see that these creatures can run over uneven ground and rocks covered with slippery seaweeds straighter and faster than on level sand. The babies are hatched from eggs, which the mother carries curled up under her short tail, which all fashionable full-grown crabs keep tucked up tightly beneath their shells. When the tiny creature first escapes from the egg, it has no more likeness to a crab than a caterpillar has to a butterfly, but is a long, slim thing, chiefly tail behind and a spike in front,- known to learned folk as a 4 zoea.’ It is very lively and swims freely, which, considering that it has no shell, is lucky, as giving it a better chance of escaping the many enemies who would account it a toothsome morsel. After awhile, when the playful¬ ness of infancy may be supposed to have passed, the zoea undergoes great changes, and turns into a Megalopa, assuming much the shape of a hermit crab, and from this one more change takes it into real crab-hood. Like a school-girl tucking up her hair as a sign of dignity, so the megalopa tucks away its tail, and ever been to the sea-side must have made acquaint¬ ance with the Crab tribe, and I hope that you won’t think you know too much about them to care to read what I have to say. Some may. have unplea¬ sant reminiscences, when

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196 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. building round itself a strong shell made of earthy matter and chemicals from the sea water, it settles down into a sedate member of the crustacean family. Lady crabs have much smaller claws than their lords, and this seeming inferiority increases their tenure of life, as greedy mortals, accounting the claw as the most appetising part of their prey, pay five times as much for male crabs as for females, and so the former are largely sought after. Like the ‘ brittle stars/ the crabs have the power of dropping their limbs at will, which is a great protection to them. A crab seized by a stronger creature leaves leg or claw to its enemy, and departs into some retired place to begin to grow another, although it is a long time before the new member attains to full size and strength. Once a year the crustacean feels that his old coat has grown shabby, and does not fit as well as before, so, having no tailor of whom to purchase a fresh garment, the crab is obliged to cast off his worn covering and retire to a secluded place whilst his new attire is in process of manufacture. This moulting time is to the cod-fish and other enemies what a strawberry-bed in full fruit would be to many of my readers, as the poor crustaceans minus their shells are welcome delicacies. One evil- disposed cod-fish, who paid the penalty of his crimes, was found to contain no less than six poor crabs in a fchell-less condition. What are known as 1 velvet crabs/ or ‘ fiddlers/ have the power of swimming, and are really vicious creatures, fiercely attacking and devouring even their own species in cannibal fashion. Spider crabs have small bodies and long legs, enabling them both to swim and run with great speed. One of the crustaceans, the ‘ pinnotheres/ elects to live in the shell of a living bivalve, such as an oyster or mussel, with whom the intruder not only lives in peace, but is supposed to help the owner of the dwelling in finding food, much after the fashion in which the daisy anemone helps the soldier crab. Helena Heath. NILE WATER-WHEEL, MANY large water-wheels are to be found alone" the banks of the sacred river of Egypt. They are worked by means of oxen, and the wheel-buckets are formed of earthenware jars or bottles. The bottles steadily descend with' their mouths turned downwards; they dip, fill, and then, in the turn .of the wheel, come up to the surface of the water again, quite full. The vessels, on arriving at the top. of the wheel, empty their contents into a trough placed for the purpose of conveying the water to the garden or whatever land it may be desired to water. Where this watering is done, or where the . Nile reaches when it overflows its banks, the land is beautifully green and productive, although perhaps a yard further off it is barren and sandy desert. F . R. SEARCHING AT LOW TIDE. A PARTY of five young folk, taking advantage of the ebb of the tide, went to see what was to be found amongst the shallow water, mud, and sand. One of the pleasures of this pursuit is the variety you may find — crustaceans, fishes perhaps, shells and sun¬ dry insects. It is not so convenient to hunt with gloves on, no doubt, but a glove guards you from a nip or sting which you might get, inflicted in self-defence by some living object. Amongst the things to be discovered in the shallows are crabs before they have taken their perfect form, when they crawl slowly over rocks, or upon the sands, mostly travelling sideways. Crabs, like their brothers, the

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Low Tide. shrimps, make their start in life as long-bodied little creatures, which swim about freely, and may be caught in pools near the shore. Young barnacles, too, occur along the shallows. Singular are they in habits, for when they grow, they have curious and strong arms, by which they fasten themselves firmly to rocks, to the sides of ships, or even to animals like the whale. In South America, very large barnacles occur, and they are eaten with much relish b}T the people near the coast. Then, again, all round the coasts of Britain, though not common, there occurs that funny fellow, the hermit or soldier crab. He has a tail which is soft and fat, so he takes great care of it, poking it into

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198 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. any empty shell that he finds on the shore, and drags this behind him while he travels along. Should his shell become small, he seeks for a larger at low water, but is cautious not to quit his old shell till he has made sure of a comfortable new one. Very numerous are the shells which our shores yield at low tide; often it happens that the shells we pick up have not come to the shallows by chance, but have been fiung upon the shore with masses of sea¬ weed, in which they were entangled. These shells or molluscs are not only beautiful in themselves : some of them, such as the cockle, the scallop, and the whelk, are valued as articles of food, some again pro¬ duce pearls, especially those of warmer climates?. Tew are more easily found than the whelk. It is curious to see one march along upon a ridge, dis¬ playing his mottled body’, his castle on his back, and in front he extends a long proboscis, with wrhich lie pierces the shells of other molluscs upon which he preys. The scallop, of more than one kind, lies buried deeply in the mud or sand. Some of these have been called ‘ sea butterflies.’ There is one kind of a dark brown colour, beautifully marked with red and white. To get the remarkable shell, which has the name of the ‘ pod razor,’ you must dig deeply in the sand. Its shell is very brittle. It is long, narrow and toothed. Below the shallows, or in the mud, are many of the beetle tribe which thrive in salt water, and hunt up worms ; some of them can nip sharply if they are annoyed. J. R. S. C. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. THE KANGAROO. MOST of you have seen the picture of a Kangaroo before, but from a picture you cannot tell what a sweet face he has — or, I should say rather, she has, for the does are much the prettiest. They make very good pets, and tame quickly, but they must be taken young. It is not difficult to get one, for when the mother is hunted, if she is hard pressed by the dogs she takes her little one out of the pouch and throws it into a bush— hoping, poor thing, to come back for it, which she sometimes does. If the hunter wishes for a pet, he can take the wee thing out of the hiding- place. Of course they must be kept very warm, generally in a deep basket, lined with flannel, which they very soon get to kno-w, and it is funny to see them tumbling head foremost into it. One pet kangaroo which I kiaew was called ‘ Jennie ; ’ she was very tame, and used to lie with the kangaroo dogs (hounds used for hunting kangaroos). If any one touched her in passing, she would give such a vicious little slap. After she had been tame ■for some time, she suddenly disappeared. After several months she returned home, and a little head was seen peeping out of the pouch — such a sweet little fellow as he was, full of play and tricks, but very shy. As soon as he perceived that he was being watched, a couple of hops 'would bring him to his mother, and, with another, he was safe in her pouch, from which retreat he would peep at his visitors. Poor Jennie met with a sad end; she again left home. One day wdien kangarooing, her young master, perceiving a doe that would not run away, and guess¬ ing that it vras Jennie, called to the dogs to come back ; but they did not know their old friend, and before he could get to them, she was dead. He knew her by her tail having been burnt, for when she was young she had sat on a fire. Ose was the name of another pet kangaroo : she was called after the heroine of a story m Aunt Judy's Magazine. She was a very gentle creature, and would take bread or sugar from the hand of her little mistress, and sit up eating, holding her food with both hands — she had not been taught, as you have been, that one hand is enough. What she- liked best was boiled -wheat with sugar and milk. Very sad was her little mistress to find her ill one morning; she died in a couple of days. The little place which the brothers of her owner had fenced in for her (about a quarter of an acre) was for years called ‘ Ose’s paddock.’ I w’as greatly amused one day by an old man telling me of a fight which he had seen between two kangaroos. He said, ‘ They stood up and boxed just like Christians: May Collins, Victoria. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. ‘THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL.’ from pa ye 191.) was quite early one morn¬ ing when Margaret pre¬ sented herself at the house of her godfather, Master George Heriot, and asked permission to be allowed to speak for a short time with a certain Lady Her- mione, who lived in some apartments assigned her in ' '"■//x/p* ' - the house, under the care of Aunt Judith. The Lady Hermione was wealthy and good and kind. She was a wise counsellor to her young friend, and listened patiently while Margaret told when and where she had first seen Lord Nigel — how, having seen him, she loved him. Then she went on to confide to the Lady Hermione the story of Lord Dalgarno’s plot and of Nigel’s danger — he w*as in imminent danger of losing his right hand. She told of his hiding in Alsatia, and lastly appealed to Lady Hermione for two hundred gold pieces, possessed of which she, Margaret, declared she wrould have ‘ the power of baffling all his’ — Lord Glenvarloch’s — ‘ enemies, without personal risk to herself ; Lady Hermione had known deep trouble; she herself had loved, alas! neither wisely nor well, and she was deeply moved when she heard Margaret's story, and, after confiding to her some¬ thing of her own history, and pointing out to her wrhere she might expect rocks ahead, she gave her the desired sum of raonev.

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No. XX Y. CHATTERBOX. 1 09 Leaving gentle and devoted Margaret Eamsay to ■work out her plans, we again follow the fortunes of Nigel Olifaunt, whom we left in the house of the usurer, Trapbois, in Whitefriars. A dreadful thing had happened to the old miser : he had been mur¬ dered by ruffians for his gold, in spite of all that his brave daughter, Martha Trapbois and Nigel, bearing the assumed name of Grahame, could do to prevent the deed. Feeling it no longer possible to shelter after the murder in such a polluted spot as Alsatia, Nigel Olifaunt engaged a boat and boatmen to take him down the Thames to Greenwich, and there accom¬ panied him Martha Trapbois, the murdered mans daughter, as far as St. Paul’s Wharf, where she was put ashore with her baggage, which included most of her late father’s wealth. Again the scene changes. This time Nigel is not in a boat, but a prisoner in the Tower of London. He was engaged in the sad task of examining the miseries of former prisoners, as recorded on the walls of the prison-house, when the door was suddenly opened, and the warder stepped forward to inform him that, by order of the Lieutenant of the Tower, his lordship was to have the society and attendance of a fellow-prisoner. This second prisoner was a boy, clad m a grey suit of the finest cloth, trimmed with silver lace. His cloak was buff-coloured, and his cap of black velvet ; beneath his cap peeped his ringlets. He stood on the spot where the warder pushed him, and trembled with confusion and terror. The kind-hearted Nigel did all that he could to encourage the ‘ pretty lad/ but the young prisoner wept bitterly, and, for a time, refused comfort. In vain Nigel tried to draw from the youth his name ; he seemed to be too shame-faced to tell it, and too heart-broken at the position in which he found him¬ self to answer fully Nigel's questions. The Scottish nobleman continued for some time his endeavours to comfort the boy, when the bolts were again with¬ drawn to admit John Christie, who had come to demand of Nigel what he had done with Dame Nelly, his late hostess. But we pass over this scene, articularly as the poor prisoner was unable to give ohn Christie any information at all about his missing wife. The prison dinner finished, the warder announced a second visitor, who turned out to be no less a person than Master George Heriot. This visitor was interesting to both prisoners, . but parti¬ cularly to the young page. Master Heriot appeared in no kindlv mood ; he demanded roughly of Nigel what had become of Martha Trapbois, the usurer s daughter, who had accompanied him in the wherry as far as Paul’s Wharf, bringing with her an immense sum of money in specie and other valuables. Nigel, again, could afford no information ; he had parted with the usurer’s daughter at the wharf, after giving her a letter to his old landlord, and had not seen her since. Another misfortune had befallen Nigel Olifaunt — he had, unhappily, lost the royal sign- manual, by which it was hoped sufficient money would be raised to pay off the mortgage on his estate. It had disappeared from the casket. In vain Lord Glenvarloch looked through the papers contained in the box, first hastily, and then more- slowly and accurately ; no sign was there of the missing document. The king’s signed warrant had disappeared. Master Heriot, who had expressed himself as willing to assist Nigel, by endeavouring to recover the money to which this paper entitled its owner, and so save the ancient estate, became 'eiv angry when he found that the document was mis-ing, and he chided Lord Glenvarloch over the matter. ‘ I thought and expected nothing better,’ said Heriot. ° Here is a fair heritage lost, I dare say, on a foul cast at dice, or a conjuring trick at cards.' Nor could he be persuaded to believe otherwise. Before Master George Heriot left the prison cell he made a discovery which disconcerted the pretty page. The ‘ boy ’ turned out to be none other person than his own fair god-daughter, Mistress Margaret liam- say, whose love for Nigel had caused her to venture much on his behalf. Dressing herself as a pa^e, she was found in the royal park, and taken by the rung s command into His Majesty’s presence. T he monarch drew from her by many careful questions the story of her love for Lord Glenvarloch. She also tenr- j fully told him of the false practices of the base Lord Dalgarno, how he had inveigled him into _raany evils while pretending to be his fr:end. King James listened to all she had to say with interest, and then decided to hear and observe for himself what should be said and done by Lord Nigel were the page admitted into the prison, arguing that if the girls tale was untrue and she was in league with Nigel, she would betray herself when alone with him in the prison. Sitting in his luyg, or private chamber, which he had caused to be made immediately behind the Lieutenant's chamber m the lower, where be could hear and see all that took place between the prisoners, King James played the eavesdropper. And having told of the fortunes— or shall we sav misfortunes?— of our hero up to this point, little now remains to be told. Thanks to the love and devotion of Margaret Ramsay, his innocence of all the offences with which he was charged was clearly proved, and he was set at liberty. Lord Dalgarno’s villainy was exposed, and he was degraded and disgraced, and hrouo-ht face to face with the Lady Hermione, bis wife^ whom he had basely betrayed and deserted This bad man met with a violent death, being shot by a ruffian, who fired at him in a wood. The good dauo-hter of the old usurer of Alsatia married Richie Moniplies, and restored to our hero, Nigel Olifaunt, the royal sign-manual, which she had discovered amongst her late father’s papers, it having been stolen by the miser, who had proved unable to resist the temptation to possess himself of so valuable a ^The devoted love of Mistress Margaret Ramsay found its reward — if love and devotion may he said to need any reward — in Lord Nigel Olifaunt himseli, for, with the permission and favour of the soft¬ hearted old King, the two were married, and sat down to as bonnie a wedding breakfast as any 1 ever spread before happy bride and bridegroom, the table being entirely furnished at the expense ol that worthy citizen, staunch friend, and loyal subject, Master George Heriot. J James Cassidy.

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200 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. “ In vain Nigel tried to draw from the youth his name.1.

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No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 201 “ There was real fishing when we went out with fibhermen.” D D

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202 CHATTERBOX. No. XXYI. I REGGIE'S REMINISCENCES. [Continued from page 195.) CHAPTER II. Durse life was not all school- time ; there were holidays as well, good long ones in the summer, and some of the hoys’ relations actually said sometimes that they thought them too long, but I never heard that any of the fellows themselves agreed with this. My brother and I went for our holidays to the j place where mother had lived when she was young, and where her father and mother still were. Our sister, Millicent, lived there, and went to a day- school near ; but her holidays were the same as ours, and she did everything we did as much as possible. She was very useful, too, for she sewed all the sails of our boats and mended our shrimping nets, and tied up our fingers when they bled, and packed our lunch when we were going fishing; and when we were at school she looked after our collections, so that spring cleaning should not sweep them away. This last thing is important, because servants never understand the difference between collections and rubbish, and even grown-up people are wonderfully stupid about it, and yet I suppose they collected when they were young. I forgot to say that our grandfather and grand¬ mother lived close to the sea. The house was long and grey, built of stone, with yellow and green mossy stuff on its dark-red roof. Mother had told us about it when we were out at the Cape, and the iron-roofed houses out there always seemed to her so ugly because of the coloured one she was used to at home; and she told us, too, how' her grandfather, and his father before him, had been born and had lived and died in the same house. We liked the place almost as well as she did, because on a farm there are so many things that only boys can do ; but, still, wThen I said so to mother, she laughed, and said she had not been far behind- ! hand All times of the year were good at the farm. It was jolly to wake up in the summer and hear the reaping machine humming round the great wheat- field, and to smell the jasmine — a hot, sunshiny sort of smell — coming in at the window ; then to get up and slip on a few clothes — just a coat and a pair of flannels, and some shoes, and run down the garden, across one field, and over a rough bit of common land, and on to the beach, where we could bathe without any bother of machines. Those swims used to make us awfully hungry for breakfast, and some¬ times grandfather used to say that he must forbid them, or he would be ruined ; but we knew he did not really mean it. Grandmother only laughed, and said she should want a bigger bread oven, or else she must bake every day ; but we understood they did: not grudge us anything, and no one could have had more splendid holidays. Sometimes we were down by the sea all day,, catching little crabs and other little creatures for our aquarium. We were not very successful with it though, and I believe we must have put the wrong sorts in together, and they ate each other till there were hardly any left. But the catching them was great fun, and a few times we caught enough shrimps for tea — at least, for part of tea; it takes a great many shrimps to make enough for a real meal. Then there were seaweeds ; but Millicent had to get those, we had not enough patience, I suppose ; and there was real fishing when we went out in boats with fishermen. I do not think that the farm would have been quite so good without the sea, but we had plenty of fun out of it, too. When it was very hot, we used to lie on the grass in front of the house under the mulberry-tree and read books, and sometimes a great black mulberry would com zflop on the page, and lie there ready to be eaten. They were splendid mulberries, fat and juicy, and I think they must have been very whole¬ some. The orchard had grand apples in it, and, after making a few mistakes, and trying the cider apples because they were the prettiest, we learnt which were the best trees, and stuck to them. Other days we helped in the fields, getting splendid rides on the top of harvest carts for our reward; and no teas were ever quite so good as those we had during harvest, when we ate in our shirt-sleeves, propped up by a dry, dusty-smelling sheaf, and which were varied by exciting chases after field-mice and wild dashes away from wasps. Winter was interesting at the farm, too. We liked helping to feed the animals,, turning the root-cutter, filling the cows' manger with armfuls of sweet brown hay, stirring the steaming" mash for which the pigs were* so eager, and giving secret extra meals to the geese and turkeys fattening for Christmas. The sea was not so much good to us in the winter, but we liked to go and watch it in rough weather ; it made us feel even more comfortable and snug than usual to listen to it booming along the shore when we were safely inside, reading by the great wood fire- in the chimney corner, with chestnuts hidden in the hot embers, and apples fizzing and sputtering on the end of a string to call us back every now and then, from the banks of the Amazon, the wild canons of California, or the wonders of the Upper Nile. Milli¬ cent had different ideas about books from us; she liked stories that made her cry, and she would read straight thi’ougli long lives of good people, and,, unless they were something more than just good, I did not find them very exciting. Of course I liked ‘Gordon and Bishop Patteson,. but my favourite was Livingstone; Millicent liked that too, because she could have a good weep over his faithful servants, and all they went through to- bring his body home. The part I liked best was- about the lion, and we acted it over and over again. I was generally the lion, because I growled best. Ilughie and Millicent took it in turns to be Dr. Livingstone, and the native who tried to kill me. It was most successful when Millicent was the good.

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No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 203 doctor, for she let me shake her harder than Hughie would. We did the meeting with Stanley too, and once we performed it for grandmother, who said it was ‘ so natural it quite upset her,’ and she had to wipe her spectacles quite hard afterwards. I had quite made up my mind that no place but Africa would suit me, when one day I found a report in the paper which troubled me. very much. It said, ‘ Lions are now almost extinct in the upper districts of the country, and the natives are losing their fear of them, which has, up to now, been largely superstitious . ’ . I was staring at this announcement, which. I did not think satisfactory, when my sister came in, and leaning over my shoulder, looked to see what was taking up my attention. ‘ What a good thing that is!’ she said, pointing to the sentence I have just quoted. . ‘ Good thing ? ’ I growled. 1 1 do not see it ! There will be nothing left for a fellow soon !’ ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. 1 Do you suppose killing the lions will make people Christians all at once, and there will be none left for you to convert?’ . ‘ I was not thinking of the people,’ I said, hastily. And Millicent stood up straight and looked at me. ‘ Reggie,’ she began, solemnly, ‘ I do believe you only want to be a missionary that you may hunt lions!’ There was no denying it. She had found me out, and I kept my eyes down on the paper. 1 Mother would not let me go any other way,’ I muttered. ‘ There is only one roaring lion which missionaries need know about,’ said my sister, ‘ and I do not think it is likely that he will be extinct just now.’ But this remark did not soothe me at all, and I flung out of the room, and went and hid myself in the barn. It was the best thinking-place I knew, and I went there now to consider the whole matter. At first I could only feel angry and cheated at the notion of my life of adventure fading into a hum¬ drum teaching1, preaching life, like1 a school-master at home. Then" the hot feeling which had made me unwilling to face Millicent came over me again; the feeling that I had been found out in a plan which was not quite straight made me vexed with myself, and as the time went by, and the dusty sunbeams got lower and lower across the barn-floor, I began to understand that Millicent was right, and that hunt¬ ing and fighting were not the first objects which ought to attract a missionary. Should I give up the idea altogether, I wondered, because I was not good enough for it ? Then perhaps people might think I was afraid, and it was too difficult a matter to be explained to any one. _ . My mind was still far from settled when the gathering darkness warned me that it was tea-time, and I shook the bits of straw out of my hair, brushed down my clothes, and went back to the house. Millicent was a little bit shy and strange with me for some days afterwards, and she hid away all the missionary books — even Dr. Livingstone and I was afraid to ask for them, though I had meant to read the other parts of his life, and see what his real reason was for going out to Africa. It might have helped me to decide whether I should ever be fit for the work ; but the book was gone, and when the holidays w^ere ended I went back to school still doubtful, but hoping that if I was ever good enough to like the preaching, perhaps I should find a few lions still left for me as well. {Continued at page 210.) PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. 27. — Arithhograph. A brave English admiral who was born in the middle of the eighteenth century, and died in the early part of the nineteenth. He gained several victories over the enemies of his country, but was killed at his last successful battle. 1. — 3, 1, 6, 8, 9. A beautiful river in Germany. 2. -1, 2, 8, 9, 11, 5. Upright, sincere, honourable. 3. -9, 5, 8, 4. A volcano in the south of Europe. 4. — 4, 10, 12, 13, 9. Solitary, lonely. 5. _1, 9, 3, li. A word which may well be applied to the subject of this puzzle. 6—1, 9, 3, 11, 6, 8, 9. The feminine of the above. 7. _3’ 4, 5, 6, 7. A proportion, a rate. 8. — 13, 2, 7, 8. Between morning and evening. 9. — 10, 6, 2, 13. A noble animal. 10. — 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 4, 10. What ail human being® should be. & C- 28. — Arithmetical Puzzle. Divide 2 by 5, so that the answer will be 1000. [Answers at page 219.] 25.— 1. Ape. 2. Lion. 3. Dog. 4. Horse. 5. Bear. ANSWERS. 6. Goat. 7. Kid. 8. Ass. 9. Lamb. 10. Hart. 11. Bam. 12. Hare. 13. Panther. 14. Calf. 15. Kitten. 16. Bat. 26.— 1. A friend in need is a friend indeed. 2. Hunger is the best sauce. 3. Never cross a bridge till you come to it. 4. It is a long lane that has no turning. 5. Make hay while the sun shines. 6. In for a penny, in for a pound. 7. Marry in haste and repent at leisure. 8. More haste, worse speed. 9. New brooms sweep clean. 10. Waste not, want not. THE PATIENT SHOP-BOY. HERE we have a picture of what is a common event in the life of a shop or errand-boy. He I arrives at his post in the morning, but the master or 1 some other person is not up to give him admission. Anyhow, a boy often has to wait; here pussy is- waiting, too, and rubs herself against his legs m a friendly way. Probably she has been out all night,, and is now wishing to get in to warm herself at the fire, or to have some of the milk which has already" reached the house.

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The Patient Shop-boy. i Various are the devices boys resort to while thus kept waiting. We can hardly expect the average British boy to be a model of patience, and if it is a case where he has to ring, no wonder if he keeps the wire well on the move until he gets admitted. Should he be a lad of rather a daring disposition ■, he may perhaps let off his impatience by giving the door a kick. Many boys who have to wait are prepared for the event, and produce from their pockets a book or magazine. I knew a boy who came daily to a London shop near the city, and, in the winter months, he was fond of amusing himself, when he had to wait a bit outside, by feeding the early sparrows. They got to know that he had a little packet of

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The Stray Duckling. crumbs in his pocket, and watched for him as they perched in an old plane-tree. He was able to entice them close to his feet and hands by sitting on the ground, and keeping quiet. He may have managed at last to get them to take bread from his finger or mouth : this has been done. Another boy, whose office was in a London square, contrived a curious diversion in his waiting-time on a summer morning. He collected a number of caterpillars that were feeding on a lilac, and put them in a row, to race each other, as lie said. Boys, with a turn for self- improvement have been seen, at early morning, occupying themselves in drawing designs upon the pavement outside their shop, or casting up fancy sums thereon, by help of a slate pencil. J . R. S. C. A DUCKLING ASTRAY. LIFE is not without its dangers and troubles even for the happiest young ducks, and our illustration gives an instance of this. A party of ducks, old and young, have been busy along a brook, at one part of which there is an island or bank of reeds and rushes. Hunting about for worms and insects, a careless duckling has got out of the stream, and amongst the reeds, where there is a thick growth. A sensible bird would have turned back to reach the water, but foolishly it struggled on. Ducklings have been found on such islands which have been unable to escape, and have died from want of food, or exhausted. Probably, in such a case, the . mother- duck knows nothing about her missing child, since

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206 CHATTERBOX. X). XXYI. ducks are careless parents; though even the more ■watchful hen may not, I think, know exactly how many chickens she has in her charge. Ducks have the character of being bad mothers for several reasons. Sometimes they keep the young- ducks paddling with them too long in the water when it is cold, and so they come out chilled, and may become sickly. Then, as ducks walk about in company with their ducklings, they do not always look where they tread, and so are apt to step upon one of them with their large feet. Because of this, many persons put a batch of duck’s eggs under a hen, and she usually proves a good nurse. In fact, she is braver than any mother-duck would be, and should any farmyard rat, or daring sparrow-hawk, approach with the intent of seizing one of the duck¬ lings, the hen seldom fails to chase away the enemy. But it is a trouble and perplexity to the hen when the ducklings seek what she carefully avoids, and plunge into a pond or stream. Vain are her appeals to them as she stands clucking on the brink, nor will they return till they have tired themselves, after feasting on those water-insects which chickens can¬ not get. «J. R- S. C. about Major as long as you had patience to listen. Toby was not yet old enough to go out in the boats, so his days were passed on the beach, hunting shell-fish, or on an out-lying rock, fishing. And here Major was not only a social and entertaining companion, but a good helper too. Ilis eyes were far* sharper than Toby’s in spying out a skulking crab, and he was so quick that he often sprang from a rock into deep water and brought out a lobster or fish. When returning with a full basket, Toby used to sort out the spoils, and Major’s name was an¬ nounced twice as often as his own. Here and there along the coast were groups of jagged, sharp-nosed reefs, some of them extending a half-mile or more into the sea. Many of the points were beneath the surface, unmarked, save by the lines and circles which rippled the water when the tide was at ebb or flow. Incoming vessels held them in terror : but the fishermen gave them little thought, save when the fog crept down from the banks and shut in the coast and reefs with a dense black pall. Then they, too, feared them, and preferred to be on land, or else far out beyond the currents which set in toward the reefs. And especially did they fear the Death Rocks, which had a reputation of never releasing a vessel which had once come between their jaws. Even during calm weather, when the sky was clear, they were dangerous ; but in a fog, and a storm thicken¬ ing outside — well, they had best be left alone. It was here the coal-barge had come in ; and, although only three miles down the coast, this was the one place which Major refused to go near. One morning, Mother Lisa’s husband and two of the neighbours started for South Shoals, ten miles away/ Cod were biting freel)r there, and the men expected to fill their boat and return before night. Toby and Major went to the beach after crabs, or whatever spoil the sea might have brought in. Mother Lisa and one of the neighbours were at the fish-shed, salting the catch of the day before. The women worked quickly. This lot must be out of the way before another came in. If cod were beginning to bite freely, there would be plenty of fish for weeks to come, and they must not risk losing any fish. Late in the afternoon the neighbour turned to the sea with a sudden trace of anxiety on her face. ‘ The fog is coming in, Lisa,’ she said. Mother Lisa finished her fish and dropped it into the barrel ; then she turned and gazed out to sea, shading her eyes. Although known as Mother Lisa, through being called that by Toby, she was still a young woman of twenty-five, strong and muscular, able to prepare the fish at home, and capable of taking an oar in the boat if need be. For some moments she remained silent, and <even in that time the line of mist grew darker. ‘It is the black fog, Jane,’ she said at length, ‘ but the men understand it better than we. They will stay at South Shoals. We need not expect them before to-morrow/ ‘ But they have left South Shoals before this/ moaned Jane. ‘Tom said they would fill the boat by three o’clock, and start back. A load of fish rows heavy. They are nearer here than there/ SQUABBLERS. fTlHEBE is an old story of Sir Walter Raleigh JL which tells us that when he was engaged in writing a history of the world he heard a noisy quarrel outside his window. Upon inquiring into the cause, he was furnished with four or five quite different accounts of the dispute by as many eye¬ witnesses. Whereupon, we are told, he asked him¬ self of what use it was to attempt to write the history of the world, when he could not get to know the rights of a petty squabble from its immediate spectators. MAJOR. AJOR was no ordinary dog: 4«| Jf you could tell that by his eyes, or by a way he had °* studying the sea with head to one side and tail wagging slowly to and know enough about dog- signs, you could just ask Major had been sole sur¬ vivors of a coal-barge five years before, and close companions ever since. If you cared to listen, Toby would tell you, with glowing eyes, how Major had saved his life that terrible night, swimming gallantly with him through the surf, and how Mother Lisa and her husband had taken them in and given them a home. Mother Lisa was one of the best women in the world, he would declare, and her husband was the kindest, strongest, and bravest fisherman on the whole coast. But after saying that he would seem to forget them entirely, and would go back and talk

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No. XXYI. CHATTERBOX. 207 ‘ Well/ answered Lisa, speaking slowly and con¬ trolling her voice, ‘ they will beat outside until the fog lifts. They will not venture among the reefs.’ 1 The wind may rise, Lisa. Tom said this morning that a storm was brewing. If it comes to-night, they cannot stay outside. It will drive them in.’ Mother Lisa did not answer. Presently she turned back to the fish, ‘ We can do nothing, Jane/ she said. ‘ We will finish the fish/ Twenty minutes later, and the fog had swept in ’past the reefs, past the beach, around them, between them and the sun ; it became twilight, then dark. Toby and Major came up from the beach and stood near until the work was finished ; then they went to the house, and Jane, who could not bear to remain alone, went with them. When the sun set, they only knew it from a slight difference in the shade of darkness. No one thought of supper, or even of lighting a lamp. When a muffled roar came to them, slowly .growing louder, they ceased to talk, and Mother Lisa arose and groped her way to the one window. They all knew what that meant. A storm was brewing. * If it was just a common fog/ said Mother Lisa, steadily, ‘we would start a fire on the beach; it might help to guide them in, so long as they must come ; but it would scarcely show a rod through a black fog.’ ‘ Scarcely a rod/ Jane answered, hopelessly. 6 We can do nothing/ Toby was sitting on the floor, listening and strok¬ ing Major’s head, which lay in his lap. How he wished that he was big and strong, so he could go out and save the men. Maybe he could not find them on the big sea, but he could hunt for them, and, at any rate, he could die out there with them. That would be better than staying here. Suddenly he rose to his feet. ‘ Mother Lisa/ he whispered, as though afraid of his own voice, ‘ Major saved me in a bad storm ; maybe he can save them/ But they did not hear. Slipping outside, Toby threw himself upon the ground and clasped his arms around Major’s neck. Could he do it? • He would not mind going himself, giving his own life — but Major, who was dearer to him than anything else in the world P A thought of the women inside and the men outside nerved him. ‘ Major/ he cried firmly, as he sprang to his feet, ‘ go, find them !’ And Major seemed to understand, for he gave a quick bark of obedience, and bounded away into the darkness. A few moments later Toby heard a dull splash, which told him that Major had jumped from the rock below the house into the sea. Mother Lisa was still at the window when she heard a sharp cry. She sprang to the door. ‘ What is it, Toby?’ she called. But the boy was lying on the ground, sobbing as though his heart would break. In a moment both women were at his side. ‘Toby, boy, what is the matter?’ Mother Lisa asked tende-rly. A few more sobs, and then, ‘ I — I sent Major — after the men. He has jumped off — the rock.’ ‘ Why, Toby !’ Then she stopped abruptly. Why add to his anguish ? It was too late to mend matters now. But Jane was not so thoughtful. ‘ You foolish boy ! ’ she cried, ‘ what was the use to send that poor dog to his death ? He cannot help them, and he is the kind of dog to kill himself trying.’ But Toby had his hands pressed hard against his ears now, and his face pressed hard against the ground. As the hours went by the roar from the reefs grew louder, but the storm did not burst. ‘ Long to come, long to stay/ was the saying on the coast, and the women's hearts grew cola, for they knew that before another day the storm would come, and once come, who could foresee the end ? At length they could bear it no longer, and groped their way to the beach, where they waited and watched and prayed. Toward midnight the fog showed signs of breaking away, rising little by little, and little by little, until they could see the moon shining down through ragged edges of clouds. But off to the north-east the sky was inky black : that was the forces of the storm approaching. Suddenly Mother Lisa bent forward, gazing eagerly at the sea. Then for the first time she lost command of herself, for her arms went above her head with a wild, passionate ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God!’ A moment later the rest could hear the dull, far¬ away stroke of oars. Five minutes, and there was a splash as of some¬ thing overboard, and presently a black head could be seen surmounting the crests of waves. Long before the boat reached shore, Major was bounding and barking about the group, eager to be the first to tell the good news. When the storm burst the men were seated in Mother Lisa’s kitchen, which was filled with the savoury odours of the meal being prepared for the men. ‘ I do not understand how he ever got out there, Mother Lisa’s husband was saying, with reverence in his voice. ‘ It was as though an angel came down and pointed out the way to go. We were drifting back and forth, all points lost, afraid of the storm coming up, and not daring to turn in anywhere for fear of striking the Death Hocks. But something had to be done, and we had about decided to row down a few miles and then make a break for land. We thought we were too high up, you see. And just then we heard the dog barking. That said we were opposite home, so we turned in and came through all right. But how he got out there I do not know. He must have swum to the first reef, and then to another and another, till he reached the last. There he stayed and barked till we called to him, and he swam to the boat. But he never could have made all that distance in one stretch. No dog in the world could/ m , _ . . -| ‘Except Major/ whispered Toby, from his place on the floor. But no one except he and his com¬ panion heard, and Major only blinked sleepily and wagged his tail.

Page 218

208 CHATTERBOX No. XXVI. Toby and Major hunting for Shell-fish,

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OUR NEW FAMILY.

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E E

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210 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVII. THE MARKET-PEACE. *}P NTO the quaint old market-place Jt, On market days ive make our way And there we see a busy scene — A varied and a gay display. Our favourite is the dear old dame, Whose stall is first upon our right ; There she has served on market-days Whilst thirty years have taken flight. And always with a plump round face, And always with a sunny smile And pleasant words, this busy dame Has never changed her cheery style. No stall is better spread than hers ; No butter seen more tirm and bright ; No richer eggs, no finer game, No poultry there so fat and white. And she is widely known, of course, For hundreds to that market-place Go twice a week, and meet the sight Of Mrs. Burnett’s happy face. We often stand and look around When many are assembled there; When mingled voices are upraised, And make a hum upon the air. Some open wide a well-filled purse, And lightly buy what they desire ; But poorer folk with sighs make choice — They cannot have what they require. Yes, there they meet — the glad, the sad, The old and'young ; and groups are formed, And many a friendly chat enjoyed, And many a heart by kindness warmed — When sympathetic words are said, And kindly looks and hand-clasps given ; For these are signs which always cheer A heart by any trouble riven. So even in the market-place, Where people chiefly meet to trade, Where money is exchanged for food, Other exchanges can be made. Aii ! yes, indeed, kind words and acts We on each other can bestow' Wherever we may be — the world Is a vast market-place, you know. Brisk is the business carried on, And in it each must take a part ; And blest are they who with it blend The tokens of a loving heart. 1 )A PHX E II AMMONDE, BEGG-IE’S REMINISCENCES. ( Continued from page 203. ) CHAPTER III. TN the Easter holidays we had only one idea, and JL that was birds’ eggs. We were very proud of our collection, Hughie and I, for being by the sea we could get gulls’ and other rare eggs, and make good exchanges when wre got back to school. For the first week or two of May even the excitement of beginning; cricket was not enough to take our minds off the* counting and comparing of our precious eggs. The very last day of our Easter holidays I found a waters ouzel’s nest, and, knowing that such a thing was quite unknown anywhere near Dr. Harrington’s. I felt that I should like to take all the eggs, to use as barter with the other fellows. But I decided that it would be mean, so I took two very carefully and left the rest to hatch. There was not a single other boy- in the school who had one, and some of them called me such a silly for not bringing on the other eggs that I began to think perhaps I had been a fool; but when one of the junior masters heard us talking about the nest, he was quite interested, and asked me all about it, where it was built, and how it was made, and lots of other things, and how he still liked to find the nest of any rare bird. 1 1 quite envy you, McIntosh,’ he said, when T.had told him about my hunt for the nest : how I had lain flat among the rushes and flags by the stream, watching the old bird ; and how, when I discovered where she popped in out of sight. I had nearly to crawl in the water to get at the nest. 1 1 quite envy you, for I remember how I felt when I found my first kingfisher’s nest. I never have found an ouzel’s, and I am very glad you were., man enough only to take two eggs.’ I glanced across at Wetherby, the fellow who had been plaguing me for not taking the lot, but- he would not look at me. Later on I heard him saying that he clid not believe my eggs were water-ouzel’s at all, and he felt sure I had made the whole story up. He was bigger than I was, and he gave me rather a bad black eye ; but I was never sorry that I fought him. The egg-collecting craze used to lead us into breaking one of the doctor’s rules rather often. I mean the rule about not talking to the village boys. They had, of course, much more chance of getting at nests than we had, and they used to bring eggs in their pockets and sell them to us, if they could meet any of us on our way to or from Mother Bullseyes’. We were not supposed to have anything to do with these village chaps ; indeed, we had had some rather serious fights when they had insulted us over the hedge of the playground; so we were not usually j anxious to have much to do with them. In May 1 every year, however, there was a sort of truce, and 1 the bargains in birds’ eggs went on. I was very anxious the year I got the w'ater-ouzel’s eggs to get a woodpecker’s, and one boy with whom I had had dealings before promised to get me some. I had to wait for my next week’s pocket-money before I could pay him. I arranged that he was to be close

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 211 to the gate leading into the road when we came out of morning school on Wednesday, which was the day on which our weekly sixpences were paid. I managed to get down to the corner, and behind the big tree by the gate there stood my ragged acquaint¬ ance, with the eggs in his dirty handkerchief. I con¬ cluded my bargain, and took the precious white eggs to my desk to be blown at leisure. That day at dinner we had rather a fright, for Dr. Harrington kept us all in our places for a few minutes after grace had been said, to warn us especially about avoiding the village. It appeared that there was an outbreak of fever in some of the cottages, and the people would not take precautions to prevent the complaint spreading. ( It is not courage/ said the doctor, ‘ but reckless folly, to disregard danger of this kind, and I rely on you, boys, to have the sense and right feeling to keep away entirely from the village, and from people living in the village, while this danger continues.’ When he said * people living in the village/ I felt myself get hot all over, and Wetherby, who always sat^ next to me, poked me with his elbow, and whispered, ‘ Do birds’ eggs carry infection ? ’ I looked at my treasured eggs when I got to my desk. I could not believe that they could do harm ; they looked too smooth to conceal germs of any kind, and the boy who got them for me could not have fever, or he would not have been out and about the roads. I did not wish to suppose that all his brothers and sisters might at the moment be lying ill, and at the most infectious stage of fever, ‘but that was soon suggested to me by Wetherby, and he gave me no chance of forgetting it during the next few days. He tried to persuade me to destroy the woodpecker’s eggs, but this I entirely refused. -He sneered at the doctor’s warning about infection, and said it was only an excuse to keep us away from Mother Bulls- eyes’, and he did not think it was fair. About ten days later, however, he began to look very sorry for himself. He complained of a bad headache, but he refused to go to the matron in the usual way to be cured, saying that • he was only tired when she questioned him. The next morning, however, he had a sore throat added to his troubles, and was altogether so ill that his attempt to get up was useless, and he was obliged to go back to bed. His bed was empty that evening, and the dormitory had a strong smell of disinfectants, but the matron did not say much when we asked her about Wetherby. ‘ He is in the Sanatorium/ she said ; ‘ his head was too bad to leave him amongst such noisy young Turks as you are.’ And it was not until two or three days afterwards that it leaked out (through the boot-boy, I think) that Wetherby had the dreadful fever. My thoughts flew to my cherished eggs. Was it really possible that they could have brought this misfortune upon us P Were those white, innocent¬ looking things really as dangerous as bombs P I did not wish to think so, and I refused to believe it. 1 If any one else gets ill/ I told myself, ‘ I will throw them away.’ But this resolution was never carried out, for I was the next victim. The boy who sat on Wetherby’s other hand at meals followed. Then two more from the same bed-room, until there were nine of us in the little hospital. We were not so very ill as people can be with fever — no complications, the doctor said — and the nurses who came down from a London hospital took the greatest care of us. They were completely puzzled over me though, for I took much longer than the others to get well, and I did not dare tell them what I was thinking about as I lay so quiet during those gloriously sunny after¬ noons. It was my mind and not my body that worried me, and over and over again I could hear the doctor talking to one of the nurses, and impressing on her the need of extra care, if possible, in the use of disinfectants. ‘1 am nearly worried to death, nurs^/ he said, ‘over the obstinate, ignorant folly of the villagers. They will go from house to house, and even to the shop, and I cannot persuade them that it i3 criminal.’ ‘ If anything happens/ said the nurse, ‘ I should call it nothing short of murder.’ I knew very well what she meant by ‘anything happening;’ in plain English — if any one died, and suppose anything happened to one of my school¬ fellows, should I be a murderer ? The idea stayed in my mind, and it seemed no use trying to drive it away. Every time one of the other fellows moaned in the night— every time the doctor looked gravely at any one pillow — I heard those words again, ‘Nothing short of murder.’ It was horrible ! At length matters came to a crisis. Several of the other patients had been d.sinfected and dis¬ patched to the seaside, but I was not yet lit to go, and, as nurse said, I was at a stand-still. The doctor came and sat by me one morning, for now the others were so much better, he had not to spend so long in taking temperatures and all that kind of thing, and , he had time for a little talk. ‘How do you feel, McIntosh?’ he asked; ‘you are not getting fat very quick/ I held up one hand towards the sun, which seemed almost to shine through the skin and bone, and tried L to laugh, but no sound came. ‘Should you like a game of cricket?’ said the j doctor, watching me. ‘I should like to feel well enough to play/ l / answered, for I was always much too tired to think: of running. ‘ You do not feel quite like making a century, butt it is almost time you did. Give me your hand/ He overhauled me, sounded me,* asked me fif t y questions about aches and pains, and then. suddVnLr ') as if it were an after-thought, he a>ked', ‘ Is there anything bothering you, my boy ? — any worry about j lessons or anything ?’ I was as weak as a rat, I know; nothing el? a | could have made me so babyish, but I had enough J sense to feel dreadfully ashamed when I knew that \ tears were running down my face without my mean¬ ing to cry at all. And then, as well afi I could, E j told Dr. Marsh the story of the eggs,, and mv fear that I had introduced the fever into the school bv them. At first he looked very grave, but he w as* quite kind, and asked me the name of the bov who* bad brought me my treasures, and where he hved then he said, cheerfully, ‘ Well, set your mind a:.

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“ Is there anything bothering you, my boy? — any worry about lessons or anything?” rest, my boy ; there has not been a single case at that end of the -village, and I think it is moat im¬ probable that the infection could have been brought that way.’ I felt as if I had waked up out of a nightmare, and very soon after that I began to get strong like the others. But there was a whole term lost — no cricket, no work. Somehow, the summer holidays did not seem so much to look forward to as usual, ex¬ cept that Hughie and I had one good thing in store —our father and mother were coming home from South Africa, and we pictured to ourselves holidays even more delightful than any that had gone before. ‘ I shall miss the cows,’ said Hughie one afternoon

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A Baby Hippopotamus. as we sat on the gate of a wide pasture, and watched the red dairy cows gathering in the shade ready for milking. ‘ But we shall keep cows ourselves/ I said. 1 Oh ! do you suppose we shall?’ asked Hugliie; ‘ and horses, too, and perhaps sheep ?’ ‘ Why not?’ The chance had not come into my head before, and I did not like to face it now Hughie had introduced if. 4 Why not?’ I repeated. ‘I suppose father has made as much money as he wants to out there, and is coming home to live on it, aud make a home for us.’ ‘Oh!’ said Hughie; ‘to live without working, you mean ?’ I nodded, and, indeed, that was what I supposed. Every one 1 had ever heard wondering whether it was possible that bad, and not o-ood, fortune was bringing my people home. I found no comfort except in the fact of their coming, which must be pleasant, whatever its cau-e might be. (Continued at vagc 218.)

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214 CHATTERBOX No. XXVII. i A BABY HIPPOPOTAMUS. i I ! A LIT ILE while ago I came upon a rather droll picture in a hook of comical drawings. This showed a scene near the bank of a river in Africa. An adventurous tourist has been travelling along a road upon his bicycle, and suddenly the huge form of a hippopotamus has appeared coming from the si: earn, in company with a young one. In his fright the tourist has jumped off his machine, and left it, r inning to hide himself among the tall reeds. But, t liking advantage of this, the lively young hippopo¬ tamus has jumped on the machine, and is seen speeding away in the distance. The poor tourist looks aghast, and stands before the old animal quite at a loss what to do, for it has come up clo^e to him. This, of course, is just a bit of fun; riding a bicycle i' about the last thing even a young hippopotamus Cuuld do; perhaps a monkey might be taught to manage one. Bather a lumpish-looking creature (as our illustration shows) is this juvenile animal, yet it soon becomes a clever swimmer and diver. It has been noticed, in the Zoological Gardens, where some have been born, that when quite young they can remain under water fifteen minutes without rising to • bivathe. It is a fact, however, that though a hippopotamus is commonly a harmless creature, feeding upon grass or low herbage, which it mows down with its immense mouth, it sometimes gives people a start. Andersson, in his travels, tells us that when his party were restii g one night, a hippopotamus of large size walked straight into their bivouac. All the men jumped uj) and rushed hither and thither; some of them, unfortunately, tumbled over the fire, and upset the pots containing their evening meal. No one was hurt, for the beast walked off. But a hippopotamus may be dangerous, and if enraged is formidable to encounter, as it is strong, though unwieldy. Sometimes when they see a boat going along a stream, they will rush at it; and they are not satisfied with upsetting the boat, for Dr. Living¬ stone tells us that they will also attack the people in it. Fond of rivers and lakes, this animal is seldom seen at any distance from water. Stupid as it st-ems — for the hippopotamus has sometimes been said to resemble an immense pig — it has a good memory, and if one has been shot at, afterwards it conceals itself, should the report of a gun be heard, keeping all the body, except the nose, under water, aii'i breathing softly. The head of this animal is armed with a double pair of tusks ; those in the lower jaw are sometimes two feet long. The eyes are curious, standing out — so it has been said — like the garret windows of a Dutch, hotise. Its skin, 'which is nearly two inches thick, is pinkish-brown and smooth, freckled with a dariier colour. The natives of some parts of Africa kill the hippopotamus for the sake of its ivory, which is worth more than that of the elephant; and they dislike it, too, because of the damage which it does to their plantations or fields. Upon several of the rivers the specits is found in herds, from twenty to thirty living together. Traps are set, so contrived that when the hippopotamus steps on a plank, it moves a spear which is poisoned, and inflicts a fatal wound. Another plan is to hunt the animal by using reed rafts, on which a party travel along a stream armed with harpoons having long lines. When a hippopotamus is struck, the line is coiled round a tree, till the men can surround and secure the captive. J. B. S. 0. THE FIELD OP THE CLOTH OP GOLD. Ilf" ANY and splendid were the tournaments held in England and other countries during the Middle Ages ; some of them have been made famous by the art of the painter, and some have been described in poetry. Gallant knights and nobles, armed, mounted, and often, also, gorgeously adorned, fought, for the honour of victory, before kings or princesses, with their courtiers and companions. Amongst all the tournaments on record, it is doubt¬ ful if one is described more magnificent than that which received the name of ‘ the field of the cloth of gold." It was held in the year a.d. 1520, not long after the Emperor Charles of Germany had paid his j visit to England, and while battles were still fought j with the old weapons ; though the time was speeding on when a great change in arm3 had to be made, through the discovery that cannons and muskets had much the advantage of lances, or arrows, or clubs. This tournament was held hv the monarchs of France and England at that time, that is, Francis I. and our Henry VIII. It is a tournament linked with what are called the last days of chivalry; remarkable in this fact, too, that there seems to have been no loss of life, as often happened in tourna¬ ments. For, in some of the combats, the knights fought with sharp lances, and they often had serious injuries from being thrown violently off their horses. Combats with swords also took place at tournaments, when the fighters gave each other wounds ; but on the field of the cloth of gold, lances were the only weapons, though the knights often changed their dresses and devices. The lances had either their points taken off, or covered with broad pieces of wood. Still, we are told that the knights fought so vigorously that the on-lookers had to mind their eyes, for the splinters flew about freely as they broke lances. Besides the mock combats, there were grand processions and other amusements, which continued from the 11th to the 21st of June. The exact place where it was held cannot be pointed out now, but it was not far from Calais, near Ardres. A ditch was dug all round, and numerous galleries were, put up for spectators. Gold cloth was used plentifully in adorning the enclosure, which accounts for the name given. A mount was raised at one side— this was to bear the shields of the kings and the challengers ; this was covered with green damask. All along that side were put up tents or pavilions for the knights and ladies, which were covered with damask or gold cloths. Between these tents avere put rows of artificial trees, the trunks

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 215 resembling gold, and the branches green damask, with flowers and fruits of silver. On the last da)7 of the tournament, Roy Montjoy, the French herald, and Garter King-at-Arms sat in a pavilion with the Queen and Cardinal Wolsey, to announce the results of the different contests. Before that was done, however, there was a loud flourish of trumpets, and the two kings engaged in a closing fight. Henry VIII. met the French Marquis de Fleuringes, and Francis l. encountered the Earl of Devonshire. Then the monarchs, with their courtiers, took their de¬ parture. J. Clifford. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. THE COCKATOO. AM sure most of you have seen the handsome white Cockatoo, with a sulphur- coloured crest, but I dare say some of you do not know that in Australia we have also black cockatoos. They have no regular top- knots, but have a few coloured feathers on their heads which they can raise. Their tails have bars of either yellow or red, and the colour on the head matches their tail. They are very beautiful birds, but very difficult- to catch alive, for they build in high trees which it is almost impossible to climb. They often fly long distances from home to feed, and return in theevening ; a party of them (seven) often make a tree at the back of our garden a half-way house, and sometimes for days together rest in its branches about the same time every evening. Another kind of cockatoo is the cockatoo parrot ; it Fas no crest, and all but its head looks quite white, but the crown and under part of the feathers are a soft salmon pink, which shows on its head. They are not as large as the crested cockatoo, but are the cleverest and best talkers of all ; indeed, they seem to talk, sing, and whistle with hardly any teaching. One I knew could speak as plainly as ^ most people; among other things he used to say, ‘ I’ll knock your eye out,’ and, indeed, he looked quite capable of doing so, for he would make a rush at one with all his feathers ruffled, and looking so savage. I knew two very intelligent sulphur - crested ^cockatoos which belonged to the same house, ‘ Cockey ’ and ‘ Major.’ Cockey was very handsome, .and always so clean — as white as snow. He did .not make friends with many people, but he was very fond of his own family. His adopted mistress was his favourite; she has sometimes asked me to sit in her particular chair, that I might see what he would do. At once, when he saw me there, he would get very excited and run round, biting at my feet and dress, and scolding me till I moved. He was very fond of dancing, and, when any one would whistle a waltz for him, would waltz round the room in the funniest way, generally ending off with one of his wild, deafening screams. Major was a contrast to Cockey ; he was a big bird, with a powerful black beak, but, alas ! instead of Cockey’s beautiful plumage, he had only a few feathers here and there, and his ugly red skin show¬ ing all over. It was supposed that his loss of feathers was caused by his love for animal food ; if he was not given a bone at dinner-time, he would steal from the dogs as many as he cared for; but, not¬ withstanding his not being pretty to look at, he was a great pet, a general favourite. One of his greatest friends was a Mr. Taylor; Major was very fond of getting on his knee and asking him to scratch him. Holding up his poor naked wing, he would begin by saying, in a low tone, ‘ Taylor, scratch poor Major ! ’ but soon he would get excited, and mix up the words, and would say, ‘ Major, scratch poor Taylor 1 ’ or, ‘ Scratch poor Major, Taylor ! ; — Mr. Taylor, who was a solemn old man, quite gravely scratching him all the time. Sometimes Major would announce in a loud voice, 1 Major, Taylor has got the gout ! ’ The last time I visited their home, ail were gone ; Cockey was very old when he died, and Major was not young. Wild cockatoos do a great deal of damage to corn crops, both when the crop is being sown and at harvest, and they are so cunning that it is almost impossible to get rid of them ; if traps are set, seldom more than one is caught, and the same way with poison, they seem to understand all about it after one or two deaths. Cockatoos lay their eggs in holes of gum-trees. Very often there is a great battle for a good hole, sometimes a black and a white cockatoo wishing to take possession of the same hole.. They lay three eggs, very like a tame pigeon’s in size and colour. May Collins, Victoria. BUMMER. r^flTIE birds, the birds are singing jt, Upon each leafy tree; And loud the woods are ringing In answer to their glee : They sing that summer’s come — The summer, bright and gay : Our tongues shall not be dumb, But sing as well as they. The breezes, which at morning Awake them in their nest, Scarce stir, with kindly warning, The down upon their breast. Yet ‘ Summer, summer’s come ! ’ They sing, and float away : Our tongues shall not be dumb, But sing as well as they. The silvery rivers, shining As still they roll along, . With ocean waves combining, Re-echo to the song. All Nature sings — ; 3Tis come, The bright, bright summer day V Our tongues shall not be dumb, But sing as well as they.

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216 CHATTERBOX No. XXVII,

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F F

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2i8 CI-IATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. (' Continued from 'page 213.) f-U G II I E’S suggestion was, in |t_ a sort of way, prophetic. We had t° do without I8SH l®\> cows very soon, and with- 1§|f§ liijj out a good many other ^ Inir things too, for fathers affairs had, since we came home, been getting worse instead of better, and he was now very short of money indeed. We did not 'feel it at first, because be and mother stayed on at the farm during our holidays, and we had a splendid -time, for mother had not so much to do as if she had been in her own house, and we could get her to ■ .come out with us for whole long days, instead of just little scrappy half-hours, when she was too tired to do anything else. Father had to go up and down to London rather often, and as it was too far to go in one day, it always meant that he must sleep there, and when he came back he had long private talks with mother, which made her look very grave and worried. We •did not know the meaning of all this at first, but by-and-by we learned that father had had something to do with mines, which he had hoped would pay well, but they did not begin to pay as soon as he ex¬ pected, and he spent all his money trying to work them, and then sold his farm and used the money he got for that, and now he had come home to try and get some other people to join him and start a sort of company, who would send him out to manage affairs for them. Meanwhile, no one quite knew how we were going to live. I heard mother say once, 4 If it was not for the boys’ education - ’ And father answered, 4 What good is it going to do them ? They can read and write, I suppose — they ought to, considering what their education has cost i these last three years. I had no education, and I { have never felt the lack of it.’ Of course, I did not stop to listen, but I thought a good deal over the words I had heard. I was not certain if I felt the want of education when it was actually school-time and there was a stiff bit of con¬ struing to do. But to have no teaching, to give up school and football, and the chance of winning a scholarship, and the hope of getting into the eleven, and lots of other things — it made me understand that there might be some use in education, after all. And :! I knew, from what some other fellows had told me, ! that going to school when you are poor is horrid. A \ day-school somewhere just outside London, perhaps — a place whose name is never seen in first-class cricket ’ — where the other boys do not know about or under- i stand the things you are used to — where you can have no extra pocket-money — where you can never enjoy a study of your own — I imagined all these possible horrors whenever I had time to think. But luckily j 8 , - - - there was not much time, for I had to work extra hard to make up for the term before, and very soon there was football to take up nearly all play- hours. Wetherby and I did not get more friendly when we met again. He could not leave me alone about the birds’ eggs, and I found it difficult to take no notice of his suggestion, which had made me so miserable at the time of the fever. I could not understand why he could not drop the matter, but he could not — or would not — and I could not get used to being teased, and*so we were always having rows. When Christmas came we went home to London, where father and mother had taken a little house, and here we first began to understand what it meant to be 4 hard up.’ It sounded rather jolly to be going to London when the pantomime was going on and the shops were all smart ; but we found our house was a long way from any shoj^s that were really smart, and mother said she could not be always giving us money for ’bus fares. Then the place was very small. Ilughie and I had a tiny room high up, where it vras sometimes very cold, and we missed the big barn on wet days, and the open, windy shore, with the fresh salt air blowing across the sands, and if. it had not been for mother, I think we should have growled and grumbled all day. It was too mean, however, to fuss over things when we could see that it made mother unhappy not to be able to give them to us. I began to feel that that second-class day-school was coming nearer, when one day, about a week before term began, my father said, 4 You boys will go back to Dr. Harrington’s next week, but you must understand that it is for the last time/ 4 Yes, father,’ I said, 4 and what are we to do after Easter ? ’ 4 How do I know ? 1 he answered. 4 Go to the Work-house, I expect ! ’ We had been brought up to never question any¬ thing that father said, so we took this decision in silence, and, as I said, it was no use to worry mother | further by grumbling about it to her. That last term went faster than any other had ever done. We were training for the athletic sports a good part of the time, and when the day for them came, mother and Millicent were there to look on, and both Hughie and I got prizes. All that was very jolly, but I did not like the last day at all. Dr. Harrington spoke to both of us about leaving, and gave us some good advice — awffuliy sensible sort of advice, too, about things you would not have thought he remembered, and he wished us all sorts of good luck. The other boys, too, said 4 good-bye,' and it was just horrid. I was glad when it was all over, and we were safely away, I took home all my books, and when they were un¬ packed, and * in a heap on the floor, I sat and looked at them, and just then Millicent came in 4 Can I help you to put those tidy ? 7 she asked. We found that Millicent was growing much more like mother, somehow, and did not seem to want to climb or play cricket so much as she had done six months before, and I knew that she would really put my books straight — not pile them on the shelves anyhow — so I let her come in and pick them up while I sat still on the floor and watched her.

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 219 ‘ What is going to happen. Mill ? ’ I asked. * About us?’ i Yes/ I said, ‘ about us.’ ‘We are going out again/ and Millicent kept her back to me so that I could not see her face, but there was a very queer sound in her voice. ‘ To Africa P ’ I gasped. ‘ All of us ? ’ ‘ Yes/ she answered sharply ; ‘ are you not glad ? * I nearly said that she did not seem very glad, but I stopped myself, and then the meaning of it took away all words for a time. Going out again ! Then I could never go to a public school, never go to Oxford. I should have no degree, I could not be a missionary. Millicent’s voice roused me. 1 You ought to be pleased/ she said. 1 If you cannot be a missionary, you will get out there before all tiie lions are killed.’ She was unhappy about it herself, I know, or she would never have said an unkind thing like that, and the next minute she was sorry, for she turned round when I did not answer, and came and knelt down close by me. 1 1 beg your pardon, Reggie/ she said; 1 1 did not think you would care so much. We will take your books, and there will be lots of time to work, and perhaps by the time you are old enough, father will be able to afford to send you home to college. Do not give up, old boy ! ’ A sister really is some good when a fellow is down on his luck, and I was very grateful to Millicent, but I could not help thinking what a pity it was some other fellows were not going instead of me. Lots of them would have been delighted to get away from school. Hughie thought it was all a great joke, and his talk about the voyage, and the fun of trekking up-country, made me feel that perhaps, after all, there would be something amusing to be got out of it. ‘ And if you are to be a great man, Reggie,’. Millicent said, ‘ the account of these difficulties in your early life will make it all the more in¬ teresting.' It was soon after I had found out what we were really to do, that I began talking to father about our plans. I did not let any one know how frightened I felt about doing it. When we were sent home to school, we were really hardly more than babies, and not seeing father for three years made me feel strange with him, and all the worry he had about money matters had not made him cheerful, or given him time to be interested in what I did. But I thought if I were to go about with him in the future I must know what he thought about things, so I began asking questions, and when I had got a little used to it, I found out a lot from him ; and he said one day he was glad the Latin and Greek had not crowded out all the common sense from my head ; and when he found I understood what he had been talking about, he told me something about his plans. lie had disposed altogether of that ruinous old mine in the south, and now he proposed to go up into the newly gained British territory, north of the Transvaal, where the South African Chartered Company had lately been breaking the power of Lobengula. We had followed the fortunes of the little white force in the midst of that strange country: we bad learned by heart the story of Wilson’s patrol, we had traced the steps of Forbes’ perilous march along the Shangani banks, we had rejoiced over the hoisting of our flag at Buluwayo. When I realised that it was into this new country we were going, that we were to be what the news¬ papers called pioneers of civilisation , I began to feel that, after all, life at school was dull compared with what we might reasonably expect to find in Rhodesia. ( Continued at page 226.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 29. — Anagrams. Words with Definitions. 1. Bust, mad. A pungent seed. 2. Vat, and, age. Any circumstance favourable to success, benefit, gain, profit. 3. Den, leg. A narrative of doubtful authority. 4. Lest, her. A place of refuge from danger or stormy weather. 5. Guns, rail. Less than two; peculiar; uncommon. 6. Ground, sea. Something to be avoided. 7. Vaunt, deer. A bold enterprise; a strange and unexpected event. 8. Bed, ran. A commission performed for another person. 9. Lead, hand. A piece of land projecting into the sea. 10. Red, sun, lop. Magnificence; richness of colour¬ ing. 11. Sure, top. Position; attitude. 12. Sort, men. Very large ; unnatural. 13. Tripe, drag. A wild bird much esteemed when on your table. 14. Tan, gem. Very attractive. 15. Card, hone. Made fast. 16. Also, to, dot. A dangerous likeness. 17. Sun, ale, pin. Not quite an island. 18. Mare, lip, gig. An expedition usually undertaken for a religious object. C. C. 80. — Proverbs with Vowels omitted. 1. H, G, V, S, T, W, C, W, H, G, V, S, N, T, R, C. 2. N, V, R. T, L, D, T, L, R, N. 3. N, S, W, L, L, W, D, S, N, T, M, K, S, M, M, R. 4. T, F, S, G, H, T, T, F, M, N, D. C. C. 31. — Puzzle. With the wind I can fly, On the stream I float by ; In a field trodden down, On your head I’m a crown. D!?zsa*ers at page 238.] ANSWERS. 27. — Horatio Nelson . 1. Rhine. 4. Alone. 8. Noon. 2. Honest. 5. Hero. 9. Lion. 3. Etna. 6. Heroine. 10. Rational. 7. Ratio. 28.— H 4- V : IVI = M = 1000.

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220 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. AMONG ICEBERGS. IT is exciting to read about voyages in the direction of the North Pole, is it not, boys? But quite a different thing to be alone on a wrecked vessel, with the icebergs to look at and nothing else, except the pitiless waves, beneath which so many ships and so many men go down each year. Jack Russell had chosen the seaman’s life because, as he used to say, he could not help it. He loved home and he loved his parents, and he always left the biggest part of his heart behind him in dear old England when he had to go awap\ Still, he had no taste for any work which would have kept him on land, and so at fourteen he went for a sailor. During the first few voyages all went well enough. Jack had plenty to tell in the way of yarns, but he had not been in danger of his life. It was real enough when it did come though ; and solitarv, helpless, well-nigh hopeless, his thoughts ti avelfed home, and he seemed to live over again in memory his childhood, his boyhood — everything that had happened in the past. Well, it was all over ! Never again should he see the old place, the familiar faces; and with tears rising in his eyes, Jack began to whi-t-le sadly the air we Britishers love, ancient and time-worn though it may be, ‘ Home, Sweet Home.’ Suddenly he seemed to hear the stroke of oars. Surely it must be mere fancy; who was to know of his peril, who was to come to his rescue in those lonely seas? Speaking thus to himself and trying to face death bravely, Jack went on with the tune, but only for a second. It was no delusion after all. Round the icebergs came the little boat, manned with the brave fellows who will risk their lives to save another life ; and so Jack Russell was rescued, and in due time he could sing by his own fireside ‘There’s no place like home, wit to parents and brothers and sisters gathering round him. But he was not cured of his love for the sea ; no, not one bit. And as death must come to every one of us at the appointed time, this sailor lad would sooner find a watery grave than be buried on shore, so he tells his family each time he bids them good¬ bye for another voyage. M. C. S. THE FISHERMAN’S HOME. IT is a joy to the fisherman when he has a chance of spending a little time at home, when the weather, or other reasons, prevent his going out to fish. He has the company of his wife and children, and he has time* to mend his nets, which get torn by the edges of rocks, or bv the struggles of the big fish, or by the claws of crabs and lobsters. Some fishermen along our coasts look after birds as well as fish, and go out provided with guns to shoot any that may be worth i having. Along some shores the fishermen do not depend entirely upon their nets, they make captures , with a hook and line : this will sometimes take a | sea-bird, such as the gull.

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The Fisherman’s Home. Some of the fishermen’s cottages along the shore of Kent and Sussex, till a few years since, had strange visitors about the time of Christmas. These were known as the mashers, evidently re¬ presenting the mummers who went to our ances¬ tors centuries ago. Unlike the carol-singers, the mashers were speechless ; they only made sisrns or grimaces, and moved quietly along, for they always had thick stockings drawn over their boots. It was the plan of the mashers to take different characters: one would appear so made up as to represent ‘Old Bogey,’ another seemed, perhaps, a gentleman dressed in the Georgian style, or disguised to look a little like some well-known fisherman. J. R. S. C.

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992 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. SIB WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. SIR KENNETH, THE KNIGHT OF THE SLEEPING LEOPARD, AND SHEERKOFH, THE LION OF THE MOUNTAIN,* the sandy deserts which lie in the neighbourhood of the Dead Sea, paced, in years gone by, a lonely tra¬ veller. His right shoulder was decorated with a red cross of cloth, the badge of the Crusader. He wore also a coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gloves, and a steel breast - plate. Hound hi3 neck was sus¬ pended a shield. Over his barred helmet of steel were a hood and collar of mail. Like his body, his lower limbs were sheathed in mail, and his feet were encased in plated shoes. He was armed with a short, crooked sword, a dagger, and a lance. His overcoat was of em¬ broidered cloth, with the arms of the owner — a couchant (sleeping) leopard, and the motto, 1 1 sleep: wake me not.’ The horse — for the traveller was on horseback — was also covered with mail. The Knight of the Sleeping Leopard possessed un¬ common strength, fine limbs, and robust health, and beneath a seeming calmness of disposition he had a fiery and enthusiastic love of glory. As he journeyed beneath the burning Syrian sun, there came within sight a turbaned horseman, armed with a long spear, and wearing a green caftan. t This second rider was a Saracen cavalier. After a trial of strength, in which the first horseman was victorious, a truce was declared, and without an angry look or gesture of doubt, the two knights rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-trees, where ran a peaceful stream. As they dismounted and rested beneath the trees, after having mercifully attended to the needs of their horses, they presented a striking contrast. The Christian, when his helmet was removed, showed light-brown curly air, a well-opened blue eye, and a beardless chin. His nose was well formed, his mouth large, his size approaching that of a giant, and he was about thirty years of age. The stature of ihe Saracen Emir,} though above that of the middle height, was at least three inches less than the Christian’s. He was bony and mus¬ cular, his features were fine, and his complexion embrowned by the Eastern sun. He wore a long, flowing black beard, well trimmed; his black eyes were keen and deep-set, and his teeth as beautiful as desert ivory. His manners were grave and graceful ; both knights were courteous, but the courtesy of the Christian seemed to flow from a good-humoured * From Sir Walter Scott’s Talisman. + A long vest with sleeves, worn under an outer coat, and fastened by a girdle round the waist. } An Emir was an independent prince ; the governor of a province. sense of what was due to others, that of the Moslem from a high feeling of what was to be expected from himself. The feast in the desert meant, for the Christian, dried hog’s flesh ; for the Saracen, a few dates and a morsel of coarse barley-bread. Each ate from choice. During the conversation that followed the meal, the Saracen knight gave his name and title as Sheerkofh, the Lion of the Mountain ; the Christian, as Kenneth, the Leopard. At midnight Kenneth was aroused by the hermit, in whose hut they were resting for the night, and led up into a little chapel. Here a procession passed before his astonished eyes. It consisted of four beautiful boys and a number of female choristers. The most lovely of the ladies dropped at the feet of Sir Kenneth a rose-bud, and exposed to his view two fair fingers of her delicate hand. A costly ruby ring flashed forth its rays from one finger, and one stray curl of dark hair betrayed to him, in this strange and out-of-the-way place, the lady of his love. The high-born Edith, of the lordly race of Plnntagenet, was far above the poor and unknown knight, and he had never even spoken to her, though he secretly loved her. The Lady Edith had heard of this handsome knight — his deeds of prowess, his honourable, gentle, and noble nature — and had shown him some slight marks of favour. And now we must imagine ourselves in the camp of King Richard I. of England, stationed at that time near Ascalon. Richard of the Lion’s Heart was very ill, smitten with a dreadful disease. He was hasty of spirit and impatient in his fever, and there were few that dared wait upon him. One faithful baron was deeply attached to his royal master, and proved his attachment by staying near his side ; his name was Thomas de Multon, or Tom of the Gills, or Narrow Valleys, as he was called by the Saxons. Amongst the Scots who had placed themselves under the command of the English monarch was our knight, Sir Kenneth. Determined to speak with Tom of the Gills, he told him that he brought with him a Moorish doctor, who undertook to work a cure on the king. The physician was sent, said the knight, by Saladin, the Sultan, Richard’s generous and brave enemy, who had also sent fruits and refreshments for the king’s private chamber. Sir Kenneth vouched with honour, life, and fortune for the Saracen’s good intent towards the English king. ‘ Should I do well,’ answered Tom of the Gills, 1 to bring this unknown doctor to practise upon so valuable a life as the king’s? Is he not the champion of the Cross against the infidels ? ’ Sir Kenneth then told the story of his own squire, who, only two hours before, was suffering from a similar fever to the English king’s, until the Moorish doctor had given to him remedies whieh had thrown him into a refreshing sleep. The Scottish knight invited the doubting lord to his poor quarters, in order that he might see for himself both doctor and patient. Seated cross-legged upon a cushion of leaves, by the bedside of the sick squire, sat the Moor. He N

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 223 appeared in no way abashed by the presence of his illustrious visitors. The result of this visit was that the foreign doctor was admitted to the bedside of the suffering king. After having felt the patient’s pulse, he filled a cup with spring water, and dipped into it a small red purse, and was about to offer it to the sovereign, • but the king prevented him, saying: ‘Hold an instant. Thou hast felt my pulse, let me lay my finger on tliine.’ The Moor held out his hand without hesitation. ‘ His blood beats calm as an infant’s,’ said the king; ‘so throb not theirs who poison princes.’ Then addressing his devoted friend, Tom of the Gills, he said : ‘ Whether we live or die, dismiss this hakim* with honour and safety. Com¬ mend us to the noble Saladin. Should I die, tell him that I never doubted his good intentions ; should I live, it will be to thank him as a warrior would desire to be thanked for sending his physician.’ He then raised himself in bed, took the cup in his hand, and turning to those about him said, ‘ Mark what I say as I drink this cup : To the immortal honour of the first Crusader who shall strike lance or sword on the gate of Jerusalem, and to the shame and eternal disgrace of whomsoever shall turn back from t he work to which he has already laid his hand ! ’ He drained the cup to the bottom, passed it to the doctor, and sank back as though exhausted upon the cushions which were arranged to receive him. The physician then signed that all should leave the tent, excepting himself and the king’s special friend, Thomas de Multon, whom nothing could induce to withdraw. Now King Richard had many enemies, amongst them the Marquis of Montserrat and the Duke of Austria ; these men were jealous of his courage, and angry at his determination to carry on the war for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre. The Duke of Austria took advantage of Richard’s absence to plant the flag of his own country on the central mound beside the English flag, which, but for the counsels of advisers, he would have torn down. But we now return to the Moorish doctor and his royal patient. The hour had arrived when the physician had foretold that the king might be awakened with safety. The king’s friend, who was anxiously awaiting the opinion of the Moor, was assured that the deadly fever had entirely left Bichard, and that it would not be necessary to give a second dose of the powerful medicine. The royal patient, as he lay on his couch, heard from without the noise and the shouts that attended the daring action of the Austrian duke, and demanded of Tom of the Gills what it all meant. Montserrat, one of the king’s secret enemies, was within the royal tent at the moment. ‘ Leopold of Austria,’ he cunningly replied, ‘is removing the banner of England, and displaying his own in its stead.’ ‘ What sayest thou ? ’ said the king, in a mighty tone, as he sprang from his couch, and, hastily putting on his clothes, and snatching his sword from the pillar of the tent, rushed to St. George’s Mount, The shouts, the cries, the tumult, began to thicken around him; he heeded them not, but, followed * Doctor. by De Vaux and the Scottish knight, he strode to the foot of St. George’s Mount. Leopold was standing near it. ‘ Who has dared,’ cried the English Lion, laying his hand on the Austrian standard, in a terrible voice, ‘who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England P ’ There was a fearful silence. The Austrian arch¬ duke, although by no means a coward, was so much troubled and surprised by the unexpected arrival of Bichard that he could not at first speak a word. When the question was asked a second time he answered, as boldly as he could, ‘ It was I, Leopold of Austria.' ‘ Then shall Leopold of Austria,’ replied Bichard, ‘ presently see the rate at which his banner and pre¬ tensions are held by Richard of England.’ So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, broke it to pieces, threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it. ‘Thus,’ said he, ‘I trample on the banner of Austria.’ At these words and this action a great hubbub ensued, and had it not been for the French king, it is difficult to say what might not have happened. Peace for the time restored, King Bichard made the Scottish knight guardian of the English banner, commanding him to watch it, as a novice does his armour, on the night before he is dubbed. ‘ Stir not from it three spears’ length, and defend it with thy body against injury or insult. Dost thou undertake the charge ? ’ ‘ Willingly,5 answered Kenneth ; ‘ and will dis¬ charge it upon penalty of my head. I will but arm me and return instantly.5 It was midnight when Kenneth of Scotland, . standing on guard beside the banner of England, received a message, and, as he believed, from the Lady Edith, cousin to King Richard. With much misgiving he obeyed the message, only to find that the Lady Edith had not sent the * message, but that a cruel joke had been played on him by the king’s wife and her ladies in attendance. This he discovered for himself as he waited in the tent, separated from the presence of these ladies by a mere canvas partition; and, as he heard them talking of the trick they had played him, he felt sick with grief that anything could have persuaded him to neglect his duty. The noble Lady Edith, who had been no party to • the trick, was most indignant with the queen, her cousin, over what she considered a piece of heartless joking ; and when she heard that Kenneth was • waiting in the tent, she pulled down the canvas partition and bade the knight lose no further time, but return to his charge, the English flag, upon the deserted mound. He needed no second bidding, but hurried toward the spot where he had left floating the English flag, guarded only by his noble stag-hound. As he neared the spot he heard the deep, baying of his dog, and then a sharp cry of pain. He hastened on with eager steps and beating heart, and saw, as he reached the place, that the banner of England, confided to his keeping by the king, was vanished. The spear on which it had floated lay broken on the ground, and beside it his faithful- dog lay dying. ( Concluded at page 230.)

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224 CHATTERBOX No. XXVIII, Whether we live or die, dismiss this hakim with bonoar and safety.

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No. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 225 George the Third and his Page. G G

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226 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXIX. GEORGE III. AND HIS PAGE. GEORGE III. was sitting one day in the library of his palace alone, when, the fire getting low, he summoned the page in waiting, and desired him to fetch some coals. Instead of promptly obeying the King’s command, the page ran? the bell for the foot¬ man, whose duty it was to perform this office, and who happened to be an old man. Ilis Majesty was greatly displeased at this want of consideration for the footman’s age. lie therefore resolved to rebuke the young man for his want of thought. He ordered the youth to conduct him to the place where the coals were kept. Having filled the scuttle, his Majesty carried it to the library with his own hands. Then, handing the scuttle to his page, he said : ‘ 1 am ashamed, sir, of your disrespect to my aged footman. Never again, while in my service, ask an old man to do what you are so much better able to do your¬ self.’ REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. {Continued from page 219.) CHAPTER v. Y father lost very little time when once his plans were made, and the early weeks of May were a confusion of shopping and packing. The money paid for his interest in the ill-fated mine enabled us to pur¬ chase stores, take our pas¬ sages, and then left some¬ thing to start with ; but it was by no means a fortune, and mother got very anxious over the amount which had been spent before we could get out of the country. We were sitting at tea one afternoon, tellino- each other how much pleasanter life would be on the free, open veldt, than here in smoky, stuffy London, when a visitor was announced, and m walked Mr. Manifold, who had been our favourite master at school. ‘ I have come up from Dr. Harrington's to say 11 Good - bye,” ’ he explained. We overwhelmed him with questions about school, the cricket, who was top, who had taken most wickets in the last match ? was Masters in a good temper ? — was Wetherby leaving P— and so on. He answered as quickly as he could, and mother offered him tea, and we tried to make him eat bread and jam, and cake and biscuits, all at once. Presently, when we had calmed down a little, he turned to mother and asked, ‘ Is Mr. McIntosh at home?* ( Not just now/ she answered. ‘ Do you wPh to see him ? ’ ‘ I. should like a little talk with him,’ he said; ‘business talk, you know/ And if it had been any one but Mr. Manifold, I should have said he was nervous, but with him this seemed ridiculous. He was a tall fellow, quite six feet, with fine broad shoulders, and he always held his head well up when he walked. He was a fine cricketer, a keen footballer, and a champion racquet-p’ayer — just the sort of chap we liked to talk to. He knew a lot, too, and I thought he was very handsome, his hair was so dark and curly, and his eyes so bright ; but when I asked Millicent what she thought after he was gone, she just said, Hie is not bad-looking,’ which made me rather angry, and I said, ‘ I know you girls can never admire a fellow unless he looks like a dancing-master, and has as many drawing-room tricks as a poodle/ She got cross then, and said, very quietly, like she always does when I put her out, ‘ Reggie, dear, you may be very clever, but you do not know everything yet.’ I had heard a remark like that before, and I was just going to tell her so when mother came into the room, and we stopped. But all this, of course, was after Mr. Manifold had left. When he said that he wished to talk business with father, mother asked him to wait ; so he took us out to pass the time, and we had a hansom, and he paid, and we went to a shop (a real good one), and he gave us each a knife, and then we went home again, and father had come in. He was very kind to Mr. Manifold, and asked what he could do for him, and, as Hughie had gone to show his knife to Mill and mother, and no one told me to go, I sat still and listened to what Mr. ! Manifold wished to say. I very nearly exclaimed when I heard what he did say, but I was so afraid that father might send me out of the room if I made a sound that I managed to keep quiet. ‘I wish your advice, sir,’ said Mr. Manifold, ‘ about trying my luck in South Africa.’ ‘ Mining or farming ?’ asked my father. ‘ I hardly know. But I am leaving Dr. Harring¬ ton at the end of the summer, and I should like to get away somewhere/ ‘ Is England too small for you ?’ 6 It is narrow ’ And Mr. Manifold laughed. ’ Have you any particular fancy for a special occu¬ pation?’ ‘ No; only I like an out-of-doors, active life/ And, indeed, he looked like it. ‘Well, said father, speaking slowly, ‘I do not want to influence any one, but you see what I am doing— taking my whole family out there — and it looks as if I believed in the place ; and if I were a young fellow, and my own master, I would be off to-morrow/ i ^nd you would advise me to go out on spec. ‘Yes; and if you have any money, keep it in your own pocket,’ said father, laughing into his beard. . ‘No one really knows the country yet. There is gold there, oE course, but if you wish to find it, look for it yourself/ Mr. Manifold said*, ‘ Thank you,’ and went off soon after. Hughie and I walked a little way with him, and made him promise he would try and find us when he came out. The next thing that happened was that we were really off. The actual starting was not different

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No. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 227 from what you always hear about. A lot of people cried, and a lot more cheered, and both made me feel bad ; but, of course a fellow of thirteen — at least, twelve and three-quarters — was not going to mop his eyes before every one. Millicent did, though she is more than two years older, but then she is a girl. Tiie voyage was like the one when we came home, quite ordinary. We had a few days’ bad weather, when every one was ill, but nothing else happened ; the machinery did not break or anything, and I wondered if we were going to make history after all. When we landed we went as far as we could by train, and then we had to wait while father bar¬ gained for waggons and oxen to take us north. We used to watch the Dutchmen’s faces as father looked at the wretched beasts they tried to sell him, for they thought, as he had newly come from England, he would not know much about their tricks, and when at last lie had chosen some that looked healthy and strong, the price asked was awful, and father would go back to the house and shut the door, leaving the drivers to stare at one another in sur¬ prise. Three teams were got together at last, and one cool, bright morning in July, we really began our journey. Mother was a little grave over it, for she did not know when we were likely to sleep under a roof again. We. thought the prospect delightful; she felt it rather alarming. We had Kaffir drivers to look after the oxen, and they could not talk English, only very peculiar Boer- Dutch, so, until we picked up scraps of their language, we could not get much fun out of them. The first part of our way lay, of course, through the Northern Transvaal, and we followed the main road to Tuli, finding the novelty of everything quite enchanting. The early morning start, when the air was fresh and cold; the open-air breakfast of coffee and damper and broiled meat; the slow, lurching movement of our teams; the sight and sound of strange beasts and birds and insects; the out-spanning for the mid-day rest, the choosing of a camping- ground at night — all were delights and interests which made the days go quickly. Sometimes we spent the night close to great farms, where we could be sure of good water, and sometimes the farmers were hospit¬ able, and would send us out milk, or ask us to rest in their wide verandah. At other places we were looked upon as trespassers and vagabonds, and were soon made to understand that our company was not welcome. Shortly before we reached the Limpopo Biver we met with a very rough reception at a house where we had asked for the usual necessaries of milk and bread, and we out-spanned as far on again as possible, feeling rather cast down after the rude refusal of our requests. We went to bed early that night, mother and Millicent in one waggon, father and Hugliie and I in another, while the Kaffirs rolled themselves in rugs and lay round the glowing ashes of the fire. For some reason I could not sleep at first, and lav looking at a star I could see through the flap of the* waggon, and wondering what its name was, and how far away it might be, when suddenly I heard something moving round the outside of the wa^sron, scraping the wheel, breathing hard in short, quick pants. * What could it be ? It was not likely to be a wild animal so near civilisation. Could it be one of our Kaffir servants planning to murder usP The idea was not pleasant, and I wondered if I had better wake father — his gun was close to his hand, as usual — and the thought gave me courage, so I crept very carefully to the back and raised the flap. My hand almost touched some one standing below. It was a black boy about my own size, and, to my surprise, he said softly in English, 1 A friend .’ His hands were empty, and he wore nothing big enough to hide any weapon, so I stepped down, and stood beside him in the moonlight, beckoning him to come a little further away from the camp. He surprised me very much by going down on his knees, and holding up his clasped hands. 1 Hide me ! ’ he whispered ; and, speaking a queer mixture of English and Dutch, he told me he had run away from the farm where we had been so rudely treated that afternoon, and was in terror lest, they should find him and take him back. I hesitated. What would father say ? He did not want another boy ; he could not very well keep him without giving him wages, yet how could I refuse, and send him back to a life he dreaded so much. 1 Are they cruel P ’ I asked, nodding in the direction of the farm. ‘ Devils ! ’ was the answer ; and I paused no longer. I took him to our spare waggon, and hid him among the stores, covering him with a blanket. Everything for breakfast was put ready, so I knew no one was likely to disturb him before we began the next day’s trek ; then I stole back to bed, and in a very few minutes was fast asleep. I visited my stowaway in the morning and took him food, and then helped as mual with the arrangements for starting, feeling that the moment was unusually long in coming. But at last, with a sharp crack of whips, and shouts that are more like grunts gone mad, the oxen moved and we were off, and father walked off the track to see if he could put up some birds among the bush worth adding to our larder. Usually I asked leave to accompany him, and had even enjoyed the excitement of crawling after him while he stalked a doer * but to-day I sta}red by the waggons, not able to think of anything but that dark-skinned boy who was hidden among the biscuit and coffee tins of our store. Before we had gone very far a man on horseback came galloping after us, and asked mother very rudely if she were 4 Boss ’ of the caravan. She pointed out my father, who was visible now and again between the clumps of mimosa-bushes, but our visitor did not seem inclined to go after him. ‘ You can speak the truth, I suppose?’ he said; 4 tell me, are you carrying off one of my boys ?’ I saw the colour come into mother’s face, and she said, 4 I am afraid I do not quite understand.’ 4 Can you understand that one of my servants has run away, and I know it is just like you tender¬ hearted English people to hide ' the young scoundrel from his lawful master ; so perhaps you will let me search your waggons.’ Mother gave me a quick look, and I turned to Hugliie and whispered, 4 Run for father, quick !’ then I made myself as tall as I could and went and stood close to mother.

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“ The raised whip never fell ; my father knocked aside the Boer’s arm with his gun.” 1 1 think you must wait for my father’s permission/ I said, hoping he could not guess how much frightened I was. 1 Oh, do you ! ’ he returned, insolently ; and almost before I could see what he intended he had dis¬ mounted, and, slipping his bridle over his arm, moved towards the first waggon. ‘ Millicent is lying in there — she has a headache- keep him away/ said my mother, very low. I sprang forward, and stood in front of the Boer, who was a heavily-made man of about five-and-twenty. ‘ You heard/ I said, looking full at him. ‘ You are to await my father’s leave before you look.’ He laughed.

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No. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 229 { Who makes me P ’ he asked. ‘ I do,’ 1 answered, with an uncomfortable feeling that the whip he carried was a heavy one. He .shifted it in his hand now to get a good grip. ‘ Now then, young Englishman,’ he began, but his isentence was never finished, and the raised whip never fell, for at that moment my father came hurriedly on the scene, and knocked aside the Boer’s arm with his gun. ‘ What is the meaning of this ? ’ he asked ; and the Dutch farmer, being too angry to find words easily, I answered for him. i This gentleman,’ I said, ‘ thinks you are hiding a servant of his, and wanted to look for him in mother’s waggon.’ < This gentleman,’ said father, with a sarcasm which beat mine, i is entirely mistaken, and he will not search my waggons. Trek ! ’ — and he made a sign to the drivers who were squatting round the teams awaiting orders. The Boer mounted, swearing in Dutch, and very soon he and his horse were lost to ^ight behind a long ridge. Millicent was quite pleased with my defence. ‘Not at all bad, Reggie,’ she said ; 1 but would you have taken a thrashing for the little black boy if he had been here ? ’ ‘ He is here,’ I said as quietly as I could. I told her where the boy was hidden, glad to share ] my secret, and she helped me to smuggle food to my 1 prisoner, who crept out at dead of night to stretch his cramped limbs. I had managed to pay him a •flying visit after his former master had retreated, and found him shaking all over, and with his dark face actually grey with terror. If anything had been ' necessary to make me quite decided not to give him up, this would have done it. With Millicent’s help I was now able to keep him hidden until we were across the drift of the Limpopo, and in British territory ; then I went to father and made my confession. i You know when that farmer came and asked us about his servant, father ? ’ I began. He was smoking his evening pipe, and gave me a grunt of assent. I I wanted to tell you — I hope you won’t mind very much — but he was here all the time.’ The pipe came out of father’s mouth now. ‘ Was he — and — is he P 5 < Yes, he is,’ I stammered, ( hidden among the stores — his name is David — he was taught English by some missionaries — I think he will be useful, father.’ ‘ Fetch him here,’ was the reply, and I did so promptly, waiting the final decision about him as eagerly as David himself ; and, after a few questions put, the verdict was in our favour, and David was ■appointed servant to Hughie and me. {Continued at page 234.) AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. EAGLES. TA4.GLES and Hawks of one kind or another are Vi found in most parts of the world. We in Aus¬ tralia have a very large share of them both in variety and number. Do you know that birds of prey differ from other birds and most other animals, in that the female is larger and handsomer than the male ? The largest of our birds of prey is commonly called the Eagle Hawk, but it is more properly the Wedged-tail Eagle. It is very large and handsome, often measuring between eight and nine feet from tip to tip of the wings. It is very destructive, as one is able to carry off a lamb, and many a poor ewe loses her little one in this way ; for this reason, in sheep districts, war is waged against all eagles, some squatters (sheep farmers) offering as much as two shillings and six¬ pence for each head. One seldom travels even a short distance through the bush without seeing a pair of these noble-looking birds sailing overhead ; sometimes one is seen on the ground, or perhaps on a fence seeming very drowsy, and then there are sure to be some well-picked bones not far off. They eat any animal that they can get, dead or alive, except other birds, and many ’little birds take advantage of this and build their nests as close to an eagle’s nest as they can, as they are safer under their protection from the attacks of hawks. A large tree was felled in this neighbourhood in which was an eagle’s nest, and close to the great nest was a tiny one, built by a little wren, and several other small birds’ nests. Eagles build on rock3 if there are any in their neighbourhood; if not, in very high trees. They lay two white eggs about the size of a goose’s egg. The Aborigines (natives) used to climb even the highest trees in a very strange way. They would with their stone tomahawks make holes in the bark for their toes ; then holding round the tree with their left arm, they would stick the tomahawk in the tree and pull themselves up by it, making more, holes as they went up. Some -white men climb in the same way, but they have iron tools. I never saw a black climbing, but I have seen a friend get an egg out of an eagle’s nest eighty feet from the ground, or rather water, for the foot of the tree was in water, and he had to begin his climb from horse-back. Very awful it looked to see him at such a height, and, as it seemed to me, with nothing to hold on by. When he was at the nest he asked me would I like to change places with him, but I much preferred sitting in a carriage to climbing trees, and was much relieved when he was safe down and handed me the egg for , which he had risked his neck that he might bring it home to add to his collection. A man whom I knew was walking through the bush, when he saw an eagle on a sheep’s back. When he came close he found that the eagle’s claws were entangled in the sheep-wool, and as the sheep was too heavy for him to lift, the eagle was as it were caught in a trap ; but the man, with the help of his dog, killed the eagle and relieved the poor sheep from a very unpleasant position. May Collins, Victoria. rpHE Chinese^wall is the largest wall in the world. JL It was built by the first emperor of the Tsin dynasty, about 220 B.C., as a protection against Tartars. Its length is 1250 miles. Including a parapet of five feet, the total height of the wall is twenty feet ; its thickness at the base is twenty-five feet, and at the top fifteen feet.

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230 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXIX. the magpie and the owl. Jjh VAIN little magpie, on gossip intent, Jc^t To her neighbour, the owl, in the hollow tree went. ‘ ^ haL sleeping at noonday, when all are abroad ? I came to invite you to dine at my board.’ 1 No excuse,’ said the magpie, when the owl had begun lo say he would rather not face the noon sun, And could not endure the fierce light on his eyes. * What, losing your sight?’ exclaimed Mag in surprise; ‘ Im afraid, my dear friend, if I may make so bold, It must be a sign you are fast growing old.’ The owl was annoyed, though he gravely replied lo his flippant young friend, who thus dared to deride, ( Pray spare your regrets with respect to my sight ; I am sleepy just now, but will see you to-night.’ ^ hen daylight had faded, and cool shades of night On the landscape were closing, arid hiding from sight The tree where the magpie aloft sat at rest, The owl for young mice set out on his quest, And through the dim thicket he flew with a screech, Arousing his neighbour, asleep in the beech. ‘ Wliat, sleeping at twilight ? Come out with me now.’ ‘ I can’t see,’ said magpie, ' one wing's length, I vow.’ 'Is that so,’ said the owl, 'then I grieve to behold It is plain as the night you are fast growing old. But all jesting aside, I assure you my sight° Is as clear in the darkness as yours in the light ; So give me your claw, friend, and do not despise A our neighbour because he can’t see with your eyes.’ A. Hulm'e. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. SIR KENNETH, THE KNIGHT OF THE SLEEPING LEOPARD, AND SHEERICOFH, THE LION OF THE MOUNTAIN. (Concluded from x>dpe 223. ) HE next scene lies within the tent of the royal Richard. The unhappy knight entered it alone, to render an account of his guardianship. At first the king refused to believe the story con¬ cerning the loss of the standard, and the more particularly as its sworn guardian stood before him without a wound, without even a scratch. But when the truth wa3 forced upon him, he would have slain the ' traitor,’ as he believed the knight to be, then and there. But such was the dauntless bearing of the Scot, and so ear¬ nestly did Tom of the Gills plead the cause of Kenneth, that the incensed monarch allowed him half an hour to prepare for death. Meantime, the news of the loss of the banner had reached tlm ladies’ tent, and the Lady Edith, in a frenzy of pity and fear, entreated the" queen to go into the tent of the king, and herself plead for the doomed man. This, after much persuasion and delay, the queen consented to do. # The king remained unmoved by the pleadings of his wife, his kinswoman the Lady Edith, and others. Last of all El Hakim, the Moorish doctor to whom Richard owed his life, added his pleadings to th& others. The king had promised the skilful doctor, when cured by him of his fever, that he would grant him any boon he might care to ask, to show how grateful he was for all the kind care and attention bestowed, on him. But now when the physician reminded him of his promise, Richard refused to keep it, if it meant the life of the Scot. 1 And *s ^ ^1U3 the most famed prince repays his physician ? ’ said the Moor, standing erect in the king’s presence. 'Know then,’ he said, 'that through every court of Europe and Asia, where- honour is loved and shame is hated, to everv quarter of the world will I speak of thee as thankless and ungenerous, and even the lands— if there be any such — that never heard of thy renown, shall yet be told of thy shame ! ’ With folded arms the great Richard paced fiercely' up and down his tent. Then turning suddenly, he exclaimed, ' Thankless and ungenerous! As well be termed coward and unbeliever ! Doctor, thou hast chosen thy boon; and though I had rather thou hadst asked my crown jewels, yet I may not, king-like, break my promise and refuse thee. * Take this Scot, therefore, to thy keeping ; the provost will deliver him to thee on this warrant.’ He hastily scrawled one or two lines, and gave them to the physician. ‘ Use him as thy bond-slave, do with him as thou wilt ; only let him beware how he comes before the- eyes of Richard,’ said the king, and the grateful Moor bowed himself out of his late patient’s presence. Four days later, King Richard sat in his pavilion listening to the busy hum all about him when a. messenger from his great enemy, Saladin, was announced. ' Admit him instantly,’ said the kino-, ' and with due honour.’ Saladm’s messenger turned out to be apparently a. Nubian slave, very tall and jet black. In his left hand he led by a leash of twisted silk and gold a large and noble dog, a stag-hound. The king looked him up and down for a moment, and the Nubian bent himself to the earth and delivered to the king a letter from Saladin. ' We have sent thee a Nubian slave, named Zoiiauk, of whom judge not by Ins complexion, according to the foolish ones of the earth ; the dark-skinned fruit hath the most exquisite flavour. This slave is strong to do the bidding of his master; also he is wise to give counsel, when thou shalt learn to speak with, him, for he is dumb.’ The Nubian, though a mute,, could clean armour and buckle it on, in time of need. King Richard accepted the gift of ms generous foe and, to show that he valued it, promised the slave that he should wait personally upon him.

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No. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 231 Outside the royal tent another actor crept upon the scene and mingled among the group of English soldiers. Hither and thither glided the puny form of a little old Turk, poorly dressed like a Mohammedan saint of the desert. In obedience to the commands of the warders without the tent, the little old Turk would dance, spin like a top, or jump astonishing heights. Upon one of these occasions the soldiers roughly forced him to drink, until, exhausted, he fell, appa¬ rently dead, upon the ground. The Nubian slave, who was polishing a shield until it shone like a mirror in the entrance of the tent, could see the form of the Turk, and he noticed to his great astonishment, also to his alarm, that the little man raised his head from the ground, and looked about him constantly. Lowering his head when he fancied that any might be watching, he worked his body ever nearer and nearer to the king, till he was only about ten yards distant, when, starting to his feet, he sprang forward with the bound of a tiger, stood at the king’s back in less than an instant, and brandished aloft the sharp knife which he had hidden in his sleeve. Nothing could have saved the king had not the Nubian caught the uplifted arm of the wicked man. Enraged with the slave for spoiling his plans, the Turk dealt him a blow with the dagger, which for¬ tunately only grazed his arm, and did not prevent the watchful dumb servant from dashing the king’s secret enemy to the ground. King Richard, who knew what had happened, arose and inflicted quick punishment upon his adversary. But to return to Sir Kenneth. The noble Moorish doctor to whom he owed his life had generously bidden him consider himself at liberty, j This the Scot had refused to do, considering himself the bond-slave of the generous Moor. The good doctor, who turned out to be the horseman whom the Scotch lmight had met in the desert and in a trial of strength overthrown, wished to send a letter from the great Saladin to the Lady Edith, and he chose as his carrier, Sir Kenneth ; but he thought it safer to disguise him, so that none might recognise him. And he succeeded completely in his attempt, so that no one, not even King Richard, would have seen any likeness in the black slave to Kenneth the Scot. But an accident revealed him to the king. The dagger wound left upon Sir Kenneth’s arm by the Turk who sought the king’s life, was inflicted by a poisoned instrument. Humanity and gratitude I impelled the king to apply his lips to the wound, j for ‘the venom is harmless on the lips/ said the , king, 1 though fatal when it mingles with the blood/ As the king sucked the poison from the wound of i his faithful black slave he noticed that the black skin became lighter, and so discovered Kenneth’s secret. King-like, however, he said nothing about it. The king talked to the dumb slave by means of writing, and it was by this means that the black man volunteered to discover the thief who had removed the English Standard. The N ubian wrote : ‘ To Richard, the conquering and invincible King of England, this from the humblest of his slaves .... were jour slave stationed where the leaders of the Christian army were made to pass before him in order, doubt nothing that if he who did the injury whereof my king complains shall be among the number, lie shall be discovered to all the people.’ On the morrow, as the army passed to salute the new English Standard on St. Georges Mount, by the side of King Richard stood the slave, holding the noble stag-hound in a leash. Slowly the grandly dressed leaders filed by, and amongst them was one Conrade, the Marquis of Montserrat. Roswal, the hound, no sooner saw this man than, with a bound and a furious savage yell, he sprang forward; the slave. slipped the leash, letting the dog free, and the Marquis was pulled down from his saddle and lay rolling, all plumed as he was, upon the ground. The astonished king, princes, and nobles cried out, some one thing and some another, but the English king* remained firm in his belief in the dogs judg¬ ment. . _ ~ , It was decided that upon a certain day Conrade should clear his honour, or admit his guilt, by combat. ,, .... Meantime, the black slave (for Sir Kenneth still kept his disguise) made known to Richard that lie had a lettei^to deliver to the Lady Edith from Saladin, and the king gave his permission for his slave to be admitted to the presence of that great lady. . . When, in her august presence he Kept up ins dumbness, though she pleaded with him to speak, and chided him for his silence, as she saw through his disguise. But being deaf to her entreaties he displeased her and she bade him 6 go away.. . At an equal distance between the Christian and Saracencamps the combat took place between Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, the stealer of the English flag, and Kenneth, from whose charge it had been stolen. Saladin, the noble enemy of King Richard, graciously offered a fair field for the combat, and a safe-conduct for all who might choose to watch it. Richard was rejoiced and astonished to find that the patient Moorish doctor, to whose skill lie owed his life, was himself no other than Saladin, the leader of the opposing army, and his generous foe. Upon that bright and hopeful day the guilty Conrade was shown up before all men, and the innocent was cleared, for Sir Kenneth the Scottish knight vanquished his opponent and avenged the insult clone to the English flag. Amongst the fair ladies who saw ‘ fair play ’ were King Richard s wife and the Lady Edith, and, after the combat, these honoured the victorious knight by removing Ins spurs and his helmet. * ‘ He hath knelt down before you, said the unknown except by his wortli ; he arises equally distinguished by birth and fortune. The adventurous knicrht, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, Prince Royal of Scotland ! ’ , Shortly after this the beautiful Lady Edith Plantagenet became the bride of the Earl of Hunt¬ ingdon, and the noble Saladin sent, as a wedding present, the celebrated Talisman. r James Cassidy.

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The Queen pleading for the doomed man,

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No. XXX. CHATTERBOX. 233 A Dog that would go to the Front. H H

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234 CHATTERBOX. No. XXX. A MILITARY DOG. THE transport Britannic recently left South- JL ampton Docks with the second battalion of the Cheshire Regiment for service in South Africa. While the visitors were leaving the ship, a fine black retriever dog ran up the gangway and tried to get on board, but was driven back. It made several attempts, but each time without success. The vessel cast olf its moorings and moved out of the dock. The dog then jumped into the water and swam after her. The people saw that the dog was resolved to follow the regiment; a boat put off and picked up the dog, and then it was hauled on board the great ship. This military, dog will, no doubt, become the regimental pet of the ‘ Cheshires.’ The curious thing is that no one on board knew anything about the dog. It had not followed its master, which might have explained its strong desire for foreign service. fashion. David must, from his appearance, have been a Zulu, and he had some indistinct memories of his very early days, about dancing and singing, and men with long shields and hair done in rings, which proved that he must have belonged to a fighting tribe. He soon grew fat and lively under mother’s care, and used to beguile the way and amuse us with singing scraps of native chants* mixed with Dutch psalm-t Lines and American hymns. He taught us a lot of natural history too, pointing out things which we should never have noticed. Among the spurs of the hills which we had now to cross, there were deep, winding valleys. running up into the mountains, and here David provided us with delightful amusement in watching the baboons who lived among the rocks. They had to be approached very carefully, as they always have a sentinel on guard, who warns them by a hoarse kind of bark if any enemy comes near. They are specially afraid of leopards, who spring down on them from the upper crags, and who are wonderfully clever at hiding. In the middle part of the day everything is so still that it is very difficult to stalk anything ; . but David taught us to notice the wind, and to wrigole along the ground, hiding behind ant- henps and bushes, and the great flat-topped stones which lie about, always keeping the wind in our faces, and by this means we had several interesting half-hours. One day we were lying fiat, peeping round some rocks at a chattering compan}r of these creatures, when we noticed one old sentry growing very mud) exciled. The other baboons were feeding, picking up things from under stones and among the grass, and popping them into their cheeks. I sup¬ pose one of them discovered some very choice morsel, I which was too tempting for the old gentleman on guard, who could not forage for himself : anyhow, he suddenly forgot his duties, sprang upon his neigh¬ bour, and holding him with one hand, boxed liis ears soundly with the other until the tit-bit was meekly transferred from his victim s pouch to his own, when he returned to his post. The sight, however, had overcome Huglne with amusement, and in spite of vigorous efforts to control himself, he rolled over and shrieked with laughing, which the baboons of course heard, and in another moment they were all in hiding. To my great satisfaction, my father was now teaching me to use a gun, and in the evening I practised carefully at a mark under his directions until he considered me proficient enough to look for game on my own account m the early morning, when it is easier to aim correctly, because the light is better than at any other time in the day. I was lucky enough to shoot a brace of birds very much like grouse the first day I went out without* father, and after that I longed for a shot at an antelope, so David and I slipped away almost as soon as it was light one morning to try a little stalking on our own account, getting as far as we could from the track, hoping that each hillock we mounted, each clump of bushes we passed, might disclose some of the light- footed animals we were so anxious to see. Presently my eye was caught by something that looked like a pair of horns among the grass a little way to our left. We approached very carefully, but there was no movement, and David whispered regretfully, ‘ Dead - - - _i REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. {Continued from page 229.) . t ^ \r CHAPTER VI. VV f^\ ST £ ^ ^ ^5 we reac^e{^ Tuli, we fS/ waited for a while that Oj| oi^ ^al^er mir*ht discuss his | plans with the leading men r' there before going up into i the heart of the country. 1 He was undecided between mining and farming, but he ' took mother’s opinion, and ■ v she was in favour of a homestead of our own. She had been to mining camps, and knew the sort of rough company we were likely to have if we settled in what promised to be a rich neighbour¬ hood, and of unsuccessful mining she had had quite enough. Besides the two occupations to choose between, we had also to make a decision as to our route. We could go up the banks of the Tuli River to Bulu- w-ayo, and then, keeping to the west of the Matoppo Hills, make, our way northwards, through Masliona- land, to Salisbury ; or we could turn eastward and trek for Victoria ; and this latter route was the one which we finally adopted. I heard the decision with a feeling of gladness which almost made me sick— I suppose some people would call it excitement— for we were going into the heart of the lion country. David was a great addition to our party* and Huglne and I enjoyed his company immensely. At first his English was very defective, as for some time he had heard nothing but Dutch, hut he soon re¬ membered words and expressions which had once been familiar to him. He told us all he knew about his history. He did not know who his father and mother were, for he had been brousht up bv Ameri¬ can missionaries, and when old enough to work for i himself, he had been placed with the Boer whose i acquaintance we had made in such an unpleasant •

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No. XXX. CHATTERBOX. 235 master, dead ! ’ When we got quite close we. found he was right. A dead antelope was lying in the trampled grass among the trees, and it was not only dead, but torn and partially eaten. ‘ What can have done it ? ’ I asked, and my ques¬ tion was quickly answered, for a low, savage growl made me start, and there, looking straight at us from between two bushes, was a lion. My first idea, I am obliged to confess, was to run, and had I done so this first glimpse of the king of beasts would almost certainly have been my last, for he would probably have come after me. But David laid a strong hand upon my arm, and held me still with a grip that left bruises on my skin for days after, and together we stood and faced the lion we had roused. He looked at us growling, with head erect, for a few seconds that seemed hours, his tail switching from side to side, and his legs stiffening as if pre¬ paring to rush ; but our bold front had its right effect, and lie suddenly turned and began moving slowly away from us, pausing now and again to look round as if to assure us that he was not frightened. At about fifty yards’ distance he broke into a trot, and was soon lost to sight in the bush When David moved his hand all my strength seemed suddenly to go, and I sank on the ground by the carcase of the antelope, quite helpless. It was not th- sort of feeling I had hoped to experience when I came face to face with a lion, but I had never realised how sudden and unexpected such a meeting might be. Very soon, however, I am glad to say, I recovered myself, and David insisted on my turning back to the waggons, which I was very unwilling to do, for I knew if we related our adventure we should not be allowed to go far afield again by ourselves, and yet it was too exciting an incident to be kept secret. Mother turned very white and gave a sort of gasp when I told her, but Millicent jumped up and cried, ‘ Oh, Reggie, you lucky boy ! how I wish I had been with you ! ’ Hughie was eating his breakfast, and growled out something about its being an awful shame to leave him behind, and he believed that I had done it on purpose. Father looked up at me for a moment, and said quietly, ‘ I am glad you did not run, my boy.’ ‘ 1 should have run if it had not been for David,’ I answered, and father smiled. I did not like saying it a bit, but, of course, I could not let them think I was braver than I really was. After this we took more care about our camp at nights, and when we out-spanned we collected bushes and thorny branches, and piled them into a rough fence all round the place where the oxen were tethered, and the Kaffirs used to light several fires at different points to alarm any lions that might be hunting in the neighbourhood. These precautions were very necessary, for night after night we were disturbed by the roarings of these mighty beasts. They were not very near, I dare say, but. the sound was quite loud enough to be awe-inspiring. The knowledge of their presence made mother terribly nervous when father went out shooting, and if he delayed his return much past his usual hour, she was in a perfect agony of fear. As we went northward we fell in with a missionary, also on his way to Salisbury, and he was very glad to join our party and share our defences at night. His name wa3 Cheswold, and he was an awfully good sort. I asked him lots of questions about being a missionary, and he never seemed to mind, hut answered every¬ thing, and put all the points of the life before me. He told me, too, stories of the Bishop of Mashon aland until I was almost afraid to ask him when he thought I could ever be fit for the life ; for I felt if I began at once, and went on trying, always, I could never grow to be worth}r of following such a good man as that. This gave me a good deal to think of again, for lately 1° bad not been considering anything much except what was happening day by day on our journey. And day after day the life went on, much the same. We visited Victoria, and. set out again northward, passing sometimes mining settle¬ ments, sometimes native villages, sometimes newly made homesteads and forts, until we began, to feel we might look forward to the end of our journey, and talk of 1 when we reach Salisbury.’ We were less than a week’s journey from the township when one night we were all awakened by the most horrible shrieks from the drivers’, camp. My father and Mr. Cheswold were out in an instant, rifle m hand, and father called to David to ask what was the matter. ‘ A lion, sir ! ' he shouted ; ‘ he has taken one of the oxen I ’ It was a dark, rainy night, and we could see nothing beyond the glearhing embers of the lire which the Kaffirs were trying to revive. Mr. Cheswold had a lantern, and, keeping very quiet that no one might know that 1 was following them, I crept down behind him and father as they looked over the other oxen. They seemed quite undisturbed, and were quietly chewing the cud, but as the lantern was lowered we could plainly see the lion s tracks, iu the soft ground, and a little further on the plunging hoof-marks of the ox, which had been tethered a little apart from the others, when he was seized. We all stood and listened, and through the . darkness we could hear the angry growl of a wild beast. Father fired in the direction of the sound, and we listened again. The growling was angrier and louder for a few moments, then it stopped altogether, and though I strained my ears and the others were very still also, we could hear nothing further. ? 4 There is nothing for it hut to wait till daylight, said father, and he turned back. I slipped on in front and got into my blankets again without a word. When morning came father got up and called David sending him to fetch Mr. Cheswold, and I determined not to let them go without me, unless father actually forbid it. ■ .,0,r ‘ Can I carry a spare rifle for Mr. Cheswold? I asked boldly, when I saw father arranging one for David to carry close to him. 1 Do you want to come too, then ? ’ asked father. 1 Rather ! ’ I said, and I saw him glance at mot her’s waggon, where the flaps were still down. fcCome

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‘ I fired straight at the "beast’s head.” along, then,’ he said, and filled a cup and passed it to me with a biscuit. I suppose what he gave me was coffee ; the smell of coffee always comes back to me when I think of that morning; but I positively could not taste it, and my teeth rattled against the edge of the cup as I drank. I do not think it was fright, though. We started by going to where our poor ox was lying, about forty yards from the camp. Its nose was horribly scarred where the lion’s front paw had held it, and the poor things neck was broken by its own frantic plunge in trying to get free. From the spot where it lay we could trace the spoor for some distance quite plainly, but after a time it got

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No. YYY CHATTERBOX. 237 very indistinct in some short grass, and we were afraid we shouldbe obliged to turn back without a sight of the lion, when suddenly David said, 1 There he is ! ’ and at the same moment the growl we had heard the night before sounded in our ears, and over a little rise in the ground we could see him quite plainly as he got up from among some low bushes. Father ran forward to get a good shot, and the lion moved away ; then, afraid that he should lose him altogether, father fired and missed. This made the animal change his tactics, and, turning round, he came straight towards us. Mr. Cheswold fired next, but he only wounded him, and in another instant the enraged beast was right among us. Father was actually stretching out his hand to David for his second rifle, when the lion came between them. The rifle flew some yards away, hurled by the shock. Father fell backwards, and poor David fell too, with the lion over him. Mr. Cheswold, I believe, was running wildly towards me to get the rifle I was carrying, but I did not wait for him to come. I did not stop to think, but I fired straight at the beast’s head as he crouched close to me. He raised himself on his hind legs with a roar, and I felt that his next spring would be on me. Then I had an indistinct feeling of an explosion close to my ear, and the lion fell back and rolled over, quite dead. Mr. Cheswold had come up behind me, loading as he ran, and had fired again ; but when we came to examine our prize, we found it was my shot that had really been the fatal one. Our first thought, of course, was for David, and though he was a good deal torn about the back of his shoulders, and the upper part of one arm, Mr. Cheswold was such a good doctor, and mother such a good nurse, that he soon began to heal, and he would say that this was the second time I had paved his life, and it quite bothered me to have him so grateful. (Continued at page 242.) A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. VIII.—1 TUBE-INHABITING WORMS. you remember, whilst we were sitting round that pool, my fishing with the handle of my parasol for what looked like the stem of a clay pipe which was float¬ ing on the water? I think that I said that it must have got there by accident, having been washed up from deep water by the tide, and that some day I would tell you the story of the build¬ ing of that hollow tube. I have drawn several for you to see of different kinds, and have repre¬ sented them not as mere dead stems, but as we might see them when fixed firmly to some rock under the deep water : these tubes are the homes of their clever ! little builders. The first of these which we will j discuss is Mr. Serpula, a member of the annalid • worm tribe; that is to say, his long slim body is j divided by rings which enable him to move in the j twisting, writhing fashion peculiar to his family. | Terebella. Serpula. He is quite a tiny creature, and has never been articled to an architect, yet he plans and constructs a dwelling for himself just as wonderful in its way as St. Paul’s Cathedral or the Capitol at Washington. The agent which impels the little serpula to build is one of the chief forces that move the animal world —fear ! He has no means of defence, no bristling spines like the Echinus or the Sea-mouse, no sharp Sabella. pincers like the Crustacea, so with millions of his fel¬ low-worms he would prove easy prey to larger crea¬ tures. Happily, however, the same Power who created his little wriggling body provided him also with the j knowledge of the way to preserve it in comfort and

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238 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXX. safety. The first step to this end is to settle himself on a rocky bottom, besprinkled with sand and broken shell, and with these materials he proceeds to con¬ struct a long, narrow tube, usually curved in form. He lines his house with a wall-paper of fine silky membrane, which is not only comfortable to his soft body, but serves as a ladder b}^ which to climb in and out of his castle. We must remember that, being a true worm, he has no feet, but all along his body, are rows of fine hooks, and by catching these to his inner walls he goes up and down them very quickly. When he wants to breathe or to fish for tiny animalculae, he comes up his staircase and appears cautiously at the top, clearly speculating on hi3 chances of being seized and devoured; then, providing all is safe, he spreads out a lovely scarlet fan. This is at once his breathing and feeding apparatus, taking in both air and sea- water, and in the latter he finds plenty of tiny living things, quite sufficient to satisfy his hunger. After his dinner, Mr. Serpula furls his fan and retreats down to digest his provender in peace and tranquillity ; but, before descending, he carefully closes the mouth of his tube, which is done by putting in a stopper or operculum , composed of one of his own feelers, which is very much longer and thicker than the rest. Serpulas are easily kept in aquariums, but are very nervous, I and fly into their houses if even a shadow falls ! across them. Some foreign species have tubes as ! large as a man’s finger, and the worms, perhaps, ! three inches long; but those found on British shores are much smaller. Another of the. worm tribe, the Terebella, also makes a tube dwelling., but uses chiefly sand, fastened together with a glutinous substance from its own body. It is quite easy to watch this creature’s plan of. building by keeping specimens in a glass bowl, with a layer of clenn shell sand, and a good large stone, behind which it can get into hiding. Instead of the fan-like adornment of the Serpula, the Tere¬ bella has a crown of fine tentacles which spread out some two inches on every side, and, when building, each of these arms picks up a grain of sand or a bit of shell; or, if a larger piece is seized, two or three tentacles unite in carrying it. When the. materials are all collected, the Terebella begins to build, gluing small substances all over, but large pieces of shell only at the edges. It will work steadily on for several hours, and, if its edifice is by | any chance destroyed, it will at once begin another. , One species, called the ' Weaver Terebella/ spins a fine web with which to unite its building materials; but as it has been observed to do this only in the 1 month of May, it is probably with the view of more securely protecting its eggs. In infancy the Terebella swims freelv, having a head, eyes, feeler, and feet; but as it grows older all these organs disappear, and it is then that the , creature becomes conscious of its capacity for archi- ! tecture and of the comforts of a settled home. The third illustration represents the 4 Sabella/ whose home differs slightly from the Serpula and Terebella habitations, the tube being straighter and the fan- ; like appendages more spreading, though many of these creatures form curved pipes very similar to those of the Serpula. Helena Heath. WHAT HE COULD HOT SELL, A GENTLEMAN was walking with his little boy at the close of the day, and in passing the cottage of a German labourer the boy’s attention was attracted to the dog. It 'was not a King Charles, nor a black-and-tan, but rather a common cur. Still, the boy took a fancy to him, and wished his father to buy him. Just then the owner of the dog came home from his labours, and was met by the dog with a great fuss of joy. The gentleman said to the owner, 1 My little boy has taken a fancy to your dog, and I will buy him. What do you want for him ?’ ‘ I can’t sell dat dog,’ said the German. * Look here,’ said the gentleman, 1 that is a poor dog, but as m3' boy wants him, I will give you a sovereign for him.’ ( Yaas,’ said the German, ‘I knows he is a very poor dog, and he is not worth almost nottin’, but dere is von leetle ding mit dat dog vat I can’t sell — I can’t sell de vag of his tail ven I comes home at night.’ PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 32. — Word Puzzles. Supply the blanks in the following sentences with words having the same sound but spelt differently, and with different meanings. 1. What a pretty little - lamb that is in the field by the - tree ? Don’t - see it ? 2. That boy performed the wonderful - of jump¬ ing over a bar six - high. 3. If I - yOU doing such a piece of mischief again, I shall take you before a magistrate, and you will bo heavily - . 4. She thought to create a sensation by making a 5. That greedy boy - - tarts at one meal. 6. That poor child is a - of water- cress, and she lives in a miserable underground - . 7. Well, to be quite - , I do not care for - fruit- 8. It is - to make that poor girl sit at that diffi¬ cult - work all this fine morning. 9. If I could only -r - enough money, I would buy a silver coffee - . 10. What is the - of that piece of meat ? If you. will - a minute I will tell you. 11. I think that child is recovering from her illness ; she is certainly not so - as she was last - . 12. There is a - fallen into the water. If he can only reach that - he will be safe. C. C. 33. — Arithmogp.aph. A Domestic Tyrant . 1- — 2, 4, 7, 9. To conduct ; a heavy metal. 2. — 9, 6, 7, 8. Much valued, costly, precious. 3. — 2, 3, 8, 6. To attract, to entice. — 1* 4, 7, 8. To suffer, to carry ; a wild animal. 0. — 5, 7, 8, 9. An ancient name for a poet or minstrel, 6. — 9, 8, 7, 0. A dull colour. 7. — 9, 3, 6, 2. A contest between two persons. 8. — 1, 8, 6, 7, 9. A most useful food. 9. — 2, 6, 7, 9, 4, 8. One who rules and guides others. [ . / 7i.sut;g?\s at pay e 251.]

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No. XXX. CHATTERBOX. 239 AUSWEBS. 29. — 1. Mustard. 2. Advantage. 3. Legend. 4. Shelter. 5. Singular. 6. Dangerous, 7. Adventure. 8. Errand. 9. Headland. 10. Splendour. 11. Posture. 12. Monster. 13. Partridge. 14. Magnet. 15. Anchored. 16. Toadstool. 17. Peninsula. 18. Pilgrimage. 30. — 1. He gives twice who gives in a trice. 2. Never too old to learn. 3. One swallow does not make a summer. 4. Out of sight out of mind. 31. — Straw. NEIL CAMPBELL’S ADVENTURE. WHEN the allied forces were fighting in, and marching through, Spain, early in last century, one of the most promising young fellows of Colonel Wade’s regiment was a Scotchman named Neil Camp- hell. Brave on the battle-field, quiet and orderly in quarters, handsome to look upon, he was a general favourite with his comrades, and, indeed, with every one. This Scotch soldier went through some remark¬ able adventures before he ended his days as a pensioner at Chelsea Hospital, and one of these I will now tell. It happened when the British troops were retreat¬ ing from Madrid, and Lord Galway, who commanded them, hadsuch difficulty in obtaining supplies for his men that he was preparing to march back to Portugal; for, as the Spaniards hated the British and their allies, they kept back from them food and forage, also they formed parties, which went about after dark and fired at the sentries, or even at the pickets round their watch-fires. Neil, like many another soldier then, had to undergo perils by day and night. When the troops reached Churchon, they found the village nearly deserted. The company to which Neil Campbell belonged was sent to quarters in a large handsome mansion, evidently the home of a rich gentleman ; but the people had gone, there was no hay or corn left, and no cattle, so that they fared no better than the rest. The family had fled, probably having hidden their valuables, perhaps more in fear of the Portuguese than the British, and the soldiers had hard work to scrape together food for a scanty dinner daily. It was then usual for two or three to stop from parade and act as cooks for their comrades quartered in the big house ; but one day it happened there was a grand inspection, and all went off except Neil. He filled his kettles, cut up his morsels of lean beef, put in the beans and onions he had to flavour his soup, and sat on a stool by the fire¬ side, thinking, it is likely, of the hills and glens far away, where he had wandered when a boy. There was no noise but the bubbling of the water and the crackling of his wood fire ; but suddenly there was a sharp click, which startled him. He looked about and saw one of the flat stones with which the. room was paved began to heave. With Scotch caution he jumped up quietly and hid himself behind a stone pillar at the end of the room. Slowly a female figure came up from beneath, looking wan, and clad in a long, dark robe. Neil felt his blood run cold and his knees shook, but he squeezed himself behind the pillar and watched. The lady looked round fearfully, then slowly stepped upon the floor, seemingly taken with the smell which came from his kettles, and her movement towards them proved to Neil that she was a living person. Her hand shook from weakness as she tried to lift a kettle and carry it towards the trap-door; but Neil thought it was then time to show himself, so he sprang forward. In her alarm she dropped the kettle, the soup flowing over the floor, and fell upon her knees, clasping her hands. Our Scotchman had full sympathy with a lady in distress, but he could speak very little Spanish ; however, he bowed and laid his hand upon his heart. After a little while she made him understand that she her¬ self and three other persons were dying of hunger, having hidden in a vault below the house. *' How long since have you tasted food ? ’ said he. The lady held up five white fingers. 1 Five days without eating !’ he exclaimed. ‘I wonder they are alive!’ Then Neil gave her one of his kettles of soup, attending her to the trap-door. He made signs that he would like to go with her, but she shook her head. Next he thought how he could convey more food to her and keep the matter a secret from his comrades, so he made signs to her that she was to be on the watch, and, when he had a chance of being alone, he would give three knocks on the trap¬ door. After she had gone, he gathered up the frag¬ ments off the floor and cooked up what was left for the rest, who were, fortunatety, kept long under inspection. The mansion being large, nobody slept in the kitchen, so for several nights Neil Campbell managed, by moving quietly, without disturbing his comrades, to supply such scraps as he gathered up to the poor Spanish lady, and he had the pleasure of seeing she looked better; but, though she was most grateful for this help, evidently she did not wish him to visit her companions in their hiding-place. Only five days had passed, and Neil’s regiment, was ordered to the front, a big battle being expected, so he could do nothing more for them ; but it did not come off, and the soldiers returned to village quarters. This time the British were not sent to Churchon, but the Portuguese, and Neil feared that, if they discovered at the mansion the poor Spaniards whom he had helped, they would fare badly. He went to his cap¬ tain, obtained a short leave of absence, and hurried off to the village. Entering the mansion, he found the trap-door open, and, as he went down into the vault, he heard screams from below. Two Portuguese rascals had seized and bound Donna Martinez (for such was her name), her old father, and two children, who were her companions in hiding, while they ransacked the vault for treasure. Neil killed one of these and disabled the other ; he then brought out the four, put them upon mules, and sent them off to a place of safety. Afterwards he was himself dangerously wounded, and left the army ; . but he received a handsome reward and other kindnesses from the Spaniards whom he had befriended and rescued. P J. R. S. C.

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240 CHATTERBOX No. XXX.

Page 252

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242 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. BEGGIE’S BEMINISCENCES. ( Continued from page 237.) CHAPTER VII. ILLICENT and . 1 lave talked tlie matter over, and have quite decided that it is not necessary to put everything into reminis¬ cences. She says they often skip six months, some¬ times more, when nothing very surprising happens ; so I am going to follow the example of famous men in this also, and leave out most of the six months after we got to Salisbury. We stayed there for some time in camp, while father went about visiting different settlements, talking business with administrators and police officers, and making up his mind where he should settle. As there was nothing else to do, he said we might as well have a bit more schooling, and he arranged with Mr. Cheswold to give us some of his time every day. No one, if they have not tried it, would believe how hard it is to stick to hours and go back to rules which have not mattered for ever so long. Hughie and I found it an awful grind at first, though Mr. Cheswold made it as easy for us as he could. His work was in Salisbury and round about there for the present, and we were really glad of it, for idling about all day, just doing odd jobs for mother, watch¬ ing the drilling of the new native police, and getting a shooting expedition now and then, would not have been enough to make the time go fast. My work with Mr. Cheswold gave me plenty of chances to talk to him about the future, and one day, when we were alone, I said, ‘ I wished to be a missionary once.’ 6 And have you given up the idea ?’ he asked. •Not exactly,’ I answered; ‘ but I understand more about it now, and I do not feel sure.’ * The more you know about it the less you like it ?’ he suggested. ‘ No, that is not it/ I said, rather doubtfully; ‘ perhaps I ought to have said, the more 1 know about myself.' Mr. Cheswold laid his hand on my shoulder. ‘ My dear Reggie,’ he said, ‘do not imagine that I think myself worthy of the work.’ I looked up at him rather surprised, for I thought he was worthy of anything ; but I only said, ‘ Then, besides, when we go away from here, I do not see how I am to learn anything.’ ‘ There is an old saying about a will and a way l wa3 his only answer ; and we went on with our Latin. It was very nearly settled that we were to stay near Salisbury, when father heard of something to the south which he liked better. A man he had known before, and who had a farm not far from Buluwayo, had been very ill, and now wished to go home. He was willing to sell the whole place, with stock and furniture, and it sounded just the place we wanted, so father wrote to him at once, and we had orders to pack once more and trek. It is just this part which I do not think would interest any one. If I had kept a diary I should have had nothing to put down except ‘ Got up, went so many miles, went to bed', day after day. the only variation being when we were sometimes delayed on the bank of a stream, owing to its being swollen by the rains, and we had to wait until the drifts were passable again. The early part of a.d. 1894, then, found us in Bulu¬ wayo, living in a hut until father had finally con¬ cluded the purchase of our new home ; and here we found plenty to amuse and interest us. There was perpetual coming and going in the town. Coaches drawn by teams of mules went through with the mails to the north. Settlers, miners, speculators of all kinds were constantly arriving — men of all ages and classes. It was never dull, if it was at times rough. Mother took great care of Mi Hi cent now. She was just upon sixteen, and had grown a lot since she left England ; she had taken to do her hair up too, so that she looked quite a young lady, and some people thought her very pretty. I was walking with her one afternoon, when we had to pass a whiskey shanty, where a lot of men were drinking, and just as we had got by, one of them, a rough-looking miner, came out into the road and stood right in front of us. Millicent tried to step on one side and pass him, but he put his arm out to stop her. ‘ Good evening, my dear/ he said. ‘ A pretty girl like you wants a better man than that to take care of her. You come for a walk with me.' Millicent got scarlet and then very white, but she slipped her hand through my arm and said, ‘ Thank you, my brother can take care of me,’ and again we tried to pass by. I could see the man had had more whiskey than was good for him, but he was by no means helpless, and my chances of knocking him down seemed very small. ‘ Will you let us pass, please ?’ I said as politely as I ^could ; but my answer was an outburst of bad language, accompanied by a blow on the side of the head, which knocked most of the sense out of me for a minute. When I could see straight again, I found my assailant on the ground, and Millicent standing with her hand held fast by a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, who, after a moment’s hard staring, I made out to be Manifold. ‘You are sure he did not touch you?’ he was saying. ‘ I am afraid lie must have annoyed you awfully. I wish I had come up a few minutes sooner/ So did I, for my head hurt horribly ; but neither of them seemed to consider that. ‘Have you killed him?’ Millicent asked, looking down at the senseless form at her feet. Manifold laughed. ‘ Killed him ? No/ he said ; ‘ he is all right. Let me see you home. Hullo, Reggie ! you got rather a nasty smack, didn’t you ?’ 1

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No. XXXI. CHATTERBOX. 243 ‘Nothing much/ I said, rather crossly, for I thought he, or at any rate Mill, might have asked that before. I believe she thought so, too, for she was very sorry for me directly, and wanted to get water and bathe my eye, or tie it up, or anything, but I would not let her. How could I in the open street P So we walked on towards home, and Manifold told us about his plans and prospects. How he had come out in the autumn with an old school friend, how they had come across another rather older chum in Buluwayo, who was looking for partners to start a market-garden ; how they had built their house, and fenced their land, and now had a prospect of more trade than they had ever hoped for. Now we were no longer master and pupil, I felt we could meet on equal terms, and called him Mani¬ fold simply, thinking how jolly it was to have such a fine-looking chap to go about with. He was handsomer than ever, I thought, and his loose pink shirt and big grey hat suited him splendidly. We were to be quite near neighbours, as nearness is counted there — that is, we should be only about fifteen miles apart, and I saw him look at Millicent as he said he hoped he should often be able to ride over and see us. This hope was fulfilled, and we saw a good deal of him during the months of our first winter at ‘ Glen Tulloch/ as our place was called. The house stood on a sunny slope — a long stone-built farm, with iron- roofed sheds for the cattle round the big compound on one side. On the .gther was a garden, with a path running through to the fields beyond. There were wide grazing grounds, and mealie enclosures, and an orchard, and beyond it one could see for miles over the undulating country, the only object to catch the eye anywhere in the foreground being a native village, with its rings of dark huts and bright green patches of cultivated ground. The places where our native servants lived were out of sight of the house, but we could hear them at night, laughing and talking and singing, when we were in the widesfoe^, as people usually call the verandah. We — that is, David and Hughie and I — made a fine duck-pond -by damming up the water of a spring just below the orchard, and Manifold helped us to plant ferns and creeping plants all round it among the stones, till it was really quite pretty. The poultry were Mill’s special charge, so was the garden ; we men having too much to do to mind the ornamental part of the show. But mother and Millicent took lots of trouble with the place, and when people came from other farms or camps, or out from Buluwayo to see us, they always admired the place awfully. After a time father was made magistrate of the district, and that took him from homo a good deal, so that I had more to do, and it was my special busi¬ ness to drive our produce into market, and fetch things that mother needed. Each journey took some hours, for the road was nothing to boast of until you struck the main track from Tuli, but I enjoyed the slow, quiet movement. I could sit on the shafts of the waggon and read as I went along, and there are bits of Virgil which 1 am sure will always bring back to me the warm, steamy smell of the veldt after rain. Hughie did some work with Millicent every da}r, and if she got into any diffi¬ culties over his sums or French exercises, Manifold could always put things straight for her when he came. Of course, father usually saw to the cattle himself, and he found the natives made very good herdsmen ; but David was his right hand with the stock, and could be left in charge when father was off inspecting claims and settling disputes, and that kind of thing. Nothing much happened all that year except that I had a touch of fever in the rain3, and, oddly enough, the same idea came into my head and bothered me as it had done the summer 1 was ill at Dr. Harrington’s, and I kept on thinking about birds’ eggs, and wondering if mine were poisoned. It was very queer and very uncomfortable, and when I began to get better, and did not talii nonsense any more, I could not get Wetherbj^ and the notion of the infection in my woodpeckers’ eggs out of my mind. Millicent was sitting with me one afternoon, seeing to my tea, and reading a little bit till I got tired, and then she took up her work and said, ‘ By the wa}r, Reggie, has any one told you of an old school¬ fellow of yours who came to ask for you the other day?’ * No,’ I said. ‘ Who was it ?’ ‘His name was Wetherby,’ she answered. ‘He is at a mining camp some way to the north, and hearing you were here, he came to look you up. It was one day when you were very bad, and he could not see you, but I fancy you must have heard his voice outside, for you started up and said, “ No, Wetherby , 1 don't believe it, I ivorUt breah them .” ’ ‘ What a queer thing ! ’ I said. ‘ It was odd,’ said Millicent, not knowing, of course, what I was really thinking about. ‘ But you do not seem very much pleased to hear about him, Reggie,’ she went on. ‘ Were you friends at school?’ ‘ Not particularly,’ I answered, and she asked me no more. Wetherby found his way to Glen Tulloch again about Christmas-time, and almost the first thing he asked me was, ‘Do you collect eggs now, Water¬ proof ?’ And I did not think time had improved him. He had been sent out by his people because he could not get on at a public school. He said himself that the fever had left him so deaf he could not keep up with form -work, and it may have been true, of . course. He was learning engineering and mining work, and talked of investing in a concern of his own in a few years. He was kept pretty hard at work, and was too far off to drop in very often, so I managed to keep the peace with him at a ;• distance. Our whole life, indeed, was very peaceful; too busy to be dull, too prosperous to be exciting. There was no more making of history for us, we thought. Yet, if we could have foreseen, this was only the hush before the storm. ( Continued at page 254.)

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244 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. “ Trustworthy lads are useful lads, And their worth is soon found out.” A USEFUL LAD. MRS. LEE with a smile put her knitting down When her grandchild, Maggie, cried — ‘ I can see Horace Hay on his pony grey, And I wish that I could ride.’ 1 He is sent with the butter,’ her grannie said ; * He has half a pound for me. Come along, little one ; we must go to him, And must take a plate, you see.’ So they went : and as Horace rode gaily up, Mrs. Lee enjoyed the sight ; And she said to herself that she knew he gave To his parents great delight. So, of course, he is valued as she believes, In his home and round about ; For the trustworthy lads are the useful lads, And their worth is soon found out. D. H. SIB WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. AMY ROBS ART (‘KENILWORTH’). AMY ROBS ART was the beautiful daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart, and her father’s darling and pride. In an evil moment for her she secretly married the Earl of Leicester, who persuaded her to keep the fact of the marriage concealed from every one for a time, as he feared that should it become known to Queen Elizabeth, with whom he was a special favourite, Her Majesty would be angry, and banish him in disgrace. In order to secure his beautiful Countess from her friends and from all chance of conversation with strangers, Lord Leicester persuaded her to stay at Cumnor Hall, an ancient mansion situated in a wooded park. The park was full of large trees, sturdy oaks, and ‘dark as a wolf’s mouth.’ The avenue leading to the house was grown over with grass, and in one or two places almost blocked by

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Edmund Tressilian implores Amy Robsart to return with him to her Father. piles of withered brushwood, which had been lopped from the trees in the neighbouring park. The old mansion showed a monastic front, with long narrow windows, and brick walls overgrown with ivy and creeping shrubs. Its chimneys were twisted and of heavy stone-work. The whole effect was most gloomy. In this Hall, a prisoner, though she did not realise it at the time our story opens, dwelt the lovely Countess of Leicester; her warder Anthony Foster, a grim, cruel man, obedient to one even more cruel and treacherous than himself, by name Kichard Varney. This Varney is the villain of the tale, and as bad a villain as Sir Walter Scott ever depicted. Cruel,

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24G CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. cunning*, and base of heart, he was the bitterest foe, while feigning to be the truest friend, of the unfor¬ tunate Amy. One of the most devoted of Amy’s friends was Edmund Tressilian. He loved her dearly, and had hoped that she would have accepted hjAi as her lover. When she left her father’s home, and almost broke the old man’s heart, Tressilian, beside himself with grief, and troubled by the sorrow of the good Sir Hugh, set out to find the runaway. Humour had it that Amy had left her own home and gone to Varney’s. Tressilian knew well the character of Varney, and believed him capable of great crimes. In Cumnor Hall the Countess of Leicester, as she rightly was, although not so owned in public by her faint-hearted lord, had one staunch friend, a girl, named Janet, the daughter of the churlish Anthony Foster, and as unlike her father as she could well be. Four apartments were fitted up in Cumnor Hall in the richest and most costly manner, by the Earl’s orders, for the use of his Countess and himself, when, on rare occasions, he visited the mansion, usually attended by his confidential servant, Varney, to whom Amy felt a strong dislike. It happened one day, soon after the lady had entered Cumnor Hall, that Edmund Tressilian gained admission to the House, as the friend of one Mike Lambourne, a wild, reckless fellow, and an old acquaintance of Foster. Here he saw, by chance, our heroine, and implored her to return with him to her father, who, he told her, was at the time very ill; and Amy, grief-stricken at the sad news, promised to lose no time m hastening to him. She would havo gone immediately, but that she desired first to mention the matter to her lord, whom she ex¬ pected shortly. As Tressilian was leaving the mansion, he en¬ countered Varney, and an angry altercation took place. Tressilian entertained a deep-rooted hate and contempt fo«r Varney. Was he not a villain? Had he not ill-requited Sir Hugh Bobsart’s hospi¬ tality by enticing away his fair daughter? Tressilian was not aware of Amy’s secret marriage to the Earl of Leicester, and believed her to have followed the fortunes of Varney. Weapons were drawn, and Varney came near to losing his life, only Mike Lambourne^ who accompanied Tressilian, drew back the latter's arm as he was about to strike, and so prevented the fatal thrust. The encounter past, Varney determined to turn it to account. lie knew that the Earl of Leicester heartily disliked Tressilian, who had made no secret of his love for Amy before her departure from her : father’s house. Varney decided to increase his hold over the Countess by inciting her to believe that her noble husband would be much displeased should he hear of this chance visit of her old lover. The Countes9, although at first averse to hiding anything from her lord, was yet so anxious not to incur his displeasure that she in part consented to Varney’s counsel by keoping silence concerning Tressilian’s visit to Cumnor Hall. This was, of course, a mis¬ take on her part, as she placed herself, to a certain extent, in the power of this bad man, who used his knowledge to unnerve her on every possible occasion. He, in conjunction with Anthony Foster, and an evil astrologer, Alasco, concocted a plan to poison the Countess, and so remove the obstacle which stood in Lord Leicester’s way to his marriage with Queen Elizabeth. An honest, smith, disguised as a pedlar, made his way into the grounds of Cumnor Hall, and, while displaying his wares, warned the faithful attendant, Janet, of the attempt to be made on the life .of her mistress, at the same time supplying her with an antidote to the poison, in case it should he adminis¬ tered. This Wayland had been, at one time, in the service of the false Alasco. Discovering the dreadful villainies of those about her, the Countess decided to leave Cumnor Hull secretly, with the assistance of Janet and Wayland the smith, and to seek protec¬ tion of her husband at his ancestral home at Kenil¬ worth, where a magnificent fete was to take place in honour of the great Queen Elizabeth, who ever delighted to visit her favoured nobles. During Amy’s progress thither, she had several near escapes from discovery and recapture. At length the princely castle appeared. Across the lake Lord Leicester had constructed a stately bridge, that Elizabeth might enter the castle by a path hitherto untrodden. Beyond the lake lay an extensive chase full of red deer, fallow deer, and every species of game, and abounding with lofty trees, from amongst which the extended front and massive towers of the castle were seen to rise in majesty and beauty. As the unfortunate Countess and her guide, Way- land, entered the outer court of the castle, Wayland asked the lady her commands. He had brought her to the place she desired, hut, after all, she seemed friendless amidst the rejoicing thousands about her. She was too loyal to her neglectful- lord to disobey him and openly proclaim herself as the Countess of Leicester, and the rightful mistress of the magnificent mansion before her. She must by some means see the Earl alone, and hear from his own lips her fate. Would he acknowledge her, or would he still linger in doing her justice ? She did not doubt his love, no matter what others said of him. She felt sure that she had hut to see him, and to speak with him, and all would be well. She believed in him, and his devotion to her. Had lie not sworn it again and again ? A gaily dressed man-servant was crossing the court, and she addressed him. ‘ Stop, sir,’ she said; ‘ 1 desire to speak with the Earl of Leicester.’ But the fellow answered her insolently, ridiculing her. He believed her mad. Nor did she look her¬ self. Distraught with grief and ill with anxiety, the Countess might, to judge by appearances, have hut lately escaped from Bedlam. A little crowd of curious domestics gathered about Wayland and the lady, so that Wayland became seriously alarmed, and thrusting a piece of money into the hand of the domestic who appeared most civil, begged him to find a retreat for the lady. The servant led the way to a small hut strong tower occupying the north-east angle of the building. In the upper story of this tower, which was reached by a narrow winding stair, was a small octangular chamber, with walls of tremendous thickness, once used as a prison. Here

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No. XXXI. CHATTERBOX. 247 some light refreshments were brought to the Countess by the request of Wayland, whose money the servant had accepted. The smith left her for a time to pro¬ cure a meal for himself, and the Countess, seeing writing materials on the table, seized the opportunity of writing a letter to the Earl of Leicester, which she -secured with a braid of her hair. ( Concluded at page 250.) put there. Even when she had finished, she often perched on a shrub close by and watched the table ; if a bird flew down of whom her ladyship did not approve, she made a dash at him. The little blue tits were rather afraid of her, but these birds are so quick and lively that they would sometimes snatch morsels almost .under her beak and get away safely. Suet was a special treat to the blue tits ; they would hang head downwards from the arch on the table, and peg at it with all their might. Other tits came, such as the marsh tit. This species was not at; all timid of man, and they would hop into the room to see what might be got there. \ery polite the tits are amongst "themselves. If two happen to come to the same seed-jar, one will wait till the other has helped himself. , . Now and then greenfinches came to the table, but their behaviour was not very good. Three or four would stand together at a jar of seed, squabbling amongst themselves, and keeping away other bn ds. Their movements are slow and clumsy; still, the way in which they opened their large beaks, look¬ ing savage the while, was enough to frighten their small brethren. Chaffinches were regular visitors, though not many of them came, and in their movements they are quite a contrast to the bouncing, impudent sparrow. They move along gracefully, especially the hen birds, which are pretty in plumage and o-entle in manner. Their companions^ of the other sex often call them to the food, with the well- known cry of 1 Spink, spink!’ , Hedge-sparrows, when they came, acted ditterentJy to the common sparrows. They were so sbv and cautious that they seemed afraid to perch on the table, and hopped round it, picking up crumbs dropped by other birds. Now and then a thrush would come to carry off a piece of meat. Veiy tame were the robins. A cock robin would come boldly up, and wait m readiness while the food was being brought out. Hare visitors were the linnet and goldfinch, also the nuthatch. One day a nuthatch came to the table and took a large bit of bread, with which it flew oft to a tree near, when it went up and down the trunk till it found a bole, into which it pushed the crust, and then pecked at it as if it had been a nut J . It. o. O. \\ wild birds TN WIWTER. ANY kind people are accus- tomed to feed small wild llfrf /Mm ' birds in the winter months, when they often find it a jg ' i j|§ hard matter to get food for jUL themselves. Lovers of the birds which make our c 1 gardens, fields, and woods ’ so full of music during the season of song, were much grieved to think that great numbers of these birds died from cold or want in the bitterly hard weather at the beginning of a.d. 1895. They had then to eat all sorts of berries, wholesome or unwholesome, and some of them dug in the ground, the best way they could, to get the roots of plants. Every winter it would be a good thing if persons living either in town or country were to throw out to the birds— not only crumbs, but larger pieces of bread, grain, small seeds, bits of meat, or pieces of suet. This is a very great attraction to many birds ; they will peck at it again and again eagerly. One gentleman who was in the habit of putting out suet for his pets, surprised a rather large visitor— a rook, m fact — carrying off a lump, so afterwards lie fastened the suet to a twig of a tree with string. A gentleman living at a place called \\ lcUham had so. much pity for the famishing birds that for a number of winters he had a regular plan by which he supplied a variety of them with food He had a strong wooden table firmly fixed outside a window, which was painted dark green, to match the ever¬ greens round. In the sill of the window was a box with holes, into which twigs or branches were put ; these were for the birds to settle on if they liked, after they had had a meal, and show themselves to people in the room. Hound the table was a rim of zinc to keep crumbs and bits from being blown away. From an arch of stout wire a piece of suet was often hung, or sometimes a half-picked bone, which birds like to peck. Small jars of seeds, such as hemp, millet, canary, and linseed, stood upon the table. . . At Wickham, the most frequent visitors were sparrows, who arrived in troops, devouring all that was offered them : swallowing seed whole, not shell¬ ing it first as the finches do. . . About the worst-beli aved of all the bird visitors • one winter was a hen blackbird; she took up a position on the table, and drove off any other bird that approached, which was trying to their patience, for 3he had a large appetite, and tasted all that was AFT OYSTER RAT-CATCHER. A RAT bad taken up his abode at an oyster shop, A and while rambling in search of dainties, chanced to get his tail between the open valves of an oyster, which at once closed upon it like a vice. Then the intruder lost all self-command, and bolted. He made straight for his hole, only to find that, although he could enter it, the oyster was too big to be pulled after him, and there he bad to stay, head downwards, tugging frantically, but m vam. ie owner of the shop, on arriving next day, pulled tne rat out of the hole, though not without a severe tug, and threw it to the dog. The rat showed fight, but after a brief struggle all was over. The oyster held on all the time.

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 2i9 K K

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250 CHATTERBOX . No. XXXII. SIB, WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. AMY ROBS ART (‘KENILWORTH.’) ( Concluded frOTtkvage 247.) OOD friend/ said the Countess to Way land, ‘good friend, whom God hath sent to aid me at my utmost need, I do beseech thee, as the last trouble thou shalt take for an unfortunate lady, to deliver this letter to the noble Earl of Leicester. Be it received as it inav, thou, good fellow, shall have no more cumber with me. But I hope the best ; and if ever lady made a poor man rich, thou hast surely deserved it at my hand, should my happy days ever come round again. Give it, I pray you, into Lord Leicester's own hand, and mark how he looks on receiving it.’ Wayland readily promised, but when he had left her presence, second thoughts prevailed, and he decided to seek out Tressilian and deliver to him the letter. Had he faithfully adhered to his promise, the deep troubles that attended our heroine could never have occurred. It would have been no easy matter to find Tressilian amid the concourse assembled at Kenil¬ worth, had he been there. But he had accompanied a cavalcade to Warwick. Returning to the castle, he sought the small apartment in the tower, and there found Amy. She, anxious to screen her husband, in whom she devoutly believed, from all blame, and persuaded that the letter she had written him and intrusted to Wayland, would bring speedy help, obtained a promise from Tressilian that he would take no steps to render her assistance until twenty-four hours had elapsed. ‘Before that time expires/ she thought. ‘ I shall have received help ; my lord will have publicly acknowledged me as his Countess, and one whom he delights to honour.’ There had reached the ears ot the haughty Queen Elizabeth a part of the story of Amy Robsart, as it was generally credited. Amy, old Sir Hugh’s beautiful daughter, had been enticed away from her father’s home by Varney, who had afterwards neg¬ lected and deserted tier. The Queen, knowing Varney to be servant to the Earl of Leicester, charged the Earl to have Amy present on the occasion of her own royal visit to Kenilworth. In great trouble over this unexpected royal command, as he saw that were it complied with his secret marriage would become known to the Queen, Leicester appealed for counsel to Varney. That villain insisted that the Countess must put aside her rightful claim, and call herself Mistress Varney. When she passionately and persistently refused to make any such dishonourable assertion, Varney decided that, as she stood in his master's way to marriage with Elizabeth, she must die. Cunningly and cruelly he set about to accom¬ plish this end. Varney and his base accomplices conspired together, employing false certificates and false oaths, to convince the Queen, who would have her inquiries answered, that Sir Hugh Robsart’s daughter could not appear before Her Majesty at the festival, as she was then too ill to be moved. Their bad designs, however, were almost frustrated by the arrival of the unfortunate Countess at Kenilworth. Walking one morning, during her stay in the castle, with the Earl of Leicester, out in the castle grounds, the Queen, who had turned aside alone into the grotto for a moment, beheld there a mute ligure, which she at first mistook for a statue. Amy, for it was she, felt impelled to appeal to the Queen, as, not having received an answer to the piteous letter addressed to her husband, she began at last to doubt his affection for her. Then she remembered what he had told her about the Queen’s anger should the story of the secret marriage reach her ears, and this recollection sealed her tongue — she would not en¬ danger her husband. It was only when the Queen taxed her with being Sir Hugh Robsart’s runaway daughter, Tressilian^ faithless love, and Varney’s wife, that Amy, who had knelt to her sovereign, sprang to her feet and cried out that she was not the wife of that sordid man. Commanded sternly by the Queen, who entertained a suspicion that she had not been truly informed by Leicester and others, to state who she really was, she uttered in despair, ‘ The Earl of Leicester knows it all/ Indignant and suspecting falsehood, the Queen half lifted, half dragged into the midst of a group of courtiers, of whom Leicester was the central figure, the form of the now nearly fainting Countess, ‘ demanding in a voice that sounded to the ear of the1 astounded statesman like the last dread trumpet-call, “Knowest thou this woman ?”’ Then the proud and ambitious Earl of Leicester knelt before his Queen, and would have owned his wife and begged Her Majesty’s forgiveness for his deceit, but just at the eventful moment, as he was on the point of confessing all, his evil genius, Varney, rushed into the royal presence, and, with the air of a man overwhelmed with grief and confusion, prostrated himself before Elizabeth and poured forth his false story. This was that the lady discovered in the grotto was his (Varney’s) wife and that she was mad, as he asserted he could prove by learned doctors whom he would call. So craftily did he spin his story that the Queen believed him. In vain poor Amy implored to be spared the sight of the shameless Varney. His plausible tale, the truth of which he bribed worthless witnesses to confirm, gained the end he had in view, that of diverting the Queen’s suspicions from his master, and the deliver}' of Amy, whom he called his wife, into the custody of her friends. This scene in Kenilworth (chapter xxxiv.) shows up the cowardice of Leicester and the villainy of Varney, while it excites our deepest pity for the unhappy Countess. It is in the last chapter of Kenilworth that we read of the terrible end of Lord Leicester’s wife, an end compassed by Varney and Anthony Foster. Secluded in a part of Cumnor Place which she had not before visited, reached by a stair of great height,

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX. 251 f and across a short wooden gallery, Amy bolted her¬ self within the small chamber allotted to her to await the coming of her husband,- in whom she still believed. By Varney’s orders Foster left the chamber door unbolted on the outside, and withdrew the supports which sustained the falling trap immediately outside her door, the trap merely keeping its level by a slight adhesion, so that * the weight of a mouse,’ as Foster told Varney, ‘ would carry it down.’ Poor heart-broken Amy, knowing nothing of the plot of these wicked men, kept within her room, and it was only when Varney, impatient for her to step on the snare, led a horse across the courtyard below, and imitated the Earl of Leicester's whistle — his usual signal — that the Countess left her chamber, and trod on the unsecured trap-door. There was a rushing, sound — a heavy fall — a faint groan — and all was over. And so they destroyed her by means of her best affections ! Justice overtook Varney and Foster, both of whom perished miserably. Leicester’s remorse at the news of his Countess’s dreadful fate was expressed by his withdrawal from court life for a long period. Sir Hugh Robsart died very soon after his daughter, having settled his estate on Tressilian, who never ceased to mourn for Arny, and died, young in years but old in grief, in a foreign land. James Cassidy. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 34.— Anagrams. Words with Definitions. 1. I reopen. One who prepares the way for others. 2. Put bar. Hasty, rough, unexpected, informal. 3. Ten rags. Uncommon, peculiar. 4. True, Vi. A quality without which there would be no happiness in the world. 5. Carpet, H. A division of a book. 6. 0 ! in port. Not the whole of anything. 7. I recant. Very sure. 8. Blame G. To practice a very dangerous amuse¬ ment which sometimes ends in ruin. 9. A lark. The name for a South African village. 10. U. scan best. Not a shadow. 11. Ten men joy. Great pleasure. 12. The bard. Measure from side to side. 13. I beg pap. A noisy but unmusical instrument used in a sister country. 14. Pay Telma. A companion in amusements. 15. Drab cabs. Containing a dangerous implement. 16. I pass on. Unrestrained anger. 17. Same bun. Brightening all around. 18. Deep salt. The lowest part of a column. 19. Use gin. Great and exceptional talent, not always well used. 20. I C N on a mop. One with whom another person often associates. C. C. 35. — Arithmetical Puzzle. 1. Divide 150 by 0. 2. Add | of 10. 3. Add what remains after taking 9 from 6. 4. Add 0. This sum you will find in Colenso. I 36. — Buried Geographical Names. 1. Such an event has not happened for a thousand years. A village in Bedfordshire of great antiquity; it contains earth-works called Ccesar’s Camp. 2. The drought was so great it was difficult to find even one gallon of water. A lake in Russia. 3. This hill is very eteejp; rest on me for support. A manufacturing town in Lancashire. 4 Beer is made from malt and hops. An island in the Mediterranean. 5. I was surprised to meet my great-aunt one morn¬ ing at the station. A town in Somersetshire. 6. Such an idle man will never prosper. A lake in Switzerland. 7. He can invent no reasonable excuse for his conduct. A town in an island off the south coast of England. 8. Do you not think those strikes wicked and foolish? A town in Cumberland surrounded by most beautiful scenery. 9. I tell you for the third time that you are wrong. A river in Scotland which rises in Ben Lomond and falls into the German Ocean. 10. It would be pleasant to feel one’s self of some use in the world. A river in France. C. C. 37. — Acrostic. The title o! one of the works of Charles Dickens. 1. It is in thumb, but not in finger ; 2. It is in minstrel, but not in singer. 3. It is in eagle, but not in bird ; 4. It is in half, but not in third. 5. It is in trinket, but not in gold ; 6. It is in hardy, but not in bold. 7. It is in honour, but not in fame ; 8. It is in censure, but not in blame. 9. It is in scissors, but not in knife ; 10. It is in existence, and also in life. C. C. [Ansivcrs at payc 267.] ANSWEBS. 32. — 1. Ewe, yew, you. 2. Feat, feet. 3. Find, fined. 4. Feint, faint. 5. Ate, eight. 6. Seller, cellar. 7. Candid, candied. 8. Cruel, crewel. 9. Earn, urn. 10. Weight, wait. 11. Weak, week. 12. Boy, buoy. 33.— Blue Beard. A FRIEND IN NEED. IT had been the saddest day that little Joe Martin had ever spent iri his life. His widowed mother had been laid in the grave that morning, and he had ! been sent to his uncle’s house, which he was told was now to be his home. He had always dreaded the sight of this uncle, an ill-conditioned man, much given to drink. Nor was his aunt any good to him, for sho was a weak-spirited woman, quite unable to manage her large family of troublesome children. He had been teased and bullied by his cousins, and taunted as a friendless little beggar, while his uncle had kicked him because he had the misfortune to get .

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in bis way. By the time evening came, Joe made a desperate resolve. Pie would run away — he would spend his few pence in buying a broom and then sweep a crossing; earn enough to keep body and soul together, and be free of his relations. He managed to slip out of the house in the dark, and then he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, through street after street, till he reached the Thames Embankment, where, hungry and exhausted, he sat down to rest, and soon dropped asleep. Pre¬ sently he was roused by a brilliant light directed on to his face, and, opening his eyes, he saw a policeman, lantern in hand, gazing down at him. This was a new terror to Joe. ‘Pray, sir, let me stay here,’ he said ; ‘ I have got no home to go to. Mother is dead, and uncle is cruel ; he would half kill me if I went back to him now ! ’ ‘You come along with me,’ was the reply. Joe followed the policeman trembling, thinking that he was certainly going to be locked up. And

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No. XXXTI. CHATTERBOX 253 A Wreck. locked up he was, though not where he had feared, but in the warm and pleasant bouse of his guide, 1 who had finished his heat and was just going home. The policeman opened the kitchen-door, where Joe saw a kind, but sad-looking, woman sitting by the fire. ‘ Give this poor little chap a shake-down for the night, will you, wife?’ asked the policeman. ‘I believe he would die if he slept out-of-doors this cold night, he looks so bad. He is just the size of our poor Tim, so I could not help bringing him in. The mention of ‘ poor Tim ’ seemed too much for the woman, whose eyes filled with tears ; and at once she bade Joe Martin warm himself, while she made him some hot bread-and-milk. Joe was almost too tired to eat or to thank her, and when she had put him to bed — in a little bed in the corner of her own room — he could not sleep for the pam in his chest. He was too ill to get up next day, and for many days afterwards; and when, in his severe illness, his mind wandered, he kept on speaking to the policeman’s wife as ‘ Mother ’ Her kind heart went out to the little motherless lad, and her longing grew stronger day by day to adopt him as her own, instead of the little boy whom she had lost. To her surprise and joy she found that the same thought had entered her husband’s mind, and they determined that they would, if Joe’s life was spared, find out where the uncle lived, and see if he were willing to give the boy up to them. And Joe did at last recover. The uncle was visited, and he said that he was glad to be rid of the bov — he did not care if he never heard of him again. Toe’s delight was very great, too, and here we will leave him in his new home, which promises to be a very happy one. E. C. K. W people who have wit¬ nessed the wreck of a ship ever forget the sad sight — sad, even if no human life is sacrificed; doubly dread¬ ful to see if any of one’s fellow-creatures are being hurried into eternity at the same time. I have twice in my life been at the wrecking of a ship, and I trust that I may never be called upon to go through the scene again: the fir-t time, the vessel was lost in the English Channel ; t he second w~as in American waters Perhaps the most awful moment of all is when the huge volumes of green water submerge the deck and rush down into the hold and cabin ; the confined air in struggling to be free meets the water and hurls it many feet upwards again like some huge waterspout; then the vessel settles down, gives, per¬ haps, one or two convulsive rolls, and disappears beneath the waters which close over it in rings, the vortex causing pieces of floating timber to be sucked down in its eddying whirl. In our illus¬ tration, the good ship is being driven along, per¬ fectly helpless and at the mercy of the winds and waves. The crew have taken to the rigging, and are anxiously gazing across the waste of waters in search of some passing sail. If these helpless mariners are not soon seen and rescued by those on board sope other ship, they know only too well the fate which awaits, and will probably overtake them, ere the next morning’s sun shall rise. E. R.

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1 254 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXXII. REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. (Continued from page 243.) CHAPTER VIII. ^ rinderpest was the begin- ning of troubles for us, as for many other people; not that if attacked our cattle early, but ^at ^ gave father so Sjf much work and so many anxieties. He was constantly v away, inspecting infected W ' Bn herds and superintending their tr K " slaughter, which was horrid work in itself, ancl fee found that the natives, in many instances, were sullen, and almost insolent, when he insisted on precautions being taken to prevent the spread of the disease. Our servants, too, became idle and careless, owing to his being so much away, and at length, one day t© wards the end of March, they refused to work altogether, saying that they had a feast, which their priest had bade them all attend. Mother was worried and anxious about it all, not because she thought there was anything very serious in the fact of their taking a holiday, but because she knew that father would be annoyed on his return. Also it vexed her to find them so ungrateful, for she had been most kind to them, had dosed them in fever, persuaded father to improve their huts, and had even tried to teach them some Christian ideas, so it dis¬ appointed her to see them so forgetful of her efforts. The next day they all came up to the house and asked leave to use the grinding-stone, and the blades they sharpened there looked to me suspiciously like assegais; but I was assured by the sight of David laughing and talking with them. When they were gone, however, he came and called me, with all th9 brightness gone from his face, and, pretending in the house that 1 had to see to a cow out in one of the sheds, we walked away together. Once out of sight of the verandah, 1 stopped. ‘ What does it mean, David ?’ I asked. ‘Trouble, little master!’ he answered, gravely; for, though he spoke and understood English now perfect^, he sometimes used expressions which our servants at home would not think of. ‘ Yes, bad trouble, I am afraid ! ’ ‘ From the natives ? ’ I asked, with a queer strang¬ ling sort of feeling in my throat. ‘ Yes. You have heard the noise down in the kraal lately ? ’ ‘ Oh, yes ; arid I tried to make light of it. But that often goes on when there is a new moon.’ ‘ True ; but they tell me there has been a message from their prophet in the hills that this moon is to bring them freedom, and before it grows thin again the white men will be wiped out of the land.’ These few words seemed to show me in a sudden flash how completely we were at the mercy of these mein How could people in isolated settlements like ours< defend themselves ? What protection had the towns even against a Matabele impiP The magis- trates and commissioners considered the power of the people completely broken. Supposing they were wrong ! My flesh crept as I thought of it. ‘ What is to be done ?’ I asked. ‘ Can we defend the farm ?’ ‘ We must try,’ said David, thoughtfully. ‘If the master was here we might trek for the town at once ; but he ought to be home to-morrow, and he must not find the place deserted.’ * I do not like frightening mother,’ I remarked ; but David very wisely said it was better to be frightened than to wait until too late. So we went back to the house. Mother was taking a moment’s rest in a long chair on the stoep, and she looked hard at me as I came and sat beside her. ‘Has my boy all the cares of the world on his shoulders?' she asked, putting her hand on my knee. ‘Most of them, mother,’ I said, trying to speak carelessly. ‘ That is, I have you, and Mill, and the place altogether.’ ‘Ahl but father will be home to-morrow,’ she said, ‘and then you can play again.’ And we both laughed. ‘Till to-morrow, though,’ I said, ‘I must take extra care of you, for David tells me it seems neces¬ sary.’ ‘For what reason?’ she asked, sitting up straight, quick to take alarm. ‘ The natives are unsettled,’ I answered ; and she met me with a smile. ‘ My dear Reggie,’ she said, ‘ the natives ! Surely they are harmless enough !’ ‘I hardly think they are to be trusted,’ I answered. ‘ David has found them out by pretending to sym¬ pathise with them, and he fears - ’ ‘Do you think they are the same everywhere?’ she interrupted. ‘ With your father away — no on9 knows where — oh, Reggie, you frighten me!’ ‘ I was afraid I should,’ I said gravely, ‘ and it is just father’s being away that makes it so difficult. If he were here, we could all go into Buluwayo for safety ; but, if we go now, there is no knowing what he may find when he comes.’ ‘What are we to do, then?’ mother asked; and even in my anxiety I felt glad that she turned to me for advice. ‘ David and I have talked it over, and he thinks we ought to make one room as secure as possible — barricade the windows, and that sort of thing — and get the guns and cartridges together there. Then you and Millicent can load for us, if necessary. I think we could keep them off that way.’ She shivered, but said nothing ; and Millicent, who | had been singing in the kitchen, over her prepara¬ tions for dinner, now called us in, and we both decided to say nothing before her and Ilughie as yet. 1 All the afternoon David and I went quietly about our preparations, and sunset was drawing near when David’s keen eyes detected something coming along the track from the township. At first it was little more than a speck, then it lengthened into a moving line, which we could at last confidently affirm was a party of men on horseback. ‘ Then they are Eng¬ lish,’ I said, and David nodded assent, j We ran down the slope to meet them, and one of ' :

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX. 255 the first we recognised was Manifold, who called out to me, ^Is everything all square ?’ ‘Yes, everything,’ I answered, and he rode on past me up the hill to where Millicent and mother stood waiting. A very few words explained his arrival. He had been in Buluwayo when news came of the murder of a police officer by his own men, and two days later a fugitive from a farm near had taken shelter at the Gardens, and had warned Mani¬ fold and his friends that the Matabele were on the move, and had attacked and burned the homestead where he worked, and murdered all the Europeans. ‘Of course,’ Manifold continued, ‘we went off to hear what the authorities suggested, and their first idea was to warn the settlers, so i asked if I might come with the party to fetch you in.’ ‘ But my husband ?’ said mother. ‘ He is away? Ah ! ’ and Manifold looked grave. ‘But you must not wait, Mrs. McIntosh; indeed, it is not right you should. Trust me to wait here and bring your husband safely on to Buluwayo.^ ‘ And me,’ I put in, ‘ I shall stay with you, Mani¬ fold ; but the others had better go at once.’ ‘Right, Reggie,’ said Manifold, promptly, and he turned to Millicent. ‘ Just put together anything you specially value,’ he said, ‘ and let them make a starr-.’ She nodded in answer, and turned away without a word, but presently, when I went to see if I could help her, she said, ‘ Reggie, do you think I must go ? Shouldn't I be of more use here ? I could see to the house, and if any one was hurt, you would want me. It is horrid to be sent away like a child ! ’ I put a hand on each shoulder and iooked into her face. ‘ Mill,’ I said, ‘ no one doubts your courage or your usefulness, but we are bound to consider you women first. If nothing happens, we shall all be safe in to-morrow night. If things go wrong, your being* here would only make us more anxious. Besides, mother is nervous, and you must keep her heart up.’ ‘I am afraid that you are right, Reggie, she said, sighing. And she went to her packing again. It did not take long to get things ready, and I would not let mother and Ilughie say ‘ Good-bye,’ as if they were leaving us to an awful fate. ‘ Look out for us about this time to-morrow,’ I said, cheerily. ‘ Take care of mother, Hughie ! And, holding the waggon-cover hack with one hand, I turned to look for Millicent. She was standing in a dark corner of the stoop, saying ‘ Good-bye ’ to Manifold. I could see them in the half-light. He was holding both her hands in his, and, as 1 called to her, he lifted first one, then the other, and kissed them. Then Millicent came forward, her face pale, but her eves brighter than I had ever seen them. ‘ Good¬ bye till to-morrow, dear old boy !’ she said to me. ‘ 1 envy you being left at the post of honour. Then, side by side, Manifold and I watched the waggon and its little escort down the slope, speeding them with a hearty cheer. Thev had left us three of their men, so that our little garrison consisted of six, and we had orders to ride, the next day, as soon as father returned, to the mine known as the ‘ Mountain of Light,’ and, if the men there had not left, to warn them, and bring- them on to the town. We made our defences as sure as we could and set a watch, the rest of us sleep¬ ing, ready dressed, and with loaded guns at our sides. The bright, sudden daylight, so different from our grey, twilight dawns, found me one of the sentinels, and before my time for relief came I pointed out something moving in the distance to my fellow- watcher. ‘ What is it ?’ I asked. \ ‘ One man — on horseback,’ he answered. A sudden instinct seemed to warn me. ‘My father!’ I said. And as soon as he was* near enough for me to go safely out, I started to- meet him. It was father, indeed, but in a sad state.. His poor horse was leg-weary and parched with thirst. Father's head was tied up in a handkerchief,, and one sleeve was ripped from wrist to elbow. When he spoke, his voice was so weak and hoarse I hardly knew it. ‘ Have you been attacked, Reggie P ’ ‘No, father; everything is safe. But you are- hurt ? ’ ‘Nothing much, but dead beat.’ And I asked him no more questions till we had got safely to the house, where I called to Manifold, and, leaving the poor horse to David s care,. went in to see what I could do. When father was washed and fed he began to feel better, and told us the history of his adventures. The homestead where he was to have spent the night was attacked by the owner’s servants soon after dark, and he and his wife and child were all. murdered ; so was one of the policemen with father. The other succeeded in escaping, but got separated from father in the darkness, and whether he was- overtaken and killed, or got safely away, he could ; not tell. The pace at which he had been compelled ; to ride to escape the savages had exhausted his horse ! early on the journey, and for the last hour or two | he had dreaded every minute that the poor beast would refuse to be urged further. ‘ What does it mean ?’ asked Manifold ; a general rising ? ’ 4 It looks like it,’ said father ; 4 and Heaven help us if it is !’ A little rest seemed to restore him, and he was soon ready to make plans for our safety. It was sorely against our inclination to leave our crops outside, and all our possessions inside, to the mercies I of the Matabele, but we realised that it was worse i than useless to think of staying at the farm for the | present. Possibly there might be no general in- j surrection, as we feared, but only a few instances ot 1 warriors ‘ seeing red,’ which drove them to destioy their white neighbours. , After much discussion, it was finally arranged that father and one of the strangers should drive the cattle into the town for protection, and that Manifold and I, with David and two other men, should ride off to the ‘Mountain’ Mine, for I was to act as guide, having been over there before to j see Wetherby. (Concluded at page 262.)

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A Ride for Life.

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IS ANYONE AT HOME?

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T. L

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258 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXXIII. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. THE LAST RESCUE. 0, 1 have not seen many fires v^7 in my time, sir, and I can on^y remember one that is worth speaking of. It took „ place at the Grange, about \ a C0UP^e °f years ago, and * if you care to hear the particulars — all right, sir, It was a lovely night in June, and before turning in I had strolled down to the garden gate, while I finished my pipe. Our house, as you know, sir, stands rather above the road, and 1 was looking down towards the village, when my eye was caught by a thin column of smoke, tinged with a faint red light. Owing to the clear¬ ness of the air, I guessed that it could not be more than a mile away — probably not so far. ‘ Ilere, Molly/ I cried — for she was waiting at the door — 1 if I am not mistaken, there is a fire close at hand. Do not sit up for me, and do not fret, my dear. The old man can take care of himself, as he has done often enough, before now/ With that I made off for the village at once, as fast as my legs would carry me. On the way, 1 met two or three that were bound on the same errand. They told me the Grange was afire, and that Mr. and Mrs. Heyland, who owned it, happened to be away from home that night. Their little girl was there, however, and of course, the full number of servants. When we reached the spot, I learned that the fire had broken out on the third story, where, as ill luck would have it, the nursery itself was situated. The servants, including the nurse, had been sitting a goodish while over their supper, afore they discovered what had happened. No doubt, it was a case of the cat and the mice, sir. Then some of them had run upstairs, and found that they could not get near the nursery door, as the passage was in flames. I saw the nurse-maid wringing her hands and screaming for help. In fact, the whole place was in a stir. People, as often occurs at such times, seemed to have lost their heads and gone crazed. No one knew what to do, or was able to suggest any sensible plan of action. A man had been sent off on horseback, at post haste, to Guildford, to rouse the Volunteer Fire Brigade. The church bell had been rung to give the alarm. But it seemed pretty certain that before assistance could be had, that poor child must fall a victim. The first thing I did was to ask for a ladder, but there was none found nearly long enough to reach the nursery window. Well, I was standing in the crowd, sir, at my wits’ end for an idea, when above the din and uproar I heard a voice — and the voice, it instantly struck me, was one of command. Now I must tell you that, only a couple of months since, an old chap had come to lodge in the village who was something of a mystery. ECe was a curious, silent sort of man. What he might have been, and where he came from, nobody could imagine. Friends he had none, nor did he seek to make any; but he carried about lollipops for the children, who clung to him in return in a desperate fond fashion. £ It is old Jim Black/ says a man at my elbow, as a sudden lull dropped on us all. £ He has got a coil of rope with him, and he has gone straight into the house/ 1 More than that/ says another, 1 he is wear¬ ing a helmet and jack-boots ; he has been to his cottage to fetch them. He is a retired fireman, I reckon/ I made my way through the throng until I was close under the windows, and could see for myself what the stranger would do. Before very long out he pops on the roof, and busies himself with the rope. It was easy to see that he was fixing it, somehow or other, before he let it down to the ground. Presently he begins to lower himself by means of the rope, until he comes to the third floor, and secures a foothold on the window-sill. And I noticed that he handled the rope and made use of a projection in the wall very much as a sailor might have done ; indeed, I heard later that he had been one of Captain Shaw’s fire¬ men, so it is likely enough that he had been to sea. For as a 6ailor can stand the water, sir, quite different to a landsman, he is better fitted to become a fireman — who is often drenched to the skin. Likewise the climbing and placing fire-escapes, together with sling¬ ing and lowering a man, needs the same sort of steady pluck, I have been told, as does reefing top¬ sails in half a gale. Meanwhile there was an interval, that appeared like an hour, whereas it was not more than five minutes ; for it is a surprising thing, sir, how the time will increase or lessen in agreement with the state of one’s feelings. ‘ Why, the man is nigh upon eighty, and a martyr to rheumatiz,’ says Dillon, the baker. £ It is a deed to beat the record, and passes my under¬ standing/ £ Oh, Mr. Dillon ! if he only saves the life of that darling child, I will bless him to the end of my days,’ sobs the nurse, who was born and bred in these parts. £ You remember, Mary, it was this very morning that we found him chatting at the gate with little missie/ chimes in the head gardener ; £ and she seemed to take to him quite amazing-like/ £ That she did. And the little angel showed me a rare shell that she said the gentleman had given her/ adds Mary Saunders in a flutter of agitation. But I was on the tenter-hooks of suspense, sir, and could hardly listen to the talk, for I had caught sight of Jim Black as he went in at the nursery window, and now the smoke was puffing out so densely the chances were that he would be overcome by it. However, just as I had begun to fear that we had seen the iast of him, there he was on the rope, and with the little girl slung round his neck, if you believe me, sir. Then at once there rose a cheer from the men below. But as for me, I could hardly breathe, let

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No. XXXIII. CHATTERBOX. 259 alone make a sound. You see, it was one of those moments, sir, when, after you have prayed your best, all you have got to do is to wait and wait. Well, well, he was nearly half-way down the rope when something happened. Maybe he turned dizzy, and felt his strength failing — God only knows ! Anyhow, ho called out to us to catch the child before he threw it down to us. Whereupon we were all of us on the look-out, and received the little girl safe and sound. As for poor Jim Black, why, Jie too had a fall, sir. I was the first to turn him over, and I found him — dead. It was a marvellous effort that he had made, and a proof of the strong, active man he must have been in days gone by. It was the last flicker of the flame before it goes out in this world — to burn more brightly, however, sir, in the next. You can picture the gratitude of the parents, sir, when they reached home the next day, though the man who had earned it was beyond their thanks. As for Mary Saunders, through whose carelessness the outbreak had come about, she was beside herself with grief and remorse ; while as for little Miss Iieyland, I have it on good authority, sir, that she preserves that shell as a most treasured keepsake, and lets fall a tear on it now and again as she thinks of the giver. And I must tell you it came out a bit later that Jim Black had been down to spend his last days among us because his old sweetheart lies asleep in our churchyard. He bad kept true to her, it seems, as a man may do — ah, well, sir, one man in a thousand, to put it mildly ! However, we gave him a public burial, as he well deserved, did poor old Jim. The body was borne on the fire-engine, that was draped with a Union Jack. His battered old helmet went with him, which was worthy of finding a place, sir, in Captain Shaw’s own collection, for it was stained with dust and flame, and it told of duty done bravely. Sergeant Lundy’s voice quivered'at the end of his story, and his fine old face was tremulous with emotion. ‘ And I envy that old fireman, sir, more than I ran say,’ he concluded, hastily. ‘ I do, indeed; for Jim Black died in harness, you see, and, according to my way of thinking, a man can wish for nothing better.’ Flora Sciim:alz. EEYNAED AND THE WILD BOAR, A Fable. ONCE upon a time a fox saw a wild boar whetting his tusks against an old tree, so he went up and said to him, ‘What are you sharpening your tusks for P there is no sign of the huntsman or the hounds.’ ‘ My friend,’ replied the wild boar, ‘it would not do for me to be sharpening my tusks when I ought to be using them.’ Always learn to be in time. H. Berkeley Score. AUSTRALIA!! ANIMALS* WILD AND TAME. THE PLATYPUS. I THINK the strangest animal that anv one ever saw is the Platypus; it seems like a mixture of beast, bird, and fish. A full-grown one is about two feet long from its bill to its tail ; its bill is like a duck’s, but much broader, and the lower part is only about half the size of the upper. This queer creature has nothing that can be called legs, just something be¬ tween web-feet and fins. They have each five strong nails, the web continuing beyond the nails.. The males have a spur on each hind foot, which is said to be poisonous. The body is covered with short, thick fur, something like seal-skin, but not so beau¬ tiful, and of a lighter colour; it shades off to grey at the side, and lighter underneath. The tail is quite flat, like a beaver’s, about four inches long, and has no fur on the lower side, but very7 thick skin.. As you may suppose from the description, the platypus is amphibious — that is, it lives on both land and water — but it seems much more at home in water, and is, indeed seldom seen on land. Its home is in a hole in the bank of a river, and when disturbed it quickly drops into the water. We had the skin of one which had the top of its head taken off by a rifle bullet, as it appeared for a moment to breathe in a deep reach of the Glensby river. When it was being skinned, it was found that it had been wounded with shot a long time before, so, although it once escaped being killed in that way, it died by a bullet in the end. I have never heard of any one trying to tame a platypus ; perhaps some of our great-grand-children will do that — that is, if there are any left by that time. When the skin of a platypus was first sent to England, naturalists thought that it was a made-up skin, for that no such animal existed, even in topsy¬ turvy Australia. May Collins, Victoria. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. IX.— THE CUTTLE-FISH ( OCTO - POD VULGARIS). OU will only have to glance at the strange eight -armed creature on the next page to guess it is the queer brown thing known as a Cuttle-fish, which we watched emerging from under a stone, and settling itself down to enjoy a little sunshine and fresh air. Octopod vulgaris is the gen¬ tleman’s name, alias ‘ Sepia,’ and he has the honour of re¬ presenting the British branch of his singularly ugly family. As a child, when living in Jersey, I always

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260 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIII. \ felt the warmest sympathy for the cuttle, whose luck¬ less fate it was to serve as bait for the fishermen. Dragged from his hiding-place with an iron hook, wielded by a ruthless boy totally indifferent to the fact that the creature had a nervous system of any kind ; tossed into a basket with a number of his fellows ; tossed out again upon the little stone jetty, only to be cut alive into pieces large enough to bait the hooks — a terrible fate truly for a creature whose only crime lay in its usefulness to its captors. I have recollections of the struggling, writhing masses, and of the parrot-like beaks lying around, representing the protruding lips of the luckless owners, wherewith they had been wont to suck in their no-less-miserable victims. My own impressions have led me to begin with the end of the cuttle - fish’s existence ; now let us go back to the beginning. The mother Sepia deposits her eggs on a nice soft bed of sea- weed, or inside an empty shell, and you may often see a The Cuttle-fish. cluster of them lying on the shore at low water, left by the receding tide. In form and colour they look like a bunch of grapes, each attached by a separate stalk, and if you ask a fisherman what they are, ten to one he will tell you that they are simply sea grapes. One of our greatest naturalists — now, alas ! dead — the Rev. J. G. Wood, tells us that he watched the proceedings of a baby cuttle who came out of its shell in his presence. No sooner was it free than it began to walk slowly round the bowl which had been its birthplace, examining everything with a most critical air. Then it rose and sank in the water over certain patches of sand, and at last, finding a spot to satisfy its taste, it floated above it awhile, sank, and blew out a hole, into which it arranged its small person, with as much care as if it had been quite in the habit of settling in new houses. The Octopod tribe have very large and prominent eyes, wonderfully adapted for seeing both on land and in water. "They swim tail first with great- speed, rowing themselves with their long arms, after the manner of an eight-oared boat, and they have also the power of secreting a dark fluid which they can eject at pleasure, either for the confusion of their enemies, or, by discolouring the water, to cover their retreat. Every owner of a paint-box knows the colour called Sepia, which is, or should be, the product of this creature. Bird-fanciers buy what we may often pick up on the sands, a white material called cuttle-bone, though in reality there is no bone in it. This curious chalky substance grows inside the sepia, but it does not seem to be connected with its actual structure. The sepia found off the British Islands j measures from six to ten inches in length, and the mouth is in the centre of the arms. In other lands the Octopod family attain crreat size, and Darwin tells us that they are sometimes phosphorescent, or capable of shining in the dark. In the bays and shallow creeks of Vancouver enormous monsters abound, and wage war upon everything edible. Their long arms are fitted with air-cells, which enable them to grip very tightly, and they climb the face of precipices like huge spiders. Owing to their peculiar shape and the yielding substance of their bodies, they can pack themselves into quite narrow crevices, and have the power of changing their tints according to their surroundings, which makes them difficult to detect. The keen eyes , of the Indian hunters, sharpened by the grindstone of i hunger, find them without difficulty, and, killing them cleverly with spears, the native relishes the j steak of a good fat octopod as much as a white j' man does a juicy beef-steak. Sailors have tales to tell of gigantic octopods with arms as long as fair- \ sized boats, and bodies to match ; but as water has j the powrer of magnifying, seamen’s yarns are apt- to increase by narration. On the west coast of ! Africa there are, no doubt, terrible creatures of this species which, hiding all day amongst the mud and j twisted roots of the mangroves, at night unpack their slithery arms and sally forth in search of prey. Woe be to the luckless mortal who has an opening in his hut near to the water-side, for in the dark¬ ness a long slimy feeler may glide in and feel about for the first living thing, human or animal. Round its prey the cruel arm entwines, and slowly recedes into the darkness. Certainly our home octopods are pleasanter neigh¬ bours, and indeed they bear about the same relation to the monsters of foreign lands that a peaceable pussy-cat, sitting washing her face in the sunshine, bears to a hungry lion in the wilds of Africa. Helena Heath. FREDERICK THE G-REAT AND THE SPIDER. WELL-KNOWN legend of the Emperor Frederick the Great was that he would never let a spider be killed if he could help it. The j origin of his affection for these insects was said to- be as follows : — The Emperor was accustomed to drink a cup of chocolate every morning, which was

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Frederick the Great and the Spider. brought to him in his room. One day, Frederick was engaged longer than usual at his writing-table, the chocolate meantime remaining untouched; and when, later on, the monarch went to drink it, he discovered that a large spider had let itself down from the ceiling and dropped into the cup. Not wishing to share his meal with the spider, Frederick poured the chocolate into the saucer and gave it to a couple of his greyhounds. The dogs drank it up, and in a very few minutes were both seized with con¬ vulsive pains. They both got rapidly worse and died with every symptom of poisoning. Frederick ordered the arrest of the French cook ; but before the man could be captured, he committed suicide. F. R.

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262 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXXIII. REGGIE’S REMINISCENCES. {Concluded from page 255.) UR way led by the native kraal, which I have men¬ tioned before, but it seemed very quiet, and we saw no one about except some of the women working- in the fields, who watched us their ordinary indifferent stare as we passed. On one wet expanse leading down to a stream we saw the marks of many feet, all set in the direction in which we were going, but of the men who made them w*e saw nothing. We came in the afternoon to the mining camp, and the first thing that struck us was the silence. Evidently no work was going on, for there was no rattle and clank of machinery, and no sound of voices. ‘ They have had warning, and are gone,’ I said, but the others did not answer. They guessed at another cause for the stillness, and when we got close to the huts we found plenty of reason for such a supposition. The ground was trampled and blood¬ stained, the dwelling-hut wras damaged, and as we rode inro the yard with our rifles ready for use, we found the saddest and most complete evidence of the Matabele’s attack. The owner of the mine lay dead across his own doorstep, with an assegai through his heart. His engineer, disfigured by many wounds, was near him, and two of the navvies had fallen inside one of the sheds. They were all dead, but hardly cold, and we looked round to see if their brutal assailants were still in sight. There was no living thing to be seen, and I whispered to Manifold, ‘ Where is Wether by ? He ought to be here.’ ‘ We must search/ he answered. ‘ He may have found a safe hiding-place.’ And he began a careful investigation of every possible shelter, but without success. ‘ They cannot have carried him off,’ I said, turning sick and faint at the notion, and leaning against the side of a shed door as I spoke. ‘Oh, no!’ replied Manifold. ‘I know — the mine.’ The new idea gave me fresh courage, and I went with the others to the dark mouth of the mine and peered in. We listened intently, and I fancied I heard a slight sound. Silence again, and we strained our hearing to its utmost. After a moment’s waiting came another sound. This time it was a groan. 1 gripped Manifold’s arm. ‘ Down there,’ 1 gasped ; ‘wounded !’ * Get me a light/ said Manifold, calmly, ‘ and I will go down.’ We had a horrible interval of waiting after Manifold had gone out of sight, but at last he called up to us, ‘ Found — and alive !’ This report was just the truth, as we found when, with difficulty, we had drawn Manifold and his helpless burden to the air and light again, for, though Wetherby was actually breathing, he looked past all human help. I had now my first experience of the gentleness of strong men, and I shall never forget the tender, almost reverent care with which they touched and moved the poor fellow’s shattered frame. They washed the blood from his face, and held a flask to his lips, while I stood by, my teeth chattering a little in spite of me. The horrible ‘grit’ of broken bone when Wetherby’s arm was moved made me feel queer, and I hardly dared to look when Manifold tried to discover the extent of his injuries. One shoulder was terribly smashed by a blow from a knobkerry, his head was bruised and bleeding in two or three places, and there was a ghastly cut from an assegai in one leg. It seemed unlikely that he would ever regain con¬ sciousness, and we expected the feeble, fluttering breath to stop altogether, when a little movement of his eyelids made Manifold beckon to me. ‘ He knows you, Reggie/ he said. ‘ Come close to him in case he comes round.’ I knelt down beside my old school-fellow, and after another moment he opened his eyes and looked up at me. Gradually a conscious look crept over his face. ‘Hullo, Waterproof!’ he said, faintly. ‘What’s up P Have I had a smack on my shoulder ? ’ ‘ Rather a hard one, old chap/ I answered, and his eyes shut again. Presently he gave a sudden quivering start, which must have caused him agony, and cried, ‘Oh, I remember ! Those awful niggers ! Have they killed me?’ ‘Brandy,' said Manifold, softly. And I put the flask to his mouth before answering. ‘ We are here to look after you now/ I said. ‘Do not think of anything else.' ‘ But I shall die/ he said, wildly. ‘ I know they killed me. And again his voice failed. ‘ We ought to be moving/ said Manifold, un¬ easily. ‘Get some more water for his head, one of you, and try to find something in the house for a bandage.’ The two men he spoke to went off on their errands, and he and I were left alone with Wetherby, who began to talk again. ‘I wanted to tell you/ he murmured, and 1 had to stoop down to hear, ‘it was not tho^e eggs— it was me — you know — about the fever - ’ The words got more broken and indistinct, and I could only make sure of one every now and then. ‘ I went — after the doctor — Bullseyes — a woman there — all her children — dare to tell.’ ‘ Never mind now/ 1 said, as if I had been speaking to a child, and he turned his head a little on Mani¬ fold’s arm, and though we could not be quite sure for a few moments, after a very little while we were certain that his breathing had stopped, and when ihe other fellows came back Manifold had just laid him carefully on the ground — quite dead. CHAPTER IX. Our chief thought, now that our horses were rested, was to get back to Bui u way o as speedily as possible, that we might not share the fate of the miners. We carried the dead carefully into shelter,

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No. XXXIII. CHATTERBOX. 263 and covered them -with blankets, knowing that a patrol would be sent out to bury them as soon as possible, and then mounting in silence we rode away, a very silent, downcast little party. We were not certain of our road direct to the town, and this was an additional reason for covering as much as possible of the distance before nightfall ; but when the sun went down, we were still far from any landmark which would tell us of our situation. We pushed on, hoping to strike the main road or to fall in with some one going in our direction, and we were all thinking how pleasant food and rest would be at our journey’s end when a sound made Manifold draw rein and whisper, 1 Halt ! ’ We listened, and through the darkness came the tramp of many feet drawing nearer, and presently we heard the rattle of native head-ornaments and the clatter of spears. We paused, silent and motion¬ less, in the dark. I could just see my horses ears prick as he threw up his head and snuffed the air, scenting the Kaffirs before we could. Nearer and nearer came the shuffle and tramp of feet, and to add to our dilemma the moon threatened to break through the clouds which had obscured her rising, and to reveal us to our enemies. Out here in the open we had no possible chance against them, though a very little cover might enable us to hold them at bay. Presently Manifold began to speak, very low, but with every word clear and sharp : — 1 Did you notice some old sheds we passed about half an hour ago P Turn quietly, and ride back there. If you hear the niggers after you, go like fury !’ Turning cautiously, we began to retrace our way ; but, before we had gone far, a sudden rift in the clouds let the moonlight through, and a moment later a wild yell behind us told us that it had made our presence evident to the MatabeJe. ‘Eor your lives, boys!’ cried Manifold, and our horses, pressed as they had never been before, galloped over the rough track toward our goal — some deserted buildings just off the road. We could see them plainly in the moonlight, which grew clearer each instant, and the distance between us and them seemed endless ; but we gained their shelter at last, dismounted, and leading our horses into the inner division of what had once been a store, we waited behind its broken walls for our enemies to attack. They did not leave us long in suspense. We heard their hurried, panting breaths as they came close, then their guttural shouts, and then the clatter of assegais as they were hurled against our defences. We answered them with a steady volley from five rifles, which stopped their advance for the moment ; but, as their rearguard came up, they made another determined assault, two or three of their number getting near enough to batter at our ruinous walls with their heavy cudgels. We reloaded and fired as steadily as we could, and several dark forms lay horribly still in the clear white moonshine. The siege could be withstood, it seemed, as long as our cartridges held out ; but we had only those we carried in our belts, and after? — it was a ques¬ tion we could not answer. We could tell by the sound of their firing that some of our foes were armed with Lee-Metford rifles, and from that we surmised that they were deserters from the police ; but the majority were without firearms, happily for us, and their stock of spears must be like our ammunition — a limited quantity. It held out long enough, however, to make things very un¬ pleasant for us, though we had at the moment no time for any thought but how to shoot straight. The moon was still high, and we knew dawn must be far off* when there came a sudden lull in the Kaffirs’ onslaught; their fierce, gurgling cries died into silence, and the night wind brought to our ears the welcome thunder of horses’ feet over the grass ground and the thrilling echo of an English shout, which we answered as well as our parched throats would let us, and then we had the satisfaction of seeing our dark enemies flying across the veldt, followed by a hail of bullets. We were new to African fighting, or we should hardly have done what we did. We emerged from behind our protecting walls and ran forward across the open to meet our rescuers. I was close to David, who had, indeed, never left my side since danger became evident, and suddenly, before I realised in the least what he was doing, he pushed me behind him with one sweep of his arm. Scarcely a second later there was the crack of a rifle, and my black friend dropped at my feet. I did not wait to see who had fired, but threw myself down beside him, only to find that I was quitelielpless to do anything for him. He never moved again. It appeared that a wounded Matabele had struggled to his knees in the shadow of a rock just as we showed ourselves, and David caught sight of his levelled barrel in time to snatch me out of harm’s way. Manifold’s attention was similarly attracted at the same moment, and David’s death was in¬ stantly avenged; but this knowledge was no con¬ solation to me, and I cannot believe I shall ever hear the words, ‘ Greater love hath no man than this/ without a sickening recollection of that awful night. The patrol which arrived so opportunely had been sent out to look for us, and we returned together to Buluwayo, where we found father and mother in a great state of anxiety. I think Millicent must have been pretty excited too, for when mother could spare me for a minute, to look round, I found my sister laughing and crying both at once, with her face hidden on Manifold’s shoulder, and, oddly enough, he seemed to like it. postscript. I am finishing these Keminiscences in the old oak parlour at the farm, with the familiar sound of the waves booming in my ears; for we are once more at home, where some of us hope to stay. Grand¬ father died last summer, and grandmother wrote to us to come home and take on the farm, and, as Glen Tulloch was burned and our cattle all dead, we thought that it would be simpler to come than try a fresh start out there. I was very ill for weeks after our terrible ni~ht.

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It was partly to fill up the long, weary hours of con¬ valescence that Millicent suggested that I should write my early memories ; but she is no longer at hand to help me with them, for she stayed behind in Buluwayo as Manifold’s wife. I have not forgotten David, and now that the chance of my getting a college education seems more probable than it did two or three years ago, I look forward to the time which will find me once more in his country, where for a short time we were among those who help to make history. M. E. Martyn.

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200 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIV. A CUKE EOR CONCEIT. EKE is only one cure for •’ W(\?$\ conceit such as his/ said If Doctor Franklin to Phil’s father, as the two talked V about ‘ what to do with our boys,’ ^ 1 And ^ what is that, mWm ?^owec^ h*s own way until ^r‘nos him into serious ■Hi difficulties/ /It has already done so, but the worst of it is that his self-conceit and wilf ill¬ ness have brought others into difficulties/ ‘ Well, if he were my boy/ said the Doctor, ‘I know what I should do/ 4 Is it possible for me to do it?’ asked Phil’s father. ’ ^.ou could certainly follow the plan I have in mind. I should say, let him travel, either alone or w ifh a friend about his own age. There is nothing like a spell of knocking about in the world to brinS a fellow to his senses/ Phil’s father looked intently at the Doctor, but he said nothing for a full minute ; then he slapped his hand, on his knee, laughed all over his face, and exclaimed, ‘You have hit the very thing, Doctor; I will send him to Constantinople. His uncle, my brother, has often invited me to send him there on a visit, but I have refused till the present. Now I will write to him and explain my motive, and Phil shall get into scrapes, led by his own folly in refusing counsel/ ‘ Good/ said the Doctor, ‘ and as it is in part due to. me that you take this course, I will send my boy with him. The two are chums, and what my lad sees will do him good/ ‘ Capital; I will write to my brother to-nio-ht/ and so the two old friends parted/ In a fortnight s time, Phil and his comrade were told by one of the crew that they were now anchored m the Golden Horn, and would soon put off in a boat of the steamship, and sail up the Bosphorus. There is no telling what might have happened had the two lads, made the journey alone, but, as luck would have it, Phils uncle met them and brought them safely ashore. ‘ This great city/ said Uncle Bob, ‘ contains a million people/ ‘Pooh ! that is nothing/ said Phil-Know-All ; < why, London has four or five times as many. Look at ^narrow streets and the houses all hustling each ‘ I like to look with my other eye/ answered Uncle Bob, quietly. ‘And what does vour other eye show you, sir asked Phil’s friend, Hal. 1 Many quaint houses spreading upward from the waters edge and over the hills, with gardens peeping out here and there, and the domes of the mosques and countless minarets everywhere, giving the city the Oriental aspect which one dreams of when read- ' mg books of Eastern travel.’ 1 Well, uncle, all that sounds mighty fine, but vou do not say anything about the narrow streets and the freaks in dress. Why, no two men are dressed alike, and they all look outlandish, and just see those queer turbans and those red caps ; and look at the hen¬ coops of shops — mere boxes, not so big as our bath¬ room at home, and the lazy fellows sitting cross- legged in them ; and then— ugh— the smells ! ’ Here they were interrupted by some of the more persistent beggars pushing up to" them and blocking the way. , ‘ Get along, get along, you idle rascals/ said Phil, motioning them aside, and tumbling over a cripple whose distorted shape evoked the pity of most strangers. The cripple’s fellows lifted him up, and quite, a crowd collected round the two lads and the English merchant, who, knowing well with what manner of men he had to deal, slipped a small coin into the affronted cripple’s hand, and so extri¬ cated Phil from his first difficulty in the Ottoman capital. The following day Phil-Know-All told his uncle that he wished to go out alone with Hal, as he was quite sure that he could find his way about town and make himself understood. Uncle Bob gently protested, and began to give his reasons, but impatient Phil cut him short. ‘We are not babies, uncle, but youths; why, I am fifteen, and Hal is nearly as old. What can you fear ? We could each settle a score of beggarly Turks; and English, you know, will carry you anywhere/ Uncle Bob yielded to his nephew’s wish, for he had not forgotten the main reason for the visit. ‘ Do. not blame me/ he said, ‘if you are brought home in pieces/ ‘ He is absurd. He has forgotten what British chaps can do/ said Phil to his friend as they started out to explore the city. They marched down several narrow streets, peered in at many shops, bought a few knick-knacks at ten times their value, and after a time Phil proposed that they should dine at a restaurant. ‘It will be fine fun, he told Hal, ‘and I can make the fellows bring what we want in double quick time, you will see.’ Hal, against his better judgment, assented. The little lunch-room was near the bazaar and all open to the street, and the lads entered boldly. A man presented himself before them and stood awaiting their commands, and asked, in quite good English, ‘What will the young masters take?’ ‘Fried sausages and potatoes/ said Phil; ‘and look sharp about it.’ The cook bowed and withdrew, and began to pre¬ pare a meal. Taking a small quantity of meat and working it round a wire, he laid it on a charcoal fire to cook. But.Phil-Know-All sprang from his seat, and exclaimed in assumed anger, ‘ Here, stupid, I will show you how sausages are cooked in England;’ and throwing down the portion the cook was preparing and seizing some more meat, he began to shape it to the ‘ proper form/ as he said. The cook was patient, and things went on peacefully until the time came for paying. ‘Look here/ said Phil, ‘you must not charge us for the meat you have wasted.’ The man grinned, and explained that the ‘young - - - - - i

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No. XXXIV. CHATTERBOX. 267 gentlemen between tliem bad used four dinners, and would, be was sure, wish to pay for that number.’ 1 1 will give this fellow a lesson be will not forget in a burry,’ said Phil. ‘ Come along, Hal, we will not pay anything; it will teach him not to be so keen next time,’ and the two boys rose from the table and passed out. But now the patience of the cook was at an end. Throwing aside his politeness, he quickly followed and laid bis hand on Phil’s shoulder. ‘ You do not pass out so, sir,’ he said ; ‘ you pay me ! ’ Phil’s answer was a flick with his cane. * Hi, my friends!’ shouted the outraged Turk, ‘help ! Master Engleeshman assault me! By our Prophet’s beard, they are rude puppies ! ’ A group quickly collected about the boys, and were talking angrily in their own language. Phil understood now that it would not do to incense them further, so he said nothing, but looked sullen. One of the Turks, with a pistol in his belt, peered into his face, and then, turning to his fellows, re¬ marked, ‘ It is the same boy ; I saw him yesterday tumble down a poor cripple beggar — let us thrash him.’ ‘ Ay, we will thrash him ; it will do him good, the cheeky Engleesh,’ answered another. I Or perhaps he would rather pay what the cook asks, and leave a remembrance with each of us.5 ‘And one for the cripple,’ said the man who had recognised Phil. ‘Now then, Master, which is it to be?? asked the cook. ‘ Will you pay or take punish ? ’ I I will — pay,’ stammered Phil, as he felt in his pocket. ‘ How much P ’ ‘ What you have in your pockets will do this time,’ answered the cook, and somehow Phil’s boastful¬ ness left him as he tamely emptied his pockets of all they contained, which was no less than twenty- seven shillings. The cook bowed, and said demurely, ‘Master Engleeshman will know better how to treat his servants, "the Moslems, when next he honours them with a visit.’ And so ended Phil-Know-AH’s first lesson in the streets of Constantinople. James Cassidy. 39. — Fable. The Bears and the Bees. 1. As two youDg bearB in playful - , 2. Forth issuing from a neighbouring - , 3. Came where th’ industrious bees had - - 4. In artful cells their luscious - . 5. O’erjoyed, they seized with eager - , 6. Luxurious on the rich - . 7. Alarmed at this, the little - 8. About their ears vindictive - . 9. The beasts, unable to - 10. Th’ unequal combat, quit the — — . 11. Half blind with rage, and mad with - •, 12. Their native shelter they - ; 13. There sit, and now discreet er - , 14. Too late their rashness they - . 15. And this by dear experience - , 16. That pleasure’s often bought by - ; 17. But when experience opes our - , 18. Away the fancied pleasure - . 19. It flies, but, oh ! too late we - , 20. It leaves a real sting - . Merrick. [Ansxcers at page 286.] 34. — 1. Pioneer. 2. Abrupt. 3. Strange. 4. Virtue. 5. Chapter. 6. Portion. 7. Certain. JLIfcTS'WIEIR/S- 8. Gamble. 9- Kraal. 10. Substance. 11. Enjoyment. 12. Breadth. 13. Bagpipe. 14. Playmate. 15. Scabbard. 16. Passion. 17. Sunbeam. 18. Pedestal. 19. Genius. 20. Companion. 35. — 1.' CL — 0 2. § of 10 (i.e., Ten) 3. Remainder of IX fr. Six 4. Add 0 = COL = EN = S = 0 = COLENSO. 36. — 1. Sandy. 4. Malta. 2. Onega. 5. Taunton. 3. Preston. 6. Leman. 7. Ventnor. 37. — Bleak House. 8. Keswick. 9. Forth. 10. Meuse. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 38. — Proverbs Paraphrased. 1. Those feathered songsters who first greet the bright rays of early dawn will be rewarded for their diligence by a savoury and plentiful repast. 2. It is not desirable to give utteranoe to expressions of jubilant self - gratulation until you have safely emerged from the dangers and intricacies of the dark and gloomy forest. . 3. If more than one person be engaged m the same commercial enterprise, it is not improbable that a feel¬ ing of jealous rivalry may give rise to a discord which shall mar the harmony of their mutual intercourse. 4. It is not an unusual circumstance for the timid prey of the sportsman to fall a victim to the least advanced and energetic of his pursuers. 5. The frailest support will be eagerly seized upon by one who sees no other means of escape from a watery grave. C. C. A TIMELY LESSOH. GEORGE,’ said Stephen Ray, as he laid liis hand rather roughly upon the shoulder of his cousin whom he had discovered gazing out of the belfry window, ‘ I would like to shake you ! I thought that I should catch you up here. I have not been watching you these many days for nothing ! Dream¬ ing, I suppose, of what you would like to be, instead of doing what lies before you. Come down, and give up this nonsense.’ This speech might sound unkind, hut there was truth and sense in it. George Watson had been sent from his village home to learn his uncle’s . trade in a country town, and he would not put a will into it. Whenever lie could slip away without being missed, he did so, and his cousin Stephen knew that the lad’s favourite haunt was the belfry tower, where, looking over miles of country, he made many

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“Yon cannot dream your way through life; you have got to work.” a picture in his thoughts of where he would travel, and what he would do — if 1 wishes were horses/ and he was free to choose his own course. After that day, Stephen kept a sharp eye on his cousin. ‘ No, no ; you are not going off to the belfry, not if I know it,’ he would say. * You cannot dream your way through life ; you have got to work.’ This seemed hard to the lad. Often he made wild projects of running away, enlisting as a soldier, going to sea anything rather than learn carpentering. However, time works many wonders, and helps us to get over many dislikes, and so as weeks passed by George Watson found himself less discontented with his life, and then gradually he began to like it a little — better — very well. In due course he became a master carpenter, and he always said that he had his cousin Stephen to thank for it. There was no telling what wild schemes might have come into his head, and been carried out in actions, if he had been left to dream in the old belfry. And now, as a man with boys of his own growing up around him, he says to one and all, ( Dreaming will not answer it must be doing,’ and he warns them against the foolishness which might have wrecked his own eareer. M. C. S

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“ The old birds followed closely. AN UNEXPECTED MOVE. OT of any trace of danger could the pair of JJd Thrushes dream, When they built a cosy cradle close beside the little stream. Firmly, beautifully they made drooping bough Of an elm-tree, decked with ivy. cradle noio ! it on a forked and See the branch and

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270 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIV. What has happened r I will tell you. When to-day the wind came out, It was bent on doing mischief as it roamed and swept about. CHRIS WHARTOIi A STORY OF LIFE IN SOUTH AFRICA. First it hummed and then it whistled, then it shrieked in wild delight, Snatching hats and twirling people, gaily causing many a fright. So, you see, we cannot wronder at the playing of a prank, When it reached the aged elm-tree on the brooklet’s mossy bank. Through the stately reeds it hurried, claiming bows from every one ; Through the flowers it sent a shiver, though they basked in April sun. And the mother Thrush, then keeping tender watch beside her brood, Had her leathers rudely ruffled, and a sudden change of mood. ° With a shriek the wind smote fiercely, and the branch which held the nest Swiftly dropped upon the brooklet ; children, you can guess the rest : — IIow the parents flew and fluttered, uttering many a mournful cry At the trouble brought upon them by the wind when passing by. But they did not lose their courage; no, you see, they hovered near, Striving hard to save their darlings from starvation and from fear. What a pretty picture, children ! Ah, I well can understand, You are wishing for the birdies there may be a beln- ing hand. 1 Well, the wish has met fulfilment. Some one who is good and brave Saw the scene, and hurried quickly in his eagerness to save; Yes, he plunged into the brooklet and he gentlv p raised the nest, Bore it to a place of safety where was nothin^ to molest. D And the old birds followed closely, without feelings of alarm, ° Trusting that the hand which rescued would not cause them any harm. And they -were not disappointed ; soon they felt the old delight, And their young were reared in safety, and without another fright ! D, IIammonde. CHAPTER I. Til N G S are not getting better, my dear; they are growing worse.’ Mr. Thomas Wharton, bookseller and stationer in the thriving town of Lyn- chester, looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke, with a gloomy expression on his usually good-humoured countenance. Mrs. Wharton did not reply. Good wife, loving, careful mother as she was, her actions were ever readier than her words; she had the rare virtue — rare, at least, in woman-kind — of knowing when to be silent ; and she knew now that what her husband really wanted was, not advice, but the chance to speak of troubles which he had too long kept to himself. So she said nothing ; but went on pouring out cups of coffee, and supplying the plates of the three children who were also seated at the momma1 meal. 1 Mine is the case of the round man in a square hole, Susan,5 Mr. Wharton went on. ‘ The mistake of my life was in taking to poor father’s business, just because my own farm had proved, for the time, a failure, and father’s death had left the old shop without a master. But there is not much use in going over that ground now; what I want to say to you — and I do not care if these young ones hear me — is that I have made up my mind to have done Wirth watching things go down and down ; I have made up my mind to have a total— a rad-i-cal— change.’ The bookseller brought down his hand upon the table with a force which made the crockery ring again. Christopher and Ambrose, boys of fifteen and fourteen, pricked up their ears with a sudden, startled interest; and Edith, a delicate, fair-haired girl of some twelve years, gazed at her father’s face with anxious eyes. Mr. Wharton saw the effect he had produced, and lapsed into something more like his usual easy manner. ‘Do not be frightened, Edie, child; you need not look like that. I dare say you understand me, Susan. They say that constant dropping wears away the hardest stone; and you cannot wonder if things which have been said— and, above all, things which have been written — are beginning to have their effect upon me at last.’ Then Mrs. Wharton spoke; and there was a tremor in her voice which did not escape Edith’s notice. . ‘Do you mean, Thomas, that you are beginning seriously to consider brother Edward’s proposals ? ’ ‘ That is just what I do mean,’ her husband answered, with an air of relief. ‘Here has Edward been writing, for years past, telling us how. well he is doing out there in Africa ; urging us, again and

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No. NXXIY. CHATTERBOX. 271 airain, to come out .and join him ; saying everything that is kind and brotherly, and downright common- sense too ; and here have I been going stupidly on, in a business for which I never was cut out, losing money every day, and letting the best years of my life be wasted.’ Chris broke in at this point, in an excitement which he found it impossible to suppress. ‘ Father, father ! ’ he cried, and there was a flush on his cheek and a fire in his eye which thoroughly transformed him, ‘ are you thinking of taking Uncle Edward at his word ? Are we really going ? ’ The thought which lighted up the face of one brother made that of the other grow serious, even sad. Chris had had a splendid flashing vision of a strange new life, and of adventures in a wonderful unknown land; while Ambrose had thought, with a sharp pang, of the possible nearness of a parting from his. beloved books, and from the dear old town, which he had learned to love as it seemed he could never love another home. Edith was all sympathy with the mother, whose fears she guessed ; both mother and daughter shrank from the thought of change, as gentle, domestic natures ever must. But that was only the first of many similar talks. In a very short time their impending departure for South Africa had become the chief topic of conver¬ sation in the Wharton household, and every member of the family was absorbed in preparations for the journey, which, to quiet, home-staying people, would be such an utter break between the old career and the new. Father and mother — mother especially — watched the shortening of the days with many misgivings. It was October already, and in November they were to start, for while the dear native land was wrapped in fogs and wintry darkness, the country of their hopes and aims would be brighten¬ ing into the full radiance of its glowing summer¬ time. Public opinion in Lynchester justified Mr. 'Whar¬ ton in the course he was taking. ‘I always said that Wharton had spoiled a good farmer to make a bad bookseller. He is a thoroughly good man in his own line — it was nothing but a succession of bad harvests that bowled him over. But, between our- • selves, Leigh, he knows far less of the insides of books than does his boy Ambrose, and he is not much more capable of managing what should be the best bookshop in the town than my old dog here.’ Alderman Derrick, the Mayor of Lynchester, patted his pet mastiff’s head as he spoke, and Mr. Leigh, the curate, to whom the words were addressed, was fain to agree, though he thought sorrowfully of familiar faces which would soon be absent from' the Sunday services, and of the parting in the near future. ‘ It was a thousand pities that Mr. Wharton had ever gone into the book-selling business. When the old man died the concern should have been sold, and if farming did not succeed, another and a better farm should have been sought.’ So Lynchester people said, always ready to see the mistakes of their neighbours. All were agreed that to go to South Africa now, and join his prosperous brother, was the best thing Thomas Wharton could do. Everybody said too that the new opening would be a grand thing for Chris, but the wiseacres shook their heads when Ambrose was mentioned, and one of them suggested that a ‘ sleepy lad like that would come to little good, at home or abroad,’ — a saying which only proved that the busy townsman, who had perhaps noticed Ambrose poring over a printed page in his father’s shop, really knew nothing of >Vhat was passing in the boy's eager, inquiring mind. - Chris and Ambrose went to school as usual. Edith, whose fragile health was always a source of care, remained at home, watching her mother’s rapid fingers at their task of cutting out and sewing, and helping as far as her small strength permitted. ‘Oh, mother, what piles of clothes! Surely we shall never need all these ! ’ the little girl cried in amazement, as new garments were added to the already existing stock. ‘ Indeed we shall, Edith,’ said Mrs. Wharton. ‘ We must take everything we can, for clothing, they say, may be very dear at the Cape. As for furniture, your father intends to have a sale and part with most of ours. It would be troublesome and ex¬ pensive to take the heavy things with us ; besides, we shall stay for a time with your uncle and aunt.’ A shadow fell over Edith’s hitherto sunny face. ‘ Must the piano be sold ? ’ she questioned, in a tone which told h^w much she feared an answering ‘yes.’ ‘ I am afraid so, darling,’ was her mother’s reply. ‘ Father’s idea is that we shall not be burdened with anything that can be done without. Poor Edie ! you will miss your music sadly ; but we shall all have to make some sacrifice; and who knows but cousin Lily, over there, may have a piano for you to play upon ? ’ Edith’s musical knowledge was ‘greater than that of most girls of her age. Young as she was, she could perform with taste and expression. On the wet days when she could not go out, or the ailing days, which were only too frequent, she had found in her beloved instrument a consolation and resource. She tried now to comfort herself with the thought that very likely her mother’s suggestion would prove true, and that her unknown cousin Lily would not only have a piano, but would take as much delight in music as she herself did. This hope, like many another, w’ as not destined to be completely fulfilled. Mrs. Wharton was almost reconciled to the idea of the yoyage by the family doctor’s prediction con¬ cerning Edith. ‘ A voyage to the Cape ! ’ the doctor had exclaimed, when he first heard of the intended removal. ‘ My dear madam, I shall be sorry — very sorry — to lose you all, but such a voyage, you may depend upon it, will set that delicate child up ; it will be the making of her. ’ .‘Are you sure, doctor?’ asked Mrs. Wharton, doubtfully. ‘ I have heard of sick people going out to Cape Colony and suffering much from the heat — even dying out there, away from home and friends.’

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‘ Only when they had delayed till too late/ Dr. Wilson had assured her. ‘For cases of confirmed consumption — for patients with one foot in the grave — the remedy is not to be recommended. But for those like our little friend here, who need nothing but sea air and change, a sunny climate and a general toning up, it is the very crown of cures.’ These words did more than she could have ex¬ pressed towards giving the loving mother a good hope of the whole undertaking. Every time she looked at Edith she saw her, in imagination, rosy and strong like her brothers, and she plied the busy needle with renewed energy. ( Continued at page 274.)

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N N

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274 CHATTERBOX. To. XXXV. CESIS WHARTON. (Continued from par/ e 272.) CHAPTER II. HR IS and Ambrose lay awake at night in the room which they shared together, and talked for hours of the exciting prospect before them. ‘ I do wish now that I had not always shirked my geo¬ graphy lessons/ Chris confided to liis junior. ‘I have got a vague sort of notion about Africa, that it is a great bare continent, full of sand and blinding heat ; but T do not really know much more of it than the little nippers in the lowest form do.’ ‘ You should read, Chris — you should read,’ Am¬ brose said. ‘ It does not do to depend upon school- work. Begin with Mungo Park, and work your way on ; read about Livingstone, and Stanley, about Gordon Cumming, and - ’ ‘ Oh, stop, stop ! ’ cried Chris. ‘ One at a time, please. Mungo Park, did you say ? Who was he ? ’ 1 The earliest African traveller whose book I have . read ; it was ever so interesting. However, I did not ' stop there, Chris ; I got new books of travels out of the shop, or from the library, and learnt all I wanted to know. I tell you there is no game worth half as much as reading/ 6 What a chap you are, Am ! ’ said Chris, in a tone somewhere between admiration and ridicule. ‘ Read¬ ing may be all very well in its way, but what 1 want is to go and see for myself. This is the most splendid notion that the dad ever took into his head, and to think that we shall start on Tuesday week makes me almost wild with delight. Only mind, when we are on board ship, and cannot sleep at nights, I shall make you tell me everything you have ever read about South Africa/ ‘ All right, old fellow, if you will only let me go to sleep now ; ’ and suiting the action to the word, Ambrose was soon in the land of dreams, whither his brother speedily followed him. The Tuesday week to which Chris had so ardently looked forward found the Wharton family at South¬ ampton, waiting to go on board the great steamer which was to convey them, together with a multi¬ tude of other passengers, over the broad Atlantic. They embarked in the murky half-light of a true November afternoon, and the memories which every one of the party retained afterwards, concerning that getting on board, were a mixture of hurry and bustle, with a curious feeling of strangeness, and a wonder how they and their packages would ever be gathered into the vast floating dwelling which was to be their home for the next three weeks. Glimpses they had of sad partings, of queer foreign-looking figures seen dimly through the mist, of shouting seamen and courteous but sharp ship’s officers, of crowding anxious people, and endless piles of luggage coming on the deck and going down into the hold. As Mrs. Wharton said, ‘ How they got on board must for ever remain a mystery ; that they had done so in safety was their only comfort that they should ever get off again/ Darkness settled down before there was time for more than vague wondering glances at the novel scene around them. Their ship, the Seabird, . did not in the least answer to the picture which Chris, in his own mind, had formed of her. Forgetting the won¬ derful changes which steam has wrought, he had clung to the" notion of masts and rigging, of cordage, and white sails unfurled and swelling in the passing breeze. Masts, it is true, there were, and some slight show of canvas, but it was evident that the vessel was nearly independent of such aids to progress. Then the Seabird was so immense : there were such endless alley-ways, ladders, staircases, and passages, that such nautical ideas as the boys possessed were speedily lost in bewilderment, and” they resolved to wait till morning to find out ‘ what a ship was really like/ The night was dark and thick, the dangers of the busy way from Southampton to Plymouth were too great to be faced till some light should come again. Captain Storrs, too, had determined to wait either until the atmosphere became clearer, or the new day came ; but when, about two o’clock a.m., a lifting of the mist made such a movement possible, the Whartons, in common with other passengers, were awakened in their berths by a tremendous throbbing sensation. ‘ What is it P ’ cried Edith, in a fright, to her mother ; it was only the vessel’s great heart begin¬ ning to beat, or, in other words, only the first motion of the engines starting upon their outward way. Progress at first was slow ; the difficult water-way between Southampton and Plymouth had to be carefully traversed under the guidance of experienced pilots. The Isle of Wight and the Needles were but dimly discerned, but after mid-day came a real clearing up; the sun shone out with a brightness rare in November, and Plymouth Sound was looking its best as they entered it in all the light and beauty of an unusually fine afternoon. Two subjects of speculation had occupied the boys for some days before their departure : the first, as to how they should pass their time on board ship ; the second — and, in Christopher’s eyes, at least, th6 equally important — as to what they should find to eat there. ‘ It is all very well to go out in a boat for a day/ said Chris to his brother; ‘you can put up some cold •things in a hamper, and there you are. But how they feed lots of people for weeks together, and feed them well, too, is what puzzles me, Am.’ ‘Ships have always been victualled somehow/ retorted Ambrose, with the slightly priggish air which he was rather too apt to assume. ‘Ay, ay! sailors, and passengers, too, have had plenty of salt junk and hard biscuit, I suppose. But that sort of thing is done with now — at least, as far as the passengers are concerned. A fellow who has been to sea was telling me the other day that the meals were ever so good — “real good,” he said ; that Yankee fellow I mean, Am, in the fifth; a new one — you know/

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 275 4 Well, we shall see/ said Ambrose, 4 in good time.’ But alas ! the hoys, and the entire family, had soon to find, not only that the meals were very good, hut that the appetite to partake of them was entirely wanting. The brothers had scoffed before¬ hand at tbe very thought of sea-sickness, but the first three or four days of their voyage were passed in suffering which they did not afterwards care to recollect. It was not until Madeira w*as sighted that life began to have something of its old zest and interest. A glimpse into the ample store-rooms of the Sea¬ bird would have been quite enough, if he could have had it earlier, to set at rest all Christopher’s anxieties about dinner for himself and his com¬ panions. The stock of eatables of every description, the cold-room where huge joints of frozen meat were awaiting consumption, the excellent arrangements for cooking and serving large quantities of food, must needs have won his approval. No longer is it necessary to have live sheep and oxen driven, terri¬ fied, on board, and kept to be slaughtered during the passage — the ice-room and the refrigerator have done away with all that ; and, if a ship’s bill of fare errs now, it is in error on the side of plenty — until people on ship-board seem to be nearly always eating and drinking. When the boys grew better, the question of what they should do, like the other difficulty, was easily solved ; it was occupation enough to look about them, for the ship, their fellow-passengers, and the sea were alike novel and fascinating. Their excite¬ ment and interest knew no bounds when — the rough¬ ness and discomfort of the first part of their journey being over — the lovely island loomed into their view, more like the fairy scenery of a dream than a portion of the surface of this work-a-day world. Greenness of trees and grass, whiteness of pretty houses sparkling in the sunshine, exquisite softness of tender blue skies melting into the sun-kissed azure of the sea — could all these be possible in November ? The very air had changed, too ; there was a mild¬ ness, a balm, which made little pale Edith revive like a flower which has been drooping. She was roused to take pleasure in the stoppage off Madeira — the halt for two or three hours, during which a whole shoal of dusky inhabitants of the island put off in boats, or swarm round the ship, diving, chatter¬ ing, begging ; pushing their merchandise — fruit, and an endless variety of other articles — even on board the vessel; and allowing not a single quiet moment till their noisy crowd was left behind. Some one had been telling Mrs. Wharton sad stories of Madeira ; of the multitudes who visit its lovely shores in quest of health, and find, instead, death and an untimel}' grave. She was glad when the place had vanished, and indeed all of them had cause to be glad, for, after that, sunshine and fair weather vrere the order of every day, and the full enjoyment of the voyage began. What would the first Sunday at sea be like ? Would there be any 4 church ’ to go to P Yes — the boys were informed — the Captain would read prayers on the upper deck, and every one who was able would be expected to attend. Quite a large con¬ gregation — ship’s officers, waiters, crew, and passen¬ gers — assembled in due time; and all would have gone well, but that a difficulty arose. The lady who was to have officiated at the piano was still lying ill in her berth, and, either from shyness or sickness, no one else would volunteer to take her place. 4 Edie could do it, father/ whispered Ambrose; and Mr. Wharton, though unwilling to put his little girl forward, when he saw that the singers were really at a loss without their accustomed music, offered Edith’s services to the Captain. They were gratefully accepted ; Edith had the joy of touching the ivory keys again, and of knowing that without her the song of praise could not have been so worthily raised. Bishop Ken’s beautiful morning hymn was the one chosen, and never had1 the Whartons more heartily joined in its glorious Doxo- logy than they did at that first Sunday service on board the Seabird. ( Continued at page 282.) THE BISHOP ANTE THE BARKER. IT is said that Dr. Boyd Carpenter, bit-hop of Bipon, once had two pets — a pug dog aud an Angora cat. The creatures did not at first take kindly to each other, but it was not long before they became fast friends. One bitterly cold winter night the dog’s barking caught the ear of the Bishop, who left his room to see what was wrong. To his eye all seemed right, and he was about to return to his library. Master Pug, however, knew better than the Bishop, and kept on barking and running towards the hall door. Then Dr. Carpenter heard a plaintive mewing. Opening the door at once, pussy crept in from the snow, benumbed with cold. But for the vigilant friendship of the dog, the cat might have perished. IDLE WORDS. ^ BAT, and a Kite, and a Bell and Top, Began a dispute one day, And, like some people, they would not stop, Though nothing was left to say. 4 You are only a bat, sir/ the Kite had cried, ( You have not the means to fly ; And oft at the wicket you jump aside To let the ball slip by. ‘ And so would you too/ the Ball exclaimed, 4 If I ran at your paper head. Ila ! ha ! if you did not could Xbe blamed For smashing you up instead P ’ 4 No doubt you are clever/ the Kite xvent on ; 4 Your memory is rather slack ; You only go if you are sent by John, And the bat can send you back.’ 4 Oh, please/ cried the Top, 4 1 should like a word ; Can I anywhere get it in ? You are wonderful beings, so I have heard. But none of you three can spin.7

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276 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. Then all together they loudly spoke, Till Jonathan heard the row, And cried, as into the room he broke, 1 What can be the. matter now ? ’ With clamour and noise, they told him all, But who could explain like that f He checked the Kite, and the Top and Ball, And listened alone to the Bat. ‘ Come ! come ! ’ said he, when all was done, 1 How silly you all have grown ; A different part has every one, And each can do his own. John Lea. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. [RST ARREST. [AT is where the Egertons once lived, sir, that you have heard me speak of,’ said Sergeant Lundy, as we passed on our walk a large red-brick house nearly adjoining the road. ‘ And that is where Molly had her first place, soon after I entered the Surrey Constabulary. We were acquainted, however, before that, for Molly is Surrey-born, you see, like myself. But it was not until she came to West¬ ward House that I took to thinking of her, as a man thinks of the woman he would like to make his wife ; and if you care to hear, sir, I will tell you how it was brought about.’ It was on a certain Sunday afternoon that I met Molly on her way home from church. I have always bjen a morning-service man myself, but she could not get out in those days until after the early dinner. ‘ It is really very interesting/ began Molly in her off-hand manner, as we strolled through the fields together. ‘ 1 never met with any one that was half so interesting afore.’ 1 Do you mean me ? ’ says I ; though, as I had been uncommonly silent that afternoon, I could hardly suppose she did. 1 How funny you are ! ’ says Molly, and sets off laughing in a fashion that did not best please me, either. 1 Well, if you will not tell me, how can I guess who it is?’ says I, quite stiffly; for though I am not curious by nature, sir, there was something in her tone that made me all agog. ‘ It is the new footman,’ says she. 1 i do believe he is a real gentleman in disguise. Why, he has been half round the world, and gone through no end of adventures. He does talk in a beautiful way, and he can speak French into the bargain.* ‘ A wonder, indeed ! 7 says I, getting into a fine state of heat — though we were only in early May, sir. ‘ How I do wish you could hear him ! It would wake you up a bit/ she goes on to say, with an extra amount of briskness in her face and voice. 1 Thank you, I had rather not/ says I. ‘ He would not gull me so easily.’ ‘ Anyway, Martin Lee is very amusing/ says she, being likewise worked into a huff ; ‘ and he is more polite than some folk I know. So good after¬ noon, Mr. Lundy.5 Upon which we parted, like a couple of young simpletons, and we did not see one another again until the next Sunday afternoon. In the meantime, I had found out that my feelings for Molly were a deal more stirring than those of mere friendship, and I was growing mighty anxious, in consequence, lest she should lose her heart to that new footman who was clever enough to speak French. So I happened to be loitering in the same direc¬ tion, when up she comes, carrying the big Prayer- book, which was a present from her mother, and looking as prim as possible. * Good afternoon/ says I, and I was surprised to find the words stick in my throat, that was dry as a brook in a summer drought. ‘ How is the wonder ?' says I, trying to force a laugh. Molly had given me a distant little nod, but there was no smile on her face. ‘ l have been considering as how I would like to hear him hold forth/ says I, ‘ if so be as you will honour me with an invitation.’ Molly seemed surprised, but she brightened up a little at this. ‘ I cannot do that; says she, and I was glad to see the colour rise into her cheeks. ‘ But if you are serious, we might manage it somehow or other. The window of the servants’ hall always stands open of an evening, and it looks out on the lane, as you know. Now, what is to hinder you from being there at half-past nine to-morrow night ? You will only be making your rounds, if any one should happen to catch sight of you. A constable can always account for himself easy enough/ Here Molly threw one of her saucy looks at me, ‘ Well, that is not a bad notion/ savs I, for fear of hurting her feelings, though, between ourselves, the plan was not exactly to my liking, But all the same, I agreed to be there at the time appointed, and Molly promised me as how she would not cast a single squint at the place where my shadow might chance to fall. Accordingly, on the following night, 1 made my way to Westward House, and it was nearer ten than nine when I took up my position, close to the window of the servants’ hall. It is a good-sized window, and behind the shelter of a large laurel- bush, which stands to the left of it, I could look right into the room. It was strange that the first person my eyes lighted on should be Martin Lee. It occurred to me at the same moment, moreover, that I must have seen him somewhere afore. He was sitting at the table, with a tankard of beer in front of him, and was telling one of his wonderful stories. And I soon saw that everybody was far too busy listening to him, to pay any heed to my footsteps, even if they had heard them.

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“ I step forward and flash my bull’s-eye in the faces of the two men He was a tall, lean chap, with a dark, fine-cut face, but with an ill look about it. Molly was sitting in a corner, pretending to knit, but her face was pale, and I thought that she was uneasy. She had confided to me, last Sunday, that she was beginning to feel afraid of this man, and that she could not look at him without a shudder. And now I guessed what she meant, for I did not like the look of Martin Lee. Moreover, it seemed to me that his eyes wandered rather too often in Molly’s direction. So that, what with watching him and her, I did not catch much of the story. If I remember rightly, it was about Lee^ travels in Spain, when he described himself as being his own master. Anyhow,

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278 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. tlie time flipped away, until it was bed-time, and tbe party Woke up. From some remarks they let drop, I gathered that the butler had already retired, because of a gouty attack, and it fell upon Lee to put out the lights. Presently the room was empty, but still I stood rooted to the ground, sir, like one bewitched, so to speak. It was the spell of that man’s gleaming eyes that held me there, I dr believe. Nearly twenty minutes must have passed when I noticed that, though every one was gone, the window had been left wide open. Coming suddenly to ray workaday senses, I wondered what could be the meaning of thkt. Should I go round to the door, rrag the bell, and inform somebody of the oversight P No, I would wait, and be on the alert. So I crept back into the shadow of the laurel-bush, and lighted my lantern in case of need. It must have been getting on to three o’clock in the morning, and I wras fairly tired of lying in am¬ bush, when I was startled by a low whistle a short way off. Another minute and there comes a whistle of the same sort from the servants’ hall through the open window7. Then I saw a tigure glide along and stand close by me. 1 Is the swag ready P ’ says he, to the person inside. 1 All serene ! ’ was the answer ; ‘ but first let me offer you a glass of fizz. The governor keeps an excellent wine cellar. I must do him that justice.’ Here a cork was popped, very gently, and from my hiding-place I watched the fellow outside drink off a tumblerful of champagne. They finished the bottle between them pretty quickly, and then came to business. Martin Lee — for I knew his voice at once — wns in the act of handing a heavy hag to his mate through the window7, when I thought it time to interfere, and you may imagine, sir, as the business was new to me, that I felt in a hit of a flurry. However, in a moment I step forward and flash my bull’s-eye in the faces of the two men. ‘ If you please ! ' says I, with one hand on the bag and the other ready for fight ; but, bless ye, sir, there was not an ounce of fight in that chap outside the window, for in a twinkling he takes to his heels, and is off down the road as fast as his legs wrill carry him, while with one hound I clear the window-sill, bang down the window7, which shuts with a spring, and rush for Martin Lee, w7ho is just out at the door. Down the passage he flies, and up a short flight of stairs. There was enough gas burning for me to keep him in view, and of course I give cha^e. Then he opens another door and slams it behind him in my face, but after him I go, right through the drawing¬ room, and knocking over all manner of nick-nacks on my way, to see him making his escape by one of the French windows. Over the lawn we scud, helter- skelter, dashing across the flower-beds and up to the shrubbery, which, as you may have observed, sir, is bounded by a nasty wall. Martin Lee, being light and nimble, went over it like a bird, but, with my heavy build, that was not so easy for me. However, I climbed it somehow or other, and down the road we raced. My breath was failing me now and again, when, to my dismay, the figure ' in front of me suddenly disappears. Where on earth could he have got to? Had I lost him after all ? Daylight was breaking, and I searched up and down and everywhere with¬ out result ; indeed, I was fast losing heart, when I caught a faint moan, that seemed to come from the ditch, a bit further on. I hurried to the spot, and there crouched Martin Lee, his face ghastly and twisted with pain. ( If it had not been for this confounded ankle of mine, you would never have taken me,’ says be, as I slipped a pair of cuffs on him — it having struck me that, for all I knew, he might possibly be shamming. ‘ Who put you up to this game, I wonder — a mere youngster like you !’ And he measured me scornfully with his eyes that shot fire. Tome no w, no swagger!’ says I, trying hard to keep cool and collected, though I was panting with excitement and the glory of the thing. 1 You will have to get up and come along with me,’ says I. 1 My good fellow, I cannot walk,’ he whined. 1 My ankle was broken a year ago, and 1 believe it is done for again to-night. You will have to leave me here and go for a conveyance.’ ‘Not if I knows it,’ says I, remembering all at once that it was market-day, and that a cart must certainly come this way before very long. And, sure enough, sir, ten minutes bad hardly gone by when I heard the rumble of wheels. So we got Martin Lee lifted into the cart, and b}7 that means he was conveyed to the nearest police station. Well, well, sir, it was proved that Martin Lee, alias Robert Anderson, alias John Mulcaster, was a notorious gaol-bird that the police had been wanting for some time past. He belonged to a gang of burglars, and had been in a great diamond robbery, which took place some years ago. You asked me the other day, sir, for some par¬ ticulars of my first arrest, and now you have got them. I have always thought that the affair helped to raise me in Moily’s opinion. However, she de¬ clares to this day that if the footman did turn out a black sheep, he had been brought up as a gentle¬ man; and though, for fun, I pretend to differ, I do not mind admitting to you, sir, that I am entirely of tbe same mind myself. Flora Schmalz. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. THE LEES. SIR HENRY LEE and bis son and daughter, Albert and Alice, lived at "Woodstock. It had been the home of tbe Lees for generations. The ancient walls of the old family mansion were hung with family portraits, and the rooms were rich in relics. Sir Henry was a fine old country gentleman, and devoted to the cause of the young prince, Charles Stuart, afterwards our Charles the Second, the son of the unhappy monarch who was beheaded by order of Cromwell and his friends. Wre are introduced to Alice and her father on a morning in the end of September or the beginning of October in the year a.d. 1652, as they walked and

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 279 talked together in Woodstock Park. Sir Henry was an elderly man, with a long white beard and a form bowed by sorrow and infirmity. His face was hand¬ some, and his appearance such as could not belong to any common man. He wore a mourning cloak over a mourning dress. With her arm linked in his walked Alice, slight and delicate to look on, with a beautiful face, and, at the moment, tear-filled eyes. They made towards a rustic bench near one of the giant trees of the park. Their tones were sad, for they spoke of a sad matter — the execution of King Charles the First, to whom the knight and his family had been loyally attached. Sir Henry, in spite of his years, longed to engage in active service in the cause of Prince Charles — ‘ The King,’ as he called him. Albert Lee was away fighting for his Prince, and nothing had been heard «of him since the fatal battle of Worcester. England was troubled by Civil W ar ; her citizens were divided — some being for Parliament, of which Cromwell was a representative, and others for the Prince, so that the times were unsafe and unhappy ; brother fighting against brother, father against son. Not far from the old knight and his daughter stood a listener, out of sight, sheltered by the bough of one of the huge trees. This eavesdropper was a soldier of Cromw ell’s, who, after a time, broke in' upon the two and handed to Sir Henry a scroll, signed with the names of several of the leaders of the Common¬ wealth. The parchment was an order to the old knight, the owner of Woodstock, to give it up to Cromwell’s men with all the treasures it contained. The loyal old man, enraged at the impudence of the soldier as he demanded the delivery into his hands of the castle and its treasures, drew his sword and bade him draw his. It went ill with the angry nobleman, who would have fared badly enough had not the cries of his daughter Alice brought to the spot a stout-hearted under-keeper, Joceline Joliffe, and a large wolf-dog, strong as a mastiff and fleet as a grey¬ hound, by nameBevis. The good dog was a noble animal. His colour was tawny, like a lion, with a black muzzle and black feet, just edged with a line of white round the toes. He was as tractable as he was strong and bold. He would have rushed on the soldier had not his master, ; Sir Henry , ordered ‘ Peace, Bevis,’ when obediently he lowered his ears, smoothed down his bristles, and wagged his tail. The struggle over, Sir Henry, entreated by his daughter, gave up possession of Woodstock to the enemy, declaring that he would never cross its threshold again, but would seek shelter in a keeper’s hut by Rosamond’s Well. This hut was roughly put together by Joceline Joliffe for his own use, he being keeper on the Lees estate. When the outcast nobleman reached it, to his surprise he found there his nephew, Markham Everard. This young gentleman was, of course, cousin to Alice, and, more than that, he was her lover, although, as ill-luck would have it, a soldier under Cromwell. It was a great grief to the old knight that the bright-haired boy, whom he had taught to ride and shoot and hunt, and whom he had dearty loved, should have become a rebel to his religion and his King. And yet Mark Everard had cast in his lot with the opponents of the King under a mistaken sense of duty. Mark had now come to Woodstock to urge his uncle not to run into foolish and unnecessary clangers by his display of ‘ fantastic loyalty,’ and at the moment Sir Henry found him he was hiding in Joliffe’s hut until a fitting opportunity should occur. The hasty knight no sooner saw his nephew than he became very angry, upbraiding the young man for his disloyal conduct. Hard words were spoken, and it required all Alice’s gentle influence to per¬ suade her cousin to go away without further annoy¬ ing his uncle by his presence. The father of Mark, 4 Uncle Everard,’ as Alice called him, stood high in Cromwell’s regard, and Mark himself was a bold soldier of the Commonwealth. Troubled that Sir Henry and Alice should be rendered homeless, Mark wrote a letter, explaining his relationship, and begging, as a personal favour, that the Lees might not remain turned out of house and home, but that Cromwell would at once withdraw his warrant and restore them to possession. This letter he sent by Roger Wildrake, a man who was at heart a Cavalier, but for safety’s sake, and being a sworn friend of Mark’s, was acting as his clerk for the time. ‘ It is a great thing,’ observed Cromwell to Wildrake as he read the letter, ‘this that your master asks.’ Much more he said, but the point of all was that, provided Colonel Mark Everard and Roger Wildrake should ‘ have an eye in every hair of their head ’ in case the ‘man’ Charles Stuart should at any time seek refuge in the old palace of Woodstock, and use their best endeavours to deliver up the fugitive Prince to the Parliament, the exiled Sir Henry and his daughter should be permitted to return to the palace and retain possession. Once more, thanks to Colonel Everard’s good efforts, we see the Lees at home again at Woodstock Lodge, although much persuasion had been necessary to move Sir Henry to return. On the day of their re-entry an adventure befell Alice. Her father had expressed a wish for a jug of spring water from Rosamond’s Well, and, the ser¬ vants being very busy, Alice, flinging a cloak around herself, set off with a small pitcher to bring the fresh water wanted. She was thinking anxiously of her brother, wondering about his safety as she walked on, and was startled by the sight of a stranger, an old woman, evidently of the lower rank, wearing a red cloak, a reddish-brown gown, and a coarse steeple- crowned hat. The things did not fit her, and Alice’s quick glance noticed that they were badly put on. She was a woman of unusual size, with swarthy features, and a harsh voice and manner. Alice judged the strange woman to be a fortune¬ teller seeking silver. The gipsy's manner was at first rude and familiar, and her tones threatening. The faithful Bevis, seldom far from his young mis¬ tress, bounding to the spot, would have gone for her had not Alice ^bidden, ‘ Peace ! ’ Joceline, too, hear¬ ing his name called, came up, and the stranger dis¬ appeared, under cover of the wood. It was not long before she reappeared, however, the second time not in the wood, but peering through the window of one of the sitting-rooms of the Lodge. ( Concluded at page 286.)

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Page 293

G C

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282 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXXVI. CHRIS WHARTON. ( Continued from page 275.) CHAPTER III. N E weather, pleasant com¬ panionship, good health and spirit what more could our young people want to make the fleeting days happy ? They had not the grief which they saw in the faces of some around them, who were leaving their nearest and dearest behind ; nor yet the anxiety about an uncertain future which some¬ times clouded the brows of their own father and mother. To the young ones everything to come lay in a rosy haze of anticipation, and everything present was enjoyable. They had made friends with one of the passengers, a grey-headed old gentle¬ man, who had been at sea many times, and who entertained them, by the hour, with real nautical yarns. He told them of his own queer experiences when crossing the Line, in the days of his youth; of the tribute which King Neptune levied, and the rough treatment meted out to unhappy novices by the ocean monarch’s courtiers. Strange stories, too, he had, tales which made Edith tremble and feel ‘ creep}'/ about the Flying Dutchman , the mysterious vessel with its gho^ly captain and crew, always trying to send messages to the land which they have been for centuries vainly trying to reach, and are fated to behold no more. Then there was the lazy passenger, returning to his Capetown home, the man who declared that the greatest pleasure in life was to lie still and see other people work, and who appeared to pass his entire existence in smoking, eating, and sleeping. There were boys and girls, too, of their own age, with whom the Whartons made friends, and they were almost sorry when the word was passed round that to-morrow they would be in Table Bay, that their rapid ocean journey was drawing to a close. 1 We have been rushing through the water at the rate of something more than three hundred miles a day — a day of twenty-four hours, I mean/ Mr. Watts, their sea-going friend, told them. ‘ Very different from the old times, and the sailing vessels of which T have spoken to you. The south-easter which is blowing now might let any one, who has been this way before, know that wo are nearing the Cape. It is a wind which seldom fails to blow in this part of the world.’ In spite of the strong breeze, the air was warm and sunny, fit for sitting on deck, in utter forgetfulness of the wintry weather left behind in the old country, and in eager expectation of the sight of the new land. They were not to get that, however, till another day had dawned ; the lights of Capetown, when they did appear, gleamed out upon waters which the night had darkened, and it was in the exquisite freshness of their early morning dress that Table Bay, Table Mountain, and the fair town between, first showed themselves. Purple and green, silver, blue, and orange — all, and more than all, the colours of the most radiant of rain¬ bows — were found in the marvellous panorama spread out before them. Christopher’s imaginary Africa, with its stretches of barren sand, and leafless, shade¬ less beach, vanished utterly. Instead, under a sky intensely, brilliantly blue, in an atmosphere purer, more transparent, than any of which they had ever dreamed, our travellers beheld the vine and pine-clad heights, the luxuriant gardens, the clustering white dwellings, and the placid waters, of the queen of South African harbours. Mr. Watts stood by his young friends, enjoying their astonishment. The scene was quite familiar to him, and he took pleasure in pointing out its beauties to his companions. t Of course you kuow that Table Mountain gets its name from its immense fiat top/ lie said, ‘but perhaps you are not aware that the strange white cloud which overhangs it, and often rolls down the sides of the mountain, in a perfect cascade of thick falling vapour, is called the “ table¬ cloth.” When that cloud begins, as it often does, to be violently agitated, then, although everything may be calm and blue about you, you may know that a storm is brewing, and that, while the sun still shines, the winds will go whistling and shrieking through the rents and hollows of the mountain-side, like a pack of fiends let loose. ‘ Do you notice/ he went on, * that some of the trees, grouped about the heights there, shine with a sort of burnished lustre, as though they were made of metal P Those are the famous silver trees v of the Cape. I have some leaves plucked from one of them in my cabin, and will fetch them for you to see/ The beautiful soft leaves, of a smooth silver-grey, pleased Edith much : she was still more gratified when their kind friend, placing a piece of folded cardboard in her hand, continued, ‘ Here is a speci¬ men, Edith, which you may keep, if you will accept it, for your own. An ingenious young man of my acquaintance paints these little land and seascapes upon the smooth surface of the leaves, and gives them to his friends.’ Edith, opening the card, while her brothers looked over her shoulders, saw that a charming, though tiny, view of the very scene before their eyes was painted upon the. leaf attached to it; and she gazed with new interest at the silver trees. They found it very strange to be still on board the Seabird} and yet to be free from the hitherto strong constant vibrations of the ship’s engines. During their journey, the boys had often looked down with wonder into the mysterious depths of the place where the firemen were at work, and where they could hear a constant noise of shovelling, as coals were heaped upon the fires. They, and their elders too, had listened with amazement to these men actually singing at their fiery task. It was hot enough on deck ; what must be the temperature, then, in that grimy hole, whence fumes of fierce vapour were every now and then wafted to those above ? Mrs. Wharton was quite relieved to know that the engines at last were still, and that the poor men, who had worked so hard to propel others on their way, would now get a well-merited rest.

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No. XXX YI. CHATTERBOX. 28S 4 Mr. Watts liad kindly offered his services to Mr. and Mrs. Wharton upon their landing, and very glad would they have been to accept his guidance if another and unexpected helper had not appeared upon the scene. The family were still standiug looking around them, beset by the noisy crowd which in every pert assails the newly arrived, when a big, broad-shouldered man made his way through the throng, and looked into Mr. Wharton’s face. The scrutiny seemed to satisfy him, for, stretching out a huge brown i hand, he said, in a voice which, deep as it was, had a strangely familiar ring, ‘ I am sure I am not mistaken ; this must be my brother Tom from England.’ The two were ‘ Tom ’ and 1 Ted ’ again in a moment, as they had been in their happy boyhood. It was neither time nor place for the display of emotion, but both felt, more than they could say, the joy of meeting after a twelve years’ separation. Then Mrs. Wharton had to be greeted ; the boys, whom their uncle only remembered as little toddlers in petticoats, and Edith, whom he had never seen. Uncle Edward looked longest at Edith. ‘ Bless me, what a frail little fairy ! What a contrast to my Lily ! Is she well, Susan ? ’ he inquired ; and his eyes turned back to her again, when something for a moment drew off his attention. It appeared that Mr. Edward Wharton, having business in Capetown during the early part of December, had decided to wait for the arrival of the Seabird, and to give his relations the ad¬ vantage of his company on their journey into the interior. This thoughtful conduct of Uncle Edward’s made everything smooth. Mr. Watts, seeing his friends in such good hands, bade them farewell, and in a few moments the Wharton party were passing through the spacious streets of Capetown on the electric tram. Their uncle had made arrangements as to the safe keeping of their heavier goods, and the sending of everything which they would require at once to the hotel where he had himself been staying. Thus, relieved of every anxiety, they were at leisure to take in fresh impressions. < It is ever so much better than we had expected.’ This was the thought, spoken or unspoken, in each one of their minds. The streets were wide, the shops bright and well-arranged, the public buildings handsome and imposing, and the throng of pedestrians upon whom they looked down were in themselves a source of peculiar interest to onlookers accustomed only to sober English faces and dress. Coloured people of various shades, from yellow to black, abounded; women in strange, bright dresses, and men uttering curious cries or blowing horns as they vended their wares. Cabs and carriages drove slowly past, the cabs being Hansoms almost without ex¬ ception; but the Cape carts, each drawn by a couple of horses, made better speed, and the trams gave an appearance of advanced civilisation to the regular, well-laid-out streets. Though the day was not yet far advanced, the heat "was trying to new-comers, and, in spite of all the claims upon their attention, they found the rest and shelter of the hotel truly welcome. The shaded room into which they were shown looked dark after the brilliance of the streets out¬ side. They had yet to learn that colonial houses, even in the large towns, are often but badly lighted; but the inconvenience of imperfect lighting is atoned for in the summer season by the shade thus gained. Rest and refreshment, the washing and brushing- up of which every one stood in need, made the boys quite ready to besiege tlieir Uncle Edward with a host of questions which had "been gathering in their minds during the time on the tram, and afterwards, when the juniors had to be silent whilst their seniors talked of the events and changes of the years of separation. Most of this talk had been about persons and places unknown to Chris and Ambrose, but to one or two bits of information they had lent eager ears. For Uncle Edward had not only talked of his wife, their Aunt Alice, . and of his daughter, Lily, but also of his son, Dick — of Dick, who, being older than his sister bjr nearly two years, must be seventeen or thereabouts, and would no doubt be tall and big and brown, like his father. ‘ It was all that hair upon your face which made me doubtful of you, Ted,’ said Mr. Wharton to his brother ; 1 but when yon spoke I knew you in a minute.’ 1 Dick is the living image of what I was when I was young, or so liis mother says,’ Uncle Edward replied ; and to see this ‘ living image ’ of their once youthful uncle was now the boys’ dearest desire. ( Continued at 'page 291.) COUNTING- THEM. TIIE Russian Marshal Suvaroff was fond . of confusing the men under his command by askiug them unexpected and absurd questions. One bitter January night, lie rode up to the sentry and demanded : 1 How many stars are there in the sky P ’ . _ The soldier answered coolly: 1 Wait a little anal will tell you, sir,’ and he began counting: ‘One, two, three,’ and so on. When he had reached one hundred, Suvaroff, who was half frozen, thought it high time to ride off, not, however, without inquiring the name of the ready reckoner. Next day the latter found himself promoted. THE BABY PUMA. THE Puma, or American lion, is much smaller and far less majestic in its appearance than the lions of the Old World. It is an active climber, and loves to lie along the branch of a tree, from which it drops suddenly upon its unsuspecting prey. Both in North and South America it has been a most troublesome animal, as many as fifty sheep having been killed in one night by a single "puma. The creature prefers blood to fiesh, and after sucking the life from its victim, it leaves the bodv and attacks another. Pumas are not difficult to tame, and when treated as pets they become gentle, and attach themselves to their master. In a wild state they are unwilling

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A Baby Puma. as a rule to attack men, especially if their enemy faces them boldly. The American trappers call the puma a ‘ painter/ confusing it with the panther, and it is also known as the ‘ cougar/ which is a contraction of its Mexican name, Gouzonara. H. L. T. A JOYFUL EETUBN. IKJfSiHEY started out at eventide To spend the night upon the sea ; We wished for them a safe return, With nets as laden as could be. * * * * We watched the boat glide o’er the waves, When homeward bound at early morn ; Back to the shining yellow beach, We saw the crew in safety borne. We hurried down to meet them there ; We read, upon their faces bright, The tidings of a good reward For toiling through the hours of night. With splendid fish the nets were filled. And great excitement mixed with glee, When to the land we helped to bring The treasures from the distant sea. * A sleepless night, a chilling frame, And aching heads and tired eyes, This fish has cost you/ come one said, 1 So you have richly earned the prize 1 ' A wise old fisherman looked up, * No gains without some pains/ said he ; 1 No occupation meets success, Unless we work it heartily/

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“ With splendid fish the nets were filled.1 The old man’s words rose from his heart, They fell on ours with lasting power, And memory always brings them back Whenever we recall that hour — That lovely moonlit morning-time, That busy scene beside the sea ; And we again renew the wish To do life’s duties heartily.

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286 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XXXVI. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. THE EMU. EMUS are quite different from most birds; they have nothing that can be called wings, only in their place a queer little growth a few inches long, and their feathers are not the fluffy things we see on most birds, but are more like stiff hair. For all that, they are very handsome birds, and it is a beautiful sight to see them stalking along in the bush. When they run, they look very awkward ; they can go at a great rate. It takes a good horse to overtake them. They defend themselves by kicking ; a kick from one has been known almost to kill a dog. The height of a full-grown emu is from seven feet six inches to eight feet. They are sometimes seen in very large numbers. An emu’s egg is, of course, very large; it is of a beautiful dark green colour. I have seen ten eggs taken from one nest. I knew a gentleman who found a nest of (I think) eight eggs ; he brought them home, and in a couple of days a little emu came out of each egg — beautiful, soft, downy things, with stripes from" head to tail. All these little ones grew to be big, but they used to frighten any strange horse that came to the house, so they were sent to a distant paddock. Simon was the name of a big tame emu I knew : he was allowed to roam about where he liked, and I have several times met him miles from home. He would let buggies and horses come up quite close to him, and knew his name very well. One day his master saw him in the fowl-yard, and watched him toss up and swallow a dozen chickens before he interfered. Another emu that I knew used to walk up and down with a man who was ploughing. As long as the man (a little Irishman) kept moving, the emu walked quietly beside him, but when he stopped, he attacked the poor man. The emu’s mistress had to call him away when the men’s dinner-bell rang. The favourite food of the emu is the blossom of the crimson heath and young fern-shoots. May Collins, Victoria. PUZZLERS EOB WISE HEADS. 40. — Anagrays. Great Men of Old. 1. Spain, dome, an. A famous Theban general 2. 0 ! chop less. A great Grecian poet. 3. Coat. A Roman patriot. 4. 0 ! sad line. A brave king of Sparta who died in defence of his country. 5. A sad scar N. A Trojan prophetess. G. I let Midas. A famous Athenian who defended his country against the Persians. 7. See thus. A celebrated Athenian king. 8. Save Spain. A very good Roman emperor, the first who died a natural death. 9. A cord. A very severe Grecian law-giver. 10. Real coin. A Roman lady, wife of a great general. C. C. 41. — Squared Words. 1. — A favourite game of cards. True nobleness of mind ; magnanimity. A fire-place. A protection to the feet ; more than one of a kind of fish. A lock of hair. 2. — A sound. A sign, not always for good. Necessity. Termination. 3. — The husks of ground corn. Uncommon. Branches of knowledge requiring genuity. The home of a biped. 4. — A royal beast. Not out of. The fragrant essence of a flower. Midday. 5. — A savage animal ; to endure. A feeling of pleasure. A large continent. Natural, not artificial. [Answers at page 299.] ANSWERS. 38. — 1. The early birds pick up the worms. 2. Don’t lialloo until you’re quite out of the wood. 3. Two of a trade never agree 4. The hindermost dog catches the hare. 5. A drowning man will catch at a straw. 39.— 1. Mood. 8. Flew. 15. Gain. 2. Wood. 9. Sustain. 1G. Pain. 3. Stored. 10. Plain. 17. Eyes. 4. Hoard. 11. Pain. 18. Flies. 5. Haste. 12. Regain. 19. Find. 6. Repast. 13. Grown. 20. Behind. 7. Crew. 14. Bemoan. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. THE LEES. (Concluded from page 279.) LICE, though a brave girl, wa3 alarmed when she taw the figure at the window, and the more so when she heard voices below. She aroused her father, who, tired out after his experiences in the hut, was asleep, and he, seizing his sword, came for¬ ward to question the would- be intruder. The person at the window hastily tried to descend, but slipped and fell to the earth. Then Alice heard some one below say, ‘ All is quiet now ; I will skill and in C.C.

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No. XXXVI. CHATTERBOX. 287 up and prepare the way for you,’ and immediately a form presented itself on the outside of the window, pushed open the lattice and sprang into the parlour. The second visitor was Albert Lee, the son of the house, and the strange woman with the harsh voice and familiar manners was a man in disguise — a Louis Kerneguy, and a friend of Albert’s. A hungry fellow Kerneguy showed himself to be, devouring a whole loaf at a sitting and asking for more, to the astonishment of those who served him. He seemed a raw-boned, uncouth country Scot, too, although Albert vouched for him as ‘ the son of a dear friend, a noble lord of Scotland who was wounded the day before the battle of Worcester, and conjured me to take this youth under my charge.’ His hair was fiery red, his complexion almost black by exposure to all sorts bf weathers, and decorated by Hr. Rochecliffe with a number of patches inti¬ mating scratches. His manner was awkward and forward, and he handled his knife and fork awk¬ wardly, fiinging it on the trencher after he had eaten, "as Sir Henry Lee observed, 4 four pounds of solid butcher’s meat, with the grace of a wolf tug¬ ging at a dead horse.’ At this point we take leave of Louis, the page, as we listen to his confession to Alice : 4 It is your King — it is Charles Stuart who speaks to you.’ The King indeed it was— the fugitive who fled before his foes, and had accompanied Albert Lee to Woodstock Lodge as the safest hiding-place, and it is likely that he would have been safely hidden in the old mansion had it not been for 4 Trusty Tomkins,’ a double¬ dealing man and a Commonwealth spy, he who had approached Sir Henry Lee in the park with the document demanding the surrender of the Lodge and its park. This man, while pretending good-comradeship with .Toceline Joliffe, was secretly watching events at Woodstock, and was well aware of the presence of the Prince, keeping Cromwell fully informed of his movements, and of all that occurred in the house. Many adventures attended the stay of Charles, and in one "of these he felt obliged to make known his name and rank to Markham Everard, the Parlia¬ mentarian and Alice’s cousin. That worthy soldier, admiring the candour of the King, bade him fear nothing from him, as he would scorn to take a mean advantage of one who had thus placed himself in his power. It wa9 a night some time after this encounter, just as the party at Woodstock were retiring to rest, that an urchin messenger— a meagre little boy- made his appearance at the hall-door, bearing a signal of danger, a woodcock’s feather, which he delivered to Alice. Cross-questioned, the child told how there were strangers at Colonel Everard’s house — soldiers in buff coats and steel breastplates, and with them was Oliver Cromwell — he who had signed the death-warrant of the unfortunate Charles I. Cromwell was on the track of the young King, whose life was therefore endangered. The boy had been put through a window by Roger Wildrake, Colonel Everard’s clerk, and told to bear with speed the feather signal to Mistress Alice Lee. The warning was timelv, as it enabled the Lees to devise measures for the safety of their royal guest. It was agreed that Charles Stuart should change clothes 'with Albert Lee, and that Alice should conduct him through the forest to the hut of Joliffe, the keeper, where his Majesty should find horses and means of flight. Old Martin, the forester, was to accompany him as a guide on his leaving the hut, as the old man knew well the many paths. Meantime, if Cromwell and his soldiers demanded entrance at the Lodge, they would be held at bay as long as possible by the b.ave old knight, Sir Henry, and his two women -servants. Joliffe was away, and Albert, who was to personate the King, had shut himself in one of the secluded apartments of the house. It was judged that Cromwell and his soldiers would be led into believing that he was the fugitive prince and so pursue him, and he, knowing all the secret passages of the building, its towers and strong-rooms, would play them a game of hare and hounds— only the hare, when caught, would prove disappointing. The account of Cromwell’s attack on Woodstock is highly interesting, and one cannot feel other than admiration for the loyal and dauntless knight who refused to open the door at the order of Cromwell, and preserved his presence of mind and ^ his calm¬ ness while his foes were fixing a petara to blow it in. Sir Henry and Albert Lee were both taken prisoners. Colonel Everard too was bound and im¬ prisoned, and all by Cromwell’s orders were sentenced to death, but not even when face to face with death, condemned to be hanged within twenty-four hours, was the loyalty of the noble Lees shaken; they held it an honour to die for their king. , But not so does Sir Walter Scott end his story. Cromwell revoked his merciless order, and spared his prisoners, all of whom lived to welcome that glad 4 Twenty-ninth of May, ^ When ‘the King did enjoy his own again.’ On the memorable day on which the King prepared to make his progress from Rochester to London he noticed, as he progressed through Blackheatli, one group which attracted particular attention. It was a family group, of which the principal figure was an old man seated in a chair, having a complacent smile on his face, and a tear swelling to his eye a,s he saw the banners wave and heard . the multitude shouting the long-silenced acclamation, 4 God save King Charles!’ His cheek was ashy pale, and Ins lono* beard bleached; his blue eye was clear, yet Ins motions were feeble, and be spoke little except when he answered the prattle of his grand-children, or asked a question of bis daughter, who sat beside him, or Colonel Everard, who stood behind. . There, too, the stout yeoman, Joceline Joliffe, and his wife were to he seen. Alice and her five children were close beside the old man, and lving at Sir Henry’s feet was the noble dog, Bevis, who raised his aged head now and again to lick the shrivelled, withered hand of his master. We see the monarch spring from his. horse and walk up to the old knight, and we hear him say, 4 Father, bless your son who has returned in safety, as you blessed him when he departed in danger.’ Woodstock is a capital book, and one which every 1 boy and girl should read. Jaxies Cassidy.

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A PRACTICAL JOKE.

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p p

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290 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVII. WALEORD’S REVENGE. ALFORD, take an hour.’ ‘ Please, sir, I was doing nothing.’ ‘ Take two.’ ‘ Please, sir - ’ ‘ Do you wish me to say three P ’ Walford scowled, hut was silenced. Dr. Morgan’s patience had been sorely tried that bright afternoon by Walford’s conduct. The youth, who was seldom a very diligent student, preferring at all times sport to books, had beaten his record on this occasion for inattention and carelessness. Twice within forty minutes he had been spoken to, and once the doctor had caught his eye, as he was discussing with liis near neighbour the chances of the cricket match to come off between Bromley College and the School team on the next afternoon. Walford was one of the School Eleven, and a hero in the eyes of his fellows. He was perhaps the best batsman that the school had ever had, and that is saying a good deal, as it had boasted amongst its players some first- rate cricketers. Aggrieved and sulky Walford sat at his desk, his head resting on his elbow ; he had no intention of applying himself to his neglected studies. ‘ It is a shame,’ he told himself, " ‘ and the doctor is a brute ! ’ The word was given for dismissal, and the boys rushed out into the joyous sunshine, free to chatter and romp to their hearts’ content. Walford alone remained. ‘Get to your German translation,’ said the doctor, looking up from his desk. ‘Please, sir, need I stay this time?’ asked Walford. ‘ I am sorry to say you must,’ replied the doctor. ‘ Get on with your work.’ Two hours — two long hours ! The glad voices of his fellows reached Walford as they played the games in which his heart delighted, and he knew that in a few minutes they would he at the wickets, while he — the thought was unbearable — scribbled away at his ‘ musty old German.’ Now and again the cheering shouts from the cricket-field fell on his ear, and deepened his misery. He felt as though he must rush from the room. ‘ Mean old tyrant,’ he thought to himself, ‘ I wish I were in his place for a jiffy, I would let him know a thing or two.’ But all the fuming and fretting of the enraged prisoner could not alter things ; lie was Walford the culprit, and his judge was his offended schoolmaster. The school dock ticked on to the scratching of the doctor’s diligent pen. ‘ It will be a lesson for him,’ thought Dr. Morgan. ‘He has been getting more careless and lazy than ever lately. I have overlooked too much ; he shall stay the full time.’ An hour and three-quarters passed, and Walford rCU shuffled his feet and closed his books preparatory to strapping them. ‘Open your books, sir,’ ordered his master; ‘you have a quarter of an hour yet.’ Walford dared not disobey, thero was that in the doctor’s tone that made disobedience impossible ; but there was kindled in Walford's mind a dan¬ gerous spark — the spark of malice. Had the day been less sunny and the cricket match farther off, it is possible that the ill-feeling would have found no nourishment in his soul. As it was he nursed and cherished his ill-will, and when he left the schoolroom, it was with a mind made up to watch for a chance to pay off his score. Nor was the chance long in coming. The follow¬ ing day dawned bright and beautiful, the sky was cloudless, the school" in fine spirits, for it meant to win the match. The occasion called for a half- holiday, and off trooped the lads to don flannels. Punctually at two the game began, and at four o’clock Bromley School had had its innings, and made 102 runs. Another hour, and two-tliirds of the Dulwich Eleven had been in, having scored a total of forty runs. Things were looking bad when cries of 6 Go it, Wal ! ’ ‘ Play up ! ’ ‘ Show them what you can do ! ’ greeted the appearance of Walford s bat. ‘ He will make the ball fly! Trust old Wall’ said another ; ‘ they will have to look out now ! ’ and as if to justify the predictions, the ball was adroitly struck by the batsman, and sent flying beyond the limits of the playing-fields. ‘A boundary — a boundary ! ’ shouted the onlookers. ‘ Hurrah for Walford!’ ‘Hurrah for Walford!’ cried the doctor, as he walked upon the scene. ‘ Well plajred, Walford ! ’ Walford caught sight of his schoolmaster and saw that he was cheering him ; but instead of feeling gratified by this approbation, angry thoughts filled his mind, and the demon of revenge reminded him of his evil determination of the preceding day. ‘Play!’ shouted the bowler, and Walford, with all the skill of an expert batsman, drove the hall straight and true for the doctor. It found its mark, and struck the master on the face. Almost stunned, and stumbling in his pain and blindness, Dr. Morgan turned his. back on the playing-field and made for his house. ‘ Time’s up,’ signalled the umpires as four o’clock struck, Dulwich having knocked up 110 runs with only eight men out. ‘Hurrah for Dulwich!’ ‘Hurrah for old Wally!’ shouted the cricketers, and Walford found himself the hero of hour. But to Walford the shouts and congratulations of his fellows were torture ; he would gladly have changed places with Dr. Morgan, had that been possible. lie could share his trouble with none, he could ask sympathy from none, and his own heart condemned him. For hours that night he lay awake, thinking regretfully of his revenge. It was not, after all, so sweet as he had fancied it would be, for it was closely attended by remorse, and the remorse was bitter — so bitter that Walford resolved to request a private interview with Dr. Morgan, and make a full confession of his sin. With beating heart and downcast eyes he entered the doctor’s private sitting-room, at the conclusion of

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 291 the afternoon school on the following day. ‘ Please, sir/ lie began, 4 I want to tell you I am sorry — very sorry - - ‘Of course you are sorry, Walford; your random 4 Not'random, sir/ said Walford, banging bis bead. 4 Poor lad, poor lad ! ’ said Dr. Morgan kindly, laying his band on Walford’s shoulder. 4 Poor lad, your sufferings are worse than mine. We shall understand each other better in the future, Walford. Will you let me be a friend to you from to-day P ’ A sob was the boy’s only answer, but there was no anguish in it ; it was the sob of peace that is born of forgiveness. James Cassidy. And then Hugh tightly clasped his hands, Then to himself did say, 4 1 will not shirk ; I’ll meet the clouds, And keep in duty’s wa}r. 4 I guess that if I make a move To find an easy place, I shall not be with such as are Successful in life’s race. 4 Oh, no ; I guess that men of whom. The world is justly proud Were never known to leave a post Because they saw a cloud. AN OBJECT LESSON. HUGH MAXWOETH left his work one eve With extra rapid pace ; His heart was stirred by thoughts which sent A frown upon his face. His master had been hard to please, Had blamed him without cause ; In fact — to use a well-worn phrase — Poor Hugh was in the wars. This was a disappointing state, For Hugh had thought that he Could go on smoothly to success, And keep from tangles free. And so that evening — having found That such was not the case — He said, 4 Ah, well, I’ll make a move, And try another place.’ When he had formed this plan lie paused, And raised his downcast eyes, And looked upon the glorious scene Which decked the western skies. 4 So I’ll keep on in spite of all ; No shirker’s trick for me — God helping me/ he softly sa’.d, 4 I’ll win a victory.’ And from that eve Hugh met and bore His trials patiently ; And as he kept in duty’s path He met prosperity. <*!*#** Dear lads, wherever you may go, You will be sure to find Some things to bear which are not light, Nor pleasant to your mind. But do not be discouraged, lads, Nor try such things to shirk ; Bear all you meet in duty’s path, For this is noble work. And true success is only won By those who persevere ; Who work as well when clouds are seen As when life’s sky is .clear. Daphne Hammonde. He watched the dark clouds move along Towards the setting sun ; He saw that when they reached the west A splendid light was won. On some was placed a purple ray, On others red and gold ; For every cloud assembled there A radiance was unrolled. i On such a scene Hugh oft had gazed, But never to perceive The object lesson which he saw So plainly on that eve. 4 Why, life is like the sky,’ he said, 4 And duty is the sun ; The clouds are like the tiresome things From which I meant to run. 4 But now it’s clear to me that if The clouds are met aright, They glide along on duty’s way, And enter into light.’ CHEIS WHARTOI. (Continued from page, 283.) CHAPTEIt IV. stay in Capetown was devoted by the younger members of the party to pleasure and sight-seeing. The elders, it was true, had business to transact, but Uncle Edward found intervals of time in which to show his nephews and niece a great deal of what was most worth seeing in the town and neighbour¬ hood. He did not, indeed, recommend them — as Chris, of course, was anxious that he should — to attempt the ascent of Table Mountain.

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292 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVII. ‘No, no, my fine fellow!’ he said, in answer to earnest entreaties, ‘you do not know what you are talking about. It is not only that the climb would tire us all out, but that the sudden falling of the mist — the “table-cloth,” of which your friend Mr. Watts told you — makes the mountain-sides dangerous to strangers. Visitors have fallen over the precipices and been killed, up amongst the clouds there, before now. Besides, it is “ ladies first ” with us Colonials. I wish you to go now where your mother and sister can accompany us. We will climb Signal Hill by-and-by, if you please ; but first you shall have another look at our Capetown streets and buildings, and see how closely we can compete with the old country .’ They were, therefore, taken back to the Docks where they had landed, and then through Adderley Street, the finest thoroughfare in the town. They walked under the stately oaks of Government Avenue, saw the Houses of Parliament and Govern¬ ment House, the Public Library and Museum, where Ambrose revelled in the sight of multitudes of books, and the beautiful Botanical Gardens, from which Edith could hardly be torn away. The Castle and the Parade Ground, the churches and the markets, were all passed in review ; but what struck the boys most was their Saturday- evening ramble through noisy, bustling Plein Street, where the Malays — those strange people who form such a large part of the town’s inhabitants— -come to do their shopping. The queer, bright dresses, alike of men and women, and their odd talk and gestures, made old familiar England seem very far away. There were some things in the town which dimmed the radiance of their first impressions: when the wind rose high, sweeping through the streets, and carrying with it clouds of hot dust, which pene¬ trated into every fold and wrinkle of their clothing, when eyes, and mouth, and ears alike seemed full of the gritty atoms, or when they were assailed by peculiar and unsavoury smells, unknown to their English nostrils, and concerning which, when they asked for an explanation, Uncle Edward muttered, ‘ Drains ! ’ Then they began to doubt whether Cape¬ town were, in truth, the complete paradise which, at the outset, it had appeared. Chris lumped all the coloured people as ‘ Niggers.’ Ambrose, fresh from the Encyclopcedia he had been reading at the Library, learnedly informed his brother that there were two great families or races of South African natives, the Gariepine and the Bantu.

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‘Oh, stuff!’ cried Uncle Edward, who was listen¬ ing. ‘ Better call them all Niggers, as Chris does. Some are Hottentots and some are Kaffirs, and there are the Bushmen, of course ; but as for your other names, Nephew Ambrose, they will not go down here.7 ‘What were the queer people we saw in Plein Street?5 asked Edith. ‘The women with wide red and green skirts, and such odd men, in coloured clothes, too ? 5 * Those are Malays ; since Ambrose is so clever, he knows where they come from, I suppose/ Ambrose hardly relished the under-tone of ridicule in his uncle’s voice, but he answered, with as good

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294 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXYII. a grace as he could muster, that he believed the Malays came originally from the south-eastern coast of Asia. ‘ Hight/ responded his uncle. 4 The old Dutch settlers brought them over here at first, and here they have increased and multiplied, and have done a great part of the work of the Colony. We have Malay cab-drivers, and hawkers, and laundresses, and tram-conductors, and I do not know what be¬ sides.’ 4 Do they go to church, uncle?’ Edith asked, doubtful, whether she could regard these queer beings as fellow-creatures, and anxious to find some bond of union. ‘ They go to their mosques, little girl. They are Mohammedans, nearly all of them — the same as the Turks, you know.’ ‘ What language do the black people speak ?’ she asked. 4 1 could not tell a single word they said.’ ^ 4 A good many of them speak the 44 Taal,” a kind of mixed lingo, with native, and Dutch, and Portu¬ guese, and English words, all jumbled together. But our coloured servants soon pick up a little English, and we do not bother ourselves much with their jargon.’ They had a beautiful drive round the Lion’s Head, as it is called, getting fine views of the town and sea ; nor was the promised climb of Signal Hill forgotten, where the silver trees were seen growing close at hand. But the time drew near when Uncle Edward would have sold all his wool, and bought all his stores ; and he grew anxious to be setting his face homewards, wanting, as he said, to have a real family gathering at Wharton’s Kop Farm for Christmas. 4 What is 44 kop,” uncle ?’ Edith was nothing in these days, her brothers said, but a walking question-shop. ‘/‘Kop” is just a hill,’ answered Uncle Edward, smiling down upon his small niece. * Kop, or “ kopje,” means a little hill. There is one on the farm, so we put our name to it, and called it Wharton’s Kop. After to-morrow we will set. out for it, but to-morrow there is a thing I want to show the boys, which will tell them more about our life out here than a lot of talking could do.’ Very early next morning -Mf. Edward Wharton’s big cheery voice was heard at the door of his nephews’ sleeping-room. 4 Come along, young men, it is our show to-day. Your father and mother and Edith will stay at the hotel here, or take it easily about the town ; but we must be off for the excursion I told you about before the sun gets too high.’ It was hot enough to the boys already; but if they complained, Uncle Edward laughingly told them to wait till January, and then they might per¬ haps know something of what heat" really was. He took them on the tram to the outskirts of the town, and when they had to get out and walk, he told them to notice the exquisite colouring of the flowers which grew upon the broken ground over which they were passing. More rain than usual had fallen during the weeks previous to their arrival, so that lovely luxuriant blossoms were every here and there. 4 Though these are nothing,’ their uncle assured them, * compared with what you would have found a month or two back. In spring-time the Cape heaths are a sight to behold. There are said to be three hundred and fifty different kinds ; some are as tall as small trees, and all are beautiful.’ They came to a place where the ground sloped gradually down into a little valley or dell. Here their uncle stopped and bade them look round. Beneath them was a large white object, which the boys at first took for a tent, and more than a dozen oxen were standing or lying about in various atti¬ tudes of repose. Two coloured men were fetching water from a pool in the near neighbourhood, and a very tall, bearded, farmer-like individual was leaning against the trunk of a tree and enjoying a quiet pipe as he gazed at the peaceful scene before him. 4 This,’ said Uncle Edward, 4 is my friend, Gilliam. His farm is a long way beyond mine — right in the interior. When he comes to Capetown, he comes, as you see, in his ox-waggon, and outspans — or, as you would say, rests or encamps — at some distance from the town. Now you must come and speak to him, and no doubt he will entertain us with such cheer as his stores can furnish.’ Mr. Gilliam appeared to the boys a very formidable new acquaintance; he laughed grimly when they were presented to him, and onty said, shaking his head at Uncle Edward, 4 So these are your 44 tender¬ foot ” nephews, are they, Wharton ? ’ 4 Wonder what he meant by that ? ’ whispered Chris to his brother, when the lads had dropped behind. 4 44 Tender-foot ! ” that is what they call the new fellows that come to the diggings and the ranches in all the adventure stories/ Ambrose answered, and to him, as well as to Chris, the expression sounded the reverse of complimentary. But the owner of the oxen, they soon found, had a kind heart under his gruff exterior. When his long talk with their uncle was done, he insisted on the boys getting into the waggon and sharing the curious meal, which might have been either luncheon or second breakfast, and for which, in spite of the heat, they were quite ready. Who would have thought that tinned meat and hard biscuits, eaten off plates which they had to balance on their knees as best they might, could possibly have tasted so good ? After lunch, the boys watched with interest while the black driver and the ‘ foreloper/ as the man who leads the foremost pair of oxen is called, ‘inspanned/ that is, yoked the animals to the waggon again, and prepared to resume their journey. 4 Now/ said their uncle, 4 our friend here proposes that we should travel a stage with him to a place where there is a station, whence we can return by rail. If you care to have the ride you have only got to say so, and Charlie — Mr. Gilham, I mean — will bo willing to take you.’ The great springless waggon, with its tent-like top, groaned and creaked, as the seven pair of oxen were fastened to it, two by two. The driver cracked his immense whip with a sharp, resounding report, which made Ambrose wince as he thought of the skins of the poor creatures upon whom the blows must fall. The foreloper, a slim, dark-skinned lad,

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 295 seized the rein which was fastened to the horns of | the foremost oxen. Both the servants shouted and yelled at the patient beasts under their charge, and, with much noise and clamour, the lumbering vehicle started on its way. Inside the waggon there was plenty of room, or would have been but that the goods of all hinds which 4 Charlie ’ had been to Capetown to purchase blocked a large part of the interior. From the roof hung a 4kartel,’ or waggon-bed, a comfortable sleep¬ ing-place enough when nights have to be spent upon the road; and a couple of guns, some camp-stools, and a miscellaneous assortment of pots and pans were fastened against the sides. What the boys especially admired was that each of the oxen had a name of it3 own, and knew it well. When 4 Solomon,’ or 4 Gordon,’ or 4 Blacktop ’ was shouted at, the animal named quickened his pace instantly, and used as they were to blows and hard words, it was plain that they were sensible of every little kindness shown to them. The driver and foreloper acted after their kind, but Charlie Gilham patted the rough hides of his beasts when he walked, as he sometimes did, beside them, and : cheered them on with words which did more to hasten their steps than the cracking of the terrible 4 sjambok,’ or whip of hippopotamus-hide. Once the waggon-wheel sank down in a hole — the chief danger of the 4 trek’ across the 4 veldt,’ or open country. Then the entire party had to dismount, and there was much pushing and shouting and literal putting of shoulders to the wheel, until with a great effort it was lifted out of the rut, and they were set upon their way again. When they had said good-bye to Mr. Gilham at the lonely-looking little station, with its corrugated iron roof — when the lazy colonial train had come j slowly puffing up, and they had made the dusty j journey back to Capetown, the boys were thoroughly i tired with their day’s outing. { Continued at page 302.) SOMETHING- ABOUT STAMPS. WIIAT is a postage-stamp ? It may. be described as a receipt given by Government for a sum of money paid for a special purpose — the conveyance | of a letter or parcel from one place to another. The first stamps are said to have been used in Paris so long ago as A.D. 1653, when boxes were placed in various parts of the city, into which the public were invited to drop their letters. These boxes were cleared three times a day by persons who carried the letters to their respective destinations, one sou being charged for each letter. This modest sum was prepaid by means of a ticket fastened to the missive, the tickets being sold at the convents, colleges, and prisons. One hundred and seventy years later, in a.d, 1823, a Swede named Treffenburg suggested the use of stamped envelopes in his country, but nothing came of his proposal ; and it was in England, in the year a.d. 1840, that postage-stamps were first brought into general use. Stamp-collecting owes its origin to some Belgian boy or girl, whose name, unfortunately, has not been preserved. All we know is that the first collections of these interesting little labels were formed in the pensio?is of that country, and by degrees the 4 mania,’ as it was then called, spread into France, Germany, and England. The craze was a harmless one, but it excited great ridicule, as non- collectors were quite unable to see any reason for the enthusiasm displayed by those who fell victims to it. Writing in a.d. 1863, an English reviewer said: 4 It is scarcely probable that Ttmbromanie ’ (the pur¬ suit had not then acquired an English name), 4 though it is now having its day, and though it pos¬ sesses a literature of its own, can long retain its hold upon either old or young.’ This prophecy has not been fuKilled. The study of stamps has developed into something like a science, and large sums of money are annually expended by collectors in this and other countries. Regarded simply as works of art, stamps are ex¬ tremely interesting. The early issues were either embossed or engraved, and many of them were most beautifully executed. The 12J cents Nova Scotia, known as the 4 queen of stamps,’ is a perfect speci¬ men of the engraver’s art, and the old octagonal six¬ penny, tenpenny, and shilling English are beautiful examples of embossing. Most of the stamps now in use are surface-printed. Stamp-collectors are often laughed at, but there is much to be said in favour of their hobby. The schoolboy learns many a lesson in history and geo¬ graphy from the pages of his album, and a boy well up in stamps will not make the mistake which I once heard from the lips of a Cambridge undergraduate, 4 Victoria is in India , is it not ? ’ II. L. T. THE PABTHIDGE’S NEST, W 0 boys playing in a corn¬ field near a wood found a partridge’s nest, and suc¬ ceeded in catching the hen bird, which was sitting upon the eggs. 4 You,’ said the elder boy, 4 take the eggs, and 1 will keep the hen; the eggs are worth quite as much as the bird, and I know you are very fond of them.’ 4 If that is the case,’ said the younger boy, 4 give me the hen and you keep the eggs.’ Then the boys began to quarrel, and from words soon came to blows, and tried to pull each other by the hair. While the struggle was going on, the hen made her escape from the elder boy, and the younger trod by accident upon the eggs and broke them. Now that they had lost all they began to see their folly, and remembered when too late a proverb which their wise father had often told them, that 4 It is better to be content with an egg than to quarrel about a lien’ C. C. A

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** If you do not give me eighteen-pence, I will hand you to a policeman/

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298 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII. UNDER A CLOUD. BERT GRAYSON had lived with his grandmother ever since he was a year old, and had never known another relative, therefore her death was a very great loss to him. ‘ Whatever wdll the lad do P ’ was the general re¬ mark of the neighbours on hearing that the old lady had passed away. ‘ Oh, he won’t take any harm,’ declared one decidedly. ‘ He is nearly thirteen and has passed Ins standards, so he is ready to go to work, and he is sure to get taken on somewhere scon, for he is a willing and trusty lad. The lady at the lodge was very kind to his grandmother, I know, and it is my opinion that she will have him there.’ This opinion proved correct ; a week later Herbert had taken up his abode at Croyle Lodge in the service of Miss Methwyn, an elderly lady by whom his grandmother had been employed as laundress for several years. Herbert’s duty at the lodge was to make himself generally useful, and as he followed the teaching of the motto, ‘ Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well,’ he gave great satisfaction, and his first six months there were very peaceful and pleasant ones ; but a fortnight later the calm was disturbed by the arrival of Master Howard Methwyn, who was his mistress’s young nephew, and his senior by a year. Howard’s parents had gone to South Africa for two years, and Miss Methwyn had agreed to have him in her care during their absence, and had arranged to send him as a day pupil to a school in Monksbury, a little town three miles off. For several months previous Howard had had far too much liberty ; this was owing to his father’s illness and the unsettled state of affairs in his home, and Miss Methwyn soon found out that during that time he had had some doubtful companions, and that the care of her nephew was rather an anxious - duty. She did not know that he gave trouble to Herbert. Such, however, was the case. Howard was certainly a disturber of Herbert’s peace. Sometimes he tried to lead him to join in doing such things as Miss Methwyn had forbidden, and on these occasions Herbert did not find it easy to say No ; sometimes Howard played tricks upon him, and hindered him at his work, so that Goldney, the old gardener, found fault with him. One afternoon Howard got him under a cloud, and there he had to stay for some time. This troubled him, for he knew that he was being misunderstood by his mistress and others. On that afternoon he had been sent to do some errands in Monksbury, and one of his orders was to fetch a bottle of medicine from Doctor Kerry’s for an old lady who was ill in Croyle. It was on a Thursday — the day following market-day ; — ftnd there were few people to be seen in the streets ; in fact, when Herbert entered Clopton Street, on his way to Doctor Kerry’s, the only person in sight was an old man trying to sell oranges. On reaching the doctor’s house he was shown into the waiting-room, and whilst there a peal of laughter reached him from out-of-doors, then a man’s voice was raised in anger, but the only words which he heard distinctly were — < You young scamp, you shall pay for this ! ’ 1 Whatever is amiss P’ said Herbert to himself,, pressing his face against the window. ‘ I cannot see from here.’ As he said so the dispenser brought the medicine, and a minute later the lad was on the doctor’s doorstep, and was looking upon a scene which surprised him greatly. Herbert saw the rough orange-seller holding with a firm grasp a boy — and that boy was his young master. ‘I guess he has been playing a trick on the man,v he said to himself, for he also saw an almost empty basket on the pavement, and some ragged boys running off with oranges in their hands. 4 1 w’onder what the man means to do to him.’ The orange-seller’s next w^ords showed what he meant to do. ^ ‘ Now. then, young mister,’ he said loudly, ‘ if you do not give me eighteen-pence I will hand you to a policeman, and you will be taken before the magis¬ trates and fined. Now then, 'which is it to be ? ’ H have only got sixpence, but — but I will bring the rest in the morning ; I will, really,’ 'was Howard’s answer. ‘No, mister, you are not going oft that way/ growled the man. ‘I do not loelong to this place, and I shall not be here to-morrow. Where do your friends live ? ’ ‘ In the country, and — and I come here to school/ Howard told him. ‘ Aye, well, if that is so we can go together to the master. I reckon he will pay up to save you from the police. Come on, let us be off to him.’ At that moment Howard caught sight of Herbert.. ‘ Here, Herbert, I want you/ he shouted. Herbert hurried towards him, and the orange- seller looked from one to the other. ‘ He works at my aunt’s/ explained Howard, ‘ and I guess he has been sent on errands, and if he has- any change left I shall be able to pay you without- any more bother.’ ‘ What has happened ? ' asked Herbert. ‘ I will tell you, my lad/ said the man. ‘ This youngster gave my basket a poke with his stick and sent it. clean off my head, and my oranges went rolling in the gutter, and I do not know where else, but out of thirty I have only ten left, and he has got to pay eighteen-pence for the other twenty.’ But here Howard said, ‘ I say, Herbert, have you any money ? I want a shilling.’ ‘ I have not any of my own with me, and — and only sixpence of mistress’s. She gave me half-a-crown, and I have had to spend two shillings out of it/ was the reply. ‘Have you not any change for anybody else— cook or old Goldney P If you have, hand it over. I guess- that either of them would be willing to lend it to- get me out of a scrape.’

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No. XXXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 299 ‘The rest I have belongs to Goldney/ said Herbert, 1 he gave me two shillings, and out of it I have spent one and twopence for him, so there is tenpence left.’ ‘Capital! I want sixpence out of that, and auntie’s sixpence, then I shall be set free/ and Howard held out a hand for the money. ‘ I wish they were my own sixpences/ sighed Herbert as he gave them to him. * I do not care whose they are/ declared Howard carelessly ; then he handed them, with his own six¬ pence, to the orange-seller. The man took them and grinned. ‘Much obliged ; now you may go/ he said, ‘ and I hope that you will give up playing pranks on folk, young mister.’ Howard started off quickly the moment he was released, and at his request Herbert followed him. (Concluded at page 308.) THE DEAE MOTHER. SOME years ago, a deaf and dumb lady was married to a nobleman. Shortly after* her first child was born, the nurse observed her cautiously approach the infant’s cradle. The lady first assured herself that the baby was asleep, and then she took from under her shawl a large stone. To the utter horror of the nurse, the lady raised the stone high above her head as if to enable her to dash it down with great violence, as the nurse thought, upon the child in the cradle. Before she could prevent the action which she believed would bring certain death to the sleeping infant, the stone was thrown with great violence, not on the child, however, but on the ground. The noise awaked the child. The lady was overjoyed, and in the fulness of her heart she fell upon her knees to express her thankfulness that her beloved infant had the great blessing which was denied to herself — the sense of hearing. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. Acrostics. 42. — The title of one of the works of Charles Dickens. 1. It is in Wisdom, but not in Sense; 2. It is in Shillings, but not in Pence. 3. It is in a Million, but not in Two ; 4. It is in Veracious, but not in True. 5. It is in Every, but not in Each ; 6. It is in Converse, but not in Speech. 7. It is in Oyster, but not in Pearl ; 8. It is in Woman, but not in Girl. 9. It is in Miser, but not in Gold ; 10. It is in Frosty, but not in Cold ; 11. It is in Bought, but not in Sold. 43. — The name of a character in one of the works of the same writer. My first is in Mischief, but not in Malice ; My second’s in Rosamond, but not in Alice. My third is in Music, but not in Tone ; My fourth is in Brick, but not in Stone ; My fifth is in Present, but not in Loan. 44. — Rhyming Puzzle. The Nightingale and the Glow-worm. — Coivper. The divided lines show the number of syllables in the word to be supplied. 1. A nightingale that all day - 2. Had cheered the village with his - , 3. Nor yet at eve his note - , 4. Nor yet when eventide was - , 5. Began to feel, as well he - , 6. The keen demands of - ; 7. When looking eagerly - , 8. He spied far off upon the - 9. A something shining in the — — , 10. And knew the glow-worm by his - ; 11. So, stooping down from hawthorn - , 12. He thought to put him in his - . 13. The worm, aware of his - , 14. Harangued him thus, right - *. 15. ‘ Did you admire my lamp/ quoth - , 16. ‘ As much as I your - , 17. You would abhor to do me - , 18. As much as I to spoil your - ; 19. For ’twas the self-same Power - 20. Taught you to sing and me to - , 21. That you with music, I with - , 22. Might beautify and cheer the - .’ 23. The songster heard his short - , 24. And warbled forth his - ; 25. Released him, as my story - , 26. And found a supper somewhere - . 45. — Metagrams. 1. Change the first letter of a wind instrument, and find the following words. 2. The time of sunrise. 3. The worse for wear. 4. Lonely, desolate. 5. A most useful vegetable product. 6. Separated by force. [. Answers at page 319. j ANSWERS. , — 1. Epaminondas. 4. Leonidas. 8. Vespasian, 2. Sophocles. 5. Cassandra. 9. Draco. 3. Cato. 6- Miltiades. 10. Cornelia. 7. Theseus. , — 1. WHIST 2. T O N E 3. BRAN honor omen RARE INGLE NEED ARTS SOLES ENDS NEST TRESS 4. L I 0 N 5. BEAR INTO EASE OTTO ASIA NOON REAL SAVED BY A MONKEY. A GENTLEMAN who had been travelling in Africa brought a large monkey home with him. The monkey loved his master very much, but he loved his master’s baby boy still more. One day a fire broke out in the gentleman’s house. Everybody

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Saved by a Monkey. was busy trying to put it out, and no one thought of the baby till it was too late. The staircase was already in flames. What was to be done? Men rushed for a ladder to reach the window, but a ladder was of no use now. As they were looking up with tears in their eyes, what do you think they saw ? They saw a hairy hand and arm push up the nursery window. Then out came the monkey, carrying the baby in his arms. Down he climbed, slowly and carefully, and brought the little boy safely to the nurse. How the faithful monkey was praised and petted for his brave deed !

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NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL. THERE ! You have the picture of Nelly Johnson crying under the shadow of one of the big trees in the park, where a party of children had been taken to spend a summer holiday afternoon. Not the way to enjoy an outing, was it ? Suppose I tell you what had happened. Like most of us, old and young, Nelly had her faults. One of the most trying faults to her friends and playfellows was that she was so easily put out of temper. Just a trifle — and Nelly would walk off in a < huff,’ as her companions said. It did not last very long, but, oh ! how disagreeable it was for others while it lasted. So in the middle of all the fun of that day’s . ex¬ cursion for some forty or fifty children, this little girl became vexed with another and away she walked by herself, saying that she should not speak to any of them. She did not mean to go very far. She thought that it would be a punishment for the others if she frightened them a little and sent them running back to the ladies in charge, crying, ‘ Nelly Johnson is lost,’ Then, when every one was searching for her, she would appear from out of the shadow of the trees and stand in the midst of them. However, Nelly was to be the chief sufferer through her ill-humour, for she lost her way, and then she sat down to cry because she thought that no one would

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302 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII. find her, and that perhaps she would be left in the silence and darkness all night. But it was not so bad as that, I am glad to say. When Nelly had shed a good many tears, a little courage began to stir within her. Sitting down to cry never did and never will help any of us out of a difficulty ; and though she was only a child she began to think that she had better try to find her way back, at any rate, to some point where she could make her voice heard. She ran forward, trying to be brave, and asking God to take care of her in the lonely paths of the big old park. And how glad Nelly was when the sound of other children’s voices reached her I need hardly tell you ; and she hurried on till she was in the thick of them, and then she found that they had not even missed her, and she had only frightened and punished herself. M. C. S. CHRIS WHARTON. ( Continued from page 295.) CHAPTER V. THOMAS WHARTON had not been in an alto¬ gether happy frame of mind since joining his brother. The contrast between their fortunes, hardly felt at a distance, touched him sharply now that they were brought together. It was onty too plain that, while Edward had enough and to spare for the carry¬ ing out of every plan, Thomas must still be hampered by his poverty, and must go the cheapest way to work in all that he intended to do. * Between unlucky farming and unsuccessful book¬ selling there is not much left of the sum with which we started in life,’ said Mr. Thomas to his wife, rather sadly. ‘ Sometimes, when I look at the children, I am downright afraid to think of the future, and I could find it in my heart to wish I had never been their father.’ ‘ Ah, Thomas,’ replied gentle Mrs. Wharton, look¬ ing up from the sewing which, at home or abroad, was never long out of her fingers, ‘what would you or any father or mother be as a stay to the children if it were not for the great Father of us all? To my mind it is enough that He Who has brought us here will take care of us, and make provision for us now as in the years that are past.’ In his heart of hearts Thomas Wharton knew that his wife was right, but the knowledge did not pre¬ vent him from feeling that hers was only a woman’s way of looking at things, and saying/4 Susan, you know nothing of the practical difficulties which beset a man in my unfortunate position.’ He carried his troubles to his brother next, only to find that Edward, too, was prepared to make light of the gloomy prospect which his imagination had conjured up, and was as sanguine as ever about the advantages of the new departure. ‘ I tell you, Ted, it is of no use to talk so,’ Mr. Wharton urged. ‘ Now I am out here, I just feel that we have come on a wild-goose chase after all. I am too old to take to your new ways ; even your sheep¬ farming is different from what I have been used to, I can see that very well. And as to ostriches, which you say you rear, is it likely that a man at my time of life can learn to manage those outlandish birds ? I am too old, and the lads are too young, and you will find in the end that you have got us all out 'here to be a dead weight upon your hands.’ Edward Wharton was rather staggered by this unexpected darkening of his brother’s views; but, happening -just then to catch his sister-in-law’s glance, he read in it so clear a warning not to take this fit of grumbling too seriously, that he knew at once how to answer. ‘Look here, Tom, how old are you?’ he said. ‘I am forty-five, as you know,’ said Mr. Thomas, ‘and at forty-five, I can tell you, a man is past his best; there is not much more to be got out of him.’ ‘Pooh!’ laughed Edward. ‘There is an old stager, not an hour’s ride from Wharton’s Kop, who is seventy* five, and can do better than the young ones yet. Seriously, my dear fellow, I think you are very wrong ; nothing . does so much harm as taking a gloomy view of things. Get rid of your low spirits by all means. Just look at the other side a bit. If you are not so young as you once were, you have got health and strength, and you have sons — -hopeful lads — that many a man would give all he possesses to call his own. I cannot sympathise so much with Ambrose, because he and I are not made out of the same sort of stuff, somehow; but Chris is a lad who might go anywhere — do anything. He will be a host in himself, that boy will. Don’t you see that, instead of being a trial or a burden, the young folk are our best hope — especially in a new country like this?’ I All very well,’ growled Mr. Wharton, ‘ but that does not alter the fact that I am a broken-down man, with as good as no money, and no chance of giving my sons a start.’ ‘ You can have money. I have told you over and over again, that I will advance you what you want. It is just the same with you as with our ox-waggons when they get into a hole. There is a lot of push¬ ing and heaving and shouting, and perhaps an extra team has to be hitched on ; but by dint of friendly help, and, above all, by putting our own shoulders to the wheel, we get upon the road again, and make better travelling than ever.’ ‘Is Thomas often apt to talk like this?’ Mr. Edward inquired of Mrs. Wharton, when her hus¬ band had taken his hat and gone out. She smiled, a little sadly, as she answered, ‘ Not ver}r often, but of late years he has certainly grown more liable to get into a desponding frame of mind, and I have much ado to cheer him up, some¬ times.’ ‘ It is a danger,’ mused Edward, ‘ against which all middle-aged people, and some young ones too, have need to be constantly on their guard. A fit of

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I No. XXXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 303 the blues, as it is called, may do much harm, to ourselves and others too, especially when, as in nine cases out of ten, our gloomy forebodings have no foundation in fact.’ ‘A firm religious faith is the best safeguard, I think/ replied Mrs. Wharton. * Very true, my dear Susan; but common sense, and a habit of trying to keep cheerful, are by no ineans to be despised. Besides, Tom has really no right to despond; why, I have known a man come to the Colony with no capital at all, with nothing but an active brain and a pair of willing hands, and make, if not a fortune, at least a competence, in a few years’ time.’ 6 1 ara sorry, Edward,’ she said gently. 1 Sorry, because this complaining seems such a poor return for all your great kindness. But, believe me, it will soon pass ; by to-morrow, or the next day, Thomas will take a brighter view of things. I have learned by experience not to make too much of his despon¬ dency.’ But the cloud had not lifted much when they set out from Capetown, and the long inland railway journey was not exactly an enlivening or cheering process. All who have travelled by rail in the Cape Colony, during summer-time, know the many discomforts of the way : the glaring heat, the chok¬ ing dust, the crawling pace of trains which creep from one desolate-looking station to another, at something like fifteen miles an hour. Between their own belongings, and the things which Uncle Edward had brought, there was a great deal of baggage to be looked after ; and a constant fear lest something should be lost, stolen, or left behind, possessed the whole party. Mrs. Wharton thought of the scriptural words, ‘ In this we groan, being burdened/ and indulged, for half a moment, in a mental picture of life without the endless troubles which are our portion here below. They were all tired out, when the last station was sighted — ‘ Be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it ringeth to evensong/ quoted Uncle Edward, in his cheery voice. ‘Here we are at Seymourstack, which is only eight miles from home, and there is Dick, with the waggon waiting for us, or I am very much mistaken/ The waggon from Wharton’s Kop was not so big or so heavy as Mr. Gilliam’s, and it was drawn by horses, not oxen. Uncle Edward thought very highly of his team, and told his brother and the boys over and over again that his were c salted/ or t saulted/ horses, and as such were very valuable. The term puzzled Chris until it was explained to him that salted horses were those which had had, and had recovered from, the horse-sickness which is so prevalent in the country. Horses which have once had the disease are not, it is said, liable to take it again, and may be counted upon to keep up and do their work when others around them are failing. These steeds of their uncle’s did not, in the boys’ eyes, make so fine a figure as English horses would have done; but, since it was clear that they had plenty of honour in their own country, Chris and Ambrose thought it best to say nothing about them. They turned their attention to Dick, trying to get a nearer view of him as he stood by the fence, talking to the station-master, and awaiting their arrival in a careless, leisurely sort of way. Dick was as fine and handsome a young colonist as any one need wish to see. At seventeen he was already taller than his father, and appeared to be on good terms with himself and all the rest of the world. He greeted the boys heartily, and was full of kind attentions to his aunt and cousin, insisting on relieving Mrs. Wharton of the light things which she carried, and lifting* Edith into the waggon as easily as though she had been a feather’s weight. It was pleasant to see the gladness with which Dick and his father met after thier brief separation. ‘ Dick is my right-hand man/ Uncle Edward told the others. 1 You see, I can leave home for two or three weeks with a clear conscience, because I know well enough that all will go on right in my absence. To be sure, there is Paul Harvey, the Englishman, who looks after the birds, and there are old Jacob and the other Kaffir labourers, ' as well as the shep¬ herd and one or two odd hands ; but it is to Dick I look to keep things going — Dick out of doors and your Aunt Alice within.’ When a Cape Colonist talks about birds, he means ostriches. The care of these creatures, and the profits from them, occupied a large place in Mr. Edward Wharton’s thoughts, and he had numerous questions to ask his son as to the state of the ostrich camps and the incubators, and the progress which had — or perhaps had not — been made during his absence. Dick talked to Chris while he handled the long reins, for the road, though bad, was so familiar to lhm that, as he himself said, he could have driven to Seymourstack station with his eyes shut. It was now too dark to get a notion of the country through which they were passing, but the waggon was much better than the stuffy train, and, with the going down of the sun, the air had cooled somewhat. 4 It will be quite fresh by-and-by/ Dick said. ‘ It is the cool nights, my mother always says, which make her able to bear up against the blazing heat we have in summer. For my own part, I am never much put out with the heat.’ ‘ You do not look as if you were much put out by anything/ said his Uncle Thomas, half-enviously. What a thing* it was to be seventeen, and to have the splendid frame and the easy confidence in his own powers of this young son of the Colonies! Mr. Thomas Wharton, like some other fathers, had no eyes to see in his own Christopher the very qualities which he admired in Dick. It would have surprised him very much to hear, as his brother was just then thinking, that, except for the couple of years’ difference in age, Dick and Chris were very much upon a par. Ambrose sat silent, thinking over the events of the day, and Mrs. Wharton and Edith were too tired to say much. They were glad when Dick reined in his horses outside a fenced enclosure, with trees and buildings dimly visible through the darkness, and when Uncle Edward, getting down from the waggon, bade them all a hearty welcome to Whartons Kop- ( Continued at page 306.)

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304 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII.

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No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. “Paul Harvey was a man of taste, and had papered his one room with pictures.” it it

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300 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. CHRIS WHARTON. {Continued from page 303.) CHAPTER YI. E bright yellow light of the large paraffin lamp which hung in the wide entrance of the old farm¬ house streamed out upon the travellers as the door was opened. We say ‘ old ’ advisedly, for a hundred years and more had passed away since the Dutchman who* began to build it had been laid in his grave. Later tenants had added a room here and a lean-to there, as their boys and girls had grown too many, or too big, for the homestead. One farmer had planted the oak-trees, which had taken root and flourished grandly, and another had added the ‘stoep’ or verandah, which formed such a pleasant resting-place on hot after¬ noons. So that the house, though large, was altogether a thing of shreds and patches ; it had the thick, heavy < stone walls which were built by the early Dutch ' settlers, with a black-and-white timbered front, like many an old-fashioned English farm ; and while there were two immensely large rooms, used by the present owners as dining-room and parlour, the others were all small and quaint, and those under the roof, where the boys would have to sleep, had white¬ washed walls and bare rafters. All this Chris and his brother and sister noticed later ; for the present they only saw the cheerful burst of lamp-light, and Aunt Alice and her daughter Lihr standing ready to greet them. ‘ Come in, you poor tired people ; you must be fainting for your supper, I am sure. Thomas — why, Thomas, I never should have known you ! Susan, my dear creature, do take this easy chair, and sit down before you say a single word. This is Chris, I am certain ; and this must be Ambrose ; and this little lamb — take off her hat and coat, Lily — she is almost dropping asleep.5 Dick laughed. ‘ There now, mother,’ he said, 1 do « let somebody else get in a word edgeways. We are all as hungry as hunters, and if you will only — like a good soul — hurry up the supper, Lily will do the talking for the next five minutes.’ Aunt Alice, at this reminder, went off to hasten the movements of her Kaffir maidens, who could never be trusted to mind their work alone. Dick and his father had to superintend the removal of the horses from the waggon, and see them settled for the night, before they themselves could come to table. For the one thing which makes colonial life hard is the fact that all coloured labourers require constant looking after. Left alone with her new relations, Lily might have been pardoned if she had shown some shyness ; but the tall well-grown girl, older than Chris and younger than Dick, with her thick hair plaited into a long tail behind, and her light cotton dress set off by a blue ribbon at the neck, did not know what shyness meant. She petted Edith and chatted to Mrs. Wharton, joked with the boys, and made grave remarks to their father, as easily and simply a3 though she had been brought up with them from babyhood. 6 There now, Edie — your name is Edie, isn t it P — lie right down here on the lounge, and let me shake up these soft cushions for you. You shall have a cup of coffee in two minutes ; and mother’s coffee is the best for twenty miles round Seymour- stack.’ ‘ Tant Anna would not let you say so if she were here,’ said Dick, who had returned by this time. ‘ Tant Anna is the mistress of the farm beyond ours,’ he explained to the others. 1 If Aunt Susan, and mother, and Edith, and Lily were rolled into one, they might, perhaps, begin to be as stout as Tant Anna, but I am not quite sure of it.’ ‘ Is her coffee so very good then, and does drinking it make people stout P ’ Ambrose wanted to know. ‘ It is simply splendid ; but I doubt if it is coffee which makes her stout, for we all drink it. Getting stout is a habit the Boers have — their womenkind, at all events. They sit by their stoves from morning till night, and let their black folk drudge for them ; and the fatter they get, the more beautiful and virtuous they are considered.’ ‘But you said the Kaffir servants wanted such a lot of looking after,’ objected Chris. ‘ So they do, lad, if things are to be done as we like them. But the Boers are not particular; you should see the state of Tant Anna’s kitchen ; it would make you open your eyes ! Then they never* even have the beds made till it is time to get into them at night ; and most of them sleep with their clothes on, and wash themselves about once a fort¬ night.’ ‘ You are making the worst of them, surely, Dick,’ said Mr. ‘Wharton. ‘ Honour bright, I am not, uncle. But here como father and mother at last. Now, little Cousin Edith,, you are going to sit by me, you know.’ Dick and Lily were almost ready to quarrel as to who should make the most of Edith. They, seated* her between them at the table in the big. dinings room, and heaped her plate with more dainties than, she could possibly eat. The roast chicken and the* delicious cakes and coffee would have been a treat- at another time, but rest, Edith felt, would be better than all, and in the end she was taken off to the room she was to share with Lily, leaving Chris and: Ambrose to do justice to the ample fare which had been spread out for her in vain. In the morning the boys were all agog for the look round the farm which Dick, tho last thing- at night, had promised them. Mr. Edward Wharton? carried his brother off as soon as the early break¬ fast was over, leaving the young ones to follow when Dick was at leisure. ‘ You see,’ explained Dick as they left the house,. : ‘ we are on the edge of the “ karroo ” here. A good bit of ouiudand is dry and stony enough in itself, ! but we have got the best dam- for miles and miles,

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No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. 307 round, and a well that never runs dry in the hottest weather. We will go to the dam first.’ The broad sheet of water, with numberless foot¬ prints on its edges ; the ‘ kraals,’ as the enclosures for sheep and cattle, with their loose stone walls, are called, and the huts of the Kaffir servants, had nothing but bare ground round them — bare, that is, except for the karroo bushes which the sheep and goats eat, dry and withered as they look. I3ut at the back of the house, where the well was, an orchard and garden, beautiful and fruitful as any in their native England, delighted Chris and Am¬ brose. ‘ W e raise no end of fruit here/ their cousin told them : ‘ grapes, pears, peaches, quinces, and I don’t know what. We are always watering, watering, watering — that is the secret of our good garden.’ lie took them next to the little house where Paul Harvey, the keeper of the ostriches, lived all by himself. Paul, it appeared, was a man of taste, and had papered his one room from floor to ceiling with pictures out of papers and magazines sent him by English friends. Everything was tidy and com¬ fortable ; a couple of beautiful ostrich-feathers were fastened together over a photograph on tli9 wall, and Paul himself was just rubbing up the glass which covered the picture, as he did every morning. /That is Paul’s sweetheart’s photo,’ whispered Dick as they approached. 6 He thinks the world of his Lucy Day, and saves up all his money for the time when he can send for her to come out here and he can set up on his own account.’ Then Dick raised his voice. ‘ Hello, Paul ! I have brought you some visitors.’ The man turned at the sound. ‘Well, young gentlemen/ he said, good-humouredly, ‘ an English¬ man’s house is his castle, you know. Come in, if you please, and have a look at mine. It is not verv big, is it P ’ Not very big, truly ; but Chris looked longingly at the rifle against the wall, and Ambrose noted the shelf of books beside the window. Paul saw the direction that Chris’s eyes took. ‘Can you shoot P’ he asked. And the boy was sorry to have to answer, ‘ Not yet.’ ‘Never mind, we will soon teach you. This Martini- Henry of mine has done some execution in its time, hasn’t it, Dick ? We will show you both some fine sport before long.’ ‘ Are you off to the camps, Paul ? ’ Dick wanted to know, and, getting ‘ Yes’ for an answer, he pro¬ posed to his companions that they should devote the rest of the morning to visiting the ostrich camps. ( Continued at page 314.) THE WOLF AND THE SHEEP. ONE day in early spring in the Pyrenees, a wolf, attracted by the bleating^ of lambs, came ex¬ pecting that he would easily get a meal. The mother ewe no sooner caught sight of the wolf than she flew at him with such fury that the invader drew oil. But he soon recovered from the first sur¬ prise, and returned with increased ferocity. Again the mother faced him, notwithstanding his threaten¬ ing appearance. What might have been the result we cannot say, but at that moment a shot startled the wolf, and the shout of a shepherd made the cowardly animal take to flight. e The maternal instinct is strong in the sheep, and gives it courage far beyond its natural character; yet it seems likely that, without the timely help of the shepherd, the lambs, and perhaps the mother too, would have been devoured by their fierce assailant. D. B. McKean. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. X.— ACORN SHELLS AND BARNACLES. rONDER if you remember that just as we were leaving our pool, some one — I think it was Ered — reached to a ledge of rock above the water to draw himself up, and let go hastily, rubbing bis hands in dolorous fashion, and declaring that the rocks were as sharp as knives. To this I answered that I expected he had hurt a number of living things far more than lie bad him¬ self, which suggestion was clearly not acceptable just then, as Fred felt himself to be the only creature deserving sympathy. I showed some of you that the cutting edge of the rock was caused by a number of tiny white shells clinging to its surface, and promised to tell you , their history another time. These little creatures J which attach themselves to rocks or shells are known , as Acorn Shells, though their family name is ' Baianus. Although when seen at low water they look like hard lichens or bits of fungus, if you were to watch them when the water returns you would he surprised at their beauty and vivacity. Each is a perfect animal, provided with a nervous system, so that it is capable of feeling pain or pleasure, though the latter may be limited chiefly to the commonplace enjoy¬ ment of food. Like other Crustacea of which* we have spoken, the baby baianus is quite different from the full-grown creature. To begin with, it has only three pairs of legs, a soft shield on its back instead of a shell, and one perfect eye. At this stage it is a free- swimming creature, and roams about with the care¬ lessness of infancy. Next it cultivates six pairs of swimming legs, has eyes at both sides and a double shell for a home, and during this time it lives like a chrysalis, eating nothing. When it emerges from the double shell it has grown up to be a perfect baianus, and has a conical home of its own formed of six plates folded over each other and open at the top, for which a special lid is provided, to be put on or off as the animal pleases. By thi3 time it has lost its eyes, its tail and swimming legs, and has acquired a steady determination to stand on its head henceforth and

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308 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. for ever. Instead of the swimming legs, six pairs of closely jointed ones have appeared, with long stiff hairs at each joint, and these are neatly packed away within its shell at low tide. But when once the water begins to flow over the acorn shells, they know that feeding-time has arrived, and the little hard Aoorn Shell Acorn Shell (closed). (open). shells open their lids and toss out a white feathery net¬ work, just as we might throw a shrimping net into the water. In a few seconds this is drawn in, with the object, expressed more aptly than elegantly by the late Professor Huxley, of ‘ kicking the food into their mouths with their legs/ The prey caught consists of tiny marine creatures which are masticated by three sets of jaws with which the balanus is furnished. The legs which act as the fishing-net seem to have the power of taste, as they select for food whatever pleases them best. It is difficult to imagine a more beautiful sight than a number of these acorn shells outspread be- Infant Balanus. neath tne clear water : the delicate flower-like crowns and the constant graceful motion are so attractive that one shudders to think how many of these little creatures we may have carelessly crushed in one rocky scramble. In an aquarium the balanus is not a fascinating inmate, as he has an evil trick of dying and smelling horribly, greatly to the detriment of his fellow-captives. Certain kinds of this family grow to considerable size, sometimes to as much as four inches across, and the greedy old Romans prized them as much at their banquets as the Chinese do at the present day* The creatures known as Ship Barnacles are very nearly related to the Balanus tribe, and give a vast amount of trouble to seamen by fixing themselves to vessels in such numbers as sometimes to impede the swiftness of motion. It is quite a common thing for a ship to go out with the bottom quite clean, and return with it coated over with these crustaceans, and one may often watch the process of scraping them off when the vessel is in a dry dock. The barnacle has five plates of shell, and its feathery legs protrude between these, which suggested to a French writer some two hundred and fifty years ago Barnacle Fishing. that the bird known as a Bernicle Goose came from the barnacle, which point he endeavours to prove by arguments more amusing than convincing. Helena Heath. UNDER A CLOUD. (Concluded from page 299.) HEN the two boys reached the corner of the street they halted, and Howard began a conversation. * See here, Herbert, I want to tell you something,’ he said rapidly, and in a low voice. ‘ I had a letter from father this morning, and he sent word that on my birth¬ day, the tenth of next month, auntie is to give me a sovereign if I have kept out of scrapes, so, you see, she must not know of this affair, or I shall not get that bit of gold. You understand? You are not to say a word to any one about what has just happened/ ‘ But when I give up the things I must say that I lent you the change, and that you will pay it back/ said Herbert. ‘No must in the case/ was the decided reply. 1 Now listen. I am going home on my pony, you ‘have got to walk. I shall be there half-an-hour before you Well, if I hurry in and fetch two sixpences, and meet you on the bridge and give them to you, you will have the change all right, and there will be no need for you to mention the matter. Do you see ? ’ ‘ Ye-es/ said Herbert, slowly. ‘ Well, now we come to another point. I have not a sixpence, and if I were to ask auntie for money

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this afternoon she would not give it without an ex¬ planation, so you must let me get two out of your little box ; of course I will pay you back very soon, and with interest. I know cook gave you two in exchange for the coppers paid to you for hunting up eggs, and I saw you put them in the box ; you have not taken them out, eh ?' 1 No/ was the reply. * Well, I will go into your room, slip the box in my pocket, and hurry to the bridge ; you see there is not the least harm in the plan, so you will agree to it, and — and promise not to mention my adventure with that grumpy old man ?3 After a moment's hesitation, Herbert agreed.

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310 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. ‘Thanks/ said Howard. ‘Now I am off, and 1 guess I shall be on the bridge before you are.’ And he was ; but to Herbert’s dismay he greeted him with the information that he had not been able to get the money. ‘ And all through cook’s old cat/ he laughed, but not very mirthfully. ‘ Yes, that old Timothy hap¬ pened to be lying on the mat at the foot of your bed when I went into the room, and, of course, as my eyes were on the box I did not see him, and — and the consequence was that I stood on his tail. Well, the yell he made brought cook up, and she declared that I had been up to my games, and I was speedily ordered to go from that part of the house, and I went ; but as soon as the old dame had settled her¬ self in the kitchen I crept quietly back again, but just as I got inside the door Nunn pounced upon me, and declared that I was after playing you a trick, and she threatened that if I did not take my depar¬ ture she would go straight and tell auntie, so, you see, I could not anyhow get at the box. The faci is that you must slip in without being seen, and get it before you hand over the errands/ ‘I am afraid I shall not have a chance/ said Herbert. ‘ Some one nearly always meets me by the door, and I have to give up what 1 have brought, and the change at the same time.’ ‘ Well, if you don't get a chance to have the change right before you are met, you must just say that you lent a shilling to some one in trouble/ said Howard. ‘ You will be saying what is strictly true, and no one can make a fuss about it as you have got another shilling to put in its place ; but of course/ he added with great emphasis, ‘ you must not hint that I am the one to whom you lent it, for, you see, if you were to do so you would be breaking the promise you have made, and you would be doing me an ill turn instead of a good one. Do not look so glum ; it is sure to turn our. all right, and — and I promise you something good out of my sovereign.’ And a minute later Howard had left him. ‘ Oh, dear, I am in a fix/ sighed poor Herbert, and his discomfort increased when, on reaching the lodge gate, Goldney came out to meet him. ‘Iam glad you are back/ he began; ‘you have been gqpe rather longer than usual. No, I do not want the things just now/ he went on, seeing the boy’s hand go down towards the parcels in the basket. * I want my change to pay a man who has brought up a hamper for me from the station; nobody in the house has got less than half-a-crown, and he cannot change as much as that/ Poor Herbert’s face quickly betrayed his perplexit}\ ‘ I — I haven’t got it here/ he stammered. ‘ I will run in and fetch it.’ ‘ Haven’t got it here ? 1 repeated the gardener. ‘ What have you done with it P ' ‘ I — I lent a shilling, and — I am going to put the change right out of my own money/ Herbert told him. ‘That does not sound right/ And Goldney frowned, then added promptly, ‘ Well, hurry in and make my change right/ Herbert started to obey, but before he reached the door Miss Methwyn met him. ‘ You are just in time to take these three letters and this parcel to post, Herbert/ she began ; ‘ and the sixpence change which you have will pay the postage — threepence for the letters and threepence for the parcel. You can run off at once. I will take your basket indoors and also take the medicine to Mrs. Mason/ Then, seeing that he hesitated and looked confused, she inquired, ‘ Have you anything to tell me?’ ‘ Yes, ma'am/ he faltered; ‘ I — I must go into my room before going to post, because I want to get a shilling to make the change right/ ‘To make the change right?’ and Mis3 Methwyn echoed the words in a tone of surprise. ‘Have you lost the money ? ’ * No, ma’am, I — I lent some.’ ‘ To whom ?’ his mistress asked gravely, but kindly. ‘ I — I promised not to tell, ma’am/ he said, with a sigh. ‘ I am sorry to hear it/ said Miss Methwyn in a vexed tone. ‘ However, you need not go indoors for money before going to post. I will give you some out of my purse, and during this evening I will speak to you again of the matter.’ Then she handed him a shilling, and as he took it he met a glance from her eyes which filled him with regret that he could not tell her the truth, for he felt certain that he was causing her to be disappointed in him, and he felt doubly certain of this after his interview with her in the evening, for he could then see more plainly that his refusal to answer her questions was likely to awaken the suspicion that he had got into some trouble of which he had reason to be ashamed. You can imagine how sincerely he wished that Howard would set the affair straight, but Howard refused to do so, and treated the matter as a good joke. The fact was that he knew the disclosure would reflect discredit upon himself, and he was so selfish that, to save himself from blame, he was quite content to let poor Herbert remain under the cloud. This was a great trial to Herbert, and he could not have borne it as bravely as he did if he had not thoroughly believed that the God in Heaven, Who is a reader of secrets, would one day reveal the truth about the loan. And he was not disappointed. The cloud was removed one afternoon about three weeks later, and in an unexpected manner. He was sweeping the path leading to the back door of the lodge when a strange inan came towards it, and the moment Herbert saw him he knew him as the orange-seller with whom the adventure had occurred. The man knew him too, and called out cheerily — ‘Hullo, my lad, you are the one who lent your young master the shilling to pay for the oranges he lost me ! Lucky for him that you happened to turn up just then.’ The last words had scarcely left his lips when Miss Methwyn suddenly appeared on the scene. She had been gathering honeysuckle from a tree which grew against a building close by, and she had over¬ heard the mans words, but she made no mention of this until after tea. Then she called the two boys into her study, and when she had told them wliat had reached her ears concerning it, she insisted upon having full particulars from Howard,

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No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. 311 She was very vexed on hearing’ how he had be¬ haved, and she pointed out to him how selfishly he had acted towards Herbert, and she managed to make him feel thoroughly ashamed of himself for letting his kind-hearted helper be so long under a cloud. D. Hammonde. ATTSTEALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. ^ . LIZARDS. HERE are many different kinds of Lizards in Australia, • vOUfi from the great Iguana, which l^K *s f°und °* an immense size in Queensland> to t^ie wee one> a^out three inches long, which we often see when v weeding flower-beds. Iff \ The iguanas Bear here are ff Hi ' from five to six feet long, and are very formidable-looking creatures. The colours are generally black and yellow in bands from his nose to the tip of his tail ; his legs are very short, but notwithstanding he can run very quickly and climb a tree at a wonderful rate. As a rule he runs away from man, but if he has no retreat he fights most savagely, sometimes biting a piece out of a dog, from which it is said a dog never recovers, as the wound never heals, but I do not know if this is true. It is also said' that iguanas and snakes are seldom found near each other. There are, I know, plenty of snakes in this neighbourhood, and very few iguanas, and about thirty miles from this it is just the other way, no snakes and numbers of iguanas. The Bob-tail Lizard, which the blacks call Wallop, is a queer- looking fellow — his tail is much the same shape as his head. They are very plentiful about here, and we often meet one walking through a room (all the rooms open on verandahs). They scuttle out very quickly when they see one coming. As they do no harm and some good in killing insects, they are seldom interfered with. One big fellow about eighteen inches long lived about this house for years and was not at all afraid of us ; he would eat a piece of bread while we stood looking at him. He was very fond of the berry which grows on the box- thorn hedge round the garden, and if one was nearly out of his reach he would stand on his tip-toes to get at it, and oh ! he did look so absurd. When angry the Bob-tail opens his mouth, showing a big blue tongue, and he can give a very severe bite. The Frill Lizard is another common kind. When enraged it puts up a great frill round its neck, like Queen Elizabeth’s. It is about the same size as a Bob-tail, but its tail is pointed. . Another kind is a slimy-lcoking one which lives in the scrub : it is between two and three feet long, with a pointed head and tail not at all nice to look at ; another is marked just like a tiger-snake and something like an iguana. All lizards lay eggs, sometimes as many as twenty. The small one lays a wee round, white egg, the size of a small pea ; the others oval ones, large or small according to the size of the lizard. The eggs have not shells like a bird, but a tough leathery skin. Lizards lay them in the ground, and I do not know if the mother ever goes near them or the young ones. Some boys I knew had a collection of birds’ eggs in a glass case, into which they put a few lizards’ eggs, and what was their surprise when in a short time they saw a couple of little lizards running about among the eggs. The Aborigines eat the flesh of lizards, and so do some whites. One gentleman I knew often ate iguana. He said it was in taste and appearance just like fowl. Lizards sleep all through the winter. May Collins, Victoria . CAUGHT IH A SHOWER. SUMMER shower ! ’ cried Nell to Jess, JcOL ‘ Come we must hurry to the oak ; ’ And off they ran, but they were caught Before they reached it. What a joke ! Nell laughed to see the raindrops roll Upon her eggs so fine and brown ; But Jessie did not share the fun, She made a very ugly frown. There, what a bother ! ’ muttered she, 6 The grass is now quite wet again ; We cannot have the fun we planned : Oh, dear, how I dislike the rain.’ 6 Hush, Jessie, hush,’ her sister said, 6 We must not grumble at a shower, But take it as a precious gift, Because of its refreshing power.’ Just then a lad appeared in sight, And on his back he carried wood ; He quickly joined them at the tree, And found its shelter wide and good. ‘ Ah, what a lovely shower ! ’ he said, « ‘ We cannot tell how great its worth : I am quite vexed at having kept These precious raindrops from the earth. ‘ You looked surprised,’ he added then To Jess. i Well, little miss, you see They would have reached the thirsty ground Had they not fallen upon me. 6 And there they do such splendid work ; Aye, if we had no summer shower, Where could we find a running brook, Green grass, and leaves, and lovely flower ? i And we, with all the beasts and birds, Would suffer from the drought, I guess; But this, of course, you know right well.’ And Jessie slowly answered, ( Tes.’

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/ “Nell laughed to see the raindrops roll Upon her eggs so fine and brown ; But Jessie did not share the fun, | She made a very ugly frown.” And when she smelt the fragrance sweet — Which from the earth the showers bring, And saw the grass in brighter green, And heard the birds more gaily sing, She greatly wished she could recall Her grumbling words and angry frown; And then she said, 1 How good of God To send the cooling raindrops down.’ Daphne Hammondb.

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“ Paul beat him back with the thorn-bush.”

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314 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. CHRIS WHARTON, (Continued from page 307.) CHAPTER VII. HIS was supremely happy as he walked along be¬ tween Paul and Dick, in the hot morning sunshine. Whoever else might feel anxious, Chris was quite sure that at Wharton’s Kop, and with his present companions, he had come to the place for which , and the comrades for whom, during the whole of his previous life, he had been longing. His thoughts flew back to the homely round at Lynchester, where school and lessons, the shops and the playing-field, made up the days ; where Ambrose was too often nailed down to the hooks from which even cricket could not lure him ; and where, amongst all the boys he knew, not one of them had half the fine qualities or noble gifts which he thought that he beheld in his cousin Dick. Ah ! how glorious it was to have life opening thus before him ; to know that he should soon learn all that these brave fellows could teach him — for brave indeed they were, in Christopher’s eyes, and he thrilled with the desire to become as they were, to shoot, ride, and work as they did. Paul saw something of this in the boy's kindling eye, and the Englishman’s rather lonely heart went out towards him. The two ‘ took to ’ one another from the beginning : if only because Chris had just come from the homeland, towards which Paul Harvey’s inmost thoughts were always turning. It was surprising what a solitary sort of existence Harvey managed to lead on the farm ; Dick had his friends, and chose, as a rule, rather to go off with them than to listen to the endless confidences about Lucy Day, which, as he declared, formed the staple of Paul’s conversation, Ambrose was very quiet ; of course, he had read all about ostrich farms in his South African travel- books : he was busy now taking mental notes, and carefully comparing his own ideas with the things which he actually saw around him. It was Chris who asked questions, and watched everything with the wonder born of ignorance. ‘ What are all these wire fences for ? ’ he inquired; 1 where are the pens, or fowl-houses, or places where you keep the birds ? You must want some precious ! big ones for ostriches, I should think.’ Dick laughed. 1 We have only got to go through 1 this gate, and we shall be in one of the places where I we keep the birds. But look out — do not open the gate j yet ; where are the tackeys, Paul P 7 For answer, Paul walked to a neighbouring shed, whence he came out, in a moment, carrying two large branches, covered with sharp thorns. One of these he gave to Dick, retaining the other for • himself, and, bidding Chris and Ambrose keep close behind him, he opened the gate in the wire fence. A large bare piece of ground fronted them, then there was more fencing, and more open ground, with bushes, and here and there a prickly pear-tree ; but not, at first, the least sign of a bird. It was Ambrose who caught sight of one, before Chris; and when he did so, he gave a cry of mingled fear and surprise. It was all very well to read of ostriches nearly six feet high, but to see one in the flesh, and to see it coming rapidly nearer, was a very different thing. The creature looked so fierce, it was so big and so warlike, that Ambrose shrank back in dismay. ‘ This is old White Wing,’ said Paul. ‘ ’Ware ! all of you ; he is not to be trifled with, at present, I can teli you.’ Then Paul got dexterousl\r in front of the angry bird, and beat him back with the thorn-bush ; which, to Chris’s amazement, soon subdued liis feathered majesty. ‘This is the fiercest of the lot,’ Dick told them. * He nearly killed a black man that we had once. Poor old Pete ! how he was mauled and kicked and jumped upon ! He never wanted to come into the camps again, as long as he lived.’ Ambrose admired the elegant drooping plumes to which White Wing owed his name; but, do what he would, he felt uneasy in the big bird’s company. If only Paul and Dick would show them quieter specimens. # . Dick either did not see, or else despised, his cousin’s evident timidity. ‘It was through Pete being a black, of course, he went on ; ‘the birds hate niggers and strangers about equally. The Kaffir lad who herds the ostrich chicks knows better than to come anywhere near White Wing; and you two must never come in here alone.’ ‘ We are not likely to do that,’ muttered Ambrose. ‘ Speak for yourself, Am/ cried Chris. ‘ If I had a — a — what do you call ir, like yours, Dick, I should not be a bit afraid.’ A tackey P — oh ! well, there is time enough for that. But come now and look at White Wing’s hen— she is sitting, you know.’ ‘ I thought ostriches just laid their eggs, and the hot sand did the rest.’ ‘ That is all a tale ; ostriches not only sit, but the cock sits as well as the hen. They take turn and turn about, day and night, for six weeks ; and by the time it is over, they are almost worn out. Here is the nest, and Mrs. White Wing on it.’ The spectacle of the great ungainly bird sprawling on the ground, in the peculiar attitude which sitting ostriches affect, was too much for Chris's gravity : lie laughed long and loudly, and the laughter seemed to irritate White Wing who advanced towards them in a threatening manner, making the strange roaring noise which is the way of the male ostrich. . ‘ ’Ware, all ! ’ shouted Paul, flourishing his tackey ; and when he saw how speedily the bird retreated before the sharp thorns of the bush, Ambrose plucked up heart again. Mr. and Mrs. White Wing, as the probable father and mother of a fine family, had a large space allotted

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No. XL CHATTERBOX. 315 to them ; when the visitors had come to the end of it they were- shown other enclosures, with other faithful mates. They saw too — or saw in part — the wide rough ranging-ground given up to the younger birds ; and they were shown the charming chicks, two or three weeks old, pretty as farm-house broods, only a great deal bigger. The soft velvety covering of these little creatures did not look like .feathers : the lovely plumage, for which the birds are famed, does not grow upon them till their first years of life are past. But a full-grown male ostrich, like White Wing, is a magnificent sight to see : his shining black body, his beautiful wing feathers, and the mingled stateliness and oddity of his demeanour, make him a very king of the feathered tribe. ‘ Travellers’ tales about ostriches are three parts of them fiction, are they not ?’ said Ambrose ; ‘ that old chestnut, for instance, about the bird hiding its head in the sand, and thinking no one can see it — I do not suppose there is a grain of truth in that, is there ? ’ ‘Not much,’ Paul answered, ‘but ostriches are wonderfully silly birds, for all that. They have not even as much sense as a barn-door fowl. Some of our birds do things that are not only silly, but down¬ right idiotic. They will take a sudden fright — at a dog, a noise, a mere nothing — and rush off with the speed of the wind away over the veldt, till they dash into one of the wire-fences, break their legs, and make an end of themselves.’ ‘ Cannot their legs be set then ? ’ ‘ No, a broken-legged bird ha3 always to be killed. It is a funny thing about them that, though their legs are strong enough to kick a man almost, if not quite to death, they are as brittle as china. If the creatures fight, they break them ; if they dance — and they are very fond of dancing — they break them ; and their mad runs nearly always end in a breakage.’ 4 Whatever makes them so stupid ? ’ Chris, as he spoke, looked at the bird nearest him, and felt that he was answered — splendid white feathers and beautiful soft, dark eyes went along with a little shallow head, in which there was no room for much brain-power. Beauty and strength without wisdom are the doubtful portion of the giant birds. ‘ What do you do with those that are killed ? ’ he asked. ‘Eat them, of course. When you have tasted ostrich soup you will know how good they are, though the meat itself is too stringy for some tastes. We get some of the eggs for eating, too ; everjr one is as big as two dozen hen's eggs, and nobody knows better than the mater how to turn out custards •and omelettes and sponges, when ostrich eggs are going.’ ‘ Speaking of eggs,’ Dick went on, ‘ there is the incubator for you to see yet,’ and Paul led the way to the long, low building, in which that strangest of foster-mothers had its place. A tank of water, kept -constantly heated by burning lamps, was placed over deep drawers, in which the eggs were laid. Paul opened one of the drawers, and showed the boys how in two or three cases the chick within had broken its strong shell prison, and in a very little while would have made its way out. ‘Sometimes we have to help them a bit, but mostly they do it themselves. They are smart youngsters, with more wit at a day or two old than ever they have again in the whole of their silly lives.’ ‘I do not see much use in having this thing,’ said Chris. ‘ Why can you not let the birds hatch their own eggs, like others do ? ’ ‘ There is money in this, young man,’ Dick told him. ‘ By taking the eggs away from the nests as fast as they are laid, we get the birds to keep on laying, till there are a good many more than they can pos¬ sibly sit on. Then all the extra ones come to the incubator. In the best days of ostrich-farming, the little chicks of a day or two old were worth five pounds apiece. We could not get that for them now, but still there is money in the business.’ ‘ Do you not have to trim the lamps, and take a lot of trouble P ’ ‘ Rather ! Paul has no peace of his life while this thing is full of eggs. They want turning, and cool¬ ing and watching constantly. You must be always on the spot, always attentive to duty, to make a good ostrich-farmer.’ Out in the sunshine a Kaffir boy herded a score of chicks, and another of Paul’s 'black helpers was bringing the birds their feast of ‘ mealies,’ or Indian corn. ‘ We give them crushed bones, and salt too, now and then, but most of their living they pick up on the veldt. They eat the bushes and the prickly-pear leaves, though these have to be cut for them because of the thorns.’ ‘ Is it true that they swallow all sorts of things ? ’ the boys inquired. ‘ Quite true ; they will eat nails, stones, glass, leather, wood — anything and everything that comes in their way; but they are doing no more than a little dicky-bird in a cage, who picks up grains of sand, or a fowl who pecks at gravel. See how big they are ! they need these hard things to help grind and digest their food. But come, we must hurry on ; this is the “ plucking kraal,” where they have i heir feathers pulled out twice a year. Some of them live and are plucked, and grow fresh feathers, for years and years.’ ‘ Does it not hurt them ? ’ ‘Not much, I reckon, and feathers that every Hottentot and Kaffir can have for nothing hero, to make himself fine on a holiday, are, as you know, highly prized and well paid for in the old country. You will see how busy we are when the plucking comes — what sorting and washing and packing there is to do. But now, if you two are anything like me, you are beginning to feel that it is dinner-time, and that what we have not looked at now had best wait till another day.’ So they left Paul to finish his work in the camps and dine when he could find leisure. Dick, carefully holding the tackey before himself and the boys, conducted them once more through old White Wing’s domain, and, tired and hungry, they returned to the house. ( Continued at page 324.)

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316 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. THE GLENDINNINGS AND THEIR FRIENDS. A D news had reached the little Scotch village of Glen- dearg in its secluded and almost hidden situation, with its beautiful narrow glen and its lovely old towers — its brownies and fairies and villagers. Among ten thousand men of low and high degree who fell at Pinkie, with his face to the foe was Simon Glen- dinning, of the Tower at Glendearg. Elspeth, his widow, and her two young sons were alone in the tower when they saw a dozen horsemen threading their way up the glen, with a man at their head whose scarlet cloak, bright armour, and dancing plume proclaimed him a leader. Poor widow ! what could she do in those rough times P There was but one course open to her — she must submit to the invader. Covering herself with a long mourning veil, and holding one of her two sons in each hand, she advanced to meet the Englishman, to state her deserted condition, place the little tower at his command, and beg for mercy. No sooner had the brave English soldier heard her sad story than he ordered, ‘ Comrades, face about ! ’ assuring her that it should never be said that English soldiers had roughly disturbed the widow of a brave enemy during the early days of her sorrowing. Then, as he was about to gallop away, the thought, occurred to him that it would be as well were he to leave some token with the widow, that, should other of his party come up, they might know that the family was under his protection. ‘ Here, my little fellow,’ said he, speaking to the eldest boy, who might be about nine or ten years old, ‘ lend me thy bonnet.’ The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated. His mother chided him for his ill-behaviour, and at last, as he remained obstinate, snatched the bonnet from him, and handed it to the English leader, who took from his cap an embroidered red cross, and put it into the loop of the boy’s bonnet, saying gallantly, as he did so, ‘ My people will see this token and respect it.’ He then placed it on the boy’s head, but it was no sooner there than the little fellow, his veins swelling and his eyes shooting tire through tears, skimmed it into the brook before his mother could interfere. The younger boy ran instantly to fish it out again, and threw it back to his brother, first taking" out the cross, which with great veneration he kissed, and put it into his bosom. ‘ What do you mean by throwing away the cross of St. George ? ’ asked the Englishman of the elder boy. ‘ Because St. George is a Southron saint,’ said the boy, sulkily. ‘Good ! ’ said the officer. ‘And what did you mean by taking it out of the brook again, my little fellow ? ’ he demanded of the younger . ‘ Because the priest says it is the common sign of salvation to all good Christians.’ ‘ Why, good again ! ’ said the soldier, and he turned to compliment the widow on her children. The elder lad, Halbert, was dark, with black hair, black eyes, and an embrowned skin ; he was active, frank, and determined, far beyond his age. Edward, the other boy, was light-haired, blue-eyed, and of pale face — a fair and handsome child, with smiling face, and mild, yet cheerful eye. ‘ My dame and I have no children,’ remarked the soldier. ‘ I would I could borrow one of these ! Come, little fellows, which of you will go with me ? 9 The trembling mother, half fearing as he spoke, drew the children towards her, one with either hand, while they both answered the stranger. ‘ I will not go with you,’ said Halbert, boldly, c for you are a false-hearted Southron, and the Southrons killed my father, and I will war on you to the death when I can draw my father’s sword.’ ‘ And you, my fine whitehead, will you not go with me to ride a cock-horse.’ ‘ No,’ said Edward, demurely, ‘ for you are a heretic.’ Finding that neither of the Scotch lads favoured him, the Englishman bade the family adieu, leaving behind him a steady old soldier, Sergeant Brittson, to protect the family. ‘ God be with you, gallant Southron !’ said Elspeth Glendinning, but not till he was out of hearing, spurring on his good horse to regain the head of his party, whose plumage and armour were now glancing, disappearing in the distance as they winded down the glen. ‘ Mother,’ said the elder boy, ‘ I will not say Amen to a prayer for a Southron.’ ‘ Mother,’ said the younger, * is it right to pray for a heretic P ’ ‘ The God to whom I pray only knows,’ answered poor Elspeth ; ‘ but these two words, Southron and heretic, have already cost Scotland ten thousand of her best and bravest, and me a husband, and you a father; and, whether blessing or banning, I never wish to hear them more.’ Dame Elspeth was not the only woman in the district who had lost her husband in border warfare ; nor were Halbert and Edward the only new-made orphans in the place. Amongst the Scottish gentlemen of noble family who, after the battle of Pinkie, assembled a small force and went forth to fight the foe was Walter Avenel, whose family once possessed vast estates in Eskdale. In one of these forays he was slain, and his gentle and high-born wife, with her little daughter, were reduced to the necessity of seeking shelter in a poor hut, with old Martin the shepherd and his wife Tibb. But even this rough shelter and poor, coarse fare were shortly denied the Lady of Avenel, as a band of English discovered the few sheep and cows and drove them off, so that famine pressed hard on the shepherd’s household. Under these circumstances Martin suggested, though in gentle words that, ‘ if the lady could bow her mind to take quarters with Elspeth Glendinning till better days cast up,’ she might find safety at the Tower. So on the Inst dav of October, little Mary’s birthday, the

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“A female figure clothed in white stood within three steps of Halbert Glendinning.” widowed Lady of Avenel set forth with her child, and old Martin and Tibb, her faithful attendants, both of whom insisted on accompanying her to Dame Elspeth’s, ready to work hard inside and out to earn the ‘meat’ for their beloved mistress. As the bereaved lady had been meek and courteous in her prosperity, she met with the greatest sympathy in adversity, and she was requested by the widow Glendinning to stay with her humble friends at Glen- dearg as long as circumstances rendered necessary. Not far from the Tower was the Monastery of St. Mary's, with its easv-gomg Abbot and zealous sub¬ prior and many brethren. The sub-prior was known by the name of Father Eustace.

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318 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. When the Avenels had been some few years residents at the Tower, the lady widow, who never ceased mourning in secret for her deceased husband, died, and her young daughter was thus left both fatherless and motherless. Mary’s mother had possessed a little black book, a copy of the Holy Scriptures, which she had sometimes read aloud to her hostess and family, but secretly, as the good people around the monastery were devout Catholics, and forbidden to read the Bible. All this came to the knowledge of the zealous Father Eustace, who had called at the Tower as the Lady of Avenel lay dying, and he determined to lose no time in securing this contraband copy of the Scriptures. The forbidden book was in the hands of Edward Glendinning, who protested that, as it right¬ fully belonged to Mary, he would not part with it. ‘I will do battle for it/ said the boy. The monk, at last, after long persuasion, and by dint of offering in its place an illustrated missal, showing St. George and the dragon, got the gallant boy to give up the treasure, promising to return shortly, adding, ‘ And perhaps 1 may teach you to write and read such beautiful letters as you see there written, and to paint them blue, green, and yellow, and to blazon them with gold/ and so it came about that Father Eustace frequently visited the Tower and gave lessons to the three children. He found Edward an apt pupil, acute, industrious, alert, and accurate. His teacher earnestly desired that the boy’s talents should be dedicated to the service of the Church, and he fancied that Dame Elspeth would not be averse to this ; but he was mistaken, for the widow, know¬ ing that her eldest boy, Halbert, was ‘ fit for no peaceful work that could be devised, but a born soldier like his father before him/ desired to keep Edward at home to look after the farm. The three children pursued their studies in very different ways. Halbert, bold and impatient, soon quarrelled with his books, and called to his brother to leave his lessons and ‘come see the deer-hunt.’ Mary Avenel was now a beautiful girl of fifteen years of age, and her rank and expectations entitled her to be taught the arts of reading and writing, and each lesson which the monk arranged for her was conned over in company with Edward, and by him explained, until she became perfectly mistress of it. Now, Halbert could not bear to see Edward and Mary thus happily seated together, intent on their studies. Boy that he was, he was jealous, for he loved the beautiful girl, although she was so greatly his superior in rank. One day, at such a time, he burst out with the wish, ‘ I would a score of South¬ rons would come up the glen, and we should learn how little all this muttering and scribbling is worth. . . . . Yes, Mary, and you should see one good hand and one good sword do more to protect you than all the books that were ever opened, and all the pens that ever grew on a goose’s wing/ After such out¬ bursts he would bounce from the room, and speed up the valley of Glendearg, choosing the wildest and most, dangerous paths, exposing himself a hundred times to dangers which he might have escaped by turning, a little aside from them. It was in one of these wild moods that he determined to make proof of a charm which he possessed for calling up the wise White Lady, who attended the family of Avenel on any special occasions. In the ravine, to which he had fled, a huge rock reared its proud head, and in a cleft grew a wild holly-tree, beneath whose daik branches flowed a spring. It was noon as with beating heart and drawn sword he bowed three times to the fountain, and as many to the holly-tree, repeating with a determined voice the following rhyme : — * Thrice to the holly brake, Thrice to the well : I bid thee awake, White Maid of Avenel. ‘Noon gleams on the lake, Noon glows on the fell, Wake thee, O wake, White Maid of Avenel.’ These lines were hardly uttered when there stood the figure of a female clothed in white within three steps of Halbert Glendinning. Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his mouth open, his eyes fixed, but his sword pointed towards the apparition. It was this mysterious being who years before, and on the same night that Father Eustace had coaxed the black book from Edward’s possession, had thrown the reverend monk into a trance and taken from him the small volume. She now spoke to Halbert, or rather chanted to him, many a wholesome lesson. The boy was curious to learn from her the mystery of the black book and also to receive from her an assurance that she would give it into his keeping, promising her that he would cast aside his idleness and acquaint himself with its contents, by learning to read it. ‘I will learn the contents of that mys¬ terious volume/ he urged. ‘ I will learn why the Lady of Avenel loved it ; why the priests feared it, and would have stolen it ; why thou didst recover it from their hands ; what mystery is wrapped in it.’ Then follows a scene in which he recovers the book, being led by this mysterious being into the depths of the earth, and plunging his bare arm into flames to withdraw the volume" without beino- hurt. Halbert is the hero of many battles and a thousand adventures, all told at length in the 31 on- astery . * Mysie, the miller’s daughter who saves the life of the dandy Sir Piercie Shafton, whose wife she after¬ wards becomes, is a very interesting character. She is a near neighbour of Dame Elspeth and sees a good deal of the family. She affords a striking contrast to Mary of Avenel. Both Halbert aiiS Edward fulfil the promise of their younger days, Halbert by becoming a warrior bold, and Edward a monk. Halbert in the end marries Mar}', whom he had loved since childhood, and Edward enters the Monastery of which Father Eustace is made Abbot. It is necessary, in reading the tale, to remember that the scenes are set in the old disturbed days of * The Monastery is one of Sir Walter Scott’s most romantic tales. Every reader of this sketch should procure the volume and read it carefully through.

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Xo. XL. CHATTERBOX. 319 border warfare, the troublous times when England and Scotland were two kingdoms. Yet, since all is well that ends well, there is no reason why even the most cheerful reader should not thoroughly enjoy following the fortunes of the Glendinnings and their friends. James Cassidy. PTJZZLEHS EOR WISE HEADS. 46. — Lines on the Months of the Year. Supply the blanks with words that rhyme. 1. Love’s bright roses sweetly - All the year to gladden - . 2. Pearls upon earth’s mantle - , Snowdrops shyly looking - . 3. Brave March blossoms sweet and - Shed their fragrance on the - . 4. Lily bells now softly - , Saying, « Surely this is - 5. Bright May daffodils - In the fields their hearts of - . 6. Leafy glades so green and - Beckon us to ramble - . 7. Laden with ripe fruit and - Comes July of sunny - . 8. August bids us wander - Over land and over - 9. From the fields of ripened - See September’s harvest - . 10. Precious burden doth it - , Taken of ‘ Our Father’s - .’ 11. Though November’s trees are - , Love can make November - . 12. Fireside joys to cheer us - , Best of all is Yule at - . C. C. 47. — Anagrams. Characters in the Works oj Charles Dickens. 1. Violet, wrist. 5. Nurse, sap, pin. 2. Lamp, bed, you. 6. Deaf, viper, dip, clod. 3. More, fen, bled, coy. 7. On a holy place. 4. Let, ell, lint. 8. Kill Bessy. C. C. 48. — Aritiimograph. The name of the heroine of a well-known nursery tale who came to a tragical end. 1. — 6, 11, 12, 4. An entrance. 2. — 10, 2, 1, 11. One who has performed some brave or noble action. 3. — 10, 2, 4, 11, 6. — A wicked king of the Jews when Judea was a Roman province. 4. — 1, 5, 8, 9. An ornament without beginning or end. 5. — 8, 7, 9, 2, 4. A river in Africa. 6. — 3} 5? 6, 12. A queen who lived in very ancient times, and was said to have founded a city in Africa. 7. -9, 12, 8, 2. Departed. 8. — 10, 5, 8, 6, 2, 1. To delay, to prevent. 9. — 13,11,8. A river in Scotland; in Russia; a nobleman of a southern country of Europe. •10. — 10, 2, 4, 1, 5, 8, 9. A small, very abundant sea fish. ( Ansiccrs at])agc 347.] ANSWERS. 42. — Oliver Twist. 43.— Smike. 44. — 1. Long. 2. Song. 3. Suspended. 4. Ended. 5. Might. 6. Appetite. 7. Around. 8. Ground. 9. Dark. 45. — 1. Horn. 2. Morn. 10. Spark. 11. Top. 12. Crop. 13. Intent. 14. Eloquent. 15. He. 16. Minstrelsy. 17. Wrong. 18. Song. 3. Worn. 4. Lorn. 19. Divine. 20. Shine. 21. Light. 22. Night. 23. Oration. 24. Approbation. 25. Tells. 26. Else. 5. Com. 6. Torn. D I H AH. would give us some little trouble to find a town of more romantic appearance than Dinan, in Brittany. Dinan is built on a granite hill, and seen from the beautiful valley of the Ranee, it appears to climb the steep sides of the hill right up to its top, which Along the face of the hill stretch the streets and houses down to the water’s edge. One of these steep streets terminates in a fine old bridge of two pointed arches. It is almost impossible to ascend this street — the Rue du Jerzual — except on foot, and one cannot but wonder how folk managed in the old days, when this street offered the only approach to the town on the St. Malo side. Dinan can show an ancient castle, which dates back to the year a.d. 1300; and in it Anne of Brittany often dwelt. To-day the place is not used as a Royal palace, but as a prison. Dinan Castle occupies an imposing position on the edge of a ravine, some distance from the centre of the town. A deep moat runs around it. You would like to visit the Place Duguesclin, so named from a chivalrous Breton, who challenged Thomas of Canter¬ bury, an English knight, to single combat, because, during a time of truce between Brittany and Britain, Sir Thomas had dishonourably seized Oliver, the brother of Duguesclin. The treacherous Englishman was vanquished, and the fame of the Breton established. There are many venerable and inter¬ esting buildings at Dinan. The old watch-towers and part of the town wall still remain. Here, too, may be seen charming old houses, the upper stories of which project beyond the lower, being themselves supported on wooden posts and granite pillars. On the outskirts of the town, under the ivy-grown old walls, run pleasant terraces, overlooking the beautiful scenery of the Ranee valley. There is plenty of quiet work done in Dinan, and here are •many manufactories, amongst others those turning out fine linen and sail-cloth. James Cassidy. it crowns. (

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A SOCIABLE SAILOR.

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“ The villain ordered him to change clothes as quick as possible.1

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322 CHATTERBOX. No. XLL THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. TALKING of one man posing as another man, sir, I once met with a chap who managed to do so, cleverly enough. It happened when I was off duty, and at that time of life when things look their brightest. In a word, sir, Molly and me were on our honeymoon. We took our trip first to Watford, and, after spending a couple of days there, started one morning for Northampton. It was a funny place to choose, you will, maybe, think, for the town is in no way remarkable, save for a large manufacture of boots and shoes. However, it was a matter of sentiment that took us there, you understand. Northampton is where my father and mother did their sweet-hearting, and where, indeed, they were married, after which event they came to live in Surrey. And that was chiefly the reason why we decided to spend the rest of^tur hjffiday there afore going back to set up house- keepiggftnu^ur own account. After wandering about awhile, we began to feel huifgry, apd I kept my eyes open to find a respect¬ able inn. A commercial was what I wanted, for the travellers are not too easy pleased, as a rule, and you will generally get the victuals well cooked and nicely served in the hotels which they use. Well, we soon hit upon one which had an air of being comfortable, and, as it chanced to be Market Day, there was An ‘ordinary’ in full swing. So we sat down to an excellent cut off a round of beef — — not to mention- potatoes with their coats on them, and cauliflower boiled to a turn. Molly grew rather shy, I remember, at sight of so maiiy people — more especially when, the big table being full, a new arrival came and settled himself at the little table which we had to ourselves. A fine- looking young fellow he was, certainly, and more like a sporting gent than a commercial traveller, i hough he soon told us that such was his calling. David Collins was his name, he said, and, as he had written for his room beforehand, he could enjoy his dinner quite comfortable, feeling sure of his quarters. Then we got talking on different subjects, until things led round — as Molly says they have a knack ■of doing — to the Surrey Constabulary in particular. It was strange how ignorant he seemed to be con¬ cerning crime and the police force. And yet his questions, as it struck me later on, were uncommonly sharp and to the point. However, he showed such a deal of interest in all I told him, and we dav/dled so long over our meal, that afore it was finished we had become quite chummy together ; in fact, we spoke at parting of drawing out our chat when we met again in the evening. Well, Molly and me went for another ramble, and on our way back we stopped at the railway station, where we looked in to buy an evening paper. There was a train just leaving for Liverpool, and we waited to see it go off. Every one was in their seats, and the last shrill whistle had been given, when a man suddenly appears, running helter-skelter. He clears the empty platform and jumps into a third-class carriage all in a flash as it were. Then the train steams out of the station, and in a few minutes is lost to view. ‘Why, Molly,’ says I, quite mazed-like, ‘that is our commercial traveller gone away in that identical train ! He has got his "coat and bag with him a3 well. It is Liverpool he is bound for, you may depend upon it. Lut what puzzles me is why he should have kept his plans so close — such an open- hearted chap, too, as he seemed to be.’ Of course, Molly was equally surprised. More¬ over she was a good bit provoked on my account, because he had treated us in that underhand fashion, and when we returned to the ‘ Falcon ’ I mentioned the matter to the landlord. ‘ Oh, yes, it is all right,’ says he ; ‘ the gentleman has paid his bill handsomely, saying as how he had changed his mind about staying the night. But, now I come t© think of it, there is something rather singular about this affair. It is not usual for a traveller to travel without his goods and samples; besides, he has had no time to do any business in Northampton. Anyhow, it is no concern of mine,’ says he, in an offhand sort of manner. ‘And now you will be ready for your tea, no doubt. Maybe you would like a nicely frizzled rasher and some new-laid eggs, and hot buttered toast along with them.’ And then his wife came in, who was a tremendous talker, and our friend of the dinner-table was .soon forgotten. But we were not done with him yet. It was the night before we left for home that the wind-up came about. Molly and I thought we would have the coffee-room all to ourselves that evening, I recollect. We had hardly finished our tea, hotvever, when I heard the sound of raised voices in the passage, and presently in pops the land¬ lord, with a stranger at his heels. ‘ It is a downright commercial this time,’ says I to myself, ‘ and no mistake.’ But the poor fellow was in such a flutter we could make neither head nor tail of what he told us. ‘ Sit down, sir, I beg,’ urged the landlord in his most soothing tones. ‘ You do seem sadly upset, to be sure. And here is Mr. Lundy— Constable Lundy, I ought to say — as will be mighty interested to hear your tale, for it is all in his line, so far as I can gather.’ Then the stranger began to calm down a bit, and when the landlady brought in his tea he was able to talk away while he made a good meal. First he informed us that his name was David Collins, at which we stared amazed at one another, and Molly nudged my elbow. He had written to take his room at the ‘ Falcon ’ for last Friday night, as he had given up his old hotel in Northampton, and this was his first visit there. He left Stafford on the morning of that da}' by the London and North-Western express. In his compartment were three fellow-passengers, one of whom recommended himself at once. He was a dark, handsome young man, with an uncommonly taking way about him. In fact, they soon became so chatty that David Collins confided in him a deal more nor he ought to have done. Well, after quitting Bugby, where the others got down, he and the young man were left in company, whereupon, all at once the chap’s manner changed in

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 323 .•such a startling fashion that David Collins, who was a weak, timorous creature, quaked in his shoes. Producing a pistol, which he held at his head, the villain ordered him to change clothes with .him as ■quick as possible. Twilight had set in, the train was going at full speed, and, being in mortal fear for his life, the traveller was forced to cave in. No sooner was the •exchange effected than the rascal drew a bottle out of his bag and compelled him to swallow its contents. After this David Collins remembered nothing more. He came back to his senses to find himself alone in ■the compartment, while the train w*as nearing the Euston Station.. In his pocket he discovered a third- class railway ticket for London, together with his purse and a ten-pound note besides. ' But the worst was still to come. When the train arrived and David Collins alighted on the platform, it was only to step into the hands of two detectives, in plain clothes, who were waiting to arrest him. They accused him of stealing jewellery to a large amount Horn a gentleman’s mansion in the neighbourhood of Stafford, and he was at once taken to the nearest police-station. But here, luckily for him, there was an inspector who knew his man. There was no likeness whatever, he said, between David Collins and the man they were looking for, who had done his time not long since in Dartmoor. So the traveller had been let off, and here he was, a good bit shaken by the adventure which had be¬ fallen him, but thankful to have escaped with a sound skin. Well, well, sir, of course I considered it my plain duty to send off a telegram at once to Scotland Yard, and another to the Chief Inspector in Liver¬ pool. He was a cute one, however, that Charlie Danvers — for such was his name when I had the pleasure of meeting him. He succeeded in dodging ;us at Liverpool, just as he had done at Euston, and doubtless he took ship for New York, where it seems a man has every chance of giving the slip. He was never heard of again, so far as my knowledge goes. It is not that I wish to defend him, sir, but still I think you will agree with me in concluding that the young chap was not wholly bad. He had left that ten-pound note, you see, as a free-will offering entirely, and this showed a touch of generous spirit that might some day help him to rise and start afresh. Anyhow, sir, I am one of those old-fashioned folk who firmly believe that it is never too late to mend. Flora Sciimalz. LESSON'S FROM A WATCH. WATCH is used to tell the time, JqL And time neglected is a crime. Behold the hands , and look, and ask, If yours perform as well their task. They point the hour we ought to rise, To pray to God to make us wise : And all the works of this gay thing, Are made to act on one mainspring ; And so should all our actions rise From love to God, Who made the skies. The hours of one, and two, and three, may bring to mind the Trinity. The hour of four, the seasons show, And five the senses are, we know; Six days of labour we record, The seventh, the Sabbath of the Lord. Eight righteous in the Ark were found, When all the world for sin was drowned. The hour of nine displays the plan, When Christ was slain to save lost man. The ten commands came from above ; The eleventh, the new command of love. Twelve, the disciples of the Lord, Who walked with Him and leqrned His word. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. XI.— SHRIMPS, PRAWNS, AND LITTLE. FISHES. E W animals, whether of land or sea, convey the idea of enjoyment of life more than the Shrimp family. Short though his existence may be, the merry creature seems to find it one long game of play, and beset as he is by enemies of every kind — two-legged monsters with nets, many-armed zoophytes, or gobbling wide-mouthed fishes — he appears to be reck¬ less of danger. Certainly now and then one may be seen diligently digging a hole in the sand with his fan¬ shaped tail wherein to hide himself, but we may fairly assume that this retiring specimen had a fit of indigestion, or that his nervous system is out of order. Shrimps multiply with extraordinary rapidity, which is not wonderful if we recall the quantities of eggs which we have often found curled up between the legs of a single one at breakfast or tea-time. When these eggs hatch, their tiny inhabitants are tossed upon the water like a cloud of white atoms, of which the majority are speedily gobbled up by rapacious fishes. Prawns are very closely allied to shrimps, and vary from two inches to twenty-two in length, those of tropical climates attaining the largest size. When alive they are singularly beautiful ; the transparency of shell which is noticeable also in the shrimps, being combined with delicate but vivid colouring. Prawns are chiefly met with in deep water close under rocks, and are usually caught in wide- mouthed baskets, although many find their way into the net of the shrimper who makes his way along the coast, waist-deep in water, and pushing his net before him. From very early times all the family have been considered as food to be desired by human beings, awd few of my readers will need to be reminded of their delicious flavour. They are most ornamental occupants of an aquarium, but equally aggressive.

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- . - 324 CHATTERBOX. No. XLI. being nearly as clever at demolishing all other forms of life as the Crassicorn Anemones. Their life- history is very interesting, though it has given natu¬ ralists a good deal of trouble. On first emerging from the egg, the creature is known as a Nauplius, whose appearance may be seen from the illustration. Next he passes to the Zoea stage, when I wish you especially to notice his long straight body and prominent eyes; then, after one more charge he turns into a full-grown prawn, with brilliant jewel-like eyes set at the end of short stalks, and long feelers enabling him to detect his prey and hold it fast. As we sat round our pool, some of you amused yourselves in catching, or I should say in trying to catch, the tiny creatures leaping about in clouds, which you called Sea Grass-hoppers. Sand-hoppers is their more correct name, although they also bear a grand Latin title, Talitris Locusto , which seems altogether too important for their dimensions. They Zoea. are chiefly vegetable feeders, having a taste for sea¬ weeds, and especially enjoying food which is some¬ what decayed. Their power of springing is amazing considering their minute size, and the motion is effected by doubling up their bodies, and suddenly relaxing them. Their last leap is apt to land them in the mouth of some hungry fish, crab, or anemone. Of the little fishes which darted here and there in our pool I noticed first the Gobies, which are known as One-spot Goby and Two-spot Goby. They are amusing little denizens of an aquarium, living con¬ tentedly and looking very pretty, provided the larger inhabitants will allow them to live at all. Baby shrimps are their chief food, and tiny forms of life which exist in the seaweeds fringing the rocks. They have a brother, Mr. Rock Goby, but as, sad to say, he has turned out badly, and become both a pirate and a cannibal, he is avoided by the respectable members of the family. Another very handsome little fish was the smooth Blenny, which i3 easily recognised by its ring of bright crimson. All these little fishes are easily caught with a net for observation, but should be handled carefully, and speedily returned to their native element, as their tiny spark of life is Full-grown Prawn. soon put out, and much fresh air would be as bad for them as it is good for you or for me. Helena Heath. CHRIS WHARTON. ! {Continued from page 315.) CHAPTER VIII. R. THOMAS WHARTON | came in from his inspection of the Wharton’s kop farm I in spirits almost equal to [ those of his sons. He had had a long talk with his i; brother, which had raided ] his drooping hopes to a jj higher pitch than any the} had known since he came S to Cape Colony. The plenty and richness of Edward’s [| resources, the ample means which he had, not only of providing for those at home, but of helping others,, j had been at last borne in upon the doubting mind of Thomas. A visit to the sheep 1 kraals’ had shown that the- flocks included, as well as the Cape sheep — a ! creature which Thomas said was ‘not a sheep at all,, but a thing with hair on its back’ — hundreds of 1 the best English breed, whose wool formed a valuable article of merchandise, whilst their flesh furnished the farm with mutton at those rare times when the weather was cool enough to kill them. There were a troop of beautiful Angora goats, long-haired, snowy-white animals — better eating, as those who have tried them can testify, than the best mutton. Horses and oxen, poultry and pigs, in addition to the fruit garden and orchards, and, above all, the ostrich camps, showed how many ways and means Edward Wharton had of turning in money. } Even beehives were not forgotten, and a plentiful supply of honey formed a welcome addition to Aunt Alice’s store-room, and would have furnished her with a sovereign remedy for colds and sore-throats,.

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826 CHATTERBOX. No. NLI. the start, at any rate ; you and your lad, as he grows old enough, shall give your brains and energies to the business, and together we shall do splendidly/ Thomas pondered. 4 But where are we to live P 7 he asked, doubtfully. 4 I don’t know what you think of it, but it is terrible to me to remember that the whole five of us are quartered upon you and your good wife, and may be so for a long time/ Edward’s cheery laugh rang out again. 4 Oh, that is a trifle; we are used to having the house full. You should see it when we have a shooting party ; not five or ten, but from twenty to forty guests; sleeping in the lofts and sheds, as well as "in the rooms, and feeding like princes, although I say it. Seriously, Tom,’ he added, 4 you need not give your¬ self a moment’s uneasiness about that. We shall have to build. There is any amount of land, but no house that would suit you. While your new house is building you can stay where you are, and make yourself thoroughly comfortable/* It took a good deal of persuasion to bring Mr. Thomas over to this view of the subject ; but in the end Edward prevailed ; he managed, too, to inspire his brother with something of his own hopefulness about Chris. 4 Depend upon it, Tom, that lad only needs developing and bringing out to be your right-hand man in a very short space of time. He will do all that Dick does by the time he is two years older. As for the other, he is too bookish for the land ; you will have to make a clergyman or a schoolmaster out of him — and . we have great need in the Colony for their services, too/ Mrs. Wharton had been exploring in the kitchen regions ; both she and Edith were greatly interested in the preparation of the strange dinner. The goat which had been killed early that morning was hung up, covered from head to foot in a fine muslin bag, and the swarms of great flies which buzzed around it. showed the reason why. A joint had to be cut, with haste and fear, and* the opening closed again with all speed. 4 W e shall not be able to keep it till to-morrow/ Aunt Alice said, with regret. 4 Our neighbours will take some, and the Kaffirs must have the rest. It is the most difficult thing in the world to keep fresh meat here/ The pair of fowls which were to grace the other end of the hospitable board had to be caught, and dosed with vinegar before they were killed. A single hour saw them taken from the pen, killed, plucked, and ' set down to roast ; and the vinegar, which was the last thing they had swallowed, made them tender enough eating. Ostrich soup, from a bird which had come to grief the night before, was to begin the repast, which was completed b}^an enormous custard, a cornflour, or, as Aunt Alice called it, a 4 mealie/ pudding, and stewed peaches. These good things, followed by the inevitable and ever-welcome cup of coffee, made even Chris feel that he had dined as well, if not better, than on board the Seabird ; and, in chatting over the sights of. the morning, the hot hours which followed^the chief meal of the day passed pleasantly away. We must not stay to describe in detail all that happened during the early part of their sojourn at Whartons Kop, except to tell how Chris, under Paul’s tuition, soon became tolerably expert with the rifle, and looked forward eagerly to 4 the great shoot/ which was to be held as soon as they had had some rain ; how Ambrose ransacked the house for some¬ thing to read, and could find nothing but Lily’s or Dick’s old lessson books or colonial newspapers, which,, besides being half of them printed in Cape Dutch, had no interest for him. 4 Don’t you ever read ? ’ he asked of Dick, in despair. 4 We live , lad, and that is better than reading/ said that young gentleman ; but Lily was more con¬ siderate. 4 Why, Ambrose/ she suggested, 4 if you were to go along to Paul’s cabin, he would lend you some books in a minute. He has a lot there, I know, and gets fresh ones, and papers too, from England almost every mail.’ Then Ambrose remembered the book-shelf he had seen in Paul Harvey’s 4 castle/ and, though with some trepidation, he went off to make his request. Paul was kindness itself; he talked to Ambrose about his favourite poets and prose- writers, he lent, him the Essays of Elia and the Spectator from his stock of standard books, and promised him the I reading of his English magazines when they arrived. At the last moment the ostrich-keeper dived into the deep box which stood beneath his window, on the lid of which his meals were often prepared, and within whose depths a most varied collection of property was to be found. 4 Here are plenty of back numbers/ he said, 4 they are most of them good enough to read, although they are old, and the pictures in the illustrated ones may please your little sister/ 4 Oh, thank you ! 7 Ambrose said, full of gratitude. 4 When do you do your reading P 7 he inquired, curiously. 4 At night, mostly. I have a good lamp, you see. We all burn paraffin here. When the cabin is closed, and the night air grows cool, as it always does, the place is very pleasant. Besides reading, I have letters to write, very long letters, some of them. I go to Seymourstack to post twice a week, and bring the mail back with me.7 Ambrose smiled, and thought of Lucy Day, of whom Dick, given as he was to rather merciless chaff, had, of course, told him. Paul, like every one else on the farm, was anxious for rain. Day after day, great banks of magnificent clouds were seen mounting upwards through the blue, spreading and darkening till they bade fair to descend in a perfect deluge, and day after day they dispersed, without a drop having fallen, and left the veldt, with its dried-up bushes, as thirsty as ever. There was much work to be done in the garden and orchard, watering the trees and plants, and fortunate indeed tVey were at Wharton’s Kop to have water which could be applied to such purposes. The dam was so well constructed that the ostriches, in the hottest weather, could still troop to its side and let the water trickle down their long, thirsty necks, and there was no end to the pails of water

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 327 which could be drawn from the well at the back of the house. Nevertheless, the rain was sadly needed. ‘All the watering in the world could not take the place of rain/ Uncle Edward said, and he scanned the skies every evening with a grave face. Then, when, for very want of fulfilment, expecta¬ tion had died out, when everybody had gone to bed, thinking, if they thought at all, that brilliant skies and a flood of burning sunshine would be their lot again to-morrow, the downpour came. Chris was awakened at some time after midnight by a mysterious dropping of water, seemingly close beside his bed. Drip ! drip ! drip ! where could the drops be coming from P Then there was a rushing, roaring noise without, an awful flash of blinding, bluish lightning, and the loudest clap of thunder which he had ever heard in his life. They were in the very heart of a Cape rain-storm, and in a few moments the whole household was astir. Mrs. "Wharton and Edith, trembling, and hastily dressed, hurried from their rooms. The tempest was so much more violent than any to which they had been accustomed that their alarm was not to be wondered at ; but, seeing Aunt Alice and Lily quite calm and collected, they took courage, and even learned to rejoice, as the others did, in the ‘ sound of abundance of rain.’ The dripping noise which Chris had heard was soon explained. The storm had found out a weak place in the roof of the boys’ room, and the mischief spread till Ambrose, who had stayed in bed, was forced to fly before the flood which was spreading all around him, and to join the group who were assembled in the dining-room. There was no more sleep for anybody that night ; but the lightning did no damage, and in the morning Mr. Wharton, his brother, and their sons looked with joy upon the dam filled to the brim, the over¬ flowing ‘slints/ or water-courses, and the glad, bright face of all the country round. Sunshine after storm— how fresh and beautiful it was! how the exhausted animals and grateful people rejoiced together, and the thirsty land sang an anthem of thanksgiving for the rain ! ( Continued at page 334.) THE ZEBRA AT HOME. THE Zebra belongs to the horse tribe, which tribe includes also asses and quaggas. There is a strong family likeness between all these animals, although when seen together they show many differences. The mane of the zebra is erect, and the upper part of the tail free from long hairs ; the ears are also longer, the head larger, and the hoof narrower than in the horse. Of course, the most distinctive mark of the zebra is his stripe. The stripes may be dark brown or black, according to the species. Zebras are some¬ times found in herds of from fifty to one hundred, but more often the herds number from ten to fifteen. These animals are quite friendly with ostriches. Travellers in their writings remark on the beautiful appearance of a drove of zebras in their native haunts, as, surprised by a hunter, they stand for a moment and face him, and then, becoming aware of their danger, wheeling round they take to flight. One who came on a drove of these animals on a moonlight night has asserted that so exactly did the natural colour of the creatures harmonise with their sur¬ roundings, that a short distance away they were invisible. If not too much startled by the hunter when he first comes upon them they run in single file, the strongest and largest males leading; but if very hard pressed they break rank and crowd together, a panic seizing them, and tear along at so great a pace that it is not always easy for a swift horse to overtake them. During the hunt, should a single zebra become wounded, it separates itself from its fellows and seeks shelter alone. No one could well mistake the neigh of the zebra for that of the horse, it is more like the whining bark of a dog. The Kaffirs of South Africa value the animal for its flesh, which they eat with relish, on account of its yellow fat, which no European would touch, unless pressed hard by hunger. The natives also hunt it for the sake of its hide. Perhaps the most powerful foe of the zebra is the lion, which, like the black man, is partial to its flesh. Many zebras perish yearly, devoured by lions. Zebra-hunting is very tame sport, say sportsmen, compared with the hunting of the dangerous game- beasts found in South Africa, yet more skill and care are required for its capture than is the case in the hunting of more ambitious game, and for this reason: creatures such as rhinos, elephants, buffaloes, and lions are so well able to take care of themselves that they are not nearly so watchful as zebras and antelopes, which have, as we have already stated, many foes. Take for instance the rhinoceros, which, although very alarm¬ ing in appearance, is by nature a very stupid beast? and would be quite the easiest game to stalk if it were not for the birds. These little creatures do sentinel- duty for their ponderous slow-witted friend. Mr. E. J. Jackson, writing on this subject, says, ‘ If not accompanied by these birds there would be no difficulty in approaching sleeping rhinoceroses to within a few yards ; in fact, if so inclined, I believe one might kick them up. I have often got to within thirty or forty yards of one, have then failed to rouse it by whistling and shouting, and have had to throw sticks, stones, or bits of earth at it before it would get up. Should the birds detect the stalker, however, they will fly up in the air and give vent to a curious and prolonged shrill hissing note, not unlike the call of our missel-thrush, and away the rhinoceros will go before the stalker can get within range. Our illustration shows us two zebras, mother and young, pursued by a determined huntsman bent on obtaining a fresh supply of food for his native servants. It is to be feared that the pair pursued stand but a poor chance of escape, as the faithful mother will not leave her young one, and the young¬ ster cannot, for long maintain a speed which shall out-distance the swift steed of the hunter. James Cassidy.

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CHATTERBOX No. XLI. 328 Zebras pursued by a Huntsman.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 329 v v

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330 CHATTERBOX. No. XLII. THE DESERTER. O T very far from a dreamy- little fishing village and port on the south coast, and within a dozen miles of a much larger port and dockyard, there stood, in the early years of the nine¬ teenth century, a rude wooden hut. It was situ¬ ated on the cliff-top, near a bight of the coast known locally as the Cove, and some three or four hundred yards from the edge thereof. It was a very humble dwelling, this cottage, con¬ sisting of two small rooms on the ground floor — a bedroom and a kitchen and parlour combined — and a smaller apartment like a loft overhead, which had the appearance of having been added as an after¬ thought. It was lonely and exposed too, and caught the full force of the wind, let it blow from which point of the compass it would. In this poor cottage lived two people, Michael Chipchase, an old fisherman, and Susannah, his wife. Michael had, with his own hands — and they were young and strong hands in those days — built the cottage himself, and from his own design, which, it •may be said, were quite original. This was shortly before his marriage, and there he and his wife had lived ever since ; and, notwithstanding its being so humble and small, both he and his helpmate were proud of it, and loved every deal and batten of it, and they did not envy the lord of the manor his fine house, sheltering behind the disused quarry. How they managed to live was a mystery; yet, between them, they did manage somehow. Michael made a little by gathering bait for the linesmen, and such-like shifts; while Susannah, who was still very deft with her netting-shuttle, made and sold finer kinds of nets. Then, again, their friends, the fisherfolk, did not neglect them, and, while the boats could put to sea, they never lacked a bit of cod or ling, as the case might be. These, and other little kindnesses, helped to keep the wolf from the door. Driftwood, which washed up in the Cove, was the chief fuel of Michaels grate, and the same source often supplied lnm with some other welcome little prize, though, if he did chance to pick up anything of rather more value, the lord of the manor claimed it as his right, and poor Michael was compelled to give it up to him. More than three years before the opening of our tale, the old couple had had the misfortune to lose their only son by a violent death, and this circumstance, apart from its saddening influence, had made a great difference for the worse in their style of living. Avery had, as a matter of course, followed his father’s calling, and had worked his way up to first hand aboard a highly successful smack. Unfortunately, however, he had got himself mixed up with a gang of smugglers, and had aban¬ doned the precarious calling of fishing for the more precarious one of 6 free-trading.’ It is true that for a considerable while after this change of profession he had brought home to his parents better money, as well as articles of luxury or comfort very acceptable to them ; but, as was proved by after events, it was a mistaken policy, inasmuch as his career was brought to an untimely end in a skirmish with the Preventive men. Avery and his mates had been surprised one night in the Cove while getting a cargo up the cliffs before carting it away inland. One of the Preventives had called upon him to sur¬ render in the King’s name, but, disdaining to comply with the command, he hacl instead begun to scale a steep spur of cliff, thinking, if once on the high land above, he would be able to elude his enemies, when a shot from a musket struck him in the back and tumbled him down to the beach below, where, it was conjectured, the rising tide had carried him out to sea, for the body was never found. ‘ It is a miserable night, old woman,’ said Michael, addressing his wife. The December afternoon had given place to evening ; the south-west wind was sweeping over the downs in angry, fitful puffs, as if it was warning all whom it might concern that it had more in hand yet. The rain fell without ceasing — fine, wetting rain, such as no garments, save oilskins, were proof against, rain that fell bit¬ terly cold, sending ice into one’s very marrow, and warranted to turn hands and noses, if exposed to it, blue in ten minutes. ‘ It was such a night as this when our poor Avery was hurried to his grave by them Preventive chaps,’ murmured Michael. ‘ It was a foul deed, old woman — a foul deed ! for they had no right to go to such extremes. An eye for an eye is strict justice, doubtless, and one ought to be pre¬ pared to abide by such law ; but a life for a bit of duty-free ’bacca is monstrous. Howsoever, it is all over now, and there is no use in opening old wounds ; it must have been the stormy night that made me speak of it, I think.’ Susannah had closed the window shutters, tossed another log or two on the fire, and lit a rushlight. The kettle, swinging on the hook, was noisily, albeit pleasantly, chirping and sputtering as it emitted a cloud of white vapour from its spout, and the old woman, thrown for a moment or so into distress by her husband’s remarks regarding the unfortunate Avery, once moro assumed her usual cheerful bearing,, and busied herself in placing the tea-things on the table; she then cut and buttered a small pile of brown bread, and brought her operations to a close by measuring very carefully into a little teapot three tiny spoonfuls of tea (which, by the way, must cer¬ tainly have been smuggled, for tea at that time was ruinously dear), poured boiling water upon it, and left it on the hob to draw. They had just comfortably settled down to their homely meal when a gentle tapping fell on their ears. ‘It is the rain, Michael,’ said Susannah. ‘No, old woman,’ answered her husband; ‘it is somebody knocking at the door. Sit ye still, and I will see who it is.’ He went across the room, raised the latch, and threw the door wide open, the wind and rain taking advantage to rush into the parlour. Standing with¬ out the threshold, his wet clothes clinging to his

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No. XLIL CHATTERBOX. 331 person in heavy folds, was a man of about forty, dressed in sailorly garb. ‘ Master/ said this man in pleading tones, ‘ I know you and the dame are alone, for I saw you through a crack in the shutter, which circumstance is a lucky one for me, if you will stand by me. I want shelter.’ ‘ From the rain ?’ asked Michael, drily. ‘ Oh, I don’t so much mind the rain,’ was the reply ; ‘ it is those dogs of men-o’-war’s men that I want shelter from; I want to throw them off my tracks.’ ‘Dogs of men-o’-war’s men,’ repeated Michael, hesitating. ‘What man-o’-war?’ ‘The Vixen , home arrived from foreign service this morning.’ ‘ But,’ said Michael, suspiciously, ‘ why are the dogs, as you call them, after you ? I don’t wish to get myself into trouble without knowing the cause. What have you done ?’ ‘ Master, it is not what I have done, but what they have done. Listen. To begin with, I was pressed aboard the Vixen . That was bad enough, but not the worst, for I have been treated like a dog — flogged by the whole quarter-deck. I have been starved and poisoned — like all my shipmates, to be fair ; I have existed for three years on maggoty bread and rancid pork and beef — not a single meal in all that time has been fit for a pig to eat ! N ow, master, I put it to you, is that the proper way to treat a man fighting for his country ? I did not think so, any¬ how, and I determined to run whenever I had the chance ; and here you see me. That is my story, master.’ ‘Well, I really cannot find it in my heart to blame you, my lad,’ replied Michael, kindly. ‘ You have done what I should have done myself had I been in your place. So come in, and we will try to hide you against any blue-jackets coming this road. Do you expect they will be sending out search parties after you?’ ‘ Ye-es,’ said the deserter, in a tone which seemed to leave little doubt on the subject, ‘I am afraid they will.’ ‘ Then we must hope for the best.’ Thus saying, Michael bade the stranger enter, and closed the door. 1 Are ye hungry ?’ he added. ‘ No, I only require a hiding-place. Where can you put me to be safe ? ’ ‘Go up this step-ladder, here,’ leading him to a ladder behind the door; ‘push up the trap in the ceiling, and you will find yourself in a small loft, where you may, if so inclined, change your wet things, there being a few articles of clothing that would fit you at a pinch in a chest of drawers near the bed. You had better take a small loaf with you, perhaps, and something to drink, in case you should have to stay there longer than you expect.’ • But,’ the deserter said, ‘ if the blue-jackets come here, they will spy the ladder and trap in the ceiling in no time.’ ‘I don’t think they will, my lad,’ returned old Michael with a smile." ‘ You will observe that the ceiling has only lately been papered, and what is to hinder me pasting another sheet oyer the chinks of the trap-door when you are aloft ? Then I take away the ladder, and who would suspect a room above this ? ’ ‘ I thank you with all my heart, master; and if I throw my pursuers off the scent, I will endeavour to show my gratitude in some other way besides — there goes,’ and with that he disappeared. ( Continued at page 338.) AT NIGHT. A True Story. ‘^OjfTITH chattering tongues and with noisy feet, All impatient of rest and rule, They gathered around me, the fishers’ bairns Whom I taught in the Sunday school. I told them of Jesus, the children’s Friend, And of how ITe is always near, And watches, and loves, and takes care of them* So they never need fret or fear. ‘ I’m always afraid in the dark,’ May said ; ‘ Yes, and when the floor creaks,’ Flo cried, ‘ I think there’s a Gipsy old woman there, And I pull up the clothes and hide.’ But Alice said, nodding her sage small head, ‘I'm not frightened now any more ; I know what it is when the boards go creak — Angels walking across the floor' SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. ROLAND GRdME AND CATHERINE SEYTON. U R present story is the sequel to the Monastery, so that we meet again several of the same charac¬ ters. Halbert Glendinning, who, you will remember,, married Mary, the Lady of Avenel, appears again, and of the doings of the lady herself we- are kept well informed. In Father Ambrose we recognise Edward Glen- dinning. We shall accept none of these as heroes and heroines, but introduce Roland Graeme and Catherine Seyton, each alike fascinating. The castle of Avenel was perhaps as solitary a residence for its lady as could well be imagined. Halbert was frequently away on perilous enterprises, and there were no children to enliven the castle, so that its mistress often felt lonely and in need of some companion. One sultry summer’s evening the Lady of Avenel took, as usual, her solitary walk on the flat roof of the Castle. Her mind was filled with melancholy. She was thinking how much happier

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she might have been had her lot in life given to her a peasant’s duties. She and her lord would then have known more of each other’s society, instead of yielding, as he now did, to the promptings of a vain ambition which led him into ceaseless dangers. | From the roof she could see the lake, on the shores of which the village children played. Her eye was ll attracted by one group of various ages, assembled to see a little ship, constructed by some village artist, f>erform its first voyage on the water. It was aunched amid the shouts of the children’s voices and the clapping of little hands, and shot bravely forth on its voyage with a favouring wind which promised to carry it to the other side of the lake.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 333 'Some of the bigger boys ran round to receive and secure it on the farther shore, trying their speed against each other, as they sprang like young fawns along the verge of the lake. With the lady was a fine staghound, named Wolf. She was in the act of caressing her faithful follower, when a cry of distress was heard on the shore, from the group which had been lately so joyful. The lady looked attentively and saw with great sorrow the cause. The children’s favourite, the little ship, had struck among some tufts of water-lily, and a hardy boy who had taken the lead- in the race round the margin of the lake did not hesitate a moment to fling off his coat and plunge in to try and free the boat. At first he swam boldly and well, and the lady could see that the villagers who were watching him were not at all uneasy on his account, when suddenly, just as he had freed the pretty toy and sent it forward on its course, and swum a few yards, he raised himself suddenly from the water and screamed aloud, clapping his hands at the same time with an expression of fear and pain. The Lady of Avenel hastened to the spot, and directed that a boat should be unmoored and got away. But meantime the boy’s efforts to keep himself afloat were now exchanged for a faint struggling, which would soon have been over had it not been for Wolf, who, seeing the trouble, plunged into the water and swam straight to the child’s assistance, and, seizing the boy by his clothes, he kept him afloat and towed him towards the shore close to the Castle. The boat and two men met the brave dog and relieved him of his burden. The kind-hearted Lady of Avenel ordered the men to carry him into the Castle, where he was laid on a bed and every means were used for his recovery. The patient efforts of those who sought to restore the pretty boy to con¬ sciousness were successful at last, and he stretched out his arms towards the lady, muttering * Mother ’ as he did so. She caressed the child tenderly and pro¬ mised to befriend him and to be to him as a mother. The name of the rescued lad was Roland Graeme, and he had been brought up by his grandmother, a proud old dame, about whom very little was known in the district, though much was guessed. At the request of the Lady of Avenel, Magdalen Graeme consented to leave with her her dearly beloved grandson, asserting that she wished him to be instructed by Henry Warden, a Protestant enthusiast, whose life had many times been endan¬ gered when his enemies were in power. But to follow the fortunes of Roland. The Lady of Avenel’s favourite amusement was to teach him to read and write, to watch his boyish sports, and otherwise spend her time with and for him. Now, all this love and care on her part towards an almost entire stranger excited the 'envy of her household servants, so that it was not long before Roland knew himself to be surrounded by those who disliked him, being jealous of the notice bestowed on him by their mistress. Things grew from bad to worse until Roland was a youth of seventeen years, when the climax was reached by an outbreak of the lad’s hasty temper, which led him to administer to Adam Woodcock, the falconer of Avenel, a. severe box on the ear during a wordy quarrel which occurred between them. So unexpected was the blow that:. | it overthrew the falconer into the cistern in which i | water was kept for the hawks, and a smart return s would have been made the boy had he not recklessly ';[ drawn his dagger and dared Adam to come on. J The high words in the mews drew together the ;] domestics, including the major domo, whose authority i over the household was exercised during the absence of its master on military duties. An exaggerated ? account of these doings reached the ears of the good j Lady of Avenel, who, we know, was inclined towards Roland. She sought counsel of Henry j Warden, the preacher and chaplain, who wu> jj prejudiced against the offender. The harsh old \ man unwisely, though, doubtless, meaning well, did j not hesitate to speak publicly in the chapel of the j Castle against the brawl, pointing his remarks at Roland. This was more than the lad could j: stand, and, rising from his seat, he left the chapel. Afterwards, when questioned by his benefactress " as to his conduct, both in chapel and in the mews, he answered haughtily, and, when chided by he]- 1 as ungrateful, he told her of his resolve to quit the Castle, not because he was ungrateful, but because | he could not bear to trouble her peace by tale- j bearings and complaints, or endure to suffer wrongs jj through the malice of others. It was a painful ’ parting, for Roland was deeply attached to his kind mistress, and knew that she would never have wrought him an injustice, but that the petty miseries he endured were due to the jealousies of the servants, who had never looked on him as other than an intruder. Not long is Roland Graeme to remain alone and friendless ; he again meets with his grandmother, who discovers him in the act of raising a stone crucifix which has been thrown down by the enemies of his faith, for Roland Graeme had been : secretly instructed in the Roman Catholic faith | during the years he had spent in the Castle of | Avenel. Magdalen Graeme, who herself was a jj devoted adherent of the Roman Church, warmly commended his action, and soon signified to him !. that she had devoted him to a special work, a ‘ holy j cause,’ as she considered it. It is by her that he is j introduced to the Abbess of St. Catherine, ‘ Dame ' Bridget,’ as she is frequently called, and her niece, , Catherine Seyton, a pretty and interesting maiden, t The girl was kept very strictly by the Abbess, who I was unwilling that she should be left alone for a few y moments to make the acquaintance of Roland, but j; old Magdalen Graeme had her way, and the two jj were told to take such note of each others appear- : ance that they might know one another again under « whatever circumstances they met. At that brief interview our hero and heroine felt themselves mutually attracted. Each learnt the other’s history jj in brief, and found much with which to sympathise. After a short stay the four moved on towards Edinburgh, whither they were bound, Roland and his grandmother journeying together, and the Abbess and her niece. But, as Roland’s luck would have it, his hot blood almost plunged him again into difficulties, for, arrived at St. Mary’s, Edward Glendinning, Father Ambrose, Halbert Glendin- ning’s brother, being elected Abbot, the brethren

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334 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XLII. of the Order had met in timid fashion to confer on him the office. Then came a loud hammering, and battering, and shouting at the gate ; when it was opened, there was outside a noisy crowd, dressed in the most grotesque manner, under the 6 Abbot of Unreason,’ who himself wore a mock mitre of leather with the front like a grenadier’s cap, adorned with mock trinkets of tin, a nose of unusual size, a buckram robe, a canvas cope, on one shoulder an owl, in his right hand his pastoral staff , and in his left a small mirror. Besides the Abbot of Unreason there were the Monk of Misrule, shriek¬ ing and howling boys, laughing and hallooing men, giggling and screaming women. The Abbot of Unreason stepped forward to parley with Father Ambrose, who upbraided him with folly, and made a stirring appeal to those around him. The mock dignitary, was interrupted by the enthu¬ siast, Magdalen Graeme, whom he tried to silence by threatening to call on his followers to duck her in the mill-stream. As she was not to be silenced, but became louder than ever in her scolding, the mock abbot extended his hands towards the old woman, and his followers, shouting ‘ A doom — a doom ! ’ would have carried her off to the pond, when Boland j Grasme sprang forward, and, seeing his aged relative j thus assaulted, sheathed his sword in the body of the Abbot of Unreason, the blow instantly prostrating the pretended prelate to the ground. The multitude was moved to rage, Father Ambrose to grief, and it looked as though Boland were about to suffer in his turn for his rashness. In the midst of the din and confusion, Sir Halbert Glendinning entered the Hall, alarmed for his brother’s safety. His deter¬ mined will soon restored peace and quietness, and the mock abbot, who had, to every one’s astonishment, risen from the ground unharmed — the sword having merely penetrated the stuffing of straw with which his figure was increased in bulk — turned out to be Adam Woodcock, the Avenel falconer, whose idea in thus assuming the lead of the disorderly crew was i to save his master's brother. ( Concluded at page 339.) CHKIS WHARTON. [Continued from page 327.) CHAPTER IX. HI TIT had never been s well in her life as she wa in those summer days The consequence was that though cut off from mos of her former occupations she was thoroughly happy and enjoyed the nove Christmas festival, witl its floral decorations, in¬ stead of holly and mistletoe. Hei ramble about the wide old house in quest of a piano had ended in finding one in a deserted chamber still dignified by the' name of schoolroom ; but when she sat down to the instru¬ ment, and tried to play some of her well-remembered pieces, Ambrose laughed, and quoted the line about ‘ sweet bells jangled out of tune,’ with only too much point. Lily’s piano had been hopelessly negiected, and small wonder since its owner cared" little or nothing for it. ‘ I have never any time to keep up my music,’ she told her cousin. ‘ 1 am always either helping father or mother, or going out with Dick, or looking after the pets, or — oli ! there are a hundred things to do every day, and since poor Flossie left us I have hardly touched a note.’ ‘ \V ho was Flossie ? ’ Edith wanted to know. ( She was my governess, Mrs. Estcourt, but we all grew so fond of her that we called her Flossie, bhe was just like a daughter to mother, and a sister to me. I will tell you about her some day, some Sunday perhaps, only hers is such a sad story that it makes me cry when I think of it, and I am not one of the crying sort, as perhaps you have found out by this time, Edie.’ ‘.I am Slire I do not wish you to cry, cousin Lily,’ Edith answered. ‘ If it makes you cry to think of Flossie, let us talk of some one else.’ ‘ So we will. I will tell you what I will do, I will ask Dick to go up to Gilham’s farm, and get Gentle¬ man John to come and tune the piano.’ ‘Gentleman John, what a funny name! Is he a gentleman ? ’ ‘ More of a gentleman, I suppose, than the other men here, for everybody calls him so. I cannot tell you exactly what he is, but he is very grave and sad-looking, and speaks in a quiet voice, as different as possible from father’s way of talking, or even Mr. Gilham’s. And he has read everything and knows everything, and can do everythin^ — almost.’ ° ‘ Even tune pianos r ’ ‘ Yes, he did it once for Flossie. As soon as Dick comes in we will ask him to go.’ ‘ Is it not a very long way ? ’ ‘ Yes, but Dick is not very busy this week. Did you not hear him say so at breakfast? And he ought to do things for me, and for you too, if I want them done; what else are brothers for, I should like to know P ’ Edith had been used to think of the things which she ought to do for her brothers rather than of the services which they owed her. She pondered over tins new view of the subject till a diversion arose. Old Jacob, the Kaffir man-servant, came to the out¬ side of the low open window, with somethin «• verv small and furry in his hands. ‘Look, missy, look,’ he called to Edith, in his broken English ; ‘me bring this for missy.’ Now, Mrs. Wharton had had, from the first, a shrinking dislike of the coloured servants — ‘ I do not know how you can bear to have these people about, Alice, she said to her sister-in-law. ‘It will take me a long, long time to get used to them. They are not clean, they— they — oh ! how shall I say it? the n°p >^0U know that there is a great objection to Dick, who was present, laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 335 ‘ Bravo, Aunt Susan/ he cried; ‘ you have found •out the peculiar odour of Kaffirdom, and do not like to say so ! My dear aunt, they all smell ; but they are very decent fellows, and girls too, for all that. It is not their fault, indeed it is not. They use more soap to wash themselves with just once, than would last an English servant a week. And they make most praiseworthy efforts to dress themselves like Chris¬ tians, though I must allow that their ideas on the subject are rather original.’ ‘Poor creatures!’ sighed Mrs. Wharton, ‘I do pity them. The house servants are tidily dressed, I must admit ; but there are women on the farm — you must know it, Alice — who are really shocking objects. One had a leather skirt on, and an old ragged red blanket, and another was dressed in sacking — and then their looks ! ’ ‘ Now, Aunt Susan, you cannot deny that they are graceful; the Kaffirs at least, that they walk and carry themselves well.’ ‘ Poor creatures ! ’ repeated Mrs. Wharton, and she disliked them still. Her feeding was not lessened by all she learned of their household ways; how they never swept out corners, or lifted mats, or dusted, except when they were expressly told to do so; how they let milk boil over, and soup burn, and stores spoil, unless the vigilant eye of the mis¬ tress was ever upon them. ‘ Oh, how I shall long for my good, neat English Jane, when I have a house -of my own ! ’ she said wistfully. ‘Never mind, aunt, we will find you another Jane, even if her Christian name is Mary Ann,’ Dick laughingly assured her, but the promise was not a very safe one. Edith, having naturally imbibed her mother’s sen¬ timents, was not very ready to answer to the Kaffir’s call ; but Lily, who was nearest to the window, rose up in excitement. ‘ Oh, come, Edie, come,’ she cried, ‘ he has brought a meerkat for you.’ 6 A what ? ’ said Edith, doubtfully. ‘ A meerkat ; they are the dearest little creatures, and make such nice pets when they are caught young. Do come and take it.’ But it was Lily who had to take it, and to express Edith’s thanks to the grinning Jacob, whose queer Kaffir soul had been touched by a feeling of admiring- desire to serve the fair little English girl. ‘ Good Jacob, kind Jack,’ said Lily; ‘go along to the kitchen, and mother will give you a parcel of coffee and some tobacco. You can say that you brought the meerkat for Miss Edith.’ Jacob went off well pleased, and not till he was gone did Edith venture to inspect her new possession. The tiny animal, no bigger than a kitten, had the softest fur, the brightest eyes, the prettiest little face and figure imaginable. Out on the veldt it had lived, with its brothers and sisters, in a bank full of burrows, something like a rabbit-warren. Now it was caught it w^ould learn, as meerkats do, to be a pleasant and engaging little pet ; troublesome, because it is thievish and tricky, "but full of pretty ways and antics which delight its keepers. ‘ We have had two or three,’ said Lily. ‘ They always die or get lost or killed in the end ; but while they last they are very nice, and you are sure to like this one.’ While they -were still busy securing the meerkat to a brass hook in the wall by means of a ribbon round its neck, and noticing how it stood on its hind legs, and barked, with a funny little sharp, short bark, like the yelping of a very small terrier, Dick came in, and Lily at once made her request with regard to Gentleman John. ‘ Very sorry, very,’ said Dick, with his gravest air. ‘ Always ready to oblige the ladies, but cannot — really cannot — to-day. Chris and I are just away to the Boer farm on most particular business ; and to go off at a tangent to Gilham’s is not to be thought of.’ ‘ Another day then, Dick, and soon — as soon as ever you can.’ ‘ With all possible pleasure,’ Dick answered, and with this they had to be content. He made fun of the meerkat, said that Jacob was an artful old sinner, with a soul that longed for coffee and ‘Cape smoke,’ and that Lily’s pets were noted for dying violent and untimely deaths, as, no doubt, Edith’s would do. Then he went off to get ready for his expedition, calling back to Lily from the door that he and Chris were ‘ going in the spider.’ Edith thought that wonders would never cease. What sort of a spider was it in which Dick and Chris would travel the five or six miles to the Boer farm, of which she had already heard P Lily saw her perplexity and hastened to relieve it. ‘ The spider is a light little cart,’ she said ; ‘ a thing that Dick is very fond of driving, and that father is not so much struck with. It has only two wheels, and goes along like the wind. I hope they will take care, and come back without any bones broken.’ Edith’s face fell. ‘ Oh, Lily, do you think there is any danger ? ’ she asked, full of fears. ‘No, no, child; I was only joking. We should never have a moment’s peace if we felt frightened every time Dick went out in the spider, for he does it about three times a week.’ So Edith tried to put away her fears. Meanwhile Dick and Chris, in the highest of spirits, were speeding along towards the Boer’s farm, and chatting busily as they went. ‘ You have heard of Taut Anna,’ said Dick to his companion ; ‘ the stoutest lady for twenty miles round Seymourstack, and that is saying a good deal ; you will see her to-day and Oom Pieter, too. The Boers are all “ Ooms ” and “ Tants ’’—uncles and aunts, that is ; those of them who are married and keep house, at any rate.’ ‘ Paul was telling me that they do not care very much about their English neighbours,’ replied Chris, with an uneasy thought that perhaps his visit might be regarded as an intrusion. ‘ They do not care much about neighbours at all, and that is the fact. A Boer — a South African Dutch farmer — likes to live on his own land, with his wife and children and grand-children and servants, and be a regular autocrat, a sort of Old-Testament patriarch. Any outside interference is thoroughly hateful to him.’ ‘ Are they good people, Dick ? ’ ‘ They have their good points, and some bad ones. You will find out some of the latter before we have finished this visit, or I am much mistaken.’

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“ Good Jacob, kind Jack ; go along to the kitchen, and mother will give you a parcel of coffee.’ 1 Why are you going, Dick ? Do you visit them in a social way P ’ * Not I. Father wants a young horse which they have, and he said I might go over any spare day, and drive the best bargain I could with them. He was not at home this morning, as you know, or he might have suggested that we had better take the Cape cart instead of the spider. But I like this ever so much better than that lumbering thing.’ Dick’s tone jarred, as it often did, upon Chris’s finer moral sense. But it was too late to protest, and scruples were soon forgotten in the rapid and de¬ lightful motion. ( Continued at page 342.)

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“ Now it was that the two old people beheld their strange visitor’s features for the first time.” x x

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338 CHATTERBOX. ISTo. XLIII. THE DESERTEB. [Continued from 'page 331.) ON SIDERING old Ckipchase’s age and feebleness, he was re¬ markably expeditious (with the assistance of Susannah) in papering over the tell-tale trap- hatch and removing the step- ladder. Still, he did not finish his task a moment too soon, for he had not long resumed his interrupted meal (more from appearance sake than ought else, for he now discovered that he had no appetite) when the door was burst open and a burly-looking sailor, evidently a warrant officer, stalked into the room, having never so much as knocked. His hat was pulled down over his brow, and the lower portion of his face was buried in the high collar of his pea-jacket which was turned up, no doubt as a protection against the rain, and little besides his dark, searching eyes was visible. If Michael and his wife had not been so thoroughly upset by his rather rude entry, they might have noticed an expression of amazement start into those same eyes when they rested on themselves. The look of wonder passed away very quickly, however, and without removing his hat, or asking the old man’s permission or invitation to do so, he fiung himself into the only empty chair. ‘ It is a rough night, master,’ said this ill-bred sailor, in deep gruff accents, by way of introduction. ‘As rough as your manners, mayhap,’ retorted Michael pointedly. ‘ Ay, my manners are but coarse, I dare say, and life aboard a King’s ship does not mend them, you may depend. Still, it is a rough night, and, if your door had not opened a bit since and showed me a light like a friendly beacon, I might have gone over the cliff-top, almost.’ ‘ Ah ! so you are from a man-o’-war, are you ? ’ observed Michael, forced into saying something. ‘ Yes, master ; the Vixen, not many hours berthed in harbour from the West India station.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Michael; ‘and might I be so bold as to inquire the reason of one of His Majesty’s bosuns (which I think you are), just home from a foreign station, paying a visit to a poor, old, worn- out fisherman like me ? ’ ‘ Ay, ay, to be sure,’ said the other. ‘ I am not taking this land cruise for my own pleasure, but simply on a matter of duty. To be plain with you, master, we lost a man by desertion since making port, and I am just rooting" about on the off-chance of ferret iDg him out.’ The speaker’s eyes looked hard at Michael as he said this, but the old man sturdily returned the gaze. ‘ Our captain has sent out several search-parties for his apprehension, but I am on my own account.’ ‘ W hat made him desert ? ’ asked Michael, quietly. ‘Oh, he was a bad lot all through.’ ‘ Of course,’ assented Michael, bitterly. ‘ Well, but he was. He has been seized up to the gratings more than once during the cruise for insub¬ ordination and misconduct generally.’ ‘ Maybe that accounts for his running away now.’ ‘ Partly, perhaps ; but he deserved every stripe he got, let me tell you. The offences for which he received this punishment, however, were but minor affairs compared with the crime he committed before he took French leave, and we must have him back at all costs.’ ‘ What’s his name ? ’ inquired Michael. 1 1 can tell you wThat his name is on the ship’s books — Nicholas Yeal.’ ‘ Never heard of it in these parts,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘ This is a snug little room, master,’ went on the sailor, changing the subject of conversation in the coolest manner imaginable, and not appearing at all anxious about the absconding seaman. ‘ Yes, sir, it is very snug, as you are pleased to say, though humble enough.’ ‘ And I like the wall-papering, too ; it is a remark¬ ably pretty pattern. I notice that you have also papered the ceiling with it.’ ‘ Yes, sir ; it covers up the blotched wood roof, you see,’ replied Michael, beginning to feel uneasy at the sailor s remarks no less than his manner. ‘ What might those too small wooden sockets at the far side of the door there, near the top of the room, be for ? One would fane}7- you had been used to have a step-ladder there.’ ‘Step-ladder, sir?’ faintly said Michael. ‘W7liy,. what should I want with a step-ladder ? ’ ‘Well, they are convenient in reaching lofts or small upper rooms in places where space is valuable.’ ‘But how would you get through the ceiling, even if you had an upper room ? ’ ‘ I have generally seen a trap-hatch for such a purpose. Much smuggling go on hereabouts?’ again abruptly changing the subject. ‘ A good bit, sir,’ returned Michael, becoming a little easier at the change ; ‘ though hardly so much, I think, since — since a poor young fellow was shot dead by a Preventive man.’ ‘ That was a bad job, anyway. Who was it ? ’ ‘ My son, sir,’ said the old man, passing his hand, over his eyes. ‘ Ay, ay. And who shot him ? ’ ‘ I never could find out, sir, for certain, but it was generally credited to the commander of the Revenue- men, one Ebenezer Tullick, He had just been appointed to this district, and was removed shortly after that job. It was a sad pity he ever came.’ ‘Ebenezer Tullick!’ repeated the sailor; ‘I have- heard of the man ; a messmate of mine on the Vixen told me all about that black affair. They called your son Avery Chipchase, didn’t they ? ’ ‘ They "did, sir.’ ‘And what became of Tullick ? ’ ‘ He was removed from this district, as I just told | you, sir, for what cause I don’t exactly know, but it was said he got into disgrace owing to his being j mixed up with the free-traders himself.’ ‘ A pretty man to shoot smugglers ! ’ growled the other. ‘ I believe I can tell you why he shot your son, master, though there is small comfort in knowing ! that, I know.’

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jSTo. xliii. CHATTERBOX. 339 ‘ lie shot him in the execution of his duty, as he considered it, I suppose.5 He shot him,5 was the stern reply, ‘ because he Knew that your Avery had discovered the fact of his being a traitor to the post he held— that, he, whose uty it was to put down the smugglers, was one of a gang himself, and, always fearing he might blah, ie seized that chance of silencing his tongue for ever. 1 have heard, likewise, of you and the dame yonder ; but I was given to understand that you were both dead— died within a day of one another, so the story ran, three years ago. I am very glad to find the tale raise, really I am. I take it you have been pretty closely put to it to make both ends meet since vour Avery died? 5 J ‘ His death made a great deal of difference to me and the old woman, sir.’ ‘ Well,’ was the reply, ‘you must trust that better times are still in store for you both,’ and as he said this he got up from his chair, tilted his hat to the back of his head, and began to turn down his coat- collar. . Old Michael watched this proceeding with niuch interest and attention. Now it was that the two old people beheld their strange visitor’s features for the first time since he had intruded him¬ self upon them. He was quite a young man, with face deeply bronzed by a tropical sun, and a seaman V?r‘ The effect of his simple performance was indeed magical. Mistress Susannah’s eyes seemed to jump out of her head, immediately after which they suddenly closed, and she slid out of her chair and became a mere heap on the floor. Michael himself was hardly less moved. He started back in his chair, trembling violently as though with the ague, a deathly pallor overspreading his hard, weather-beaten visage, and he tried to speak. In vain ; he gasped out ‘ Av ’ but could get no further, and his lips remained widely parted. ‘There, there, old man, do not take on so,’ cried the sailor, going over to the staring Michael, and patting him soothingly on the shoulder. ‘ I was a simpleton to take you by surprise like I have done, but when I entered this room I no more expected to find you within than the Great Mogul, for, as I have. already said, I was told you were dead years ago. I am not a ghost, father, I assure you, but actually your own Avery— shot by the Preventive man, but not shot dead, you see, which makes a difference. Come now ease up a bit, father, and help me to bring mother round.’ {Concluded at page 346.) SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. ROLAND GRiEME AND CATHERINE SEYTON. ( Concluded from page 334.) SIR HALBERT noticed Roland, who had been held prisoner by a guard, and stood aloof, and question¬ ing him as to what he did and why, dressed in his lady’s liyeiy, he dared take part in the broil, learned for the first time of his dismissal by the Lady of Avenel, and, inquiring into the cause, he heard from Adam oodcock the story of the trouble in the mews, and generously offered to overlook it and retain him in his train. Roland, seeking his grandmother’s permis¬ sion to accept the offer, received it, as it fell in with the purpose which she had in mind, and he was soon on his way, under the special charge of Adam Wood¬ cock, to Edinburgh, there, by his master’s orders, to join the Regent, Sir John Murray. At Edin¬ burgh he fought in a street fray on behalf of the Seytons, whose followers met their opponents, the Leslies, and engaged them; and there, too, he saw again the beloved form of Catherine Seyton, and followed her into the house of her father, Lord Seyton, whose cause he had just espoused. There, wearing the crest of Avenel, he was set on as a toe by a party of }roung men, and only escaped in safety by asserting that he had come to inquire after the health of Lord Seyton, who recognised his youn0, helper, and presented him with a chain of gold and a medal, which Roland accepted with no little pride. Under the guidance of his frhnd Adam, Roland at length entered the courtyard of the Palace of Holy rood, where the Regent Murray was stavino*. It was not long before he was admitted to the pre- sence of Murray, having been charged by Adam Woodcock to deliver into the hands of the Regent a packet containing important information from°Sir Halbert Glendinning. He was present at an inter¬ view between Murray and the Earl of Morton, and heard some chance words concerning the unhappy Mary, Queen of Scots, then a prisoner in Lochleven Castle, under the Lady of Lochleven, the Regent’s mother, who heartily disliked her fair prisoner, of whom she was jealous on account of her superior right to the Scottish throne over the Regent Murray Lady Lochleven’s son. Mary and the Regent were half-brother and sister, their father having been James V. of Scotland. Murray had imprisoned his sister in Lochleven Castle, and himself acted as Regent for her infant son, then a babe of a year old. We follow our hero, Roland Graeme, across the ♦ lake before the lonely Castle, and witness his emotion as for the first time in his young life he saw the un¬ fortunate and beautiful Queen, to whom he is sent by Murray as a page. The Regent tells him to watch closely for any signs of intended escape on the part of the royal lady, and informs him that, should he fail to let him know or should he prove in any way treacherous, death will be his doom. On the other hand, he promises him great rewards if he uses eyes and ears, and his whole heart and mind, faithfully in his, Murray’s, cause. To the astonishment of young Graeme, he finds that the most devoted of the captive Queen’s female attendants is none other than Catherine this time not dressed as a page, but as a modest maiden, the daughter of a noble family. Besides the stern Lady of Lochleven, Mary Stuart’s austere guardian, the mother of the Regent, there is at the Castle a young man of thoughtful mood, and handsome face ancl form, George Douglas, the grandson of the Lady of Lochleven, and he pities the royal prisoner,, cmd declares to her his desire to serve her. George Douglas determined to accomplish, if at all possibfe, Queen Mary’s escape. The boat was ready on the

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No. XLIII. CHATTERBOX. 341 Esquimaux building Snow Hut. guardian of the Castle keys, which were brought to her every night by a servant. Roland had observed this, and the idea struck him that if he could become possessed of the bunch, sub¬ stituting another set unobserved in some lucky moment while the Lady of Lochleven was a little less watchful than usual, the task would be an easier one. But, then, that second set had to be made, and must very closely resemble the real keys. Roland was equal to the task ; as a youth educated in the household of the Knight of Avenel, he had learned the use of axe and hammer, and to work in wood and iron. Every day he toiled at the armourer’s forge, which was in a vault at the bottom of the turret, the armourer having been dismissed for his supposed friendliness to George Douglas. Great secrecy was observed, and in time the keys were finished, and cleverly exchanged. Catherine had incited Roland to keener enthusiasm by declaring that he who should manage the captive Queen’s escape would deserve the thanks and honour of all Scotland. The journey across to the mainland in a boat was a perilous one, as Henry Seyton, the twin brother of Catherine Seyton, whom Roland had, up till the present, encountered dressed as a pnge, and mistaken for the maiden herself in disguise, had forgotten to muffle the oars, thus attracting the attention of the garrison, who fired at the boat and did their best to capture their illustrious victim. How far fortune favoured her, and how a big battle was fought between the Queen’s troops and those of Murray, Mary then appealing to the friendliness and hospitality of Elizabeth of England, are matters of history. It was in vain that her faithful subject, Father Ambrose, besought her with tears in his eyes, and in the name of Heaven and her loyal people, to abandon the project of going to England, and placing herself in the power of her rival and cousin, Elizabeth. She persisted in her decision, and we all know her tragic end. Roland Graeme was proved to be the son of Julian Avenel, and heir to the Avenel estates. Fie, after a time, became a Protestant, but Catherine Seyton did not let this difference in faith stand in the way of their union, now that her hero had proved his loyalty and his bravery by the perils through which he had passed. James Cassidy. THE ESQUIMAUX. ALTHOUGH naturally of fair complexion, the Esquimaux appear to be dark-skinned on account of the coating of grease and dirt which they get in their blackened, smoky houses. This, and exposure to the terrible climate, quite alters their appear¬ ance. Rarely or never do they wash.

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342 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIII. In the brief spell of so-called summer the snow houses melt away, and the Esquimaux dwell in tents, and go inland to hunt reindeer and fish the fresh-water lakes for change of diet. They also sometimes embark in the serious business of whale-hunting whilst the sea is still open. Their method of capturing the 1 great levia¬ than’ is a somewhat curious one. Directly the whale is seen, the tribe get out their canoes and swiftly paddle alongside; then, instead of harpoon¬ ing it in the ordinary way, they fling darts at its side, each dart having a bladder made of sealskin fastened to it. When a large number of these are fixed in the creature’s body it cannot sink very far down in the water; it must soon rise to the surface again, and then the Esquimaux renew their attack, hurling fresh darts into the whale’s sides until it is wearied out and killed. The Esquimaux method of seal-killing in winter is most curious. The seal usually keeps a hole in the ice open, in order that he way be enabled to come out of the water. The hunter covers this hole at night with pure white snow, just making a small opening in the middle of it. Then he watches, and as the. seal approaches from below, the dark water bubbling up through the central hole gives due notice of the creature’s approach. The hunter im¬ mediately. strikes his spear or harpoon down through the snow into the seal’s head, killing it instantly. In this way many of the Esquimaux wants are supplied during the winter season, for the seal brings food, oil, light, and warmth to these poor people. F. R. CHRIS WHARTON, ( Continued from jpagc 386.) chapter x. HE grounds around the Wharton’s Kop house were not so trim as those of an English farm, but they were neatness itself com¬ pared with the untidy yard and out-buildings wliich surrounded the dwelling of Oom Pieter Reinhart. Uncle Edward’s house, too, was a palace when con¬ trasted with the Boer re- n o , ..... sidence. The beaten earth floor ot the big living-room, and the curious disorder of tlie apartment, through which children, and do"-s, and poultry ranged at will, struck Chris with amazement as, at Dick’s invitation, he dismounted before Oom Pieter’s open door. Open doors were tlie order of tire establishment, ihe living-room occupied the centre of the buildino-, and on either hand were seen glimpses of sleeping apartments in various stages of muddle and untidi¬ ness. But there was little time to make observa- tions, for, at the sound of the horse’s feet, a tribe of little Boers, wearing very full breeches and very broad hats, had run off to tell their father of the new arrival, and here was Oom Pieter himself coming lumberingly towards them, and bidding Dick welcome in fluent Gape Dutch. Dick understood every word, though he did not speak the language well. He lost no time in introducing Chris, and Oom Pieter at once stretched out his hand for a shake, and, sitting down and bidding his guests do the same, he subjected Chris to a great number of questions, every one of which Dick had to answer for him. His father’s name and his mother’s, their respec¬ tive ages, the names and ages of his brother and sister, and a variety of kindred matters, were the subject of the Boer’s curiosity. For his own part he was equally communicative, told them his own age and Tant Anna’s, and, calling up the little wearers of the wide nether garments, made them stand all in a row and go through the ceremony of handshaking, the proud father at the same time telling which was Jacob, or Peter, or Jan, or Paul, as each stocky young Dutchman put out a fat hand to be shaken. Tant Anna was reported to be asleep, but by-and- by there was a sound of heavy, measured footsteps, and the stout wife of the worthy Oom Pieter entered the room. She was accompanied by her daughter — a fat, stolid -looking girl, in a striped cotton frock, who stared at Dick and Chris with undisguised interest — and by a Hottentot maid, bearing a tray with coffee-cups. Dick was anxious to enter upon the business which had brought him out ; but he knew that it was quite useless to do so until the conversation and coffee¬ drinking had been gone through. So he smothered his impatience, and sat quietly answering the in¬ quiries about the health of his father and mother and sister, while Tant Anna poured out the coffee. These questions, tiresome as they were to Dick, were still more so to Chris, who could not under¬ stand a single word. Tant Anna’s coffee justified its high reputation, and was really delicious; but, wishing to do special honour to the visitors, she made it so sweet that it was almost undrinkable, for the more a Boer hostess desires to distinguish her guest, the greater is the quantity of sugar which she heaps into his coffee-cup. Taut Anna had been baking that morning. She insisted upon the boys partaking of her excellent new bread, together with honey and ‘ bultong.’ The latter, which consisted of strips of dried meat, Chris did not find very much to his taste. It was surprising .what a long time the repast and all the attendant inquiries and ceremonies took. More than an hour had passed before Dick could get in a word about the horse which his father desired to purchase, and even then another hour was spent in viewing the steed, and bringing the wily Dutch¬ man to accept something like the sum wliich Dick considered a fair price tor the animal. Dick laid stress upon the fact that the horse, being young, was not c salted,’ and would therefore be purchased at a risk. Com Pieter, on the other hand, made much of its good points,. and showed himself a sharp hand at a bargain, in spite of his mild exterior and gene¬ rally simple aspect. The day was verging into afternoon before the

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No. NLIII. CHATTERBOX. 343 affair was concluded, and then Dick astonished Chris by a sudden proposal to leave the horse which he had driven over at the Boer farm for one of the Kaffirs to fetch on the morrow, and to drive the young and untried one home in the spider. Oom Pieter made no objection to this arrange¬ ment; he may have had his own thoughts as to the folly of young Mynheer Wharton’s proceedings, but with a Dutchman’s caution he let them remain unspoken. Chris, unwilling as he was to oppose Dick, felt that this was a time to speak, and he did so with sufficient energy and spirit. ‘ You had better not do it, Dick. Uncle Edward would not like it, I am sure. You said, as we came along, that he did not care about your driving in the spider at all. With this new horse you do not know what might happen. Do be persuaded, now ; let us go back as we came.’ Oom Pieter smiled a slow approval, thereby be¬ traying that he understood more English than he usually cared to acknowledge. He pointed out to Dick that it would be easy to attach the new horse to the back of the spider, and so convey it to Whar- ton’s Kop at once ; but the young man was obsti¬ nately set upon his own plan. 1 No, no, Oom Pieter ; it will do that lazy Jacob good to fetch the old one to-morrow ; and as for this young shaver, I want to try his quality. Be quiet, Chris; after what you have seen of my driving you might have more confidence in me, I should think. The very first night you came, you saw me handle the ribbons with a team of eight horses to the waggon.’ Chris could not deny this, but a disturbing notion that the eight steady, easy-going steeds, who were usually driven in the family waggon, might prove, in an emergency, much less of a handful than the one spirited, half-broken youngster, to whom Dick pro- osed to intrust their joint, safety, remained at the ack of his mind. It was useless to say more, for Dick, when he was once resolved, was not to be di¬ verted from his purpose. Yandermeyr, the newly purchased horse, was brought out, and with no slight difficulty harnessed to the spider. Dick, flourishing the reins in fine style, jauntily bade adieu to his entertainers, and Chris followed suit ; while Oom Pieter, Tant Anna, the stolid daughter, the Hottentot maid, and all the little Boers, stood at the door of their dwelling, watching the departure of their visitors. Dick, as they drove along, tried to cheer up his companion. 1 It is true, father makes a fuss about the spider,’ he began ; * but that is only because he thinks it necessary to put in a word of caution sometimes. On the whole, he lets me have a free hand, as you know, and no one will be better pleased than he will to see me bringing Yandermeyr home in proper fashion, and to know that I have got him at such a low figure, too.’ ‘ I hope so,’ said Chris. 6 But do take care, Dick ; it is a nasty bit of road just here.’ The road was jolting and uneven, badly made, as most Colonial roads are — a mere waggon-track in some places, and as full of ruts and holes as it could be. The young horse dashed along at an increasingly rapid pace, and Christopher's •' Do take care,’ repeated as it was at every turn in the way, fell, to all appearance, upon deaf ears. Dick either could not or would not lessen the speed. The light two-wheeled spider seemed at last to fly over the ground, and, when they came to a spot where a really steep incline of some two or three hundred feet in extent had to be overpassed, Chris resigned himself in silence to the worst that might befall. Surely a spirit of contradiction had possession of Dick that day. Just when prudence and restraint were most needful, he cast both to the winds, liaising himself in his seat, and giving Vandermeyr a most unnecessary flick with the ‘ sjambok ’ or cow¬ hide whip, which he carried, he started that lively animal on such a headlong descent of the incline that the merest tyro might have predicted a terrible smash as its only possible termination. In another minute Dick, Chris, and the spider were lying in inextricable confusion at the bottom of the steep incline, and Yandermeyr, brought to a standstill by the twining of a loosened strap around his fore legs, was kicking and plunging madly in his efforts to free himself from the twisted and broken harness. Chris was dazed by the shock, but did not lose consciousness. In a little while he sat up and looked around him, relieved to find that Dick, too, was able to rise from the ground and to walk — though he limped as he did so — towards Yander- meyr’s head. But Dick, coolly as he tried to take the mishap, was not yet able to get over it so easily. Every effort to hold, or to assist, the plunging steed seemed to make matters worse, and a crushed or sprained foot is no small hindrance in such a critical situation. Dick had to own himself beaten. He stood for a moment ruefully gazing at his cousin, at the ruin of his favourite vehicle, and at the struggling Yander¬ meyr, and then exclaimed, as he caught sight of a horseman slowly approaching the scene of the dis¬ aster, ‘ Oh, what a blessing! Here is Gentleman John!’ The rider, as he reached them, reined in his horse, and looked at the boys with a quietly humorous glance, which told that, in part at least, he took in the situation. ‘Well, Master Dick, you have had an upset, it appears,’ he said, as evenly as though such a smash were an every-day occurrence. ‘ Come and hold my horse while I teach that kicking brute to mend his manners.’ Dick, for a wonder, did as he was told without parley or objection, and in a very short time Yan¬ dermeyr stood, trembling indeed, but perfectly under control, and freed from "the dangling harness which had almost maddened him. ‘There, my lad, horses want management, you know. How did this one contrive to lead you such a dance ? and who is this whom you have led into a scrape that was all of your own making, I will be bound ? ’ Dick did not resent the words, for Gentleman John was a privileged person. He explained Chris¬ topher’s presence as shortly as he could, and then, for his foot pained him, he lapsed into silence. Gentleman John had noticed the limp, though he

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A Terrible Smash. did not choose to say so. ‘ You can ride my grey up to the farm if you like/ he said. ‘ 1 was on my way to Wharton’s Kop. As for me, I will try your new purchase. We will make him thoroughly quiet to ride and drive before the day is over.’ Chris felt rather left out in the cold by this arrangement, but John had not forgotten him. IJe turned to Chris next. ‘The old grey will carry double/ he continued. ‘ Get on behind your cousin, if you do not mind. It is only a couple of miles, and we can send some one back for what is left of the spider.’ Chris obeyed, and thus ingloriously did the cousins return from their unlucky expedition to the Boer farm. {Continued at page 350.)

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Y Y

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846 CHATTERBOX. No. XL1V. THE DESERTER. ( Concluded from page 339. ) HEN Mrs. Chipchase was brought round, and her senses satisfied as to the fact of her son being still in the land of the living, Avery (as we may now call him) in low tones said : — ‘The reason my body was never found after I was shot by Tullick — and Tulliek it was — was this. Instead of falling sheer to the beach from the top of the bluff, I, in a manner, rolled down the clilf-side, and as I went I caught at the shrubs and grass-tufts growing all the way down, which broke my fall when I arrived at the bottom — soft sand, fortunately. Well, there I lay till daybreak, conscious, but too weak to move or even cry out, and if the tide had begun to flow an hour earlier that morning I should have been drowned to a certainty, and swept out to sea. Providentially, a revenue-cutter came into the cove shortly after daylight, and I had been seen from her deck. I was taken on board, and most humanely treated. The musket-ball was ex¬ tracted by a surgeon who happened to be taking a cruise in the cutter for his own amusement. I had given my name as William Peverel, deeming my own rather too unsafe just then, and invented a yarn to show how I came to be lying shot on the sands, though I shrewdly suspect they had their own opinions on that matter. However, they never cross-examined me or asked me any further questions about it. The surgeon who had extracted the bullet in my back- belonged to one of the King’s ships, and he asked me if I would join his ship when I was strong enough, for, said he, the navy is in want of every good man she can get. ‘ Thinking my complying with his appeal might in a manner repay his kindness to me, I pro¬ mised to volunteer for the service, and was drafted with a lot more to the Vixen. This was really the first chance I had of writing a letter, and I got pen and paper, intending to send you a line to let you know what had become of me, when some talk of a couple of my messmates in the fo’cas’le, who made out they had come from this neighbourhood, attracted my attention. It was then I learnt of both your deaths. Never doubting the truth of the assertion — and they seemed positive about it — the letter was, of course, never written. ‘ When the ship had been a day or two at sea, I happened to notice one of the crew whose face some¬ how seemed familiar, though for the life of me I could not bring to mind who it was. After pondering the matter a good while, however, my perplexity was removed. The man was no other than Ebenezer Tullick; but on board the Vixen he was smooth- shaven, while the few times I had seen him previously he wore a black beard — and thus the difficulty I hacl had in identifying him. I did not betray the fact of my having recognised him: he had his reasons, I suppose, for not wishing to be known, and assuredly I had mine ; so, as he did not molest me, I did not •interfere with him ; the past was past, and I saw no good purpose in raking it up. ‘Whether from some hidden motive, or whether from mere spite, I cannot pretend to say, but I now feel confident that it must have been Tullick who had circulated the report of your having died. ‘ I am happy to say, I found life on board the Vixen very pleasant, all things considered — and now and then exciting — for Captain Pengilly was a kind and sensible commander, who interested himself in his men’s behalf, and saw that they were properly treated. He kept his eye on me, I am sure, and find¬ ing me trustworthy and understanding my duty, he promoted me rapidly in a small way, soon making me a petty officer, and finally, boatswain — my predecessor having been killed in action. ‘ Well, after a three-years’ cruise, in which period we saw some tough fighting, and captured and sent home a number of prizes, we spread sail for old England. We reached port only this morning, as I mentioned before, I think, and we had not been in harbour over an hour, when a rumour ran through the ship that a man had deserted. For a while no¬ body could believe it ; it seemed such a witless action to slip cable when a ship was on. the point of being paid off, and prize-money due. Witless or not, Nicholas Yeal could not be found. Presently another and more serious piece of news got about — a private signal-book was missing. There was no mistake about this — the book was gone. And so was Nicholas Yeal; and two and two make four. Oh, yes, every¬ body could reckon it up now. Everybody knew there was a certain individual ready to purchase that book at a price equalling his pay and prize-money a hundred times told ; which individual, I need hardly tell you, is named Old Boney. — Sit down, father,’ as old Michael rose excitedly to his feet, and was going to speak. * I know what you are minded to say. Wait a bit. When all doubt as to Yeal having decamped with the signal-book was set at rest. Captain Pengilly quietly dispatches search parties after the traitorous thief. Now, I had taken an idea into my head that Yeal would, in the first instance, shape a course for this part of the country, as, being tbinly populated and rugged, his chances of showing a clean pair of heels would be enhanced. That being so, I begged Captain Pengilly to give me leave to go man-hunting too, but quite alone. Tie was very pleased with my request, and said, “ By all means, Peverel ; and if you get the book back — the book, you understand, more than the man — it will prove one of the best days’ work you ever did in your life.” ‘ I did not come this road direct, but crossed and re-crossed fields and lanes many times over in the hope of sighting my game, and at last, about dusk, I came upon him dodging along the cliff-top, having started from some hole or other in which he had been lying by till dark, and I clapped on easy sail in pur¬ suit, taking care he did not see me — a ticklish job, by the way, for he kept looking behind him every minute. I lost him altogether when the rain and darkness came on, and, although in my own neighbourhood once again, I scarcely knew what I was doing or where I was going. 1 floundered about another half- hour or so, running into hedges and falling over shrubs and boulders, damaging myself and losing my temper, when a deep red square of light started out of the gloom some distance ahead. “ Aha ! ” said I to myself, “ that is caused by the opening of a house door, and Master Nicholas has found shelter, I will

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Xo. XLIY. CHATTERBOX. 347 be bound. I will take the hint, and steer for the same anchorage.” And so I did — sit down, father,’ as the old man once more rose from his chair and was going to speak. 4 You were deceived by his yarn of wrongs and ill-treatment, of course ; I know. 4 1 fancy you thought me a too-sharp sort of person when I remarked the step-ladder sockets and the •papering on the roof — now didn’t you? You little thought that I was so familiar with the loft — my old bedroom. Ha ! ha ! But we must not neglect business. Now I will quietly replace the ladder, and then we will see what will happen.’ Having done so, he resumed : 4 1 am going to sing you a kind of song now. It is not exactly like songs in general, but you won’t mind that.’ Thereupon he gave mouth in good, sonorous tones to the following, making the words lit to the old tune of 4 To all you ladies now on land ’ : — L 0 Tullick, Tullick, come ye down, ’Tis useless keeping dark ; Your dastard scheme of treason’s failed, As it was sartain to. Of that signal-book not one brief glance Shall Boney be allowed ! And that is flat. [ With great vigour and determination .] To the Vixen back you must e’en go, A prisoner of the King, And the sooner you descend, Why, the sooner we set sail On our journey o’er the windy downs.’ Avery’s audience in the parlour were probably as greatly astonished with this vocal effort as was the unhappy wretch who listened to it overhead. They little dreamed that the deserter they had taken such pains to hide — from motives of mistaken charity — was the would-be slayer of their own son, but so it was. A minute or two of perfect silence went by, and then the trap-door was suddenly wrenched up, slitting the papering newly pasted over it in all directions, like a starred window-pane, and the ghastly features of Ebenezer Tullick, alias Nicholas Yeal, appeared in the aperture. With unsteady legs he descended the step-ladder into the parlour. No imploration for mercy, no exclamation of rage or vexation escaped his lips. He stood in the middle of the room, mutely looking at his three companions. The signal-book was found tightly buttoned inside his coat, and Avery .speedily took possession of it. ***** That eventful day certainly proved an auspicious one for Avery Chipchase, as Captain Pengilly had promised it should if he brought back the signal-book, for his eminent services were acknowledged in a most liberal manner, and this money being placed, at the disposal of the old folk at home, they never, in con¬ sequence, felt the pinch of poverty again as long as •they lived. But for the traitorous Tullick the day was the •reverse of auspicious, for, being impartially tried by court-martial, he was found guilty of high treason, and shot, as was no more than his deserts. Walter Foster. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. Word Puzzles. Terminations . 49. — Double the seventy-third part of three hundred and sixty-five, and use the word then found as a ter¬ mination for each of the following. 1. Not seldom. 2. Be quick 1 3. To make secure. 4. To take from length. 5. To make less hard. 6. Hark ! be attentive when spoken to. 7. To cause terror. 8. In a melted condition. 50. — Make words, using a well-known conjunction as the termination of each. 1. To assume an upright position. 2. Great, high in power, of a noble character. 3. Mild and gentle in manner. 4. A married man. 5. A most useful member. 6. To give orders. 7. To ask with authority. 8. To mark, as a sign of disgrace. 9. Something to be told or done. 10. To scatter, to disperse, to break up a company of soldiers. C. C. 51. — Arithmetical Puzzle. A boy had three bags of marbles containing in all 110. The contents of the first and second bags together were 85, and of the second and third, 73. How many were there in each bag ? C. C. [. Answers at page 363.] ^AJSTS"VvrZETi3. 46. — 1. Bloom, home. 2. Brown, down. 3. Fair, air. 4. Ring, spring. 5. Unfold, gold. 6. Fair, there. 47.- -1. Oliver Twist. 2. Paul Dombey. 3. Florence Dombey, 4. Little Nell. 7. Flowers, hours. 8. Free, sea. 9. Grain, wain. 10. Bear, care. 11 . Bare, fair. 12. Come, home. 5. Susan Nipper. 6. David Copperfield. 7. Noah Claypole. 8. Bill Sykes. 48. — Red Riding Hood. AT THE STILE. T the stile the maiden stands, Hearing tales of far-off lands. ( Would you like to go with me Far away across the sea ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ the girl at first replies. With a flash of eager eyes. 6 No,’ she says, as thoughts of home O’er her spirit crowding come.

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At the Stile. Father — lover — mother dear — Could she go and leave them here ? * Fair though distant lands may be, England is the place for me ! * In that spot ’tis best to dwell Where are hearts that love you well.’ E. D. A STILL SALT POOL, AND ITS INHABITANTS. XII.— THE SEA CUCUMBER, OR HOLOTHURIA, AND MERMAID’S PURSES. I HAVE almost come to the end of the sea crea¬ tures, which we noticed that lovely day when we sat by our rocky pool; but I think that some of

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No. XLIV. CHATTERBOX. 849 /ou would "be disappointed if you heard nothing" .nore of the long, curved creature, which we saw attached lightly to the lock in a dark crevice just below the water. When it first attracted our atten¬ tion you will remember that it had a crown of feathery tentacles on its head, perhaps from ten to fifteen in number; but whether from a dislike of observation, or because having satisfied its hunger the animal hod no need of fishing, it soon retracted its diadem, and appeared as like as possible to a small cucumber or gherkin. This cieature moves like the sea-mouse, or sea-urchin, by means of tube feet, and he has certain quaint and curious fashions of his own. When Mr. Holothuria feels ill, instead of sending for the doctor, or betaking himself to doses, pills, powders, or such-like, he adopts the more effective treatment of tossing away his whole internal arrangements, and, possibly being afraid of toothache if weak from want of food, he sends his teeth after them. It must be rather a queer sensation to have no body, but to be a mere bag of skin with a mouth !i which is useless for obvious reasons; however, the gentleman appears to appreciate life too highly to Teave it, and, after awhile, a whole new set of teeth, stomach, and other organs reappear, when my Lord Holothuria is quite himself again. . If one of his kind jj is cut open, it will be seen that he is chiefly composed of long white threads, which are neither appetising in appearance, nor gratifying to the organs of smell. Y et a vast Eastern nation make this delicacy take the place which oysters, prawns, or lobsters occupy in Western larders. An enormous trade in these creatures is carried on with China under the name of Trepang or Beche-de-Mer. The former name is Malayan, and the coveted species of Holothurians are chiefly found in the Indian Ocean, although Australasia and Japan have a share in the fisheries.. The creatures, when collected, are boiled, split open, and dried either in the sun.or in smoke, and are chiefly eaten in soup. It is reckoned that 235,000/. a year is paid for them by China alone, for no other nation shares this queer taste. You will see that I have given an illustration of an object which we noticed floating in the water, but out of our reach, which I called a Mermaids Purse — its common name amongst sailors. As children, we often picked up these queer-shaped things on the shore, but, having no idea what they were, we satisfied ourselves by calling them Butcher Boy’s Trays, which name their form suggested. In reality, they are simply the cases of the eggs of certain fishes, and those with the four curved hnndles are the clever contrivance of the Thornbad Skate to protect its infants. The Dog-fish, a member of the Shark family, makes a similar provision for its egg, which, enclosed in its protective cover, is launched alone upon the waters. When the baby fish develops from the egg, its first instinct is to push with its head against the end of the bag, which opens readily from within, and allows the new-born fish to escape from confinement. The egg-case of the Dog-fish is very similar to that of the Skate, but instead of the curved handles, it is provided with long curling tendrils at each corner, and these, twining round seaweeds and other substances, anchor the infant shark in a secure place. I quite hoped to have found room to tell you something about the vegetable growths which made our pool so lovely : those delicate fronds of green and grey wafted about with every breath of air which disturbed the placid water, the bushy fringes of crimson, brown, and lilac reflected in its I depths, and the graceful hairlike threads which i floated across, as the motion of shrimp or fish made Egg-case of Thornbad Skate. a momentary current. However, the animal world has claimed all my available space, and I can only hope that at some future time the kindness of the Editor of Chatterbox may allow me to tell you some¬ thing of the wonders of the marine plant-life, which rivals in beauty the tropical forests and luxuriant foliage of our own more temperate climate. Helena Heath.

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350 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIY. CHILDREN’S DAYS IN BELGIUM. THE lltli of November is not a special day in the calendar of the children of England, but little folk in Belgium look forward to it joyfully, as the festival of St. Martin, and it is celebrated in every family. Flemish parents for generations have called their boys and girls into a darkened room on the eve of the day, placing them in a corner with their backs turned to the door. Then, a quantity of nuts, apples, and gingerbread, are tossed here and there, for which the children must scramble without glancing behind to see Saint Martin, who is supposed to be standing there, and who will throw nothing more if any one looks at him. At Antwerp, on this evening, one member of each family dresses like a bishop, and entering the room where the young folk are all gathered to receive him, he inquires concerning the conduct of each one. If he is pleased with the report, he leaves cakes and playthings behind him ‘ from Saint Martin.’ If the children have not been good, nothing but a rod is left in remembrance of his visit. At Mechlin, children who are old enough go out and sing from door to door, one of the party being dressed as * Bishop St. Martin,’ and carried on a litter by his companions. At Furnes, children of all ages gather in the market-place, each carrying a paper lamp or else a turnip, hollowed out to hold a candle. The proces¬ sion then goes round the town, singing. But St. Nicholas5 (December 6th) is the special day of rejoicing for children in every town and village of Belgium. The very little ones carefully put a shoe in front of the fireplace before going to bed: into this they expect St. Nicholas to drop sweetmeats and some little toys. They all sing a song in honour of the coming visit, and then they try to go to sleep, for they are always assured that nothing at all will come for those whose eyes are open. M. C. S. CHRIS WHARTON. [Continued from page 344.) CHAPTER XI. F all the strange characters who were to be found in the sparsely inhabited region which stretched away towards the moun¬ tains beyond the little town of Seymourstack was not one who attracted attention than Gentleman John. o All sorts of stories were afloat concerning him. Some said that he was a prince, or, at the very least, a nobleman in disguise ; some that he was a criminal, taldng refuge at Charlie Gilham’s remote homestead from the offended justice of his own countrymen; and, though neither of these stories J were quite true, they both had such a founda¬ tion in fact that John, if he chanced to overhear, could not contradict them. John Vernon wras one of the younger sons of a wealthy and aristocratic English landowmer ; he had grown up a thoroughly healthy and happy boy, handsome, bright, accomplished, well educated, with only one fault in an otherwise perfect character — a fault that, in the coming time, was to do the fatal work of ( The little rift within the lute, The little speck upon the garner’d fruit,’ and go far towards ruining all. He had a fierce and ungovernable temper; it blazed out now and then, in childhood, to the astonishment and dismay of parents and teachers, slumbered for years in the growing boy, and awoke again in the youth as a sudden frenzy of passion which carried everything before it. Those who knew John Vernon well wsre afraid when they happened to be witnesses of one of his fits of rage, and those who loved him best did all in their power to bring him under good influences, and to help him to overcome his evil tendency. In vain. At college John was the bosom friend of Leonard Mayne, a young man two or three years older than himself, and the promised husband of his only sister, Eleanor. Of striking appearance and many gifts, Mayne was in every way calculated to win John’s strong affec¬ tions. The two were almost inseparable; their fellow-students nicknamed them David and Jonathan, or Damon and Pythias, and declared that one was never to be met without the other. But one day — one wretched day — this pair of friends quarrelled over a trifle, a mere nothing. They were in John’s rooms, and John, rushing before Leonard had time to try and calm him into his wonted transport of blind rage, hurled a heavy ruler, which he chanced to have in his hand, full at Leonard. The missile struck home; Leonard received the whole force of the blow upon the side of his head. He fell without a cry, and John, his fury passing as suddenly as it had arisen, woke to the knowledge that he was the slayer, almost the murderer, of his friend. The tragedy caused the most profound grief and consternation to the families of both the young men. Nothing could save John from the consequences of his act, and in those first dreadful days he had no wish to be saved from them. To die like Leonard appeared the best thing that could be. But a merciful jury took as lenient a view as possible of the deed which had been done, and a pityiug Judge sentenced the young man, whose youth had been thus terribly overcast, to a term of imprisonment only. When the weary year was past, John came forth to a world which had grown too hard for his much- suffering sister. The fate of her lover, the prison- stain upon her best-loved brother, were more than Eleanor Vernon could bear ; she faded quietly away, and died before the time of John’s release. The . pity of his friends, the silent, melancholy of his desolate home were worse to- endure than.

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No. XLIY. CHATTERBOX. 351 imprisonment had been ; the past laid its dread hand upon the young man’s future, and closed for him all hope of a prosperous career in his native land. To go abroad was the one thing which remained, and thus it was that John Vernon, still in the flower of his youth, became an exile and a wanderer, banished by his own act from all that he held most dear. Charlie Gilham had been an Oxford tutor when Mayne and Vernon were at college ; but, coming un¬ expectedly into an ample fortune, he had broken loose from the trammels of task work, and, following the bent of his own nature, had settled himself in a lone South African farm. He made this place the base of his hunting operations, becoming in time a mighty hunter, and often living for weeks and months at a time in his ox-waggon, far from even the scant society which his own place afforded. To him young Vernon went, for Gilham knew the whole story, and knew, too, the depth and sincerity of John’s re¬ pentance. Once settled at Gilliams farm, Gentleman. John — as the rough people around soon called him — had never left it. He was the owner’s right hand, deputy master in his absence : ready to do any and every¬ thing to serve the man who had been to him truly a friend in need. The fiery spirit of his hot youth had been quelled for ever by Leonard Mayne’s death. Calm, courteous, and helpful, the hardest thing which his friends could find to say about him was that ‘ it was a thou¬ sand pities that Vernon had no ambition.’ Nothing had power to excite him, he had sounded too deeply the nothingness of earthly things. The diamond diggings or the gold-fields might draw away others, but what could gold or diamonds do for John Vernon, with the hidden pain in his heart which nothing on earth could still ? • Content with a humble place, always using his varied powers to help somebody, or do something which no one else could do, he let the years go by till youth gave place to middle age — till, to all outward appearance, the dead past had buried its dead. The true cause of his long exile was known only to Gilham, but others, and amongst them Mrs. Edward Wharton, guessed at some secret sorrow, and felt a deep sympathy for Gentleman John. The lady’s kind heart went out to Charlie Gilham too ; the loneliness of the life which the two men led, with only coloured servants to depend upon, and not a friend within miles of their abode, touched her with a desire to help them. Every now and then the Wharton’s Kop -waggon took Aunt Alice to Gilham’s farm, where she would busily employ herself in over¬ hauling the wardrobes, which stood in sad need of her assistance, darning stockings, mending rents, and otherwise putting the bachelor establishment into something like order. For a week after one of these visits Gilham and John would make the most heroic efforts to live up to Aunt Alice’s standard of neatness, but Gilham always lapsed, about the seventh day, into his old slipshod habits, and was only saved from an utter disregard of the proprieties by John’s constant watch¬ fulness. So it will be seen that, when Gentleman J olm came to Wharton’s Kop, he came to a place where sym¬ pathy and kindness made him feel more thoroughly at home than he could possibly do elsewhere ; and to Aunt Alice and Lily he was almost as near as their own dear ones. When Hick came in, his painful limb and Chris¬ topher’s sober face at once betrayed that something was wrong, and it needed all Gentleman J ohn’s adroit¬ ness to make matters smooth. Lily was apt to be too ready with her ‘I told you so ! ’ She began to laugh at Hick’s discom¬ fiture in a way which seemed to Edith quite un¬ feeling. Edith found it hard to get used to the way in which accidents were passed over at Wharton’s Kop : short of a broken limb they were hardly reckoned, and even in that case the hope that the bone would soon set was held to be consolation enough. When Edith looked at Hick, with eyes full of tears, and murmured, 6 Poor Hick ! I am so sorry/ Lily’s mirth was only increased. ^Edie, Edie, that will never do ! ’ she cried. i You do not know how soon boys get over things here if only they are let alone. Pity is the worst thing in the world for Hick. If you look at him like that, he will begin to think that his foot needs a fortnight’s rest at the very least.’ ‘ I think not,’ said Gentleman John, quietly, 1 for I am come over on purpose to see if you can arrange to have the “ great shoot ” next week.’ Hick sprang from his seat in excitement ; though his foot gave him a fearful twinge, his gloomy looks were all gone. ‘ Hurrah ! hurrah ! ’ he shouted ; 1 my foot will be well long before next week, and you and Charlie are the best fellows in the Colony. Which day shall you come ? How long shall you stay P What shall we - ’ 1 Softly, softly!’ said Gentleman John. 1 The question is whether next week will be quite con¬ venient to Mrs. Wharton. I must see your father, too, if he is likely to be in before I go.’ 1 You must not think of going back to-night, John/ urged Aunt Alice. ‘ The moon rises so late now— do stay till the morning.’ ‘ Yes, do/ chimed in Lily, ‘ and then you can do something which Edie and I wish you to do most dreadfully.’ 1 That is a great temptation,’ said John, gravely. ( The service shall be performed, if it is anything that I can manage.’ He had been looking with interest at Chris, Ambrose, and Edith, for young people, with their lives before them, roused intense feeling in his heart. They reminded him of his own early self, and he hoped and prayed that they might have a brighter destiny. . ‘ Oh, you can do it/ Lily rattled on. ‘ It is nothing very difficult, John ; it is only to tune the piano, as you did once for Flossie Estcourt.’ But, when Gentleman John went away with the | girls towards the distant room in which the piano was placed, his face was even graver than it had | been before. ( Cnntivvrd at pane 354.) I '

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Page 367

A DOG FANCIER.

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“ You don’t really mean that you would lend me your Martini-Henry, do you, Paul ?

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354 CHATTERBOX. No. XLV. CHRIS WHARTON. ( Continued from page 351.) CHAPTER XII. UNT ALICE, after looking at Dick’s foot, pronounced the injury a sprain, which would be well in a few days, if he only gave it a chance ; and Dick, with the fear of losing i the shoot ’ before his eyes, consented to rest his leg upon the sofa, and not to attempt active exercise, at least until the next morning. Ambrose was reading, as usual, and Chris, deprived by Dick’s accident of his customary companion, felt that to stay indoors for an hour or two would perhaps be the best thing to do. It was not often, in those days, that four walls held him prisoner; he was becoming thoroughly in love with the free open-air life of the farm, and, even in this short space . of time he had grown and developed much, both in mind and body. He sat still now, and talked to Aunt Alice and Dick, as demurely as Ambrose might have done, if the latter had not been so deeply engrossed in one of Paul Harvey’s literary treasures. ‘That is the most wonderful man I ever saw,’ said Chris, out of the depths of his large experience, referring, as his listeners readily understood, to Gen¬ tleman John. 4 How is it, Aunt Alice, that he can manage wild horses, and tune pianos, and do so many other extraordinary things P ’ His aunt smiled. 4 We all know something about 'horses here, Chris,’ she replied. 4 Gentleman John is perhaps wiser and more skilful than the rest; but your IJncle Edward could have done the same thing if he had been present, and Master Dick, though he seems to have lost his head to-day, is generally a match for any horse-flesh he has to deal with.’ 4 It was just a bit of bad luck,’ growled Dick. 4 1 wonder what father will say about the spider ? 1 4 He will say that on the whole it is a good thing your favourite has come to grief. You might have been smashed, as well as the spider, if you had gone on driving it. The Cape cart must be good enough for you now, Dick. 4 With regard to Gentleman John,’ added Aunt Alice, turning to Chris, 4 1 can tell you where he learned to tune pianos quite easily. As an under¬ graduate he was very fond of music, and he studied, when at Oxford, under a pianoforte player who had — what not too many music teachers possess — a really practical knowledge of his instrument. I believe John could make a piano if he tried ; at all events, he can tune one.’ 4 Can he shoot too ? ’ 4 Oh, yes ; but he is not half so keen a sportsman as Charlie Gilham is. Our 44 shoot” is nothing but play to Charlie ; he comes to it out of kindness, because he knows how every one else will enjoy the thing. But his own sport consists in big game shooting ; he goes away for weeks and months to¬ gether, after lions and elephants, and as these crea¬ tures are always retreating farther and farther into the interior, you may know that he gets some tolerably wild adventures.’ 4 Does Gentleman John go with him P ’ asked Chris, with interest. 4 Not often; while Charlie is gone, John stays at home, and contents himself with shooting spring¬ boks and Namaqua partridges, and keeping thing’s in order. It is not because John could not shoot a lion, for he has done so more than once ; but he is not so keen about sport. In the depths of his heart x believe he would rather not kill creatures at all. Nevertheless, our shooting party would be sadly incomplete without Gentleman John.’ While they were talking, Mr. Edward Wharton returned home, together with Christopher’s father and mother, and the story of the day’s proceedings had to be told them. Once satisfied that Dick was only slightly hurt, and that Chris— and Vandermeyr— were safe and sound, Uncle Edward treated the loss of the spider very lightly. But Mrs. Wharton looked at her boy with silent thankfulness for his escape; and Dick had to promise Aunt Susan that he would never be so reckless again. The sound of music floated in to them from the old schoolroom* the tuning had been successfully accom¬ plished, and Edith was playing the dear familiar air of ‘Home, sweet home,’ while Lily’s clear treble and John’s deeper tones blended in the well-loved words. Aunt Alice proposed an immediate adjournment to the other room. 4 Do let us all go and listen,’ she said; 4 it is such a long time since we have had any music, and John will be glad to sing, now that there is some one to play the accompaniments.’ The impromptu concert lasted for some time. Gentleman John’s voice was a fine baritone, and, when he found how well and tastefully Edith could accompany him, he became firm friends with the little English girl. ‘DShe plays as well as Flossie, doesn’t she, John P ’ Lily demanded again and again, and it would have needed a much closer observer than Miss Lily to notice that John himself avoided all mention of the name of the late governess at Wharton’s Kop. Chris liked very well to listen, but he did not care for music as Edith and Ambrose did. . He was too full of thoughts of the coming shooting party, and he wanted very much to get away and talk it all over with Paul Harvey. He watched his chance, and slipped out while the others were busy discussing the rival merits of their favourite songs. The night was dark and still, and even the objects which one sees every day assume an aspect of strangeness and mystery when the hours of darkness come. The Kaffirs were shut up in their huts, whence not a sound or a glimmer proceeded, . and, except for the bark of some watchful dog, the animals on the farm were still; but, before Chris came to Paul Harvey’s cabin, he could see the glow of the lamp pouring through the slightly curtained window, and throwing into relief every movement

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No. XLY. CHATTERBOX. 355 of Paul’s lithe figure as lie stood by the table, intent upon some very absorbing task. As Chris drew nearer he saw that the owner of the cabin was cleaning his rifle. He must have heard about ‘the shoot’ then, and must be as eager for it as all the rest of the Wharton’s Kop people. Chris knocked and then opened the door, as the boys always did, and a gleam of pleasure lighted up Paul’s face with a smile when he turned at the sound. lie was a much smaller, slighter man than Uncle Edward or Gentleman J ohn ; indeed, no one, at first sight, would have given the ostrich-keeper credit for half the strength and power of endurance which he really possessed. But there was some¬ thing very interesting in Paul’s thin, clearly cut face, and the habit of living much alone and communing with himself rather than with others had given him a settled expression of deep thoughtfulness. He was really glad to see Chris. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, heartily. ‘ It is three whole days since you have been to see me. What have you been doing with yourself all this while P ’ Chris took the camp-stool by the empty fireplace, and soberly narrated the adventures of the past days, finishing up with a question as to whether Paul were not ‘ terribly pleased ’ to think of ‘ the shoot,’ and whether he did not think it would be splendid to go off for two whole days’ sport, and let things mind themselves for a bit. Paul smiled. (Do things ever mind themselves, Chris P Ostriches and incubators do not, as I know to my cost. Last time I went to “ the shoot,’’ and everything was at sixes and sevens when I got back. I made a vow never to leave my department to its own devices again.’ ‘ But you are cleaning your rifle, Paul,’ objected Chris. ‘ What is the use of getting ready, if you are not going ? ’ ‘ There is a certain young gentleman,’ said Paul, gravely, ‘ who has learnt to be a very fair shot in an extremely short space of time. What should you say to my lending him my rifle ? ’ * Is it some one at Mr. Gilham’s ? ’ Chris asked. ‘ A great deal nearer than Gilham’s ; some one at Wharton’s Kop.’ ‘ But — but you don’t really mean that you would lend me your Martini-Henry, do you, Paui ?’ Chris had some sense of the worth of the sacrifice, for he knew what a treasure the gun was in Paul’s eyes. ‘ I do, truly, Chris, for I am sure you would take care of it, and I believe you could do better with this one than with any other. It is light to carry, and easy to hold ; and you have been used to it, you see.’ Chris poured out hearty thanks. ‘ Do you really like “ the shoot,” Paul ? ’ he inquired, when Paul would hear no more. ‘ Not much ; it puts us too much out of our usual way. Besides ’ — Paul hesitated, and then went on — ‘the whole place is so full, and I am obliged to have one, or perhaps two fellows quartered upon me. I have grown to be such a hermit, that it vexes me quite.’ * Look here, Paul ; suppose Ambrose and I were to come to you, and give up our room for somebody else. You would like us better than the other fellows, would you not ? ’ ‘ A vast deal better,’ Paul answered, thinking of some of his previous visitors with their love of tobacco and ‘ Cape smoke,’ and contrasting them with the happy, bright-faced boy before him. So it was settled, subject to Aunt Alice’s consent, that Chris and Ambrose should be Paul Harvey’s guests, and the lady of the house, when she heard of it, thought the arrangement was an excellent one. ( Continued at page 366.) ‘MY MASTER IS ALWAYS IN'.5 OHNNY,’ said a man, looking at a boy who was taking care of a shop while his master was out, ‘ you must give me extra measure ; your master is not in.’ Johnny looked up in the man’s face very seriously, and said, ‘ My Master is always in.’ Johnny’s master was the all-seeing God. Let us all, when we are tempted to do wrong, adopt Johnny’s motto: ‘ My Master is always in.’ It will save us from many a sin and much sorrow. SQUIRREL AND ACORNS. HEN walking through the woods on a summer’s day, we may sometimes see a squirrel briskly leaping from tree to tree, perhaps glancing down at the by-passer for a moment, then taking a fresh start. The poet Cowper, who had watched these animals in the park near Olney, describes one thus disturbed making signs of anger, stamping his foot and whisking his tail, as if to send off the person who dare to enter his retreat. Towards autumn, we may observe one perched upon a branch, busy upon an acorn or nut — for there cannot be a doubt squirrels are very fond of nuts, else they would not hide them, which is known to be a practice of theirs before winter comes. Usually, it is said, a squirrel puts a little store in some hollow tree, but from the dis¬ covery of acorns, beech and other nuts just under the earth, it has been thought they have been buried there by some squirrel. Should that be so, then the squirrel is an animal which does good as a tree-planter, for it is not probable one of . them finds all the nuts he has buried — it might happen, too, that a squirrel died, and never needed his store. This lively and beautiful little quadruped has lately got rather a bad character. He does not, we are told, keep to nuts and other vegetable food. Oh, no ! Though he has some very earnest defenders, they cannot succeed in clearing him from the charge of robbing nests of their eggs, and carrying off also young birds. Perhaps there are well-conducted squirrels who would not do such things, and who will not follow the bad example of their relations or friends. Still, the evidence is clear against many of them. At Alderney Manor, a gentleman found that both the cushats and the turtle¬ doves suffered from the squirrels carrying off the young birds. Pheasant eggs are attractive to them, those, too, of blackbirds and thrushes. A squirrel will sit upright on a bough, holding an egg, cup-fashion, till he has emptied the contents. There is a story j told of a fight between a squirrel and a missel-thrush.

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Squirrel and Acorns. the beginning of which might have been an attempted theft on his part, or perhaps he was only curious to see the inside of her nest. Anyhow, he was close to it on a branch, and the bird struck at him, knocking him to the ground. He then ran away, but the bird followed him along the path, pecking fiercely at his head, till he came to a hollow under a tree, when he stood upon his hind legs, ‘ boxing’ at her with his front paws. The missel-thrush turned away for a moment, and, taking advantage of this chance, the squirrel ran up the tree to a good height. But the bird was after him very soon, and rushed at him to knock him down again. She missed him, however, and he got off amongst the branches, so the missel- thrush flew away, screaming angrily. . Probably he would be more cautious in meddling with nests after that. Some people have kept squirrels as pets, not only in cages, but letting them have freedom to run about a house, and they have found them both affec¬ tionate and playful. As there is a demand for these animals, persons sometimes hunt for them in woods or forests during the winter, because family parties may be discovered, snugly ensconced within the trunk of an old tree, or in a hole near the roots. Every year, however, the number of wild squirrels gets fewer in England, because many are shot, and our woods afford them less shelter than formerly. J. R. S. C.

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SIR WALTER SCOTT’S HEROES AND HEROINES. REBECCA, ROWENA, AND 1VANII0E. THE scene of Sir Walter Scott’s delightful story of Ivanhoe is laid in that district of merry England which is watered by the river Don.’ And the date of the story refers to a period towards the end of the reign of Richard I., when the. power of the nobles had become too great, and their fortified castles were a terror to the inferior gentry, whose independence was threatened by the proud Normans, to whom the battle of Hastings had given immense power. Cedric the Saxon was a wealthy leader of the

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358 CHATTERBOX. No. XLV. English, as distinguished from the Normans. He hated everything Norman, and most of all the Norman prince, John, who, during the absence of his brother, the Lion-hearted, a prisoner in Austria, had usurped his brothers place and oppressed the Saxons, behaving as a tyrant to all who were loyal-hearted to his captive brother. Cedric w^as guardian to a good and beautiful Saxon lady named Rowena. He had it in his mind to marry her to Athelstane, a descendant of Alfred the Great, although no such intention was Rowena’s, who loved Wilfred of Ivanhoe, Cedric’s son. This it was that had angered the worthy Cedric, and caused him to banish from his hearth and home his only son. Ivanhoe was the name of a rich manor bestowed on Wilfred by King Richard I., whose follower the young man became, learning at his court those feats of horsemanship for which he afterwards became famous. Rebecca was the daughter of Isaac, a rich Jew. The Jews were much persecuted at this period of our history, being frequently subjected to cruel tortures on account of their wealth. It was a wild night, a night so tempestuous that it caused even the forest animals to seek man’s pro¬ tection, when old Isaac sought shelter at Cedric’s gate. The steward, Oswald, instructed .by his master, left the banqueting-hall to ascertain who was knocking for admittance, and came back with the news that it was a Jew. The announcement drew forth many and loud expressions of contempt for the 6 dog Jew’ from the various guests at the board, guests who had thrown themselves on the hospitality of Cedric the Saxon. This worthy man, however, over-ruled their objections, telling them that his hospitality must not be bounded by their dislikes. A tall, thin old man was Isaac, who, with fear and hesitation, and many a bow of deep humility, advanced to the lower end of the board, casting a timid glance at each in turn, but none offered to make him room. There, like an outcast, he stood ; none bade him welcome. Seated near the fire was a pilgrim, or palmer, as he was called. Observing the Jew’s distress, he rose, and offered him his seat, saying, i Old man, my garments are dried, my hunger is appeased ; thou art both wet and fasting.’ At the same time he made the wood fire blaze up, and placed food from the larger table on the smaller table before the despised Isaac. Three villains of the tale, whose villainies affected our hero and heroines, were King J ohn, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and Sir Reginald Front-de-Bosuf. The worst of these was Sir Brian, commander of the valiant and venerable Order of Knights Templars, but a bold, bad man. One of his wicked commands was given that night to his Mussulman slaves, but fortunately overheard by the palmer, who understood the .Saracen language. It was an order to watch the journey of the Jew, seize upon him next morn¬ ing when * at a convenient distance from Cedric’s hospitable roof, and conduct him to a strong fortress.- The pilgrim, overhearing this, arose early the next morning and warned Isaac. He did more, he pro¬ vided him with a mule, and rode with him through the forest, its winding paths being well known to him, till he brought him within half-an-liour’s ride of the town of Sheffield. The Jew, prompted by gratitude, pressed on the pilgrim a scroll, which was an order on another Jew to provide the young man with a horse and armour and everything necessary for the tournament.. The dress of the pilgrim was a disguise : the pilgrim was Cedric’s son, the banished Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Wilfred’s secret wish had been for a good steed and arms, so that he readily accepted the gift. We shall presently see to what an excellent use he put it. These were the days of tournament,, when brave knights tilted to the applause of fair ladies, receiving from them their crowns of fame. The tournament in which the Knight of Ivanhoe took part lasted two days. On the first day it was permitted to each of the five knights to select an antagonist ; but on the second day the combat was general, when, all the knights who were present and desirous to win fame took part. Two of the champions who appeared before the King, the Norman nobles, and the great concourse of people who had assembled to witness the games, were Sir Brian, the haughty Templar, and Ivanhoe, who bore on his shield the word 1 Dis¬ inherited.’ As soon as the trumpets sounded the signal to begin, these two champions dashed at each other, and closed in the centre of the lists with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed at the moment that both knights had fallen. Fresh lances were supplied, and again they met, but this time the Templar had the worst of it, a tremendous blow on the helmet felling him to the ground. The shouts of the people, with whom the proud Sir Brian was not a favourite, stung him to madness, and, disengaging himself from the stirrups and the fallen steed, he unsheathed his sword and waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Dis¬ inherited Knight did the same, but the marshals of the field reminded them that they must not so encounter. The next opponent was almost as formidable. He was the gigantic Front-de-Boeuf, wearing sable armour ; on his shield was a black bull's head. And over him Sir Disinherited gained a slight advantage. In the third, fourth, and fifth encounters the honours were with the same valiant combatant, whom the people wildly applauded, and the Prince proclaimed him the victor. Amongst those who witnessed the tournament were Cedric and Rowena, Isaac and Rebecca. The Jew’s anxiety was for the horse and armour which he had bestowed on Ivanhoe, for should he get the worst of the conflict these would be forfeit to his conqueror. It urns at the feet of the fair Lady Rowena, as the Queen of Love and Beauty, that Sir Disinherited deposited the coronet. There" was some murmuring among the Norman ladies, who were unused to see the preference given to a Saxon beauty. But the murmuring was drowned in the popular shout of ‘ Long live the Lady

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No. XLV. CHATTERBOX. 359 Bowena, tlie chosen and lawful Queen of Love and Beauty/ At the general tournament on the following day, things would not have gone so well with Ivanhoe had it not been for the services of one among his ranks, the Black Sluggard, a champion in black armour, mounted on a black horse, who struck down the uplifted sword of Front-de-Boeuf and laid low a second opponent, leaving Sir Disinherited to fight it out with Sir Brian, the Templar. Prince John, jealous of the prowess of Ivanhoe over his Norman knights, named the honour of the day as remaining with the Black Sluggard, and to him he persisted in awarding the prize. But, to the astonishment of all present, the strange knight was nowhere to be found, nor had the summons of the trumpet any effect in bringing him again into the midst of the concourse. Prince John was thus compelled to name the Disinherited Knight as the champion of the day, and rightful claimant of the chaplet of honour awarded for valour, and by the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty. While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor, while ladies waved their silken ’kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks joined in clamorous shouts of exulta¬ tion, the marshals conducted the Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of honour which was occupied by the Lady Bowen a. On the lower step knelt Ivanhoe, but, as the chaplet was about to be placed on his head, the marshals ex¬ claimed with one voice, 1 It must not be thus — his head must be bare.’ When the helmet was removed, the well-formed yet sunburnt features of a young- man of twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair hair. Bowena, who had no idea that the brave and victorious knight who knelt at her feet was her lover, uttered a slight scream when she saw his face, but, controlling herself as best she could, she placed on his head the splendid chaplet, and pro¬ nounced in a clear and distinct voice the words, 1 1 bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this day’s victor, and upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed.’ Ivanhoe had just time to kiss the hand of this lovely queen when he fainted away, and those around, hastening to undo his armour, found that the head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his side. When Cedric saw his son drop down senseless, his first impulse was to order his attendants to take him into their care, but the words choked in his throat. He could not bring himself to acknowledge, in the presence of such an assembly, the son whom he had renounced and dis¬ inherited. He, however, told his steward to keep an eye on him ; but when Oswald sought for the wounded knight, to convey him to his father’s house, he was nowhere to be found. All the information that his inquiries could collect from the bystanders was that he had been raised with care by some well- dressed grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to a lady among the spectators, and carried out of the crowd. The scene now changes, and we follow Cedric and the Lady Bowena in their eventful journey through Sherwood Forest. We listen with them to the cries for assistance which reach the party from a distance, share their surprise as they find that the cries pro¬ ceed from an old man and a young woman — our friends Isaac and Bebecca. The beautiful Jewess sat beside a horse-litter containing a wounded man. Isaac explained that he had engaged a guard of six men, and mules for carrying the litter, to go on to Doncaster; but the cowardly hired guards, having heard that the woods were infested with outlaws — bold robbers, whose skill at archery was known far and wide — fled in terror, taking with them the mules. Of all the troubles and misfortunes that befell our hero and heroines in the forest, and again when prisoners in the hands of the tyrant Front-de-Bceuf, we cannot here tell. To those who would like to know more of the valiant deeds of the Black Sluggard and the worthy Cedric, as well as of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, we recommend the book itself. The story apportions, perhaps, to the Lady Bowena greater happiness than falls to the lot of Bebecca; but the reader is satisfied, as he finishes the tale, that what happened was for the best. The last heroic deed recorded of Ivanhoe is one of which any knight might have been proud. To understand and appreciate its worth it is necessary to follow the fortunes of Bebecca, the beautiful Jewess. It was her ill-luck to attract the attention and awaken the admiration of Sir Brian, the haughty Templar, by whom she was made a captive, and taken to Templestowe. It was altogether against the rule of the Order of Knights Templars that Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert should have done such a deed, and to account for his base action his brother Templars ascribed his conduct to bewitchment, affirming that Bebecca was a sorceress who had cast her evil spell over him. She was condemned to death by burning. Yet to her, unhappy and ill- treated Jewess as she was, one course was open : she might demand a Champion. She did so ; but, such was the prejudice in those dark times against the Jews, that it seemed as though none were willing to take up her cause, and fight Sir Brian, to establish her innocence. Almost at the last moment Wilfred of Ivanhoe galloped up to Templestowe and fought on her behalf. He was weak and ill, and both himself and his horse were worn with hard riding ; but his noble nature and deep sense of gratitude to Bebecca, who had nursed him patiently and tenderly during his illness, and applied to his wound the healing arts for which she was famous, would not permit him to hesitate a moment. Victory remained on the side of truth and justice, and the proud and wicked Sir Brian fell from his horse by the judgment of God — he died in o, fit brought on by the violence of his own evil passion — and Bebecca was pronounced by the Grand Master free and guiltless. She spent the remainder of her days in works of kindness to men, tending the sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving the distressed. James Cassidy.

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362 CHATTERBOX. No. XL VI. BACK TO THE DOODLE-BUGS. TLL, good-bye, Dobson. I hope you have as much pleasure in entering as I have in leaving.’ ‘I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Linton,’ said the young man ad¬ dressed, as he grasped the extended hand of the white- haired old banker and pressed it warmly. ‘ I was afraid that — that - ’ T would feel blue at the prospect of leaving? Well, so I do— in a measure.’ And then his eyes went wistfully across to the little door marked ‘Private,’ beyond which had been his own special office ; and to the doors of the great vaults, in which were stored the wealth of the house and its clients. ‘Yes, it is leaving much of my life behind,’ with something like a sigh. ‘I have been here forty years, Dobson, from clerk to senior partner, and from twenty dollars a month to an income of a hundred thousand or more a year. I came in as an ambitious boy, and am going out as an old man, under stern orders from his doctor.’ Here he noticed the expression on his junior’s face, and burst into a low, pleased laugh, which strangely belied his words. Mr. Dobson’s look of sympathy changed to one of surprise. The senior partner was not noted for laughing. ‘ But that is only one view to take,’ the old banker went on, cheerfully ; ‘ the other is where I am going. On the whole, I think I am rather pleased to leave. The life has been successful, but it has been full of toil and with but little recreation, but now I am going back to my boyhood— to my doodle-bugs.’ ‘ Your — what ? ’ ‘ Doodle-bugs ; just doodle-bugs, Dobson. No, you need not look at me like that. 1 am not crazy. Did you never have any doodle-bugs in your boyhood?’ ‘ Never heard of such a thing.’ ‘Ah! I am very sorry; you don’t know what you have missed. You see, it is just this way. When the doctor ordered me to quit business, I hardly knew where to turn. I have no relations to my knowledge, and no home but this. Then I thought of the old farm where I spent my boyhood, and felt that it was the pleasantest part of all my journey. I would go back there. I do not know wiio owns the place, or if an}’- of my old companions are still there. One is in California, one is in Australia, and several are in Europe ; probably many of them are dead. The river where I had such fun swimming will be too cold for my lukewarm blood now, and probably .1 will not care to climb walnut-trees or to bend birches. But there is a big sand-liole of five or six acres that is half covered with oaks and pines, and where twisting roots curve into. all sorts of fantastic seats and couches, as though inviting one to sit there and read his magazines and papers. The sand is dry and warm, and is about the only ground on the farm to which I can intrust my rheu¬ matic limbs ; and, besides, the doodle-bugs live there. So you see, Dobson, I have about decided to buy, rent, or borrow the sand-hole, build a house, and go out there and live with my doodle-bugs — or, rather, with the descendants of the doodle-bugs I used to know.’ ‘ Will you be kind enough to tell me, Mr. Linton, what is a doodle-bug? — and also what has put into your head the idea of going to live in a sand-hole ?’ ‘To answer the last question first, force of con¬ trast, Dobson. I am very fond of contrast, and you will admit that Wall Street and a sand-hole have not many points in common. As to doodle-bugs, they are tiny creatures, not much larger than a pea, very beautiful under a microscope, and having homes in the sand, generally near pine-trees. We children used to call them up from their holes with a sing¬ song invocation, and then to send them back by changing our voice. I don’t care to enter into a. scientific discussion of the case, but they certainly came up when we called them, and just as certainly would go back when we commanded. I believed in them thoroughly in those days, and I want to go back to them with my faith unshaken. Well, once more, good-bye.’ He turned and passed out into the street. There he paused, as though about to hail a carriage ; then, buoyed by his novel sense of freedom, he determined to walk to his residence, three or four blocks away. At; the corner he was obliged to wait for the passing of some drays, and as he stood there he felt a slight movement in one of his side-pockets. Turn¬ ing quickly, he caught a boy in the very act of removing his hand. The ordinary Mr. Linton rarely laughed, and, in like manner it may be affirmed, the ordinary Mr. Linton rarely spared transgressors. But with the passing out of his business, certain traits of his character seemed to be passing away from him too — or, perhaps, it was the prospect of his sand-hole and the doodle-bug tenants which was changing him. At any rate, he only looked the boy over, without even putting out a detaining hand, and, what was perhaps still more strange, the boy made no attempt to run away. ‘ Is this the only work you can find to do ? ’ the banker at last asked, gravely. The boy trembled, and seemed to shrink into a smaller compass than before, if possible. ‘ It is the very first time, sir ! Indeed, indeed, it. is ! ’ he cried. ‘I was awful hungry.’ There was a ring of truthfulness in the boy’s cry,. ‘ I was awful hungry,’ and the banker was willing to prolong the conversation. ‘ Hungry ? ’ he echoed. ‘ A big, bright boy like- you ? Why, I could find jobs enough in an hour to* provide half-a-dozen meals. But, perhaps, you are from the country,’ observing him more closely, ‘and are not used to our city ways. Maybe you have run away from a good home ? ’ The boy seemed startled, and for the first time glanced about as though to escape. ‘ Yes', I am from the country,’ he admitted at last, ‘and I have only been here ten days. I had four

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No. XLYI. CHATTERBOX. 363 dollars, and after they were spent I tried to get jobs ; but the boys pushed me off the side-walk, and hooted and called me names. But I did not have a good home — at least/ correcting himself, ‘I did not think I had. They worked me too hard, and would not let me go to school. Maybe if I should go back now, though, it would seem better/ a sudden quaver of home-sickness coming into his voice, in spite of him¬ self. ‘ There does not seem much chance of getting on in the city.’ lie put out his hands as though to grasp some¬ thing for support, and began to reel slightly. The banker stared at him a moment, and then caught his arm. Took here, boy !’ he exclaimed, hastily; ‘you are not merely hungry, you are starving. Why did you not tell me it was so bad P But, come along ! There is a restaurant across the street.’ As soon as they were seated, the banker motioned for a waiter. ‘Bring this boy something to eat/ he ordered, ‘and plenty of it. Do not keep us waiting. No, nothing for me.’ There was a morning paper on a chair beside him, and picking this up he began to read, glancing at the boy from time to time as he saw the food disappear. When there were signs of flagging appetite, he threw down the paper. ‘ Now tell me something about it/ he said. ‘ What made you run away ? ’ ‘ I was foolish/ he admitted candidly, ‘ but, you see, I wanted to be doing better, and there was not much chance on the farm. It was work from light till dark, month in and month out, and no schooling; but the folk were kind to me, and provided plenty of warm clothing and good food, and in the evenings they sometimes helped me with my books. I had better have stayed there and learned what I could till I was older. I see it now. It was far better than the city.’ ‘The city does not offer much encouragement to young boys who have no experience/ said the banker. ‘ The folk you speak of are some kin, I suppose ?’ ‘ No, sir; only just live on the farm where father was raised. I had heard him speak of it so much that when he died I felt I must go there and get work— it would seem more like home.’ ‘ I see. But there were no school advantages, and you wanted to be getting ahead. What made you think of coming to the city ?’ ( Concluded at page 374.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 52. — Anagrams. 1. Who was that young lady walking with your cousin Larches ? 2. That was his there we sat ; she is the huge dart of a pin a cat, living in sing on Kent. They are to be married next charm. 3. Would you rather ride on a shore or in a grace air? 4. In there. I should prefer a dares me. 5. And I should like a no ace. C. C. 53. — Acrostic. Natural History. An animal of the ox kind found in many parts of India. When wild they are very dangerous, but are capable of being tamed, when they become very patient and useful. They are bred in many parts of Europe, particularly in Italy, where their flesh is much used by the poor. 1. Another animal of the same class, hut distinguished by having a hump between the shoulders. 2. A bird called after a fabulous animal whose pic¬ tures it is supposed to resemble. 3. An animal of the dog kind, noted for his cunning and artfulness. 4. An animal of the weasel kind, at first brought from Africa into Spain, but now quite common in Europe. They are great enemies of the rabbit tribe. ^ 5. An animal of the horse kind, very formidable in his wild state, but when trained he becomes very patient and humble. 6. A wild animal of the cat kind, found chiefly in Africa, famous for a very beautifully spotted skin. 7. An amphibious animal found in most parts of the world. It swims more quickly than it can run, and can overtake the fishes upon which it preys in their own element. C. C. 54. — Decapitations. 1. Behead a dishonest person, and you will feel very warm ; behead again, and satisfy your hunger. _ 2. Behead a commonplace idea or expression, and find a geographical term relating to distance; behead again and double the then second letter, and you will see a position. 3. Behead a liquid, and you will find a place of amusement; behead again, and you will see another liquid used for a very different purpose from the first. 4. Behead a tree which produces sugar ; then double the second letter, and find a favourite fruit. 5. Behead very active animals, and.fmd a grass which produces a good article of food. 6. Behead a delicious fruit, and find every one. C. C. [Answers at page 378.] 49. — 1. Often. 2. Hasten. 3. Fasten. 50. — 1. Stand. 2. Grand. 3. Bland. ANSWERS. 4. Shorten. 5. Soften. 6. Listen. 4. Husband. 5. Hand. 6. Command. 7. Demand. 7. Frighten, 8. Molten. 8. Brand. 9. Errand. 10. Disband. 51. — First, 37 ; second, 48 ; third, 25. THE WILD CAT AND ITS PREY. THE fierce and savage disposition of the wild cat, or ‘ cat-a-mount/ as old writers often call it, is well known. Even the kittens are warlike, hissing and spitting vigorously at all strangers. Grouse, rabbits, hares, fawns, and lambs fall an easy prey to thi3 creature, so that gamekeepers and shepherds detest it.

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Wild Cat attacks a Fawn. The common Indian jungle cat is an important member the family, since it serves to connect the more typical cats with the lynxes. The colour of the fur of the body varies from sandy or yellowish-grey, to greyish-brown, the back being darker with a tendency to reddish in some individuals, or to a dusky tint in others, while the under parts are whitish, with a yellow or red tinge. The jungle cat, although from its nocturnal habits rarely seen, is described as frequenting alike jungles and the dpen country, and is very partial to long grass and reeds, sugar-cane fields, or corn-fields. It does much damage to game of all kinds. Our illustration shows, as the prey of the wild cat, the fawn of a spotted deer. The Indian natives call this deer Chitral, or Chitra, referring to its dappled hide. It is generally found among bushes or near jungle. It never wanders far from its drinking places. Many of its favourite haunts are in the beautiful wild scenery of the Indian plains, and lower hills, on the margins of rippling streams, with their banks overgrown by lofty trees, or in the grassy glades that open out amidst the exquisite foliage of bamboo clumps. Young fawns are shy and retiring, lying quiet in the densest thickets during the heat of the day, and, if disturbed, attempting to avoid observation by con¬ cealment, or by trying to steal quietly away. On suspecting the presence of a beast of prey, the deer

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Barring the Way. utters a shrill cry, something like the bark of a dog, ^hich to those who know what it means is very pitiful to hear. Its speed is great; it is an excellent and rapid swimmer, even the young fawn taking readily to the water. The wild cat is an hereditary foe to the fawn, and the artist has well depicted the savage creature in the act of capturing its prey. ^ BARRING THE WAY. GO alone ? Of course I can go alone ! * exclaimed Tim Hudson to his mother, as she suggested that he should wait a little until his elder brother returned home from school, before setting out to visit his aunt, who had invited him to spend his birthday with her and his cousins.

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3G6 CHATTERBOX. No. XL VI. ‘Well, you know there are cows in that field,’ replied his mother, 4 and last time when you saw them there you were afraid.’ 4 That was a long time ago,’ answered Tim. 4 1 am not afraid of anything like that now. "Why, I am nine years old, and have crossed the field heaps of times since then.’ 4 Not alone,’ urged his mother. 4 No, not alone, but I could have, only there was always some one with me. But you will see I will go there all right; why, Hal’ (his cousin and nearly a year younger) 4 often comes across alone.’ 4 Bun off with you,’ said his mother, 4 but I shall not he surprised if you come hack.’ Confident Tim laughed, hut Mrs. Hudson smiled a knowing little smile, kissing him as she sent him off, and "bidding him hurry on his journey that he might enjoy a good time with his aunt and cousins, who would he looking out for him. On went Tim down the pretty country lane, stopping now and again to push a stick in a hole wheie lie fancied some animal might he hiding, or to gather a wild flower which took his fancy. Soon he reached the field in which were the cows. There was a stile to be got over before he could get into the meadow. Barring the way w^ere three 4 lions,’ in the shape of a goat, a kid, and a dog. Tim liked them less than he did the cows a year ago. 4 Pretty Nannie, good goat,’ coaxingly began the boy. 4 Here doggie, doggie, don’t hark/ he continued, looking about him wistfully, hoping that some com¬ panion might be behind him. But no, he was alone except for the presence of the three animals, who, had he but known it, felt as friendly as possible to the young stranger. But so do we make our own troubles. Look at the picture and see Tim, afraid to advance, and equally afraid to withdraw. 4 Never, surely, was braggart in sorrier plight.’ It was not until his young cousin Hal, who had set out to meet him, came up to the stile that boastful Tim gathered courage enough to get his legs over it, and to trust himself amongst the waiting and perfectly harmless animals. For months afterwards Tim could not pass the place without being ashamed at the remem¬ brance of his braggart spirit and its defeat. James Cassidy. operation of 4 inspanning ’ was got through. Charlie Gilham and Gentleman John intended making the waggon their home for the two nights of their stay, and they would, perhaps, pitch a tent upon the veldt for the use of others of the party. Their own men could sleep, as they were accustomed to do, under the waggon, and they would, no doubt, when night came, kindle a fire of dried branches, as they did when they went with their master on his long and adventurous journeys. The Gilham settlement was quite in order before it was time for breakfast at the farm. The next hour or two brought numerous visitors in all sorts of conveyances, together with some on horseback and some few on foot. They swarmed into the house — hardy colonists, with their wives, sisters, and daughters — till the place was as busy as a market and as noisy as a fair. Uncle Edward and Aunt Alice welcomed all comers in the heartiest manner possible. Breakfast was provided for everybody, and Lily and Edith poured out coffee, and handed cakes, and pies, and rolls till their arms fairly ached with weariness, and, at the first hint that they were tired, half-a-dozen willing helpers came forward to the rescue. Airs. Thomas Wharton had begged leave to remain in the background, preferring to do what she could in the preparation of supplies rather than in their distribution, for, though the near neighbourhood of the coloured servants was still distasteful to her, it seemed a lesser evil than the making acquaintance, all at once, with such a tribe of lively, not to say bois¬ terous, strangers. At length every one was satisfied ; all the men and boys about the farm, excepting Paul Harvey and one or two others whose services could not be spared, assembled with the sportsmen before the house, waiting till it should please Charlie Gilham to come from his waggon encampment, and give them instructions for the day. Chris, with Paul’s rifle over his shoulder, stood by Dick’s side, and waited with the rest. Dick’s determination had helped his cure ; he did not limp any more, but looked as fit as the best man there, and was ready to give Chris the benefit of his advice and experience as confidently as ever. Presently Air. Gilham and Gentleman John, with their followers, black and white, were seen coming towards the house, and Charlie Gilham addressed the crowd of sportsmen, telling them the direc¬ tion which it would be best for separate groups to take, appointing one or two rallying-points, and laying dowm a few simple rules for the guidance of young beginners, from which none of them would have dreamed of departing. Chris and Dick were told off, with two or three more,, for a certain portion of the veldt, and Dick explained to Chris, during their cautious progress, how the farmers joined in preserving the springbok on their land, and how they should probably get a view of the wary game before very long. Chris had seen one or two stray specimens of the beautiful light-footed animal already ; but when he presently caught sight of a whole herd of them, and saw them, as by one consent, rise into the air, with CHRIS WHARTON. {Continued from page 855.) / CHAPTEIt XII3C* H E first indication of the beginning of the longed-for shooting party was the arrival j MW, Charlie Gilham’s waggon ' ffiywv) anc^ team oxeu at W h art on’s (SySmY K°p. Amidst the customary ^usHe and confusion, the cries ^ c*r*ver an(* f°rel°peB the yf ' jl 9 fpSl barking of Air. Gilham’s dogs, & ^ the cracking of whips, and the shouting of the crowds of Kaffirs and Hottentots who accompanied the vehicle, the I

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CHATTERBOX. 307 No. XLYI. the prolonged and graceful spring from which they derive their name, he knew that the spectacle was one which he should never be able to forget. The stripes of white hair which can only be seen when the creatures are in motion, their slender forms and rapid movements make them very impressive to those who see them for the first time; but wonder and admiration were soon lost in the eager desire of the hunters, and Chris was as anxious as the rest to get a shot. He soon found that it was much easier to practise shooting at a mark than to hit one of the wary, delicate antelopes, who, if they did happen to come to a stand, were off and away again before there was time for aim to be taken. For the whole of that first day the boy had to be content with the successes of others — not a single shot of his own told ; and, when the party returned at sun-down, flushed with triumph and laden with the spoils of the chase, it was hard lines for Chris to have nothing to show, and to hear Dick’s rather boastful account of his own success. What Chris hated most was the having to take the rifle to Paul, and to acknowledge that he had killed nothing with it. But Paul only smiled at his evident discomfiture. ‘ My dear lad,’ he said kindly, ‘ I never expected you to kill anything the first day. Did you think a springbok was as easy to hit as a bottle on a wall P Cheer up ! Better luck to-morrow. You have got your hand in, and that is something.’ Out on the veldt the coloured folk were busy, skinning and cutting up the carcases of the game. Some were chosen for immediate cooking, that a supper of Cape venison might close the day ; some were cut into long, narrow strips, and hung up to dry, so as to form ‘ bultong,’ such as Chris had tasted at the Boer farm. When a huge fire had been made for the roasting, and the dusky forms of the Kaffir and Hottentot cooks busied themselves about it, the scene was curious in the extreme. The tired hunters grouped themselves in twos and threes upon the ground, en¬ joying the various drinks brought out to them from the house, and taking what Uncle Edward called ‘ a snack to whet their appetites for supper.’ When the venison was roasted, and the tables were spread, when the novel supper had been eaten, and every one was rested and satisfied, the rooms were cleared for dancing. Fresh, as if they had done nothing since the morning, the elastic young colonists footed it in quadrilles and polkas and country dances. Lily was a good dancer, and was greatly in request ; Edith was at first too shy to accept the partners who were brought to her, but by-and-by she was persuaded to stand up with _ Gentleman John, and Lily privately told her cousin that she must think herself a very highly honoured person. ‘It is the rarest thing in the world for John to dance ; every girl in the room would like to be in your shoes, Edie, and so I tell you.’ Edith did not care to be envied ; she was grateful for John’s kindness to her little shy self, but rather glad than otherwise when the young lady at the piano declared that her arms were dropping off, and that some one else really must come and play for a while. This was Edith’s chance for escape ; Aunt Alice, with a wise forethought, had made her deli¬ cate little niece take a good long nap in the hot part of the day, so that she was not too much fatigued to sit and play dance-music, till even the youngest of the visitors began to think that it was time to leave off dancing. The crowded, exciting day was over at last, and the whole party sought their resting-places. Three young ladies were billeted in the room vacated by Chris and Ambrose, and several others had shake¬ downs in the old schoolroom, from which the piano had, of course, been removed for the dancing. Some chief guests were in the only remaining spare apartment, some of the men in the lofts, some in the sheds and out-buildings. Chris and Ambrose went off to the cabin, where Paul Harvey’s lamp was still burning, and where Paul, who had looked in upon the revellers once or twice, but had soon retreated to the quiet of his own quarter again, was sitting up, waiting for them. It was a treat to linger a little, and to tell Paul, as Ambrose said, ‘all about everything.’ But the time came when sleep would no longer be denied, and the boys had to lie down, rejoicing in the pros¬ pect of just such another day to-morrow. On the morrow Chris covered himself with glory, his persistent practice had not been in vain. lie shot a springbok with his own hand, and Dick, who had only helped to shoot one, was disposed to be a little jealous of his young cousin’s success. All the more, when Charlie Gilham openly congratu¬ lated his friend Wharton’s ‘tender-foot nephew,’ and declared that Chris would soon become a true sportsman and a first-rate colonist. Chris, however, bore his honours very modestly, gave most of the credit to Paul Harvey’s rifle, and did his utmost to conciliate Dick in every way. Before the party reached home Dick and Chris were as good friends as ever, for Ambrose, who had accompanied the hunt rather as a spectator than a sportsman, had the good sense to say very little about Christopher’s triumph. The whole performance of the night before was gone through again. ‘ How can they do it P. It is a wonder they are not tired to death,’ said Mrs. Wharton, but Aunt Alice laughingly assured her that no one was ever tired at ‘the shoot; ’ and so indeed it seemed. But when the next morning, in small detachments, the various friends dropped off, and left Wharton’s Kop to peace and quietness, there was an undoubted sense of relief in the minds of the elders of the party. ‘The shoot’ was a glorious institution, no doubt, but it involved a very large amount of work, and caused a disturbance of the general order of things which fully accounted for Paul Harvey’s dislike to it. As Chris watched the departure of the Gilham ox- waggon, the last to go, as it had been the first to arrive, he declared that he had never enjoyed himself so much, or been so utterly worn out, in his life. ( Continued at page 371.)

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No. XLVII CHATTERBOX 369

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— - - - - - 370 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XL VII. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. A LONDON STEP-GIRL. fTVHE first time that ever I saw lier, sir, was on a I lovely morning in early May, some fourteen or fifteen years ago. It had been a dull winter, I remember, followed by a long spell of east wind, and I was feeling more than a bit dumpish that day. So that Molly turned me out of doors, saying that the sunshine was a better cure for the blues than any amount of physic. Away I trudged up the lane and along the road to the village. The place seemed only half alive, and everything so dull that I felt out of conceit with a country life. Just then I heard the call of a bullfinch, and out it flew from the hedge hard by. I knew it would, be no easy matter to find the nest, and was debating if I should have a try, when the sound of a woman’s voice fell on my ear. It was singing a music-hall ditty, which struck me as more fitting for London streets than for a country lane. I pops my head over the hedge, and it was then I saw the girl, sir. She was sitting on the grass with her lap full of daisies, and a few violets in her hand, which she was fastening in her frock. But first she stoops her head, and kisses the violets again and again. In her hat was a dirty white feather, which kept waving about, as if it wanted to fall out, but could net succeed. ‘ Young woman/ says I severely, ‘what are you up to, if you please ? ’ The girl cocks her head at me with a roguish expression in her face. ‘ Sergeant,’ says she quite saucily, ‘ I am not afraid of you ; the flowers are free in the country, and I am an honest step-girl. I came down this morning from South Lambeth, I did, and paid for my ticket— leastways my friend did. Polly could not come herself, she has sprained her ankle, so she sent me instead. And I have got to take her back this basket full of buttercups and daisies, and a few more violets, if I can find them. Will you come and help me, Sergeant ? ’ < Young woman,’ says I, in a dignified way, ‘ where did you get that feather ? ’ ‘ It has been paid for until to-morrow, so I have you there,’ says she with a laugh. ‘ I say, Sergeant, what makes you look so glum ? Why, it is first class here, among the birds and the flowers. Can ye guess how it feels, Sergeant, to find yourself in the country for the first time ever since ycu was a child ? Bless ye, it is like laughing and crying both at once — it is like daylight after dark.’ ‘Young woman,’ says I, with a relaxing of my jaw-bone, ‘ if I am not mistaken, you are a bit too sentimental.’ But all the same, sir, I knew that she had warmed up the old love of country life, which still lay deep down in my heart. ‘ The country air gives you appetite,’ says I, more cheerfully. ‘May I inquire whether you remem¬ bered to bring a trifle of victuals along with ye ? ’ ‘ What is that to you ? ’ says she, with a tos3 of her feather. ‘ Who wants to think of victuals on a day like this ? ’ ‘ Aye, aye, for certain sure, but you cannot live upon flowers,’ says I. ‘ What’s your name, my dear P ’ * Lavinia Moggs,’ says she, half-sulkil}’. ‘ Why then, Miss Lavinia Moggs, you have got a pressing invite out to dinner,’ says I, ‘ and you had best come along with me at once. My youngest girl — that is the only one left at home now— shall help you pick the daisies by-and-by. Then1 you will take them back to London nice and fresh.’ The young woman jumped to her feet in a trice. ‘ Sergeant,’ says she, ‘ you are a brick. Bat are you sure that Mrs. Sergeant be one of the same sort ‘ Come and see,’ says I, and with that I marched her off to the cottage, where you may rest assured she met with a kind welcome. ‘ If you are so sweet on the country,’ says I, when we had all made a good round meal, ‘ why don’t you come and live here altogether ? No doubt we could find a situation for you on one of the farms.’ ‘ Only you would have to dress a bit different, and not so flash,’ cuts in Molly, casting a look at the dirty white feather. Lavinia Moggs sat fondling the cat, quite con¬ tented and homelike. ‘ Well, there is my friend, you see ! She gave me- her savings for this jaunt to-day, and now I will have to go back and do double work in the mornings. She can’t clean steps now — not for many a day to come. But thank you kindly, Sergeant, and Mrs. Sergeant too. I have got a country heart, I have, and if it had not been for Polly— why, I would not have stuck at the feather, not 1. . . . Now there is Polly, with a face as sweet as a daisy. But she has got a cockney heart, you see, and she thinks there is no place like South London. So, in course, I must bide with Polly.’ ‘ Well, anyway, if ever you change your mind, and begin to hanker after the green fields again,’ says I, ‘ vou can come down to us, and we will do our best for you.’ ‘ Bless ye, Sergeant, for a noble-hearted gentleman, says she, and the silly child straightway drops me a curtsey. So Lavinia Moggs went back to Lambeth, and we never thought to see her again. But it is very often what one expects least to happen that comes about, sir, and a day arrived when the step-girl turned up once more. Over a year had passed away, and the tall grass was being mown in the fields, where she had gathered the buttercups and daisies. ’ The bullfinches had built themselves a nest of strong twigs, and had lined it with moss, in that same hedge, and now they flew in and out, to feed their fledglings. Well, there came a low rap on the door, and when Molly hurried to open it, we were quite startled to see the little figure, all in black. For there was no white feather this time, sir. The girl wore a plain straw hat, and a simple black stuff gown, and she looked all the better for the change, according to my way of thinking. However, directly I caught sight of her, a miserable fear flashed across me that some¬ thing must have gone wrong with Polly. ‘ We are pleased to welcome you, my girl,’ says I, trying not to speak gloomy-like. ‘ But what has brought you back to us, after all ? ’

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No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 371 ‘ It is all along of losing my friend,’ says she, with sad, drooping lips, and in a voice which confirmed my suspicions. 1 Have you come from a funeral, my dear P 9 says Molly, going straight to the point, as is a way she has of clearing up most things. i No* n°f that — I am come from a wedding/ Lavinia Moggs explains, with a sob catching her breath. ‘ I would never have played Polly false, like that. But, mind ye, it is not Bob Walker’s fault, he could not help himself from wanting to marry her. A respectable young man he is, in the tallow- chandlery line. Polly has gone to live in Camber¬ well, where he has got two rooms all ready waiting for her. She was always too good for a step-girl, ■was Polly. Often and often I have coaxed her to come down with me here. But she is a born cockney at heart, is Polly, and could not bear to live out of London. So here I am, Sergeant, and if you will get me a place at that farm you spoke of — whv« vou will find I am here to stop.’ 1 Sit down, my dear/ says Molly kindly, 1 and I will make you a cup of tea.’ 1 Eh, but you are one of the real good sort, Mrs. Sergeant, and do you know, I feel a bit more light¬ some already. The smell of the hay, as I came along it was enough to make ye sing out. The sky looks as if it must have been raining, to wash the blue so clean. . And to hear the birds bursting their throats, so. happily — why, it is like a first-rate concert, and no mistake. ... Oh, yes, Mrs. Sergeant dear, I can work hard enough, if I have a mind to. You shall not be sorry, if you gives me a character at that farm, for a honest, hard-working girl.’ And I am glad to tell you, sir, that Lavinia Moggs kept her word. She stayed at Deepwell Farm for some years, until the old man died. After that, she went to live with his married daughter, some twenty miles away, and, to the best of my belief, she is living there still. Flora Schmalz. CHRIS WHARTON. (Continued from page 367.) CHAPTER XIV. FTER the shooting party there was a lull, an almost dull time, in which everybody felt a little weary and out of sorts, and wondered why life had suddenly grown so fiat. This effect was helped by a few days of unseason¬ able rain, which came when rain, though always wel¬ come, was not expected, and kept the inmates of the farm prisoners, at least so far as the ladies were concerned. It was on a rainy Sunday that Edith reminded Lily of her promise to tell the story of Flossie Est- court, the governess ; and Lily, tired of reading — of which, to tell the truth, sho was never very fond — tired of listening to Edith’s music, and of strumming a few nearly forgotten notes herself, at once con¬ sented. ‘ You must know/ she began, ‘ that along time ago father began to be dreadfully anxious about my education. I do not know where he got the idea first, though I have often shrewdly suspected Gentleman John. of putting it into his head; but he took to thinking that I was quite negiected, and was growing up in a sad state of ignorance. It seemed a sort of joke, to me ; I could read and write, and, though I say it, I was as clever in the house as any girl need be ; and I could dance very well, even then. What¬ ever else did I want to know P 1 1 told father that, if he sent me to school at Cape¬ town, it was perfectly certain that I should die, before the end of the first term, of a broken heart. When he saw that I was really set against it he did not urge the matter any more, but suggested, as a compromise, that I should have a governess. Of the two evils mother and I chose the least, and father went straight off to Capetown, to buy a piano, and look for a suitable teacher. Buying the piano was easy enough, but choosing, the governess proved a very difficult matter. Father interviewed and rejected several, and began to grow quite weary of going round to the offices, and seeing feeble elderty women, or giddy young ones, concerning whom he was certain, as soon as he saw them, that they would not do at Wharton’s Kop. ‘ At last, when he. was ready to give it up, and settle on a school, in spite of the risk of breaking his daughter’s heart, father heard of a young widow lady, a Mrs. Estcourt, who seemed likely enough to suit. She had been a long time seeking a situa¬ tion, because she had one child, a little boy, who must go with her wherever she went; and people objected so much to being hampered with an extra child. ‘ This was a trifle to father ; he saw the lady and her bo}r, and engaged her at once. She was very thin and sad-looking, and dressed in mourning. . ‘We found out afterwards that, while she had been living, without employment, in one of the Capetown boarding-houses, she and little Harry had come very j near being starved. Her money was gone, and she was at her last gasp when father met her. ‘ Well, as I told you once before, we soon grew to know and love her. I never was so happy in my life as while Flossie was here. She was a dear sweet j creature, and when she found that we were all friendly, and ready to like her if she would only let us, she . brightened up wonderfully, and became as different : as possible from, the poor subdued woman she had been at first coming to the farm. ‘ Harry was a charming little fellow, and we made ; him a regular pet and plaything ; he and his mother had known such hardships that it was a real treat to try and make them happy and comfortable, for Flossie’s husband, Jim Estcourt, had been a down¬ right bad one, he had spent her money and then deserted her, and, when she had heard of his death at i some wild up-country place, it was a standing won- j der to me how she could have found any tears to i shed over the news. She had cried though, till she j

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“ The first thing Flossie saw was Mr. Jim Estcourt under protection of a guard of police.” roused herself to work, and began the struggle to live, for which she was never very fit. ‘ Poor Flossie, it is a comfort now to think that, at least while she was with us, she had a good time. ‘ If you had been here then, Edie, you would have enjoyed the musical evenings we had, when Flossie used to play and Gentleman John to sing ; and even into me, dense as I am, they managed to instil some rudiments of music. I have forgotten it nearly all, as you know, but that was not Flossie’s fault. 1 Gentleman John used to come to see us often in those days ; he was very fond of little Harry Est¬ court, and, though he never said much, I am sure he

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No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 373 enjoyed Flossie’s playing- immensely. She stayed with us nearly two years, and father was very pleased and said that I had made great progress, and that, if Mrs. Estcourt could only remain with us a year or two longer, he was sure I should grow into a graceful, well-educated young lad}*-. This rather made me shiver, though I did not much mind trying to be like my darling Flossie. ‘ But while we were all happy and contented, and the very last thing we wanted was a change of any kind, a strange piece of news came to the farm ; Flossie’s scamp of a husband, it appeared, was not dead, after all. He had turned up at the diamond mines at Kimberley, and out of sheer contrariness, as it seemed to us, he insisted on having Flossie back, and that she should bring little Harry with her. We heard later that Jim Estcourt had got to know that Flossie was likely to come into some more property : and that was at the root of all his anxiety to have her with him. ‘ But she, poor girl, knew nothing of that ; she thought that her Jim had repented and reformed, and, whatever we said to her, she would have it that a woman’s first duty was to her husband, and that, if he wanted her, she ought to go to him though a whole continent might lie between them. ‘ Father told her that the diamond mines were a very unlikely spot in which to find a repentant, reformed sinner. lie had not a scrap of faith in Jim Estcourt’s fine promises, and did not mince matters with Flossie. ‘ Gentleman John was as mute a* a fish, and would not say a word one way or the other ; but everybody else was thoroughly certain that Flossie ought not to go to Kimberley. ‘ It was not a bit of use talking, Flossie had made up her mind to go— and she went. ‘ She took Harry with her, of course, and father wras terribly put out at her having to make the long, rough journey alone with the child. I believe he would have seen her through himself; but Dick, you know, was not so old then as he is now, and it w*as quite out of the question for father to leave home just then.’ Lily stopped to take breath; Edith let her rest for a minute or two, and then asked with deep interest, ‘ But what became of Flossie afterwards? Did she find her husband ? Where is she now, and where is the little boy ? ’ ‘ Have patience,’ said Lily, ‘ and I will tell you. I have never been to Kimberley, but from what father has said I know it is a horrid place, a place to which Flossie should never have gone, without any one to receive her but that shocking man, who was not fit to tie her shoe-strings, let alone to be her husband. He did not meet her at the station, not he, partly because he could not. The first thing that Flossie saw, when she got up into the town, was Mr. Jim Estnourt walking along under the protection of a guard of police, and chained to about a dozen other convicts, with whom he had been imprisoned. They had just come out for their daily exercise, and that was how Flossie met her hushandV * Imprisoned ! ’ Edith opened wide blue eyes of astonishment. ‘Was he as bad as that, then, this Mr. Estcourt ? What had he done, Lily ? ’ ‘ He had been mixed up with the I. D. B., illicit diamond-buying, you know. Father could explain to you the ins and outs of that better than I can ; but it is taking or getting diamonds against the law — you see, Edie, as bad as stealing them — and that was what Jim Estcourt had been up to. His sentence was to last some months ; when Flossie met him in the street, the police, or warders, or whatever they were, would not let him come out of his rank to speak to her, and she could only say two or three words to him. ‘ There she wa°, in that terrible rough town, with only a little money, and with Harry to take care of, and there she went through worse distress than she had ever known in Capetown. At last she broke down, and lay sick and ill, in a miserable iron shed, such as poor folk must live in at the mines. Then, somehow or other, some one sent word to father ; it was a poor woman, one of the miners’ wives, to whom, in the midst of her own trouble, Flossie had tried to be kind. ‘ Father was in a sad way when he heard of it all ; he blamed himself for ever letting her go, or, at least, for not doing more to prevent her going. Nothing would do but that he must start right away for the mines himself, and try to bring her home. ‘ You should have seen how sad mother and 1 were in those days, we could hardly sleep for thinking of Flossie and Harry, and of all they might be enduring While father was gone we counted the hours till he should come back, and bring, as we hoped, our dear ones with him. But that was never to be.’ The two girls had had the dining-room to them¬ selves while Lily told her story ; when she got to this point the door opened, and Uncle Edward came in for a rest, after seeing to some necessary work on the farm. ‘ Father,’ exclaimed Lily, almost before he was seated, ‘ I have been telling Edie about Flossie Estcourt, and I had just got to where you went to Kimberley to fetch her. Will you not help me out with the rest ? ’ ‘ It is a sad tale for young ears, my dear,’ said Uncle Edward. ‘ Our best consolation is that poor Flossie, who, through all her griefs, put, as I verily believe, her whole trust in the Almighty, has now gone to her rest. If ever there was a good, true¬ hearted woman, she was one, and she loved her unworthy husband even to the last. I will tell you the end, if Lily has not tired you out with talking.’ ‘Not at all, uncle,’ Edith protested ; ‘ I want to know why Flossie never came back.’ {Continued at page 382.) AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. THE NATIVE CAT. LONG before I thought I would ever see Australia. I was shown a very handsome carriage rug, and told that it wras made of Australian cat- skins, and I remember thinking that cats in Australia must be

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.) 374 CHATTERBOX. Xo, XLVII. much more alike than our cats at home, for instead of the wide variety which one sees in domestic cats, all the skins in the rug wTere marked the same way; the centre was made of skins of a yellow -grey colour ! writli small white spots, and the border was com¬ posed of black skins spotted in the same way (the | black are much handsomer than the yellow and also , more rare). When I came to the Bush of Australia, I learned all about native cats, as they are called here — why cats I do not know, except that they are not like cats; they are more like a weasel or ; ferret, they have long, low bodies and very sharp ! noses. Like most Australian quadrupeds, native cats are | marsupial — that means they have a pouch in which to keep their young; but unlike the kangaroo and opossum, who have only one baby at a time, they ! have several, sometimes as many as six. When they 1 are small the mother carries them about with her, but | after a while she leaves them at home while she goes to look for food for them. At one time native cats were quite a plague in the bush; as they are extremely fond of fowl and quite able to carry ; away a full-grown bird, it w~as almost impossible to prevent their getting to the hen-roosts at night, 1 so houses had to be made of iron with secure doors ; but since rabbits have been plentiful, native cats ! seldom trouble us. I was once staying at a friend’s house, where there was a visitor from England, who was collecting curiosities to bring home with him, and he (having- seen their skins) wished to have a pair of native : cats as pets for his sister. His host had them trapped and put in a strong cage, and when he saw them, he, not knowing the nature of the beasts, put his fingers between the bars of the cage, saying ‘Poor puss.’ Pie was told at once to take them | out, but it was too late, one of the cats had them | between his teeth, and the bar of the cage had ; . to be broken before the cat would let go, and i a terrible hand the gentleman had for a long time, : for the bite of a native cat is to a certain extent j poisonous. ! The Tiger-cat is like a very large native cat ; it is the largest carnivorous animal, excepting the dingo, in Australia. It is a very formidable-looking brute ; it i will fight a large dog, and but for the dog’s master 1 would often have the best of the battle. I never knew a pet native cat, but I know of a tiger-cat j being made a pet of by a family who got him as a wee ‘ kitten,’ and he soon became very tame, and very fond of his friends, and would follow them every¬ where. He often went out hunting on his own account, and would bring home game, birds, and rabbits. His owners had a cockatoo’s chain, with which they fastened him when they did not wish for his company. One day he disappeared, chain and all, and was never seen again. j A friend of ours, when starting a pheasantry, found the tiger-cats very troublesome, so traps were set for them, and, strange to say, more than one j hundred males were caught before one female, which I think proves that the tiger-cat makes a very good father of a family, foraging to supply the wants of his wife and children. Hay Collins, Victoria. BACK TO THE DOODLE-BUGS. Cl (Concluded from pa (je 363.) answer to Mr. Linton's question JT#) the boy said : ‘ My father HM k'ih, Jfc had a brother who came to B and got pretty well Jfi U * off, and I thought I could do As_\MJjgf the same; but I forgot that he was older than me, and — -g/J /Jr '"“SJlih and smarter. I thought if I //! could get well off, that I V 1 would some time go back and buy the old farm, and fix it up real nice.’ ‘ A very good ambition,’ said the banker. Then, with a pleased laugh, ‘It is just what I am about to do myself — go back and buy my farm, and accept the descendants of my doodle - bug friends as tenants.’ The boy looked puzzled. ‘ I have played with doodle-bugs, too,’ he said. ‘Indeed!’ heartily. ‘Then there is another link in our friendship.’ He glanced at his -watch and rose hastily. ‘ I must be going. My train leaves at two, and I have some business to do first. I suppose you will go back to the farm ? ’ ‘ Yes; I will go.’ ‘ That is right. But I have not asked you yet what part of the country you are from.’ ‘ Augusta County, Virginia.’ ‘ Why, that is just where I am going. From the same county ! No wonder you have played with doodle-bugs. We will go back on the same train — in the same car. Played with doodle-bugs! Meet me at the Cortlandt Street Ferry at two sharp. Do you know where it is?’ The boy coloured and drew back. ‘ Yes, I know where it is ; but I — I am going to walk.’ ‘To Virginia? Nonsense. You could not do it in a month. I will attend to the fare. If you do not want it as a gift, take it as a loan, and pay me back when you get ready. Remember, two o’clock sharp.’ It was the boy’s first experience in a drawing¬ room car, and for a time he was absorbed in the novelty and elegance of his surroundings. Then he turned to the gliding panorama outside. And, watching from the opposite chair, the old banker grew more and more interested in the waif so strangely thrown under his protection. Surely it was no weak face that was turned to him from time to time with some eager inquiry or comment ; surely there was more than ordinary promise in the clear eyes and firm mouth, and in the way the shoulders were carried. The boy had made a slip, aud would need careful watching and guiding; but. with such assistance, what might not be hoped from his future ? It was late in the night when the speed slackened, and a brakeman called ‘ Waynesboro ’ ! As they reached the platform, the banker handed the boy his small valise. | ‘ You may carry that,’ he said. ‘Now we will go | to the hotel.’

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No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 375 But the boy drew hack. 6 1 will carry the valise to the hotel for you, he demurred, ‘ but I had rather not stop myself. I have got in debt enough already — fare and dinner and all. I will walk out to my place to-night, it is only three miles, and they will be glad to see me.’ ‘ Just as you like ; but as there are no folk on my place to be “glad to see me, I will go to a hotel. To¬ morrow I will drive out and see what changes forty years have made. If I buy the place — as I expect to — we will see more of each other. You must visit me now and then, and get acquainted with my doodle¬ bugs.’ . . The boy turned away with a puzzled look on Ins face. What did the fine, white-haired old gentleman, who seemed to know everything, and to have any amount of money, mean by such foolishness ?. Doodle¬ bugs, indeed ! why, he had not played with them since he was a small boy, who ran around with the girls. The next day was one of those rare, crisp days, for which the Shenandoah Valley is famous. I lie mountains seemed to have approached to half their distance in the clear atmosphere, and from every grain-field came the piping of quail, and the bracing odours of harvest. The banker’s spirits rose, as he whirled out from the town across the first iron bridge, and then across the second, and on over the well- cultivated hills beyond. The bridges had not been there in the old days. Then people had forded the river, and sometimes the fordings had been very : dangerous. He was glad to see the country was | improving. At length they came to a small building, evidently a school-house, for there were children playing under the trees outside. A group of them. were kneeling in a circle under one of the great pines, as though examining something on the ground. The banker half rose from his seat, his face flushed, and he said : .11 ‘ Hold on a minute, driver. That is the place where I used to go to school, and those are the very trees I used to climb, and — yes, driver! I believe those children are calling up doodle-bugs now. 1 remember there used to be a few under that tree. Listen ! ’ , , In the interest of their occupation, the group had not noticed the approach of the carriage, and now there came a low sing-song : ‘ Doodle dan-dy, doodle dan-dy, Doodle up! doodle up !’ the last uttered in a quick voice. The banker was breathing hard. ‘Just the same, driver; just exactly as it was forty years ago. Hush!’ for now the invocation was changed, and came to them : * Doodle dan-dy, doodle dan-dy, Doodle down ! doodle down ! ’

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376 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVII.

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No. XL VIII. CHATTERBOX. 377 Touching up the Artist’s Picture.

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878 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVIII. A SPOILED PICTURE. RANK MURPHY was tlie nine -year -old son of an artist, and Fred, aged six, was Frank’s brother. There ' were few things the two boys liked better than to visit their father’s studio, and watch him at work, but this they were seldom allowed to do, and they were strictly forbidden to enter it unless their father were present. One day, it chanced that Mr. and Mrs. Murphy were suddenly called away from home, and, in his hurry, the artist left the door of his studio open. . . < Fred— I say, Fred ! ’ Frank shouted, ‘ here is jolly fun; father has left his studio open.’ Fred trotted up and the boys entered the forbidden room. On the easel the boys saw a picture, almost completed. They stood for some time admiring it. In one corner of the room lay the dress and accoutre¬ ments of a soldier-boy, and near by, on a pedestal, the figure of a horse." The dress was that worn by the artist’s model, who posed for the soldier in the picture. i Put them on, Fred, and you can sit to me while I paint,’ said Frank, and, with the- elder boy[s assistance, Fred was soon attired in the military uni¬ form. Little Fred thought that Frank was nearly as clever an artist as father, as he saw him handle palette and brush. A quarter of an hour had passed since Frank, perched on the artist’s stool, began his work. That had been a bad quarter of an hour for the picture. The soldier’s nose was a brilliant black; his eyes were yellow and weeping red tears, and the cheeks were pale blue. Both little boys were highly excited over these changes, when the door opened, and Mr. Murphy stood behind them. ‘ What will father think?’ asked Fred of the young painter. ‘ I am afraid that he will be angry at first,’ Frank answered. ‘ Put down that palette at once, Frank,’ said Mr. Murphy, sternly ; ‘ and you, Fred, take off that uni¬ form, and both of you prepare for a spanking.’ ‘ Oh ! father — please, father - ’ ‘Do not make any excuses ! You have been very naughty, and done a great deal of mischief.’ The boys were quick to notice that their mother, who had followed her husband into the room, did not plead for them, as she generally did, but her kind face looked pained and troubled. The spanking was given by their father, who gave Frank some extra strokes, for he, as the elder brother, was bound to set a good example to his younger brother. ‘Now, go to bed,’ said Mr. Murphy, ‘and you, Frank, will forfeit your pocket-money for a month.’ The sentence was a severe one, but not more than they deserved, as the boys felt within them¬ selves. Years have passed. Frank and Fred Murphy are both young men now, and Mr. Murphy, senior, has painted several fine pictures since the day when Ins disobedient sons spoiled his work ; but one on which visitors look with curiosity, until its meaning is explained to them, is a large, unfinished painting of a war scene, in which the blue-faced warrior sheds red tears from yellow eyes. b . ‘I learned obedience over that picture, says Trank, as he stands before it with a friend. ‘ And I too,’ adds Fred. ‘ Father did not work in vain, after all.’ J. C. PUZZLERS EOR WISE HEADS. 55. — Anagkams. SurPLY the blanks with words spelt with the same letters. 1. That careless girl has spilt a, cup of coffee down my new - dress. I am afraid it will leave an ugly - . Such heedlessness is enough to provoke a . 2. A maiden in an orchard was gathering apples sweet The _ and the reddest she placed in baskets neat ; , . _ . , Said she, ‘ The - shall have them, he is so kind and dear.’ . _ , . A _ was at her elbow, she did not feel him near ; He stole those lovely apples, and ate them every one, , , . , . But many a - did he receive for that mistaken fun. 3. A savage - made his way into the hen-house last’ night, and carried off my favourite - . 4. If that troublesome boy will - in his bad con¬ duct, he will have to taste some - from his master’s cane. 5. Is that a - standing in the brewer’s - ? 6. If you do not - more carefully, we shall get entangled in those overhanging - . C. C. [Answers at page 399.] AITSWE'RS. 52.— 1. Charles. . 2. Sweetheart, daughter, captain, Kensington, March. 3. Horse, carriage. 4. Neither, steamer. 5. Canoe. 53. — Buffalo. 1. Bison. 2. Unicorn. 3. Fox. 4. Ferret. 5. Ass. 6. Leopard. 7. Otter. 54. — 1. Cheat, heat, eat. 2. Platitude, latitude, attitude. 3. Drink, rink, ink. 4. Maple, apple. 5. Goats, oats. 6. Peach, each.

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Xo. XLVIII. CHATTERBOX. 37.9 THE FOES OF THE DIVEB. — 0 - 3 not every one who would like to become a diver who is fitted for the always trying, and frequently ar¬ duous, work. Not that special personal strength is required; indeed, the best divers are not by any means the strong, powerful, and healthy men one would ex¬ pect to find them. Experts tell us that slightly-built, weak-lunged men, with indifferent health, are far more likely, after training, to turn out first-rate divers than their more robust brethren. The diver, to be of any real good in his work, must know how to handle his tools in a thoroughly scientific manner ; he must in fact be a skilled artisan, as a moment’s reflection will convince any one that it would be worse than useless were a man to dive to the bottom of the sea to a wreck and then be unable to use his tools when he got there. Pie must not only be well qualified for his work, but he must also be well equipped, as is our diver of the picture. This, is how he dresses himself for his descent : He removes his every-day attire, pulls on his thick woollen underclothing — white knitted sweater, pants, and hose — and, if he is to descend and work in very deep water, he pulls on three or four extra sets of underclothing, to relieve the pressure of the water, and over all these goes his diving dress, made of solid sheet india-rubber, and covered on both sides with tanned twill. Ilis boots are a special feature of his costume, being of the stoutest leather, with leaden soles buckled on with strong straps which fasten over the instep. A single pair often weighs thirty- two pounds. His helmet is of tinned copper, like his breast-plate, into the neck of which it screws. You will see that it has three strong plate-glasses, and these are in brass frames, and carefully protected by wire guards. The most important part of a diver’s dress is the. air-pipe; one end of this is fixed on to the nozzle of an air-pump at the surface, and the other end is connected with the helmet. Fastened around his waist is the ‘ life-line,’ by which he is hauled up to the surface. The other line shown is the air-pipe. Up above is the diver’s attendant— his 1 signal-man’ — who is bound to use the utmost caution, and to pay the .greatest attention to the ‘feel’ of the line, and, should he detect a pull, it is his bounden duty instantly to haul up. A neglectful signal-man may cost the diver his life, as there are necessarily many and imminent dangers to which the diver is exposed which may require that he should be at once drawn to the surface if he is to escape without serious injury, or, indeed, to escape at all. It frequently happens that the work of the diver ;is interrupted by some of those uncanny monster3 of the deep such as those shown in the illustration. JNIany divers consider the shark as their worst foe. We see here a thresher, or fox-shark, which is easily recognised from other members of the shark family by the unusual length of its tail. The thresher grows to the length of fifteen feet, and more than half the length is taken up by the tail, with which it is able to inflict great damage, as it beats it about furiously, and with such force that it can actually stave in the sides of a strong boat. It is from this use of its tail that it derives the name thresher, as it threshes together the smaller fish — mackerel and herring — in which it delights, into almost solid masses, and then seizes individual members at a great speed and devours them. Sailors say that, assisted by ‘killers’ and ‘ sword-fish,’ it attacks whales, leaping high in the air, and beating its victim with powerful blows by means of its long and strong tail. It is found abundantly off New Zealand and California, and in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and even in British waters. Its teeth, as you may see, are small, compressed, and of smooth edges, showing that it is not in the way of attacking man for a meal, although, when hungry, it will go for any prey. The thresher we have been looking at is an old one, and has been much trouble to the diver who is at work on a wrecked coal-hulk, on which he is striving to fix copper sheets. For nearly a week the thresher has appeared watching the diver, and seems waiting to attack him should he see a favour¬ able opportunity. Once he was scared away by the diver opening the escape valve of his helmet, and allowing some air to rush out. The noise was new to the monster, and for a short time he kept his distance, but not for long. Then the diver went for him, and with such good results that, when the ‘ signal-man ’ hauled up, there was found at the end of the rope a dead thresher of enormous size, stunned at first by a blow, and then slain by means of the strong steel knife which every diver wears slung in his leather belt. James Cassidy. A ROADSIDE CARAVA3N. YTOST of my readers know quite well, I think, ill that the word ‘ caravan* has several meanings. There is the caravan we hear of from travellers, and read about in books, which is formed of a party of people who are going in the same direction over some desert or wilderness. For the sake of company, and so that they may be helpful to each other, they travel together, and may be better able to defend themselves if attacked by robbers. Such caravan parties may be a dozen or two persons, sometimes they contain hundreds. Usually there are no vehicles along with a caravan; their baggage is laden upon horses, camels, and asses. Places of rest or shelter for these travellers are common in the East, and are called caravanserai , a sort of wayside inn. . Then we have caravans very different, which are made to remove from town to town the wild beasts of a menagerie, like WombwelVs or Sanger’s. What we are most familiar with is the common gipsy caravan, to be seen almost daily along our

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roads all over England ; still, some of them do not belong to gipsies, though they are much used by that dark-skinned race of people. Our illustration shows one of these caravans, a sort of wandering home, of which boys and girls may get as fond as of a mansion in brick or stone. You will have noticed some of these, I dare say, which are handsomely painted outside, and smoke coming out from a chimney, showing that a fire is burning to cook, perhaps to warm, should the weather be cold. Others of the caravans are crazy structures, it may be, covered with brooms, brushes, chairs, mats, and sundry articles which are sold by the caravan folk. 1 wonder how they manage to keep these dry should it rain heavily. Wandering over the country, these gipsies see a

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Gipsy Caravan. great deal of its beauty, going over hill and dale, past woodland and streamlet; but often they are poor and ignorant — all their attention is given to the .struggle for life. A great deal has been done of late years to help the dwellers in caravans, such as in¬ structing the children, some of whom were formerly like little savages, and teaching the older folk to be clean and temperate. Formerly, on several of the commons and waste lands round London, people living in these caravans would stop at some place which they fancied, not only for months, but for years, working or trading about the neighbourhood. But nowadays they would hardly be allowed to remain ; the police or some one would request them to 1 move on.’ J. K. S. G.

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- — - - - — — - — - — 382 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVIII. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. PAREOTS. mHE most common and most numerous birds in X Australia are Parrots. They are all colours, from the great and gorgeous King Parrot to the beautiful little Shell Parrot. Few birds have a greater variety of colour — they display all the colours of the rainbow and a great many more ! From where I am sitting I can see a scarlet blotch in the bright green of the box- thorn hedge which is round the garden. It is the head of a Rosella Parrot, which is eating his supper of berries and hanging in what seems a parrot’s favourite position, that is, head downwards. Over its beak it lias a strange white line ; most of the back and wings are green and black, with bright blue feathers in some places in the tail shading to bright green ; the breast and the under-part are a mixture of all colours, including yellow, and under the tail is bright red. The Lowrv is marked in much the same way as the Bosella, but it lias more red, and all the colours are more intensely brilliant. The head is like velvet, so soft and silky; the tail and wings are red, blue, and black ; the bird itself is much larger than the Bosella. The Blue Mountain is another variety : its head is china blue, the wings and tail brightest emerald green, the breast blue, red, and yellow ; and when it flies, it shows that the under-part of its wings are a bright red and yellow. The Wurrup has much quieter colours. It is a lovely dove-colour, with yellow and red cheeks and a yellow top-knot ; its shape is very elegant, being long and slight, and although so much plainer than other parrots, it is a very beautiful little fellow. Wurrups are seldom seen in this neighbourhood — at times a flock comes and stays ashort time with us. Their cry is quite different from other parrots and something like their name, Wurrup, which was given them by the blacks. The Grassies are little beauties : they are seen in great flocks on the ground and are much the colour of grass. The Shell Parrot is another little darling. It would take too long to describe all the different kinds which we constantly see. A good many of them are to be seen at Begent’s Park and other Zoological Gardens where some of you have seen them, and you can imagine how beautiful great flocks look flying, but you cannot realise the deafening noise they often make, particularly at bedtime, when they all seem to be fighting for the snuggest spot on the tree. When a white gum-tree is in blossom, hundreds of parrots go to it for the honey, of which they are very fond; the tree looks quite alive with them, hanging in all sorts of ways and keeping up a continual chattering. Parrots, as you all know, are great talkers. Some pets are not caged. We h ad a Green Luk which would follow us everywhere. Like many other Australian birds, parrots lay their eggs in the holes of gum-trees and often there is a bloody battle for a favourite hole. One day we heard a great fight going on in a gum- tree near the house ; the end was the death of two beautiful wee shell parrots, whose dead bodies were found under the tree. Parrots’ eggs are white and very round. May Colt.ins, Victoria . » _ — - CHRIS WHARTON. (Continued from page 373.) CHAPTER XV. LV F you had ever been to Kim- i|lf berley, ’said Uncle Edward, H drawing his chair farther (o 3^® H from the window as he 1 $ spoke, to avoid _ the hot B gleams of sunshine which (1 XWIw1 JjIlL kad now succeeded the % rain -clouds, ‘ you would ^ ^ know that it is, or at any u' rate was> a Place wilicl1 displays most of the worst features of our South African land.’ While he was saying these words Chris came in and seated himself quietly beside his uncle. He would not have cared so much as Edith did for the tale of Flossie Estcourt and her sorrows, but every description of colonial life interested him, and, if Uncle Edward intended talking about the diamond mines, Chris was quite prepared to be a listener. ‘ There are two things which abound in Kimberley,’ Mr. Wharton went on, ‘ more than at any other spot which I ever remember to have visited — these two things are dust and flies. There are no trees, there is no grass, there is next to no water. Of course, the folk have some water ; they need it for their diamond-washing operations, as well as, now and then, to drink, and — sometimes— to wash them¬ selves. But you do not see any river or lake, or even pool ; everything is dry and burnt up, and the air is always thick with dust. Even in the Park, as they call'it, there is hardly a blade of grass. Then the flies are everywhere ; swarms of them — hosts of them; they fill the houses, they spoil all one’s pleasure in eating, and drinking, and sleeping ; they put one in mind of an Egyptian plague more than anything else I can think of. Of course, I am telling you what the place was like when I went there ; it may be better now, though I do not suppose a year or two has made very much difference.’ ‘ Is it anything like Capetown, uncle P ’ asked Chris. ‘ Not a bit ; why, the whole town, or more than three parts of it, is built of corrugated iron. The houses are very seldom more than one story high ; the streets, with their stores and liquor-shops, are like those of some ramshackle Yankee settlement. All the people in the place have just one object and interest in life — one thing that they care about, and that thing is diamonds ! diamonds ! diamonds ! ‘ The very babies know the value of them, and every boy there thinks that he shall find a great big one before he dies. The first thing I had to do when I got to this delightful spot was to find out Flossie Estcourt. I will not distress you, Edith, by telling you in how much poverty and suffering I did find her. I did everything that could be done for the poor girl — she was but young, even then, for all she had gone through. I took her awa}r from the wretched place wheire she was staying ; 1 got the kind woman who

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No. XLYIII. CHATTERBOX. 383 had sent us the message to act as her nurse ; I sent her a doctor, and the little comforts and luxuries which she needed ; and then I waited till she should be better. ‘ She was a great deal too ill to travel the hun¬ dreds of miles" between Kimberley and Seymour- stack. 1 “ Money makes the mare to go ” at the mines, as elsewhere. Flossie had soon everything she wanted, except the one thing which could not be bought. In spite of all we could do — Mary Miller, the doctor, and I— she did not grow better, but rapidly got worse. ‘ While I waited, sadly enough, for a change, I took Harry out, and went round myself to see what could be seen. The little chap had been neglected during his mother s illness ; but the ups and downs he had known in his short life had made him pretty sharp ; he was much more of a companion than most chil¬ dren of seven would have been. ‘ We went together to the mines, and a more curious sight than they are I do not think it would be possible to find. Mines I have said, but I should have said mine, for the mine at Kimberley — though there are others in the neighbourhood. — is just one enormous hole. You must not think, Chris, that it is like a coal-pit, down which you may descend through a narrow shaft, and where the workings are shut in from view. No, you may walk right up to the brink of the Kimberley mine, look over the edge, and there you are. The immense hole is all open to the sky ; it is divided into a multitude of “ claims,” as they are called, each under separate ownership. Sometimes two or three men club together to own a claim; sometimes one alone is the boss. ‘ The sides of the hole are of various colours, the different sorts of earth making it like a great coloured patchwork ; the cuttings, too, are of various depths, and the whole place is alive with black men, for the people who do the actual work are all, or nearly all, Kaffirs. They are paid fairly good wages, and seem happy enough at their toil. There used to be a strange arrangement of overhead wires, by which the buckets of earth in which the stones are found were sent to the top of the mine, but they have done away with those now. The technical name of this precious earth is “ blue,” and blue enough it is. The buckets of blue are being constantly dug out by the Kaffirs and sent up to be washed. They are washed and sorted and sifted till every particle has been gone over, and the number of stones that are found is truly amazing. . # 1 Ho you care to hear this, Edith ? ’ Uncle Edward broke off, noticing the sober look on his niece’s face. _ . .. iii ‘I had rather you talked of Flossie, uncle, the girl admitted; but Chris cried out, ‘Go on, go on, Uncle Edward, tell us everything you know about the diamond mines.’ His uncle laughed. ‘ I cannot please you both, he complained. ‘ In the effort to do so I should most likely share the fate of the old man with his boy and his donkey, of whom I dare say you have heard. I will finish my say in a very few minutes, and in my own way. ‘ The Kaffirs who work in the mines have, as you may suppose, many chances of stealing the stones. They hide them ‘in their mouths, they raise the skin of their arms or legs, and conceal them in the incisions; they are so '’cute and wary that no one can be upsides with them. I believe they none of them think it a sin to steal diamonds, for, except in that one particular, they are very good fellows. 1 The stones, once obtained, the problem is how to dispose of them, and this has given rise to a new crime— I.D.B.’ ‘ I have heard people speak of that since I have been here,’ said Chris, ‘ and could not make out what they meant.’ ‘ They meant illicit diamond buying,’ returned his uncle. ‘ The most stringent rules are made against it, but they are constantly broken. Very likely Lily has told you, Edith, that this was what had brought Jim Estcourt into trouble;- but now I will have compassion on you, and get back to Flossie. ‘Do what we would, she did not get on a bit; she grew weaker and weaker, and became so ill that she hardly noticed Harry when he was brought to her bedside. The little chap cried sadly because his mother did not speak to him ; we could not make him understand that she was not able to do so. 1 One day Mary Miller called me aside, and said that, in her opinion, there was no hope of Mrs. Estcourt’s recovery. It was a blow to me. I had not looked for anything of the kind, ill as I knew her to be. To make a long story short, the poor thing died, just a fortnight before her husband’s release. <1 saw to the funeral, and stayed on, till Jim Estcourt was free again. Would you believe it? the ill-conditioned rascal would not let me take Harry, even then. He blustered about his fatherly love, but the truth was Flossie’s expectations descended to her son, and Harry was only a card in the game which Mr. Jim Estcourt was playing. I came away with a heavy heart ; it was hard to leave the mother underground, and the son with no better guardian than his scamp of a father. It was harder still to tell my wife and Lily the result of my journey.’ Edith’s eves were full of tears. 4 Have you never heard of Harry since ? ’ she inquired, in trembling tones. ‘ Only once,’ answered her uncle. . Gentleman John had business in Kimberley — said he had, at all events. It is my belief he only wanted to know what had become of the child. He got sight of Harry, much changed for the worse ; but Mr. Jim got the better of John, and he had to come away without doing anything, just as I had done.’ < What would the little boy do, uncle? ’ questioned Edith; ‘would his father have a diamond mine, after he came out of prison ? ’ ‘He might have a claim, or part of a claim, if he coufd raise enough money. Harry would run about the dusty streets, and play, and fight, and search for diamonds, like other Kimberley boys, I suppose. It was a poor lot for Flossie Estcourt’s son, but there are things in this world which are past our

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Flossie’s Last Hours on Earth. mending. When we have done all we can, we must just leave them, and trust that a Higher Power will over-rule the evil for good. Only let us be quite sure that we have done our part first.’ ‘You did what you could, father/ said Lily, fondly. ‘ Ay, child, in that case, perhaps ; but we have all of us many shortcomings/ answered Uncle Edward. ‘Now, Edith, we have had enough of this sober subject. Play us a cheerful tune, something that will do for to-day, and then let us go and see what your father and mother and Ambrose have been doing all this time. ( Continued at page 390. )

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A CHRISTMAS CAKE-

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No. XL1X CHATTERBOX 385

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386 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. ABOVE HIS POSITION. HERE is a rare lot of snob¬ bishness In this world, sir/ remarked Sergeant Liuidy, one evening, when I had invited him to tea at my lodgings in the village. ‘ A letter reached me this morn¬ ing from Andrew Mathe- son, and I think you will admit, sir — if you care to hear a few facts about him — that his is, or at least was, a case in point.’ Andrew’s father was one of the best chaps that ever breathed. But, as for Andrew himself — ah, well, it was Matheson, you see, helped to spoil the lad, and all through love of him, if you believe me,' sir. First, nothing would serve him, but that Andrew must go to college. Iiow the poor man pinched and scraped, and his wife as well, in order to save the needful cash. And, though Matheson began life as a carpenter, 1 must tell you that he had got to do a little building on his own account, so that he was able to carry out his purpose. Every penny was the fruit of his own hard labour. And money of that kind, I take it, sir, is always the most precious, and ought to be valued accordingly. Not that Andrew turned out a spendthrift, for he was never loose-handed, so far as I heard. But he grew namby-pamby in his ways, and stand-offish in his manners, to such an extent that his relations seemed afraid to open their mouths afore him ; and at last things came to such a pitch, that it was settled that Master Andrew, still living at his father’s ex¬ pense, should leave his home for a while. ‘ The poor chap was sadly in want of a change/ says Matheson, when I met him one day about the place. ‘ He cannot find out his right bent, you understand, and that has been the worry of late. It is not as if he had to choose a common trade, for that would be simple enough. Eh, Lundy, my man, I often have my doubts as to whether I have acted rightly by the lad, to bring him up as a gentleman.’ ‘ Anyhow, you caunot undo an education/ says I, with a twinkle in my eye. ‘ And since he has got it, certainly, the question is, what will he do with it ? Where does he hold out at present, if I may make so bold, Matheson ? 9 ‘ He has gone to board at Elmwood Farm, about twenty mile away. A farm of the better sort, mind 3' ou, and with a most genteel kind of family.’ ‘ Oh, of course they are sure to be all that/ says^ I. ‘ Yes, they will be fitter company for the lad/' he goes on, ‘ for he never counts himself as one of us, Lundy, and that is the truth.’ ‘ Then I am sorry to hear you say so/ says I, being forced to speak my mind. ‘ If I am not mistaken, a carpenter is more respectable nor a snob/ says I. Whereupon, being afraid I had spoken a bit too sharply, I turned and left the poor fellow. And when I went home to dinner, Molly found me so glum that she could hardly get a word out of me. Well, well, sir, it is not much of a policeman’s yarn that I am spinning you this afternoon. Moreover, it was by no means in my regular line of duty, the part that I pla}red, some two or three months later on. It was a fine August night, I remember, when I dropped in to see Matheson, on a little matter of business. They had just finished supper, he and his wife, and I noticed how they got up from their chairs, in a flustered sort of way, directly they caught sight of me at the door. Nor did they ask me to take a bite with them. But when I looked at the victuals, certainly, the reason was not far to seek. All that remained on the table, sir, was a crust of dry bread, a bit of cheese, and a jug of spring water. Then my eye fell on Matheson, and it struck me that, since our last meeting, he had added fully ten years on to his age. ‘ Now, do not let me disturb you/ says I, cheerfully enough, though a lump was rising deep down in my throat. ‘ Oh, we have done our meal/ they said in one voice. Upon which Mrs. Matheson begins to clear away the empty plates, with a fuss and clatter, as if to make me believe that they had been having quite a feast. ‘ Then we can have a smoke together/ says I, pull¬ ing out my pipe. ‘ Smoking does not quite suit me now/ says he,, casting an envious glance at his pipe-rack, over the mantle-shelf. ‘ Tuts, man ! ’ says I, reaching down a pipe, and holding out my tobacco-pouch; ‘here is the shag, and I will take it amiss if you refuse me.’ So I had my way, and Matheson was soon puffing at his pipe. However, it was not until after we had discussed our little business that I plucked up courage to inquire after Andrew. ‘ Why, have you not heard the grand news?’ says Matheson, with a smile that was real sickly, and no mistake. ‘ 1 must tell you, Lundy, that our Andrew is to marry Miss Mary Martin, of Elmwood Farm. Now what do }rou think of that? The lad has done well for himself — eh, mother?’ For Mrs. Matheson had now joined us, and was- knitting that fast, it might have been to save her life,. ‘ Miss Martin is a lady/ says she, ‘ that will do him. credit.’ But she kept her head close down, over the sock in her hands. ‘Dear me/ says I, ‘and can she really afford to keep him ? Is the lady so well off as that. ? 5 ‘ Whatever she is, they will have enough to start upon/ declares Matheson, with a queer sort, of dignity that sat well upon him, sir. ‘ Andrew was over here on Saturday/ says he, ‘ and the wedding is fixed for the last day in September.’ ‘Then he has lost no time in winning the good graces of the family/ says I. ‘ And what about his future wife ? Do you fane}7 Miss Martin ? ’ Here there fell a dead silence on the pair, and it lasted so long that I began to get in a fidget. ‘ Do 3tou mean to say that you have not seen her yet?’ I gasped, like the ninny that I am at times.

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No. XLIX. ‘ Not just yet/ says Mrs. Matheson, and she stooped to pick up her hall of worsted. Then I looked across at Matheson, sitting doubled up in the twilight, and I saw that his pipe, which was a second one, had gone out. Indeed, he appeared so broken and aged, that all at once my heart took to thumping quite loudly. 1 Why not P ’ says I, half-savagely, and I could not help the sudden break in my voice, sir. ‘ Well, you see, Mr. Lundy, it has all come about so quickly, ’ Mrs. Matheson explained. 1 And, as Andrew was saying - 9 ‘ Nay, nay, my lass, it is no use beating about the bush. ’ Old Matheson had risen from his seat and was drawing his breath heavily, and as if it was a labour to him . ‘ Lundy, you are a true friend, ’ says he, ‘ and I will not conceal from you how matters stand. The lad is ashamed of his father and his mother, Lundy, and he does not want her to meet us until after the wedding. She is to be away from home next month, and meanwhile he has gone up to London himself for a few days. Mind you, he has not said it in so many words, but I can read between the lines. My only son, Lundy, as I was so proud of — my only son,’ and he sobbed aloud. ‘ There is some mistake here/ says I, trjdng to keep perfectly cool and collected, ‘ that will be cleared up, by-and-by. For I think better of Andrew, you understand, Matheson, than his own father does. You have just got to wait a bit, you and Mrs. Matheson, and give the lad a chance.’ So I did my best to cheer them up, sir, c.fore I set out on my beat that night. 1 Molly/ says I, upon reaching home at four o’clock the next morning, 1 let us have breakfast, if you please, my dear, as soon as I have had a couple of hours’ sleep. For I am going to borrow the trap/ says I, ‘ and I have got a long drive afore me.’ * All right/ says Molly, who was never one to plague a man with idle questions. Maybe she guessed that everything would leak out — as it always does, sir — sooner or later. However, not to make my story over-long, when I arrived at Elmwood Farm, it was my good luck to find Miss Martin alone in the parlour. And it was a funny thing, sir, how she and I seemed quite at home with one another, after we had only exchanged a few sentences. She had been fretting a good deal, she told me, at Andrew’s strange want of confidence in her. He was most unwilling to speak of his home, so she said, and of his own people. Of course, sir, as you may imagine, it was a delicate sort of task I had got to perform. Something like treading on pins and needles, so to speak, for a great clumsy constable, not well up in the ways of women¬ folk. But, anyhow, Miss Martin led me on to set forth to her all that Matheson had done for his son. And by the time I had finished, if the young creature was not actually in tears, sir ! So that when I offered to drive her back with me, to call upon him and Mrs. Matheson, she ran off to get ready directly. Then, as we spanked along the high road, she con¬ fided to me that her father meant to fix them up in a farm of their own, and that she had learned a lot 387 about farming. Never, with her consent, she said, should Andrew accept another penny from his father. When the village came in sight, Miss Martin left the trap, having first promised me to keep it dark as how Sergeant Lundy had ever had a finger in this par¬ ticular pie. She had friends living close by, she said, who would drive her home again in the evening. And perhaps it will not surprise you, sir, to hear that our little plan turned out a first-rate success. ‘ Lundy, you were in the rights of it, after all/ says Matheson, next Sunday morning, when I met him on the way to church. ‘ Mary Martin had settled with Andrew, it seems, that she would come over and make our acquaintance, while he was away in London. And it was all along of her shyness, you understand, that we did not have her here far sooner.’ ‘Quite the lady/ chimes in Mrs. Matheson, who was also in full feather, * but without any airs and graces. Just a sweet, simple lass, and one after my own heart.’ And that was all true enough, sir. For his wife has worked such a good effect on Andrew, you would hardly know him for the same man. And to give you a proof of it, I have only got to add that the young couple and the old Mathesons have now been keeping house together for some eight or nine years past. As for the farm, it pays them well. Children’s voices fill the place with gladness, and they are all as happy — at least, so I gather from Andrew’s letter of this morning — as the day is long. Flora Schmalz. A HUMBLE PETITIONER. YES, a humble petitioner, and a very patient one too; a dog can be that, even under trying circumstances, when he has been trained to beg. I have seen a dog which was well taught, and as he stood up, his master would balance a lump of sugar on his nose ; he was not to move till the word of command, then he jumped up and caught the sugar in his mouth as it fell. Droll was it to see the intense eagerness with which he watched his master’s face, anxious to secure the sugar which was so near, but which he would not touch until he got leave. Again, I have been shown a dog that could not only” beg by standing on its hind legs, but go through the more difficult performance of standing on its fore legs only, with the hind legs in the air, but of course he could not keep his balance for long. But he could also walk for some little distance beside a wall, head down, and cleverly move his hind legs along the wall in time with his fore legs on the ground. Another terrier I know has been trained to take his tail in his mouth, and tuck in his legs, making himself a sort of ball, while he rolls about here and there funnily. Professor Owen tells us that he saw a terrier which had learnt to play ‘ hide and seek’ with his master, who summoned him by saying ‘ Let us have a game.’ When he heard this, the dog hid his eyes between his paws directly in an honour¬ able way, and if the gentleman had then put a piece of cake in some unlikely place, the dog CHATTERBOX.

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A Humble started up and usually found it soon. We have 1 been told, too, of a fox-terrier named Fop, who would shut his eyes, and let those who were playing with him conceal themselves before he looked round. If anybody hid behind a window curtain, Fop, for a time, carefully passed that curtain, and pretended to search about other places ; when lie thought he had done this long enough, he rushed to the real hiding- place, seized the curtain, and pulled it aside in triumph. Very droll it was to see him take his turn at hiding. He would get under a chair, and fancy he was invisible; then, of course, those who were playing with him pretended not to see him, and it was most amusing to witness Fop’s excitement as they passed, till at last they found him. Once, when Fop was ill, he had been cured by homoeopathic globules, and always afterwards, if anything was the Petitioner. matter with him, he would stand near the little medicine chest in which they were kept, and hold his mouth open. A lady, who had much kindly feeling towards the hungry sparrows during winter, used to put out food for them, daily, in a plate, and she taught her black -and -tan terrier to bark when she said to him, ‘Call the birds,’ and they quite understood what it meant, coming quickly to the house as soon as they heard his bark. This feeding was left off in the summer; but when winter returned, the dog remembered what he had to do, and the birds knew the sound of the summons to come and be fed. About the Highland terrier one peculiar thing is, that these dogs often run upon three legs, when there is nothing the matter with the one held up ; usually it is a hind leg. Perhaps this is done to rest

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i " ' Yes, captain, I’m a sailor born,’ Declared young Harry Lee ; one leg, in case of an emergency. Some folk, how¬ ever, believe that if dogs run so, it is because they are bent on mischief. The kind of dog called a poodle is very clever ; we know him easily by his crisp, curling hair, large round head, and long ears. Poodles have been trained to spell words, not only French and English, but those in Greek characters. When a word is put before them, they will pick out the letters required to spell it from a pile of others, and put them in proper order. One of these had the word ‘ heaven ; 9 he could not find two e’s, so he took it from the first syllable to put it in the second. Another spelt ‘ Though up till now I’ve worked on land, I’ve always loved the sea.’ ” Jupiter, by mistake, with a b; his companion pushed this out and put in the right letter. A young man who was studying to be a doctor lived in a house where a poodle was, and the dog allowed him to perform operations in make-believe. He learned to lie still, and have his teeth drawn, his limbs set, and imaginary wounds bound up. More than that, he allowed himself to be laid upon a table, stretching his legs out stiff. The young operator pretended to j cut them off, and the dog dropped them one by one. Then, at the words, ‘Jump up, good dog V he started ' up, frisked about and wagged his tail, after the per¬ formance. J. K. S. C.

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390 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. THE REASON WHY. CHRIS WHARTON. YES, Captain, I’m a sailor born,5 Declared young Harry Lee ; ‘ Though up till now I’ve worked on land, I’ve always loved the sea.’ The Captain of the Silver Star Replied 1 If that be so, How was it, lad, you did not come And join us long ago ? ’ 6 I’ll tell you, Captain,’ Harry said, And in a lower tone, 4 When I was five my father died, And mother left alone With only me, and well I know She toiled with all her might To earn my living and her own — She toiled from morn till night. 4 Through eight long years she kept me, sir, Then I left school, and went To work upon a farm close by ; I could not ask consent To come to sea. No, Captain, no; For my dear mother’s sake I stayed on land : I could not cause Her loving heart to ache. 4 1 could not leave her, sir, alone ; I knew she needed me, And my first duty was to her , Much as I loved the sea.’ Then, in a sad and trembling voice, He added, 1 But, no more Will mother need me on this earth ; She is on a brighter shore.’ There was a pause, the Captain’s heart By Harry’s speech was stirred ; The sailor standing close behind Had also heard each word. They quickly judged his character, The verdict was the same — ( To walk in duty’s path,’ they said, 6 Will be his highest aim.’ The Captain answered, 1 Thank you, lad ; Your answer pleases me; I’ve learnt from it that you will give True service on the sea. Now that I know why you delayed To be a jolly tar, I’m doubly glad to welcome you Upon the Silver Star.1 So Harry went on board that ship, And the good Captain Mays Is very fond and proud of him, And often sounds his praise ; For still ’tis Harry’s highest aim To do his duty well, And all who follow that good rule Are certain to excel. D. H. (Continued from page 384.) CHAFTER XVI. DITIT’S meerkat, contrary to Dick’s prophecy, had grown and flourished. It took its place with the many other pets who found a happy home at the farm, and lived on terms of warm friendship with the rough- coated collie, who was r Uncle Edward’s special fol- lower, and the little brown spaniel who owned Dick for a master. Lily petted the prettiest of the baby ostriches, and she had always a group of favourite fowls, chosen from the feathered multitude for some point of quaintness or prettiness in their very early days. She had a pet lamb and two kids, and usually a number of small birds in wicker cages, who lived a life of mingled indulgence and neglect, and generally ended by escaping from between the bars of their prison, and falling a prey to some of their many enemies without. Every Saturday Miss Lily made the round of her living possessions, and put them into some sort of order for the coming day. On Sundays visitors often dropped in at the farm, and it was Lily’s delight then to take her friends round to see her treasures. The Sundays at Wharton’s Kop were something of a trial to Mrs. Thomas Wharton. She thought her brother-in-law and his wife rather lax in the observance of the day, and she did not perhaps make allowance enough for the difficulties and drawbacks of colonial life. On fine days the waggon, or the Cape cart, would convey some of the home party to church at Seymourstack ; but there were times when the heat, or the rain, or the lack of available horses or a suitable driver, prevented these journeys. Dick had a tiresome knack of being missing on a Sunday morning, unless there happened to be some particular reason why he wished to drive to Seymourstack himself, and now and then the waggon, and the Cape cart too, would be away on the frequent expeditions to Capetown for the sale of the farm produce. Failing horses and men for their service, the family and the guests must needs remain at home, for eight miles were too far to walk. Then Uncle Edward read morning prayers in the dining-room, and afterwards left the young people, as he said, 1 to their own sense of what was right.’ It would have puzzled the good man very much to make any kind of sermon or discourse to them, and, when he had tried reading one from a book, the servants were so sleepy, and Dick and Lily looked so wearied, that he gave up that plan. 1 It is of no use to read them to sleep,’ he said to his wife. 1 We will have the Gospel and Epistle, and the lesson for the day, and trust that some

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No. XLIX. CHATTERBOX. 391 of those sacred words may sink into their minds. As for any preaching of mine, I do not mean to try it any more.’ If Edward Wharton had but known it, he was preaching a sermon every day. His own children, with plenty of the faults which over-much liberty and indulgence breed in the young colonist, were influenced for good by their fathers unselfish, upright life, and knew him to be at heart a far better Christian than to outsiders and strangers he sometimes appeared. Nevertheless, it vexed the English Whartons, as the new comers were called in the neighbourhood, that their boys and girl should have lost some of the religious influences of their Lynchester home, and they were glad when Chris and Ambrose developed a practice of going to read quietly in Paul Harvey s cabin on Sunday afternoons instead of getting into mischief about the farm. Dick looked askance at the new departure, and hinted to Chris that ‘ no one but a. milksop would stand being shut up with Paul and his books.’ But Chris, who found nothing of the milksop in Paul, and had besides fibre enough in his own composition to enable him to withstand Dick, if need were, still went to the cabin. He saw pretty clearly, though he could not have put what he saw into words, that the danger of the Wharton’s Kop life was that of ceasing to care for the things of the soul and the mind. Paul Harvey, in his solitary dwelling, with his romantic love, his taste for reading, and his deep, though mainly un¬ spoken, sense of religion, seemed to the generous boy, as their friendship ripened, an altogether higher type of man than Dick bade fair to become. It was to Paul that Chris turned for companionship more and more. „ _ . . . Ambrose visited Paul for the sake of his books alone. He was one of those not wholly admirable mortals who would always rather talk with a book than with a friend. Dick, with his usual easy indifference, when he found that Chris was not to be turned at will, left him to follow his bent, and himself went off to pursue the projects of which he had an unfailing succession. , . Chris soon found that Dick had libelled 1 aul, m accusing him of talking of nothing but England and Lucy Day. Paul had longings for home, it is true ; but what Englishman worth his salt, and forced to dwell abroad, is without such desires? Plome-sick! — the term is no reproach — the best and bravest of Albion’s sons are those who turn with fondest re¬ collections to the little island in the silver sea. As to Lucy Day, Paul seldom spoke of her. W hen he had had a letter from Lucy, Chris often guessed the fact, but it was rather from the brightness of the ostrich-keeper’s demeanour, the light in his eyes, the ring in his voice, than from any words that he let falL On the Sunday afternoon following the talk about the diamond mines a drowsy silence had^ fallen upon the trio assembled in Paul’s cabin. 1 hough the season was now somewhat advanced, the day was very hot ; the curtain was drawn to shut out the glare of the sun, the door closed, because the air from without brought no coolness, and the shade was Ambrose and Paul were reading ; Chris, leaning his head on his hand and his elbow on the bare wooden table, had sunk into a doze, when the sound of a distant cry broke upon his ear. . He started, and sat upright. ‘ What is that ? he exclaimed • ‘ Nothing, nothing,’ said Ambrose impatiently. ‘ Do be quiet, Chris.5 . But it is something,’ persisted Chris, and, seizing his big Panama hat, he was out of the hut in a moment, and, regardless of the heat, was speeding away in the direction whence the cry had proceeded. Away, away, through the yards, and out towards the open veldt, until at the sight which met his astonished gaze his very heart stood still. Round the corner of the stone ‘ kraal ’ came a boy, ragged, forlorn, wretched-looking — a boy in the last ex¬ tremity of terror and fatigue, uttering a sharp cry of distress as he ran ; in hot pursuit followed old White Wing, evidently roused to fury, and. within two or three yards of the helpless object of his chase. In the moment that Chris saw the danger he leapt to the means of rescue— a ‘ tackey ’ which Paul had left leaning against the wall of the ( kraal.’ Seizing it in both hands, Chris rushed forward, and dashed the thorns full in face of the infuriated bird, whose formidable foot was already raised to strike the trembling boy. , White Wing stopped and then turned and dashed off towards his camp, leaving Chris alone with the still trembling, almost fainting boy, who had sunk down upon the ground, as if unable to take another step. , , , Chris did not know what to do or say. next ; he was relieved to see Paul and Ambrose coming to his assistance ; for that impetuous rush from the cabin had made Paul decide that something was really the matter. At a short distance he had seen everything which had happened, and was full of admira¬ tion of Christopher’s resolute conduct, a sentiment which he was, however, too wise to express openly just then. , „ , ,. ‘ Too wise — and too much astonished — tor, bending over the nearly unconscious boy upon the ground, he looked up again, with eyes which were full of the most unbounded surprise, and exclaimed, ‘ Chris ! Ambrose 1 it is Harry Estcourt.’ Chris looked at the boy’s closed eyes and tangled bush of hair, at his ragged jacket, his shoeless feet, and the scratches and scars upon his rough sun- em¬ browned hands, and wondered what fresh misfortune had brought Flossie Estcourt’s son to this pitiful plio-ht. PI is old felt hat, a mere remnant of a head¬ covering, had fallen off, and lay upon the ground beside him. He. was manifestly too weak to give any account of himself just then, or to tell how it was that he had incurred old White Wing’s wrath. ‘ Let us carry him to the house,’ said Paul. And tenderly lifting the boy— too light a weight for his years— Chris and Paul bore him between them towards the house, sending Ambrose on before to tell Aunt Alice, and whoever else might be at home, of the unlooked-for burden they were bringing. (Continued at page 894.)

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392 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX.

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Chris returns to Wharton’s Kop.

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394 chatterbox. No. L. CHRIS WHARTON. {Continued from page 391.) CHAPTER XVII. T was upon quite a crowd of sympathetic faces that Harry Estcourt opened his tired eyes in the farmhouse kitchen. Aunt Alice and Mrs. Whar¬ ton, Lily and Edith, and one or two black handmaidens, together with Paul, Chris, and Ambrose, stood in various attitudes of interest and atten¬ tion round the boy, and waited for him to explain the mystery of his presence amongst them. They had laid him on the cushions of the long oak settle, which stood beside the empty hearth, and when he sat up, and with a gesture of mingled affection and appeal held out his hands to Aunt Alice, that tender-hearted lady’s eyes were full of tears of pity. ‘ My boy, my poor Harry, you are at home now,’ she whispered, bending over him, and kissing his tear-stained cheek ; f you must tell us how you came, but not yet, not till you are quite able.’ May, one of the Kaffir girls, was sent for a restor¬ ing drink for Harry, and when he had taken it he told, in a broken fashion, of the things which had happened to him since his parting with Mr. Edward Wharton, at Kimberley. His father led a wild life, with rough companions, and dragged the boy with him through many scenes of misery and riot till, at length, the reckless man was struck down by a fever, which was raging in the town, and died, after a few days’ illness. Wretched and alone, save for one kind friend, Harry had taken refuge then with Mary Miller. As long as she could the good woman kept him under her roof, but her husband grumbled sadly at the extra mouth to feed, and by-and-by, when Mary herself fell ill, it became too plain that Harry was one too many in the Miller household. Some Kimberley people were leaving the town, and going to a place not very far from Seymour- stack. It was the dearest wish of Harry Estcourt’s heart, a wish cherished through all the darkness and degradation of the time with his father, to get back to his friends at Wharton’s Kop. He begged and pleaded to be allowed to accompany these travellers, till Mrs. Miller’s objections were overcome. Giving the boy the little money which she, out of her poverty, could spare, and giving him too a score of directions as to his own future conduct, she sent him forth, with but a careless escort, on his long and doubtful journey. Jim Estcourt had left no effects behind him, or none that could be realised; his few papers and valuables had been stolen from the low, crowded place where he had breathed his last, and of Harry’s claims upon his mother’s family in England Mrs. Miller knew nothing. It was with a sore heart that she thought of the boy, and wondered how he would ever reach his friends at the farm again. Harry had need of all her secret prayers on his behalf ; the rough-and-ready miners, with whom he travelled, were only too glad to get rid of their charge. Many miles from the place of his destina¬ tion they parted company with him, leaving him to make the rest of his way as best he could. How his money had given out ; how, in the effort to walk over the miles of veldt, which still separated him from the haven of his desires, he had lost the proper road, and had wandered wildly up and down, Harry told with difficulty, for his tale was interrupted by many exclamations of pity from Aunt Alice and Lily. On the Sunday morning, after fasting during the previous day, and sleeping at night in the open, he had walked on and on, not knowing where he went. Here and there a wire fence obstructed his way, but he climbed these, or crept under them, and in his enfeebled state he thought nothing of possible danger from bird or beast. It was only when, unawares, the boy had reached the last of Mr. Wharton’s ostrich camps, and step¬ ping into old White Wing’s domain had roused the feathered king’s well-known fury against intruders, that the perils of his course had dawned upon him. He had run then, for his life, but a gate, carelessly left open by the Kaffir herd-boy, had given the ostrich an advantage, and Chris and Paul could tell the rest. When they had done so, Aunt Alice ordered every one out of the kitchen— her one anxiety now was that Harry should be left in peace and quietness, to recover from the hardships he had endured; and her husband, when he heard of Harry’s coming, said that the boy’s arrival in safety was little short of a miracle. A week or two of repose did wonders towards a : cure ; Flossie Estcourt’s memory, fresh in the hearts of her friends, made these the friends of her boy too, and one of the first to come over, when he heard of the young visitor at the farm, was Gentle¬ man John. John Vernon came to Wharton’s Kop with a purpose which he was fully resolved to carry into effect. At the earliest chance he took Uncle Edward aside, and briefly stated his intentions: 1 The lad is my charge, Wharton,’ he said; ‘you have enough on your hands already ; I shall take him to Gilliam’s — that is, if you consent — and look after him always.’ Uncle Edward could urge nothing against this settlement of the question of Harry’s future. In Gentleman John the boy would have a generous friend, a true and faithful guardian. The prayers of his mother, and of the humble woman who had done her best to fill that mother’s place, were fully answered in the case of Harry Estcourt. The ox-waggon called at Wharton’s Kop one fine cool morning, to take Harry to his new home, and Chris, at Gentleman John’s invitation, joined the party. This was Chris’s first visit to Gilham’s farm, of which he had heard so much that he longed to see it. The bare, one-storied building, with its central hall ornamented with endless trophies of the chase, lions’ skins, elephants’ tusks, the horned heads of various kinds of antelopes, together with guns and

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. 395 other weapons of sport and warfare, almost enough to furnish a small army, was a queer place, con¬ sidered as a home to dwell in, though for Chris it had many charms. Gentleman John’s own special room reminded Chris of Paul’s cabin, excepting that John had so many more books, and that no pictured face smiled down upon him in his loneliness, as did the portrait of Lucy Day upon Paul Harvey. Chris was to stay for a week, and help Harry to get used to his new abode. He did not now stand too much in awe of Charlie Gilliam, and found the mighty hunter, in his own homestead, a kind and agreeable host. The boys, with the easy comradeship of boyhood, roamed about together, and Chris, so much older, and better taught than Harry, was of much service in teaching the latter to forget the dark experiences of his Kimberley days. When the week was over, Harry, comforted by the thought that between Wharton’s Kop and his new home there was frequent and easy communication, said farewell to Chris ; and Dick, who had come oyer in the Cape cart, expressly to fetch his cousin, drove away from Charlie Gilliam’s hospitable door in his very finest style. He was driving Vandermeyr and another horse in the double harness, but Vandermeyr, like his master, had learned wisdom by experience, and attempted none of the capers which had ended in the destruction of the spider. Edith, who had taken a deep interest in everything that concerned Harry Estcourt, met her brother and cousin on their return with a host of questions. While Harry had been at the farm the gentle girl had been pleased to read to him, or to play to him the soothing music which awoke again the memory of the mother he had loved and lost. The boy did not speak often of his mother, but her early teach¬ ings, and, above all, the recollection of her pure and gentle life, which had helped him in his evil days, were still like stars to guide him upon his way to Heaven. It would have made Edith glad if she could have looked forward through the years, and seen how in due time, and mainly through Gentleman John’s exertions, Harry’s claims upon his friends in England were fully established, and Flossie Estcourt’s in¬ heritance was secured to her only son. {Concluded at page 402.) SCOTT’S SELF1- CONTROL. SIR WALTER SCOTT was in the habit of em¬ ploying in literary work a German student named Weber. Being an interesting person, he became a favourite with Scott’s household, and often dined with them. Sir Walter, knowing that Weber was inclined to drink too freely, tried to keep him as much as possible from temptation. When Sir Walter left Edinburgh at Christmas, a.d. 1813, the two parted kindly, and, on the day after his return, Weber was with him in the library, as usual, making extracts. As. the light began to fail, Scott leaned back in his chair, and was about to ring for candles, when, seeing the German looking at him with unusual solemnity, he asked what was the matter. ‘ Mr. Scott,’ said Weber, rising, ‘ you have long insulted me, and I can bear it no longer. I have brought a pair of pistols, and I must insist on your taking one of them instantly.’ And he produced the weapons, which had been placed under his chair, and laid one of them on Scott’s paper. ‘ You are mistaken, I think,’ said Scott, ‘in your way of setting about this affair — but no matter. You cannot wish to annoy Mrs. Scott and the children ; therefore, if you please, we will put the pistols into the drawer till after dinner, and then arrange to go out together like gentlemen.’ Weber answered with the same coolness, ‘ I think that will be better,’ and laid the second pistol on the table. Scott locked both in his drawer, saying, G am glad you have felt the propriety of my suggestion ; let me only request further that nothing may occur at dinner to give my wife any suspicion of what has been passing.’ Scott then went to his dressing-room, and sent a message to one of Weber’s intimate friends, who came and took him away. He had been on a long walk through the High¬ lands, during which he had drunk so heavily as to unsettle his mind. He became a hopeless lunatic, and, till his death, was supported at Scott’s expense in an asylum at York. But for the great novelist’s self-control there would have been a murder in that quiet library. LOCH ARB. LOCH ARD is one of the many beautiful lakes of Scotland, which is not only a ‘ land o’ cakes,’ but a land of lakes. Loch Ard is often mentioned by Sir Walter Scott. One of the in¬ cidents in Hob Hoy is represented as taking, place upon the margin of Loch Ard, also it appears in that delightful poem, the Lady of the Lake. . Here is a bit "of description, which evidently applies to this spot. ‘ On the right,’ Scott says, ‘ amid a profusion of thickets, crags, and knolls, lay the bed of a broad mountain lake. High hills, rocks, and banks waving with natural forests of birch and oak, formed the borders of this enchanting sheet of water, and as their leaves rustled in the wind and twinkled in the sun, they gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life and vivacity.’ Loch Ard is not wide. The upper loch is about two miles long, and from three to six furlongs wide. What is called the lower loch is small — five furlongs in length, the width scarcely one. The huge mass of Ben Lomond towers about five miles to the west. Two conspicuous hills on the south are Innes Ard and Bad Dearg. Though only 566 and 533 feet high, they are so. broken and bosky as to be more impressive than loftier bare mountains would be. Close by is the cascade of Ledard, a double fall of first twelve feet, then fifty feet more.. A rock j in this ravine gives a distinct echo, repeating a few words twice. Loch Ard belongs to the Duke of Montrose. Near to it is the hamlet of Aberfoyle,

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Loch Ard. which is on the river Laggan, across which is a high, narrow, three-arched bridge. Upon it a fierce fight is said to have occurred between a christening party of the Grahams of Duchray and the followers of the Earl of Monteith in a.d. 1671. The little church is close to the bridge. At no great distance from the hamlet are other lakes — the well-known Loch Katrine, the head of Loch Vennachar, and Loch Achray. Poetry tells of the loveliness of the last of these, the name Achray meaning ‘ smooth field/ and, indeed, there are round it many corn or grass-fields, scattered cottages, green ridges, and a gentle beauty, which contrasts with the wild grandeur of other lakes. J. R. S. C.

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. 397 A Willing Helper. A WILLING HELPER. H, dear ! oh, dear ! this is the last of March, and we have had more snow to-day than on any day since Christmas/ remarked Maggie Harvey to her brother as they rose from the dinner-table. 4 Do you think that we shall have any more this afternoon, George ? ’ 4 I will have a look outside before I answer that question/ was his reply; and, so saying, he went to the front door and opened it, and Maggie followed, and a minute later they were standing together on the threshold, and had caught sight of a young fellow going up the lane on the right of their cottage. 4 Why, there is Dave Hudson off somewhere with a shovel on his shoulder and a basket full of something on his arm. I wonder where he is going/ and Maggie spoke eagerly. 4 Well, as there is only one cottage in the lane, we may reckon that is the one for which he is bound/ said George ; 4 and I wouldn’t mind betting that he is going to clear some of the snow off old Mrs. Grimsy’s paths ; it is certain that she cannot get out till some of it is shovelled away or melted, and there is no sign of a thaw.’ 4 Ah, I had forgotten ; of course, she lives there by herself ; her husband is not out of hospital yet/ answered Maggie. Then she asked, 4 Did you see anything of her when you passed to-day ? ’ f Oh, yes !’ and George laughed, but not pleasantly. 4 1 reckon she was on the look-out for a passer-by, for when I got opposite the cottage she opened the door and shouted, 44 George — George Harvey,” and something about a little errand she wanted done, but I did not turn my head ; I kept right on as if I had not heard a sound, and I guess she thought such was the case, as the old place stands some way back from the lane ; at any rate she did not call again, and she very soon shut the door.’ 4 Well, I really think that you ought to have gone and found out what she wanted/ said Maggie. 4 Why should IP’ he retorted angrily. 4 Of course she would have wanted me to clear a path for her, if nothing else ; and if Dave Hudson is soft enough to spend his spare time in waiting upon old folk for nothing, Tm not ! No, I don’t intend - ’ 4 Sh - h ! ’ interrupted his sister ; 4 see, there is some one against our gate.’ George turned his glance in that direction, and saw a gentleman stooping down, and in the act of fastening one of his boots. 4 1 wonder we did not see or hear him pass/ whispered Maggie as he moved on. 4 How could we when we were looking to the right and he was coming up the road on the left?’ muttered her brother, 4 and the snow kept back the sound of his footsteps. He is a stranger, I reckon.’ 4 Whoever he is he must have heard what you said about old Mrs. Grimsy/ Maggie returned promptly. 4 Well, what do I care?’ said George, defiantly. 4 Come on in, I want to get near the fire ; it is bitterly cold here.’

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398 CHATTERBOX. No. L. Maggie at once stepped back, and the next minute they were both in the room, and George shut the door with a loud bang. The stranger meanwhile was going on his way, thinking over the little conversation which he had overheard, and, if the Harveys had watched, they would have seen him turn into the lane and go towards Mrs. Grimsy’s cottage. When he reached it, Dave Hudson was busy doing what George Harvey had guessed — clearing away snow, and the old lady stood at a window watching 1 him gratefully until she caught sight of the stranger, then she suddenly looked perplexed and surprised; but when in answer to his knock she opened the door to him, and saw his face distinctly and heard his voice, she burst into tears of gladness. Yes, she then knew him to be Mr. Wilfred Wyndham, the son of the lady in whose service she had lived for many years, and her gladness increased on hearing from him that he had purchased the hall in the village, and that he hoped to take up his abode there within a few weeks. When they had had a chat over this and other matters, Mr. Wyndham made inquiries concerning the young fellow working outside, and, as he expected, he received an excellent character of him. ‘ His name is David Hudson, Mr. Wilfred, and he is a thoroughly good lad and no mistake/ declared Mrs. Grimsy. 1 He is always willing to lend a helping hand. Why, to-day he came here of his own accord to see if I was all right, and to clear my paths, and he brought a loaf of bread and other little things , which he and his mother thought I might be glad of and could not get, now that there is so much snow j about. His father, who used to be gardener at the hall, died nearly fiv£ years ago, and since then Dave has kept his mother and little sister. His great wish was to be a gardener, and if his father had lived that wish would have been carried out, for he used to help in the garden ; but Marks, who took poor Hudson’s place, was a friend of a family in the village named Harvey, and he managed to get their son to work with him instead of Dave, who then went to work on a farm, where he has been employed ever since.’ ‘And what has young Harvey been doing since the changes were made at the hall ? ’ asked Mr. Wyndham. ‘ He left there some time before the place was shut up, about a month before Marks went away/ was the reply, and he has not had regular employment since. I believe he is hoping to be taken into the hall garden again, Mr. Wilfred.’ There was a pause, then the gentleman said with a smile : ‘ Well, my good old gardener, Robert Bland, has agreed to come here with me, but I shall require a strong young fellow to help him, and ’ — he added to her delight — ‘I have decided that young Hudson, your willing helper, shall be the one.’ And he was ! And when the news became known, Maggie Harvey vexed her brother by saying bluntly : ‘ Ah, George, if you had had an idea that Mrs. Grimsy was a favourite old servant of the new squire’s you would not have turned a deaf ear to her, and you would not have spoken as you did about her — oh, no ! And you would have gone as fast as you could to clear her paths if you had thought that the squire would be there ! ’ And as George could not deny the truth of what she said, he answered her with the vulgar command, ‘ Shut up !’ D. Hammonde. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 56. — Word Puzzles. Changed Words by the addition of one Letter . 1. Change part of a chimney into a musical instru¬ ment. 2. Change a river in England into a small animal. 3. Change a bird into a number of persons. 4. Change the firmament into an island off the coast of Scotland. 5. Change a man’s name into a valuable fur. 6. Change a literary friend into a stream of running water. 7. Change an entrance into a household comfort. 8. Change a machine for weaving into darkness. 9. Change the act of healing into a disposition to give pain to others. 10. Change a stringed instrument into a quality necessary for any cutting implement. 11. Change a pleasant feeling in cold weather, when not carried too far, into a dishonourable person. 12. Change justice and equity into part of an animal. 13. Change censure into a roving excursion. 14. Change a bright light into noisy boasting. 15. Change the thirteenth part of ninety- one into a river in England. 16. Change an assemblage of letters into a universe. 17. Change a beautiful natural object into the number of the Graces. 18. Change the seat of the affections into a near relation. 0. C. 57. — Geographical Anagrams. 1. Real don. A group of islands in the Pacific Ocean. 2. Dare, men. A river in Asia Minor. 3. Her pint. A town in Cumberland. 4. On Ebro. A large island in the Indian Ocean ; it produces diamonds, gold, pearls, and many useful vegetable products. 5. As Peri. A large country in the west of Asia once much more powerful than at present. 6. Angels, E. A river in the south-west of Africa ; it is much infested with crocodiles. 7. Rise, call. The chief town of a northern county in England. 8. I, as a man, I. A large division of Australia. 9. A coil, dean. The ancient name for one of the British Isles. 10. Lay on pies. A name given to many groups of islands scattered over the Pacitic Ocean. 11. To stare. A town in Egypt. 12. I mean D. A city in Arabia containing the tomb of a very remarkable man. 13. Dear Mia. A beautiful and fertile island in the North Atlantic Ocean ; it is particularly famed for its wine. 14. Who pets C. ? A town in an English county bordering on Wales. 15. A sly buyer. A town in a south midland county of England. C. C. [Ansiuers at page 410.]

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. 399 ANSWERS. 55. — 1. Satin, stain, saint. 2. Ripest, priest, sprite, stripe. 3. Wolf, fowl. 4. Persist, stripes. 5. Dray, yard. 6. Steer, trees. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. THE MAGPIE, ) have not many song-birds in Australia. The house- swallow, that looks like the home house-swallow, sings at times a sweet little song like a canary singing very softly. The first time I heard it I thought that it was a canary, and I have heard others say they had thought the same ; but the magpie makes up to a great extent for the want of other song-birds, for he is found almost everywhere, and sings morning, noon, and night. Some of his notes are delightful, so liquid, clear, and wild. Some think them very like the notes of the nightingale, and they certainly sound sweetest at night. The magpie is really a pied crow, and is about the size of the rook. He is, as of course you will guess, black and white. Some of the hen birds are very dull, being grey where they ought to be white. They are very easily tamed ; indeed, they often tame them¬ selves. They whistle very well, but I like their wild note much better than anything they are taught. I was staying for a while next door to a caged mag¬ pie, and every morning, when the wild birds were singing their sweetest, the poor prisoner would whistle, ‘ There’s na luck,’ breaking off in the most provoking way in the middle of a bar, and that went on most of the dajr. At one time we got two young magpies. After we had had them some time, all the family left home for a day, leaving the birds in what we thought was a safe place ; but, sad to say, when we returned one was dead and the other quite silly. As it had been a very hot day, we thought they must have been sun-struck. Will (the survivor) lived for a couple of years, but was never quite right ; but he had one of the sweetest voices I over heard, and was most obliging about singing. When he and I met he always expected a caress, and then I would say, ‘ Now, Will, a little song, please.’ Back would go his head, and he would pour out his lovely notes. Sometimes he would sing three songs, but never more at one time. We all missed him when he died. Some magpies are very savage. One we had, named Dick, disliked boys, and would fly at them and peck their heads. If any of the girls wore a boy’s liat, he would treat them the same way, so we let him go wild ; but after he had mated he was very savage, and no one liked to venture near his nest, for it is when they have nests to protect that they attack people. A friend of ours rode under a tree where magpies had a nest several times, and each time one flew down and hit him. After bearing this a few times, he thought of a plan by which he hoped to frighten Mag, so one day, when he got near the nest, his horse being a very quiet one, he changed his position, and sat with his face to the horse’s tail and his whip in his hand, to be ready to strike at the bird; but, strange to say, when Maggie flew at him, instead of hitting him, down came the whip with ail Mr. M.’s might on the poor horse — which was going a little too far for even the quietest of animals, so he bounded forward, leaving poor Mr. M. seated in the middle of a sandy road, and feeling very foolish ; and I am sure the magpie laughed heartily, as did Mr. M. when he told the story. A girl we knew had a pet magpie which was so fierce that his wings had to be cut to prevent him flying at people. But he was devoted to his young mistress ; he knew when to expect her home from school, and would wait for her on a post, calling out, 4 Maria ! Maria ! coo-ee ! ’ After a while he mated with a wild magpie, who chose to build in a high tree. When she would fly up to their nest, the poor fellow would sit at the foot, calling out, ‘ Maria! Maria!’ At last his human friends took pity on him, and made a ladder, by which he was able to reach the lower branches, and so reach his home and join his (second) dear Maria. Magpies build in all sorts of trees. They lay about six spotted eggs, but no two eggs, even in the same nest, are alike. Some have only a few spots, and others are quite covered. May Collins ( Victoria). COSSACKS, THE Cossacks are a warlike race living in the Ukraine, that is, the countries bordering on Russia and China. They are subject to Russia, but they are governed by their own laws, and have many customs peculiar to themselves. They act as irregular troops for Russia, and in time of war they can supply a force of 100,000 men. The Cossacks are famous for their horsemanship. The great Napoleon learned their skill during his terrible retreat from Moscow. The Cossack sits very high in his narrow, heavy saddle. He can do wonderful feats at full gallop. He can stand on his head in his saddle, can ride backward, can pick up anything from the ground when at the top of his speed. The Cossack horse is not a fine one to look at, but it has pluck and en¬ durance. It will feed on anything — even sawdust, if it cannot get anything better. The Cossack, like the Arab, treats his horse as a friend when he is off his back, but once in the saddle he handles him very hardly. He often has broad stirrups with sharp edges, which he uses as terrible spurs. He guides and controls his horse mainly by the bit.

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r The Cossacks : Feats of Horsemanship.

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3 F

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402 CHATTERBOX. No. LI. CHRIS WHARTON. between himself and clever Ambrose, or capable Chris, his self-esteem being much too firmly rooted (Concluded from page 395.) CHAPTER XVIII. FW scenes, fresh acquaintances, and varied occupa¬ tions, bad stolen away the days and weeks at an amazing rate ; Chris could hardly believe that it was now more than a year since he and his family had first landed at Capetown. How many friends he had made since then ! How dim and far away, seen through the mist of time, looked the old book¬ shop at Lynchester, and the school, where he had himself made but a middling figure, while Ambrose was praised, even by the head master, and held up as an example for less studious boys to follow. It was an excellent point, with regard to both the brothers, that neither of them was to be found amongst the crowd of youths who are never sure of their own minds, boys who do not know what they would care to be, who gaze out with listless eyes upon the busy world of workers, and never rouse up enough to choose a part for themselves. Chris had longed to be a farmer, from the time when he had ridden, on his father’s shoulder, to watch the reapers in the field ; Ambrose, since the day when over his grandfather’s big Pilgrim' s Pro¬ gress, with the coloured pictures, he had awakened to some notion of the delight of literature, had been quite sure that his future calling in fife must be something to do with books. At Wharton’s Kop it appeared as though Chris would be more likely to get his aspirations realised, but Ambrose was not really losing his chances. Already his father, Uncle Edward, and their unfail¬ ing friend and adviser, Gentleman John, had been in deep consultation about him, and had set on foot a plan to send him, first to school, and then to college, at Capetown, so that he might be prepared for one of the learned professions, and become, in due course, a man of i light and leading’ in the land of his adoption. To the young Whartons, South Africa had some¬ thing of the character of fairy-land. It was not that they did not find prosaic realities enough — heat, dust, snakes, flies, and other drawbacks to perfect bliss — but that in the Colony, at least in their uncle’s part of it, the thing which was purposed could always be carried out. Was it only, as Uncle Edward said, that ‘ Money makes the mare to go,’ or was it that the young land must needs be a land of liberty, where obstacles were far less weighty than those which hindered progress and advancement in the old country? Edith and Lily were to go to school too ; Lily, now that she could have a companion in exile, made less ado about her broken heart, and was old enough and wise enough to feel that she really was ignorant of some things which her father’s daughter ought to know, if the position to which Mr. Edward Wharton’s wrealth, and influence in the Colony, entitled his children, was really to become theirs. As for Dick, that young gentleman’s tolerably high opinion of his own powers and accomplishments was not likely to be shaken by any comparison for that. Thomas Wharton was not less astonished than his sons at the ease with which Edward s plans and projects for the benefit of his brother’s family were actually being carried into effect. The new house which had been built for the reception of Mr. and Mrs. Wharton and their children was fast approach¬ ing completion. It was smaller, of course, than the Wharton’s Kop house, and lacked something of the solid strength and dignity which the early Dutch colonists knew so well how to give to their buildings. But it was a substantial, comfortable dwelling, with plenty of room for parents, children, and servants, and for the visitors who, in a Cape homestead, are sure to come. Paul Harvey would have been sorry, under other circumstances, to think that he should soon lose the boys — Chris especially — from the home farm. But Paul had a private happiness of ^ his own, which made him see everybody else’s affairs through rose- coloured spectacles. His long years of saving and carefulness were soon to be rewarded; in a very little while he would be in a position to send to England for his faithful and beloved Lucy, and though, when they were married, their home, for a while, would be under the ample roof of the Wharton’s Kop house, Paul too had his thoughts of building. It was more than probable that before the year was out the Kaffir builders and their busy overseer would be employed once more, and a home, conveniently near to the ostrich camps, would be raised for Paul and his bride. Thomas Wharton looked back, with something very like remorse, to the time when he had been so gloomy and desponding as to the future prospects of his family. A feeling of deep gratitude to his brother, and his brother’s kind, motherly wife, often filled the heart of the ex-bookseller. Nor did he forget to lift his thoughts higher, or to confess that his wife’s firm faith in an over-ruling Providence had been fully justified. As the couple thought upon the happy and com¬ fortable home, which had been thus, beyond seas, provided for them, upon their hopeful sons, and upon their dear daughter, restored to greater health and vigour than they had ever expected to see her pos¬ sess, as they remembered their own excellent health, their generous friends, and their bright prospects, they together joined in the grateful thanksgiving of those of old, who said, ‘Thou hast been better to us than all our fears.’ C. J . Blake. Finale. A TALK ABOUT ASPARAGUS. CHOICE vegetables and fruits are now grown so much more plentifully than they used to be that they find a place often in the barrows of our street costermongers. It is a common thing to hear one say at the door of some customer, 1 1 have fine grass this morning.’ Such a remark sounds rather funny, because grass is not an article sold in the street, nor eaten by human beings ; but this is the

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No. LI. CHATTERBOX 403 familiar name which the costermonger gives to what we should call asparagus. The true name comes from the Greek, and describes the young shoots or sprouts ■of the plant, which are pushed up early by the round, knobbly roots. Old Parkinson, gardener to James I., tells us that the English folk twisted the Greek word into i sperage,’ and in some way or other that name was turned into 1 sparrow grass,’ and that, again, got .shortened into 1 grass ’ with common people. One writer thinks there may be a good reason for this name: the top of the asparagus bud, he says, is rather in .the shape of a sparrow’s bill. It is not very likely that any of the readers of this magazine have seen asparagus as it grows wild in England, if indeed it is still to be found. It was formerly gathered near Bristol and about the Isle of Portland, ^ilso in some meadows of Essex and Lincolnshire. Asparagus has been found wild on the Continent, both on mountains and plains. Quantities of this vegetable are raised every year now in France, and some in Germany. There are places where it is grown amongst the vines. It is curious that. Cato, the Roman, mentions it as being. cull ivated in the ■beds of reeds which were grown in Italy to support the vines, and both Greeks and Romans were very fond of asparagus two thousand years ago or more. Besides its value as food, the asparagus is a pretty plant, the young tops are beautifully feathered, and useful for decorations. It is a plant which grows well in a soil that has sea-sand mixed in it. We •cannot tell when it was first grown in English gardens — certainly more than three hundred years ago. During the reign of King William III. it was the fashion to eat Dutch asparagus, because he preferred what was brought over from his own native country, and we are told he ate the whole stalk, others at the roval dinner-table having to do the same as the King did. Before so many houses were built about the neighbourhood of London, acres upon acres of ground were given up to asparagus for the benefit of its people. Battersea, Deptford, and Mortlake were places on the Thames famous for large crops. In the old time our forefathers sometimes ate asparagus raw with oil and vinegar, making a kind of salad of it. The Romans had an odd plan of first drying the heads, and then boiling them for a few minutes. We can gather out of old books a great deal about Roman cookery. Formerly a bit of the root was used as a remedy for toothache, being applied to the gum, and a liquor made by boiling it was.given for colds. The ancients also believed that the juice of the asparagus, rubbed on the skin, kept off bees or venomous insects. J. R. S. C. LOSS OR GAI35T? Founded on an incident of the South African War. rpl-IE squadron crossed the river under fire, x, While busy at their work were shot and shell— Their hideous, hateful task of maiming men — A work which, to our shame, goes on, alas ! As though the Prince of Peace had ne’er been born, The Christmas message still been left unsung! The wounded feebly struggled in the stream, Or sank without a struggle in its depths. Then leapt a soldier from the British ranks, Intent on help ; and, heedless of the hail, Death-dealing, which wrought havoc all around, Into the stream he plunged, and, one by one, Bore four poor sufferers safely to the shore. 1 ’Twas bravely done ! What is the hero’s name ? ’ Inquired the General who had watched the deed ; 1 What is his name ? for I must write it down, That he may have — as he has earned — the Cross.’ But as with opened note-book stood the chief, Poising his pencil in the act to write, And ere the name was written, came a shell V/hich slew the soldier who had saved the four, Just as his self- set task was at an end. Success had crowned his efforts ; his last load Had been delivered into willing hands. Reached from the river-bank, and he himself Was scrambling up the bank when he was struck. •X- * * * * ‘ Ah, me, the pity of it ! ’ cried his friends, When to their ears the noble story came, ‘ That he should lose his life when he had won Such honour for himself — should miss the prized Reward " for valour,” the Victoria Cross ! ’ But was it so P Did he indeed lose much P Nay ! for the only way to find our life, And keep it evermore, is first to lose. Be sure the name that was not written here Is written in the royal Book of Life ! He lost a pebble, and a diamond found ; Let fall a crumb, and at a banquet sat ; Exchanged men’s plaudits for the smile of God. Shall he be pitied, therefore ? Surely, No I E. Dyke. 'DUG OUT.’ A True Story. f H E keeper’s cottage, with the kennels, stood on the top of the hill, and the ‘ Great Wood’ lay at the bottom. When you had climbed up the steep slope of grass, though you were still some distanae from the cottage, the dogs always found you out, and such a chorus of angry barking began thatyou felt inclined to turn back. If you went joldly on, however, you would be sure to find the teeper or his son Jim, and then you did not . mind low much the dogs barked. When you stood in the sottage garden, where sweet-smelling flowers always leemed to be, you could look round and feel how onely it was. Below for miles and miles, as far as he eye could reach, stretched the forest of waving ;rees, with patches of hazel cover, where many ;urious birds and animals lived. The cottage had been Jim’s home for all his six- :een years of life, and the tall, lithe lad desired no goodlier heritage.’ Every dog in the. kennel loved rim. Shaggy Scotch deer-hounds hailed him with springing bounds and paws on his shoulders, with

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404 CHATTERBOX. Xo. LI. attempts to lick bis face ; and pointers, retrievers, and terriers of many kinds gave their varied and boisterous greeting when he entered their kennels. The Clumber spaniels were, however, Jim’s special charge ; they were ‘ prize dogs/ and the lad looked on them as his friends from the time the day-old blind puppies felt, his gentle handling until he led them their first, proud scamper through the rides of the woods after those white-tailed ‘ bunny rabbits.’ The story I have to tell began one morning in March. It was only seven o’clock, but Jim had already had his breakfast. He had many things to do — the pony to rub down and saddle, guns to clean, and such small matters. The mists were only rising though, and the clock striking eight, when he took down his dog-whip and turned the spaniels out for their morning run. Such a rush of brown and white doggies, such eager yelps of joy, as they rushed out on the stretch of grass. Jim strode in the midst, happy as they. His father’s voice arrested him. ‘ Which way art going, lad P ’ * It does not matter/ answered Jim, ‘if you have anywhere to send me, father.’ ‘ Well, I reckon the pheasant-boxes in the wood may some of them be empty/ said the keeper. ‘ You might go and look. There is a power of foxes this season, and the weaker the birds are, the more they get them.’ The pheasant feeding-boxes were made with a spring, so that the weight of the bird opened the lid and let it get the corn. # ‘ I can’t carry grain when I have the dogs/ urged Jim ruefully. 1 That is true enough ; but you could open one or two boxes, and take the grain later on if it is needed/ replied the father as he walked away. The spaniels ran around barking joyously, and the slope of grass was soon left for the paths of the wood. Jim’s whip was little used, save for ‘crack¬ ing’ to recall any stragglers. Up and down, between hazel-bushes and forest-trees, he kept his way, from time to time inspecting the feeding-boxes. Yes, corn was wanted in many ; food was scarce, acorns, beech-nuts, berries, and ‘seeds had all alike disap¬ peared with the winter frosts. At length the lad turned homeward, his eyes, skilled in woodcraft, noting all he saw. Suddenly he stopped, and looked keenly about him. The fresh-turned soil and bundle of thorns seemed to have been pushed at random into a big burrow. ‘ They have been closing up the fox- earths/ he said. Jim lived in a great fox-hunting district, and knew many things which some of my young readers do not. When the Master of the Hounds arranges to. hunt a special wood he announces this for a cer¬ tain date, and fixes on some field near for the ‘ meet.’ Now, the woods are the homes of the foxes, and they make themselves, or borrow from the rabbits, long holes, or ‘ earths/ as they are called, in (under) the ground. Foxes are ‘ nocturnal feeders/ that is, they stay in their earths all day, and come out at night, travelling long distances sometimes hunting for food. When they have little ones they are very bold and ravenous, and visit farm-yards, stealing poultry and even young lambs. It is no use hunting for foxes when they are snug in their holes, so the night before the day fixed for the hunt a man called an ‘ earth-stopper ’ is sent ; he, armed with his spade, goes from hole to hole, filling the entrance up with soil and brushwood, so that the foxes can¬ not get in. By these means the hounds are sure to find some foxes running about. Jim knew all this, and when he saw the closed-up ‘ earths ’ he guessed that it must have been done the night before, and that the Duke would be hunting the Great Wood that day. He determined to see some of the sport if he could. The spaniels had had a long run, and were a tired pack before the kennels were reached. Some hours later Jim was on his way to the wood again, this time with a sack over his shoulder containing Indian corn and barley for the pheasants’ food. His load was heavy, but he walked briskly from one box to another, pouring in the grain, his burden gradually lightening until all was gone. There was a stir of excitement everywhere, and now and again the blast of the horn told in which direction the hunt lay. The noise of galloping hoofs came nearer, and the hounds burst into full chorus as Jim loitered, still carrying the empty sack. ‘They are in full cry!’ he shouted, and broke through the intervening bushes at a run. A hard-pressed fox was heading for its earth, but ere it could reach its shelter it was caught by the foremost hounds. Jim heard the ‘ kill/ and raced up to the spot from which the sounds came. The whole scene met his eye : the burly Duke, his tiny daughter (already claiming the brush), hunts¬ men dividing the mangled fox among the dogs, a confused group of horsemen among the trees, and in the midst a closed fox-earth. The Duke frowned sternly. ‘ Shame on the dogs to kill a lady ’ (or vixen) ‘ fox/ he muttered. ‘ It was certainly making for this earth, and probably has young cubs here.’ There was a pause, and then Jim forgot his shy¬ ness, and burst forward. ‘ May I dig for them, sir — the cubs, I mean P ’ he said. The Duke turned quickly. ‘Does anyone know this lad ?’ he questioned. ‘ Yes, your grace/ replied the huntsman, ‘ he is a son of old Wreath, Squire Bruce’s keeper ; no young things could fall into better hands.’ ‘ A bit of luck then/ exclaimed the Duke ; ‘ the old fox gave us a splendid run ; it were a pity her plucky cubs should be lost. Dig by all means, boy, and here is a sovereign for you.’ The hunt passed on to fresh sport, and Jim was alone. The earth-stopper had left his spade near at hand to clear the holes at sunset. Jim fetched it, and, throwing off his jacket, was soon at work. For nearly an hour he laboured, throwing out spadeful after spadeful, following the course of the burrow. Then a shrill whining made itself heard, the complain¬ ing of hungry cubs. Jim knew it, and his heart was full of pity. He came to them at last — a snapping, huddled heap of four — ruddy brown they were, and slim and lightly made, like small cats, but with bushy tails. How to get them home — ‘ Ah ! the sack, the very thing/ so the boy lifted them gently in, one by one, and then, eager and happy, he hurried

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home with the struggling, living burden over his shoulder. The baby foxes became the pets of the kennels, and they grew and flourished, in spite of the dogs that were so near. At first they were miserable, and dazzled by the light, never having seen the sun in their earth. Jim made a burrow out of a long, narrow box. This, open at both ends and covered with sacks, was comfortable enough, and here the wild, shy creatures lived, in the warmth and darkness. They would come out at Jim’s whistle, and spring about him, with a graceful lightness of movement, unlike any other animal. They were somewhat dainty feeders, but would eat bread and milk, flesh and fowl of various kinds, but they certainly preferred raw

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406 CHATTERBOX. No. LI. K rabbits, and eggs were the greatest treat of all. When visitors came, Jim enticed the cubs out, always with eggs, rolling them on the ground. Then there would be a stir in the box, and, like shadows, one after the other the little creatures would steal out. Always shy and aware if strangers were there, many attempts and retreats were made before the final venture, then would they roll the eggs until they broke, when the red tongues made short work of them. Spring had passed into mid-summer, and the young foxes were strong and almost full-grown. Jim had been dreading what he knew must soon come — 1 Marching orders.’ The fiat went forth at last, and with a heavy heart Jim called the cubs out — from box, and yard and kennels, their home for three months. At the top of the hill, he tried to set them off, but it would not do; bock and back they came, fawning on him, gambolling, and tumbling over one another, and springing up to him in the excitement of the fresh grass below. It was hard! Then Jim led them farther down to the edge of the wood, but still they would not leave ! At last he took them in among the hazel covert, and here the wild nature prevailed, and the shades of the wood swallowed them from his sight, and Jim came back alone. Would they be able to take care of themselves, or would they starve P At least he could prevent the latter ; so, for many an evening at fdeding-time, Jim took young rabbits, freshly killed, and, cutting them in pieces, stood on the hill-side, whistling. Then in the dusk, the shadowy forms would flit to and fro and up to the boy, and taking the food he had provided, steal back again to the cover. As the weeks passed, the foxes ranged further into the wood, and, finding food in plenty, came no more. Autumn had come and gone. Many a time had the Duke brought the hounds to the great wood, and, Jim often wondered if his foxes were still alive. There were few early frosts, and the hunting was good that season. One cloudy day in December. Jim stood on the hill-side, and gazing over the wood could see, through leafless trees, the brilliant colours of the hunt galloping through the rides. Just at the moment the hounds burst into sight, leaping through the rough fence edging the wood in ‘ full cry,’ and then Jim saw that the hunted fox was well in front, and * making’ up the hill. Suck a worn-out fox! with tongue hanging, and dusty, heaving sides. Had it time to reach the cover behind the kennels ? Yes, Jim thought so, and shouted to frighten it on. His plan signally failed, however, for at the sound of his voice the poor hunted creature wavered and turned, and rushed to him for protection, and then Jim realised, with a thrill of horror, that it was one of his old pets. Powerless to help or protect in any way, he pushed the animal from him, urging it towards the cover by shouts, and even blows with his cap. Alas! all in vain; the few lost moments had sealed the fate of poor Peynard, and those pitiless hounds, so close behind, had no mercy. With a cry of rage, Jim struck at the advancing dogs as they tore their prey from him. Of what happened next we will not speak, but the cruel work was soon over. Deaf to words of kindness and sympathy, and heeding not the noble horsemen quickly surrounding him, Jim fled away with a sad heart. The pretty cottage still stands on the hill above the wood. Jim lives there as head keeper now. He has not forgotten the little foxes, and would not be ashamed to acknowledge that some of the bitterest tears he evqy shed were on that hunting morning when his old favourite fled to his arms trustfully for life and safety, and found death instead. Mahtia. THE CONSTABLE’S STORIES. THE CALL OF DUTY. T is a trial which comes to most police-officers, sir, once or twice at least during the course of their lives. I mean that pre¬ cise moment when duty and inclination seem to clash so that they are terribly hard set to act in the way the Service expects of them ; and England too, sir, for Lord Nelson told us so, when he made his last signal, in one of those sayings which will live for ever.’ 'Here I observed that Sergeant Lundy’s lips were tightly compressed, while a certain gleam of en¬ thusiasm, which I had learnt to know so well, flashed into his deep-set eyes. It. chanced to be the warmest May Day that I can ever remember, and we were seated in his garden, enjoying a quiet smoke. Now, take the case of my former chum, for example (said my companion, while he filled his second pipe), Sam Durnton by name. He had joined the Surrey Constabulary about the same time that I came back to the old village, and we were thrown together a good bit after that. Besides, Sam turned out to be a delicate sort of chap, and there is a power of attraction in weakness, you see, for a strong, muscular fellow, such as I was then. However, it needs a tough constitution, and no mistake, sir, when a man has to be out at nights and face all kinds of weather. There are many of us who die off through consumption. Maybe Sam had for ¬ got to change his boots some wet night, for he had no one at home to see to his comfort. Anyhow, the cold took hold of him to such an extent that it appeared to be undermining his health. Sam was engaged to be married, as he told me in confidence, to one of the maids at the Priory, some few miles away. 1 Her father is the only drawback,’ Sam said to me. ‘He is a slippery sort of customer, is Mat Stevens, with a sulky, snarling way about him which makes me pity that poor girl of his, for Liz is formed of very different stuff, I can assure ye, Lundy. She is like — why, she is like a snowdrop springing out of coal-black soil,’ concluded Sam, who was always fond of poetry. ‘ Well, a3 she does not live at home I suppose they*

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No. LI. CHATTERBOX. 407 need not see much of one another/ says I, by way of consolation. ‘ Ah! that is the worst of it all/ retorts Sam, with sudden heat. ' For, strangely enough, Liz is that wrapt up in her good-for-nothing father, I believe why, I believe, Lundy, that she would go through fire and water if so be as she could serve him in any way. She has got no mother, you see, to divide her affection.’ 'It is human nature, no doubt/ says I, 'but it might come pretty hard on you some day, Sam, being as how you wear the uniform/ My words were spoken, if ye believe me, sir, quite careless. Little did I think how true they would prove, and that on a day not very far distant either. We had a mighty hot August that year, I must tell you, and the country was dry as tinder. An attempt had been already made to fire a rick at the Priory Farm. But there happened to be a heavy dew that night, and the amount of damage done was nothing particular. However, it seemed very likely that the scamp, whoever he was, might try his hand a second time, and that is what we had got to pre¬ vent, if possible, by every means in our power. Well, it was a Saturday night sir— dear me, I re¬ member it all as if it had been yesterday. Direct orders had been given me to work a beat ni'gli-liand the Priory, and keep watch in case that anything should go wrong, while Sam Durnton, nothing loth, was stationed not far off. The hours went slowly by, and the distant clocks chimed three. The quiet of that Sunday morning was only broken by the low muttering of thunder in the sky. The air was close and stifling, and summer lightning flickered to the west. Surely there would be no alarm now, thinks I to myself. Sam must hurry home and get to sleep, for. he looked downright cranky, poor chap. Well, I was just on my way to tell him so when my eve was caught by a spark of fire in the direction of the farm. It rose*and fell, then it rose again and struck into forks. Setting off to run, I arrived at the spot in time to see two figures engaged in a scuffle close to the burn¬ ing rick. But they stopped as I drew near, and I could hear their voices quite clearly. ‘ Come, Sam, my boy, for the sake of Liz, let me go free. She cares a heap more for her old dad, does Liz, than for you or any man. Mind, she will be done with ye else — I swear it.7 'It is my duty, Stevens/ says Sam in a shaky voice, though he had no idea of giving in. At this the other fellow grew furious and kicked out like a madman, so that my comrade was. forced to spring his rattle, being unwilling to draw his trun¬ cheon; "but I was with them in a jiffy, and soon found there was no more fight left in Sam’s pro¬ spective father-in-law. ' Lundy/ gasps Sam, who looked as white as death, ‘ here’s a go. This is Lizzie’s father.7 ‘ Well, my man,7 says I, quite calm-like, ' that is neither here nor there. When duty calls we have to obey. A felony is committed under our very eyes, and we are here to arrest the law-breaker. Now, Sam, go and rouse the men, and tell them to make haste with the hose.7 Presently every one was astir, and there was a o-reat commotion about the place. But I had already marched Stevens away to the road, where I only waited to see that the flames were leaping more fit¬ fully as the hose got into play. We were starting off again for the police station, when I head a sound of footsteps behind us, and a woman’s voice crying out in an agony, ' Father ! father ! oh, father ! Now, Liz Stevens was a taking young woman, and it made me feel a bit choky, sir, when she sobbed like that. So, knowing that nought could be done to help her, I began to hurry up. Then what does my prisoner do but turn round, and send his girl a parting shot. ' It was your blue-bottle sweetheart as nailed me, Liz/ he shouts, and some bad words followed, that I hoped were lost upon her. Mat Stevens, I learned later on, had been employed for a while in doing odd jobs at the 1 riory Farm; but, as was certain to happen sooner or later, his bad habits leaked out, and about a month ao*o he had been dismissed pretty sharp, while Liz, of course, being a first-rate maid, was allowed to stay on. However, if Mat had his revenge, he had got to pay for it ; for, you see, a previous conviction was proved against him, sir, and that made the j udgment more severe. , __ , , As for Sam, when I saw him on the Monday, lie was in bed, on the sick-list. No doubt he had gone through a sore trial, poor chap, and the excitement had proved too much for him. . ' Lundy/ says he, looking terribly down m the mouth, ' that is likely to be the darkest nights work that ever I did in my life. Her father was right: my lass won’t have any more to say to me, not she, and she has written to tell me so.7 'Don’t you believe any such nonsense, says 1, speaking as cheerily as I was able. ' A woman s will is like a weather-cock. Besides, they ot ten say one thing, when they mean another. Leave her alone, and she will come round, sure enough, my lad You did your duty right nobly, bam, and you are bound to take heart, and get well as soon as possible.7 „ . . But that was just what was out ot his power, sir. The young woman, you understand, clung to her father, through thick and thin, and would not hear of forgiving Sam. So he became worse, and seemed to lose all wish to be up and about again ; in fact, the upshot of the matter was, that lie had to leave the force, the doctor having ordered him out to Australia,. And what is sadder still to relate, Sam was obliged to sail alone. However, he made no attempt to see Liz again, so he told me. For though it may nigh break his heart, yet a man has pride as well, sir, and he must keep his proper self-respect, whatever he does. Likewise, the poor chap was maybe too dead beat to have gone through any leave-taking. . ' Good-bye, Lundy,7 says he, in a quiet sort o. way that I knew meant desperation. ‘ Think or me sometimes, when you are sitting in church on Sunday mornings,7 says he. ' You are the best friend that ever I had, for women do not count/ he ends up, 1 bitterly.

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“ Father 1 father! oh, father! Well, well, sir, that was a doleful parting, anyhow, for, as I have already mentioned, I liked Sam Durnton greatly. You want to know what became of Lizzie Stevens ? Here Sergeant Lundy lighted his pipe, which had gone out, and smoked half-a-dozen whiffs in silence. When he spoke, there was a kindly twinkle in his eyes. Now, what do you think happened, sir P Why, you will be surprised to hear that afore the year was out she had followed Sam to Melbourne, and her father might go to the right-abouts. No doubt, she came to her senses, when Sam took her at her word, and found that she could not live without him. All bark, but no bite ; it is the way of women-folk, sir — God bless them ! Flora Schmalz.

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No LII. CHATTERBO X 409 3 o

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410 CHATTERBOX. No; LIT. A SNOWY ADVENTURE. WHEN Johnny Green saw Mrs. Dean out in the snow that winter’s day, He told himself he saw a chance a jolly little game to play. 4 Behind this oak-tree I will hide and make some big snow-balls/ said he, 4 And have them ready in my arm3 to throw when she gets near to me ! ’ And so he set to work at once — he made the halls with hands aglow, And then he slyly watched the dame walk down the roadway white with snow. Her green umbrella was for use — a shelter good on stormy days, So big and strong, and loosely tied, for she preferred old-fashioned ways ! Her winter garments suited well her portly figure, as you see; The smile upon her rosy face was just as broad as it could be. 4 Oh, I am badly cut,’ he moaned, with puckered face and very white ; And Mrs. Dean was kind indeed — she did not say , It serves you right.’ She did her best to give him ease, and he was very glad to lean Upon her arm, and hobble home across the little village green. She did not lecture him— oh, no ! for he was learning by his throes Not to expect an unfair game to thrive and have a pleasant close. ' D. Steadhaw. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 56.— 1. Flue, flute. 2. Ouse, mouse. 3. Crow, crowd. 4. Sky, Skye. 5. Abel, sable. 6. Book, brook. 7. Gate, grate. 8. Loom, gloom. 9. Cure, cruel. 10. Harp, sharp. 11. Heat, cheat. 12. Law, claw. 13. Blame, ramble. 14. Lustre, bluster. 15. Seven, Severn. 16. Word, world. 17. Tree, three. 18. Heart, father. 4 Ha ! when the balls fly out at her, I guess that smile will leave her face — Scared right away ! ’ John told himself, and giggled in his hiding-place. And presently, when she got near — within a dozen yards from him — He threw a ball, and danced a jig, because it struck her bonnet-brim ! 4 Oh ! 7 she exclaimed in startled tone ; then made, of ! course, a sudden stop, And then the second ball went forth and broke upon I her bonnet-top ! 4 Come, come ! ’ she cried, 4 no more of this ! ’ and as she spoke she looked about ; 4 Some lad is up to mischief here — I guess that I shall find him out.’ A titter reached her ears, and then, close to her feet, a third ball fell, And then a fourth, and next she heard a thud and a peculiar yell. She quickly stepped towards the tree, and as she made her way around — To reach the palings — she espied young Johnny lying on the ground. Poor Johnny ! When he made his start to run away, he struck his toe Against a stump, and down he fell, and this was not the worst — ah, no ! He fell upon a piece of glass. No wonder that he yelled with pain ; He deeply pierced his leg and sent upon the snow a crimson stain. 57: — 1. Ladrone. 2. Meander. 3. Penrith. 4. Borneo. 5. Persia. 6. Senegal. 7. Carlisle. 8. Tasmania. 9. Caledonia. 10. Polynesia. 11. Bosetta. 12. Medina. 13. Madeira. 14. Chepstow. 15. Aylesbury. THE HOLLY AND ITS NAMES. , ... , E see so many beautiful evergreens of various kinds growing freely about town and country, that we forget that the evergreens wdiich are British are few ; but one of these is the Holly. In some woods it grows wild very plentifully. We may have heard or read that the holly received this name because it was thought to be a 4 holy’ tree, being used in church decorations by our ancestors ages back. For a very long time it has been put up in houses as well during the Christmas season. Indeed, it is said that our pagan ancestors dressed up their dwellings with holly and other evergreens in winter, believing that the fairies would come and hide amongst them. It seems, also, to be the fact that holly was strewn about churches, and the paths lead¬ ing to them, on some special days, besides the Christmas festival, being used instead of palms or olives, though it would not seem to be pleasant to walk upon : per¬ haps doing so served as a sort of penance ! But if the holly was ever called 4 holy,’ which is uncertain, I think it more likely that this name, with several others which it had, alluded to the spiny nature of the leaves. The oldest way of spelling the

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No. LII. CHATTERBOX. 411 word appears to have been ‘holler/ or ‘lioleyn,’ which is Anglo-Saxon for the tree, which is all needles or sharp points, very suitable generally, though there are some hollies to be seen which have spines only upon the lower branches, the upper being spineless. Then there is another sort of it, amongst many more (and we have both ‘ gold ’ and ‘ silver ’ hollies), one called the hedgehog holly, which has all the surface of the leaf dotted with spines. ‘ Holm ’ is another old name for it, so that ‘ Holmwood/ as the name of a place, means one about which many hollies grow. The Welsh folk call it ‘ celyn/ the tree that shelters people, because you might hide in safety within a thick holly from enemies approaching. .7. R. S. C. AUSTRALIAN ANIMALS, WILD AND TAME. WILD DUCKS. WE have many kinds of wild duck ; the largest and handsomest is the Mountain Duck. The drake is a very fine fellow ; he is larger than a tame drake, and is very beautifully coloured. The head is a green-black, the breast and part of the neck a bright chestnut — a ring of pure white dividing the chestnut and green-black; part of the wing is pure white, the rest is a great variety of colours — black, blue, blight green, and chestnut ; all the under part is speckled, black and white. The duck is also a handsome bird, though not so bright as her mate. You will be surprised to hear that these birds make their nests in holes in gum-trees, sometimes at a height of about forty feet from the ground. They line the nest with quantities of their own soft down, and when the mother leaves her eggs, she covers them well over with the down. She lays from seven to eleven eggs, which are like those of tame ducks, but much larger. For a long time it was not known how the wee mountain ducks got from their lofty birthplace to their lowly home on the surface of a lake or swamp, but it is now proved from observation that they have two ways of doing so — if the nest is at the edge of the hole, the drake takes each little one on his back (the duck assisting to place it there), and then very quietly flies to earth or water, whichever is under the tree. If the nest is not suitable for this mode of leaving it, the drake lies on the ground under it and spreads out his wings, while the mother pushes the little downy ones out of the nest, and they sail through the air like parachutes, arriving safely on their father’s back. I am sorry to have to tell you that the mountain duck is a very quarrelsome bird ; the female bird is most so. They often fight to the death, and kill each other’s young ; but if a family loses both parents, the orphans are at once adopted bv another pair. Last, season I saw twenty-one ducklings all together for this reason. The flesh of the mountain duck is too coarse to be nice eating, so they are not shot nearly so much as the more delicate kinds. The Black Duck is next in size to the mountain duck ; its plumage, though handsome, is not so brilliant. It is considered the best eating of all. The Teal is another kind of duck which builds in trees ; the}' generally choose trees which either stand in the water or are very close to it. The Wood Duck is more like a small goose than a duck; her nest is seldom found. She is a very affectionate mother; when she sees any enemy coming, she tells her children to hide, which they do in a most wonderful way, lying quite still, and then the fond mother flaps about as if wounded till she leads the person or dog away from her family, when she flies back to them. Spoon-bill, Widgeon (or Fink-eye), and Speckley are the names of our other common ducks. All ducks sleep on the banks of swamps or lakes, where they may often be seen in hundreds. The Musk Duck is a very unusual kind of bird; the feathers are quite hard and stiff, and the wings are so small that it is generally supposed that they cannot fly. Another strange thing about this bird is, that the drake has a large, loose sack under its bill, full of a substance which smells strongly of musk, and hence the species receives its name. A pair of musk ducks have their home on a small swamp about half a mile from this, and sometimes, when the wind is favourable, we can smell the musk quite strongly. The colour of this bird is a dull dusky- black above, and black-and-white speckled below. They swim very low in the water, and make a great splashing as they go along, at the same time keeping up a most wonderful noise, first a grunt and then a squeal. They build a large nest in reedy swamps, and lay two or three large dirty-looking eggs. May Collins, Victoria. A BLIZZARD. L1ZZAED is an old English word, but it had fallen out of common use. It became common in speech and news¬ papers during the terrible winter of 1880. A blizzard is a fierce storm of bitter, frosty wind, with fine blind¬ ing snow, which sweeps across North America several times in most winters. There was a terrible one in Dakota in a.d. 1888. In bright, clear weather the sky suddenly darkened, and was filled with snow and ice -dust, as fine as flour. This was driven before a wind so fierce and roaring that men could not hear each other shout a few yards apart. Children perished on the way to school; farmers died in the fields before they could reach their homes. They could not breathe the blizzard, and were suffocated. About two hundred and thirty persons lost their lives in the single storm. It is a cruel fate to be overtaken by a blizzard, and almost the only chance is to do what the American Indians do. They dig a hole in the snow and lie down in it, and cover themselves up with snow, and wait till the blizzard has passed over them.

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TClclls ©arbiter, barton & Co.’s Popular Books. From ‘ Song Flowers,’ by R. L. Stevenson. From Pharaoh to Fellah. By C. F. Moberley Be/I, With numerous illustrations by Georges Montuard. Engraved by Charles Barbant. Crown \to. fancy cloth boards, 12\6 ‘Written with singular and most captivating brightness and humour.’ — Manchester Examiner. With Russian Pilgrims. Being an account of a Sojourn in the White Sea Monastery, and a Journey by the old Trade Route from the Arctic Sea to Moscow. By Alexander A. Boddy F.R.Q.S., Author of ‘ To Kairwan the Holy.’ Large crown §vo. cloth boards, 7\6 * Decidedly good reading, and has much freshness of interest.' Saturday Review. Song Flowers, From a Child's Garden of Verses. By Robert Louis Stevenson . Set to music by Katahrine M. Ramsay. Introduction by S. R. Crockett. Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.I. Demy ^to fancy boards, 7\6 ‘Matchless poems for children . . . The accompaniments are charmingly designed with plenty of variety and no affectation. The illustrations are exceedingly pretty and are an additional attraction to one of the prettiest gift books of the year.’ — Times. Songs and Lyrics for little Lips. With Musical Contributions by W. H. Cummings, Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, and others'. Illustrated by G. L. Seymour, and other artists. 8m cloth extra , bevelled boards, gilt edges, 6j- The Child and His Book. Some Account of the History and Progress o£ Children’s Literature in England. By Mrs . B. M. Field. Illustrated. Large crown Svo. cloth boards, 6j- \_2t1d Edition. ‘The work of is a very thoughtful and accomplished writer.' Spectator. ' Very ably executed. . . . The book is a valuable contribution to the history of education.’ — Guardian. Ethne. From the Journals of Ethne O’Connor and of Roger Standfast, Captain in the Army of the Commons of England. Edited by Mrs. B. M. Field. Etched Title and Frontispiece. Large crown Svo. appropriate cloth boards, 6\- \_3rd Edition. ‘ This is, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful stories of ancient Irish life that has ever come under my notice.' Public Opinion Eve’s Paradise. By Mrs. Bray , Author of ‘ A Troublesome Trio,’ &c. With Etched Frontispiece and Title-page. Large Crown Svo. cloth boards, 6j - 4 Mrs. Bray’s descriptions of child-life are admirable, well- observed, and cleverly dona’ —Pall Mall Gazette. ‘ Prettily and brightly written, and the description of Eve’s first experience of religion is excellent.'— Guardian. Niccolina Niccolini. By the Author of ‘ Mdlle. Mori,’ &c. Large crown Svo. clotty boards, 6\- \ w FOR RELIGIOUS AND OTHER PUBLICATIONS , SEE SEPARATE CATALOGUES. 1

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Nest of the Tailor-bird. ( Su iaria su taria ). From ‘Wonders of the Bird World.’ Common Cuckoo. Rambles of a Dominie, By Francis A. Knight Author of ‘ By Leafy Ways,’ ‘ Idylls of the Field,’ &c. | Illustrated by E. T. Compton. Large crown 8 vo. cloth , bevelled boards , 5/- A few copies on Large Paper,- with Illustrations printed on Japanese Paper , and mounted , bound in vellum , 211 - net. Each Copy signed and numbered. 'Of striking excellence. No pleasanter companion for an autumnal holiday can easily be found.’ — Athenccum. Wonders of the Bird World, By Dr , R. Bowdler Sharpe. An important addition to the study of Bird life by a well-known Expert on the subject. Illustrated in the best style and printed on superfine paper. With numerous' illustrations by A. T. Elwes. Large crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 6 - ‘One of the most delightful and fascinating books that ever delighted a bird-loving reader.’ — Daily Ncivs. 1 Dr. Sharpe is as learned as man need wish to be, and as enter¬ taining as the most brilliant of conversationalists.’— Country Life. My Lost Manuscript. The Romance of a School. By Maggie Symington » With Etched Title and Frontispiece. Large crown 8vo. extra cloth , 6\m ‘A powerful, original, and most interesting story.’ — Church Bells. jfliiauD ibumpbree’s FINE ART COLOURED BOOKS Little Grown - Ups. The Littlest Ones. Large 4 to. ornamental boards , cloth backs, 6j" each . London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 3

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Stntram anb Ibis Companions, & Grtbfne, By De la Motte Fouque. With Introduction by CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE, R.I. Large crown 8 vo. printed on superfine paper , art linen boards, gilt top, 6\ - i §inTim m ws c°in?aniou^ ♦ /mo unDinEi* ‘The anonymous translation is the good old standard one, vastly superior to subsequent versions. — Times. ‘Certain to engage the sympathies of an entirely new set of readers.’ — Daily Telegraph. ‘Nothing could be more attractive than the form in which this excellent edition is sent forth.’ — Record. STORIES FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE. By MARY MACLEOD. With Introduction by J. W. HALES, Professor of English Literature, King’s College, London, &c., & c. With Numerous. Illustrations by A. G. WALKER, Sculptor. Large crown 8vo. Prin ted on superfine paper, cloth boards', gilt top, 67- ‘Miss Mary Macleod has performed a dangerous and difficult task with taste and discretion. It can have been no"iight labour to set forth in simple, equable prose the linked sweetness, long drawn out, of Spenser’s Faerie Qttcetie, and the latter-day child may well feel much the same gratitude to her as those of another generation must have felt towards Charles and Mary Lamb, Nathaniel Haw¬ thorne, and Kingsley.’ — Pall Mall Gazette. ‘The book is beautifully produced, and ought- to satisfy the most fastidious and exacting taste.’ — Leeds Mercury. Profusely Illustrated and Simply Told . ‘With rapid steps they crossed.’ (Undine.) Arming the Red Cross Knight London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 4

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^lOseiheart ffiravelleFs, A Child's Book for Children, for Women, and for Men. By S. R. CROCKETT. With numerous Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.I., and W* H* C* Groome. Large 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth hoards ■ giit top; 6i- A LARGE-PAPER EDITION , numbered, and signed by Author and Artists , net , 31\6. ‘Had anyone ever been disinclined to believe in Mr. Crockett’s genius, be must have recanted and repented in sackcloth and ashes after enjoying “ Sweetheart Travellers.” 'It is the rarest of all rarities, and veritably a child’s book for children, as well as for women .and men. It is seldom, ifideed, that the reviewer has the opportunity of bestowing unstinted praise, with the feeling that the laudation is, nevertheless, inadequate. “Sweetheart Travellers” is instinct with drollery ; it continually strikes the softest notes of tenderest pathos, like some sweet, old-fashioned nursery melody, and it must make the most hardened bachelor feel something of the pleasures he has missed in living mateless and childless.’ — times. ‘A more delightfurbook for young, old, and middle-aged, it is scarcely possible to conceive.’ — Truth. The Surprising Adventures of SIR TOADY LION, WITH THOSE OF GENERAL NAPOLEON SMITH An Improving History for OLD BOYS, YOUNG BOYS, GOOD BOYS, BAD BOYS, BIG BOYS, LITTLE BOYS, COW BOYS, and TOM BOYS. ByS. R. Crockett . Illustrated by Gordon Browne Large crown 8 vo, (Sir Toady Lion.) London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 5

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FAIRY TALES FROM GRIMM. With Introduction by S. BARING^GOULD, M.A* Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE, R.I. * No more acceptable edition of some of Grimm’s Stories has been published.’ — Standard. ‘Altogether delightful. The illustrations are full of charm and sympathy.’ -Saturday Review. * A fairy book beyond reproach .'—Graphic. 1 Grimm is always delightful, but in his present new dress he is more delightful than even Mr. Gordon Browne charms us always with his dainty pictures.’— Guardian. Prince 'JSoofoo kfmufy By the Rev. Harry Jones , M.A., Prebendary of St. Paul’s Cathedral. With numerous Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.I Large crown 8 vo. printed on superfine paper, bound in fancy cloth boards , gilt top, 6 /- 4 On the parrot perch sat some talkative M.P.s.'— P. 103. -f- -k- IgtU Shuts * Really good nonsense, not at all copied from Mr. Lewis Carroll. Admirably fresh and inspired by a quite delightful insouciance. — Spectator. . . ‘WilL charm the more qualified critical reader by its mingled gravity and whimsicality. It is not all sugar-plums ; there are nice little bits of satire in which the Rev. Harry Jones is easily re cognisable.’ — The World. London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 6

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NATIONAL RHYMES’ OF THE NURSERY. With Introduction by GEORGE SAINTSBURY, and numerous Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE , R.l. Large crown 8 vo. printed on superfine paper, bound in art linen boards, with gilt top, 6j- 'The ICing of France went up the hill.’ — P. 12. ‘ The King of France came clown again.’— P. 127. Second Edition , with additions both to the Rhymes and Illustrations y now ready. NATIONAL NURSERY RHYMES-continued. ‘The prettiest and most complete collection of the kind that we have seen.’ —Westminster Gazette. 1 It is impossible to praise the volume too highly.’ Black and White. 1 Every conceivable nursery rhyme is herein gathered together, beautifully illustrated. The collection is certainly the most perfect that has ever been made.’— School Guardian. Stories from Froissart. By Henry Newbolt Author of “ Admirals All,” &c. With Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.l. Large crown Svo. cloth boards, gilt top , 6j- ‘ And made them believe that he would strike off his head.’— Stories from Ftoissart. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. t 7

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/"V^> MONatKfo 1 f} OflSonZfoOQy \ Adyr&oo y fovtRyfooDy pARjioulA fiXy Jib fth&y /2)O0/ *isrt47m*f Arrr> lli.u'^rte.NTog) A- N^O^X Nonsense for Somebody, Anybody or Everybody, particularly the Baby- body, together with Some More Non- sense for the Same Bodies as before. Written and illustrated by A. Nobody. Printed in Colours. Complete in one volume , demy $io. cloth , 5/- yON\My fiAD \ hjEAD op F| Al R H) 13 r^oTHEI^S Joy. h-J is DAD6 despair, Corv^B ij l-jovs/ ArJ D wVjEN you WouLd |j bajsIq uPRiqnx f^o^T STUE>BOFVsl i>TOOD Chatterbox. Annual Volume. Illustrated with high-class Engravings and twelve full-page Coloured Plates. Handsomely bound in extra doth , bevelled boards , gilt edges, 5 - Also in illustrated boards, 31- The most popular volume for children ever published. The Story Album of Animals. With an illustration on each page. Crown 4 to. cloth boards, gilt edges , 5 i- A very elegant book for children from five t£> eight years old. Sunday. Reading for the Young. Contributed to bv Mrs. Molesworth, L. T. Meade , Beatrice Whitby, H. A. Fordet &c. . With up¬ wards of 250 Original Illustrations by Gordon Browne, A. G. Walker, and others. Bound in cloth, bevelled boards , gilt edges, Sj- Also in illustrated paper boards , 3- • Cannot fail to be appreciated. The editor has succeeded in a remarkable degree.’— Nonconformist. • We know of no better magazine of its kind/— Church Times. ‘ A treasury of comic invention/— Academy. Beautifully pnnted in colours , paper boards, Sj- The Surprising Travels and Adventures of Baron Munchausen. With coloured Frontispiece and Title-page, and numerous black and white Illustrations by 41 A, Nobody,” Large crown 8m 3 6 A Nobody’s Scrap Book. For the Same Bodies as Before. Folio illustrated paper boards , 3/6 Tiles from Dame Marjorie’s Chimney Corner and China from her Cupboard. By F. S. T. Burne and Helen Miles . Printed in various shades of blue. Oblong paper boards, 3 6 ‘The figures in the large Tiles are done with character, sweetness, and grace ; and the reproduction in tints resembling the old Dutch tiles could not be surpassed for delicacy and softness of rendering. — Tnc Decorator . London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 8

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Vivia. A Modern Story. By Florence Wilford, Author of * Nigel Bartram’s Ideal,’ &c. Illustrated Title and Frontispiece. Large crown 8m. cloth boards , 3\6 ‘Another book for girls which will certainly meet with cordial interest.’ — Literary World. Where the Brook and River Meet. By Nellie Nellis , Author of ‘ Little King Davie,” &c. Large crown 8vo. extra cloth boards 3 3\6 ‘An idyll of modern life. . . . This book, thoroughly readable as it is, should do good ser¬ vice in many homes.’ Record. A Young Wife’s Ordeal. By Johanna Van Woude. Crown 8m. extra cloth boards, 3j6 A popular tale by the Editor of the leading, magazine for women in Holland. ‘ Abounds witli original thought.’ — Church Bells. Arum Field; or, Life’s Reality. By Mrs. Jerome Mercier. Author of ‘Christabel Hope,’ ‘Wreath of Mallow,’ &c. Large crown 8m. cloth boards , 3/6 ‘It is a story of country .life, with the inner pleasures and diversions of which the authoress seems well acquainted. The charm of it lies in its simplicity.’— Public Opinion. Nigel Bartram’s Ideal. By Florence Wilford. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 Great Characters of Fiction. Edited by M. E. Townsend. Large crown 8m. extra cloth boards, 3 6 ‘Succinct and able papers on such characters as Esmond, Sydney Carton, Shirlev, Adam Bede, Mademoiselle Mathilde, and Kenelm Chillingly, which cannot fail to stimulate a desire to seek at the fountain-head to learn more of the masterpieces of our classical novelists.' — Da ily Telegraph. Overlooked. A Tale of North Devon. By Bessie Hawker. Crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 • Everything in this tale is graceful, and the tone and influence, of this story is far above the common.’— Guardian. ■ ‘A very successful bit of work.”— Bookman. .Studies for Stories. From Girls’ Lives. By Jean Inge low. Illustrated Title .and Frontispiece from drawings by Gordon Browne. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 ‘Ifoonor Briobt’ Series. Peas= Blossom. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright.’ With Thirty Illustrations by Helen Miles. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 “ Peas-Blossom ” may be described as a rollickingly respectable Irish story, the names of the juvenile pair of heroes being Pat and Paddy. . . An exceptionally readable volume.’ — The Times. Gilly Flower. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. Illustrated Title and* Frontispiece by Gordon Browne. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 1 Exceedingly natural and very amusing.’— Figaro. Honor Bright ; or the Four = Leaved Shamrock. By the Author of ‘One of a Covey,’ ‘Robin and Linnet,’ &c. v Illustrated , large crown 8 vo* cloth boards , 3\6 [ jth Edition. ‘A cheery, sensible little tale— Times. N. or IT. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. With Thirty Illustrations by Helen Miles. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3 6 ‘ A most thoroughly charming and delightful tal e.' —Guardian. Two Blackbirds. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. Illustrated , large crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 3)6 ‘ The interest never slackens for a moment. It is a good story, a healthy story and a read¬ able story, and who could want more ?’— Yorkshire Post. One of a Covey. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. With Thirty Illustrations by Helen Miles. 1 Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that grown¬ up readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one of the best books of the season.’— Guardian. The Pleasures of Literature and the Solace of Books. Selected and arranged by Joseph Shaylor , With Introduction by Andrew Lang. Frontispiece in Heliogravure from Meissonier’s picture entitled “ A Reading at Diderot’s House.” Fcap 8 vo. extra cloth boards, richly gilt and gilt top, 3)6 A Sister’s Bye = Hours. By Jean Ingelow. Illustrated Title and Frontispiece from Drawings by Gordon Browne. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 316 Saunterings in Bookland, with Gleanings by the Way. Gathered by Joseph Shaylor* With Frontispiece after a picture by Meissonier. Fcap 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 9

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A Young Mutineer. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. Blanche refused to tell more.’ — P. 46. 4 All Mrs. Molesworth’s juvenile books are good and interesting.’ Athenaeum. ' She maintains unimpaired her gift of telling stories simply and brightly, and naturally . . . capital illustrations.’ Church Times Farthings. The Story of a Stray and a Waif. By Mrs. Molesworth, Author of 1 Carrots,’ &c. Illustrated by G. M. Bradley. Large crown 8vo. extra cloth boards , 3j6 4 Better than any of Mrs. Molesworth’s former books.’ Pall Mall Budget Count up the Sunny Days and Four Little Sixes. By C. A. Jones. With full-page illustrations. - Large crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 3\6 4 Unusually good.’— Glasgow Herald. Little Jeanneton’s Work. A Chronicle of Breton Life. By C. A. Jones . With upwards of Forty Illustrations. Large crown 8vo. cloth boards, 3 16 ' A charming chronicle of Breton rustic simplicity. . . . Miss Jones draws a very pretty picture indeed of the village maiden whose head is turned by town influence. — Graphic. Only a Girl. A Story of a Quiet Life. Adapted from the French by C. A. Jones. With upwards of Forty Illustrations. Large crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 3j6 'We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely narrative.’— Saturday Review. By L. T. Meade . With Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Large crown 8 vo. extra cloth boards , 3\6 ‘ An excellent story. . . Readers will not repent of finishing the story for themselves.’— Specta tor. Merrie Games in Rhyme, from ye Olden Time. Collected and Edited by the Hon. Emmeline PlunkeL Illustrated. Crown 4 to. cloth boards, 3\6 * No better volume will be found than “Merrie Games in Rhyme.” There are over thirty of them, quite enough we imagine, to amuse the largest families during the longest holidays.’— Church Times. Out of the Way. A Village Story. By H. L. Taylor . With Original Illustrations by A. H. Collins. Large crown 8vo. extra cloth boards gilt edges , 3 6 ‘The book deserves warm praise : we wish there were more temperance tales like iV— Christian World. Little Count Paul. A Tale of Troublesome Times. By Mrs. E. M. Field , Author of ‘ Ethne,’ &c. Illustrated by A. Forestier. Large crown 8 vo. extra cloth boards, 3j6 ‘ A very pretty stoiy of the time of the French Revolution, in¬ terestingly told.’— Saturday Review. Bryda. A Tale of the Indian Mutiny. By Mrs. Field . With numerous full-page Illustrations by A. Fores- TIER. Large crown Svo. cloth boards, 3\6 1 Over these strange works of art Bryda’s eyes wandered dreamily.’ — P. 175. ‘ W^e recently had occasion to speak in very high terms of Mrs. Field’s beautiful little romance “ Ethne,” and we therefore looked into the present work with much pleasurable expectation, and may at once say that we have been in no way disappointed.’ — Public Opinion. Stories lor Children in Illustration of the Lord’s Prayer. By Mrs. Molesworth. With Illustrations by Robert Barnes, , Gordon Browne, M. E. Edwards, and W. H. C. Groome. Square cloth boards, 3\6

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A Lost Piece of Silver. By the Author of ‘ Edith Vernon’s Life-Work,’ &c. Illustrated, large crown 8 vo. cloth boards extra, 3\6 ‘Told without exaggeration, without any fine writing, but with considerable power. '—Spectator. Edith Vernon’s Life-Work. By the Author of 1 Harry’s Battles,’ ‘ Susie’s Flowers,’ &c. Illustrated, large crown 8m cloth boards, 3\6 [. 13th Edition . Great Britain for Little Britons. By Eleanor BuIIey. With upwards of Fifty Illustrations of Places and People, and Three Coloured Maps. Large crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 3\6 \_fth Edition. * It will give “ Little Britons” a better idea of their native land than they will obtain from a dozen dry geographies.’ Literacy World. By Frances Palmer. Illustrated. Large crown 8m cloth boards , 3 6 [5th Edition. 4 One of the best boys’ books we have seen for a long time.’ - Standard. Dogged Jack. By Frances Palmer. Illustrated. Large crown 8 vo. cloth, 3j6 * It is a first-rate boy’s book.’ — Church Bells. The Old Ship ; or. Better than Strength. By LI. A. Forde. Large crown 8m. cloth boards , 3j6 ' A very pleasing narrative.’ — Record. • Playing at Botany. By Phoebe Allen. Author of ‘ Gilinary,’ &c. With Coloured Frontis¬ piece by Rose HyE. Vcw Edition, profusely Illustrated. Crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 ‘ Iuy one object throughout has been to familiarise children, with the sound of a few hard words which, at first starting, make Botany appear so unapproachable to children.’— Extract from Preface. A Crow’s Nest. True under Trial. The Lost Princess ; or, the Wise Womanc By Dr. George Mac Donald , With Illustrations by A. G. Walker, Sculptor. Crown 8m. fancy cloth boards , 3/6 'An admirable phantasy, full of imagination and full of wisdom." — Black and White. The Queen of the Goblins. By Wllhelmina Pickering . Illustrated by Olive Cockerell. Fcap 4 to. cloth 3/6 flopsa the Fairy. By Jean Ingelow Illustrated. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 Our Polly, The Adventures of a Parrot during her Life of One Hundred Years. By Mrs. Rouquetto. Crown 8m. cloth boards, 3\6 1 A really charming book .'—Guardian. Those Children. By Curtis Yorkc, Illustrated, large crown 8m. cloth boards , 3\6 Dolly the Romp. By Florence Warden Illustrated , large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 Minstrel. Dick. By Christabel Coleridge* Illustrated by Charles Robinson. Large crown Svo. cloth boards, 3j6 ‘ Father Hilary started with surprise.’— P. 257. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C« 11

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& Feast of Stories from Foreign Lands. By James F. Cobb , Author of ‘The Watchers on the Longships,’ &c. Illustrated . Large crown 8m. extra cloth boards, 3j6 ‘ Pierre rushed to the assistance of Oceano.’— p. 33. Oft to California. A Tale of the Gold Country. Adapted from the Flemish of Hendrick Conscience. By James F. Cobb . Illustrated by A. Forestier. Large crown 8m. cloth boards , 3 6 1 This is a good story of its kind, told with spirit and admirable in tone and moral.’ — Spectator. The Watchers on the Long- ships. A Tale of Corn¬ wall in the Last Century. By James F. Cobb, , Illustrated with four full-page Engravings by Davidson Knowles. Large crown 8m. doth, bevelled boards. 3\6 [19 th Edition. A capital story and one we heartily commend to boy readers, doth gentle and simple.’ — Guardian. Martin the Skipper. A Tale for Boys and Seafaring Folk. By James F. Cobb, Illustrated. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 4 We should imagine those queer folk indeed who could not read this story with eager interest and pleasure, be they boys or girls, young or old. — Christian World. The First Cruise of Three Middies By Fox Russell. Full of thrilling Adventures on Land and Sea. . Illustrated. Crown 4 to. cloth , 316 Sue and I; or, Stories they Tell Me. By Mrs. O'Reilly. Illustrated Title and Frontispiece. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 ‘A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as* fun.’ — Athenccuin. Jack’s Mate. By Noel West, T Author of ‘Left on the Prairie.’ With numerous Illustrations by F. Fellar. Large crown 8m. cloth boards, 3j6 ‘There my lad, could jmu do that ? ’—P- 163. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON <& Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.CL

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Chatterbox, The Annual Volume. Illustrated with high- class Engravings. Bound in illustrated paper boards , J/» Also bound in cloth , bevelled boards , 5/~ ‘One of the best chil¬ dren’s books we have seen.’ — The Times. Contributed to by Mrs. Molesworth, L. T. Meade, Beatrice Whitby, H. A. Forde, &c With up¬ wards of 250 Original Illustrations by Gordon Browne, A. G. Sunday. Reading for the Young. Bound in cloth , bevelled boards , gilt edges , 5j- Also in illustrated paper boards, 3j- 1 Cannot fail to be appreciated. The editor has succeeded in a remarkable degree.’— Nonconformist. 4 We know of no better magazine of its kind.’ — Church Times. 28. 6b. Series. IN ELEGANT BINDINGS. Tom the Hero. By Stella Austin. Illustrated crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 2\6 Our Next Door Neighbour. By Stella Austin. Illustrated by W. H. C. Groome. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 2\6 Captain Christie’s Grand- Daughter. By Ruth Lamb. Illustrated. Crown* Svo. cloth boards , 2 6 ‘ Both humour and pathos abound in this capital story.’ Leeds Mercury. The Prize. For Boys and Girls. Annual Volume. Full of Original Engravings, and with Thirteen Full-page Coloured Plates. Cloth boards , gilt edges , 2\6, or in plain cloth, 2\ - Also in paper boards, lj6 ; paper covers, Ij2 Our Boys and Girls, Good and Bad. By the Author of ‘ Great Britain for Little BritonSc1 With Twenty-five Illustrations. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 2\6 ' A pleasing book foV young children, with a profusion of capital pictures.’ — Public Opinion. Some More Nonsense. For the same Bodies as Before. Written and Illustrated by A. Nobody. Pnnted in Colours, Demy 4 to. 2j6 Japanese Jingles. Written and Illustrated by Kathleen Lucas . Printed in shades of brown by Edmund Evans. Bound in Japanese paper boards, 2\6 •A book of nonsense, rhymes, and pictures.’— The Queen. John’s Lily. By Eleanor Co Illustrated by W. H. C. Groome. Crown 8 vo. extra cloth boards, 2\6 • Well told and capitally illustrated.’— Black and White. * Very busy and very happy.’— P. 155. (John's Lily.) Rags and Tatters. By Stella Austin . Illustrated, Crown Svo, cloth boards, 2\6. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 13

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Darton’s Sunday Pleasure Book. With numerous Illustrations. Designed to make Sunday a bright and happy day. Crown 4 to. 2\6 ‘A real Sunday Companion.’— Teachers Aid. Little Christian’s Pilgrimage. A Juvenile ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress.’ By H. L. Taylor . Author of ‘ Out of the Way,’ &c. With numerous Illustrations by Helen Miles. Crown 8 vo. cloth elegant , 2 6 ’This should meet with a hearty welcome.’ — Church Times. 'The Child-public will enjoy this book.’— Guardian. Help finds little Christian. — P. 23. Christiana. By If. L. Taylor. Author of 4 Out of the Way,’' 4 Little Christian’s Pil¬ grimage,’ &c. With numerous Illustrations by Helen Miles. Crown 8 vo. cloth elegant , 2 6 Stories told to a Child. By Jean Inge low. Illustrated. Crown Svo. cloth boards, 2,6 ‘“Stories told- to a Child” is one of the classics of children’s books, and surely Miss Ingelow never did better work than these little stories, which seem to be perfection from whatever point we regard them .’— Spectator. Under the King’s Banner. Stories of the Soldiers of Christ in all Ages. With Introduction by the First Bishop of Wakefield. Outline Illustrations by John K. Sadler. From ' Under the King’s Banner.' Imperial 16 mo. cloth boards , 2 6 ‘ An excellent idea. . . . The book is one which the children will read, probably with interest, and certainly with edification.’ Saturday Review. An Apostle of Charity. — P. 246. About Bees. Their History, Habits, and Instincts ; also the First Principles of Modern Bee-Keeping for Young Readers. By the Rev. F. O. Jenyns, M.A. With an Introduction bv the Baroness Burdett Coutts. Over Fifty Illustrations. Croimi 8 vo. cloth boards, 2\6 ‘ Anyone who wishes to learn about bees and bee-keeping, with¬ out much trouble, could scarcely do better than read it.’ Saturday Review. A Bee Tent.— P. 198. (About Bees.) London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 14

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DR. JOLLIEBOY’S 3 A.B.C. With Drawings by GORDON BROWNE. Large 4 to . beautifully printed in Red> and Black, illustrated paper boards, 2/6 ■ 1 Extremely clever and spirited.’— Athenccum, Her Great Ambition. A Story for Boys and Girls. With Twenty-five Illustrations. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 2\6 * A delightful story delightfully told.’— Saturday Review. The Sound of the Streets. By Mrs. Robert Of Reilly. Illustrated by ‘W. H. C. Groome. • Crown 8m extra cloth boards , 2/6 • Such a book as this deserves the widest circulation.— Record. Chickabiddy Stories. By Edmund Mitchell Illustrated by Norman Hardy. Imperial 16 mo. extra cloth , 2\6 Poems written for a Child. By Two Friends. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 2\6 [New Edition.. The Schoolmaster and his Son ; or, The Thirty Years’ War. (From the German). By James F. Cobby, Author of ‘ The Watchers on the Longsliips,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 2\6 ‘A good story it is, and, without being at all repulsive, gives a vivid idea of a period when mid- Europe was wasted and desolated by famine and pestilence, as well as fire and sword.’— The Times. Wanted, a Camel. By Phoebe Allen. , Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 2\6 BARTON’S FLORIN SERIES. All handsomely bound in extra cloth boards, and fully Illustrated by Popular Artists. The above represents the letter “A.” Aylmer Court. By Henley I. Arden , Author of ‘ Elizabeth,’ ‘ Leather Mill Farm,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. extra cloth boards, 2\6 Ewin Lloyd ; or, How we all got on. By Elinor J. Kelly. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 2\6 1 This is a story splendidly told of the struggles involved in the universal desire of “ getting on.” ’ — Schoolmaster. 1 The story is a very sound and healthy one, is pleasantly written, and admirably adapted as a school prize'.’— Literaty World. The Little Doctor ; or, The Magic of Nature. By Parley Dale. Author of ‘Helen Leslie,’ ‘Oughts and Crosses,’ &c. Illustrated by A. Monro Smith. Crown, 8 vo. extra cloth boards, 2\6 ‘ The story is full of interest throughout, and is well told.’ J School Guardian. A Troublesome Trio; or. Grandfather’s Wife. By Mrs. Bray. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 2\6 Courage. By lsmay ThotM Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Imp. 16 mo. cloth boards, 2\- London; WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.G

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Quite Unexpected, By Ismay Thorn. With numerous Illustrations. Imp. 16 mo. cloth , 2\- 4 A very pretty story. . . . The writer knows children and their ways Well. . . . The illustrations are exceedingly well drawn - Spectator. A Flock of Four. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Imperial 161110. cloth , 2j By Ismay Thorn. ‘The author’s cunning in depicting children as they are-neither too good nor too naughty, too priggish nor too savage— has suffered no change ; and the “ grown-ups ” are, we think, even better drawn than usual with this bright and engaging writer.’ Saturday Review. Geoff and Jim. By Ismay Thorn. Illustrated by A. G. Walker. Imperial 16 mo. cloth , 2\- 'This is a prettily told story. of the life spent by two motherless bairns in a small preparatory school. Both Geoff and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so ; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."— Church Times. Captain Geoff. By Ismay Thorn. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Imperial 16 mo. extra cloth hoards , 2\- ' Bright, manly, full of adventure, it will be a source of much entertainment for school lads.’— Record. The boys all obeyed the signal.’— ( Captain Geoff.)— P. 38. Jim. By Ismay Thorn. Illustrated by Gordon Browne. Imperial 16 mo. extra cloth boards , 2\- 5 A very striking story, remarkably well told, the most impossible- looking incident in which, we are assured, is taken from facts even more surprising.’— Glasgow Herald. Rex Singleton ; or, The Pathway of Life. . ,t By Mrs. Lysaght, Author of Sealed Orders,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown Sm extra cloth boards, 2\- He was a brave man," said the pirate.’ — P. 8a ( Roseacre). The White Kangaroo. A Story of Colonial Life. By E. Davenport Cleland. With numerous Illustrations by Monro Smith. Imp. 16 mo. cloth , 21- 4 A true story of colonial life, and a very good one.' Roseacre; or, Teddy’s Inheritance. By Janie Brockman. Illustrated by Robert Barnes. Imp. 161110. extra cloth boards, 2\ - 4 A pretty children’s story, that will probablv be chosen by many as a school prizefet Christmas or the New Year .'—Church Times. A Difficult Team ; or, One in a Thou¬ sand. By H. A. Forde, Illustrated Crown 8m extra cloth boards , 2\-. ‘ A clever tale, and we hardly know ’ whether it will prove of greater interest to young people or to their mothers and teachers.’ School Guardian. Five, Ten and Fifteen. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. With Illus¬ trated Title Page and Frontispiece by Gordon Browne. Imp. 161110. cloth, 2\- 4 Will be thoroughly appreciated by younger readers.’ Manchester Examiner. Across Two Seas. By H. A. Forde% Author of ‘ The Old Ship,’ ‘ Black and White,’ &c. Illustrated. Imp. 16 1110. extra cloth boards, 2\- 4 A pleasant tale very well related, that will give many a school boy and girl, and perhaps even the older members of the family, a good time in the winter evenings.’— Schoolmaster. Right Side Up. By Janie Brockman , Illustrated by T. Pym. Imp. 16 mo. cloth, 2\- ‘ A book of the right sort.’— Spectator. 4 A thoroughly delightful story for children. Cleverly illustrated.’ Glasgow Herald. London :• WELLS GARDNER. DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. M

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London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.O. 17 Left on the Prairie. By M. B. Cox ( Noel West), Author of ‘ Jack’s Mate,’ &c. Illustrated. Imp. i6mo. cloth boards ,2\- Jenny. By Mrs . Cartwright Illustrated. Imp. 16 mo. cloth boards , 2 - ‘A fierce shriek undeceived her.’— P. 116. (Jenny). Kate Rayburn. By Constance Cross . Imp. 16 mo. cloth, 2\ - For Old Sake’s Sake. By Stella Austin . - Illustrated by H. Peth erick. Imperial 16 mo. cloth boards, 2j- The Children of Swift Creek. By Noel West . With numerous Illustrations by A. Pearce. Imperial i6mo. cloth boards, 2\- As in the case of the author’s other works, “ Jack’s Mate ” and “ Left on the Prairie,” the illustrations are more than usually numerous and full of movement. Just the book to place in the hands of a high-spirited child— girl or boy.

( The Child of the Lighthouse). Cousin Isabel. A Tale of the Siege of Londonderry. By Marion Andrews, Author of ‘ The Quest of Jack Hazelwood,’ See. Illustrated. Crown 8m cloth boards , 16 ‘We can recommend it safely to young people who will realise from its pages something of the discomforts of a siege.’ — Spectator. Is. Ob. Senes. The Harringtons at Home. By Ismay Thorn , With numerous Illustrations by Gordon Browne. Square 16 mo. 1\6 * Will be heartily welcomed by all who have followed the fortunes of " Geoff ” and “'Jim ” during the last year or two. . . . Girls will heartily appreciate this pretty story.'— Record. English Ann. By R. Ramsay. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 1,6 A Loyal Heart. By Marion Andrews, Author of ‘ The Quest of Jack Hazelwood,’ ‘ Cousin Isabel,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards , 16 'A picturesquely written moral tale of life among the fishing folk of the “Cornish coast. The book, with its happy illustrations, wil' please girl readers.’ — Scotsman. Countess Helena. By Marion Andrews, Author of ‘ The Quest of Jack Hazelwood,’ &c\, &c. Illustrated. " Crown 8m cloth boards , 1,6 The Child of the Lighthouse. By Mrs. Andrews . With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groom e. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 16

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All’s Well ! By the Author of 1 Honor Bright &c. *. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth hoards , 16 'Told in the author’s best style.’— Schoolmaster. From ‘ All’s Well ’ ( reduced ) 1 The sailor whipped out a piece of* cord and tied me fast up there, hand and foot.’ — P. 54. Halt ! By the Author of f Honor Bright/ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 16 'A bright and vigorous story. A success.’ — Spectator. The Adventures of a Gun = Room Monkey, By Arthur Lee Knight, With Illustrations by W. H. K. Overend. Crown 8 vo. cloth hoards, l\6 UTO of The Quest of Jack Hazelwood* By Marion Andrews « Illustrated. CrownSvo. cloth boards, 1[6 ‘ It is a pretty story plea¬ santly told, 'with many touches of pathos and a generally wholesome ten¬ dency.’— Athenccuui. 'The story is well and brightly written.’ Saturday Review . The Linen=Room Windows; or. What the Snow Conceals the Sun Reveals. By Caroline Birley , Author of ‘ We are Seven,’ &c. Illustrated. Imp. 16 mo. cloth hoards, lj6 ' An interesting story with some interesting sketches of children and a sound unforced moral.’-H Saturday Review. Ilsa the Windchild. By Dora Jellett. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth hoards, l\6 We are Seven. A Tale for Children. By Caroline Birley e Illustrated by T. Pym. Imperial 16 mo. cloth hoards, 1\6 ' A tale the children will like.’— Queen. Left to our Father. By the Author of ‘ Clevedon Chimes/ &c. Imperial 16 mo. cloth hoards, 1\6 ‘ Prettily and pathetically told. — The Times. Robin and Linnet. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright/ &c. With Illus¬ trations by A. Forestier. Imperial 16 mo. extra cloth hdards, 1\6 ' Will be a favourite with the children.'— Guardian. Mixed Pickles. A Story for Children. By Mrs . B, M, Field Author of 1 Ethne.’ With Illustrations by T. Pym. Imperial 16 mo. cloth hoards, 116 [4 th edition ‘ One of the prettiest records of juvenile pranks.’ — Graphic. Child’s Own Story = Book. In Short Words and Large Type. Illustrated by T. Pym. Imperial i6mo. extra cloth hoards, I\6 [3rd Edition c 'Six dozen capital stories. Will amuse little ones who are just beginning to feel an interest in reading to themselves.’ Literary World. Youthful Travellers. A Story-book for Little Folk. In large type. Numerous Illustrations. Illustrated ^to. paper hoards, 1\6 London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

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The Favourite Story = Book. A Book for Little Ones. Profusely Illustrated with Large Pictures and Easy Reading. The Illustrations are printed in Sepia. Small 4 to . cloth boards , 1\6 ‘A most attractive volume for juvenile readers. The stories, would do very well to read out in school as exercises in composition.’ The Schoolmaster. From Story to Story. By Janie Brockman . Numerous Illustrations by T. Pym and other Artists. In very large type and easy words. Crown 4 to. paper boa rds, printed in colours , 1\6 ‘Will be found full of interest as well as prettily illustrated.' Record. From Story to Story. New Series. By Janie Brockman . With numerous Illustrations. In large type and easy words. 4to. paper boards , 1\6 The Prize. For Boys and Girls. Annual Volume. Besides a large number of high- class Engravings, this volume has Thirteen Coloured Plates. 1 1 Ins tra ted boards , cloth back , l\6 Or paper covers, 12 Cloth , 21- Cloth boards, extra gilt , 2 6 * Well deserves its distinctive title.’ -Public Opinion. The Young Standard Bearer. An Illustrated Temperance Magazine for Children. Volumes , cloth boards, 16 each. For the Juvenile Branch of the C .E.T.S..and Bancjs of Hope. Barton’s Leading Strings. Annual for the Little Ones. Numerous Illustra¬ tions by Popular Artists. I n very large type and easy words. Crow.n 4/0. paper boards, printed in colours , 116 Cloth extra, bevelled boards, 2\6 ‘Just what is wanted.’ — Bookseller. Very Short Stories in Very Short Words. By the Hon . Emmeline Plunket. With numerous Illustrations by T. Pym. In large type. Square 16 mo. cloth boards, 1\6 ‘A daintily got-up little book for very small children, quaintly illustrated.— Church Bells. THE ‘CHANGED CROSS' SERIES. Little Lays for Little Lips. With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square iCmio. cloth boards, gilt edges, 1 6 [4^// Edition. The Changed Cross. By the Hon . Mrs. C. Hobart , nee N. P. W. With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square 16 mo. cloth, bevelled boards, gilt edges, 1\6 [33 rd Edition. The Cloud and the Star. By the Hon. Mrs. C. Hobart . With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square 16 mo. bevelled boards, gilt edges, 1/6 1 As good as it is pretty.’ — Record. Easter Rays. Poems selected bv the Compiler of ‘ Our Friends in Paradise.’ With Illustrations by G. W. Rhead and J. K. Sadler. Bound in old gold cloth, square 16 mo., 16 ‘A little gem in binding and illustrations, with a well-selected number of poems by Keble, Wordsworth and others.’— School¬ master. Deare Childe. A Village Idyll. By the Rev. S. J. Stone , M.A., Rector of All Hallows, London Wall. With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square 16 mo. cloth, bevelled boards, gilt edges, 1\6 [4 th Edition. Of the previous edition, the Literary World said : ‘ It is most affecting in its simplicity, and appeals to a very wide circle. The sketches are excellent.’ The Land of Light. A Transcript from the Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix. With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square 1 6/7/0. cloth, bevelled boards, gilt edges, 16 ‘We have seldom seen a more beautiful little booklet.’ Church Times. By the Sea of Galilee. By Mrs. MacRitchie. With Tinted Illustrations by Helen Miles. Square 16 mo. cloth, bevelled boards , gilt edges, 1\6 1 Marked by much tenderness of feeling and felicity of expres¬ sion. The story is delicately and sweetly told.’— Christian Wot Id. flanuals for Home Work. Cameo Cutting. By John B. Marsh. With ilUi citations. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, 1/6 Etching. By G. W. Rhead With Illustrations. Crown 8m. cloth board, lj6 London: WELLS GARDNER. DARTON Co., 3 Paternoster 3uildings, E.C. 19

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Is. SERIES IN EXCEPTIONALLY HANDSOME BINDINGS. ‘The owner strolled out to bid him welcome,’ — P. 7 2. (Young Chris). A Night in the Marshes. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke , M.A. Crown 8 vo. Illustrated , cloth boards, //- In Nelson’s Days, By George Hewett, Author of ‘ The Cruise of the Lone Star,’ &c. Crown 8 vo. Illustrated cloth boards, 1 = ‘The story is admirable in its tone, and will prove a favourite in the hands of readers of sea-life and adven¬ tures.'— Schoolmaster. The Whipping Boy. From the German. By E. A. Bui ley 9 Author of ‘ Great Britain for Little Britons,’ &c. Illustrated by A. Munro.. CrQwn 8vo. cloth boards , lj6 There are twice as many illustrations in this book as are usually given in books of this price. Young Chris. By L. E. Tiddeman. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, //- Larry’s Luck. By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright,’ &c. Crown 8 vo. Illustrated , cloth boards, 1 j- • A little story that is good for laughter and tears alike.’— Lady. •How ftiey got out.’— P. 75* (Larry's Luck). Hardy and Foolhardy. By the Author of 1 Honor Bright,’ &c. Crown 8 vo. Illustrated , cloth boards , //• ‘A capital story.’ — Record. Tom’s Opinion, By the Author of ‘ Honor Bright, &c. Crown 8 vo. Illustrated, cloth boards , //• ‘ An interesting story of school life pleasantly told.’ Review of Reviews. The Hoard of the Sea=Wasps. By F. ScarletUPotter. Illustrated by A. G. Walker. Large crown 8 vo, cloth boards, /> The Boys of Barminster. By A. B. Simeon . Illustrated.' .Crown 8 vo, cloth boards, / = Robin’s Promise. By Emily Grace Harding . Crown 8 vo. cloth boards, lj - ' A very pretty story.’— Church Bells. In the Dragon’s flouth. By Mary Macleod . Illustrated. Crown Ss'O. cloth hoards , //- London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 20

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Going for a Soldier; Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke, M.A. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //- ‘ Admirably suited for a parish library.’ — Record. Gregory of the Foretop. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke , M.A. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //« Bickley Weed. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke , ALA. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //» * A striking tale, well told.’— Alliance News. Abbot’s Cleeve. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke , M.A. Crown 8m Illustrated, cloth boards , //= The Bank Clerk’s Secret. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke, M.A. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //- 1 The name of the editor is sufficient guarantee for the soundness of the moral teaching of this very cheap little book.’— Church Times. The Stationmaster’s Children. By L. Indermaur. Crown 8m Illustrated , c/cd/z boards , //. 4 This pretty story should be read by mothers as well as children/ Schoolmaster. Bert. By Janie Brockman. Crown 8m Illustrated , c/odz boards , 7J- ‘The natural manner in which the tale is told is charming.’ — Amis Mercury. Heroes of flodern Days. By Airs. Herbert Percival. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //- ‘ We heartily recommend for young people who are too apt to know nothing about the generation immediately preceding their own a little book called “ Heroes of Modern Days.” ’—Guardian. The Blue Birthday Book. Edited by Mrs. T rebeck. 1 An excellent little book.’— Church Bells. Oliver Dale. By Mrs. Charlotte O'Brien. Illustrated. Crown 8m elegant cloth boards , //= 4 Just the sort of book to make a lad think/-7bn/><:ra/zc£ Chronicle. Annie Bourne. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke, M.A. Crown 8m Illustrated , boards , //- "Faith Cotterill. Edited by the Rev. J. Erskine Clarke, M.A. Crown 8m extra cloth boards , //- ‘ Both in quality and quantity, this book is a capital shilling’s worth/ — School Guardian. Little Sisters of Pity. „ Zsmay Thorn, Author of ‘ Quite Unexpected,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8m cloth boards , //- ‘A most suitable present for either girl of boy —Schoolmaster. Rachel Charlcote. Illustrated . Crown 8m elegant cloth boards , 7/« * A clever story with an admirable plot, showing the true nobility of nature with which a poor woman is frequently endowed.’ Temperance Chronicle. Evie. By £. (7. Wilcox, Author of 1 Little Humphrey’s Adventure.’ Crown 8m cloth boards , //- * A capital book for a young girl .’—School Guardian. Beatrice of St. Mawse. A Story for Girls. Illustrated. Crown 8m elegant cloth boards , //- ‘ A very prettily told story . . . Would please our younger school¬ room girls.’— G.E.S. Associates' Journal. Rosemary Lane. By P. M. Notrad. Crown 8m Illustrated , cloth boards , //- ‘A happy little story which our own young folk have read with avidity and pronounced capital.’ — Christian. j A Pair of Old Shoes. By Christabel R. Coleridge. Illustrated. Crown 8m cloth boards, //- ‘An interesting story of real dife, containing an unexplained mystery/— Guardian. J1\Q jtfidgei 7}ooks. Songs of Innocence. By William Blake . With Illustrations by Celia Levetus. 3 by fancy boards , gilt edges , 7/- The Story without an End. , By Friedrich Wilhelm Carove, Told in English by Sarah Austin. With Illustrations by Aimee G. Clifford. 3 by fancy boards , gilt edges , //- Favourite Fables for Tiny Trots, Illustrated by A. S. Wilkinson. 3 lb , fancy boards , £z'// edges, //- The Enchanted Doll. A Fairy Tale. By Mark Lemon. With Illustrations by Richard Doyle. 3 by 2%, fancy boards , gilt edges, //- The Seven Champions of Christendom. With Illustrations by A. G. Walker. 3 by 2%, fancy boards, gilt edges, 7/- Victoria, the Good Queen and Empress. A unique Memento of the Diamond Jubilee. About 30 lllustr ations. 3 by 2 \in. Bound in white, lj- ‘ A charming present.’ — School Guardian. Madge’s Legacy. Crown 8m Illustrated, cloth boards , //- ‘A touching and well-told story.— Saturday Review. Mother’s Warm Shawl, By Mrs. Charlotte O'Brien. Illustrated. Crown 8z'o. elegant cloth boards, 1J- ***It is so generally the practice of remembering the little ones at Christmas or their Birthdays, that the above tiny volumes will be found a most unique and attractive sub¬ stitute for the ' ordinary Christmas oi Birthday Card. Each of these little books can be purchased separately. Many popular books of this character published in the early part of the century are now worth their weight in gold. London; WELLS GARDNER. DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.* 2i *

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I 4 Chatterbox Xibrary. 4 The First nine Volumes of a New Series of large Grown Svo. Books for Boys and Girls. Each volume is illus¬ trated and strongly hound in paper hoards, Ulus tinted in colours, 1 /- ; fancy cloth hoards, 1/6 I. The Sisters (For Girls) II. Six Months in the Fourth (For Boys). III. Marcia’s Home (For Girls). IV. The Silver Flagon (For Girls). V. The Austin Prize (For Boys). VI. The Union Jacks (For Coys). VII. The For- tunes of the Charlton Family (For Girls). VIII- The Little General (For Boys). IX- Cyril the Foundling (For Boys). ‘ Those who are seeking to t find cheap books to replenish their lending libraries will do well to note this series.’ — School Guardian. 4 Barton's Carge cop Books. 4 Beautifully Printed in Colours, 12 by 10 inches, price 1/* Heroes in Africa. A Week Spent in a Glass Pond. By Mrs. Ewing. How We Travel. Pictures of travelling in all lands. 4 j>air\ting Tpooks. 4 Better than Toys for Girls and Boys. By T. Pym More Outlines for the Little Ones to Colour. By T. Pym. Fcap. 4 to. 1/- ; cloth, 1/6 Outline Pictures for Little Painters. By H. J. A. Miles. 4 to. in chronio-lithographic wrapper, %/• ; cloth, 1/6 Floral Fancies. A Book of Designs with Mottoes for Colouring or Drawing. From Designs by G. W. Rhead. 4 to. fancy bindings, 1/. ; cloth, 1/6 Happy Sunday Afternoons. A Series of Bible Outlines, printed on superfine lined paper, foe the Little Ones to Colour and Write About Crown 4 to. 1/- ; cloth, 1/6 Happy Sunday Afternoons. Second Series. Crown qto., 1/« ; cloth hoards, 1/6 Little Painter’s Text Book. Simple outlines to Colour or Illuminate. 4/0. coloured boards, 1/- ; cloth, 1/6 Darton’s ‘Helps (or tie Day of Rest.’ 1 Excellent for our little ones on Sunday. They can learn, they can paint, they can read, and all from these capital little books.” Church Bells. Missing Words. Easy Bible Reference Work for Children, with several Illustra¬ tions for Colouring. 6d. Seeking and Finding. Designed with a view to promote Bible Reading. Printed on Superfine Paper, with Ruled Lines. Illustrated by HELEN Miles. Small 4 to. 6d. The Children of the Bible. With Outline Illustrations by Helen Miles, for Colouring. Small efo. 6d cloth, 6d. ‘Just the little book to give to the elder and more thoughtful members of a Girls’ Guild or a Communicants’ Class.’ — Guardian . London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON 22 & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

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THE 'LITTLE TREASURE 9 BOOKS-continued. Our Girls’ Book of Plays. By H. Cooper. Imperial 22ino. paper, 3d. ; cloth. 6d. Plain Directions on Cookery. By Alice Hassingberd, Tivo Parts. Imperial- 321110. paper, 3d. each ; cloth, 6d. each. 1 A most fascinating little work.’— Queen. The Blue Birthday Book. Edited by Mrs. Trebeck* Imp. 32 mo. cloth, Gd.. Printed in red and black, cloth boards, Is. ‘An excellent little book.’— Church Bells. How to Nurse in our Homes- By A. n. Alexander* Imperial 32 mo. 3d- ; cloth, 6d. ‘One of the best and safest little guides that we have ever come across.' - Hospital. A Girl’s Difficulties- By G. H. Ireland Blackburne* Imperial 321110. paper, 3d. ; cloth, 6d. 'Miss Blackburne has shown in this little book not only that she sees and recognises many of the difficulties that beset girls, but that she can touch them with a kindly sympathetic hand.’— Spectator. Beautiful Sewing. ‘Author of ‘Winifred’s Home,’ &c. Illustrated. Imperial 16 mo. 96 pages. By Josepha Crane. Saved, 3d. ; cloth, 6 dr THE PENNY POPULAR LIBRARY. One of .the Cheapest Series of Copyright Works ever issued. Each Story contains Three or wore Illustrations , the pages are laige , and inclosed in an Illustrated Cover . 1. Jem Lee’s Waiting Game. By the Author of ‘ Mademoiselle Mori,’ &c. 2. Two Wandering Apprentices. Adapted from the German by James F. Cobb Author of ‘The Watchers on the Longships/ &c’ 3. The Secret of the Organ Loft. By Frances M. Peard, Author of ‘ Prentice Hugh,’ &c. 4. Isabel Braye : A Tale of the Civil War. By F. Scarlett Potter. 5. Philly, My Di’mond. By Annette Lyster, Author of ‘ Alone in Crowds, &c. 6. The Hoard of the Sea- Wasps. By F. Scarlett Potter. 7. Gregory of the Foretop. 8. Bessie’s Engagement. By Christabel Coleridge, Author of ‘Girls- of Flaxby,’ &c. 9. The Story of a Cat and a Bit of an Envelope. 10. Bid Me to Live. By Mrs. Field, Author of ‘ Ethne, &c. 11. Out with the Stag Hounds. By Terra Cotta, Author of 1 Meadow Sweet, &c> 12. The Castle on the Hill. By Mrs. Jerome Mercier, Author of Arum Field.’ 13. The Brides of Vicavo. By the Author of ‘ Mademoiselle Mori,’ &c. 14. How Lorenzo Paid His Debt : A Tale of the St. Gothard Tunnel. By James F. Cobb, Author of ‘The Watchers on the Longships,’ &c. 15. A Night Among the Spears. By Harold Vallings, Author of ‘ The Quality of Mercy,’ &c. 16. Knit Together. By Mrs. Percy Leake (D. M. Image). 17. That Old jug. By Agnes Giberne. 18. Coals of Fire. 19. Pamela’s Husband. By L. T. Meade. 20. Adah and the Witch. By M. Bramston. 21. Oliver. By Helen Shipton. 22. Fernande. By the Author of ‘ Kitty,’ ‘ Dr. Jacob,’ &c, 23. Meg’s Courage. By Agnes Giberne. 24. Soldier and Servant. By M. Bramston. 25. Country Cousins. By Cecil Lane. 26. Lisa’s Love Story. By the Author of ‘ Mademoiselle Mori/ &c. Other Numbers will be announced in due course. London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E .G 23

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B8&G&ZBNES WITH A WORLD-WIDE CIRCULATION = CDe = Commonwealth. A Social Magazine, Edited by Canon Hen fey Scott Holland, and others. Monthly, 3d, net ; post free for a year, 4s. ‘ It is always interesting.’— Spectator. Friendly Leaves. An Illustrated Magazine for Girls. Monthly, Id. ; post free for a year, 1; 6 db alter bar Weekly, £d ; post free, one year, 4/4. Monthly, 3d. ; post free for year, 4/- Each number con¬ tains three or more first- class Engravings. A packet of twelve copies sent weekly for three months, 6/6 ‘The editor has long since found the way to the hearts of tile children and to the confi¬ dence of parents and teachers.’ School Board Chronicle. Mothers in Council Edited by Charlotte M. Yonge. Designed for Mothers of the Upper Classes. Quarterly, 6d. ; post free for a year, 2/6 ‘ Full of thoughtful and prac¬ tical suggestions.’ — Guardian. GOODWILL. An Illustrated Monthly Magazine for the People. Edited by the the Rev. the Hon. James Adderley. Price Id. ; post free for a year, 1/6 Special terms for localising. ‘ We congratulate Mr. Adder- ley on the best magazine for a town parish that we know.’ — Guardian. CENTRAL AFRICA. An Illustrated Monthly Record of the Work of the Universities’ Mission, 8vo. Monthly, Id. ; post free for a year, 1/6 African Ridings. The Illustrated Juvenile Organ of * the Central Mission. Monthly, ^d. ; post free for a year, 1/- THE G.F.S ASSOCIATES’ JOURNAL AND ADVERTISER. A Journal devoted to G.F.S. news from all parts of the world, Cor¬ respondence, Reports of Meetings, Official Notices, Papers on work affecting the Society, &c. Monthly, Id. ; August number, 3d. ; post free for one year, 1/9 Sunday Full of interesting Stories, Pictures, and Competitions for Sunday afternoons. Weekly, Jd . ; post free for one year, 4/4. Monthly, in wrapper, 3d.; postfree for a year, 4/- A packet of twelve copies sent weekly for three months, 6/6. ‘ Well written, well illustrated, well printed.’ — Morning Post. JJIoftcrs’ Pinion foimral. Edited by Lady Jenkyns. An Illustrated Quarterly for Mothers of the Poorer Classes, Id. ; post free for a year. 6d. ' GBomcn IN THE fission jMO. THE PRIZE* Monthly, Id. ; post free for a year, 16. Pub¬ lished under the direction of the S.P.G. Ladies’ Asso- ciation for the Promo¬ tion of Female Educa¬ tion among the Heathen. For Boys and Girls. Illus¬ trated with numerous Engravings and one Coloured Picture. Month¬ ly, Id.; post free for a year, 1/6. ‘Well deserves its distinctive title.’ — Public Opinion. THE GIRLS’ QUARTERLY, A Paper for Workers, with which is incorporated Friendly Work, Quarterly, 2d. ; post free for a year, lOd. THE GOSPEL MISSIONARY. Containing Missionary News, Anecdotes, and Verses, suited for Young people. Illustrated. Pub¬ lished under the direction of the S.P.G. Monthly, -£d. ; post free, 1/- per annum. Twelve copies post free for one year, 6s. 6d. The Young An illustrated Temper¬ ance' Magazine for Chil¬ dren. Prize £d. monthly ; post free, one year, 1/- A packet of twelve copies post free for one year, 6/- ‘ We can imagine nothing better.’ — Bookseller. THE Sun-Children’s Budget. An Illustrated Botanical Quarterly. Edited by Phcebe Allen, Author of ‘ Playing at Botany,’ and Dr. Henry W. Godfrey. Price 6d., or post free for a year, 2/4 London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 24

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton & Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue. Ad ORIGINAL STORY of ADVENTURE CHARLES NEUFELD, ENTITLED : Under tlx Rebel’s Reign, A Story of Egyptian Revolt. With numerous Illustrations by Chas. M. Sheldon. ‘As the leader made a leap at the bow. Helmar swung his heavy- club at him.’ ( Under the Rebel's Reign). In the present volume Mr. Neufeld has attempted to; give a picture of the exciting times during the Rebellion of Arabi Pashr. Starting from his University, the hero, George Helmar, goes out into the world to make a place in it for himself. Horn the com¬ mencement he meets with adventures: along the Danube and in Constantinople. He arrives in Alexandria just as Arabi s antagon¬ ism towards the Khedive has ripened into open revolt. He ultimately reaches Alexandria just after the bombardment and gets engaged as interpreter to the British forces. He is taken prisoner whilst out on patrol, escapes, is recaptured, and hnally escapes again in time to reach Tel-el-Kebir with important news which saves Cairo from destruction. The book is full of exciting and thrilling incidents and situations, many of which have been experienced by Mr. Neufeld himself. Large crown 8 voj fancy cloth boards , 6/- Helmar in Alexandria. ( Under the Rebel's Reign). Mr. Charles Neufeld. the author of this story, will be remembered as the unfortunate prisoner of the late Khalifa, who was liberated by Lord Kitchener alter the- battle of Omdurman. and whose book, “ A Prisoner ot the Khaleda, published last year, giving a detailed account of the horrible torture to which he was subjected, was one of the most important of the year. The Camp on the Danube. ( Under the Rebel's Reign). London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton <& Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue. HE New Boys . Book BY THE AUTHOR 'OF 1 DIN KIN BAR,' &i. THE WHITE STONE, BY H. C. MAC ILWAINE, , ^ +JC Author of ‘ Diiikinbar,’ ‘Fate the Fiddler,’ & c. With Numerous Illustrations by G. D. ROWLANDSON. «She was looking towards the place whence the boy’s voices came.’ ( The White Stone). Mr. Mac Ilwaine, the popular author of two novels dealing with Australian life, has produced an excellent book about a bush-born* boy, the son of English parents who migrated to Australia at the time of the gold fever. After living some years in the bush they send their only son to the old country to be educated. The rough lad comes to England at the age of thirteen to find himself far behind other boys in learning, but after a while a match for them in other respects. The precipitate return of the boy and mother to Australia, iii consequence of the receipt of .a telegram and a paragraph in an Australian paper, leads to Rowley’s famous ride on his father’s old horse, who drops dead within three miles of his destination, after covering thirty miles. The interest in Colonial life is awakened in the first chapter, and it is evident that both in ,the life in England and Australia the author has had living models before him. Uniform with Darton’s Fine Art Gift Books. Large crown Hvo, fancy cloth boards, printed on super¬ fine paper. Price 6J- S ' Rowley went comet-wise head first over the bar/ (The White Stone). At the Foot of the Rainbow. By M. H. Cornwall-Legh . Illustrated by John Jellico. Square 16 mo, extra cloth boards , 2/~ A Story of Adventure, romantic and original, showing how* a poor village lad secured the fabled pot of gold. ‘ Thou hast found thy pot of gold/ (At the Foot of the Rainbow). London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON Sc Co., 3, Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton <& Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue. The New Volume, by the Author of “Stories from the Faerie Queene,” now in its Second Edition. BOOK OF KING ARTHUR AND HIS NOBLE KNIGHTS. Stories from Sir Thomas Malory’s 4 Morte Darthur.’ Introduction by John W. Hales. With Illustrations from drawings by A. G. Walker, Sculptor. Uniform with Darton’s Fine Art Gift Books. Large crown 8 vo, fancy cloth boards , 6j~. Gilt top and printed on superfine paper. King Arthur consults Merlin (The Book of King Arthur and his Noble Knights). Sir Lancelot and the Giants. (The Book of King Arthur and his Noble Knights \ London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E C. A * By MARY MACLEOD. •They rode forth well horsed and well armed.’ (The Book of King Arthur and his Noble Knights.) A group of famous Arthurian stories and legends* re-told in simple language for young readers, taken from Malory's Morte Darthur , and forming a con¬ nected outline of that immortal romance. The original version is here closely followed, and lovers of the “Idylls of the King” may be glad to have the opportunity of noting the way in which Tennyson has evolved his beautiful epic from the picturesque simplicity of the original.

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Supplement to Weiis Gardner, Darton & Co.’s illustrated Catalogue T HE 3^" E 'W E O O K BY THE AUTHOR OF ' ‘THE HA VGHTY§HIRE H US’T,' ‘ COLONEL BOTCHERBY, &c. The Boer’s Blunder • By FOX RUSSELL. ILLUSTRATED TITLE AND FRONTISPIECE. THE GOBLIN. By Catherine S. and Florence Foster. Large crown 8 vp, cloth boards . 6 - A freshly-written novel of social life in Yorkshire ; giving several humorous character studies. large type and easy words. 4 to, paper boatHs, 1 '/- Crown Svo , cloth boards , 6j- This will be found of special interest. It is written in graphic style by Mr. Fox Russell, after many year’s residence in the country. In London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3, Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 28

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton & Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue Jack and Jill’s Journey. A Tour through the Plant Kingdom. By Phoebe Allen , Author of “Playing at Botany,” and Illustrated by Dr. Henry Godfrey. Demy 8 vo., cloth boards , 3j6 ( the Dead Nettle). ( Pilcher Plant). ‘The botanical information is really excellent and scientific, and so are the illustrations.’— Guardian. 4 A delightful mode of instruction in botany which all young people will appreciate.’ — Gentlewoman. Saunterings in Bookland and Gleanings by the Way. Selected and Edited by Joseph Shaylor. Printed on laid paper, extra cloth boards, gilt top, with Frontispiece of ‘ The Reader,’ after a picture by Meissonier. Fcap. 8z’a, 3 6 5AU NTE RINGS IN ..BOOKLAND The Pleasures of Literature and the Solace of Books. Selected and Arranged by Joseph Shaylor. With Introduction by Andrew Lang. Artistically printed on laid paper. The book con¬ tains an Illustrated Title-page with a Frontispiece reproduced from Meissonier’s celebrated picture ‘A Readying at Diderot’s House.’ Fcap. 8 vo, extra cloth boards, gilt top , 3 6 [end Edition . Book-lovers should welcome this volume of pertinent extracts It is of a size convenient for the pocket. Tib and Sib. By Stella Austin, Author of 1 Rags and Tatters,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown Svo, cloth boards, 2 6 ‘Though, described as a story for children, the account of Tib's adventures will be found entertaining by readers of all ages. The book is charmingly written, and Tib is a little girl we fall in love with at first sight.’— Academy. TWO ADDITBONS TO CIk “Cittle treasure” Series. The Way to be Well. By Mrs. F. Yorke Smith. Royal 32 mo, paper cover. 3d. ; cloth , 6d. On Miniature Gardening and Window- Gardening. By the Editors of the ‘Sun-Children’s Budget.* Royal 321110, paper cover, 3d. ; cloth , 6d. London : WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton & Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue. BRITONS AT BAY, BY H. G. MOORE, Author of 1 The Dacoit’s Treasure,’ &e. The Adventures of Two Midshipmen in the Second Burmese War. ( Britons at Bay). The New Addition to WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co.’s POPULAR SERIES OF COPYRIGHT PRIZE BOOKS. #•, ■ V v ■ - " London: WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. 30

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Supplement to Wells Gardner, Darton <& Co.’s Illustrated Catalogue, London: 4 WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C„ 31 Left to Themselves. By E. M. Green . Author of ‘The Child of the Caravan,’ &c. With numerous illustrations by Arthur Hopkins. Square i6mo, fancy cloth boards, 2\* The experiences, humorous and pathetic, of four children left to themselves in the heart of Westminster. ‘ Each of the party carried something.' ( Left to Themselves). Ben Cramer : Working Jeweller. By Stella Austin . Illustrated. Square 16 mo, Jajicy cloth boards , 2/- ‘ It is not often that a pleasanter or better written story for children can be met with than ‘ Ben Cramer: Working Jeweller.’ The tone of the book is thoroughly wholesome, and it is, in fact, one which any child may read with profit, and which cannot possibly do harm to anybody.’ — The Scotsman. Old Songs for Young Voices. Selected and Edited by Agnes L. Money. 647/70, paper, Id. Crown 1677/0, melody only , paper 6d. ; cloth , 9d. Fcap. 4 to, with Accompaniments , paper , //-; cloth boards, 1[6 ‘Fifty sweet old English, Scotch, and Irish ballads, which are quite refreshing after the hideous vulgarities of the present day. . . . Music and song are among God’s best gifts to His children, and the singing of good, pure, merry, hearty songs will surely help £0 make those who sing and those who hear happier and better.' — Church Times. Temperance Hymns and Songs. With Accompanying Tunes. To which is prefixed a Short Opening Service for a meeting. Demy Svo, paper covers, lj6 ; cloth boards, 2\6 Words only , paper covers, 2d. ; limp cloth , 3d. [New and Enlarged Edition. Published under the direction of the Church of England Temper¬ ance Society. This is the most comprehensive and the cheapest book of its kind yet issued. ‘ Crossing the Line.’ (The Story of Johnny Bertram). The Wrath of the Fay. By F. Wyville Home. Author of ‘ Songs of a Wayfarer,’ &c. Illustrated. Small 4 to cloth , bevelled, boards, 2 6 ‘ It is one of the purest specimens of English rhyme, and it seems that the author. purposely intended this, from the fact that so few Latin-derived words are to be found in its pages. Were it for no other reason than this it would be a literary curiosity, as showing the capabilities of the English longue.’— Schoolmaster. CHATTERBOX CHRISTMASBOX. NEW ISSUE contains several Original Stories by well-known writers] including : Alfred T. Maitland, Author of ‘ I Lived as I Listed ; ’ Harold Vallings, &c., &c. All Illustrated by ‘ A. Nobody.' Crown 4 to, paper covers , //- THE NEW VOLUME CHATTERBOX LIBRARY. The Story of Johnny Bertram. Illustrated. Crown 87/0, illustrated paper boards , 11*; fancy cloth boards , 1\6

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Supp>.m€^t to Wells Gardner, Darton & Go>’s BBBustrated Catalogue The Crew of the Jolly Sandboy. By Julia Hack With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groom e. Crown 8 vo, doth boards . 1 = The Adventures of a small Boy and a Girl with their rough terrier, carried away from the coast of England by the rising tide. They are picked up by a vessel bound for Holland, and alter some weeks restored to their parents. Sylvia’s Romance. By Marion Andrews, Author of 4 The Quest of Jack Hazelwood,’ 1 Cousin Isabel,’ 4 A Loyal Heart,' * Countess Helena,’ &c. Illustrated. Crown 8 vo, doth boards , /> An adventurous story of the clays ol Queen Anne. ( Sylvias Romance). POPULAR BOOKS FOR GIRLS, By LADY BILKER. Friendly Words for Our Girls. Fcap. 8 vo paper , //- ; doth, ) 6 • Is adapted, and it seems to us with great fitness, to the spiritual wants of young girls of the humbler class — milliners, factory-girls, domestic servants, and so on. Prayers to use on suitable occasions, hymns to read over, and brief paragraphs of wise and kind advice, it provides for this particular class. Thoroughly practical.' — Literary Churchman. Letters to My Girl Friends, Small Crown 8 vo. doth , 2 6 Half Hours with My Girls. Being twenty-six readings for Sundays, First Series. Small Crown 8 vo. doth , 2 6 [4th Edition. 'The subjects are well chosen and simply treated, and contain plain good sense.*,-— Queen. More Half Hours with My Girls. Or Readings for a Village Class. Second Seiies. Small Crown Svo. doth , 2 6 ‘Sensible and practical, with a wide range of subjects. WELLS GARDNER, DARTON & Co., 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C. London :

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OVER 70 YEARS’ ESTABLISHED REPUTATION. The Best and Cheapest Infants’ Food. NEAVE’S FOOD FOR INFANTS, GROWING CHILDREN, INVALIDS, AND THE AGED. Sir CHAS. A. CAMERON, C.B , M.D., Ex-President of the Royal College of Surgeons, Ireland. “ This is an excellent Food, admirably adapted to the wants of Infants and Young Persons, and being rich in phosphates and potash, is of the greatest utility in supply¬ ing the bone-forming and other indispens¬ able elements of food." If the directions given on each tin are followed, the infantile system may be regulated without the aid of medicine. A MOST NUTRITIOUS FOOD for NURSING MOTHERS. Wholesome Fruit Jellies, for dessert, can be made at home quickly and easily with fresh fruit of all kinds and Brown & Poison’s Corn Flour. Simply make the Com Flour in a mould with the juice of stewed fruit instead of milk, and you have a delicious jelly, with the natural fresh flavour and all the good properties of fresh fruit. Such jellies are much more wholesome than artificially flavoured prepared jellies. To make these successfully the best Corn Flour is required, and that of course is Brown & Poison’s •patent’ Corn Flour See Recipes in packets, or write to Brown and Poison, Paisley, for their Recipe Book. MJLN^S JPAMiOTTS BABY CARRIAGES & MAIL CARTS. ESTABLISHED OV ER 60 YEARS. ILLUSTRATED LIST POST FREE. 1. We pay carriage. 2. LOWEST Prices for Cash only. 3. TROTMAN’S Goods have a high reputation for quality^ design, comfort, and YALUE. 5. Over 200 in Stock to choose from. 5. All our Customers are more than satisfied. 6. You will save more than 25 per cent, by buying from us. 7. Colonials and other Purchasers please remember, that by buying direct from us and paying your own carriage, you will get better Goods at much lower prices, than if you purchased Imported British Carriages where you reside. SEND AT ONCE FOR LARGE ILLUSTRATED LIST, POST FREE. TROTMAN, Maker, 196 Holloway Road, LONDON, N. AS SUPPLIED TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN D. BUSTED & Co., 36 King William St., London, E.C. SAFE AND SPEEDY REMEDY FOR COUGH, COLD, HOARSENESS, INFLUENZA, - WHOOPTWft ROTTftW. &,o. £L LU UJ CD *3 h- CD LU cc CD LU > Casli trices:— S|d., Is., 2s. 6d- STOPS COLD IF TAKEN PROMPTLY.

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CHILDREN living in nice Homes, with good and kind Parents, please remember those little ones who are Hungry, cold, miserable, and neglected. Mr. WPIEATLEY, Superintendent , St. Giles’ Christian Mission, 4 Ampton Street, Regent Square, London, W.C., is always helping them. Homes and Or¬ phanage at Maldon, in Essex. FORTIETH ANNUAL REPORT Now Ready. Bankers : MESSRS. Barclay, 54 Lombard St., E.C. THE BRITONS AT BAY. By HENRY C. MOORE. Illustrated by J. Jellicoe. Large Crown 8vo. cloth boards, 3/6 TIB AND SIB. By STELLA AUSTIN. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 2/6 AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. By M. H. CORNWALL LEGH. Illustrated by J. Jellicoe. Imperial i6mo. cloth extra, 2/- LEFT TO THEMSELVES. By E. M. GREEN , Author of ‘The Child of the Caravan. ’ Illustrated by A. Hopkins. Imperial i6mo. cloth extra, 2/- BEN CRAMER : Working Jeweller. By STELLA AUSTIN. Illustrated. Imperial i6mo. cloth extra, 2 - SOMEBODY. By STELLA AUSTIN. Illustrated. Cr. 8vo. cloth boards, extra, 16 SYLVIA’S ROMANCE. By MARION ANDREWS , Author of ‘ The Quest of Jack Hazlewood.’ Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 1/- THE CREW OF THE JOLLY SANDBOY. By Mrs. CUTLER. Illustrated by W. H. C. Groome. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 1/- THE STORY OF JOHNNY BERTRAM. Being Vol. X. of the ‘ Chatterbox ’ Library. Fancy cloth boards, 1/6 Illustrated paper boards, 1/- London: 3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.