Chatterbox 1902

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DANA ESTES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON, MASS. -}•

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SOME 1902 PUBLICATIONS FOR YOUNG FOLKS Famous Children of Literature. The Hurdy = Gurdy. A new series edited by Frederic Lawrence Knowles. These charming little books are designed as an introduction to the masterpieces of modern fiction, and present in a plain and concise way the histories of the child heroines apart from the large mass of unrelated matter with which the stories are originally connected. The tales will be told as nearly as possible in the exact language of the authors. 1. Little Eva. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Beau¬ tifully illustrated from new designs by Miss Etheldred B. Barry. 2. Little Nell. By Charles Dickens. The illustra¬ tions are drawn especially for the book by Miss Etheldred B. Barry. Other Volumes in Preparatioji. jVet, 75c By mail. 84c Net, 75c By mail. 84c Maid Sally. By Harriet A. Cheever. In these days when such uni¬ versal interest is felt in the history of the American Revo¬ lution, this charming story of a loyal little Colonial maid will win many admirers. . It is the best book yet written by the author, who has long since won a wide audience of de¬ voted readers among the er/i‘. *”„1 *'■ $1.00 the land. By mail, 1.10 i2mo. Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales. By Laura E. Richards. Mrs. Richards gives new evi¬ dence of her versatility by entering the field of nonsense verse. The jingles in this book are as captivating as the immortal lyrics in “Alice in Wonderland.” For ingenious rhymes, for fluency of fancy, and for pure fun, they are un¬ surpassed in recent literature, and -form the drollest, most clever book of humorous child- verse published for many years. The titles themselves are an inspiration. What could be better than “ Little Dame Dowdy,” “ The Banching Bogdo,” and “Bungay Land?” Every . ^ ^ poem has an illustration by Mr. J. J. Mora, ^ ’ y 5C and the pictures are as good as the By mail, 85c rhymes. 3 Jimmy Crow. By Edith Fran¬ cis Foster. A companion volume to “ Where Was the Little White Dog ? ” a n d “ What Did the Black Cat Do ? ” Oblong quarto, cloth. JllflMY^OW By JBdith Francis Foster Riblished, by Dana Estes h. Co. Play Away I 60c. By mail. 69c .'VVA 75c By mail, g4c to boys by its A new edition embody¬ ing many original features, illustrated by J. J. Mora, author and illustrator of the “ Animals of /Esop,” illustrator of “ Reynard the Fox,” etc. The book will contain about 75 text cuts, and 24 full-page half-tones. A number of the tales Will be omitted, but it has been the aim of the editor ^ to retain all of the most notable and popular. Quarto, cloth, handsome cover design. A story of the Boston Fire Department, by Willis Boyd Allen. Cloth, i2mo, handsome cover design. Illustrated with six half-tones. A book which commends itself at once exciting movement and crowded incident, and to parents’ and teachers by its healthful and manly spirit. It has no padding, no preaching, no dull paragraphs. The story deals with a sturdy Vermont boy who comes to Boston, and after various delays and a hard apprenticeship in uncongenial kinds of work, is admitted to the Fire Department of the city. Doctor Robin. By Harriet A. Cheever, author of “ Ted’s Little Dear,” “ Madame Angora,” etc. Mrs. Cheever has won for herself a wide audience of devoted readers by her charming tales of animal life. “ Doctor Robin ” is a bird story told with unusual humor and origi¬ nality. It will appeal to any child who cares for pets or is interested in 40c By mail, 45c natural his¬ tory. Cloth, i2mo, fully illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry, striking cover design. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid upon receipt of price by DANA ESTES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.

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FAMOUS WAR BOOKS. By CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN. - The Boys of ’61; Or, Four Years of Fighting. An entirely new edition, uniform with “ The Boys of ’76,” printed from a new set of plates and containing about 180 illustrations. A record of personal observa¬ tion with the Army and Navy, from the Battle of Bull Run to the Fall of Richmond. By Charles Carle- ton Coffin, author of “ The Boys of ’76,” “Our New Way Round the World,” “ Following the Flag,” etc. With numerous full- page and smaller illustrations. The most successful boys’ book published for years. Handsomely bound ^ in extra cloth, gilt, handsome new design. $2.00 Reduced to Old Edition 9 illuminated board covers, $1.50 This most interesting and popular book, a success from the day it was issued, is still almost as much in demand as ever. By JAMES RUSSELL SOLEY, Formerly Assistant Secretary of the Navy. The Boys of 1812 And Other Naval Heroes. By James Russell Soley, author of “ The Blockade and the Cruisers,” etc. With up¬ wards of forty full-page and smaller illustrations, all from original drawings. Quarto. Handsomely printed from large type, and bound in illuminated board covers and lin- $1.50 ings. Redticed to Neatly bound in cloth, with emblem- * atic cover design, $2.00 This attractive volume — a reigning favorite with the boys — is a worthy companion to the famous “Boys of ’61.” It is an exciting narrative of our great naval war with Great Britain, including authentic accounts of the different battles and some romantic adventures of the participators therein. It gives the glorious traditions of the United States navy, from its smallest beginning during the Revolutionary War, and extending down to that with Mexico. Carleton’s Famous War Stories. 5 K WINNING Y ■ HIS WAY [ i SiiilMllEi 1 f ' ^CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN ’61,” “ Boys of ’76,” etc. T. Merrill. Winning His Way. By Charles Carleton Coffin, author of “ Boys of ’61,” “Boys of ’76,” etc. Il¬ lustrated by Frank ^ ^ _ T. Merrill, 121110. 4^ 1 Following the Flag. By Charles Coffin, author of Illustrated by Frank Carleton “ Boys of $1.25 My Days and Nights on the Battlefield. By Charles Carleton Coffin, author of 9^ “Boys of ’61,” “Boys of ’76,” etc. IllT)»trated * by Frank T. Merrill. The Sailor Boys of ’61. By Prof. J. Russell Soley, author of “ The Boys of 18 1 2,” etc. Elaborately and beauti¬ fully illustrated from original drawi 11 gs. Handsomely printed from large type and neatly bound in illuminated board $1.50 covers and linings. Same. Extra cloth, with emblematic cover design. $2.00 A companion volume to “The Boys of ’61” and “The Boys of 1812,” the leading favorites with the boys. Phis volume, like its predecessors, is handsomely gotten up and illustrated, and successfully vies with them in interest, giving an accurate and vivid account of the naval engagements of the great Civil War, and the deeds of its gallant naval heroes. For sale by all booksellerst or sent postpaid upon receipt of price by DANA ESTES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.

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A MORNING GALLOP.

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About the Portcullis ... ... A Boy Physician . A Camel oa the Bampag-e . A Cats’ Tea Party . A Clever Spaniel . A Day in tue Highlands . Admiral Hopson . A Gingerbread Seller . A Good Samaritan in Lapland A Greedy Pony . A Herd of Elk . A Knowing Parrot . A Life-saving Elephant . A Loving Daughter . A Maori Camp . A Mishap in the Desert . Ancient Rulers Page 290 230 117 131 243 410 107 127 58 355 333 3b0 318 290 199 399 r . . 253 Ancient Rulers of the East 75, 187, 219 Anecdotes, 7, 22, 70, 139, 267, 278, 294, 355 An Unpleasant Surprise . 306 An Unwilling Bull . 349 A Penny Roll and the Press-gang ... 34 A Rat at Prayers . 60 Artful Donkey Jack . 362 A Sad Meeting . 13 A Soldier’s Time-piece ... ... ... 210 A Talk about the Box-tree . 150 Australian Insects ... 134, 187, 199, 246 Australian Snakes, and some of their Enemies . 99, 118, 126 Bad News . 45 Boys of the London Street^ 86, 115, 132. 148, 164, 179, 198, 211, 228, 245, 26/. _ 285,315,357,404 Brother Bartholomew . 134 Chinese Sharp-shooters . 159 Chinese Warriors . 207 Climbing Toads . 3 Coa.st Tales, 138, 178, 205, 266, 282. 300, 322, 339, 354, 378, 394, 402 Contraband of War . 146 Coronation Homage to Queen Vic¬ toria . 290 Coronation Tickets . 322 Cure for a Mischievous Monkey ... 182 Curious Old Almanacks . 50 Dangerous Travelling . 343 Dll Khush . 59 Doings of a Big Elephant . 247 Doings of a Tame Tortoise . 306 Do your Duty . 156 Egyptian Vultures . 407 Elephant Hunting in India . 223 England’s Roll of Honour 299, ^2, 398 Evil Company . 211 Fables 18, 27, 38, 91, 151, 254, 379, 390 Fair Play is a Jewel . 74 Feathered Friends that Come and Go, 69, 75, 83, 93, 101, 109, 190, 196, 203. 213, 221, 227 For Somebody’s Sake . 28 He made his Character . 62 Heroes and Heroines of Famous Writers, 42, 50, 70, 103, 110. 139, 154, 172, 226, 235, 274. 363, 374 Hippopotamus Hunting on the Nile 251 His Mother’s Dress . 29 Holidays on the Ocean, and what we saw there, 275. 291, 306, 325, 331, 347, 365, 374, 379, 395, 406 How the Cavaliers took Pontefract Castle . 410 Hungarian Pedlars . 234 * Is there a Mother here ? * 68 Jam with his Powder . 345 Killing an Assam Tiger . 276 Kindly Folk . 210 Kosciuszko’s Horse . 31 Lost Sir Brian, 162, 170, 182, 186, 194, 202, 214, 218, 230, 238, 242, 250, 258, 270, 278, 286. 294. 302. 307, 318, 326, 334, 338, 350, 358, 366, 370, 382, 386 Macedonian Brigands . 135 Making Pot Pourri . 53 Martello Towers . 46 Midshipman Lucas . 100 Moorish Pirates . 243 Napoleon and the English Drummer- boy . 92 Nothing to Give . 61 Old Somerset House . 267 Only wanted his Father . 35 Peach-gatherers in Madagascar ... 167 Peg Tankards . 374 Pontius Pilate . 158 Punch and Judy Show . 42 Puzzlers for Wise Heads, 14, 31, 42, 58, 74, 94. 110, 123, 139, 158, 175, 190, 207, 223, 235, 255, 270, 282, 298, 318, 330, 346, 362, 391, 406, 410 Queen Elizabeth’s Visit to Cam¬ bridge . 166 Queen Victoria’s Remarkable Es¬ capes . 390 Reggy and N iger . 10, 1 9 Returning from the Pyramids ... 282 Robin Hood and Little Jolin . 262 Russian Market *Gardeners ... 175 Page Saved from an Alligator . 95 Sir Humphrey Davy and the Mad Dog . 298 Smugglers’ Caves . 191 Spinning Snails . 11 Some German Crusoes . 119 Some Notable Funerals of English Queens . 410 Stories from the Mountains, 127, 167, 198, 222, 246, 298, 330, 346, 362, 389, 407 Strange Nests . 358 Street Scenes at Victoria’s Corona¬ tion . 263 Tales and Tallies . 189 Tattooing a Maori Brave . 263 The Alpine Postman . 292 The Animals of Old Exeter Change 86 The Battle of Bannockburn . 74 The Books of the Old Romans ... 35 The Borderers . 165 The Canadian Trapper . 270 The Disobedient Waves . 178 The Elder-tree . 219 The Gecko . 350 The German and his Dog . 12 The Honest Farmer . 322 The Insects we Eat . 234 The Laplander’s Horse . 411 The Last Field . 150 The Lime-burner of the Roche- Perc^e . 146,158 The Mischievous Magpie . 330 The Modest Roman . 313 The Moors in Spain . 53 The Okapi . 391 The Orange-tree . 123 The Red Deer and the Golden Eagle 314 The Roman Wall . 399 The Ships of Ancient Britain . 94 The Story of Rhampsinitus . 314 The Two Sheiks . 222 The Whistle . 3 The Young Shepherd and his Dog . 255 ‘ Thuggee ’ 254 Tiberius Csesar . 126 Tony, 2, 14, 22, 26, 38, 46, 54, 62, 66, 78, 82, 90, 98, 106, 114, 122, 130, 142 To the Rescue . 152 Trooper O’ Hagan’s Gift . 30, 34 Two Big Silkworms . 31 Vagaries of Fashion . 18 Wagner’s Dog Friends Walter de la Tour Wild Horses . 102 7 396

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CONTENTS A Little Hero . Page , ... 6 Drive the Nail . ... 406 Friends and Flowers... ... 35 Kittie’s Tail . ... 147 Legend of St. Chad and the Sunbeam . ... 339 A Morning Gallop, The Last Load, Returning Home, A Brave Act . 100 ‘ Adam was helpless in the grip of the Lieutenant* 324 A Day m the Highlands ... 409 ‘ A faint cheer was raised ; a tiny brown sail was seen bearing down on the scene of disaster* . 177 A Herd of Elk . 333 A Knowing Parrot . 381 A Maori Camp . 200 A Mishap in the Desert ... 400 An Evening Performance . 41 An Honest Farmer . 321 *An oiRcial requested the pleasure of an interview within the walls of the Custom House’ . 265 An Unpleasant Siu’prise ... 305 An Unwilling Bull . 349 ‘A plume waved o’er the noble brow ’ . 88 * A refreshing shower-bath* 224 Aretas, king of Arabia ... 188 Artful Donkey Jack . 361 A Sea Horse and Sea Fan . 373 ‘ As the morning broke, tuey espied a dozen or more of the mighty Spanish ships close upoa them * 301 A Street Musician . 197 Bad News . 45 Borderers returning from a Raid . 165 * Boys crowd round the ice¬ cream barrow * 180 Candace, queen of Ethiopia 220 ‘ Carry your bag, sir ? * ... 164 Caught by the Tide . 401 Chinese Sharp-shooters ... 160 Chinese Warriors . 208 Contraband of War . 145 *Dan, I will give you some¬ thing to think over* ...156 Drowning Children saved by an Elephant . 317 Egyptian Vultures . 408 ‘ Fortunately some pen¬ guins arrived on the island ’ 120 Hippopotamus Hunting on tne Upper Nile . 252 * His horse trembled, reared, and refused to go on* ... 8 How Xit the Dwarf came by his Title . 112 Himgarian Pedlar . 233 ‘ I am not afraid if there is a mother here ’ 68 ‘I cannot leave this man to perish. Come, help me to arouse him’ ... 57 *I cannot sell the wag of his tail when I come home at night* . 12 have been a long time, ma’am, but it was not my fault’ . 33 POETRY, Page Legend of the Christmas i Rose . 234 I Legend of the Curse of i Birts Morton Shadow... 58 Legend of the Founding of j Malvern Priory . 102 I Little Chicken . . ... 13 i Page My Mother* . 18 Pussy and the Ball . 5 Shoeing a Horse . 21 The Att woods of Wolverley Court . 315 ILLUSTRATIONS. Coloured Plates. Frontispiece Grandpa’s Little Pupil, facing p. 64 Sympathy, facing p. 128 Which Will You Have, the Apple Page * I offered all my money for ' this one plaything * ... 4 1 * It is not true, even of the poorest of ns, that we have nothing to give* . 61 ‘ It is very sweet to labour for those we love ’ . 28 ‘I want to speak to you particular ’ 9 * I will not ride your horse again, sir, unless you give me your purse as well * . 32 * I would strain a point any time to save a good sea¬ man for His Majesty’s service* . 137 ‘Jack made up his mind that the men were pull¬ ing to see who could get the saw * . 73 ‘Jack sent his coil of light line hurling through the air * . 205 Jacob dismissed from his Master’s House as an Ingrate . 225 ‘ J ames Lewin was speech¬ less with rage when he read that he had been robbed, cheated, and laughed at* . ... 284 Jam with his Powder ... 345 Killing an Assam Tiger ... 277 Lady Jane Grey’s Visit to the Tower . 104 Lost Sir Brian (Illustra¬ tions to), 161, 169, 184, 185, 193, 201, 216, 217, 232, 240, 241, 249 , 257, 260, 272, 280, 2b8, 296, .304. 309, 312, 320, 328, 336, 337, 352, 360, 368, 369, 372, 384, 385, 388 Macedonian Brigands ... 136 Mr. Handycock orders Peter’s Outfit . 273 Moorish Pirates . 244 Nero . 253 ‘ Nizza awoke just in time to see the wicked nurse bending over Leonard ’ . 72 * “ Oh, poor little baby ! ” cried Dick. “We must take ittothe bungalow ’’ ’ 60 Orange Blossom . 124 Peach-gatherers in Mada¬ gascar . ... 168 * Philip Vanderdecken, that is the Flying Dutchman ’ 173 ‘Poking a mouthful at a time over the partition * 356 Pontius Pilate . 157 Printers* Boys at Play ... 229 Pussy and the Ball . 5 Radiolarians, larger than life-size ; and the Ocean Butterfly . 325 Reggie’s Confession . 20 Returning from the Pyra¬ mids . 281 Russian Market Gardeners 176 Page Scenes of my Childhood ... 132 Sea Nettles (Medusidse) ... 332 Ship Worms .. ... . 348 Shoeing a Horse . 21 Sir Humphrey Davy and the Mad Dog . 297 Some Chaetodons . 396 Sunshine and Shade . 37 ‘ Sweep your door - step, mum?' . 404 Tattooing a Maori Brave . 264 The Alpine Postman ... 293 * The Arab has only the camel to depend upon as a m ans of travel* . 344 The Bactrian Camel . 117 The Boy Messenger . 285 The Brigade Boys . 357* * The British do not know 44 ‘ The Retreat The Canadian Trapper ... The Carrier’s Boy . The Church Mouse . The Cuckoo . The Doctor’s Boy . ‘The Earl of Surrey was suddenly startled by the brightness of a blue phos¬ phoric light* . ’ ‘ The elder white man bid her fear nothing, for she had found Christian men in the wilderness ’ . 236 l^he Emperor Augustus ... 76 ‘ The Exciseman was drag¬ ged into the dark cave * 353 ‘ The gingerbread seller and his wife were thrown into the road ’ . 128 The House Martin . 101 ‘ The King took a long draught, and asked if he might come and see where they lived* The Laplander’s Horse ... The Mischievous Magpie . ‘The monkey’s horse pre¬ sently left all the com¬ pany behind * . The Moors in Spain . The N e wsboy at the Station 268 The Newspaper Boy . 85 The Nightingale . 213 The Night-jar or Fern-owl 109 The Okapi . 392 ‘ The only chance of escape lay in steering through a narrow and dangerous channel* . 141 The Page Boy . 212 The Paper Nautilus . 365 The Pied Fly-catcher ... 204 The Portuguese Mau-of- war . 405 The Red-backed Shrike ... 93 The Red Deer and the Golden Engle . 313 ‘ There is the man, sir. We are willing to pay you, and pay you handsomely, for your help* . 340 289 412 329 181 53 Pflge The Bisbon and the Fish... 146 The Bucket . 132 The Church Mouse . l'^9 The Desert Island . 261 The Dream » f Anselm ... 178 The Spanish Champion ... 87 The Stone of Ribbcsford... 118 facing p. 192 , facing p. 256 or the Penny ? facing p. 320 Page ‘ There was a rat, for want of stairs ’ . 49 The Sea-pens . 276 The Shoeblack . 316 The Spanish Smugglers’ Cave . 192 The Sponge Family . 292 The Street Orderly . 149 The Strombus Gigas and the Cypnea Tigris ... 380 * The subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain towards the woods* ... 376 The Swallow . 84 The Swift . 77 1'he Telegraph Boy . 116 ‘ The terrified pedlar rushed to the castle to tell what he had seen * . 52 The Tree-pipit . 228 ‘ The whole party was p iloted over the tumbling, eddying waters ’ . 364 The Wryneck . 221 The Young Shepherd and his Dog . 256 * This is the doctor of the regiment, sir, that you desired to see * 153 Thornback Skate swim¬ ming; Torpedo Ray ly¬ ing down . .308 Tiberius . 125 ‘To all the rider saw, he uttered just these two ominous words : “ The Press-gangl’” . 393 Tony (Illustrations to), 1, 16, 24, 25, 40, 48, 56, 64, 65, 80, 81, 89, 97, 105, 113, 121, 129, 144 To the Rescue . *152 Vagaries of Fashion . 17 ‘ Warburton i*ammed cloak and whip into the open j aws of the animal * ... 96 * “ We are aground ! ’’ cried the men in a breath* ... 377 ‘What have you got in there, my little friend ? * 29 When Laura Stanley saw her brother, she sobbed bitterly * . 13 ‘ When little Kittie saw her tail* . 148 ‘ When the last tent was put upon the big ele¬ phant, he looked like a mountain of canvas and cloth’ . 248 ‘ Where is your coat P * — ‘ Not got one ’ 36 ‘ Why, corporal, you are a brave fellow to have saved enough to buy a watch * 209 Wild Horses . 397 ‘ Young Hopson appears on the quarter-deck wi bh the French flag wound round his arm * . 108

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“Is there anytliiiig I can do now, gi'andfather ? ” Chatterbox.

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CHATTERBOX. TONY. CHAPTER I. T was evening, and Reuben Grist’s shop, or rather series of shops, in the Sheep - market at Clear- minster, had a few gas- jets lighted in the crowded windows. There were not many lights, for the spring days were growing long, and Reuben Grist, though rich and prosperous, was a very He was busy behind the counter, a pile of ready-made clothing, and careful man. looking over talking at the same time to his head assistant and right-hand man, John Jordan. You could buy anything at Grist’s, so the master of the establishment boasted ; from a flat iron to an oil-painting, from a baby’s rattle to a grand piano¬ forte. Clothier, cabinet-maker, iron-monger, and general dealer, Mr. Grist laid himself out to supply all the wants of the good people of Clearminster ; and to hear him talk one would have supposed that he did it simply and solely from a pure desire to do good to his fellow-creatures, without a single thought of that ^ chink chink ^ of the money in the till, which was the sweetest music to his ears. Three golden balls over one of the doors showed that Reuben added pawnbroking to his other trades, and up a side passage was the secluded entrance, where poor women who had seen better days, and children already sharp at driving a hard bargain, brought mysterious bundles early in the morning, or when the shades of night were closing in. Mr. Grist held up a short jacket to the fading light, examined it inside and out, pulled at the sleeves, felt in the pockets, finally folded it neatly, and added it to the pile on the counter before him. ‘Very satisfactory, Jordan — very satisfactory, indeed 1 ’ he said, putting a thumb in each armhole of his waistcoat, and drawing up his wiry little figure to its full height of something like five feet two inches. ‘These things have been thoroughly well preserved ; we shall be able to sell all of them as this season’s goods.’ ‘ Yes, sir, very good, sir,’ responded Jordan, who never thought of contradicting his employer; but Jordan’s concurrence was not enough for Mr. Grist, he turned sharply round, and stared for a moment without speaking at a tall boy who was standing beneath one of the gas jets, holding a book close to his rather near-sighted eyes. It was with no very pleased expression on his face that Reuben Grist looked at his grandson, and there was a decidedly acid note in the old man’s voice when he spoke again : — ‘Put down that book, will you, Ernest, and attend to me. What is the use of your coming into the shop of evenings, if your eyes are to be glued to a book all the while ? ’ The lad addressed as Ernest came slowly forward. ‘There are no customers just now, grandfather,’ he said. ‘ I thought you would not mind my reading a little.’ ‘ You thought ! you thought ! ’ repeated the old man with an impatient gesture. ‘If you were to think of what most concerns you, and try to get some insight into the business, it would be more to the purpose. A great growing fellow like you ought to be able to get his own living by this time. I did, at your age.’ Ernest smothered a sigh, and closed his book. ‘ Is there anything that I can do now, grandfather ?’ he asked. ‘ Yes,’ replied Mr. Grist tartly, ‘ you can listen to what I have got to say to you. You see these coats and vests — now, mind, if you are asked anything about them, you are to say that they are new goods, just received from London. If you hear Jordan asked about them, and he says so, you are to agree with him — do you understand ? — to agree with him in every particular.’ The boy flushed to the roots of his fair curling hair. ‘Excuse me, grandfather,’ he said, with evident hesitation, ‘ I saw Jordan fetch those clothes from upstairs, where they have been all the winter. I wish you would not ask me to say anything about them.’ ‘What is it to you, sir, where they have been?’ said his grandfather angrily. ‘ All you have got to do is to oi)ey instructions. A pretty pass things are coming to, when a young upstart like you is to know better than his elders ! I begin to think that all my trouble and expense are thrown away upon you, and that poor little shrimp of a brother of yours. I shall never get any return from either of you. Ernest made an effort to be calm before he answered. ‘Tony and I will do our best, sir,’ he said, as quietly as he could. ‘ We shall try to repay you for all your — your — goodness some day.’ ‘ Fine words butter no parsnips,’ sneered the old man. ‘ You may talk, but when it comes to doing you are not so ready, my fine fellow. Why did you not get that scholarship at school, and save me the bills which I have to pay every now and then ? ’ ‘You know, grandfather, that I was too young to compete, when the scholarship was offered,’ said Ernest. It was a sore subject, this of the scholar¬ ship, and he heartily wished that his grandfather had not referred to it ; but Mr. Grist, for some reason or other, was in a more than usually irritable and un¬ pleasant humour. ‘ You could have said you were fifteen,’ he retorted, ‘ and I would have backed you up. What difference would a few months have made to the school-people, I should like to know ? A great tall fellow like you would easily have passed in. But it was just one of your wretched wire-drawn scruples, and I tell you what it is, my lad, I am getting about tired of them. You can stay on at the Institute till the end of the term, and then you may choose between coming into the shop here, and doing as you are told — mind, doing as you are told — or else learning some other kind of trade to get your bread by. Books! books! they only fill your head with notions, and

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CHATTERBOX. 3 make you fancy yourself wiser than your elders. It is about time to turn over a new leaf, I think.’ With these words Grandfather Grist walked away, slamming the door behind him, as he went into his own little office at the back of the shop. Ernest was left to his own thoughts and to Jordan’s company. The lad would gladly have gone upstairs, to the room where his little brother waited eagerly for his coming; but he knew that his grandfather expected him to stay behind the counter until closing time, and the instinct of duty was strong in Ernest Hanson, boy though he was. Two or three late customers occupied Jordan, and then the junior assistants came with reports of the day’s doings, and accounts to be checked. It was a good while before the managing man was at liberty ; but as soon as there was a quiet moment he turned to Ernest. ‘ Master Ernest,’ he said, ^ I do not know what you may think of yourself, but, in my humble opinion, you have been behaving like a complete young idiot.’ The words, rough as they were, were not unkindly uttered, and Jordan, as he said them, laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and looked at him with a searching, half -quizzical glance. ^ I cannot help it, Jordan. If — if only grandfather would understand.’ Ernest’s voice sank almost to a whisper ; there seemed to him to be a sort of disloyalty in discussing his grandfather’s conduct, even with the confidential Jordan. ‘ A complete young idiot ! ’ the man repeated. ^ What does our respected governor ask ? Why, just that you should tell a white fib now and then, a mere flam, as it were. It goes against the grain, I dare say ; but, if you are not out of your senses, you will get over all that, quick sticks. The old gentle¬ man is about making his will. Pie has said as much to me; and lawyer Fearne has called twice lately. He has put it off, and put it off, but it will surely be done one of these days, and now is the very time that you ought to be trying to stand well with him. "Never mind your silly scruples ; think of your little brother, if you will not think of yourself. Try and keep your dish upright, and then the governor may do something handsome for both of you ; but if you don’t — mark my words, if you don't — your Uncle Samson will have everything, as sure as fate.’ Ernest stood as if lost in thought, while Jordan uttered this well-meant but worldly advice ; the grating sound of the outside shutters being fastened fell upon his ears as the welcome signal for release. * Good-night, Jordan, and thank you ; you mean to be kind, I know,’ he said, taking up his book. ‘ I suppose I can go now ? ’ ‘ Yes, but do not forget what I have said. Remember that your fine ideas will never keep you, even in shoe leather,’ said Jordan, by way of a last reminder. * Poor lads, poor lads ! ’ he muttered to himself, as he made the final preparations for his own departure. Ht is a pity they are not made of the same stuff as their grandfather and Mr. Samson. I am afraid it will go hard with them both, some day soon.’ {Continued at page 14:.) CLIMBING TOADS. Anybody who has watched the slow, lazy- . looking movements of the common English toad along a path, or amongst grass and herbage, would not be inclined to credit it with much skill in climbing. Probably he might be more likely to think that a toad could not climb at all. However, from the observations made by many persons, we know that most toads are able to perform this feat when they wish. One September day a gentleman was examining an outhouse, and he saw in a corner of the wall a toad which evidently was going to make an effort to climb, though the plastered wall might not have encouraged such an effort in a rat or mouse. Having flattened its body in the angle of the wall, this toad grasped with the hind feet whatever pro¬ jections it found on either side, then cautiously raised the body to the utmost stretch, and took hold with the fore legs. Loosening the hind legs, it drew them up, and felt for another place where they could be planted firmly, so, by slow degrees, occupying over an hour at the task, the toad safely mounted about six feet high on the wall. Coming nearer, the gentle¬ man saw what was the object of this gymnastic per¬ formance, as the toad entered a hole, which he had probably visited before, and coiled himself to have a nap. This was in the autumn, so the reptile might mean to remain there all the winter ; the singular part of the matter was — how would the toad descend For it seemed hardly possible it could crawl down, either head first or the hind part of the body — possibly the toad doubled itself up and dropped gently ; because the toad differs from its relative, the frog, in being unable to take a leap or jump. A remarkable fact in the toad’s history is that it breathes not only by the mouth, but also by the pores of the skin, and it cannot take breath through these unless the skin is kept quite moist. Now, during the winter sleep of a toad, as it does not drink, the .skin migbt become dry, which would stop its breathing. But this does not happen, because in the body of the reptile is a sort of reservoir, which contains a store of water, and, when there is need, some is carried by small vessels to the skin. Toads, like frogs, are fond of water ; the young toad, as a tadpole, is found in ponds, hatching about May ; the body and head seem all one, and the food is decayed vegetable substances. When the toad is fully formed, it chiefly eats insects. J . R. S. 0. THE WHISTLE. Translated frem the German (Wagner). WHEN I was about seven years old (writes the celebrated Franklin) on one of my holidays, my relations filled my pockets with coppers. I ran at once to a toyshop. On my way there, the sound of a whistle which I heard another boy playing, so delighted me, that I offered him all my money for ! this one plaything. He accepted the offer, and, I pleased with my bargain, I hurried home, and

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“ I offered all my money for this one plaything.” whistled all over the house with it, for it was as much joy to me as it was annoyance to the rest of the family. When my brothers and sisters heard what I had given for it, they told me that it was four times as much as the whistle was worth. I then thought what beautiful things I might have bought with the rest of the money. They laughed at me so much that I cried with vexation. Repent¬ ance made me more miserable than any pleasure the whistle had ever given me. But the occurrence was very useful to me. Often, when I was tempted to buy some useless thing, I said to myself, ^ Do not give too much for the whistle ! ^ and so saved my money.

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PUSSY AND THE BALL. PRETTY Jittle kitten, full of liveliness and glee, Was sitting on a window-sill intently watching me, Because there dangled from my hand a ball of wool so red, And every now and then it tapped the kitten on the head. I placed the ball upon my head and opened up my book, Still Pussy sat with folded paws and quite a sleepy look — Till suddenly she sprang upon my shoulder with a bound, And Pussy, with the b:ill of wool, came tumbling to the ground.

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6 CHATTERBOX. A LITTLE HERO. €HILDREN, listen to the story I will try my best to tell, Of a hero brave as any that in ^ battle nobly fell.’ It was not in long-past ages, nor in country far away, i>ut the scene was Bristol city, and it was the other day. And the hero of my story was a boy but six years old, Yet 1 think his name is worthy to be written up in gold. Johnnie Carr and Willie Stephens went out play¬ ing ill the street, WHlie was two years the younger, and his face was pale and sweet ; Little Willie ! pretty Willie ! many a stranger pass- ing by Turned and smiled at little Willie with his wide blue wondering eye. Johnnie Carr was strong and rosy, curly-haired, and hazel-eyed, Bright and merry — who can wonder Johnnie was his mother’s pride ? Yet there was a spark of mischief lurking in those dimpled cheeks, Though you never could be angry at his little thought¬ less freaks. Willie’s hoop, see, he has taken, running laughing on before; Little Willie tries to catch him, till he scarce can follow more : Then the tears come, yet he follows with his little weary feet, Follows to the fields and hedges far beyond the busy street ; Then he sits l3eside the pathway, crying in his child¬ ish woe, V\ eeping sadly for his mother, asking home again to go. Chilly is the autumn evening, quickly falls the deep¬ ening shade ; Johnnie takes the little hand and bids him not to be afraid. So a little while they wander, but they miss the homew'ard track, And the wind is blowing colder, and the night comes drear and black. ^Oh, I am so tired, Johnnie!’ little Willie sadly cries ; And I 111 cold and hungry , Johnnie !’ Tears are now in J ohnnie’s eyes : He has teased the ‘little fellow, he is full of sad remorse, ^Get up, Willie,’ he is saying; TIet up; I will be your horse.’ Then upon his back he took him, staggering on be¬ neath his load, Staggering just a little distance on the dark and friendless road ; But the burden was too heavy, and he set poor Willie down — Sorely puzzled now was Johnnie how to ffet to Bristol town. ^ Don’t be frightened, Willie,’ said he ; ^ we will stop out here to-night. We will find our way directly when there comes the morning light.’ On a gate they sat a little. Then said Johnnie, ^ Let us look. Perhaps within the field behind us we may find a sheltered nook.’ So into the field they clambered, and a sheltered nook they found. Where the little tired fellows laid them down upon the ground. But the sodden earth was chilly, and they shivered lying there. Little Willie, cold and hungry, sobbing for his mother’s care. Then got up pur little hero — he was only six years old. Yet he could not bear that Willie should be crying with the cold. In his brave love all unconscious, just in simple childish guise. Never thinking he is sharing in a mightier Sacrifice, Johnnie took his little jacket, laid it down to make a bed. And his other clothing simply over little Willie spread : Then himself laid down uncovered (save his little socks and shirt). Thinking, ' I am strong, but Willie’s weak, and I shall not be hurt.’ With a start there came to Johnnie sudden thought of One Who cares For His children, and he whispered, 'Willie, we for¬ got our prayers.’ There they knelt, the little fellows, side by side upon the sod. With their simple ' Our Father ’ casting all their care on God. Then once more they lay enfolded in each other’s arms so fast. And the night wind bleak and cruel froze them with its chilling blast. See those fathers, half distracted, friends and neigh¬ bours pressing near. Into every nook and corner how with eager haste they peer ! See those mothers, broken-hearted for their darlings, how they gaze Wheresoe’er the friendly lanterns high uplifted cast their rays ! Aye, but chiefiy, as the tide falls, longing much yet dreading more. Hollow-eyed the oozy ^mud-banks of the river they explore. Hour by hour of chill and darkness (oh, how slow the morning light !) In their hopeless search they wander all that long and dreadful night. It is morning: they have found them. Lo ! a labourer on his way Came upon them as still folded in each other’s arms they lay.

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They are breathing, barely breathing, all unconscious, cold as stone : Noble Johnnie ! pretty Willie ! yes, the life has not quite flown. , And they take them to a cottage, and they chafe each frozen limb; Little WiUie has been covered, there is better hope for him, . And the mothers stand there watching, and their tears are falling fast. Little Willie’s eyelids tremble ; yes, there s hope for him at last ! i u See the warm milk he has swallowed ! see, he sighs a little sigh I . i • i Then he smiles as on his mother he uplifts his large blue eye. But the little hero, Johnnie— ah! they chafe his limbs in vain ! Never shall his merry laughter echo through the house again. ^ m Faint and fainter comes his breathing, marble white that open brow ; WTio will dare to speak of comfort to those stricken watchers now ? ^0 my Johnnie! 0 my Johnnie! speak to me one little word ! ’ t • Sobbed the mother, but I know not whether Johnnie •even heard. Yet at once, as one awaking, with his eyelids open Just one word he whispered faintly — it was, ^ Willie ! then he died. In the churchyard Johnnie’s sleeping underneath the grassy mould : • i i • No one puts a stone upon it lettered with the tale in <’Neat^°this stone a little hero, Johnnie Carr of Bristol, lies, Who to save his little playmate gave his life a sacri¬ fice.’ Children, think how, when the nations gather round the mighty throne. He Who gave His life for others will claim Johnnie for His own. Think how full of strange sweet wonder will the gracious tidings be, <What thou didst to little Willie that I count as done to Me.’ Bishop Walsham How. going on, made up his mind to call on the old king and ask him how he did. . , , j ' Ah, my dear friend,’ said the lion, how good of you to come and see me ! But do not stand so far off : come near and speak a word of hope to your poor king, who has but a short time to live.’ ^ 0^1 V ‘ Ah,’ said the fox, * I fear I must not stay, though it grieves me to say so ; for, to tell you the the footmarks I see all point toward your den, and i think it strange that none of them point away from it.’ the artful fox. An old lion was so weak that he could no longer hunt for his prey. He therefore lay m his den, and gave out that he was so ill that he thought he should die. When the beasts heard of this they were very sorry, for they looked on the lion as^ their kino*. One by one they went to see him. This was iust what the lion wanted, for he could easily kill them one at a time, and he soon grew fat on his At last a fox, who thought he knew what was WALTBB DE LA TOUR. HE brave French knight, Walter de la Tour, was riding once in a lonely Syrian desert. Suddenly he heard in the distance a loud cry of agony. It must be some Arab robbers attacking a traveller, he thought, and ^ he sprang forward on his horse to¬ wards the place from whence the cry came. He found himself suddenly at the edge of a dark, narrow ravine. His horse trembled, reared, and refused to go on. The knight saw in front of him an enormous lion, whose eyes were glittering with pain and rage, and who was struggling with a huge snake, who had already wounded him in the body. Without stopping to consider, Walter drew his sword and with a powerful stroke cut the snake in half. When the lion found himself released from his dreadful enemy, he rose, roared loudly, shook his mane, stretched himself and then approached his deliverer. He crept softly to the young hero and licked his feet. From that time he never left him, but followed him like a dog, even on the battle- The knight remained for some years in the ' Holy Land ’ performing many brave deeds, and gaining a celebrated name. At last a great longing came over him to see his own country again, and he wished to take the faithful lion with him would take the lion on his ship, although the Knight offered four times more than the fare, and he was obliged at last to leave him behind and sail away *^'°When the lion found himself left behind, he raised i a loud and pitiful cry, and ran backward and for¬ ward along the shore in great distress. All at once, he stood still, gazed sadly after the ship, an^d then threw himself into the sea. The sailors who were watching him saw it, and determined to pick him up and take him with them. He wm already near to the ship, when his strength failed him. He gave one loving look at the knight from his clear, true eyes, and then he sank and perished.

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8 CHATTERBOX.

Page 16

CHATTERBOX. “ 1 want to speak to you particular.”

Page 17

10 CHATTERBOX. .REGGY AND NIGER. ms story is about a little boy called Beggy. He came all the way from India with his ayah to live in a big London 1 house in a big square. It was d^gl)fe/ ^ very big world to him iu those days, and he was much » afraid of his new relations. 1/ ^ There was Granny, who V il always lay on a couch, and Beggy thought he would not have been so afraid of her if he might have gone near to her.^ Granny was small and white and spoke in a tiny voice, but Aunt Emily always sent him away and kept guard over Granny’s couch, just as Niger kept guard over his cot, and she would say to Beggy, whenever he went up to Granny, ^Now, r — run along, dear.’ He would try to say it like Aunt Emily when he was alone in his cupboard with Niger, but he could never say ‘ r — run ’ quite in the same way. He certainly was afraid of Aunt Emily, who had rather a red face and was tall and grand, and walked with a quick stride like a man, and when she said, ‘ I will not allow it,’ Beggy used to shiver all down his back. Now this brings me to the story I am going to tell you about Beggy and his dog Niger. Oh, how much he loved Niger ! You may quite imagine how much, when you know that this doggy was all that he had left of the old home in India. Of course, he would see father and mother again some day, but it was a long, long time to wait yet. Nana had gone home, tooj after being with Beggy for a year! for Aunt Emily said ^she disorganized the house,’ and Beggy wondered what that could mean, and never thought Nana could do anything with such a big name as that. But Aunt Emily had said, ‘ I will not allow it,’ and Granny had said , ‘ Certainly, my dear ! ’ so Nana had left her boy in tears. Then Gibbs had been promoted in her place, because Aunt Emily said he was old enough to have his own servant to look after him. So Gibbs brushed and groomed his small master, and took him to school and led out his pony, and he and Gibbs had become friends, and Gibbs had told him ‘ that he had a sweetheart who was a fine girl,’ and Beggy had saved up his pocket-money for two weeks, to buy her a blue-bead necklace. Gibbs had even, in a fit of confidence, said that Aunt Emily was a 'nmnaging woman,’ which Beggy thought wrong of Gibbs, but he was rather pleased all the same. And now I must tell you about Beggy and Niger, because that is why this story is written. They were all at lunch one day in the large dining-room, all but Uncle Charlie, who only came sometimes, when he could get away on leave. ^ Beggy liked those days, for Uncle Charlie was a soldier, and he could admire him from his opposite seat at the dinner table. Aunt Emily sat at the head of the big table, Beggy at one side all by himself, with Gibbs behind him. He felt safe when Gibbs was there, for, when Aunt Emily said, ^I will not allow it,’ Gibbs came to the rescue. Granny was on her couch as usual by the fire — and the clock ticked loudly, Aunt Emily ate solemnly — Beggy ate as best he could with his eyes fixed on his plate. Presently Aunt Emily said, ‘ I have been extremely annoyed this morning,’ she turned as she spoke to Granny. ^ The white Sevres vase given me by dear Eleanor has been broken, I found it knocked off the table in the drawing-room, and I am sure that Niger has done it. He is always in and out of the drawing-room, and I will not allow it.’ ^ Dear, dear, how annoying ! ’ said Granny gently. ^ Are you sure it was Niger F' ^Perfectly sure,’ said Aunt Emily. ‘ No one goes near the room in the morning, and you could see that he had been up to the table. When Char.ie comes this afternoon I shall ask him to thrash Niger for it.’ Did Aunt Emily know that a bomb-shell had fallen on the table in the midst of her quaint glass and silver? Nine -years-old Beggy grew red, the rice pudding in his mouth turned into little pebbles which he could scarcely swallow. No ! Aunt Emily never looked at him, and saw nothing. The old clock ticked on, surely it did not tick as loudly as his heart. The roses on the table bloomed sweetly, but was not his own burning face redder than they ? Presently grace was said, and Beggy could go upstairs. Now I must tell you exactly what Beggy knew and what Aunt Emily did not know, so that you can follow the story clearly. That very morning was a Saturday, and he had not been to school. On those days he would often wander about the big house. Sometimes he would peep out of a back window and watch the children from the other houses. Sometimes he would creep into the drawing-room to look at mother’s picture, and gently call her by name. This morning he had gone into the drawing-room, not to look at the picture, but to see something else. The evening before, when he had come down¬ stairs, he had been much interested in the new bit of china given to Aunt Emily. It was a little white cherub on his back, holding up a fat little leg, and on his foot was balanced a tiny ball. This pleased Beggy very much. He wondered how he could keep the ball steady, and why it did not fall off and break. He tried to hold the cherub and ball in his hand, but he was afraid of Aunt Emily. So after breakfast the next morning he crept downstairs, and then he played with the treasure. In an unlucky moment he had dropped it, Beggy gave it one look and saw that the leg was broken, and in fear and despair he had rushed out of the room and left it lying on the floor. This is what Beggy had done, and for which his dear Niger was blamed and was to be thrashed. The afternoon ride on the pony with Gibbs was a dreary one. In vain did the faithful Gibbs try to interest him. The blue necklace was discussed, the pony’s points were run over, Niger’s cleverness was praised. Aunt Emily’s managing ways — nothing roused the little lad. ‘ You seem lone-like. Master Keggy,’ said Gibbs at last. ^ Yes, I have something on my mind,’ he replied sadly, but at the same time distantly. So Gibbs said no more, and they jogged along

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>1 CHATTERBOX. 11 together. Beggy held the reins very slack, and even forgot to admire the spurs given him by Uncle Charlie. ... x x r. As they neared home Reggy said, I want to be all by myself, Gibbs ; before tea I have to think out a plan/ ‘ Yes, sir,’ answered Gibbs. Then Reggy wearily ascended the many stairs which led up to his room, and, when he had taken off his things, he and Niger crept into the bottom of the old cupboard, where they so often sat together. There they remained in silence for some time ; he buried his face in IN iger’s shaggy coat, and Niger watched with anxious eyes. Presently Reggy heard the distant sound of a knock at the front door. He heard it faintly, but he knew that it was Uncle Charlie. The knock¬ ing* seemed to go on in his own heart, and he won¬ dered, sadly, if he had a little knocker and front door in his own inside. ^ I have got something particular to do, he said to Niger, ‘ and I will not be afraid, but I will be brave, yes, I will be brave, doggie,’ and he kissed Niger s nose. And then Reggy got up, and, not waiting to smooth his ruffled locks, he crept silently down to the room known as Uncle Charlie s study. I think you must feel sorry for him at that moment, as he stood outside the door, for to him it was a terrible trial. He knocked gently. ^ Come in,’ said Uncle Charlie. ^ It’s me,’ Reggy said, almost in a whisper. ^ All right, come in, boy.’ p,0ggy entered. Uncle Charlie was seated at the fire, there was a smile in his eyes, and he looked up. < I want to speak to you particular,’ said Reggy. ' What is it ? ’ and Uncle Charlie’s blue eyes became serious. _ , , ' Has— has Aunt Emily told you about Niger / ‘ Yes, she has, and I am going to thrash the little beggar for it.’ r -x ‘ Uncle Charlie, you — you — must thrash me, tor it was me that did it.’ There was no beating about the bush, no excuse, just the plain truth. i . He looked at the boy as he stood there, with ns figure drawn erect, his eyes intently gazing into his ^'^Uncle Charlie’s mouth twitched the least bit, and he said quietly : ^ So it is you who ought to be thrashed, and not Niger. Why did you not tell Aunt Emily ? ’ . i j ‘ Because — ^because I was afraid to. ^ a will still thrash Niger instead, if you wish, said Uncle Charlie. . — no. It must be me, I did it. 1 broke it. This time the tears welled up into his eyes. • ‘Well, be it so,’ said Uncle Charlie, and he took down a little cane from a shelf saying, ' hold out your hand.’ . , ^ xu ‘Oh, Uncle Charlie,’ he said, as one— two— three strokes came down on the little palm. But Reggy did not cry. ^ tt i ‘You can come back in half an hour, said Uncle Charlie, and the boy turned about and left the room with a firm step. And then he and ^iger went into the old cupboard, and Niger comforted him, but he never told Niger about his hand, or let him know what he had done. He felt happier now it was over, and somehow he thought he would like to hug Uncle Charlie, only it would be babyish. He crept out once or twice to find out the time from Gibbs, and at the end of half-an-hour he was standing again at the study door. {Concluded at page 19.) SPINHINTG SNAILS. PROBABLY only a few readers have taken notice of the habits of snails and slugs, humble craw¬ lers or del vers, which are common everywhere, and often regarded with a sort of dislike. Of course, many of them are troublesome to the gardener, but others have the character of being harmless, and all have much that is curious connected with their a]^ pearance or history. For example, it may seem odd to speak of snails as spinners, yet most of them are, both the land and water species. Spinners, we say, because they draw or produce a thread; this, however, is not of a silken nature, like that belonging to a spider or to a caterpillar. The thread of the snail is a sort of slime which comes out of the body and leaves a track on the ground. To make ^ this slime, moisture is needed, and that is why snails delight so much in rainy or damp weather, while a long drought is verv trying to them. Some snails, indeed, spend all, or nearly "all. tlielr water, making their home in ponds and ditches. The aquatic species form threads as well as those that live upon the land. Mr. Warrington found, on trying a specimen taken from a pond, that its thread was strong enough for fiim to lift up the snail by it. Some of the water snails have a tiny bag or sac, which they fill with air. This enables them to breathe under the water. Should this bag be quite full, they can remain on tho top, but, when it is emptied, they sink to the bottom. A naturalist, who had a party of snails in an aquarium, found that they spun threads more than a foot long, which lasted for three weeks, and lie believes that in ponds they often have threads twice or thrice that length. Some kinds can only make a descending thread: they lower themselves from a leaf or stem under the water, but they are not able to climb up. The common slugs of the garden som^ times shorten a journey by letting out a thread, and then dropping part of the distance ; a slug may some¬ times be seen swinging at the end, if i^he wind blows, waiting for a chance to descend safely. There iS a little water snail, called the ihysa. While they are young, these creatures make quite a network of threads — fairy ladders one might call them— upon which they travel to and fro for weeks, twisting and twirling about in a curious fashion. Amongst the snails of the sea there are seve^l thread -spinners, which secure themselves on the rocks, when the tide dashes upon them, to prevent their being swept away. The slime, from which such threads are made, is most important to the slugs, since, having no shell, it helps to protect them from tlie heat of the sun. J -

Page 19

“ I cannot sell the wag of his tail when I come home at night. THE GERMAN AND HIS DOG. A GENTLEMAN walking with his little boy past the cottage of a German labourer, the boj’s attention was attracted by a little dog. The boy took a fancy to him and wished his father to buy him. Just then the master came home from his labours, and was met by the dog with every sign of joy. The gentleman said to the owner, * My boy has taken a fancy to your dog, and I should like to buy him.’ ‘ I cannot sell that dog,’ replied the German. * I will give a sovereign for him,’ said the gentleman. * Thank you,’ the German answered, ‘ I know he is a very poor dog, but there is one little thing belong¬ ing to that dog which I cannot sell — I cannot sell the wag of his tail when I come home at night.’

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CHATTERBOX. 13 “ When Laura Stanley saw lier brother, she sobbed bitterly.” A SAD MEETING. ! HILTP STANLEY was one of the many young men avIio have fallen victims to the temptations of a great city. From bad to worse he went, until he was charged with having broken into his employer’s office, after business hours, and with having stolen from the cash-box a large sum of money. At the time of the trial his favourite sister was called as one of the witnesses. She had not seen Philip since his arrest and imprisonment, but she was obliged to come forward and tell what she knew of his movements on the night of the crime. As Laura Stanley stood in the witness-box, and saw her brother with whom she had played in childhood in such a terrible position, her courage failed her, and she sobbed bitterly. Even the officials, used as they were to such scenes, were touched by her distress, and the examining barrister let her go with as few questions as possible. The evidence which Laura gave helped, rather than hindered, her brother’s cause. In the end he was acquitted, for, though a companion of those who had done the wrong, he had not himself been present. Alarmed by the danger in which he had been placed, he listened to Laura’s advice, and to that of his father and mother. He crossed the seas to one of our great colonies, and there he began a new and better life with honest friends to help him. C. J. Blake. LITTLE CHICKEN. AM a little chicken, hear me peep, peep, peep, My mother’s gone away and I have no place to sleep. 1 feel a little lonely, but I will not say a word, I do not like to be a chicken, I wish I were a bird. I think I sing (piite nicely, hear me peep, peep, peep. Or, woet, a weet, a weet weet, cheep, cheep, cheep. Now, is not that the best song you ever, ever heard ? It is really very easy to be a little bird. Now, when other little chicks are scratching in the dirt. Or running to their mothers for fear they will be hurt, I will he singing far away, not so far I can’t be heard, I want them all to know I am no chicken ; Tm a bird. What is that up in the heavens.^ It is a hawk, I really fear ; If I could but find my mother,! would be glad to see her near ; ^ Cluck, cluck,’ that is mother calling, sweeter sound I never heard ; I am glad I am a chicken — I do not want to be a bird. C. B. Allen.

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14 GHATTlilRBOX. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 1. — Word Making. (a.) — 1. First person singular of a very irregular verb (two letters). 2. Wipe your boots upon it. 3. A place of trade. 4. Public conveyances. 6. Flowing water. 6. Seen upon the water. 7. Floating on the wind. <B.) 1. A letter used as a word. 2. A preposition. 3. A covering for the head. 4. To feel a strong dislike. 5. The seat of the affections. 6. A menace. 7. A place of amusement. (c.)— 1. A consonant. 2. To perform. 3. An instrument of punishment. 4. To let fall. 5. To fade away, to languish. (d.) — 1. A consonant. 2. The infinitive of an irregular verb. 3. To lay a wager. 4. To strike ; to gain an advantage. 5. An animal. 6. The home of one kind of animal. 7. Struck by some sudden calamity. (e.)— 1. An important pronoun of one letter. 2. A word expressing existence. 3. To assume a position of rest. 4. To tear. 5. Seen on the roofs of houses, also on the ^ound. 6. Quiet, not speaking. 0. C. 2. — Geographical Anagrams. 1. Lone tram. A city in Canada, situated on a beau¬ tiful island in the river St. Lawrence. 2. Lose me, R. A village in Roxburghshire famed for a very beautiful abbey. 3. My seer. A river in the north of England. 4. Rod, fox. A city in England. 5. He rides for her. A county in England famous for its apples. 6. Red mats, ma. A city in Holland, one of the most commercial cities in Europe. 7. Handle owl, N. Another name for part of Australia. 8. Lamb, Aar. A province on the west coast of Southern Hindustan ; a part of it is well cultivated, and it contains many forests. 9. Grace, hat. A once powerful city in the north of Africa, of which only ruins are now to be seen. 10. Tom sees her, sir. A county in the south of England ; it possesses two Cathedral cities. 11. Ely, Ned. A celebrated city in Holland with a famous IFniversity; it stands on 50 islands, and has 145 bridges. 12. Ram, coin. An island in the Mediterranean. 13. Get my room, N. A town in South Wales con¬ taining the remains of a tower and castle. 14. A top again. A southern country of South America. C. C. [Ansivers at page 31.] TONY. (Continued from page 3.) CHAPTER II. the sitting-room upstairs, over the shop, a boy of about nine years of age v^^as seated at a table, drawing. His attempt to copy the picture before him, crude as it was, showed no small talent in one so young and so entirely untaught ; but the little artist had grown weary of his solitary task. Now and then he laid down the pencil, and every time the door creaked, or there was the least sound outside, he looked up expectantly. When at last there was a step upon the stairs, and the door really opened, Tony swept aside paper and pencil alike, and with a cry of gladness went across the room to meet his brother. When he got down from the high-chair, the little fellow’s bodily defects wpe seen at once. He was slight and under-sized, with one shoulder higher than the other. Antony Hanson — Tony, as he was always called — bore but small resemblance to the tall, well-grown Ernest. Ernest’s fair, curling hair and blue eyes were not repeated in Tony, and the healthy complexion of the elder boy contrasted strongly with the white face of the younger one. ‘ That child is a Grist all over,’ old Hannah would say, remembering the pale cheeks and dark hair and eyes of the boy’s dead mother; but, although Tony in outward appearance was like his mother’s family, in mind and disposition he, too, followed the father whom he could never remember to have seen. We must go back for twenty years in order to tell how it was that these two boys came to be living as they were under their grandfather’s care, with no other near relations in the world. Twenty years ago, then, the Sheep-market at Clearminster, the large open space in front of Reuben Grist’s shop, was still really used on market- days for the buying and selling of sheep, and the narrow streets -in the neighbourhood resounded on Mondays and Saturdays with the hoarse cries of drovers, the barking of dogs, and the bleating of sheep. The shops around had still at that time their old-fashioned fronts and small-paned windows, and Mr. Grist’s establishment was not nearly so ex¬ tensive as it became later, though even then he did a thriving trade, and was very well-to-do. He was a widower, for the second time, with an only daughter and a step-son, Samson — the ‘Uncle’ Samson of whom Jordan had spoken to Ernest. Samson was the son of the first Mrs. Grist b}’’ her former marriage with Reuben’s distant cousin, so that, though he bore the same surname, his relation¬ ship to Linna, Reuben Grist’s daughter, was really of the slightest. Samson and Linna, though they were brought up together, were of such different characters that they had very little in common.

Page 22

CHATTERBOX. 15 When they walked on Sundays with Mr. Grist to St. Matthew’s, the ancient church in the corner of the Sheep-market, they had hardly a word to say to one another, and, when young Samson grew up, he soon became too restless and ambitious for his quiet Clearminster home. With his step-father s consent he went away to London, where he got on ^yell in the situation which was found for him, married his employer’s daughter, a woman ten years his senior, and was soon in a fair way to make his fortune. He remained in close correspondence with his Clearminster friends, and Reuben frequently referred to his step-son Samson as to a pattern of all that a successful man of business ought to be. Linua was a very quiet and retiring girl, dutiful to her widowed father, most regular in her attend¬ ance at church, and deeply • interested in work amongst the poor of the parish and the school- children. It was not strange, then, that when the Reverend Antony Hanson, a poor, but clever young clergyman, came as curate to St. Matthew s, he should fall in love with little Miss Grist, who was always so kind and helpful in a quiet and modest way. , Reuben Giist was not at all pleased when he heard of this. He did not wish to have a penniless son-in-law, he said, and Mr. Hanson had nothing but the hundred pounds a year which his curacy brought him. It was with great reluctance that Reuben at last allowed the marriagOj and even then he had little love for Antony Hanson. For a few years Linn a and her husband were truly happy, in spite of this trouble. They were so entirely at one in all their hopes and aims that they could not help being so. Their first child, Ernest, was a great joy to them both, but the little brother who came second died in a few months, and so did the next child, a girl. When Tony was born he was a frail and sickly infant, and before he was a year old an epidemic of fever swept over the town of Clearminster, and especially over the parish of St. Matthew’s. Mr. Hanson was untiring in visiting the sick and dying, but, though he took every precaution, the disease struck him down. His death, after a week’s illness, was such a blow to his loving wife that she soon followed him to the grave, and the orphan boys were left to the guardian-ship of their grandfather, and, fortunately for them, to the tender care of old Hannah, the faithful housekeeper, who had once watched over their mother’s childhood. But for Hannah, Tony’s frail little life would soon have flickered out; but she nursed the fretful, ailing baby through years of childish ill¬ ness, and now pointed vvith pride to her master s younger grandson, assuring her friends that no tongue could tell what that precious darling had come through.’ At nine years old Tony was but a poor creatu^, when contrasted with other boys of his age ; but he was wonderfully better and stronger than his suffering infancy had promised, and, frail as he his brother Ernest loved him with a strength ot affection all the deeper because there must be no tokens and words of endearment before their grand¬ father. To Mr. Grist such things were ‘ sentiment or * nonsense ; ’ it was only when they were alone, or with kind Hannah, that the elder brother could let the little one feel how much he was beloved. Even then Ernest had not many words, but he spoke from his heart sometimes. * You know, Tony, you are all that I have in the world, of my very own, to love,’ he had said once ; and Tony, looking up into the young face, bent over him to say good-night, had felt in his childish mind a deep sense of trust in, and love for, his big clever brother, and had sunk to sleep feeling safe and happy, because Ernest loved him, and would always take care of him. • i i > * Oh, Ernest, you have been a long time to-night . Tony began, pulling Ernest towards a large ^ chair near the fi.replace, and curling himself up in his favourite position on the heathrug. ^ I thought you were never coming ; and Hannah has been busy with her spring-cleaning, and I have been all by myself for hours and hours.’ ‘ Well, what have you been doing to amuse your¬ self, little man ? ’ said Ernest, with a sort of resolute cheerfulness ; his own troubles, whatever they might be, must not be suffered to shadow the bright evening hour to which Tony always looked forward. ‘ Draw¬ ing, have you? Let me see. Oh, that is famous. We shall have you growing up to write R.A. after your name, and painting grand pictures which will make both our fortunes.’ Tony laughed, and pulled out from the table drawer a handful of other sketches for Ernest to look at ; some were copies of pictures which Hannah — choosing as well as her unskilled judgment would allow— had brought home for her darling when she went on the household errands; and some were quaint fancies of his own, faces peeping frorn behind clouds, fairies perched on mushrooms or snail shells, and one set of queer little drawings which the in"enious child had executed, in red and black ink, to"illustrate the ballad of / John Gilpin,’ at which he was never weary of laughing. Tony had discoveied John Gilpin for himself, in an old-fashioned copy of Cowper’s poems which had fallen behind Walkers Dictionary and the big Gazetteer, in Grandfather Grist’s poorly furnished book-case, and had lam there for years. , ^ , , The little boy had found out about Cowper’s hares, too, and read the history of Puss, Tiny, and Bess, over and over again, with ever-increasing dehght. He had made pictures of the hares, as he did of everything that pleased him very much ; and Ernest could not help noticing how the child’s untaught pencil had given something of a distinctive character to each of the gentle poet’s pets. ' If Tony could really learn drawing, he would be very clever, I am certain,’ said Ernest once ^ to Hannah; but Mr. Grist had no idea of spending money, as yet, upon lessons for Tony. He thought that he did a great deal when he paid the moderate fees for Ernest’s education at the Clearminster Institute School. . . The world within the four walls of the sitting-room was quite another world from that in which Grand¬ father Grist and Jordan, in the shop below, had their being; and Ernest, in his happy talk with Tony, forgot the cares which were soon to press upon him’ far more heavily than they had ever done befom. {Continued at page 22.)

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CHATTERBOX. 17 Vagaries of Fashion.

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18 CHATTERBOX. VAGARIES OP PASHION, '' T was in the reign of Queen Anne that extravagance in head-dressing reached its height, and a most ridiculous height it was. Heads were literally built up. A scaffolding was filled with tow and plas¬ tered outside with a kind of mortar made of flour and grease, to make the real hair and the false blend together. It was then drawn over the frame-work sometimes to the height of a yard from the top of the head, then decorated with feathers, ribbons, and singular objects such as carts, little pigs, and stage-coaches. These enormous structures rendered it very dangerous to bow, for fear of toppling over. On special occasions, when social functions took place in the morning, these absurdities increased to such an extent that the silly victims of an outrageous fashion were unable to rest in bed. They had to spend the night in a chair bolt upright, and afraid to doze lest the whole erection should be crushed and spoiled. The maids administered stimulants during the night, sometimes tea, sometimes something stronger. A head properly made up was supposed to last for nine weeks in summer. ‘MY MOTHER.’ The following beautiful lines were found, written in pencil, on the fly-leaf of a Bible left in one of the cells in the Cincinnati Workhouse. Their authorshm was traced by Superintendent Morgan to a young Englishman who had been sent there for an offence against the law, and who died of brain fever before the end of his sentence : — ^ I have wandered far away, mother. Far from my happy home, And left the land that gave me birth. In other climes to roam. And Time since then has rolled his years, And marked them on my brow. Yet still I think of thee, mother, I am thinking of thee now. Then brightly was my soul lit up thoughts of future joy. While your bright fancy garlands wove, To deck thy darling boy. * I would not have thee know, mother. How brightest hopes decay ; The tempter with his painful cup Has dashed them all away. And shame hath left its venom sting. To rack with anguish wild ; Yet still I would not have thee know The sorrows of thy child. ^ I am lonely and forsaken, mother. No friend is near me now To soothe me with a tender word. Or cool my burning brow. The dearest ties affection wove Are all now torn from me : They left me when my troubles came. They did not love like thee. ^ I know you would not chide, mother. You would not give me blame. But soothe me with a tender word. And bid me hope again. I am lonely and forsaken, mother, IJnpitied and unblessed. Yet still I would not have thee know How sorely I’m distressed. ^ I have wandered far away, mother, Since I deserted thee. And left thy troubled heart to break Beyond the deep blue sea : Yet, mother, still I love thee well, I long to hear thee speak, And feel again thy balmy breath Upon my careworn cheek. ^ But, ah ! there is a thought, mother, Pervades my beating breast, That thy freed spirit may have flown To its eternal Best. And as I wipe the tears away There whispers in my ear A voice that speaks of Heaven, mother, And bids me seek thee there.’ THE GREEDY FOX. ‘ I am thinking of the time, mother. When with such anxious care You lifted up your heart to Heaven ; Your hope, your trust was there. Fond memory brings the parting glance While tears rolled down my cheek ; The last, long loving look told more Than ever words can speak. ‘ When by thy gentle side, mother. You watched my dawning youth. And kissed me in your pride, mother ; Taught me the word of truth. A Fable. ONE dark night two hungry foxes came into a farmyard to feed upon the poultry. When they had eaten several hens and chickens, one of the foxes said to his companion, ‘ I have had quite enough now, let us be off ; ’ but the other replied, ‘ If you have had enough, I have not ; we will stay a little longer : it is not often that we get such a good feed as this without being disturbed.’ They had not remained many more minutes, before a great noise of bellowing among the cattle awoke the farmer and his dogs. Then the foxes without more ado jumped over the wall and tried to escape. The wise fox.

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CHATTERBOX. 19 who had eaten sparingly, managed to get safely away, but his friend the glutton was not so for¬ tunate, and he was soon overtaken by the dogs and killed. This fable is a warning against gluttony, and also illustrates the saying, ‘Enough is as good as a feast.’ H. Berkeley Score. REG-GY AND NIGER. [Concluded from page 11.) UNCLE CHARLIE seemed to hear him even before he knocked, for he said, ‘Come in. So he went in, and Uncle Charlie did not look up, but only said, ‘So you have made it up with Niger, and now we will go together and tell Aunt Emily.’ This was a new idea, and Reggy hesitated. ‘ Come,’ said Uncle Charlie with a smile ; ‘ we will go and see Aunt Emily, and then forget all about it.’ Aunt Emily was alone in the drawing-room — Reggy could see the broken cupid lying on the table. Uncle Charlie said, ‘ We have something to tell you.’ Aunt Emily looked up sharply , and her eyes turned from one to the other. Then they rested on Reggy, ami she said, ‘ What has he been doing ? ’ ‘ Speak up,’ said Uncle Charlie. Then Regsry pulled himself together; he said, ‘It was me. Aunt Emily — I^I broke it — not Niger.’ ‘ And why did you not say so ? ’ said Aunt Emily sharply. ‘ Because I was afraid,’ and his eyes drooped under Aunt Emily’s look. ‘ Yes, he was afraid^ said Uncle Charlie softly ; ‘and now he has confessed, and has had the punishment intended for Niger.’ Aunt Emily got up quickly. ‘ Afraid — afraid of whom ? ’ she said, ‘ not afraid of me. Good gracious, the child is not afraid of me ! ’ and she looked very red. ‘ Yes,’ whispered Reggy ; ‘ I was afraid ! ’ ‘ Then never be afraid again, you little goose,’ she said crossly, striding towards the door and brushing away an imaginary fly from the corner of her eye. ‘ I cannot think how a child can be afraid of me ; it was very naughty of you, but I forgive you,’ and Aunt Emily went quickly out of the room. Then Uncle Charlie and Reggy went back to the study. ‘ Now we will say no more about it,’ said "Uncle Charlie. Presently he called Reggy to him, and put his arm around him and said, ‘ I have something to show you.’ ‘ What is it ? ’ said the boy, interested at once. Uncle Charlie took up a photograph and placed it in his hand. ‘ What do you think of it ? ’ he said. ‘ She is very pretty, almost as pretty as my mother,’ said the boy. ‘ Well, that is a real compliment,’ and Uncle Charlie smiled. ‘ Is she — is she your sweet’art,’ said Reggy, fixing a gaze on Uncle Charlie. ‘ Gibbs has a sweet’art, and he says she is a fine girl.’ ‘ Yes — she is my sweetheart,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘And did you give her some beads? I gave Gibbs’ sweet’art some blue beads, and saved up my money for two weeks.’ ‘ That was awfully good of you,’ said Uncle Charlie ; and then he added, ‘ She is going to be your new aunt some day, Reggy, and I have told you lh‘st of all about it, and I want to introduce you to her because I am proud of you, and you are a gentleman.’ Did he hear those words aright ? ‘ Uncle Charlie proud of Aim and ke a gentleman,’ he blushed up to the roots of his curly hair. His heart swelled with pride. Uncle Charlie, the big soldier, ‘ proud of Aim,' This time he did not wait to think if he was a baby. His two arms dragged Uncle Charlie down and they both went round his neck, and he hugged him with all his might. That night Reggy was very happy, and when he said his prayers, he ended up with ‘ Pray God make me always a gentleman.’ And the wonders of that day were not quite over yet, for, as he lay in bed and listened as usual for Aunt Emily’s footstep and the rustle of her dress as she went down to dinner, the footstep stopped at the door of his little room and Aunt Emily came in. She still looked rather red, and Reggy thought she reminded him of one of the proud sisters in Cin¬ derella. ‘ Are you all right ? ’ she said stiffly, as if not knowing what else to say. ‘ Yes, thank you. Aunt Emily.’ Then Aunt Emily came quickly up to the cot, as if she had made up her mind to say something more. ‘ Child,’ she said, and she looked very stern, ‘ do not be afraid of me again.’ ‘ No, Aunt Emily.’ ‘ Come, Reggy, give me a good-night kiss.’ Then he stood up in his night-shirt and held up his face. ‘No, no — not like that,’ said Aunt Emily, ‘a kiss like you give mother.’ Reggy’s little heart was warm, and he put out his arms to Aunt Emily and kissed her red cheek as if his heart was in it, and it was, for all children are drawn to real love. ‘ Will you try and love me a little, Reggy,’ said Aunt Emily. ‘ I love every hair of your little head, child,’ and she laid her hand on the shining locks. ‘ Yes — I will and I do,’ said Reggy with big eyes. Then Aunt Emily kissed him many times, and brushed away many imaginary flies from the corners of both eyes and from the tip of her nose. After which she tucked him up, and Reggy nestled down and went fast a'^leep. And somehow after that things changed. Uncle Charlie and Reggy became great friends. After a bit, several little children found their way to the big London house to play with him. It may have been Uncle Charlie’s plan, but I do not know for certain. Anyhow, Reggy was happier, and he still kept on being a gentleman, and if he felt tempted to do wrong he would whisper to himself, ‘ No — I am a gentleman.’ And he grew less afraid of Aunt Emily, and began to love her, and he was allowed to sit by Granny’s side and to talk to her. I could tell you a good deal more about him,

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Eeggie’s Confession. how he grew bigger and stronger, and how after a time he went to Eton, and how he stuck to beincp a gentleman all the time. ^ And there were many happy days to follow when a sweet-eyed mother and a soldier father came home and were very proud of their boy, and how they and Uncle Charlie and the new Aunt and Aunt Emily one day all went down to Eton to see him receive a prize, and how many good things his master said about him, and how his comrades all cheered. And amongst them all with the sharpest voice and the fiercest eye was Aunt Emily, but amongst them all there was no heart so glad and so proud as hers. E. Hombbsham.

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CHATTERBOX 21 SHOEING A HORSE. WHAT are you looking at, Willie? and why Do you laugh till you really seem ready to cry ? Come, tell to your mother the thing that you see, "What interests Willie will interest me.’ ‘ Oh, mother ! ’ laughed Willie, ' be quick and come The blacksmith’s so busy, and— is it not queer ?— He is making a horse, it is just about done, For he is nailing his foot on ! Oh, is it not fun r

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22 CHATTERBOX. A’ CURIOUS GLASS. N Englishman who was just returning from — Africa brought home with him a negro as his servant. The boy had always been used to hot countries, and had never seen water in its solid form as ice. One morning he came into his master’s room carrying a large piece of ice, and exclaiming, ^ See, master, what a large piece of glass I have found.’ His master, by way of a joke, told him to put it in the oven to dry. Very soon he came back carrying the partly melted ice, and saying, ‘ See, master, this is the queerest glass I ever saw ; the more I dry it the wetter it gets ! ’ TONY. {Continued from page 15.) CHAPTER III. I H E end of the term came but too soon ; if any doubt as to whether his grand¬ father really meant to keep his word had lingered in Ernest’s mind, it was quickly set at rest by the order he received to bring home all his books, and other school properties, as there were to be no more school-days for him. ^ . 'And now,’ said Mr. m ^ ani going to do the handsome thing by you and iony ; I am going to send you into the country for a week or two. It shall not be said that my grandsons never get a holiday, like other lads ; and Mother Scandrett has sent word that she is ready to receive you.’ Mrs. Scandrett, a comely old lady who called every week at the shop, with butter and eggs, was in the habit of letting rooms in her comfortable farmhouse, to persons from the town who wished re^ and change, or country air. She made no difhculty about taking the two Hanson boys for a fortnight, and Ernest, though much surprised at his grandfathers unwonted kindness, could not possibly guess that, just then, Mr. Grist was very glad to get himself and Tony out of the way. .Though the place to which they went was only f^ennailesaway from Clearminster, the bovs, ]'£ j 1 known it, were leaving their old life behind them. When they returned it would be to nnd an altered world. . ^ I am g^ing to make changes here,’ said Reuben Grist to Jordan, as soon as the boys’ backs were turned. There is Hannah getting past her work, and tit only to come upon the parish. But I shall do better than that for her; I have got her elected to one of the almshouses, and she shall go to it while he lads are away. There will be no nonsense then, no crying over Tony, none of the fuss that women are so fond of making. Then I have asked Samson and ujs wife to come down for a week or two — they will be here to-morrow. I want Samson to look at those houses I have bought in the Crofton Road, and Mrs. Samson can find me a new house-keeper, and look after the maid in the kitchen for a few days, till we get one.’ Mr. Grist paused, but getting no reply from Jordan, excepting the usual, Wery good, sir,’ he began again. ' You see, Jordan, there is a talk of my being chosen for Mayor this year ; that is one reason why I want Samson’s advice. If he can see his way to lending me a helping hand here, I shall be able to draw out of things a little, and give more of my valuable time to the interests of the town. I can tell you they are beginning to think a deal of my opinion at the Town Council meetings. It will take a lot of arranging, of course, but I have been think- ing of getting Samson to come into partnership with me, and giving you a share in the concern, too, and - ’ The old gentleman broke off to attend to customers. ^ You know I am going to make my will,’ he went on, when they were gone. ' Yes, sir, so I have understood you to say,’ replied the cautious Jordan. ^ There is no hurry about it — no hurry at all,’ Reuben went on. man of my health and habits has a good ten years before him at seventy-two. But I shall do it while Samson is with me. I shall remember you, Jordan, and shall do some¬ thing— yes, something— for the boys. Not much, I tell you ; I have no mind to leave my money to bolster up Master Ernest Hanson’s pride. But the little one, maybe, will grow up to have more sense ; a cool hundred or two might meet his case I am thinking.’ ’ So Reuben Grist talked and planned; foreseeing many possible changes, but never the one change which is sure to come, and to make all others shrink into insignificance. He carried out his plans so far as to hurry the weeping and bewildered Hannah away to the almshouse, and to instal Samson Grist’s wife, for the time being, in charge of domestic matters at the house in the Sheep- market. ^ Hannah, weak and aged, and without near relations, had hoped to end her days in Mr. Grist’s service ; she had never taken seriously her master’s talk about the almshouse, and was overwhelmed when she found herself, and her small possessions, set down in the midst of the bare, white-washed room, which did not look as though it could ever be made into a home, even for a poor old woman. But her most sorrowful thoughts were not for herself. ‘My Tony, my blessed child, what will he do when^he comes back and finds no Hannah to care for him ? This was the question she repeated over and over again, each time with increasing fears, for the little she had seen of Mrs. Samson Grist made her tremble for delicate Tony, with his need of love and tenderness. ‘Poor lamb ! poor lamb ! I only hope his grand- mther will let him come here to me, sometimes.’ I his was her concluding reflection, and with this the good old soul began, as she phrased it, ‘ to make the best of a bad business,’ and to to get the place which

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CHATTERBOX. 23 was henceforth to be her home into something like order. Mrs. Samson was in no hurry to find a successor to Hannah. She would stay herself for a month, she said, and look into things a little. The children in London — there were five of them there — would be well cared for by her maiden sister, their Aunt Emma, in their mother’s absence, and grandfather’s house must no longer be suffered to go to rack and ruin for want of attention. The lady had a notion that, under any other management than her own, or that of those like-minded with her, this state of ^ rack and ruin ’ was sure to come to pass. It would be a good thing, she argued, for Ernest and Tony to return from the country as soon as might be, so that she herself might talk to them, and make them — especially Tony — clearly understand that the days of Hannah’s foolish indulgence were entirely over, and that a new order of things was to begin. Meanwhile Keuben Grist and his stepson were having a very busy time, for Samson entered with zest into the idea of taking a partnership in the Clearminster business. He had boys of his own, who would soon be grown up ; it would be a capital thing for them, perhaps in the near future. Andrew, at sixteen, was as sharp as a needle, and Timothy, a year or two younger, was almost as bright. Going through the books with his step-father and Jordan, inspecting the stock with a keen, experienced eye, and making himself thoroughly acquainted with everything and everybody about the place, occupied Mr, Samson from morning till night. Mr. Grist put off the making of his will once more ; somehow he hated that task more than any other. It must certainly be done, but, for the present, the mere thought of it was distasteful. It suggested the end — and Reuben Grist was not a man who could ever think willingly of death. So he was as busy as Samson ; together they worked and planned, and together they went to look at the houses in the Crofton Road, Reuben’s latest invest¬ ment of his surplus capital. Crofton Road was the way to the village where Ernest and Tony were staying; just outside the town it ascended a hill, and on this rising ground were the bay-windowed villas inhabited by the pros¬ perous citizens of Clearminster. To leave the house over the shop, where very likely his father had lived before him, and to buy or rent one of the double- fronted stuccoed residences in Crofton Road, was the height of ambition with each young grocer or draper in the town. But Reuben Grist prided himself on being superior to such feelings as these ; he was content with the ownership of the new dwellings which, when they were all let, would bring in such a very substantial addition to his income. In the bright morning sunshine he and Samson walked round about them, regarding the nearly finished work with critical eyes ; two or three were already inhabited. Reuben opened the door of the last, which was j unoccupied, and went with sounding steps through j the empty rooms, pointing out everything to Samson. i ‘There is a capital cellar,^ the old man concluded. when every other nook and corner had been inspected. ‘ J ust come down and see.’ j Out of the brilliant sunshine, into the darkness of ‘ the cellar stairway, went Reuben with his stepson ' behind him, but the movement which landed him i upon the second of the rough brick steps was the last that he was destined willingly to make in this world. A careless workman, not expecting such a visit, had left a pail of whitewash and a brush upon the steps, and Reuben’s foot struck against the pail. He swayed to and fro, tried to clutch Samson’s outstretched hand, then fell heavily upon the hard floor of the cellar, and lay there in the darkness, without sound or motion. Samson shouted for aid, which was not long in coming ; but all that the little crowd of helpers — masons, carpenters, and one or two stray passers-by — could do was to carry Reuben Grist’s body up into the daylight, and let the stream of noontide sunshine show how entirely every vestige of life had flown. ‘ Sudden death of a well-known citizen 1 ’ called the boys who sold the Clearminster Trumpet about the streets that evening. ‘Fatal accident to Mr. Reuben Grist ! ’ was the announcement in the oifice window of the Banner, the rival paper ; and before the papers were out the news had travelled over to Crofton, though Samson, in his hurry and perplexity, had not yet thought of sending a message to the dead man’s grandsons. Ernest and Tony were in the orchard behind Scandrett’s farmhouse. The fruit-trees there were gnarled and old, and the rich grass grew long around the roots, spangled over with a wealth of golden buttercups. A light breeze playing amidst the branches sent down showers of fragrant pink and white petals upon the two heads bent eagerly over the same printed page, and the peaceful silence was only broken by the far-off note of the cuckoo, or the distant sounds of labour in the fields. The brothers had been sitting thus for more than an hour, and they would have lingered on till the summons came to their early tea had not Mrs. Scandrett’s portly figure suddenly appeared at the orchard stile. The good woman looked flurried and distressed, and there were traces of excitement in her voice as she called aloud to them. ‘ Ernest ! Tony ! you must come right in at once. Something dreadful has happened down at Clear¬ minster.’ Full of vague misgivings, they followed their hostess into the kitchen. Ernest always remembered the place afterwards, just as it was at that moment — the look of afternoon tidiness, the deep red of the freshly washed quarries, and the snowy whiteness of dresser and table. He remembered even the great bunch of gillyflowers in a blue bowl on the window¬ sill, and the sleek tabby lying asleep before an ex¬ piring fire. ‘Your grandfather is dead!’ At the words a sense of desolation fell upon the boys. Hard as Reuben Grist had been, he was yet the one protector of their youth. To be without him was to be orphaned indeed, for Samson — their uncle only in name — was not a man likely to care very much for their feelings or interests. {Continued at yage 26.)

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24 CHATTERBOX

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CHATTERBOX. Do you wish me to go as a puiDil-teacher, uncle ? ”

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CHATTERBOX. TONY. [Continned from page 23.) CHAPTER IV. is a true, if trite, old say¬ ing that ^ possession is nine points of the law.’ E-euhen Grist, having died without leaving a will, the claims of his orphan grandsons upon the wealth he had left behind him were far greater than those of Sam¬ son and his wife and family; but the boys — even Ernest — were only like infants in the hands of the crafty Samson, who, by the time the funeral was over, had established himself as complete master of the household in the Sheep-market, and of all the concerns and properties thereto belonging. He was armed with a mysterious document called a deed of gift, in which, according to his own statement and that of the lawyer, who was already fast friends with him, Reuben had made over to his stepson so much of his property, that little would have remained to be settled by the will which was never made. ' They have worked it, Harriet — they have just worked it between them,’ said Jordan to his wife, over their Saturday night supper of tripe and onions. ^ Mr. Samson is as hard as a flint and as sharp as a razor, and Lawyer Fearne, he will hold with him through thick and thin. As for the rights of things, and the truth of things, they have no chance with such a pair of - ’ ‘Hush, John! hush!’ broke in Mrs. Jordan nervously. ‘ Even walls have ears, they say ; and Mr. Samson is the master now. It is not your place to interfere, come what may. All you have got to do is to go to your work, and draw your wages regular.’ ‘True enough,’ assented her husband; ‘ all the same I am sorry for those boys. They are being done out of everything which ought to be theirs. Mr. Samson’s brood are come down from London to-day : two big boys, and three girls, and a maiden aunt as sour as vinegar. Some of them are to go to that Crofton Road house ; though how Mr. Samson can bring himself to put them over the very cellar where the old man met his end is more than I can tell. There does not seem to be a grain of feeling in the whole lot of them.’ ‘ What is to become of our boys, then ? Are they to stay in the Sheep-market ? ’ asked his wife. ‘Tony is ; and as Mrs. Samson will be there, he will have a poor sort of life of it. But there is a talk of Master Ernest a going away, to be a teacher or some¬ thing, and a cruel thing it will be to part those two, that have never been parted yet.’ Jordan, as his words showed, was still at heart kindly disposed towards the Hanson boys; but, as he himself argued, he had his living to get, and it was more than his place in the Sheep-markft was worth to plead with Mr. Samson. As it was, he was in hourly fear of being superseded by some smart man from the London establishment; and so he had to stifle his sympathy with Ernest and Tony. Samson Grist, as soon as the boys 'were back from Crofton, and the bustle attendant upon their grand¬ father’s funeral was over, had had along talk with Ernest. His observation had convinced him that Ernest, if he remained at home, would be a serious obstacle in the way of plans for the advancement of Andrew and Timothy, the sharp and ‘pushful’ youths who had already so much of their father’s spirit. Ernest, even if elected to a permanent place behind the counter, would be of little use there ; and who knew but that he would hatch some mischief, along with that solemn-eyed little brother of his; would ask inconvenient questions as he grew older, wanting to know what had become of his grand¬ father’s money, and why there was nothing for him and for Tony, but that which Uncle Samson chose to give. It would be best, concluded Samson, to part the brothers at once ; and he had in his mind a proposal concerning Ernest’s future, which he pro¬ ceeded to unfold to the person most concerned* at the very earliest opportunity. ‘ The fact is, Ernest,’ he began, ‘ that as soon as I set eyes upon you it became perfectly clear to me that you were not cut out for business.’ Samson, as he spoke, was perched upon the high office stool behind the desk where Grandfather Grist used to sit. He made a decided pause when he had said these words, and peered over the top of the desk at the down-cast face of the boy before him, to find out if he could what sort of an impression had been produced. Ernest was privately very much of Sam¬ son’s opinion, but, not knowing exactly how to reply, he wisely said nothing. ‘ This being the case,’ continued Samson, ‘ I have something else to propose to you. x\n honoured friend of mine — I may say, a dear and honoured friend— -a gentleman who holds a very high position as an instructor of youth, needs assistance. He would be willing, upon ??iy recommendation, to take you into his establishment, and to charge himself with your maintenance, provided only that you rendered him some trifling aid.’ ‘Do you wish me to go as a pupil-teacher, uncle?’ asked Ernest. Samson hesitated; the boy’s straight-forwardness was not much to his taste. ‘ Ye-es, ye-es, you might, perhaps, put it so,’ he admitted. ‘ To teach the young idea how to shoot, and — and — all that sort of thing, is a— a very noble office. I understand — through things which your late lamented grandfather said to me — that you have scruples — needless and silly ^ scruples, I must say — about certain trade practices. I cannot help thinking that you would be more in your element teaching little boys their vulgar fractions and their Latin declensions, than you would be in my business.’ Samson paused for an answer, but Ernest had none to give ; the one thought which filled his mind, and made him almost incapable of speech, was the thought of Tony. When he did speak it was, with¬ out any conscious will of his own, to utter his little brother’s name in a tone that made Samson start. ‘ Tony,’ Mr. Grist repeated, ‘ Tony, did you say ? Well, and what about Tony? He will be all the

Page 34

CHATTERBOX. 27 better without having’ you to make a baby of him. It will do Tony good, I can tell you, to become a member of a well-ordered, properly brought-up family. My boys will set him an example of self- reliance, and ray girls will liven him up, keep him from moping and reading, as he does now. Mrs. Grist, you may rely upon it, will look after his health ; she is capable of looking after the health of a whole regiment of children. Oh, yes ! you may depend upon it, it will be a a good move for Tony ; the only question is whether I shall write to my friend, Mr. Peter Verscho}de, that you will be able to come to him next week, or whether it would be better to leave it until the week after.’ Ernest felt bewildered, events had followed upon each other so rapidly, and things were being taken so entirely out of his own hands, that he felt most of all the need of being alone, and of looking the situation in which he found himself squarely in the face. , ‘ Give me to-night to think it over. Uncle Samson, he pleaded. ‘ I shall know better in the morning what to say.’ * Very well, very well,’ assented Samson, with a disapproving countenance. * Many a lad would jurnp at the chance of being put in the way to get on in life so easily ; but, if you must needs have time to think, why, take it.’ Ernest went up to the room which he now shared with Tony. It was not the one which the boys had had in their grandfather’s time; Mrs. Grist had decided that that apartment was quite needlessly large for a boy’s bedroom. It would do very well for her own elder girls, and the youngest could have the little dressing-room which opened out of it — the place where Hannah had allowed Tony to keep his own especial treasures. So Ernest and Tony found their belongings removed to one of the white-\ya^he(l attics under the roof, and, though Ernest did not mind the change much for himself, he was already anxious as to how Tony would bear the cold of winter nights in an attic just under the slates, which had not even a fire-place. Tony was fast asleep when his brother entered ; a bright moon was shining in through the un¬ curtained window, and Ernest put out the candle which he had lighted as he came upstairs, and sat down in the single chair which was in the room. Tony’s face looked very pale in the moonlight, his black hair was tossed upon the pillow, and one thin arm which a loose sleeve had left bare lay outside the counterpane. Ernest covered it, but did not dare to wake his little brother, or to speak to him of coming separation, for that would mean that Tony would burst into tears, and perhaps be robbed of hours of rest. But this offer of Uncle Sarnson’s might not prove an unmixed misfortune ; it might perhaps be the first steps towards that which Ernest heartily desired, the time when he might make a home for himself and Tony, where they might live together without feeling any longer that they were regarded as interlopers, and that their words and actions were constantly being noted by critical and unfriendly ^Ernest had never attempted to teach anybody excepting Tony, but he was not without some confidence in his own untried powers. Perhaps, if he went to Mr. Peter Verschoyle’s, he rnight make himself valued there ; the only thing which caused him to be doubtful was the fact that the school¬ master had been spoken of as an intimate friend of Samson’s. However, he refiected, friends were not always alike, and in the life of a large school he would certainly be more at home than behind the counter with Mr. Samson. The boy’s regrets and fears were not for himself ; he soon came to see that the offer must be accepted, but as he lay down at last by Tony’s side he thought, with a sigh which was almost a sob, that the days and nights in which they could continue to be together were already numbered. Sleep, the greatest of earthly blessings to those who are perplexed, came soon, and made him forget everything. In the morning when he awoke it was to brace himself to new effort, and to repeat to himself, as he dressed, his favourite motto ^ Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again ; wisely improve the present, it alone is thine ; go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart.’ Tony had to be told, and there were tears, as Ernest had expected ; but the little boy comforted with promises of the many letters which Ernest would write to him, and with a bright word-picture of the happy home which they would have together some day, when Ernest had a school of his own, and Tony had learnt to paint pictures which would really sell. ,5- tt Uncle Samson wrote at once to Mr. Verschoyle. That gentleman’s school was on the outskirts of a town more than eighty miles from Olear minster ; a place to which business had often called Samson in his younger days. Peter Verschoyle was an Irishman, as a very few moments’ conversation with him would have informed an attentive listener. He had been in the station one evening when M^ Samson Grist had met with a slight accident, through getting too hastily out of the train. The school¬ master’s kindness and hospitality on that occasion had been the beginning of the friendship with Samson, such as it was. The Irishman— if Ernest could have known it beforehand he would have been greatly comforted— was a kind-hearted and thoroughly honest, though hot-tempered, man. Once having done Samson a service, he regarded the man of business as a friend to be served again if ever a chance offered ; and, after a few inquiries, he was ready to welcome the new pupil-teacher, Ernest Hanson, to his school and hia home. {Continued at page 38.) THE LYNX AND THE MOLE. A Fable. A SHARP-EYED lynx once met with a blind mole. ‘I cannot understand,’ he said, ^ how you bear your blindness so patiently. A life without eyes would be to me harder than even death.’

Page 35

‘1 thank you for your sympathy/ answered the mole, * but I really do not require it. What nature has refused me on one side, she has made up for me on the other. My ear is so sharp that I can hear at a great distance the approach of an enemy. I may be mistaken, but, even now, I think I can hear the footsteps of a man approaching stealthily. I warn you, my dear lynx, to be on your guard.’ The lynx was just laughing scornfully at the mole, when the hunter’s arrow whizzed through the air and pierced his heart and he died, because he dis¬ dained the good advice of the blind mole. Nature distributes her gifts equally, and he whom others pity is often the happiest. Translated from the German of Meissner. FOR SOMEBODY’S SAKE. IT was late one summer night when William Ainslie, a young clerk in a city office, came home from an evening party to which he had been invited. As he took his candle and went upstairs to bed, the house was very silent, it seemed as though all who lived there were already asleep ; but, when William reached the upper landing, he saw a light shining through the chinks of an opposite door. ^ Poor Mr. Harper ! ’ said the young man to him¬ self. ‘ Pie is burning the midnight oil again. I am afraid that he writes nearly all night sometimes. How hard it must be never to have time to enjov one’s self.’ William was soon sound asleep, but Stephen Harper, the author, who lodged in the house with him, was still at his desk when the faint light of summer dawn showed above the housetops. Mr. Harper had left his young wife and sick child in the pleasant country town where his boyhood and youth had been spent. He had come up to London to try to improve his position, more for their sakes than for his own. A hard, up-hill struggle he found it, but the thought of those whom he had left behind cheered him on through many a lonely hour. Little Edna was getting better ; she and her mother would be able to come to him as soon as he had earned enough money to furnish a new home for them. The kind-hearted young clerk on the other side of the landing often pitied his fellow-lodger, but per¬ haps he would not have done so quite as much if he had known something of the gladness which filled Stephen Harper’s heart when success began to crown his efforts. It is very sweet to labour for those we love, and to know that, through our efforts, their lot in life is being made better. C. J. Blake.

Page 36

“ What have you got in there, my little friend? ’ HIS MOTHER’S DRESS. A LITTLE fellow from one of our charitable insti¬ tutions was being taken to a farm by an agent. The boy had been bound to the owner of the farm for a term of years. The agent had noticed that the boy kept placing his hand inside of the jacket on the left side, and he would then peep within with a tender look. At last he said: 'What have you got in there, my little friend?’ ' Oh, nothing, sir,’ he replied ; ' only a bit of my mother’s dress which I sewed on my coat. It was the dress she had on when she died, and now it kind of comforts me when I touch it.’

Page 37

30 CHATTERBOX. TBOOPER O’HAGAN'S GIFT. had been a dull afternoon, the sky was grey and lowering, and a chill in the air told of coming snow. The vast stretches of the Canadian prairie were broken by a line of low hills, and at the foot of these lay the town, which had grown in a short time from a Mounted Police sta¬ tion to one of the busiest centres of trade in this vast new country. The citizens of the prairie town well understood the weather signs. The older people hurried briskly along the plank side¬ walks of the town rubbing their hands and ears, and down on the frozen river small boys and girls whipped off their skates and ran swiftly home. A squad of Mounted Police trotted past on their way to barracks, the steam from the horses’ nostrils float¬ ing away in clouds on the frosty air. There was a general fastening of doors and win¬ dows in preparation for the coming snow, and with the first lights in the windows the flakes came whirling down. In a small house near the railway station a boy of eleven and his little sister stood in the window, with their faces pressed against the pane, watching for the great fiery eye of the engine head-light of the ^Imperial Limited,’ as it rolled across the prairie towards them, coming nearer, nearer, until with a roar and a snort it pulled into the station. The passengers alighted and were driven to the hotels and the barracks, many of them coming in from lonely ranches to welcome the returning Canadian soldiers from the campaign in South Africa, and to attend the ball and other festivities in their honour. Mrs. Benoit stood behind the little ones, and with a skilful question now and again she learned the lessening range of her little daughter’s sight. She had been keenly anxious for some time past, and on that afternoon her fears had been confirmed by a consultation of the town doctors, who advised an operation by a great oculist in Montreal as the only chance for saving little Bessie’s sight. That journey of hundreds of miles must be undertaken early in the year, and the widow’s heart failed her when she thought of the far-away city, and of the little money which she had. The storm proved a regular ' old-fashioned ’ blizzard, and for three days held the town in its grip. On the fourth the sun shone out over a glistening world, the frozen snow had hardened and crusted until it sparkled like burnished silver. The sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, and the sharp frost nipped and tweaked the wooden buildings until they creaked and snapped. Mrs. Benoit eked out her scanty income by sewing, and her son Bob was dispatched in the early morning with a large parcel of finished work. | Let me take Bessie, mother,’ he pleaded. ‘ The I hand sled runs so smoothly on this crust, that I can easily pull it. I will tie the parcel on while you are getting Bessie ready.’ Mrs. Benoit muffled up the little girl and placed her on the sled, and Bob with a whoop cantered away in imitation of the police horses. ‘ Gro out by the barracks road,’ chirped Bessie, and Bob, who shared her admiration for the troopers and their prancing horses, set off at a trot. He had to go to a house just outside of the barracks enclosure, and, while Bob delivered the parcel of sewing, Bessie kept her place on the sled; her feet, with their strong boots and heavy overstockings, hung over the side of the sled, and she amused herself in Bob’s absence by beating the snow with her heels. An extra strong push brought the loose snow tumbling by the sled, and among its glittering particles some¬ thing sparkling caught her half-blind eyes. She groped carefully in the snow, and picked up a star¬ shaped brooch. She slipped it into her Ulster pocket as Bob returned with a handful of cookies and a chum, who joined Bob in dragging the sled round the town with the delighted child. The brooch was in her pocket, and was for the time forgotten. A dismal three weeks for Bessie followed her hand-sled ride. The. cold or the dazzling sunshine on the snow, or perhaps both, made her eyes worse, and for three weeks the little sufferer lived in a darkened room with her eyes closely bandaged. Mrs. Benoit and Bob were faithful nurses, and several kind neighbours came in to cheer and amuse the little girl. The prime favourite among those from outside was Trooper 0 Hagan. His tall slim figure in its khaki uniform, and his dancing eyes under his cowboy hat, seemed to match perfectly with his cheery voice. ‘ My eyes do not pain nearly so bad when I hear Jack laugh, said JBessie. His strong arms were always at her service. He whiled many a weary hour pacing up and down, while he told her stories of the long marches over the South African veldts, of the little Boer children, and, most interesting of all, the soldiers. Especially stories of the Gordon Highlanders, with whom the Canadians had been associat^^d, of their bravery, and of their strange dress, with its kilts and cap. The little girl compared each article of the uniform with that of her beloved Mounted Policeman, finishing with the bonnet. ‘ I do not think it would be nearly as good as your big cowboy hat, or your black fur cap with the yellow on it,’ said Bessie. ‘ The Highlanders would not agree with you,’ said the trooper with a laugh ; ^ they are proud of their bonnet.’ H know about them,’ Bob chimed in; 'I read about them in an old book that mother has ;’ and, going for it, he read:— Highlanders,” said Sir Colin Camp¬ bell, am going to ask a favour of you. It is, that you will act so as to justify me in asking permission of the Queen for you to wear a bonnet. Do not pull a trigger till you are within a yard of the Russians.” They charged, and well they obeyed their chieftain’s wish; Sir Colin had his horse shot under him, but his men took the battery at a bound.’ ‘ Bravo, Bob I ’ said the trooper. * You are a fine young sprig of loyalty.’

Page 38

CHATTERBOX. 31 The talks often ended with : ^ W ait until my kit is forwarded from Halifax, and you will find some¬ thing nice in it — something that I bought in London for JSossio ^ Bob and Bessie spent many a half-hour in dis¬ cussing the gifts for them in Jack’s kit. Bob knew that his present was a knife, and he wondered about the number of blades. {.Concluded at page 34.) TWO BIG SILKWOBMS. Much amusement is afforded to some boys and girls during the summer months by keeping the common species of silkworm. It thrives beat on mulberry leaves, though it is often necessary to give lettuce to the newly hatched worms, because uiey may come out before the mulberry is in In keeping silkworms there is the pleasure of feed¬ ing them daily till they are of full size then, as each turns colour and ceases to^ eat, it is lodged in a paper cone by itself. Here it spins the cocoon, within which it is hidden from view. Some days after comes the employment of winding off the silk by a little hand machine. The grub or chrysalis is taken out, and placed in bran, and the story ends by the appearance of the moths, which are put into trays to lay their eggs. Our stock of silk, however, comes mostly from China, where the worms thrive in the open air, and the mulberry species is only one of several from whose cocoons silken material may be obtained. „ • x A few years ago, a number of experiments were made in England. Silkworms got from various countries were fed. Several of them were reared with success. One of these is the Cynthia silkworm moth, which is also a Chinese insect ; it is larger than the common sort. The special food for this silkworm is the leaves of a tree called the Aclanthus, or, ‘Tree of Heaven,^ now growing in many parks and gardens. Ur ^e other silkworms introduced, two are remarkable on account of their size and beauty ; one belongs to the eastern world, the other to the western. The first of these bears the Japanese name of lama Mai ; the worm lives on various oaks, but will eat white thorn and chestnut. This hatches out of the dotted pinkish eggs in April, it is of a bright primrose colour then, and moults four times. Afterwards ^exhibits brown tints, with some silvery spots. When the silk of the cocoon is measured, it is found to be from 800 to 900 yards long. In appearance the moth is handsome, quite five inches across the yeUow wings, which have grey, blue, and bla^ spots. More gigantic still is the American Polyphemus, the worm of which forms a thick cocoon, the silk ot which is glossy and strong. The moth is of a some¬ what dull colour, with four eye-like spots, it flies heavily, and lays eggs on the oak. This supplies food to the plump spiny caterpillar, which changes its skin five times, eating voraciously towards the end of its life. When possible, it spins the cocoon within some folded oak leaves. J* B. b. U. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 3. — HisTOKicAii Acrostic. A Christian name borne by all the following per¬ sons : — 1. The grandson of an English king, who was put to death by order of his uncle, who usurped the kingdom. 2. A famous dignitary of the English Church who died in the last century. His writings are much admired. . ^ i n xt. 3. A famous king who ruled in Britain before the time of the Saxons. He governed his kingdom with great wisdom and moderation, and was much beloved by his people. , , , . • j 4. A very great English general, who, by ms wisdom and courage, did good service to his country in a time of danger. He was born in the eighteenth century and died in the nineteenth. . -n i ;i 5. A prince of the present royal family of England. 6. The dearly loved friend of a great poet of the nineteenth century, who wrote a very beautiful poem to his friend’s memory. [Answers at page 42.] l._(A.)— 1. Am. (B.)— 1. A. (c*)— I* 5* 2. Mat. 3. Mart. 4. Trams. 5. Stream. 6. Steamer. 7. Streamer. (D.)-l. B. 2. Be. 3. Bet. 4. Beat. 5. Beast. 6. Stable. 7. Blasted. 2. — 1. Montreal. 2. Melrose. 3. Mersey. 4. Oxford. 5. Herefordshire. 6. Amsterdam. 7. New Holland. 2. At. 3. Hat. 4. Hate. 6. Heart. 6. Threat. 7. Theatre. (E.)— 1. I. 2. Is. 3. Sit. 4. Slit. 5. Tiles. 6. Silent. 2. Do. 3. Eod. 4. Drop. 5. DroAp 8. Malabar. 9. Carthage. 10. Somersetshire. 11. Leyden. 12. Minorca. 13. Montgomery. 14. Patagonia. KOSCIUSZKO’S HORSE. KOSOIUSZKO, the generous Pole, once wished to send a few bottles of good wine to a priest of Soleure. He chose for this purpose, a young man named Zeltner, and lent him his own horse for the iourney. When Zeltner came back, he said, i will not ride your horse again, sir, unless you give me your purse as well ! ’ , , , ^“What do you mean? asked Kosciuszko. Zeltner answered, ‘ Whenever a beggar ^ook his hat off and asked for money, the horse stood sthl at once, and refused to stir from the spot until the beergar had received something. At last, when I had emptied my purse and had no more money with me, I had to pretend to give them sbmething before 1 could make him go on.’ Buchner.

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32 CH ATTERBOX

Page 40

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34 CHATTERBOX. A PENNY BOLL AND THE PRESS- GANG. ONE evening, early in the present century, a young waiter at the Three Tuns Hotel, Pen¬ zance, was asked to fetch a penny roll from the nearest bakery. Always prompt and obliging, the young fellow started on his errand without even taking his hat. Annoyance, astonishment, and alarm succeeded each other as time passed by with¬ out his return. The country was scoured in every direction, but in vain. After purchasing the roll, he had vanished as utterly as if the earth had opened and swallowed him alive. That day twenty years, which happened to be on the same date and day of the week, a man entered the hotel at about the same hour. Making his way to the bar-parlour, he laid down a penny roll before the landlady, and said : ^ I have been a long time, ma’am, but it was not my fault.’ He had met a press-gang, been seized, gagged, bound, carried to the quay, and borne off to sea so quickly and quietly, that he had no power to utter a cry. Singularly enough, he found the same proprietors at both the hotel and the bakery on his return. TROOPER O’HAGAN’S GIFT. (Concluded from 'page 31.) N the morning after the blizzard, the Western World, the leading news¬ paper of the town, had contained a startling adver¬ tisement : — ‘ $100 Reward.— One hundred dollars reward is offered for the recovery of a diamond brooch, lost on the evening of the 31st, between the Mounted Police Barracks and the Blank Hotel. Call at this office.’ Although the search had been carried on diligently, no trace of the lost jewel had been found. Bob had devoted all of his spare time to the search. Night after night he dreamed of getting the reward. It would solve the difficult}^ in regard to Bessie’s journey to Montreal, and as Bob dug and scraped the snow, which had been spaded and sifted half a dozen times by other searchers, he built towering air castles in his generous little mind. Many of the other searchers dropped out and gave it up, but Bob still held on. If he bad only known of the contents of Bessie’s ulster pocket, as he shook the snow from his reefer and hung it up beside the long unused ulster ! The little girl had quite forgotten the brooch picked up in the snow. She did not know what diamonds were. Two questions always followed the hearty greet¬ ings on the trooper’s appearance. Has your kit come yet ? ’ from the children. ‘ You have not found the diamonds, eh. Bob ?’ from the trooper. One day OTIagau went over the ground with Bob. Tt is strange that the brooch could have been so completely lost in this short distance,’ said the trooper. ‘ The snow has been so carefully shaken up that it must have been disturbed, and the reward ought to ensure its return. However, if it is here, you will find it when the snow goes, and we shall not forget it, shall we ? ’ On their way back they passed by the railway- station. An ‘overland’ train from the East was discharging military stores, and heaps of saddles and kits encumbered the platform. ‘ Here is your outfit. Jack ! ’ shouted Bob. ‘ It looks as if you had lots of things in it !’ said he, with a chuckle. ^ Tell Bessie I will be round after tea with the present,’ said O’Hagan, and Bob scampered off with the message. Promptly at seven o’clock the trooper appeared, and put into Bessie’s arms an immense oblong parcel — a box enclosed in many wrappings of brown paper. At last the cover of the box was reached and removed, and there stood revealed an immense doll in all the bravery of Highland uniform, every detail complete. The little girl gave a gasp of delight. ‘Is he not lovely! Oh, Jack, you are so good!’ and she nestled up to the big soldier with a pretty, confiding gesture. ‘ He is dressed just like the Highland officers in the pictures,’ said Bob. • What will you call him ? ’ said her mother, smiling at the child’s delight. ‘Colin,’ suggested Bob; ‘that is a good Scotch name.’ ‘ I wiU call him Colin O’Hagan if Jack thinks that will do,’ said the child. ‘ Oh, what a beautiful plaid ! and a real brooch to pin it with ! ’ ‘The brooch is rather small,’ said the trooper. ‘ I have seen officers with brooches fastening their plaids as big as your hand, Bessie.’ A sudden quick remembrance flashed through Bessie’s mind of the brooch picked up on the morn¬ ing of her hand-sled ride, and forgotten in the dark and weary days that followed. ‘ Bob, will you please fetch my ulster ? I found a thing in the snow. It will do, I think.’ The coat was brought, and Mrs. Benoit’s heart almost stopped beating while the little fingers fumbled in the pocket and brought out a brilliant star, whose points and facets sparkled in the dim light of their little sitting-room. O’Hagan gave a smothered exclamation, and nearly dropped the child from his knee. ‘ You found it in the snow, Bessie ? ’ cried Bob. ‘It is the American lady’s diamond brooch— one hundred dollars reward for Bessie ! ’ and Bob went bounding over the floor in a series of most amazing somersaults. Bessiq held it doubtfully, and with a puzzled air handed it to her mother. ‘ If it is hers, I suppose we must give it back ; but it would look just lovely on Colin O’Hagan’s plaid.’ In due time Bessie and the now famous Colin O’Hagan left for Montreal on the visit to the great oculist. The one hundred dollars reward had given

Page 42

CHATTERBOX. 35 Mrs. Benoit money enough for the journey, and she was now waiting for news of the operation. Bob came hurrying in with a telegram. ‘ Read it, Jack/ said Mrs. Benoit, passing it with trembling hands to the trooper, who had dropped in to hear of his little favourite. * Operation entirely successful. Bessie home within a month. — Dr. Blank.’ It was a very happy household that discussed the telegram, and Bob’s mother, opening her Bible, bade him learn a verse which had for many days been a comfort to her : ‘ Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive ; and let thy widows trust in Me.’ 0. Ross Frame. FRIENDS AND FLOWERS. ^F in Life’s rough, noisy battle ^ You have no strength to fight. Yet with small and silent service You may aid the right. If you cannot toil for others Through long, strenuous hours. You perchance for them may gather Fair and fragrant flowers. Little gifts and gentle greetings Toudi our lives with grace; They, be sure, in Love’s fair kingdom Hold an honoured place. E. D. THE BOOKS OF THE OLD ROMANS. ANY boys, while they are at school, have to learn, in the course of some of their lessons, about Roman history and the home life of that remarkable people of Italy in the olden time. It is no wonder that our boys have been surprised at the great achievements of the Romans, for they were indeed a fighting and a conquering race. Some people may say the Romans were not as clever as the Greeks. Perhaps not, still they were wise, and, besides war, they understood arts and sciences. Many of them could speak and write well. They made good use of the books which they had. The Romans had many books, and turned them to good account, though they never had any printed books, magazines, or newspapers, such as we have in abundance. When Rome was at the height of its prosperity, most of the well-to-do citizens had their lioraries. The books of the Romans were really rolls ; therefore, it would seem, they did not arrange them on shelves, as we put our books, show¬ ing the titles at the backs. They were distinguished, however, from each other by strips of parchment. on which the title was written in red ; but it is not certain whether they fastened the strip to the roll so as to hang down in front, or stuck it flat on the out¬ side. When people dug up the remains of the city Herculaneum, they found a room which had been a library, and there was proof that the rolls had been kept in cupboards placed along the wall. Some say it was also usual to keep rolls in what we now call pigeon-holes. A stick or piece of reed was secured to the last page of the roll or written book, the ends of which had knobs, gilt or painted, or of ivory. To keep it better protected, a parchment wrapper was often put upon a roll as a cover. These ancient books or rolls were mostly made of the bark of the Egyptian papyrus, a sort of water reed, which was carefully prepared, and made a stout paper, of which there were several qualities. Pliny says they made eight kinds from this reed. The best was called Augustus, after the Emperor. The coarsest could not be written upon, and only served for packing up parcels. Parchment was the material selected for some rolls, but the objection to this was its cost. We read sometimes about a composition being written upon silk. This, however, was only used in special cases; of such rolls only a few existed.. Leather also was sometimes covered with writing. But, whatever the material which was chosen, it only had writing upon one side, so that when the words on a roll were nearly rubbed out, or the work was no longer to be preserved, it was easy to write upon the blank side. Most of the rolls upon which the Roman children did their sums and wrote their exercises were those which had become old or use- less. The outsides of rolls seem to have been washed over with an aromatic liquid of a yellow colour to keep off the attacks of insects. It was not the custom to write across^ the page as we do. The words in the olden time would be ^ arranged in narrow columns. Between each a red line was often drawn. The Romans, and probably the ancients generally, used an ink thicker than ours, something like Indian ink, so that the writing seemed to be raised above the page ; in fact, it was a sort of paint. But it is said that they also used a black fluid obtained from the cuttlefish. The pen was not the quill of a bird, but a reed, carefully pointed and split. ONLY WANTED HIS FATHER. A GENTLEMAN was passing up the street of one of our great cities, when he noticed a poor little street arab, who, judging from his pinched features, was suffering severely from exposure. ^ Where is your coat ? ’ he kindly asked. ‘ Not got one,’ the little chap answered carelessly, though he shivered. ' But you will be frozen. Who is your mother, child ? ’ ‘ Not got one,’ he replied again. < Well, where do you live ? — what home have you?’

Page 43

^Not got one/ he repeated, in the same matter- of-fact way. ‘ You poor little soul I ’ the gentleman exclaimed ; ‘ what have you got ? ’ To his astonishment, the boy’s whole manner changed, and he said with proud content : ‘Why, I have got a father! Things is a bit rough just now, because he is in hospital; but he will pull through, I am not afraid — father is all as I want/ The reply went home to the heart of the gentle¬ man, who had been a trifle despondent. The lad had helped him to realise that he, too, had a Father — in Heaven.

Page 44

Sunshine and Shade.

Page 45

38 CHATTERBOX. THE TTJIITLE AND THE PROG. A Mongolian Fable. A TURTLE, whose home wr.3 near the sea-shore, ^ once made up his mind to visit a distant relation, a tortoise, which lived three miles inland. Towards the end of his first day’s joi^rney, he stopped to rest beside a little pool of fres’* wa..^.i. He had not been there long before a large frog leapt out, and saluted him, inquiring where he came from, and offering him a night’s lodging. The turtle answered, ^ From the sea-shore.’ ‘ What is the sea?’ asked the frog. ‘ It a vast piece of water,’ answered the turtle, it as big round as this,’ continued the frog, leaping into the pool, and swimming round the middle of it. ‘ Ah ! ’ said the turtle, ^ a great deal bigger.’ ‘ As big round as this ? ’ again questioned the frog, at the same time swimming a greater distance round the pool. ^ Y es ! yes ! more than fifty thousand times bigger,’ answered the turtle. The frog then swam round the entire length of his little pool, and again asked ^ As big as this ?’ ^ My friend,’ replied the turtle in a stern voice, ^ the sea would swallow up both thee and thy pool thousands of times over. Thou hast no idea of the size of the sea, nor ever can have, for thou hast lived all thy life in this little piece of water, and hast never gone beyond it.’ So saying, he left the con¬ ceited frog, and went on his way. Mobal : Every man lives in a little world of his own making. TONY. {Continued from page 27.) CHAPTER V. HE first morning that Tony awoke to life without Ernest, he was not fully aware of the extent of his misfortune. Ernest had certainly said good-bye to him the night before, had given him as a farewell present the books from his own small collection which ke thought that Tony would be able to understand, and had made him promise to write once a week, and to put down everything that could not be crowded into a weekly letter in a sort of diary, which might wait for reading until the holidays. ^ But somehow the child could not be brought to realise tha,t this was a final leave-taking. Ernest was there in the attic, just as usual ; he was sitting up late, it was true, packing things into his port- manteau, and sorting the few letters and papers w'hich he kept in his writing-case ; but then it was a comm^ thing for Ernest to be up and awake long after Tony had fallen asleep. He would come to bed by-and-by, and of course Lg would be there in the morning, and they could say g '>od-bye again. Tony had no fore-sight of the noisw^ess way in which Ernest, upon his early waking, dressed and stole from the room while everybody else in the house was wrapt in slumber, excepting Mr. Samson. Samson was going with his nephew to the station. He did not wdsh any wavering at the last moment. He was resolved to see Ernest safely away from Clearminster, and he had chosen this early train and silent method of departure because he disliked caresses and farewells, and all that he called ‘ senti¬ ment,’ as heartily as Grandfather Grist had done. The loyeliness of the June dawn was lost upon Samson and Ernest alike. Samson, as he walked the^ empty streets, had not a particle of the feeling which made the poet write : — * The city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning,’ and Ernest was too full of his own sad thoughts to notice the soft, faint blue of the summer sky, or the waking songs of the birds in the trees that bordered Station Road. The two paced along in silence, for Samson felt rather ashamed now that the last moments were come. In his heart of hearts he well knew that Ernest, and Tony too, were being badly treated ; but he was determined to smother eyery qualm of conscience, and to^ go on in the course which he had marked out for himself. He offered, awkwardly enough, to help Ernest in carrying the rather heavy portmanteau which contained his wardrobe and other belongings, but getting a decided, though civil, refusal, he withdrew into himself again. ^The cub is sulky,’ he muttered; ^stands on his dignity, and all that. Well, well ! it will soon be over now.’ It was a relief to both of them when the train steamed into the station — when Ernest had taken his place in a vacant third-class carriage, and, leaving Samson alone upon the platform, where scarcely anybody^ was moving at such an early hour, had be¬ gun the journey which was to separate him from the being he loved best on earth. But when Tony found his brother’s place empty — when it slowly dawned upon his mind that Ernest had stolen away and left him without another good¬ bye— his grief was great. For a good while he cried quietly; then, at the thought that he would not see Ernest again for weeks and months, that he was a weak and unhappy child, alone with a house full of strange people, he abandoned himself to such a tem¬ pest of crying that the sound was distinctly heard in the rooms below. He was not a model child, you see, this Tony; only a clever, sensitive little man of nine or ten years old, who simply did not know how to bear this the greatest trouble which had come upon him. He had not cried when Grandfather Grist died, when grown-up people in mourning dresses were wiping theii’ eyes with new stiff cambric hand¬ kerchiefs. Why should he? Grandfather had seldom spoken to him, had always seemed glad to have him kept out of sight, with Hannah, and had openly expressed a poor opinion both of himself and

Page 46

CHATTERBOX. 39 his brother. Now Ernest was gone it was the time to weep, and he gave way to his grief. ‘ Ma ! ’ screamed a sharp voice from the lower landing, ^ there is that Tony crying.’ It was the voice of Miss Jemima Grist, who, with her sister Keziah, slept in the room which had once belonged to the boys. Samson, with a fondness for Scriptural names which was a family trait, and had little enough to do with religion, had named his three girls after the daughters of the patient patriarch. But the youngest was always called Keren in the home circle ; she was altogether too small a person to bear the burden of four syllables to her name, and she tried not to re¬ member that she had been christened Kerenhappuch. Mrs. Samson Grist, at her eldest daughter’s words, went to the bottom of the stairs which led to the attic. ‘ Antony 1 ’ she called, in severe tones, ‘ what do you mean by crying ? ’ There was a dead silence. Tony, even if he could have dared to reply, had no words to tell all that his tears meant. He hushed his cries, and that was all he could do. ^ Be quiet ! ’ commanded Mrs. Grist. ‘ Be quiet, at once, or I shall think that you are not well, and shall give you another draught such as you had last week.’ The threat was effective. Tony, if he shed any more tears, shed them without noise ; he had^ too vivid a remembrance of the nastiness of that bitter draught to do otherwise. Mrs. Samson’s medicine chest contained nearly as great a variety of un- plea'ant doses as an ordinary chemist’s shop, and she used them largely in the government of her family. Mute misery was hard to bear. ‘ Ernest — Ernest — Ernest ! Come back to me ! Come back ! ’ whis¬ pered the poor child under his breath, and thought that he should never, never be happy again. Things are seldom really as bad as they seem ; after that first outburst of grief Tony began to find that life held some compensations, even for him. He found a friend where he had least expected to find one, among Mr. Samson’s children. The boys were too grown-up, in their own opinion, to do more than give him a glance now and then; and Jemima and Keziah, with their sharp faces and voices, and their prim pigtails of smooth sandy hair, were not at all like the sister for whom he had sometimes longed. . But then there was Keren — Keren, who was younger even than Tony, only eight years old, she told him, and she seemed to have dropped down into the Grist household from an altogether different world. Her sisters laughed at Keren, especially at her quickly formed friendship with Tonv. ‘ She is a downright silly, that is what she is, they agreed. ‘ Ma always says that she will never get on in the world as well as we shall, and ma is quite right.’ Books were ^ silly ’ in the opinion of these young ladies, that is to say, all fairy-tale books, and poetry books ; and Keren was silly, because^ she devoured those which Tony had in his possession, and talked to him by the hour together whenever she could get the chance. The little one could hold her own ; it did not matter very much that the brothers and sisters despised her, and that her own mother looked at her coldly, as at a queer little being who had somehow come short of the smartness and ability to get on, which should have been hers by right of birth. There was one person always ready to take her part, and that person, strange to say, was Mr. Samson himself. The one soft spot in Samson Grist’s hard nature was his affection for his youngest child. So Keren had her way, and was a power to be reckoned with, and it made a great deal of difference to Tony’s lot that the little girl in the short frock, with the crown of fluffy hair, had taken a fancy to him, and was not to be laughed out of her liking for him. H do not care what you say, he is a real, clever boy,’ she stoutly maintained, when assailed by both her sisters. ‘ He can draw — you should just see how he can draw ! He has got lovely books, and he knows more than you and Kezzy put together, so now I tell you, Jem.’ Jemima much disliked being called Jem, but she took no notice for the time being, only treasured the venient season. ‘ You say he is clever— can he do simple interest and decimals ? ’ she inquired, ‘ or is he a little ninny, like you, not even perfect in the multiplication table? Keren shook herself impatiently. ‘ Oh ! never mind the multiplication table, that is of no conse¬ quence,’ she said. * He knows a splendid tale, about a funny man that ran away with a horse— I mean his horse ran away with him — John — John somebody; and he is going to teach it to me. Oh ! and you should see the pictures he has made to it ; the one with the red cloak, and the one with the hat and wig, and the one where they are saying, ** Stop, stop, .lohn — something — here is the house!” and ever so much more. He is a really jolly boy, Andy and Tim cannot do such things.’ ^ Andrew and Timothy have something better to do,’ answered Jemima loftily, but at heart she was rather pleased than otherwise at the friendship between Keren and Tony. It would keep that little tiresome Keren from poking about when she —Jemima— wished to talk to Keziah; and it could not possibly matter how such a pair of children amused themselves, so long as they left their elders at liberty. _ , Tony’s first letter to Ernest was an oddly mixed medley ; it began with an out-pouring of grief, and with half a page of reproaches for that ^ stolen departure, and then it branched off into praises of the little cousin, the wonderful child who, though she was a girl, could read, and understand and talk about books, who thought Tony’s sketches beautiful, and was never weary of looking at them, who liked talking to and playing with him better than being with her sisters, better even than being dressed in her best frock and taken for a drive along the Grofton Koad, seated in state, by Mrs. Samson s side, in the fly from the George Hotel. ^ i i Keren’s name appeared on every leaf of the closely written epistle, and at the end Tony, according to his custom, had appended a sketch of his new friend. The fluffy hair stood out in an amazing manner round the plump face, and the eyes were very big and widely opened, but there was a distinct likeness to Keren, and Ernest felt glad to think of lony s little companion. {Continued at yage 46.)

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40 CHATTERBOX.

Page 48

Page 49

42 CHATTERBOX. PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW. BOUT some of the hye-streeta of London, though I think not so frequently as in past years, we may see the tra¬ velling exhibition or show which goes by the name of ^ Punch and Judy ’ — an older name for it was ^Punch¬ inello ’ — this puppet-show, for such it is, being the last remaining of several which used to draw together crowds by day or night. Our illustration shows an evening performance of Punch and Judy, lit up by a paraffin lamp ; hut this is rather uncommon, except, indeed, at some country fair, where the show is one of the popular exhibitions. Two persons, mostly both men, take the Punch and Judy show about, living upon the chance contributions they get from the onlookers, seldom obtaining silver coins. There is a story, however, that a rich lady, living in a London suburb, was so fond of seeing Puncdi and Judy, that if she heard at a distance the funny ‘ rooti-toot ’ or other sounds announcing its approach, she sent out a servant to tell the men they might perform in front of her house. When they had finished, the lady often gave them food, always a handsome present in money. It was the busines.s of one man to move the figures, and carry on the talk between them, changing his voice as best he could, and some of the Punch and Judy showmen have been rather clever at this. Punch is the leading character, of course, and, as the writer of a quaint poem upon this street amusement remarks, if he is not animated, he is animating. Certainly, the doings of Punch always cause excitement amongst the portion of the onlookers, one of his pecu¬ liarities being his rapid changes from kisses to thumps ! Standing in front, the other man blows the wooden pipes or mouth-organ before the show, or perhaps, while it is goingon, he keeps the children at a proper distance, and collects what money the crowd pleases to give him. Then there is the dog, a live performer, for Toby generally appears on the scene, though sometimes we see a Punch and Judy show which has no dog. Long since, early in the eighteenth century, there was a person named Powell, who used to show his puppets in the Piazza at Co vent Garden, London, and besides a dog, he had several trained birds, sparrows and chaffinches, also a pig. This pig, we read, was to be seen dancing with Punch, but surely it must have been quite a small one ! But what does Punch represent P Guesses have been many, but it seems very likely that Punch is the fool of English life in the Middle Ages, who was dressed in clothes of various colours, and had bells or large knobs hanging upon his attire. At one time he wore a hood, afterwards this was changed for a cap, and he had the crest or comb of a cock, so that he was sometimes called a ‘ cockscomb.’ And it appears that formerly, besides Punch in this show, there was another male figure which represented harlequin. The behaviour of Punch in the performance tells us of the rough manners and conduct common a century or two ago, but now happily much diminished. After many acts of violence to the baby, to Judy, to the interposing policeman, and others, he ends his career by being hung on the gallows ! J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 4. — .fflsop’s Fables with Anagrams. The Fox and the Toga\ A FOX had an-elf-L.^ into a well, and had been ring- down-E.® for a long mite^ how he should get out again, when at length a toga^ came to the place, and his- wing® to drink, asked dry-near® whether the water saw^ good, and if there was net-ply® of it. The fox, concealing the real gander® of his case, replied, ‘ Come down, my in-Fred^® ; the water is so good that I cannot drink one-hug^^ of it, and so a-bad- nut-N.^2 that it cannot be exhausted.’ Upon this the toga^ pealed^® in, when the fox, kit- nag^^ advantage of bis friend’s shorn^®, as nimbly ape- led^® out, and coolly make-R.-red^^ to the poor deluded toga^, ‘ If you had half as much bairns^® as you have bread^®, you would have looked for-bee^® you pealed^®. C. C. [Answers at page 59.] XT S'W" E E, s - 3. — Arthur, 1. Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, son of Geoffrey Plan- tagenet. 2. Arthur Stanley, Dean of Westminster. 3. Arthur, King of Britain, who established the order of the Knights of the Round Table. 4. Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. 5. Arthur, Duke of Connaught. 6. Arthur Hallam, friend of Tennyson. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. HERNE THE HUNTER.* HE THE R Herne the Hun- 13 ter should be regarded as hero or villain must be left to the reader of Wind¬ sor Castle to decide for himself. Certain it is that he plays a very important part in the story, and his constant appearance in all the great scenes depicted by the novelist is excuse enough for our introducing him here. We find him with us in the first chapter, and we notice that his words conclude the last chapter. One of the * The story of Heme the Hunter is to be found fully told in Harrison Ainsworth’s delightful book, Windsor Castle.

Page 50

CHATTERBOX. 43 heroes of Windsor Castle was the young and attractive Earl of Surrey, the cousin of Anne Boleyn, to whom were entrusted the orders regard¬ ing the preparations for the reception of His Majesty King Henry VIII., and the two cardinals, Wolsey and Campeggio, on the occasion of the grand feast of the Order of the Garter, given at Windsor on St. George’s Day, in honour of Anne Boleyn, whom the King wished to marry, if he could obtain the Pope’s permission to put away his lawful Queen, Catherine of Arragon. The Earl of Surrey, who had recently parted from Captain Bouchier, struck into a foot-path leading across the grand old park towards Datchet. He followed it until he arrived at a dell, dark with the foliage of ancient trees and clinging creepers. There he was suddenly startled by the brightness of a blue phosphoric light, streaming through the bushes into the blackness around him. The light revealed at the foot of an enormous oak tree, with snake-like protruding roots, a wild, spectral-looking object suggesting both man and beast in appearance. The spectre seemed to be clothed in the skins of deer, which were hung about his gaunt and tawny- coloured limbs in an odd fashion. His helmet was the skull of a stag, from which branched a large pair of antlers. Hanging from his left arm was a heavy, rusty-looking chain, and in its links burnt the blue fire. The right wrist was perch for a large-horned owl, with red forbidding eyes, and feathers stand¬ ing erect. The Earl of Surrey was a brave man, but, believing that the being he saw before him was more than mortal, he was so alarmed that he could scarcely repress a cry. He did, however, restrain himself, and crossing himself, he repeated a prayer against the powers of evil. Scarcely had he uttered it when the light was extinguished and the spectre vanished. He heard the chain clank, the owl hoot, a wild burst of laughter, a fearful wail, and then followed a deep silence. Surrey had been cautioned by Captain Bouchier against going near the very tree before which he had seen the appa¬ rition, but he had laughed to scorn the warning, for he was young and reckless. The tree was situated in the Home Park, and was commonly known as TIerne’s Oak.’ The prevalent belief was that a demon-hunter walked at night-fall, and scared, if he did not injure, all those who crossed his path. On this occasion he seems to have done no harm to our friend, but rather to have awakened his curiosity. Certain it is that the Earl narrated his adventure to the Duke of Eichmond, a near relative of King Henry VHI., and the two young men agreed to go together at night as soon as the opportunity favoured them, to visit the Wizard’s Oak. The ladies of the fcastle urged many objections to deter the bold knights, but without success. The royal reception over, the night of the same day saw them set out to see what they might at Herne’s Oak. They had not long to wait. A weird figure mounted on a weird steed galloped through the trees, leapt the palings of the Home Park, and disappeared. Not to be outdone, the two friends set off as quickly as they could in the direction taken by the demon huntsman, and entered the part of the forest which is now enclosed and known as Frogmore. Proceeding down a long avenue of trees, they arrived at a small pool. Here, standing at the edge of the water, were the spectral huntsman and his hounds, forbidding-looking creatures, sufficient to deter men less bold than the young nobles. On another occasion Herne was seen by the Duke of Eichmond and a companion, with whom he had been pursuing the wild huntsman, to plunge into a lake, and, as it seemed, to go down to its abysses, with his steed and his hounds. Times of trouble, gloom, and subtle temptation were the special opportunities of the demon hunter, and he never failed to make the most of them. To Sir Thomas Wyatt, whose love trouhhs over Anne Boleyn are well described by JMr. Ain^wortU; to Anne Boleyn herself ; to Mabel I ^ awc od, the forester’s pretty grand-daughter, anc vo the old forester himself f to the Earl of Surnj^ ani to his Majesty King Henry VIII., Herne appeared ^ on many occasions, offering assistance in dire extremity, in return for their vow of obedience to his com¬ mands. Some gave it, anxious to secure that which they believed would make them happy, yet these always tried hard afterwards to rid themselves of the demon’s galling yoke, but without success. The story of Herne the Hunter, as told in the King’s kitchen, is quite worth the reader’s attention. It runs after this fashion : — it was about the middle of the reign of Eichard II that there was employed in the royal forest, amongst other keepers, a young man named Heme. This keeper was expert in all kinds of wood-craft and a favourite with the King, who loved hunting, hawking, and shooting with the long bow. Herno was generally accompanied by two black hounds of remarkable powers. None could beat Herne at flying a falcon, spearing a wild boar, digging out a badger, hunting a fox, bagging a martin, or ‘ break¬ ing up ’ a deer. Hunting one day in the forest with his favourite, the Earl of Oxford, attended by the famous Herne, the King came near to losing his life by the great deer which he was chasing. The desperate hart stood at bay, gored the King’s horse, which reared and threw his rider. The stag was about to plunge his horns into the IGng’s body, when Herne rushed forward and flung himself before the King, and received the stroke intended for him. The brave hunter was fearfully wounded, yet he contrived to raise himself, and plunge his knife into the hart’s throat, while the King regained^ his feet. Plerne’s wounds were so serious that, placing his horn to his lips and winding a feeble note upon it, he fell beside the dead hart, senseless. The King, deeply distressed, rode off for succour, and, blowing his bugle lustily, was presently joined by the Earl of Oxford and some of his followers, among whom were several keepers. Now Heme had incurred the jealousy of the entire band of keepers, and not one of them but would openly have rejoiced at his death, if he had dared. The chief keeper, Osmond Orooke, would gladly have dispatched the unfortunate man with his hunting knife, asserting that it ^were better to ut Herne out of his misery ; ’ but the King stayed im with indignant words, and declared that he

Page 51

“ The Earl of Surrey was suddenly startled by the brightness of a blue phosphoric light.” would willingly give a large reward to any one who could cure him. Scarcely had he spoken when a tall, dark man, in a strange dress, mounted on a black, wild-looking steed, sprang to the ground, and approaching the King said, ‘ I will take your offer, sire, I will cure him.’ All present were astonished, for the speaker was unknown to them. Questioned as to his name and state, he asserted that he was Philip Urswick ; that he dwelt on Bagshot Heath, and that, if the King would make it worth his while, he could cure the wounded man. The King promised the stranger a handsome reward and a free pardon should he have committed any offence, provided he restored Herne.

Page 52

CHATTERBOX. 45 Bad News. < Enough/ replied Urswick, setting to work at once. Drawing from his girdle a large sharp knife, ; he cut ojff the hart’s head, laid it open, and while the | astonished keepers watched, he bound it with leathern thongs, all bleeding as it was, on the head of the patient. Then, addressing the King, Urswick said, * I will now answer for his perfect cure in a month s time, but I shall require to watch over him myself till all danger is at an end. I pray your highness to command these keepers to carry him to my hut.’ The King commanded, and a litter of branches and trees was hastily formed, Herne’s body, with ^ the hart’s head, was placed on it, and carried to Urswick s hut on Bagshot Heath. {Concluded at page 50.) BAD NEWS. IN the library of a large country house sat a lady, reading the letters which the morning post had brought her. She had glanced over two or three which were of no particular interest, and then she took up one which brought a smile to her lips and a light to her eyes, for the handwriting was that of a very dear old friend. But as she read it the ex¬ pression of her face changed ; she looked grave, and even sad, and at last she could not keep back her tears. ^ I grieve to tell you,’ said the writer, that the account which I hear of your son is giving me much anxiety. I am told of his extravagance, of his wild and reckless ways, and of the bad set into which he has fallen, and 1 have only too great reason to believe that all this is true.’ Much more followed in the same strain, and the lady wept as she read, for the young man of whom the writer spoke was her only son, and she was a widow. Then she prayed silently, and, taking up her pen, she wrote to her boy a letter full of love and pleading, such as only a good mother could write. The young man’s heart was touched; he re¬ membered how he had neglected her. He resolved to go and see his mother once more. Like the prodigal of old, he did not feel worthy to be called her son, but you may be sure that his mother wel¬ comed him, and did her best to win him back to goodness. Blake,

Page 53

46 CHATTERBOX. MARTELLO TOWERS. 1^ ^ between England and the legions of Napoleon, the Government erected Martello towers in many parts of the Southern coast. They were intended to serve as a defence in case of an invasion. T-he name is derived from Martello, in Corsica, where a strong tower enabled its defenders to maintain a determined resistance against a superior tece in A.D. 1704. The Martello towers erected in Kent and Sussex are circular, and on the top there is a single gum A deep ditch surrounds each tower. During the first part of the war, a sum of nearlv a million sterling was spent in erecting fortifications and Martello towers on the Southern coast. The value of these towers was never put to the proof in the manner expected ; and they have since been used as residences for the coastguard men of the revenue service. g q TONY. {Contimied from page 39.) CHAPTER VI. >UNKISE HILL COLLEGE was the full name of Mr, Peter Verschoyle’s school^ but the boys and the towns¬ people called it simply ' Sun¬ rise,’ and the place — bright, cheerful, full of happy j’oung life, as it was — was worthy of its name. Ernest had felt rather bewildered, for a mo¬ ment, as he stepped out upon Qi .. X I • • . platform of Kelmston fetation, at his journey s end. Kelmston was not, as a rule, a bustling or crowded town, but a large party of excursionists had joined the train about half way irom Llearminster, and women in smart dresses and workmen in Sunday suits, thronged the station, and went in a dense stream towards the street outside. When at length the noisy visitors had nearly all disappeared, Ernest, looking round with a sigh of relief, noticed a short and rather stout gentleman who was regarding him with a curious glance from under a P^ir of bushy black eyebrows, and saying, in a voice which had more than a suspicion of the Irish biogue, ell, my boy, so you are here at last.’ Verschoyle, sir.?’ said Ernest, respectfully, hoping for an answer in the affirmative. nn+iW Ireland’s my ation, was the reply. But stop a minute, young pLL V that I am and Sunrise College, and instructor of youth in the way that it should go. iNo, no ; I am no such honourable and dio-nified calipT^^’ ^ Terence Verschoyle — commonly called Terry~very much at your service, and sent ing tor the tram in which you have come from— dear me, where is it that you have come from ? ’ -brom Llearminster,’ said Ernest, with a smile ^.y • fi’om Clearminster — a fine old place, no doubt; but you are young, my friend, if you will permit me to say so, you are vety young, and even the inhabitants of Clearminster must, at the age of sixteen, or thereabouts, be in a condition of fresh¬ ness greenness, if the epithet may be used without offence — resembling that of my own dear emerald isle. What I have to propose, therefore, is that you put yourself into my hpds, and say and do nothing of your own free will, till you are safely within the precincts of Sunrise College.’ ^ There will not be much chance for me to sav anything, thought Ernest, amused by his com¬ panion’s chatter. As he followed Mr. Terence Verschoyle out of the station, he could not help drawing a rapid comparison between the Irishman’s conduct and that of Samson Grist. Terence had no notion of allowing anybody under his charge to lug along a heavy portmanteau ; he gave a liberal tip to the loafer, who, at his request, relieved Ernest of the luggage, and called a hansom as soon as the cab-stand was reached, rattling away while they went over the stones of Kelmston streets, his tongue movino- as fast as the wheels went rounffi Ernest got but a flying glimpse of houses and shops, of a stately Town Hall, and of an enormous grey church, with a tower standing at some little mstance from the main edifice, looking as though L ^d been put down by mistake in the wrong place. He was whirled along so quickly that the town was soon left behind, and beside a road which, sloping upwards, reminded him of the Crofton Road at home, he saw^, standing in its own beautiful and extensive grounds, the building of which he had lately thought so much. It was only a large boys’ school, although in accordance with present-day fashion it was called a college, but nowhere surely had school more pleasant or attractive surroundings. The big white house, with a separate school-room built out from it, stood first in a garden, then in a wide paddock or park-like I enclosure of fresh turf, and the trees which grew around, mostly elms and chestnuts, were of great size and beauty. Many a Kelmston voungster rose at early dawn on autumn mornings to go out as far as the College and gather chestnuts— locally known as ^ oblionkers ’ — under the lofty trees which over¬ hung the road. The wide iron gates stood open, but the gi’ounds and garden were deserted, for at this hour the boys were gathered into morning school ; the hansom rolled along a broad gravelled drive to the front door, and Ernest, as he was ushered into a cool entrance hall, felt that ^the lines had lallen to him in pleasant places.’ He did not see any reason to change that opinion when he was presented to the master of the house. Mr. Peter Verschoyle was much older and graver than the lively Terence, but he had a kind face and voice. He made Ernest heartily welcome to feuniise, and proposed that the young teacher should not enter upon his duties until the morrow, but should spend the remaining hours of that day in getting acquainted with his new place of residence, lerence, being an amiable and idle person with a small settled income of his own, and nothing par- I

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CHATTERBOX. 47 ticular to do, was very fond of paying long visits to his brother Peter; he was a great favourite witn everybody at Sunrise College, and he volunteered, m his usual good-natured fashion, to show iiinest round, and to make him known to all the mnaates. Satisfied that he left the new comer in good hands, the head master returned to his duties, leaving Ernest to be led away to the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Verschoyle had a welcome repast in waiting. The handsome, matronly lady, with a manner formed for winning the hearts of boys sorrowful over the first parting from mother and home, made a great impression upon Ernest. Old Hannah’s care was, as we know, all the ' mothering ’ which he and iony had had, but it was not until he met Mrs. Verschoyle that the true extent of his loss began to dawn upon him. He had not been able to help drawing a com¬ parison between Mr. Terence and his Uncle Samson, Ld now in fancy he saw the contrasted figures ot Mrs. Samson and the head master’s wife. Kising at half-past four gives a wonderfulljr keen edge to the healthy appetite of a youth of sixteen, and Ernest had long forgotten the dry and meagre packet of sandwiches which Mrs. Samson had had put ready for his refreshment on the }omney. While he got through his late breakfast, kind Mrs. Verschoyle poured out his coffee and pressed him to eat. Let him do his very utmost she would not be surprised, for long experience had instructed her in the ways of hungry youths fresh from railway Mr. ^Terence waited with exemplary patience; then he took Ernest over the house and gardens-- everywhere, in fact, excepting to the school and class-rooms, which were not to be visited until aftei the pupils came out for their recess^ Ernest was delighted with everything he saw— with the fiowers which were Mr. Verschoyle’s special hobby, and which it was a point of honour for every boy in the school to admire and protect--with the pens, the pigeon-house, the kennels, and the stable- vard. where some of the pupils kept rabbits, mice, guinea-pigs, and such-like. For the master was a lover of animals too, and wisely thought that to keep and care for some pet or pets of his own was the best way in which a boy could learn kindness to¬ wards dumb creatures. j Mr. Terence kept up his lively talk during the whole time. ‘ Just look at these lop-eared rabbits they are Simpson Major’s; he entered one of them for competition at the Kelmston Show The Kuinea-pigs are little White’s-Teddy White s-a Loth of I boy he is, too. You will have him under vour care, most likely, for he is amongst the infants, Is I call them. It makes Master Teddie awfully raw to be called an infant; he is mne years old, but he has been a man, in his own opinion, ever since he sot into his first breeches.’ ^ Ernest would have liked to ask questions about the boys who were to be under his own particular charge, but Terence Waited neither for question or reply; before the rabbits and guinea-pigs had been mLe than glanced at ho was off to something else. One of the dogs, a black spaniel, with beautiful soft eyes, and a yery friendly expression on his honest face, had just been let loose by the stable-boy . He ran up to Ernest, wagging his tail and jumping with delight, eyidently trying to get on good terms with tLs is my niece Nora’s dog,’ said Mr. Terence, patting him on the head. ‘He is everybody s favourit , and the best creature in the world, are you not. Master Black ? ’ -mi. * Is that his name ? ’ asked Ernest. < Yes, and he may well be proud of it. He Has a pedigree as long as my arm, and was ^^rth a great price, even when he was a puppy. Just look at h s ^^Ernest looked. The dog had broad, flat feet, which looked almost as if they were webbed, mere was not a white or coloured hair on the whole oi nis curly coat ; all was black as jet. rn ‘He is a cocker spaniel,’ continued Mr. Terence. ‘ Nora has gone to a picnic to-day, or else he vvould be with her, for she and Master Black are nearly in- ^^^’^danging bell interrupted, as nothing else would have done, the stream of talk. ‘The recess already!’ exclaimed Terence. Stand here by the fence, and you will see them all come out ; then I can tell you their names. , In this way Ernest first became acquainted witb Mr. Duncan, the second master, a grave, rather heavy-looking man, with the two - Mr. Bourne and Michael Verschoyle, the head . master’s son, and with a multitude of boys, fro^ ta I Simpson Major, the owner of the lop-eared rabMte, to little Teddy White and his fellow infants, ihe crowd of lads in every sort of summer costume scattered joyously oyer the green turf, and m th e minutes games were in full swing. Ernest stood looking on for a while; *1^ the longing to join became too much for him. With a laugbiL sign of permission from Mr. Terence he plu ed into the midst of the nearest group, and was , oon as deep in their play as though he had always lived at Sunrise College. , . Though he had not intended it to be so, this was his best possible introduction to the boys and their teachers. After playing together t^ey could not possibly be strangers, and when by-and-lw Mi. Verschoyle formally presented ‘ Mr, Ernest Hanson to the assembled school, many of those present felt that they were that day receiving a real acquisition to their numbers. All this and more Ernest had to tell Tony in return for the letters about Olearminster and Keren. Tony was as yet in happy ignorance of the real extent of his separation from Ernest. He naturally thought that his brother would letuin when the summer yacation came, and that, as Ernest had gone to Kelmston at the half-term, the time would not be long. But this was not to be the case. Ernest had been specially engaged to look after the voungest boys, and some or these, it appeared, remained with Mr. Verschoyle dunng the holidays, and went with him and his family to the seaside. It was settled that Ernest was to go too Except for the long absence from Tony, he have been well content to have it so. As it "was, he could only hope that Tony would bear up well until Christmas came. [Continued at page 54.)

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CHATTERBOX. 49 There was a rat, for want of stairs, Came down a rope to go to prayers.”

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50 CHATTERBOX . A RAT AT PRAYERS. Dr. SHERIDAN, the celebrated friend of Dean Swift, had a custom of ringing his scholars to prayers in the school-house at a certain hour each day. The boys were one day at prayers when a rat was seen descending the bell-rope in the room. A boy burst out into a fit of laughter, which set the others going as he pointed out the cause. Sheridan was so provoked that he declared that he would whip them all if the culprit were not pointed out to him, which was quickly done. The pupil was instantly hoisted on another’s back, in readiness for his thrashing. Then the witty schoolmaster told him that if he could compose a short rhyme which was applicable to the occasion he would forgive him, as he was the greatest dunce in the school. The trembling culprit, with some hesitation, ad¬ dressed his master with the following couplet : — ‘ There was a rat, for want of stairs. Came down a rope to go to prayers.’ Sheridan instantly dropped the rod, and released the boy from his promised punishment. CURIOUS OLD ALMAIfACBIS. People had almanacks of a sort in the olden time before any could be printed, or even written, upon paper, because tjpe was not invented, and paper was not made. Log or wooden almanacks, having letters and signs cut or painted upon them, were used in some parts of England not so very long ago, and some are still preserved as curiosities in museums. ^ Evidently the oldest almanacks made were of this kind. They were of wood or metal. They often chose box-wood or elm for their hard¬ ness ; now and then we find one of horn. There are ^me which probably belong to the time when the Romans ruled Britain, having four sides for the four seasons of the year, marked with changes of the moon and festival days. Upon one of these dots are put m place of figures to show the numbers, and for ten^ the sign of x . Several of these have characters which we cannot understand. Next to these come what might be called Church calendars, which recorded the Sundays and special days to be observed, but they did not take much note about the moon. They were mostly folding almanacks, and written upon vellum, very likely the work of the monks who had spare time, and who were able to write, which few could in those days. Perhaps they sold these calendars, or gave them to those who befriended the Church. Few of them have been preserved. Not till the fourteenth century can we discover anything like our modern almanacks. Many of these were brought out at Oxford, but some in London and other places about England. Walter de Elvenden’s almanack appeared about a.d. 1327, and that of John Somers in a.d. 1380. We are told that of this many copies were made, though it was partly in Latin. The first almanack which was really meant for ordinary people was prepared in a.d. 1386. Of course, no printed copies came out. It gave an account of the feasts and festivals, also notes upon medicine, astrological information about the signs of the zodiac, and the ^houses’ of the planets. Besides these things, it contained a brief history of past events. Thus, it names a ‘ great hunger ’ in a.d. 1325, a ^ great tempest ’ in a.d. 1333, and in several years pestilences occurred. Evidently England had trou¬ blous times during that century. There was no printed almanack till the Shepherds' Calendar came out. It is curious that it had this name ; possibly it was supposed that shepherds knew more about the weather than other folk, or else that they had special need of an almanack. This was printed in a.d. 1497 by Richard Pynson, and translated from the French. It contained a little information which might have been useful^ with a great deal of nonsense about the planets and stars, describing what effects they had on the human body. Others published almanacks something like this, having prophecies about the weather, and these so much ^spleased Henry VIII. that he issued a proclamation against them. In the Shepherds' Calendar there was a curious table, which pretended to show what weather would follow each change of the moon, according to the day of the week it happened to be : — ^ Sunday prime, dry weather ; Monday prime, moist weather ; Tuesday prime, cold and windy ; Wednesday prime, marvellous; Thursday prime, sound and clear ; Friday prime, clear and foul ; Saturday prime, rain.* J. R. S. 0. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. HERNE THE HUNTER. {Concluded from page 45.) E chief keeper was about to leave the hut, when he charged Urswick with being no other than the outlaw, Arnold Sheafe. He had already taxed him with it in the King’s presence, but Urswick had denied the identity. Now, laughing disdainfully, he replied, ‘ It matters not who I am since I have the ^ n 1 , King’s pardon.’ He told Usmond that he saw that all the Ireepers bitterly hated the wounded Heme, and asked, ' What will you give me for revenge ? ’ They assured him they had but little to give. ‘ Will you swear to grant the first request I make of you, provided it be in your power?’ asked Urswick.

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CHATTERBOX. 51 ^ Readily/ they replied. ‘Enough !’ said Urswick, ‘ I must keep faith with the King. Herne will recover, hut he will lose all his skill as an archer, all his craft as a hunter.’ The wounded man’s foes were delighted, and the compact was regarded as sealed. A month passed away, and Herne, accompanied by his healer, was presented to the King. His Majesty expressed his pleasure at the restoration, gave Urswick a purse of gold and a silver bugle, and appointed his old favour¬ ite his chief keeper, hung a chain of gold about his neck, and ordered him to be lodged in the castle. A week elapsed, and the King set out on a hunting ex- pedition^ Herne being with him. From the moment that he entered the forest until the chase was at an end bad luck attended him. First his horse threw him — such a thing had never befallen him before, for he was a splendid horseman; then, although mounted on a steed remarkable for its speed, he came in last at the chase ; he missed his mark with cross-bow at half the usual distance, and allowed the buck to es¬ cape him, and when the King, pitying his discomfi¬ ture, allowed a third and easier trial, viz., to bring down with bow and arrow a near magpie, he failed again, the arrow quivering in the trunk of the tree, some yards from the bird. The mortified keeper was distracted with rage and grief, and the more so when the King said, ‘ Thou must regain thy craft, friend Herne, or I cannot continue thee as my chief keeper.’ The succeeding day the poor man went out alone to try his skill, but, although unknown to him, the eyes of his enemies were upon him, and they saw that no arrow found its mark, and that he had lost completely his mastery over horse and hound. Again he rode out with his sovereign, and his failures were even more marked, drawing forth derisive laughter from the entire hunting party. The King warned him that if after a week’s rest he could do no better he must consider himself discharged from his post. See Herne now, as he rides forth wildly into the forest, where he stayed till the shades of evening fell. When he returned they saw that his face was ghastly, his appearance strange. He had procured from Urswick the antlered skull of the hart, and fixed it to his head like a helmet. From his left arm hung a rusty chain, plucked from a gibbet, while his demeanor was reckless and his deeds wild. If his enemies had had but a grain of pity they must have been sorry for him, but their jealousy of his former skill and favour with the King had scared it all away, and they met him with shouts of derisive laughter. Misfortune induced despair, and the miserable man, whose valour had been the indirect cause of his trouble, rushed forth from his tormentors and disappeared among the trees of the Home Park. An hour later, and a stranger, crossing the park from Datchet, found him suspended by a rope from a branch of the Wizard’s Oak, dead. The terrified stranger, a pedlar, rushed to the castle to tell what he had seen, and the keepers, glad at heart, but dis¬ guising their satisfaction as well as they could, hurried to the tree to cut down the body, but they were astonished to find that it had already been removed, only the rope remaining. That night. 1 during the thunderstorm, the tree was blasted by lightning. Osmond at once became chief keeper, but imagine his chagrin when he discovered that the same spell that had bound Herne bound him. His bolts and arrows went wide of the mark, his hounds lost their scent, and his falcon would not be lured back. The same misery befell all the other keepers. The whole party was bewitched. See them, then, aU setting out to consult Urswick, believing that he could remove the spell. He assured them that the curse of Herne’s blood was upon them. He bade them hasten to the tree on which he had destroyed himself, where they would learn what to do to remove the curse. It was midnight when they reached the Wizard’s Oak. They could clearly see standing in the dark¬ ness its white, scathed trunk. Suddenly a light re¬ vealed a figure in a wild garb, and, as it darted round the tree, they saw the antlered helm and the rusty chain, and knew it to be Herne. They fell before it, and heard its command that on the follow¬ ing night they should again assemble there, bringing hounds and horses as for the chase. They obeyed, taking with them Herne’s favourite horse, saddled and bridled, and the black hounds in leash. No sooner did the terrible shape, which, of course, met them, see the steed than he vaulted on its back, and cried, ‘ To the forest ! To the forest ! ’ The whole party, hounds and men, dashed for¬ wards after him at a furious pace for some miles, till Herne halted before a huge beech tree, pronounced some mystic words, and made some strange gestures, when a fiash of fire burst from the roots of the tree, and Urswick stood before him. ‘ Welcome, Herne ! ’ he cried. ‘ Welcome, lord of the forest ! And you, his comrades, and soon to be his followers, welcome too ! The time is come for the fulfilment of your promise to me. I require you to form a band for Herne the Hunter, and to serve him as a leader. Swear to obey him, and the spell that hangs over you shall be broken. If not, I leave you to the King’s justice.’ They all took the oath, and Urswick vanished in a flash of fire. Herne again assumed the leadership, and bade the rest pay him homage. Wild doings now took place nightly in the great park. The herds of deer were thinned, and other outrages were committed. By-and-by news of these doings came to the ears of the King, and strange stories were told him of the demon huntsman and his band. Astonished and scarce credulous, the King deter¬ mined himself to look into the matter. It was mid¬ night as Richard and his friends neared the Wizard’s tree. Seated on his black steed, they beheld Herne the Hunter as leader, attended by his guard and the band of keepers. Fear fell on all but the King, who : boldly rode up to the figure, and demanded, ‘ Why I dost thou disturb the quietness of night, cursed spirit? ’ ‘ Because I desire vengeance. I was brought to I this woeful condition by Osmond Crooke and his comrades,’ replied the spectre. ‘ But you killed yourself, did you not ? ’ asked the King. ‘ I was driven to the deed by a spell laid on me by j the guilty keepers. Hang them on this tree,^ and I will trouble the woods no more while thou reignest.’

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The King looked round on the men thus accused, and one more timid than the rest fell on his knees confessing his guilt and accusing the others. The King cried, ‘It is enough; they shall all suffer for their offence.’ In a moment Herne and his horse vanished in a flash of fire from the presence of His Majesty. King Richard was as good as his kingly word. He hanged the guilty men on the scathed tree, and Herne did not again trouble the forest while that monarch occupied the throne of England. But he returned again with a new band in the reign of Henry IV., and hunted deer at night, and carried on other depredations, and it is told that even to-day he

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CHATTERBOX. 53 The Moors in Spain. “ When the Cross in Spain was broken, And the Moors her sceptre swayed, In his royal town a caliph A fair stately palace made,” is as active as ever in the royal forest of Windsor. Those who incline to an evil deed frequently see him now, as he always obeys their summons. Goodness, justice, and mercy know nothing of him, for he has none of these God-like qualities. James Cassidy. THE MOORS IN SPAIN. AS early as the year a.d. 711 the Saracens first appeared in Spain. After a short period of comparative peace they were sorely beset by the Christians, and, in order to get help against their powerful foes, they, in an evil hour for themselves, called in the aid of the Moors from Africa. Pre¬ tending to be friendly to the Saracen cause, the Moors came over, and then forciby seized the very dominions which they had been asked to protect, subduing the Saracens and treating them in all respects as a conquered nation. ^ The victorious Moors held their own in Spain for long, but in the year A.D. 1238 the Kingdom of Granada was being made a last refuge from the power of the Christians, who had increased enor¬ mously in strength during the previous century. Two hundred thousand Moors arrived to assist the King of Granada in a.d. 1327, and for a time they were successful ; but at Tarifa in a.d. 1340 they were tinal^ defeated by Alfonso XI. of Castile. Under Ferdinand II. of Aragon the Christians of Spain were united under one monarchy. Granada itself fell before their victorious armies, and the Moors were finally driven out of the country in a.d. 1492. MAKING POT POITRRL H7HAT is pot pourri? It is not an uncommon VV article in country homes, and we may also come upon it in town houses. Pot pourri is an agreeable and fragrant mixture of the leaves, flowers, or stems of plants, perhaps with other perfumes added, which, when prepared, is put into vases, jars, or dishes, and then placed in sitting- rooms for the general benefit. According to the old notion, such a compound is not only pleasant to the nose, but it helps to destroy those germs which frequently cause serious diseases. Almost every book or magazine, in which are to be found direc¬ tions for making pot pourri, mentions as a principal thing in it the petals or flowers of some kind of rose. Here is an opening for the young folk to help. On the warm, dry days of summer, full-blown but not at all faded flowers can be gathered in the rose garden. At once they must be turned out of the baskets in which they have been heaped together, else they would ferment or spoil. Then the fingers of young or old can carefully pull off the petals from their stalks, and they are left on cloths to get fully dry before they are put into jars with the other things. Another article used for pot pourri is the leaves of the sweet geranium, talien from the stalks, and pulled into small pieces; also some verbena and rosemary leaves. Lavender should also be added ; this must be cut when most of the flowers on the spike are out, it has to be laid out thinly to dry, else it turns mouldy. So much for the leaves ; afterwards there are the spices to be added, if they are to be part of the

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54 CHATTERBOX. mixture. But here we must notice that there are two sorts of pot-pourri, the dry and the moist. To make the dry, all that is needful is to stir the leaves well together; when dry enough, put in any spice you fancy, also dry, and the thing is done. For the moist sort, which all good judges say is best, you have to take more trouble. The various leaves are thrown into a large stone-ware jar. A handful or two of leaves is put in, rammed together, and salt sprinkled over, then more leaves, with more salt, till the jar is full, and upon the top some weight is placed, to keep the mixture under pressure. Mostly, people use equal parts of bay and kitchen salt, the bay salt broken up into little pieces. The jars are kept untouched till about October, which month should complete the making of moist pot-pourri. Now the jars must be turned out. Orris powder, ground all¬ spice, and other gums or apices, are mixed in one bowl, and cloves, strips of orange-peel, with mace, have another bowl to themselves. Next, the various lars of pressed leaves and salt are turned out into a large tub with a fork, and now the spices have to be added to the heap. This is turned over and over till all is thoroughly mixed, when the pot pourri is complete, and may be put in the vase in the parlour or other room which it is intended to perfume. J. R. S. 0. TONY. {Continued from page 47.) CHAPTER VII. ^^UNRISE COLLEGE is not quite Liberty Hall,’ said Terence Verschoyle, in the course of that long, ram¬ bling talk of his, which seemed to Ernest after¬ wards to have lasted during the whole of the first day at Kelmston. ‘ There are , ... just a few rules and regu¬ lations which must be kept, and while you are at work you must work with a will ; that is, if you want to keep on good terms with brother Peter, and enjoy aU the advantages of the place. But there is plenty of freedom, as you will find, if you manacle things the right way. For instance, the first bell rings at seven, and everybody must get up then : the bathers— most of the elder boys bathe in the summer-time— are marched off to the river, in charge of Mr. Bourne and Michael. The delicate lads, and the little ones, get their cold water in the house and then run about the grounds till break fast- time, ^o lessons before breakfast, that is a fixed principle here. Well, as I was saying, you can get time for yourself, if you know how to go to work ; if you like to get up before seven there is no one to prevent you, and, as the turning-in time is early, you may ve^ well do so these long light mornings.’ Ernest bore the words in mind, and the next day was up and about before any one else was stirring. He had a great desire to see Sunrise and its sur¬ roundings without that kind, hut, to tell the truth, rather too talkative, guide always at his elbow, ihe delicious freshness of the early air had always a charm for him, and there was one walk, a picturesque shaded grove or alley, which stretched along between the garden and the paddock, which he had firmly resolved to explore. ^What trees there were at Kelmston ! Clear- minster and its environs had been rather stinted in the matter of ^ trees : they did not take their growth very kindly in the nipping and often easteHy air ; but here was a luxuriance of dense green foliao-e of which Ernest had never dreamed. At the head of the walk which he had promised himself to follow grew a giant acacia ; some of its branches hung so low that they swept the cool, closely shaven turf, and the ground was strewed for yards round with the white fragrant blossoms which fell at every breath of wind. This tree was new to Ernest; he sat down on a rustic seat over which it made a canopy of shade, and gave himself up, first to the ^joyment of its beauty, and then to thoughts of Tony. But he was not to be alone long ; there was a faint pattering sound of footsteps on the grass, then a cold black nose was thrust into his hand, while a clear, ringing voice called from some little distance. Master Black ! Master Black ! ’ Where could the voice come from ? Ernest looked round in vain, behind the seat, and even under it, on the right hand and the left, and could discover no one. Then came a ripple of laughter ; Ernest looked up this time, and caught sight of something pink and white amongst the lower branches of the tree. The thick leaves were parted, and a girl’s face, framed in a tangle of brown curls, appeared in the opening. ^ Do not go away, please,’ said the small person to whom the face belonged ; am Nora Verschoyle, and I am coming down in a minute.’ Ernest was amazed; having no sisters to instruct him in^ the manners and customs of girls, he had been driven back upon his observations of the sisters of his schoolfellows, and the pupils of a young ladies’ boarding-school near the Institute at Olearminster. From these he had learned, or believed himself to have learned, that girls were extremely delicate, and rather prim creatures, who, when they were out of doors, walked two and two, and found their chief pleasure in wearing smart dresses. It was plain that Nora Verschoyle would not answer to these ideas. Swinging herself down from the tree, as lightly as any boy could have done, she stood upon the turf before him, as winsome a maiden of twelve as it was possible to meet. Her pink and white frock was short, and rather the worse for wear, her long curling hair had no comb or curb, and her round straw hat must have seen service in the garden for many a day. But she was charming, with the wonderful charm of perfect health, and she gazed at Ernest with something of the same frank, friendly exjDression which shone in the eyes of her beloved Master Black. ‘ Are you surprised to see me out here ? ’ she began. ^ People dre surprised sometimes ; but I love

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CHATTERBOX. 55 getting up early, and mother lets me do it, only 1 have to promise to keep in the garden, and to come in if it rains very hard. I do not mind a little rain, because, you see, I am pretty strong — do you ? ’ ^No,^ said Ernest, smiling; he hardly knew how to address this pretty, but decidedly queer, little girl. Was she to be called Nora, that would surely be too familiar ; yet how could one say ‘ Miss Verschoyle,’ to a small tomboy who climbed trees. Nora did not give him much time to decide the point; she had so many questions of her own to ask, and she felt so brimful of interesting information herself, that it was a treat to get some one fresh to talk with. ^ Are you the new teacher for Teddy White s class ? ’ she went on. ‘ You must have come yesterday, while I was ont. Did Uncle Terry show you round ? Did he tell you about me ? Did you see Master Black ? He is a dear, is he not ? ’ ‘ Yes,^ Ernest said, ^ I saw Master Black, and a very fine dog he is.^ is a good thing you came,’ Nora went on, ^ because Master Black always likes to see new people, and seeing a new person yesterday may have comforted him a little for my being away at the picnic. Uncle Terry told you that, I suppose — that I was gone to a picnic ? ' ‘ Oh, yes ! ’ responded Ernest gravely ; ^ but. Miss Verschoyle, I must go in now.’ Nora opened wide eyes of astonishment. ‘ I am not Miss Verschoyle,’ she declared ; ‘ 1 would not be Miss Verschoyle for anything. Evelyn is that; only she is hardly ever at home. She lives with our grand¬ mother, and she is quite, quite grown up. I am Nora; everybody calls me Nora, and so must you.’ ‘ Very well,’ agreed Ernest ; ‘ 1 shall see you again. Miss - , that is, Nora,’ and, lifting his cap to the friendly little damsel, he turned towards the house. It would not do to be talking in the garden when the first bell rang, so that solitary walk along the groye must needs be put off until another morning. Evelyn and Nora, the two daughters of the house, had been very differently brought up ; Evelyn, who had been adopted by her grandmother at an early age, had always had a governess of her own, and had been trained and educated after the most approved fashion. Nora, who had remained at home with her parents, had had, at seven years old, a rather serious illness. ' Let her be quite free,’ said the family doctor, as she grew slowly better. ‘ Let her even run wild for a time. Throw lessons to the winds, and bring your child up in the open air, if you wish to make her healthy.’ Long after the last symptom of delicacy had dis¬ appeared this advice was followed; and so Nora was a perpetual shock to her sister Evelyn’s ideas of propriety, when that young lady came to Sunrise for a brief visit now and again. But, with all her wildness, Nora had managed to learn a good deal, sometimes from her mother, some¬ times from the boys’ teachers ; and she was to go to school regularly — to a ladies’ school — ‘ when she was old enough.’ will never grow old enough,’ resolved Nora privately ; but circumstances were destined to be too strong for her. Meanwhile, she became great friends with Ernest. ‘ I like him better than any of the others,’ she told her devoted little chum and admirer, Teddy White. ^Mr. Duncan is too solemn, and Mr. Bourne has never got time for anything, and Michael — well, you see, Michael is my brother, and he is always telling mother that she will spoil me, and that it is time I went to school. But Mr. Hanson — Ernest — I call him Ernest out of school hours — is as nice — as nice as Master Black.’ Praise could no further go with Nora ; and Ernest returned her friendly feeling. He talked to the little girl about many things ; especially of Tony, con¬ cerning whom he had recently begun to feel rather anxious. Tony was not so well as he had been ; he wrote a doleful letter, complaining of his cough. He had got a bad cough, and Keren had it too ; they were not allowed to go out at present, and the long days in the house were very dull. After that there was an interval of silence, and then Mr. Samson wrote instead. The children, Tony and Keren, had whoop¬ ing-cough ; and, as Ernest was obliged to mix so much with young boys, it was perhaps not ex¬ pedient that letters from Tony should come just now. Ernest should be informed, now and then, as to the progress of the complaint ; of course he must be aware that it was not very serious, and that children, sooner or later, were bound to have such attacks. This made Ernest more uneasy than he cared to admit, even to himself; not to get Tony’s weehly letter was a great loss to him. For the first time he fully felt the sadness of their parting. Some of Ernest’s little pupils had become dear to him ; and Nora’s trust and friendship were a comfort. But, ‘ Oh, my Tony ! ’ said the elder brother, in the wakeful hours of the night, when others were sleep¬ ing round him ; ‘ I would say good-bye to every one of them to-morrow, if I might but come back to ‘ Why cannot you let Tony come here to school, when he gets well ?’ asked Nora, when she saw what a trouble the long separation from him was to Ernest. ‘ I am afraid that it could not be managed,’ said Ernest, sadly. But the question set him thinking. Why could it not be managed ? He knew what Mr. Samson would say — that it could not possibly be afforded — and then a certain sense of injustice, which had made itself felt before in Ernest’s mind, began to rankle there again. Was it right ? Was it right that Uncle Samson should have all, and he and Tony nothing ? For himself it did not matter much ; lie was strong, he could work, and lihed his work fairly well; but the thought of Tony barely provided for, treated with scant indulgence, even though he was ill, was a very hard one to bear. ^ It is best not to dwell upon it,’ thought Ernest, wisely. . H shall only grow angry and bitter against Uncle Samson. The only thing that 1 can do is to work, work, work, so as to be able by-and-by to take Tony away, and keep him, and care for him, in a house of our own.’ {Continued at page 62.)

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56 CHATTER BOX.

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“ I cannot leave this man to perish. Come, help me to arouse him.”

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58 CHATTERBOX. A GOOD SAMARITAN IN LAPLAND. STORY was told of two travellers in Lapland, which throws much light on the art of being happy. Upon a very cold day in the winter they were driving along in a sledge, wrapped up in furs from head to foot. Even their faces were , mostly covered ; one could hardly see anything hut ' their eyebrows, and these were white and glisten¬ ing with frost. At length they saw a poor man who had sunk down benumbed and frozen in the snow. ^ We must stop and help him,’ said one of the travellers. ‘Stop and help him!’ replied the other. ‘You will never think of stopping such a day as this ! We are frozen ourselves, and ought to be at our journey’s end as soon as possible.’ ‘ But I cannot leave this man to perish,’ rejoined the more humane traveller. ‘I must go to his sledge. Come,’ said he, ‘ come, help me to arouse him.’ ‘ Not I,’ replied the other. ‘ I have too much regard for my own life to expose myself to this freezing atmosphere more than is necessary. I will sit here and keep myself as warm as I can till you come back.’ So saying, he kept his seat, while his companion hastened to the relief of the perishing man. The ordinary means for restoring consciousness and activity were tried with complete success. But the kind-hearted traveller was so intent on * saving the life of a fellow-creature that he had forgotten his own exposure; and what was the con¬ sequence P Why, the effort which he had made to warm the stranger warmed himself I And thus he had a two-fold reward. He had a sweet con¬ sciousness of doing a benevolent act, and he also found himself glowing from head to foot by reason of the exertions which he had made. And how was it with his companion, who had been so much afraid of exposing himself ? He was almost frozen, notwithstanding the efforts which he had made to keep himself warm ! LEGEND OP THE CURSE OP BIRTS MORTON SHADOW. ^T was at Malvern Priory, oh ! many years ^ agone, A monk had sinned — the prior said a penance must be done ; On his bare hands and knees to crawl from thence to Ragged Stone, Four brethren would attend him, he must not go alone. All in the early morning grey, the brethren forth him sent. Reciting penitential prayers as though it had been Lent. The dreadful way was rough with thorns, and thickets, and sharp briars, With stones and hard volcanic rocks, and flints that cut like wires. With labour sore he toiled along through all that weary day. Blistered and scorched beneath the sun he held him on his way. No drop of water touched his lips, no gentle breeze him fanned ; He longed for rest, as any shipwrecked sailor longs for land. His clothing torn to rags, his bleeding limbs he dragged full sore. As on he toiled towards eventide, creeping the valley o’er ; A long dark shadow fell, and spread, and gave him heart of grace, It would at least he thought assuage his hard and woful case ; But no, too heated, troubled, worn, it gave him scant repose. And wrathfully he scrambled up, and cursed it as he rose, ‘ For ever, and for always, on whoever it might fall.’ — That shadow still by times, it is said, rests on Birts Morton Hall. And once in Wolsey’s early days, old histories declare, Reading in the fair garden of the moated manor there. He fell asleep, and, as the sun sank slowly in the west. The shadow fell upon him — of his fate we know the rest. But we, no curse can dwell on us who humbly take our stand Beneath the Shadow of the Rock even in a weary land. A. A. U. W. PUZZLERS POR WISE HEADS. 5. — ^Acrostics. (a.) — The same word will express a royal residence and a popular periodical. 1. It is in Water, but not in Brook ; 2. It is in Kitchen, but not in Cook. 3. It is in Minute, but not in Hour ; 4. It is in Acid, but not in Sour. 5. It is in Stone, but not in Brick ; 6. It is in Blow, but not in Kick ; 7. It is in Rapid, but not in Quick. (b.) — Another favourite periodical of a humorous kind, and an intoxicating beverage. 1. It is in Empress, but not in Queen; 2. It is in Humble, but not in Mean. 3.. It is in Minute, but not in Year ; 4. It is in Costly, but not in Dear ; 5. It is in Prophet, but not in Seer. C. 0. 6. — Changed Words. Change Book to Read. 4. Change Lyre to Harp. „ Weed to Rose. 5. ,, Side to Back. „ Wood to Coal. 6. ,, Goat to Bear. C. 0. [Answers at page 74.]

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OHATTJERBOX. 59 4.— 1. Goat. 2. Fallen. 3. Wondering. 4. Time. 5. Wishing. 6. Reynard. 7. Was. 8. Plenty. 9. Danger. [. 10. Friend. 11. Enough. 12. Abundant. 13. Leaped. 14. Taking. 15. Horns. 16. Leaped. 17. Remarked. 18. Brains. 19. Beard. 20. Before. DIL KHUSH. 10 K lived in India. His home was a long, white-washed bungalow with a thatched roof and green rails to the verandah, and all about the bungalow flowers bloomed all the year round, great fiery hibiscus flowers, and starry jasmine, and beautiful red flame-of-the-forest, and the drooping, golden sprays of the amultas-tree. Dick was quite a little boy, and he lived with his father and mother miles and miles away from any other English people. He had no brothers and sisters, so he was rather lonely, but he was a happy little boy, and all the Indian servants loved ‘ Dicky Sahib,’ as they called him, because he was so cheerful and good-tempered, and they did their best to amuse him and please him. Now, whent)icky was eight years old, a sad thing happened. For when the seed was sown in the fields, and the time came for the rain to fall and make the crops grow, no rain came, only dry, hot winds which burnt up the young crops. Day after day the poor people gazed up to the bright blue sky ; but not a cloud floated across it, only the fiery sun shone down upon them till the earth was hot and dry under their feet. And then food became very dear, and the people had little to eat, and there was misery in the land. The cows and oxen died for want of food, for all the green grass was parched ; the little children cried for bread, and all about the villages the people were so thin that they looked like skin and bone. Dick’s father and mother did all they could to help the people round them, and even Dick helped a little, for he took all the money out of his red savings-box and gave it to the poor villagers. One day Dick got up very early in the morning to go out for a ride on h is pony Dapple. His bearer helped h’m to dress, and mother gave him his bread and milk; then Jagoo the Syce (or groom) brought Dapple to the verandah steps, and Dick rode away, with Toby, the little fox terrier, running after him. ^ Be a good boy, Dick,’ called mother, ^ and come in before the sun gets hot.’ They went down the dusty road, Dick and Dapple, and Jagoo, and Toby, and presently they came to a big grove of mango trees. The leaves were aU dry and dusty, and no delicious mango-fruit hung on the trees, for the hot winds had killed all the sweet-scented blossom. It was very still and quiet under the trees, only the silvery call of the bright yellow mango bird sounded up among the branches, or a little hungry, grey mongoose crept among the rustling leaves below. Suddenly there rose, through the stillness, the cry of a little baby. Dick stopped his pony and looked about him. ‘Where is the child that cried?’ he asked Jagoo the Syce. Jagoo looked all round too. ‘ I do not know. Sahib,’ he replied, ‘ I see no child.’ But Toby the terrier was running here and there, whining and searching. Presently he stopped at a heap of dry leaves and began to bark, and from under the leaves they heard again the wailing cry of a baby. Then Dick jumped off his pony and helped Jagoo to brush away the leaves, and therein a basket lay a tiny brown baby with a very thin little face and great black eyes. ‘ Oh, poor, poor little baby,’ cried Dick, stroking its thin face. ‘ We must take it to the bungalow, Jagoo, and give it some clothes and some food.’ So Dick got on his pony again, and Jagoo carried the basket behind him, and Toby, the terrier, ran ahead barking loudly ; he was so proud and pleased because it was he who found the baby. They went back along the dusty road, and came to the garden gate, and there was mother in the garden. ‘ Oh, mother,’ cried Dick, ‘ guess what Toby found under the mango trees ! ’ ^ What was it, my dicky-bird P’ said mother, ‘a jackal or a mongoose ? ’ ‘ You will nemr guess, mother,’ said Dick, ^ it was a real, live baby I Oh, mother, may I keep it for my Ve^ own ? ’ Just then Jagoo came up with the little crying baby in the basket. ‘ Oh, what a poor, starved little thing,’ said Dick’s kind mother, ‘ how it cries ! Come, Dickie, we must go and get some milk for it.’ So mother ran indoors and searched in a cupboard, where she found a feeding-bottle from which Dick used to drink when he was a baby ; and soon the little brown child was sucking away quite happily, while Dick sat and watched it. When Dick’s father came in he sent for the village people, and asked who had put the baby under the leaves, and they soon brought him a poor woman, who cried bitterly, and said that she had come from a distant village where all the people were dying for want of food. Her husband was dead, and so were all her children but this one little creature, and it cried so that she could not bear to hear it, for she had no food to give it, so she buried it under the leaves and went away, for she thought that she must lie down and die herself. But it was a happy day for the poor Indian woman when Dick and Toby found her baby, for mother gave her some work to do and fed her, and the baby grew such a fat, jolly little boy, and crowed and chuckled so that Dick named him Bil EJiush, for that means ‘ a joyful heart.’ It was not long after this that the rain came at last, and made the crops grow, and then there was no more famine in the land. When Dick was ten years old, he went home to England to a big school, but he never forgot little Dil Khush, and often sent him a small present. And, when little Dick grew to be a bio: Dick, he came out to India again to fight for his Queen and country.

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and Dil Khush became a sepoy in his regiment. And one day when a fierce man tried to kill Dick, Dil Khush threw himself between, and saved his Captain’s life. He killed the fierce man, but he was so badly hurt himself that they thought he would die. Dick stood by his bedside with the doctor, and the poor sepoy looked up into his face with a smile. * Ah, Dicky Sahib,’ he said, ‘now I am DD Khush indeed ; you saved your servant’s life when he was a little baby, and now God has let him save your life.’ But Dil Khush did not die, though he lost his arm and could not fight any more. He lived for years, a good faithful servant, and when his Dicky Sahib had little boys and girls of his own they loved Dil Khush, who had saved their father’s life. Alice Thobp.

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CHATTERBOX. 61 “ It is not true, even of the poorest of us, that we have nothing to give.” NOTHING TO GIVE. MISS SIMMONDS lived at the white house at the end of Shelford village. It was a very small house, and there was a garden plot in front, just a little lawn, surrounding a round flower bed, with a standard rose-tree in the middle. The house had belonged to Miss Simmonds’ father, he had left it to his only daughter, together with a little— a very little— money ; and the poor lady lived there from year to year, trying hard to make both ends meet, and throwing rather soured and discontented, as a result of that difficult task. She was not by nature of a bright or easy-going disposition, she did not know how to make the best of her narrow lot. When she was asked for a subscription to any^ charity, or help for the poor, it was Miss Simmonds custom to reply, ‘ I am really very sorry, but I have nothing to give.’ One day she made this answer to Mr. Maitland, the Chaplain of a Hospital for Incurables in the neighbouring town. ' Nothing to give ! ’ the clergy¬ man’s eyes glanced round the shabby parlour, and he thought that maybe the words were true, then he looked farther and noticed the rose-tree, in all its summer wealth of fragrant blossoms. * Miss Simmonds,’ he said, * would it be too much to ask, if I begged for a few of your beautiful roses ? Some of my sick friends would be very glad of them.’ 1 j j It was so long since Miss Simmonds had done any unselfish thing, that the suggestion sounded strangely to her, but she did not know how to refuse, so she took a pair of scissors and a basket, and went to the tree. While she was there, a picture of the poor patients pent up in the town hospital came before her so vividly that she began to feel what it meant to be ill, and to be shut away from the pleasant world of flowers and sunshine. i ‘ After all, I have much to be thankful for, she thought, with a feeling of shame at her own discontent. ‘ Perhaps it has not been quite right to say that I have nothing to give.’ She cut away at the rose-tree with a generous hand, till her basket was full. ‘ The tree has plenty of young buds,’ she said, as she handed them to the clergyman. ‘ There will be more ready when these are withered.’ . Mr. Maitland did not forget to let Miss Simmonds know how much pleasure the flowers gave to the sufferers in the hospital ; and the gift did good to the giver too, for through its means she learned that service may be done, and help rendered, without money, and that it is not true, even of the poorest of us, that we have nothing to give. C. J. Blakb.

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G2 CHATTERBOX. HE MADE HIS CHARACTER. MERCHANT, who scoffed at religion, one Saturday ordered all his clerks to come on the^ morrow to his wharf and help unload a newly arrived ship. One young man replied quietly; ^Mr. Girard, I cannot work on Sundays.’ ^ You know our rules.’ * Yes, I know. I have a mother to support, hut I cannot work on Sundays.’ ‘ Well, step up to the desk, and the cashier will settle with you.’ For three weeks the young man could find no work ; but one day a banker came to Girard to ask if he could recommend a man for cashier in a new bank. This discharged young man was at once named as a suitable person. ' But,’ said the banker, ^ you dismissed him.’ ‘ Yes, because he would not work on Sundays. A man who would lose his place for conscience’s sake would make a trustworthy cashier.’ And he was appointed. TONY. {Continued from page 55.) CHAPTER VIII. was a pleasant though rather dull life which Ernest led at Kelmston. The world of school, like the great world outside, is apt to move at a sort of jog-trot pace, with only now and then a sudden change or some quickening of the motion. Every day there was the same routine to be gone through : the early bath, the meals taken together, the lessons, even the games, were arranged according to a settled plan. On Sundays there was church parade, when the boys who were boarders were arrayed in their best, with lad gloves and clean collars ; and Mrs. Verschoyle came in just as they were ready to start, to cast a motherly eye over them all, and make sure that Bertram Swain had brushed his rough head of hair into Sunday smooth¬ ness, and that Eouis Hartwright had remembered to take a clean pocket-handkerchief. Ernest found most advantage and enjoyment from the chance he had of learning modern languages at Sunrise College. He had always been very good at I'rench and German, and had made wonderful pro¬ gress even at Olearminster Institute, where the ^aching was not first-rate. At Sunrise, Professor Benoit and Herr Hoffmann, excellent teachers of ^eir respective tongues, paid frequent visits, and Ernest, a born linguist, could soon converse fairly m both languages, and was of great help to Mr. Verschoyle in teaching the little boys who were not yet promoted to a share in the lessons of the regular masters. Mr. Verschoyle encouraged this bent of Ernest’s in every way. ^ Go on and prosper, my boy,’ he would say, lapsing for a moment into the familiar style of his brother Terence. ^ You are the best boy I ever knew for the power of speech — a real gift of tongues, I call it.’ The good Principal set against Ernest’s easy mastery of a foreign tongue the average English pupil’s stiff and awkward efforts to form even a simple sentence. There were boys at Sunrise who had been learning for years, and who still had to stumble and stammer before they could say in French — of course with two or three mistakes as to gender and number — that *the dogs of your neigh¬ bour are more faithful than those of our aunt,’ or that ' the little brothers of our friend are younger than the gardener’s daughters.’ Mr. Verschoyle felt sure that Ernest, who could talk so well with Professor Benoit, would be able to turn his talents to good account. Indeed, the head master had already in his mind a plan for his junior teacher’s advancement, of which he had not yet thought fit to speak. He liked Ernest much bettei than he had ever expected to like a connection of Samson Grist’s, and he thought with pleasure of holding out to him that helping hand which had aided many an aspiring youth before. As the summer advanced, cricket became the all- absorbing interest at Sunrise. Everybody talked and thought — some even dreamed — of the game, and Nora, when Ernest met her in the garden walks, was full of the magnificent score which her favourite batsman had made, or of the disgrace with which Talbot Minor had covered himself by coming out with a duck, when he was supposed to be good for at least a dozen runs. The match of the season, so far as Sunrise was concerned, was played on their own ground, between their first eleven and that of Kelmston Grammar School. Michael Verschoyle was captain of the Sunrise team, and he, having noted Ernest’s play with a practised eye, insisted that Hanson should be included in his eleven. Nineteen-year* old Michael was the eldest of the lot, but ' men ’ they were, all of them, in their own estimation, and great was the excitement throughout both schools as the eventful day approached. A tent was pitched on the green turf of the pad- dock, where refreshments were to be provided, for it was the custom upon this occasion to open the school grounds to friends of the players. Of course. Miss Evelyn came home for the day, to stand about on the grass in the most becoming attitudes, to wear an elegant new dress, and to be polite and fascinating to the guests. It was a part which the young lady could play to perfection, but she had not any of Nora’s real knowledge of the game. In fact, the game to her was a very small matter. To smile and chat and look graceful, to have the eldest pupils, and their still older brothers, in her train— this was all that Evelyn cared for, and she was too vain to be aware that by common consent she was voted ‘rather a charming girl, but shamefully ignorant of cricket.’ Nora knew all that Evelyn failed to know. She was quite an authority upon disputed points, and

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CHATTERBOX. 63 would soon be qualitied to take her place as umpire, so Michael jestingly told her. In her white frock, with black and yellow ribbons, which were the colours of the Sunrise team, she flitted about, her hair flying, her eyes glowing with excitement, her little soul divided between the generous desire to be civil to the party from the Grammar School and the natural longing that her own side should win. ^ Hello, Michael ! who is your new man ? ’ in¬ quired several of the visitors who had not seen Ernest before. ‘ Hanson — Ernest Hanson — Clearminster fellow — used to good play. You will have to look out when he is at the wicket,’ was young Verschoyle’s reply. And it was quite true that they had played cricket at Ernest’s old school much better than they had taught languages. Clearminster being in the heart of a noted cricketing county, matches went on there during the whole of the season, to which the Insti¬ tute scholars often went in a body, deriving much instruction from the sight of flrst-rate play. The Sunrise and Grammar School teams were al¬ most too evenly matched. At one time it looked very much as though the game would end in a draw, and the fate of his side was trembling in the balance when Ernest’s turn came. Influenced by Michael Verschoyle’s words, the Grammar School captain opposed his very best bowler to the tall youth who stood with such easy grace at the wicket, like one modestly confident in his own powers. The hearts of the Sunrise contingent sank. ‘ Bob Harvey is to bowl; what can a stranger do against him ? Harvey’s balls are perfectly deadly to any one who is not used to them.’ So said the College boys, but Ernest’s star was in the ascendant. As good fortune would have it, he had often at Clearminster been pitted against a bowler whose style much resembled Harvey’s, and a brilliant score of fifty odd ensured the victory to Sunrise, and made Ernest the hero of the day. In the evening there was a fete, and the grounds were illuminated, whilst the friends of the pupils walked about in gay dresses, or sat under the trees, listening to the string band which had been engaged for the occasion. It was very pleasant to be made much of, and congratulated on every hand, but Ernest had one regret, a regret which Nora expressed for him when she clasped her hands in a sort of ecstasy, with ^ Oh, don’t you wish your little Tony was here now ? ’ Tony had an account of it all to read, while he sat in the dull sitting-room over the shop alone, as he very often was. Mrs. Samson had decreed that Keren’s whooping-cough had now arrived at such a stage that fresh air would be good for her. So Keren had to go to the Crofton Road house, with orders that she should have daily walks with her aunt or the maid, while Tony was still condemned to be a prisoner. ‘ Nobody knows how tired I am of this room,’ said Tony to Keren, as he bade her good-bye, and the little girl promised to send him all the flowers that she gathered in her walks, and a bunch of real yaking grasses from the field on the side of Crofton It was kind of Keren, Tony felt that, but what he really wanted was to get out, and see the flowers and grasses growing for himself. ^ How tired I am ! ’ he repeated. 'When you are gone, Keren, they will make me drink all the linseed tea myself, and I shall never get well, never.’ ' Oh, yes, you will, Tony,’ said bright-faced Keren. 'You will be better in two minutes, for I have got something that will make you better.’ As she spoke she slipped the letter, which had been given her to bring upstairs, from under her jacket, and gave it to Tony, and then in a moment Tony’s face was brighter even than Keren’s.^ A letter from Ernest — it was the one which told of the cricket-match and the fete ; it was full not only of the lights and the company, but of the trees and flowers, of the pleasure of playing on the smooth turf under the brilliant summer sky, and of hearing the strains of music when the shades of evening fell. Tony road till the narrow walls of the room seemed closer and more prison-like than ever; he began to have strange thoughts, thoughts born of solitude and weakness. ' I must go out,’ he whis¬ pered to himself, picturing the long dull days that lay before him, without Keren, with only Mrs. Samson to bring him the hated linseed tea, and to speak to him sharply of the duty of being a good boy, and giving as little trouble as possible to those who were so kind as to look after him. ‘ I must out,’ he said, and then he climbed up to the high window-seat, and looked down into the street below. It was a long way — not even one of the poor young chimney-climbers of whom he had read could find a way down there. As to going down by the stairs and through the door, it was not to be thought of for a moment, Mrs. Samson was always on the watch. * Then he remembered, with a sudden joy, that the lady must be out at that very time. She had gone with Keren, he knew, and Keren had departed as soon as she had given him the letter. In Mrs. Samson’s absence a boy might slip down the. stairs, and out of the side door. 'And then,’ thought Tony, ' I will walk, and walk, till I come to where Ernest is.’ He got his cap and coat from the closet in which they were kept. Though the weather was so warm, an overcoat appeared to be the proper dress for an invalid ; but, alas for Tony’s forethought, his house shoes were almost as thin as paper, and he never remembered to change them. Downstairs he went and out into the street, no one observing what he did ; then he set off at a run as fast as his little legs could carry him. A naughty child, was he ? No — for harshness and confinement and an irksome life had done their work upon Tony. If it had not been for Keren’s presence, and her loving words and actions, his brain would have given way beneath Mrs. Samson’s hard rule. As it was, he was dangerously excited when he began the run which was to lead he knew not whither, only feeling sure that, if he ran fast enough and far enough, the road would bring him to Kelmston and Ernest. {Continued at 'page 66.)

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Page 72

THE LAST LOAD,

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60 CHATTERBOX. TONY. (Continued from page 63.) CHAPTER IX. ONY ran straight on, without looking to the right hand or the left. People in the street were most of them too busy to give more than a passing glance at the little hurrying Sgure ; but one lady noticed him more closely. ‘ Plow that child runs,’ she remarked to her companion. * He must be going on some important errand ; perhaps he has been sent for the doctor.’ She watched him for a moment with pity on her kind face. ^Poor fellow, he does not look at all well himself,’ she added; and then something else drew her attention, and she thought no more of Tony. The boy was taking the only road he knew, the Crofton Koad, which led him directly past the house where Mrs. Samson and Keren were ; but they did not see him go by, and presently the way grew strange to him. There were no more villas, only a cottage here and there, or a farm-house with a big barn and newly-thatched hayricks ; the banks on either side of the road became higher and higher ; the sky overhead, which had been so bright and blue when he started, was veiled with leaden clouds ; and, just as he began to feel a great weariness creeping over him, there were some drops of rain, the promise of a heavy storm. What a long, long way he had come ; yet it would be much farther to Kelmston; and how should he ever get there, when he felt so very tired ? Keally, Tony had not yet come as far as Scandrett’s Farm ; but when he and Ernest had paid that memorable visit to the farm which was the beginning of their altered life, they had travelled in the carrier’s van, and from under its tarpaulin shelter Tony had seen but little of the road. The rain poured down with the violence of a summer storm : there were low mutterings of thunder, then a lighting flash ; and Tony began to be frightened, as well as tired. His overcoat was some protection, but the thin house shoes were soon soaked, and as he pressed on through the rain he was a pitiable figure. He saw a lane that turned off from the road, one of the few tree-shaded lanes in the neighbourhood; and, ignorant of tfie danger of so doing, he turned into it for shelter. * Under the trees I shall not feel the rain so much,’ he thought, knowing nothing of the many hapless wayfarers who, taking refuge under seemingly friendly branches, have been struck down by the lightning. But the tempest, though the flashes grew more vivid and the thunder rolled loudly, did not harm Tony. He struggled down the lane, where the dust had already turned to mud, till it ended in a broad, heather-grown piece of common land, with a solitary cottage on its edge. Beside the cottage gate Tony sank on the ground to rest ; it did not matter to him now that it was wet and dirty — he was too worn out to walk another step. The strange, lonely place to which he had come was not Kelmston, that was certain ; but he believed himself to be still going on towards the town where his brother was, only he must rest — sit still and rest ; when he felt better he would press on again. Tony had no idea of distance ; he had never even been on a railway journey. He thought that he could walk to Kelmston that very night. The rain ceased, and a gleam of golden sunshine lighted up the freshly watered earth, making each drop of moisture sparkle. It was the sunset’s dying radiance, and though Tony was not aware of it, the night was fast coming on. The cottage gate beside him opened, and an old woman came out to look round after the storm, and to breathe the delicious reviving air. She started when she saw Tony on the ground, and passed a wrinkled hand over her eyes before she spoke. ^ What is the child doing here?’ she muttered. ‘ I thought — I thought — it was my precious Johnny come back.’ Then she stood looking at Tony for awhile, witli- out speaking to him, and the child was too spent with fatigue to say a word ; he cared for nothing but to be allowed to be quiet. The old woman was stout and clean-looking ; she wore a linsey skirt, and over it a garment of faded chintz, which she herself would have called a short-gown ; her apron was of blue and white check, her white muslin cap fltted closely round her head, and was tied with a scanty bow of ribbon under her chin. The bit ot hair which peeped from beneath her cap-border was of a silvery white, and her round, ruddy face had that look of health which comes with a long life of hard work spent much in the open air. Janet Barley had lived in that lonely cottage on the edge of the heath for many years, and nearly all the time she had been quite alone. Only once, for a few short months, a small boy, the Johnny of whom she spoke, had been sent to keep her company. Johnny was the son of a grand-niece of Janet's, and the little town-bred lad had managed to wind his way into his aged relative’s rugged heart, and to make her love him better than she had ever loved anything before. There had been a battle royal between old Janet and Johnny’s mother when the time came tor him to go home. The old woman would fain have kept the child with her always ; and though more than two years had passed, between the day when Johnny was carried away and the evening when Tony was found sitting at her gate, Janet Barley mourned for her Johnny still. ‘You are the very moral of what Johnny was,’ she said, stooping down, and stretching out her hands to raise Tony to his feet — the hands were hardened and coarsened with out-door work, but yet had a kindly touch. ‘ Your shoes are soaked through and through ; you are wet, and tired out. Wherever you have come from, you cannot go back to-night ; you must come in and ’bide with me.’ A light, which was not simply the reflection of the

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CT-IATTKRBOX. C7 setting sun’s last rays, lighted up old Janet’s face ; her heart began to beat faster than it had done for more than two years. She was feeling as she used to feel when Johnny sat in his little wooden arm-chnir by the hearth, and warmed his feet before the fire of dry sticks and fir-cones, while granny, as he had called her, got him something nice for his supper. Through the half-open door Tony caught a glimpse of a bit of fire burning in the cottage, summer though it was, for Janet liked the cheerful blaze— the fire was company, she said. To wet and weary Tony the place looked most inviting, and the old woman’s kind voice fell like music upon ears which had so lately listened to Mrs. Samson’s rasping accents. ^ Come along in,’ repeated Janet ; but Tony, when he tried to follow her, felt stiff and weak. Seeing how it was with him, Janet lifted him in her arms as easily as though he had been a baby, and carried him into the cottage. Then she set him in Johnny’s vacant chair, taking off his wet shoes and stockings, and the coat from which the rain dripped in pools upon the floor. The overcoat, being a new one, was long and tolerably thick, and underneath it Tony’s clothes were dry. He made no protest when Janet rubbed his hands and feet to charm away the stiff¬ ness, and he eagerly drank the cup of warm milk, and ate the little home-baked cake, which she gave him. ‘ Would you like to bide with me, and sleep in Johnny’s bed?’ said Janet, watching her visitor as he made his meal. The thought of any bed was pleasant to weary Tony, but another thought made him pause. ‘Will Johnny be in it?’ he asked doubtfully, lifting his heavy eyelids for the first time. ‘ Bless you, no,’ said the old woman, with a laugh ; ‘ Johnny has gone home to his mammy long and long ago. As for you, I expect you have run away from school or somewhere, but, come what may, you shall sleep in Johnny’s bed to-night, and tell me all about it in the morning.’ Before Janet had prepared his resting-place, Tony was nodding in the wooden chair. It was plain that he must stay here for the present, far away alike from his Clearminster home, and from Ernest at Kelmston ; to-morrow, perhaps, he would know better what to do. They went up the wooden stair, which was almost as steep as a ladder, into the queer sleeping-room which had no ceiling, but showed the bare rafters, and then the thatch. There was the old woman’s bed, with its tidy patch-work quilt, and there was the tiny couch in the corner where Johnny had once slept, and where Tony was to rest that night. It was all poor and rough, but very clean ; Janet found a shirt which had been Johnny’s for Tony to sleep in — a shirt which, like the coarse sheet on the little bed, smelt of the lavender with which it had b(jen folded away. His drowsy head had scarcely touched the pillow when he sank into slumber, and till late at night Janet watched beside him, thankful to have her dear boy’s place filled again, if only for a little while. ■fhe miles of walking had used up Tony’s small reserve of strength. If it had not been for his cough he would not have awakened for many hours; but when once or twice the fit of coughing came, Janet was at hand, with honey for a remedy, and he was soon asleep again. She was a wise old woman in her way, was old Janet ; she knew of herbs and simples to cure most common ailments. If the child so strangely brought to her door needed doctoring and caring for, why, that was only another reason why Janet would love him. ‘If I could but keep him’ — this was her one thought as she sat looking at his sleeping face — not lightly would she let the little wanderer go. It was past ten o’clock, and the sun was high and hot, when Tony woke. According to Janet’s early country way of living, the day was well advanced. She had done a good deal of work in cottage and garden, and had sat down to the basket-making by which she earned her daily bread, before Tony roused up. Not till he was dressed and had break¬ fasted did she let him tell his tale, to which she listened with many an exclamation of ‘ Poor lamb !’ or ‘ Poor dear ! ’ and many a muttered word of wrath against Mrs. Samson. Tony had a loyal little soul in his frail body ; he did not wish to tell tales of his relations to this stranger, kind though she was ; but his artless narrative revealed more than he was aware, and Janet was one who could read between the lines. ‘She was not kind to you, my lamb — that Mrs. What’s-her-name ; tell me the truth now, did she ever heat you ?’ Tony flushed. ‘ I had rather not talk about her any more, please,’ he said, with an appealing glance at Janet. ‘ She did, then ; I know she did — and what could an innocent like you have done, to make her so cruel ? ’ Janet set her teeth, lest she should call Mrs. Samson some of the hard names which rose to the tip of her tongue, and she looked at Tony with eyes full of tears. ‘ I was not always good, you know,’ said Tony ; ‘ I cried when Ernest went away, and once or twice I would not take my medicine, when it was very nasty.’ ‘ You shall not have any more, my dear,’ old Janet declared. ‘ You can stop here with me always, and never go back to those bad people.’ ‘ They were not ezackly bad,’ said truthful Tony. ‘ Uncle Samson, and the boys and girls, all but Keren, let me alone ; and Keren was little, and kind, and pretty. I am sorr\^ about Keren ; I shall not see her any more if I stay with you. Besides, you know, I am going to my brother, to Ernest, at Kelmston.’ ‘ But Kelmston is a long, long way,’ Janet assured him. ‘You would never get there. You would be lost — killed, perhaps — on the road ; and what would your brother do then ? If you will stop with me a bit, we will write a letter some day, and tell your folk where you are.’ Janet knew very well that she was taking a doubtful course, but the longing for some one to care for, in place of the boy she had lost, overpowered every other feeling. She waited anxiously for Tony’s I answer, although he was helpless in her hands.

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“ I am not afraid if there is a mother here.” ‘It is a nice place/ he said, prazing round the homely, comfortable cottage ; ‘ I will stop to-day — and to¬ morrow.’ He little knew how many to-morrows would come and go, and find him still under Janet Barley’s humble roof. {Continued at i) age 78.) ‘IS THERE A MOTHER HERE?’ A LITTLE girl once followed the workmen from her father’s estate when they went home to their dinner, because she was very fond of a kind old man, who was one of them. When he looked from his door he saw her sitting

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CHATTERBOX. 69 on a log* waiting for him, and invited her to go into the cottage. She looked in, saw the strange faces around the table, and hesitated. When he urged her, she raised her sweet face, and inquired : * Is there any mother here ? ’ ^Yes, my dear, there is a mother here,’ he an¬ swered. ^ Oh, then I will go in, for I am not afraid if there is a mother there.’ Her child’s experience had told her that she could place confidence in a mother’s sympathy, A home may be small and mean, but if it is the shrine of a mother’s love, it is a happier place than a palace would be without this blessed presence. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. FEW days ago I saw a boy pick up a bird from the pavement. Some thoughtless hand had flung a stone, and the life of the joyous little creature was ebbing away. Poor little birdie ! and all that we could do for it was to put it through the railings into a soft mass of mossy plants, where it might end its harmless life in peace. It was a swallow, and I felt sad to think that, after its long and weary voyage from sunny Africa, it should reach our England, the land of freedom, only to meet with a cruel death. Pretty little ball of feathers, with tiny head and keen, bead-like eyes, who could credit you with the God-like gifts of memory, forethought, and determination ? Every child watches for the coming of the swallows as heralds of summer, but few know that a very large number of the birds which delight our eyes and ears are merely visitors to our homeland. Six hundred years before our Lord came, Jeremiah noticed that the turtle-dove, the stork, crane, and swallow knew exactly when it was time to come into Palestine, and just in the same fashion the missel-thrushes, wrens, and linnets travel to us in February, the sand-martins and chiff-chaffs in March, the cuckoo, willow- wren, nightingale, and a host of others in April, and so on. The Persians and Arabs arranged their calendar largely from the goings and comings of certain birds, but it is only of recent times that these migrations have been carefully noted, and there is still a great deal to be found out. The chief object of the long journeys undertaken by the birds is clearly to lay their eggs and bring up their babies in fairly cold climates. In some way they have found out that the children born in hot lands are less strong than others, just as it is always said that English children born in India are more delicate than those who come into the world at home. This knowledge brings the African birds to us, and many of our own native birds go to the far north to nest, But now the wonderful questions arise : How do they know that colder climates lie to the north, or it may be to the south ? how do they find the way ? how can they make up their minds to cross wide seas ? and, more marvellous still, how can they find the very same garden, or it may be house, where they built last year, or, indeed, where their forefathers have built for years before them ? Even the most learned folk find much to puzzle them here, and yet, in a way, the questions may be answered. The necessity of nesting in cool climates is a matter of instinct, and such instinct is as much a part of the bird as are its wings and its tail. The certainty of finding a cooler climate either to the north or to the south, would have been gradually found out by successive generations who would venture further and further, until, in time, it came to be an unwritten law that, when the winter home became too hot, the birds should assemble and begin their travels. It has been proved that the young birds always start first, but, from recent observations, there is little doubt that a few elders go with them to show the way. We must remember that birds have wonderfully keen sight, and also that they fly very high. You know that the reason why we can see such a little way around us is because of the shape of our globe, and if we could raise ourselves into the air some two miles or more, as many birds can do, we should be able to see an immense distance. When first it occurred to a bird that it would be well to go north, a map of Europe would have been very different to what it is now. Marshy lands, lakes and rivers filled the places of what are now broad seas, and it was easy then for the feathered travellers to fly from point to point. The changes from land to sea, and sea to land, occurred very gradually as ages rolled away, and the successive generations of birds would notice no difference, although the grand-parent birds might have told tales of what was in their youth, just as our grand¬ parents tell us of the changes since they were young. Well, the birds, being accustomed to fly off from some particular point of land, would, at their great speed of flight and their lofty look-out, soon come in sight of the special headland where family tradition told them to rest. Once there, memory would help them to know landmarks: forests, mountains, castles, and villages. If you notice a flock of birds flying far overhead, you will be struck with the peculiar cry constantly recurring from one or another of the party. This is clearly the signal to keep the band together, and if you should be lucky enough to meet with a flock of golden-crested wrens, or tit-mice, you will find that, on entering a wood or garden region, the birds will separate and cover quite a wide region in search of food ; but a constant note is sounding in the air, keeping the members from straying too far, and also for recalling them when the company desires to move away. Migratory birds are also enabled to keep one another in view by what are known as ‘ recognition marks,’ that is, either white or bright-coloured marks on the wings or tail, or on the under part of the body, only visible when flying. Ring-doves in

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70 CHATTERBOX. motion may easily be known by the pattern on their wings ; goldfinches by the same, in black, white and gold ; magpies by strong contrasts of black, and white, and green ; wood-peckers by a patch of gleam¬ ing yellow below the tail. To the quick eye of a bird these marks would be seen at immense distances, and be of great use in preventing members of a band from straying, or joining birds who might not be friendly. In the following papers I hope to interest you in some of the best-known visitors to the British Isles. Helena Heath. LOVE’S SWEET WORK. IT is said that Professor Plerkomer’s aged father lived with him in his beautiful home, Bushey, Herts. The old man used to model in clay in his early life. He took to it again, but his fear was that his hands would lose their skill, and his work would show the marks of imperfection. It was his one sorrow. At night he went to Ids early rest, and when he had gone his talented son went into the studio, took up his father’s feeble attempts, and made the work as beautiful as possible. When the old man came down in the morning he would look at the work, and rub his hands and say : ‘ Ha ! I can do as well as ever I did ! ’ HEROES ANB HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. ‘ OLD ST. PAUL’S. ’ By Harrison Ainsworth. The story of ^ Old St. Paul’s,’ by Harrison Ains¬ worth, gives a very graphic description of the great plague which swept this country nearly two hundred and forty years ago, and carried off so many people. The plague was follow’ed by a fire, now^ spoken of as tne Great Fire of London, which in its terrible progress destroyed the wooden buildings of London, burning out Old St. Paul’s and the Tower, with other historical public buildings. The hero and heroine of Mr. Ainsworth’s story are Leonard Holt, a grocer’s apprentice, and Amabel Bloundel, the grocer’s beautiful daughter. Mr. Bloundel himself is an interesting character, and one whose goodness, firmness, manliness, and common sense excite our admiration. The Earl of Rochester and his profligate friends figure largely in the tale, and call forth our indignation at one moment, our contempt and pity at another. The story opens in the spring of the year a.d. 1665. It is evening, and we see Mr. Bloundel and his family assembled, as was their custom, for family prayers. The ordinary prayers were succeeded by a special and fervent supplication for protection against the devouring pestilence. This he humbly acknow¬ ledged was deserved as a chastisement for the sins of the city — strifes, drunkenness, revellings, seditions,^ heresies, murders, and every kind of abomination-— and he besought the Almighty in the midst of justice to remember mercy. The 'impression produced by the prayer, as all rose from their knees, was deep and serious. The grocer’s household con¬ sisted of his wife ; his daughters, Amabel and her younger sister, Christiana — a little child of four or five years — and his three sons, Stephen, Basil, and Hubert; Leonard Holt, the apprentice, nearly twenty- one years of age ; Blaize Shotterel, the porter — a very amusing character, his dread of the plague leading him into all sorts of absurd excesses; and old Josyna, his mother; together with Patience, the other woman-servant. Brought up together from an early age, the grocer s daughter and the young apprentice had at first regarded each other as brother and sister ; but as the years carried them into man¬ hood and womanhood their feelings changed, and Leonard became attracted to Amabel, and loved her dearly. She was the first woman in the world for him, and he made up his mind that he would try and win her affections for himself, with her parents’ con¬ sent. Amabel was exceedingly beautiful, and her beauty called forth admiration from all, so that ^ the grocer’s daughter’ was a frequent toast with the gay young gallants of the time. The author has given us a pen-portrait of the heroine. She was, he tells us, tall, with slight, well- proportioned limbs ; her features were small and delicate, her eyes the softest blue, and she had a wealth of brown hair. She was barely eighteen, and fresh, innocent, and lively. Mr. Bloundel’s shop was situated in Wood Street, Cheapside, and he was esteemed and respected for his strong religious principles and methodical habits by all who knew him. By prudence and economy he had contrived to get together a good fortune, and Mrs. Bloundel was proud of both her husband and children. The troubles of the beautiful Amabel begin quite early in the story, when the Earl of Rochester, under the assumed name of Maurice Wyvil, appeared on the scene ; and by a trick — pretending faintness from a duel wound — he was led into the grocer’s parlour, where restoratives were offered him by Mrs. Bloundel and the heroine, who were, of course, unaware of his bad intentions. From that moment the troubles of our heroine began in earnest. At home or journeying it was all the same, the notorious Earl pursued her, giving her no rest from his annoyances. He frequently appeared to her and gained admittance to her presence in all manner of disguises, and by all kinds of devices. He was a bad, unprincipled man, and shunned by all self-respecting families of the social standing of the grocer and his household. Leonard Holt, who dearly loved Amabel, and had again and again besought her to love him in return, by his watchful alertness out-witted the bad Earl on several occasions, and delivered our lieroine from his clutches. The story of how he accomplished this, and of his courage and self-forgetfulness, is well told in Old St. Paul's. There is another very interesting cliaracter brought before us in the book : Nizza Macascree, the daughter, as she was supposed to be, of a blind piper. She loved Leonard Holt devotedly, but the apprentice did not at the time return her love, having fixed his affections on Amabel, who, on the other hand, did not requite them. Nizza plays a very important part in the story, saving the life of the hero, and showing a generous attachment to

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CI-IATTERBOX. 71 her unfortunate rival, Amabel, when the poor girl, unable to conquer her affection for the unscrupulous Earl of Rochester, is pining her life away for the sake of this worthless man. In the tale we are told of Judith Malmayns, the plague-nurse, and Chowles, the coffin-maker, two of the greatest villains of the times — and the times were bad. These detestable people played into each other’s hand, the wretched Judith not hesitating to cause the death of her patients, when she and Chowles the undertaker robbed the bodies of all valuables found on them. Sometimes it happened that she found it was better worth her while to do all in her power to promote a patient’s recovery, as, for instance, when such an one had powerful and wealthy friends, or was able to promise her large gifts, should he or she recover. Another villain of the tale, by name Parravicin, was a creature of the ISarl’s, and a mortal enemy of Leonard Holt, who had many times frustrated his base designs. On the occasion of our hero’s seizure by the plague, crosjj-purposes are shown to be at work with Judith ; Nizza, who loves Leonard, offering her a large reward to cure him, and Parravicin a purse of money to get rid of him ! Happily for Holt, Nizza was hidden close by when the dreadful crime was arranged. Leonard was lying in one of the vaults, near the underground chapel of St. Eaith’s in the Cathedral, where he had l)een carried when stricken with the plague, and Nizza, after what she had heard, hurried to him, bent on preventing the horrible deed. Putting on a brave face she entered the vault, just as the plague- nurse was bending over her intended victim and examining the plague-spot on his breast. It was the practice of this wicked w^oman to rub into the plague-spot of her patients a poisoned ointment which caused death. Confronted by Nizza, who told her that she had overheard the whole vile plot, and had come to prevent the commission of the crime, being herself determined to remain with the youth, Judith at first pretended that she was only too willing to give up nursing him, if Nizza cared to take her place. Finding this offer, contrary to her ex¬ pectations, accepted, she angrily quitted the vault, locking the door on Nizza to prevent possible escape. When she had gone, Nizza began her ministrations. She applied a hot poultice to the plague tumour, and then sat down to watch beside the sufferer’s couch, where, worn out with anxiety and fatigue, she fell asleep. She awoke just in time to see the wicked nurse bending over Leonard, about to rub the affected part with her poisonous ointment. With a piercing cry for help the brave girl snatched the ointment away from Judith Malmayns, whose superior strength was put forth to force her into a chair and seize her by the throat. But the cry for help had been heard^ and was speedily answered by Solomon Eagle, a tall gaunt man, with jet-black hair hanging in disordered masses over his shoulders. His eyes were large and black, and shone with the lustre of insanity. His looks were wild and terrifying, and he went about girt with a sheepskin, in imitation of St. John in the Wilder¬ ness. On seeing him Judith released her strangling o-rasp of Nizza, who rushed towards him and flung herself at his feet, beseeching him to save her and the youth she loved. Nor was the appeal made in vain. Lifting the pallet on which Leonard lay as easily as though it had been an infant’s cradle. Eagle conveyed it to a secret cell, on the floor of which his brazier was burning. There he watched him, while Nizza ran for Doctor Hodges, a kind, good friend of Holt’s, and one of the bravest worlprs during those gloomy days of pestilence. The kind-hearted physician hurried to the assistance of Leonard, who was a great favourite with him. He found him in a frenzy, produced by fever and the anguish of his sore. The poor youth rambled on and complained that his veins were filled with molten lead, and earnestly entreated that he might be plunged into a stream to cool his thirst. It was early morning when, the doors of the Cathedral being thrown open, a babel of voices proceeding from a crowd assembled in the nave, as was the daily practice, penetrated to the cell, and aroused the sufferer from the sleep into which he had fallen ; and, before any could stay him, he started from his bed, und, merely wrapped in a blanket, he dashed heed- lesslv onwards, impelled as it seemed by a relentless fmy, down St. Rennet’s Hill, across Thames Street, speeding along another narrow thoroughfare until he reached Paul’s Wharf. There he stood for a moment, gazing at the current sweeping past him — it was high tide— and then he flung himself head foremost into the water, and struck out for the opposite shore. All who beheld his action were filled with amazement, but none dared to stop him . When he reached the bank a party of persons tried to seize him, but he nimbly avoided them, leapt into the water again, and began to swim back towards the point whence be had started. Amazed at what he saw, the doctor ordered his servant to bring a blanket, and, descending to the edge of the river, he awaited the swimmer’s arrival. In less than ten minutes Holt had reached the shore, where, clambering on the bank, he fell from exhaustion. ‘This is a violent effort of nature which has accomplished more than science or skill could do,’ said the doctor; ‘he is completely cured of the plague.’ And so in truth it turned out.^ Leonard Holt recovered health and strength, and lived to do exploits on behalf of Amabel, his master’s beautiful but unfortunate daughter, who, sad to relate, was at la>t overcome by the persuasions of the notorious Earl of Rochester, and consented to marry him, believing that he had, as he asserted, reformed, only to find, to her gi-eat grief, that his reformation was a pretence. ^ There are many dark scenes in this story of Old St. Paul’s,’ which from beginning to end is a tale of the Great Plague of London, and some of those who passed through it and of others who fell by it. ' What happened to Nizza, known as the blind piper’s daughter, and who she really turned out to be ; and what befell Leonard Flolt, Amabel Bloundel and her worthy father and his family; the Earl of Rochester; the infamous Judith and Chowles; Solomon Eagle, the enthusiast, and many others, is all told at length in this famous book, which is at I once historic and entertaining. James Cassidy.

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“ ^sizza awoke just in time to see the wicked nui’se bending over Leonard.’* j 1 CHATTERBOX.

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CHATTERBOX 73

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74 CHATTERBOX. FAIR PLAY IS A JEWEL. A SAILOR from a man-of-war was standing one day in Pembroke Dockyard, watching two men dragging a cross-cut saw through an oak log. The saw was rather blunt, the wood was tough, and there they sat opposite each other, pushing and pulling away. Jack looked on, thinking over the matter a while. At length he made up his mind that the men were pulling to see who could get the saw. As the one man was little, and the other a big, strong fellow. Jack decided to see fair play. He then gave the big one a box on the ear, pulled the saw out of the log, and gave it to the little one, saying : ^ Now run, my boy, for fear the big fellow may run after you and take it away from you.’ PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 7. — A Good Puzzle. This puzzle refers to a square plot of land possessed by an old man who had four sons. He found it more than he could cultivate as he grew older, so he took out for himself a square plot, exactly one quarter of the land, and then he told his four sons to divide the piece left amongst them, each taking a plot of exactly the same shape and size as his brothers. Now, how did they divide it — which they did — so that each brother took a piece exactly the same shape and exactly the same size as the other three ? This is not a catch or trick. \^Ansiver at page 94.] JLiTS WE 5. — (a.) Windsor (Magazine). (b.) Punch. 6. — 1. Book. 2. Weed. 3. Wood. 4. Lyre. Rook. Reed. Wool. Pyre. Rood. Rode. Cool. Pear. Road. Rose. Coal. Hear. Read. 5. Side. Bide. Bade. Bake. Back. 6. Goat. Boat. Boar. Bear. Harp. THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. SOME of the very remarkable battles in our country’s history are those which were fought between Englishmen and Scotchmen in those times when the two nations were not united. But in these battles of bygone days, just as it is at the present time, victory depended not alone on the soldiers, but on those who led them. This was the case in the famous battle of Bannockburn, where the English army had the advantage of numbers and the best- trained men, though it was a mixed multitude. Edwaidll. had brought over soldiers from France and Flanders, many wild Irish and Welsh, about a hundi’ed thousand men altogether, so it is said. The Scotch army is reckoned to have been only thirty thousand, but then it was commanded by Robert the Bruce, which made all the difference. The doings of the Scotch before the battle of Bannockburn remind us of the modern tactics of the Boers in South Africa. They laid artful traps for the English soldiers, into which they fell. The Scots knew the ground well and the English did not, and Robert the Bruce had made careful choice of the best place for him to meet the English army. He drew up his soldiers upon a ridge in the New Park, a few miles from Stirling, where they were protected by rugged rocks, a bog or morass, and a rapid stream called the Bannockburn. Thus the Scotch could best defend themselves against the cavalry, in which the English were greatly superior. By Bruce’s orders rows of pits were dug, three feet deep, put so close together that the field seemed honeycombed with them. At the bottom of these, sharp stakes were thrust in, and the openings care¬ fully covered over. One of the generals of the English king said to him that it might be wiser to draw his army^ off, and refuse to fight the Scotch in the strong position which they had taken, but Edward refused to follow his advice. The day before the battle, Robert Bruce told his army that those who were not prepared to conquer or die with their king could leave if they liked. All the soldiers, by their hearty cheers, declared themselves ready to fight to the end, so Bruce arranged them in three divisions, placing at the rear a select body of horsemen. On the morning of June 24th, a.d. 1314, the English army advanced to the attack, formed into nine divisions. The array rolled towards the Scotch like a surging ocean, writes Sir Walter Scott, gleaming with flashes of armour, yet darkened by the crowd of banners which the soldiers waved. The commanders were some of the bravest nobles and knights to be found in England. Edward him¬ self rode near the front, having a chosen guard of, four hundred men. Not long before the battle, the Abbot of Inchaffray passed along the Scotch lines, giving his blessing to the kneeling soldiers. The proceeding was watched by the King of England. ^ Are they asking for mercy ?’ he said to Umfreville. ‘ Yes, indeed,’ he answered, ‘ but from God, not man, as they are prepared to fight unto the death.’ The Earls of Gloucester and Hereford began the battle by attacking the Scotch left, but their charge was repulsed. When the centre of the Scotch I advanced, a fierce fight raged between that body

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CHATTERBOX. 75 and the English infantry. The English archers did much mischief, till Bruce sent a detachment of men- at-arms, who scattered them. The Scotch bowmen now made the English suffer, and, their cavalrv being of little service, they got into confusion, and began to fall back. Bruce pressed forward with his cavalry, and just at this moment the Scotch camp- followers showed themselves on the ridge. The Englisli thought that another army was advancing, a panic spread amongst them, and the slaughter was dreadful in the valley of Bannockburn. 'J’wenty- seven English barons died, about two hundred knights, and nearly thirty thousand soldiers. Edward was forced away by the Earl of Pembroke. Pie escaped to Dunbar, and his whole army was quite dispersed. J. K. S. C. ANCIENT RULERS OP THE EAST. AUGUSTUS. the time when Christ was born there was peace through¬ out the Ttoman Empire, of which India then formed a province. The Komans had overthrown the Macedonian power, and their Empire seemed to extend over the whole world. In those days people did not know how large the earth really was, and so we read in St. Luke thut Oiesar Augustus decreed that all the ivorld should be taxed. The Emperor Augustus was born sixty-three years before Christ. He was the son of Octavius, a Senator, and a grand-nephew of the famous Julius Cffisar, who adopted him, and from whom he took the name of Caesar. Augustus was a title given him by the Roman Senate, to mark his dignity. His own real name was Octavius like that of his father, whom he lost when he was only four years of age. He was carefully brought up by his grand¬ uncle, who taught him to be both a soldier and a statesman. While he was in Epirus, completing his studies, he heard of the murder of Julius Caesar, and, though only eighteen years of age, he hastened back to Rome, as he knew that he had been declared to be heir to his grand-uncle. At Rome the young man found himself surrounded by enemies. The city had divided into two factions : the Republican party, which had plotted Caesar’s death ; and the followers of Antony and Lepidus, who vowed to avenge his murder. Antony, though he was the friend of the dead Caesar, yet opposed the claims of Augustus. He held Caesar’s money and papers, and would not give them up to the rightful heir. After a struggle Antony was out-lawed by the Senate and fled from Rome, and put himself at the head of an army ; when Antony was defeated, Augustus was proclaimed Consul. Soon afterwards be became reconciled to Antony and Lepidus, and these three entered into a compact, and under the name of Triumvirs (the three men), they divided the Roman Empire among themselves, and destroyed all whom they reckoned their enemies. Cicero, the great orator, was put to death, with many others, by order of Antony. With a view to cement their union, Augustus gave his sister Octavia to be the wife of Antony, but he put her away and married Cleopatra, the beautiful Queen of Egypt. Augustus then made war on him, and, defeating him in the famous battle of Actium, he became sole master of the Roman Empire — Antony and Cleopatra committed suicide after their defeat. Augustus now turned his attention to the affairs of the Empire. He offered to lay down his power and become a private citizen, but the Senate urged him to retain his leadership, and gave him the title of Augustus, by which he is always known. There was at Rome a temple dedicated to Janus, one of the Pagan deities, the gates of which stood open during time of war, but were closed during peace. These gates had only been shut twice through all the centuries which had passed since the foundation of the City of Rome. Now, as there was peace in all the Roman Empire, the gates of the temple were again closed by order of Augustus, and it was during this blessed season of peace that Christ was born on the earth. Augustus died at Nola, a.d. 14, in the seventy- sixth year of his age. Though he ruled over the greatest Empire of the old world, yet he was simple in his manner of life, always appearing as merely a private citizen. None of the early Roman Emperors wore either crowns, or royal robes, or carried sceptres. In this they differed from the kings of Asia, whom they succeeded. Augustus greatly improved the city of Rome ; he was noted as the patron of learning and the fine arts. He left the Empire to Tiberius, his step-son. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COMB AND GO. THE SWIFT. AS may be inferred from its name, this tiny bird flies faster than any other of our summer visitors, and can outpace a race-horse. Its strength of wing and power of enduring the fatigue of long flights is marvellous, as it can remain on the wing for as much as sixteen hours at a time, and covers immense distances in one flight. The Swifts belong to the same family as the swallows, for which they are often mistaken, but they are darker in colour, and their wings are larger in proportion to their bodies, whilst the muscles moving these are more powerful. No doubt their very light weight and long pointed wings enable them to stay so long in the air, but we must also remember that the breathing organs of birds allow air to pass into the whole body, even into the bones, which greatly assists in making the creature buoyant. Many swifts travel yearly to and from the Cape of Good Hope, and think so little of the journey that they make nothing of a little extra excursion to Lapland,

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^Mi mm The Emperor Augustus, or some other northern region. Numbers of them stay all the year in Natal, and others are fond of Egypt, Turkey, and the coasts of the Mediterranean as far as Spain. They seldom appear in Britain before the end of May, and often not until June, whilst they usually vanish in August, although if the weather is damp and showery, they may give us a little more of their company. Unlike the swallows which frequently fly near the ground when hawking for food, the swifts fly very high, although in dry weather they may be seen skimming the surface of pools for food, in the form of gnats and such insects. Dry weather affects the spirits of the little crea¬ tures, and gives them a listless, tired look. After a shower however, they wake up to amazing vigour, and carry on flue games high up in the air, darting, wheeling, chasing one another, and screeching as if with pure pleasure in living. Swifts have very acute sight, and when as much

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CHATTERBOX. 77 The Swift. as four hundred feet above the ground 'will dash down at an object less than half an inch in size. Their feet are peculiar, as all the toes turn outwards, and are strong but very tiny, enabling them to grip crevices in stones or cliffs, and this is of great use to birds who put their nests in steeples, old towers, or high rocks. Sometimes, however, a thievish pair of swifts think it less trouble to turn out a sparrow, and steal its nest under some cottage eaves or tempting chimney. Its own nest is a very rough and ready affair, merely a hole lined with some grass and feathers, in which it lays two or three eggs. The babies are fed on small black flies, of which the parent birds carry a great number at a time in a sort of pouch under the chin. One special variety of the swift tribe visit the Andaman Islands, and make nests greatly prized for food in some countries, and in China soup made of these nests is a costly luxury. The birds arrive at the Islands towards the end of November, and, before their appearance, parties of natives are sent round to caves and rocky hollows to clear away all remains of the last year’s nests, and to clean the rocks for the coming visitors. At the end of January collectors spend some three weeks in boats, visiting the caverns and taking away all the new ne.^ts. Not a bit discouraged, the industrious birds forthwith build more, and a month later these are also taken from them. Yet again they set to work, and in April the final robbery takes place, after which the poor swifts are left in peace, and patiently build for the fourth time, lay their eggs, and bring up their families. The best qualities of nests are as transjjarent as pure isinglass, and are worth their weight in silver.

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78 CHATTERBOX. They are taken very carefully from the rocks with iron forks, put into clean bags, and sent to Port Blair, where all the feathers are taken from them, and they are shipped in parcels as merchandise. Helena Heath. TONY. {Contimied from page 68.) CHAPTER X. all the pleasures of child¬ hood, the pleasure of en¬ joying something new is the greatest, and it is partly because the world is new to them that chil¬ dren are so happy. To Tony, after his experience with Mrs. Samson, old Janet’s cottage and the heath surrounding it were a very paradise. Janet had no notion of keeping the boy shut up. Johnny had run in and out a dozen times a day, and Tony might do the same. If she only walked to the door and shaded her eyes with her hand, she could see the little speck which his figure made upon the heather, and feel sure that he was safe. He was not to go off the heath alone — that was the one condition Janet made ; but the heath was to Tony an immense region of delight, a place full of birds and flowers and gay butterflies, a place where he could throw himself down and dream away the time for hours, rich in the pure joys of hot sunshine and open air. It was wonderful that there should be such a lonely spot as this within a few miles of an im¬ portant town like Olearminster ; but the ground had been common land always, though the farmers or cottagers who had once had the right to pasture their geese, or turn their four-footed animah loose upon the grass and heather, were all dead, or other¬ wise dispersed by the hand of time. Only Janet remained, excepting that now and then a wandering gipsy tribe would pitch a couple of ragged tents on the side farthest from the cottage and stay for a few days, or weeks, as the fancy took them. The gipsies did not disturb Janet. She was well acquainted with them and their ways, and knew that there is some good even in these wild people of the woods. But she was glad for Tony’s sake that none of them were there when he came, that he might play about the livelong day and And no one to interfere with him, no one but his old friend at the cottage door watching to see that he was safe. The thunderstorm had cleared the air. After it there was brilliant summer weather, and Tony was so glad to be alive, and enjoyed his freedom so much, that for a while he thought of nothing beyond the outward things he saw. When he was tired with playing he would come in, and, leaning against Janet’s chair, watch her fingers at their basket work. ‘ It is not so very hard,’ he said. ^ I could learn, if looking very hard at Janet. j I

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CHATTT5RBOX. 79 ^ It will need a stamp/ he said. ‘ Where is the post-office ? Is it very far ? ^ ^ Yes, my lamb/ replied Janet. ‘It is too far away for you ; you could not ever find it. Just you give your letter to me. 1 will see to it for you.’ Tony yielded up the precious epistle reluctantly enough, and that night, when the little boy was fast asleep, Janet stole out of the door, and going to the end of the garden which stretched away behind the cottage, she dropped the letter to the bottom of the old well from which she drew water every day. Then came weeks in which Tony was filled with wonder, that Ernest did not write, or come to him, and beset Janet, morning, noon, and night, with questions. ‘Do you think he is ill? Or perhaps Uncle Samson is angry, and will not let him come or write ? Whii do you think he does not answer, Janet?’ ‘ It will be all right, dearie,’ said Janet, soothingly. ‘ You be a good boy, and make yourself contented ; you will get a letter some day.’ Children are but creatures of habit : it became so natural to Tony to run upon the heath, to help Janet, and to share the simple pleasures of a cottager’s life, that by degrees he ceased his ques¬ tioning, His faith in Ernest helped him to be quiet ; Ernest would be sure to come for him, he must wait till then. Meanwhile he was securely hidden. If the man who came for Janet’s baskets, or any other stray caller, noticed the boy playing round the cottage, they thought — if they thought of him at all — that he was Johnny come back again, and made no inquiries. Janet herself never went to Clear minster ; on the rare occasions when she had shopping to do she did her business at Littledene, the market-town which lay three or four miles in the opposite direction, and, though Tony trotted by her side, there was no one to know him there. There were unquiet moments for the old woman, times when she could not deny that she was doing wrong; but she hushed her conscience with the thought that, after all, she had rescued Tony from much unhappiness, that he was better with her. So he was, wonderfully better, as far as health and comfort were concerned; but, though he ceased to talk of Ernest, he did not forget. Resigning himself to circumstances with the helplessness of childhood, he still dwelt much, when he was alone, upon memories of Ernest and Keren. Tony had not been missed from the sitting-room over the shop for the first hour or two — not until Mrs. Samson returned from placing Keren under her aunt’s charge ; and even then the lady, as she looked into the vacant room, supposed that Tony had gone up the higher flight of stairs to his attic. She attended to various domestic matters, and had a long talk with her husband about certain small difficulties which had arisen in the Crofton Road household, before it occurred to her to wonder that Tony had not come down. Then there was a hue and cry; inquiries were made in various directions, and a real search was set on foot, but it was not, perhaps, such a search as any one who deeply loved the child would have made. When no trace was to be found of him, Samson and his wife wearied of the quest, and in their worldly hearts there was even a lurking thought that one child less to be cared for, and that child an un¬ profitable and dehcate one, was not a subject for very deep regret. There was only one thought which caused Samson much uneasiness in connection with the whole business, the thought, namely, of what Ernest would say or do when he knew that Tony had disappeared. Ernest would have to be told some time, but Samson resolved to put off the evil day. For weeks he returned short, vague answers to Ernest's urgent letters of inquiry, saying, for instance, that, ‘the childen were better/ that ‘Tony would write when it was prudent for him to do so/ or that he himself was ‘ so busy that he had scarcely time to write a line.’ ‘ If that young fellow knew the truth, Kelmston would not hold him for an hour,’ Samson said to his wife. ‘ We should have him over here in a rage, and what good could he do, coming before Christmas, and upsetting everything ? ’ November came, and still no news of Tony. It was amazing that Mr. Samson and his family could go so calmly on, and leave the child to his fate. There were not wanting people in Clearminster who were shocked at such hardness, and there was one little person in the Grists’ own household who was in deep trouble over Tony ; that person, it is almost needless to say, was Keren. Again and again she spoke to her father about him, but Samson cut her short. ‘ Run away, pussy, I cannot talk to you now,’ or ‘ Be quiet, my girl ; go and play with your dolls ;’ these, and similar answers, nearly drove Keren to despair. Her dear Tony might be suffering, perhaps dying, and no one would help. ‘ I know what I will do, I will write and tell Ernest,’ she resolved. ‘ Father is too busy to find Tony, and mother does not like even to talk about him. It is only Ernest that cares ; yes, I will write to Ernest.’ Keren was not half such a ready scribe as Tony, but she had the distinct advantage over him that she could get at the post-office and the stamp. When she had finished her letter, the address presented a grievous difficulty. She wrote at last, in her big round hand — ‘ Mr. Ernest, Collidge^ Kelmston ’ — and then ran up the street as fast as her little legs could carry her, got the letter duly stamped, and sent it on its way. There was nothing under-handed about Keren; as soon as the deed was done, she went to her father. ^ I have written a letter to Ernest,’ she called to him over the counter. ‘You are not too busy to hear me, are you, father ? I have told Ernest about Tony ; he is sure to come and find him for you, now.’ Mr. Samson frowned. ‘ Then the cat is out of the bag!’ bethought. ‘Well, well! Ernest must have known sooner or later, but he could have stopped on till Christmas, and no one would have been a penny the worse.’ {Continued at page 82.)

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Page 89

CHATTERBOX. 81 Ernest unexpectedly meets with Tony.

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82 CHATTERBOX. TONY. {Continued from -page 79,) CHAPTER XI. it had not been for his anxiety on Tony’s behalf, Ernest would have enjoyed that summer and autumn very much. More than a month had been spent with the Verschoyles and their charges at the sea, and to a youth who had lived all his days in a town where there was not even a river worthy of the name, the first sight of the foam-crowned waves, tumbling and breaking on a rocky North Welsh coast, was a thing to be long remembered. The boys who were in his care — there were but three of them, now that the vacation had come — had grown much attached to him. Small boys as they were, they had not relished the thought of a holiday to be spent constantly under a master’s eye; but Ernest, as they wrote with glee to their friends, was not like a regular school¬ master: he was young enough to be in sympathy with their boyish delight, their love of freedom and wide space. ^It is very strange,’ said little Alf Parry, the youngest of the three ; ‘ I thought that we should not enjoy it a bit, because of Mr Hanson, and yet - ’ ‘ We have enjoyed it more because of him,’ broke in one of the others. ‘ He is a regular good sort, and I think it is a jolly shame that he cannot be a general, or an admiral, or something fine, instead of just a school-master ; then we could be in his regiment, or on board his ship, and he would lead us on, to death or victory.’ ‘ Hark ! hark ! Eeggie has been reading some more adventure stories,’ cried Alfred ; but the opinion which Reggie had expressed was what all the boys felt, and they found ways and means to let Ernest know it. Nora, too, declared that she had never had more pleasure during her month at the seaside. Mr. and Mrs. Verschoyle, practised judges of the characters of the boys and youths as they were, both of them put trust in Ernest ; they were glad to think that, when venturesome Nora joined the boys in rock- climbing or making expeditions along the shore, Ernest would be there to look well after the safety of the whole party. Nora, left alone, would only be too apt to tempt Reggie, Alf, and Frank to follow her from point to point, till she got them into some real danger ; but Ernest’s careful ways enabled the young lady’s father and mother to take that full rest from their many school duties which they sorely needed. It was pleasant to Mr. Peter Verschoyle and his wife to sit for long, idle mornings upon the beach, with open books spread out before them — books from which they looked up every now and then, to drift into the easy talk of a husband and wife who were not only ^ lovers still,’ but the very best of friends. A real rest was Peter Verschoyle’s idea of a holiday. His wife laughingly told him that it was bis Irish blood which made him so contented to do nothing ; but he told her that he would rather be laughed at as an Irishman all his life, than be compelled, for a single week, to spend an average English holiday, with its hours of travelling and sight-seeing crammed into every day, from Monday to Saturda}*, and its round of visits to different churches, on the so-called day of rest. ^ Let Ernest and Nora and the lads do the scramb¬ ling,’ said Mr. Verschoyle. ‘ You and I will read and talk and dream, as we did when we were courting. You are not old enough to have forgotten, my dear, that it was at a Welsh watering-place that I met you first.’ Ah ! no, she had not forgotten, and Peter Verschoyle was still, in her eyes, as much of a king amongst men as when, from a most respectful distance, he had diffidently admired her — pretty Evelyn Bradley — in the days that were no more. Evelyn, the younger, was on the Continent with her grandmother. Mr. Terence and Michael had joined a Swiss touring party, and Sunrise College was in the hands of workmen who were doing necessary cleansing and repairs. One or two of Samson’s brief notes were forwarded to Ernest by the servants in charge, but they really told him nothing, and in the absence of definite news his fears grew. He was afraid that the real state of Tony’s health had not been known to him ; he pictured the little brother ill and pining, but the true state of the case was, of course, far from his thoughts. There was nothing that he could do, even when the weeks by the sea were over; for then Mr. Verschoyle went off, on some pressing business of his own, leaving Ernest to escort Mrs. Verschoyle and the children back to Kelmston, and to look after the three boys until lessons began again. Ernest, though his heart was in Clearminster, must needs remain where he was, and settle down to the work of the new term, fixing his hopes, as the boys did, upon the Christmas vacation. Work is the best cure for worry. In term-time Ernest was so busy that he could not fully indulge his fears ; he had pretty nearly succeeded in persuading himself that all must be well, when Keren’s letter fell upon him, like ‘ a bolt out of the blue.’ There were only two colleges at Kelmston ; one was a young ladies’ seminary, the other was Sunrise. To Sunrise, therefore, the letter was in due course delivered, and, as Ernest was the only person of his Christian name in the building, it was soon decided that the queer, childish-looking epistle must be for him. Ernest looked doubtfully at the writing. It was not Tony’s, he knew ; Tony’s hand-writing was far better formed than this, and Tony would never have left out the surname, and spelled ^ college ’ with an ^ i d.’ Who but Uncle Samson, or Tony, could be writing to him from Clearminster.^ With a fore¬ boding of ill news, he tore open the envelope. ^ Dear Ernest,’ wrote Keren. ‘ This is just a few lines to tell you that Tony is lost. It is a good while that he has been lost, and no one can find

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CHATTERBOX. « 83 him. Do come — please come and find Tony j our¬ self. Your little cousin, Keren Grist.’ Tony lost! But how could he have been lost? Between sorrow and amazement Ernest could not see the letter that was still in his hand when he went to seek Mr. Verschoyle. ^ My dear lad, what is the matter ? ’ exclaimed that gentleman. ^ You are as white as a sheet; I am afraid yen have received bad news.’ In a few hurried words Ernest told his tale. ‘ Let me go to Clearminster, sir, if only for a day or two,’ he begged. ‘ I shall be sorry to leave, even for a little while, when you need my services ; but I cannot stay here, and not know what has become of my brother.’ ^You shall go, of course you shall go,’ assented Mr. Verschoyle. ^But do not be too cast down, the little girl gives no details; are you sure that she is right ? ’ am sure there is something seriously wrong — something which has been concealed from me,’ answered Ernest. ‘ The one question for me, now, is how soon 1 can reach Clearminster ? ' ^ There is the express, which leaves at nine-forty, said Mr. Verschoyle. ‘ You had better take that, if you can be ready in time.’ ‘ I can be ready in five minutes,’ replied Ernest. ‘Thank you very much, sir, for letting me go.' ‘ It is nothing, my boy, nothing ; but, if I can be of any sort of help to you, do not hesitate to write, or wire. Pardon the question, but do you want money ? ’ . ‘ No, no, sir, thank you ; I have plenty, for the present,’ was Ernest’s answer; and with Peter Verschoyle’s kind words ringing in his ears he was soon on the way to Clearminster. He did not dare to think too much of what might have befallen Tony ; action would be his best refuge from torturing thought. He was thankful to feel the express whirling along so rapidly ; his iourney’s end would be reached before noon. The station road and the familiar streets were the same as ever, only he himself had changed ; it was because of the grief which had come upon him that the place looked so sad. He did not waste a moment in doubt or hesitation, but, walking straight on, through the Sheepmarket, and in at the shop door, stood, with nothing but the counter between him and Samson Grist. The usual greetings must be dispensed with ; one thought, and one only, was present to Ernest’s mind. ‘ Uncle Samson, I am come to know the truth about Tony,’ he said, in as steady a voice as he could com¬ mand, fixing his direct gaze upon the face which Samson, with all his self-possession, could not keep quite unmoved. ‘ Hum, ha ! ’ said Mr. Samson ; * Tony, I must tell you, has been a bad lad, a difficult handful to manage, a trouble, both to Mrs. Grist and to me. He has led us a pretty dance, and to crown his mis¬ doings he has given us the slip— run away, in fact.’ ‘ But where has be gone ? I must get to know where he is. How long have you missed him ? Plus anything been done ? ’ ‘ Everything has been done,’ declared Mr. Samson. ‘Because a troublesome child has chosen to make himself scarce, my business has been interrupted, and I have been pestered and harassed, till I can tell you I am pretty sick of the whole subject. If Tony did not know when he was well off, that is his affair ; he will not find such a home as the one he has left in a hurry. But I am very much engaged, Ernest ; here is Jordan, he can answer any of your questions. Perhaps, when you have got through, you would like to come up to dinner ; it is at the same hour as it used to be.’ Dinner, in that house — No ! More deeply wounded than he could say, by Samson’s manner as well as his words, Ernest turned to Jordan for information. But Jordan had little to tell. Master Tony had often seemed dull and unhappy, he said ; it was no wonder — this in a whisper, and after Samson had gone — no wonder that the child had run away, for Mrs. Grist had been far from kind to him. Ernest was never to mention that he — Jordan — had told him so. There had been a search made, but no trace of the boy had been found ; he really did not know what to advise Mr. Ernest to do. Ernest left the place with a heavy heart ; the house which had sheltered him in boyhood could never seem like home to him again. For Tony’s sake it would not do to let his strength decline, and he made a hasty meal at the first eating-house to which he came. To visit the police station was his next move¬ ment; even there he found more sympathy than Samson had shown. ‘ If the little chap is still at large,’ said the super¬ intendent of police to Ernest, ‘ it has occurred to us that he may possibly turn up at Scandrett’s Farm. Mrs. Scandrett, it appears, is the only person in the neighbouring country that he knows. We have sent there once or twice, and got no clue ; but it may be worth while to inquire again.’ ‘ I will go over myself this afternoon,’ said Ernest, catching at the suggestion ; anything that he could do was a relief to the strain and suspense. A hired bicycle made short work of the intervening miles ; but Ernest had a fruitless journey to the farm. Mrs. Scandrett had neither seen nor heard anything of Tony. It was no time of year for cycling, but the track, for once, was dry and hard. As he spun along the Crofton Hoad, with his face towards Clearminster again, Ernest saw the same tree-sheltered lane down which Tony had wandered. An impulse which he never thoroughly understood moved him to turn along the lane. He followed its windings until he reached the now bare and bleak-looking heath, and there, gazing out of a cottage doorway, with his fingers on the side-post of the door, was Tony. {Continued at page 90.) FEATHERED FRIENTDS THAT COME AHD GO. THE SWALLOW. Ancient poets tell us that more than two thousand years ago the children of the Island of Rhodes used to greet the return of the Swallow with singing and dancing, and still on the first of

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84 CHATTERBOX. The Swallow. March in certain parts of Greece may be heard the joyful melody of the ^ Swallow Song.’ We northern folk do not make so much of a welcome, but most of us keep a warm corner of our hearts for the merry little fellow, with his dainty velvety head, long forked tail, and pointed wings. He comes a long way to see us, perhaps from tne Sahara, or it may be from Abyssinia, or from far Natal. Swallows must be even more welcome in sunny Africa than in England, as they prey largely on the dreaded mosquitoes, catching them by millions wherever water is to be found. About the beginning of March the South African swallows assemble in huge companies and start on their northward route, but a great many remain on the African coast, probably the weak and timid ones, who are afraid to cross the water. Their I flight IS very swift, and they can outfly pigeons. Phny tells a tale of a Roman knight, who used to i let a friend in Tuscany know who had won the chariot races in Rome by letting loose swallows which had been dyed the colours of the victors. We must aU have noticed their curiously smooth, glossy plumage, which is, indeed, a mark of migra¬ tory birds, as it offers no resistance to the air as they pass through it. Swallows get to like certain places, and will, if possible, return year after year to the same nest. At Annonay, in the Cevennes Mountains, I saw a family of these birds which had used the same nest for twenty years. It was under a rafter of a covered courtyard, and their keeping to it was the more curious because of late years the open front had been enclosed, and, the only access being by a door, the visitors were practically prisoners much of their

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CHATTERBOX. 85 The Newspaper Boy. time. In a quaint Westphalian stable also I saw a colony of swallows which had many years ago settled themselves along the great oaken beams supporting the roof, and here also they were entirely dependent on the great doors being open for coming in and out. I have drawn one of the family perched on the rafter supporting his nest. These birds are made much of in Germany, be¬ cause tradition says that where the swallow babies are born human babies wiU come also, so the good matrons welcome the forked-tailed intruders, and let no one disturb them. There is a story told of a swallow in Scotland which chose to make her nest year after year on a bracket in a passage close to a kitchen-door, on which a lighted lamp was laced every night, and in the courtyard of the same ouse, under the cover of a great bell which was constantly rung, another Mrs. Swallow made her

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86 CHATTERBOX home, neither being* any way disturbed by the glare of the lamp, the noise of the bell, or the creaking of the rope. The nests are made of clay mixed with straw, hay, or rushes, and are lined carefully with light feathers.^ Catching these latter in the air is a great game^ with the swallows, and is possibly quite as amusing as tennis, and certainly much more useful. In this cosy abode the lady lays four or five white eggs speckled with brown, and later on, instead of catching feathers, Father Swallow plays at catching gnats, young May-flies, tiny beetles, or baby dragon¬ flies, with which to satisfy the hungry mouths of his infant family, Helena Heath. BOYS OF THE LONDON STREETS. THE NEWSPAPER BOY. T is about four o’clock in the afternoon. In the neighbour¬ hood of Fleet Street (the great newspaper centre of London) the printing-presses are throbbing at their labour, and at every throb a fresh copy is printed of the last news from the front ; the most recent story of a victory; or the result of some contest in work or play, about which the hurrying throng outside may be interested. London is waiting for fresh poSlble is being got ready as quickly as Drawn up at the doors of the printing-houses of the evening papers are rows of little pony- vans, waiting to dash off, at any minute, with the ^special edition,’ for the various news-agents i^he districts,^ or to the great railway stations, where trains will convey the papers to the out- lying suburbs. All along the kerb-stone stands a regiment of boys, with canvas bags upon their backs, and their bicycles in readiness to slip away directly those throbbing presses, and the busy hands around them, have finished their duty. Ihe moment has come. Bundle after bundle is ^own into the pony-carts, and away they go. Ihen the canvas bags are filled, and, as each one recei'^s its load, the boy who carries it vaults into his saddle and slips from sight round the street corner. In a very few minutes the little army has dispersed in all directions. It is a dangerous duty which they have to perform, but they do not stop to think of danger, through mud, through dust, through fog, or rain, each one will thread the crowded streets to make his wide circuit of calls. At this corner, and at that, he stops to hand out some of his burden to a boy who has stepped from the pavement to meet him, and the next moment, with the bundle under his arm, and the ‘contents hill unrolled like an apron before him, this boy | IS calling out ‘Speshul, sir!’ to any passer-bv who seems eager for news. • I And thus London is fed with information on public affairs, day by day. But the newsboy’s labours are not devoted to the afternoon special edition only. In the very early morning they are at their posts distributing the first edition — for the great throbbing printing- machine is seldom idle — and late into the night that regiment of bicyclists may be seen gliding swiftly from street to street, with their bundles on their shoulders, threading the traffic of the streets with reckless speed and wondrous skill. Fifty years ago there were only twenty newsboys to sell papers in the streets of London, and it was reckoned that not more than 150/. were spent in ‘ second editions ’ on the pavements of the city in one year. Noio it would amount to many thousands, and as to the boys^ well, who can count them ? Many of them are still at school, but employ their time thus, before and after lesson hours, to earn a few shillings. Such hard work is very tiring, and prevents them from making much progress with their lessons. Inquiry shows that there are nearly three thousand school-boys engaged in selling papers in London every day, which ought not so to be. John Lea. THE ANIMALS OF OLD EXETER CHANGE. Before ^the present Zoological Gardens, in the Regent’s Park, London, were opened — gardens which are so very attractive to young and old — before, too, the Surrey Zoological Gardens, at Lambeth, were started, which have vanished, to make room for streets, wild beasts could be seen in London. One place where some have been kept was the Tower, which seems rather a strange place, but, at any rate, they could be well guarded there. Another place which formerly had a good show of quadru¬ peds, birds, and snakes, was Old Exeter Change, close to the Strand. Exeter Change stood where Burleigh Street is now ; it was at first a sort of arcade. It had rows of shops below, and others above; but they never ^eem to have let well. It is said to have been built about the end of the seventeenth century, and was pulled down during the great Strand improvements in A.D. 1829. The last person occupying the upper part of Exeter Change was Mr. Cross, who took it for his menagerie, and it was here that Chimee, a famous elephant, which became wild and unmanage¬ able, was shot in a.d. 1826. There is to be read in an old magazine, published many years ago, a small boy’s account of his visit to Exeter Change, and what he thought of its animals. Here is part of what he wrote, which you may think rather amusing. After describing the cages, and some of the animals, he mentions how excited they became about eight o’clock, which was the feeding¬ time. ” About the feeding of the beasts, this boy says: I hey growled and rubbed themselves against the bars, and the leopards put their paws through, but you may guess I did not want to shake hands

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CHATTERBOX. 87 with the gentlemen, though their skin is covered with pretty spots. The keepers were busy dividing the joints of beef into proper parts, and the old lion was fed first ; then what a roaring ! I quite fancied I was in a forest, but felt glad I was not. He and bis companion were not so impatient as the other animals, but, when his bone was flung to the lion, his eyes glared just like two lamps, and he grasped the meat as if he would say, Take it if you dare,” His face was so grand it made me tremble, though 1 knew I was safe. There was another lion by him¬ self, who seemed very snappish, yet he did not look as dreadful as the old lion. The leopards, tigers, and panthers seemed to take their meat playfully, but it was very terrible play. But the laughing hysena, poor fellow ! was as tame as our old dog, Neptune, he let the keeper tease him, and yet never growled or grumbled. ‘ There were two elephants, not fine fellows, but funny ones ; they walked up and down the hall, rang beUs when desired, and went through other performances. I think the trunk of an elephant reminded me of a large leech, screwing itself about, and laying hold of anything within reach. ‘ After the animals had been fed, the pelicans were let out, and they scuffled along, flapping their wings. They had each quite three dozen small fish put in a bucket of water, and they scooped them out as fast as I could count, for their bills are half a yard long, and the bottom part has a bag to it, just like a shrimper’s net. Afterwards I saw the snakes, they are kept in boxes, and wrapped up in flannel like little babies ; but I am sure you will be tired, so I shall say nothing about the other birds and the monkeys.’ J. K. S. C. THE SPANISH CHAMPION. The warrior bowed his crested head. And tamed his heart of fire. And sued his haughty king to free His long-imprisoned sire : ‘ I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train ; I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord — Oh, break my father’s chain ! ’ ‘ Bise, rise ! even now thy father comes — A ransomed man this day ; Mount thy good steed, and thou and 1 Will meet him on his way.’ Then lightly rose that loyal son. And bounded on his steed. And urged, as if with lance in hand, His charger’s foaming speed. And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, They met a glittering band, With one that ’raid them stately rode, Like a leader in the land ; Now haste, Bernardo, haste. For there in very truth is he — The father — whom thy grateful heart Hath yearned so long to see. His proud breast heaved, his dark eyes flashed, His cheek’s hue came and went. He reached that grey-haired chieftain’s side. And there dismounting bent ; A lowly knee to earth he bent. His father’s hand he took — What was there in its touchy That all his fiery spirit shook ? That hand was cold — a frozen thing : It dropped from his like lead ; He looked up to the face above — The face was of the dead ; A plume waved o’er the noble brow — The brow was fixed and white ; He met at length his father’s eyes, But in them was no sight ! Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, But who can paint that gaze ? They hushed their very hearts who saw Its horror and amaze ; They might have chained him, as before That noble form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm. And from his cheek the blood. ‘ Father ! ’ at length he murmured low. And wept like childhood then — Talk not of grief till thou hast seen The tears of warlike men — He thought on all his glorious hopes. On all his high renown. Then flung the falchion from his side. And in the dust sat down ; * Came I not here upon thy pledge My father’s hand to kiss ? Be still ! and gaze thou on, false king. And tell me what is this ; The look, the voice, the heart I sought — Give answer, where are they ? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul Put life in this cold clay. ^ Into those glassy eyes put light — Be still, keep down thine ire — Bid those cold lips a blessing speak. This earth is not my sire : Give me back him for whom I fought. For whom my blood was shed ; Thou canst not, and, O king, his blood Be mountains on thy head ! ’ He loosed the rein, his slack hand fell ; Upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, mournful glance. And fled from that sad place ; His after fate no more was heard Amid the martial train ; His banner led the spears no more Among the hills of Spain.

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88 CHATTERBOX

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CHATTERBOX 89

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90 ciiatte:rbox. TONY. {Continued from page 83.) CHAPTER xn. K E A T as were Ernest’s joy and relief at finding Tony, he could not feel that their meeting had ended his perplexities. Difiicult and anxious questions were con¬ stantly rising in his mind, and he was very uncertain as to the right course to pursue with regard to his brother. Tony could not be sent back to Sam¬ son Grist’s, it was evident, and the place where he was, kind as old Janet had been, was not really a fit home for him. When J’ony, full of pride and delight, had ushered Ernest into the cottage kitchen, holding his hand, and saying, ‘ This is Ernest — this is my brother — I always thought that he would come for me,’ the poverty of the little house had struck Ernest in ways which Tony had never noticed. The cottage on the heath had been a haven of refuge, and they both owed much to Janet; but it would not do to let Tony remain with her for any length of time. Old Janet was stricken with remorse when she saw Ernest. The brother of whom Tony had talked had been a mere shadow to her, but this fine open-browed youth, whose love for Tony was plainly so great, though he said little about it, ought not, the old woman felt, to have been kept in ignorance. She confessed at once what she had done about the letter, but Ernest was too glad to have found Tony so soon, and too grateful for all the services which Janet had rendered, to reproach her for that. He spent the night on the settle be¬ side the cottage fireplace; but, while Janet and the little boy slumbered in the room overhead, he was himself very wakeful. Morning would bring the need for prompt action ; he must decide at once what to do. Ernest’s thoughts went back to the father whom he could but just remember. If his father had lived, how different would his lot and Tony’s have been ! He felt the loss most for his brother ; it was hard that Tony should not have, in the whole wide world, a home to call his own. Self-reliant as he usually was, Ernest would have given much just then for some one to advise and guide him. To whom could he turn in his necessity. Deep and sincere within him was the sense of religion. He prayed earnestly to the God Whose presence he felt to be behind all the shadows and puzzles of this passing life, and then he set himself to think out some plan of action. He had but few friends in Clearminster. Reuben Grist’s unsociable habits had kept his grandsons from making family friends, as boys in happier households do, but there was one to whom he might surely turn. Ernest wondered, when he did think of him, that this friend — his own and his father’s — had not occurred to him before. Mr. Bradley was one of the masters at the Institute School, and he had always been very kind to Ernest. ^It is for your father’s sake, my boy,’ he had said once, when doing Ernest some special favour. ‘ Antony Hanson was the best friend I ever had.’ Ernest loved to hear good words spoken of his dead father. He had begged Mr. Bradley to tell him something of the bygone days when they were together, and the master, glad of a willing listener, had told the boy many things which it had rejoiced his heart to hear. Surely Mr. Bradley would help him now, at least with counsel and advice. As soon as morning came he would leave Tony still in Janet’s care, andj hastening to the town, he would try to see his friend. Clement Bradley was a lonely man, but he knew to the full the truth of the poet’s lines : — ‘ ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.’ For the sake of one who was gone he had kept free from all earthly ties, and he lived by himself in rooms not far from the Institute. His duties at the school did not occupy all his time, and, fortunately, he was at home when Ernest called upon him. It was still very early, only ten o’clock, but Mr. Bradley had been for hours at the studies in which he took a keen interest. His scholars at the Institute were not aware that their master’s pen-name was known far beyond the little world in which they lived, and that books from his pen were read and valued by readers who had themselves no small claim to be called wise. The announcement of Ernest’s name was like a re¬ proach to the master. He remembered, with some¬ thing like a pang, how, through being much engaged at the time, he had let Ernest leave the town with¬ out bidding him farewell. He remembered, too, some rumour of Tony’s loss, which had reached even his ears, deaf as he usually was to gossip from out¬ side. Why had he been so remiss ? How could he have suffered the boys to pass out of his ken without even making an effort to serve them ? ‘ It is my fatal habit of getting too much absorbed in my work,’ thought Mr. Bradley to himself. ‘ While I am writing a book I see nothing, think of nothing else, excepting my school duties. It is enough to make me vow that I will write no more.’ However, here was Ernest come; perhaps the chance which he had let slip might be granted to him again. With an anxious desire to do all that was possible, Mr. Bradley turned to his visitor. He heard Ernest’s story with the greatest patience and kindness. ‘ How truly glad I am that you have come to me ! ’ he said, when the whole was finished. ^ The path you ought to take is plain to me, and in a few words I shall hope to make it clear to you too. First, let me say that I think Sunrise College to be the right place for Tony as well as for you. I know and thorougl^ily esteem the Verschoyles, all of them. Mrs. VerschOyle, though you may not have heard her mention the fact, is a cousin of my own. Now that you have been in the same house with her for vsorne time, you must, I am sure, think with me that

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CHATTERBOX. 91 such a boy as Tony could not be better placed than under her care/ Ernest coloured. ‘The expense, sir/ he began; but Mr. Bradley interrupted him. ‘Now, see here, Ernest; I owe your father a debt, which, now that he is gone, I can never fully repay. In a time of my own great trouble he helped me, not with money, certainly, but in other and better ways. You must let me repay a part of the debt to you and Tony, No, do not refuse ; I have neither wife nor child of my own, and there is more money lying to my credit in the bank than will suffice for my personal wants, if I live to to be a hundred. You may call it a loan if you choose, but you must let me find you enough to pay Tonyas expenses at Sunrise College. Mr. Verschoyle, I know, will not let you work for nothing ; if you are not already self-supporting, you will soon be so.’ ‘ Mr. Verschoyle has been most kind to me in money matters,’ Ernest said, ‘ and to have Tony at Kelmston with me would be the best thing I could possibly desire ; but I could not think, sir, of accept¬ ing so much assistance, unless as an advance, which I would do my utmost to repay in a few years’ time.’ ‘ So be it, then,’ agreed Mr. Bradley. ‘ You, and Tony too, have been but shabbily used, in every way, by Samson Grist and his family. I am not at all sure that you have not a legal remedy against them. If your late grandfather’s affairs were to be thoroughly examined, you two boys might be able to obtmn your rights.’ Ernest looked doubtful. ‘Uncle Samson took nearly everything under a deed of gift,’ he replied. ‘ It would be very painful and difficult to dispute possession with him. I would much rather work for myself and Tony than think of going to law with people who, after all, are the only relations we have.’ ‘ The relationship is of the slightest; but, as your father was early left an orphan, without brother or sister, the Grists are, I suppose, your only connections. They have acted an unfriendly part, indeed ; but I take it that you do not wish to break with them, or to proceed against them in any way.’ ‘ I think not, sir,’ said Ernest. ‘ Through your present kindness we shall be able to face the future and leave them in peace. Of course, I have not had much experience yet, but I do think it would be better to do so, than to enter into what would most likely be a useless dispute with Uncle Samson.’ ‘ Very well ; time tries all. We will leave Mr. Samson Grist to time, and to his own conscience. Meanwhile, I will write at once to the Verschoyles, and you can do so too. You will like to get back, no doubt, as soon as you can ; there is no reason why Tony should not go with you.’ This was not all the conversation which passed, for Ernest’s interview with Mr. Bradley was a long one. When he left that gentleman’s residence, it was vvith a heart wonderfully lightened of its burden of anxiety and care. That very morning the earth had seemed but a bleak and unfriendly dwelling; now Ernest felt, with thanksgiving, that God’s help had been granted both to himself and to his brother ; that, orphaned as they were, they were still in theii Father’s care. Mr. Bradley proved a kind and thoughtful friend in every way. He even interested himself to obtain for Janet Barley the care of another child, to take Tony’s place. A charitable society, to which Mr. Bradley subscribed, was glad to find suitable homes for destitute and friendless children ; and Janet was comforted in parting with Tony by knowing that one of these little ones would soon be placed in her care. Some one to tend, some one to lighten the dulness of her life : this was all that Janet wanted, and this she was in a fair way to obtain. Ernest did not think it right to leave Clearminster without letting Samson Grist know what his in¬ tentions were ; but Samson was so clearly uncom¬ fortable when he heard of what Mr. Bradley had done, and so plainly anxious to be qu.'t of Ernest’s society, that the final talk was a very short one. Ernest had gone to the Sheepmarket alone ; but he took Tony with him to say farewell to Hannah, who was still living in her almshouse, where she had been much distressed at the various reports which had reached her concerning Tony. To see the brothers well and happy was a great pleasure to her, though her joy was tempered with sadness when she learned that they were leaving the town, for good and all. Hannah knew that she was not very likely to see the boys, for whom she had cared so much, again in this world; and, when they turned from her door, she followed them with many prayers and blessings. Mr. and Mrs. Verschoyle replied most kindly, both to Mr. Bradley’s letter and to Ernest’s. They proposed that, as Ernest could be of use in taking care of the three boys whose parents were abroad, and who would remain for the Christmas holidays, as they had done in the summer, he and Tony should not only come to Sunrise at once, but should stay there during the whole of the holidays, so that Tony would already be used to the College when his school life began. ‘ I have something else to tell you,’ added Mr. Verschoyle to Ernest, ‘ and a plan to propose, which I think had better wait until I see you face to face.’ {Continued at page 98.) THE BENEVOLENT MULE. A Table. A FARMER once bought a mule at the market, and named it Tough Hide, for it looked as if it had been used to have more blows than food. ^ He put the animal in his little clover-field, and this it seemed to enjoy very much. One morning. Tough Hide saw a troop of asses coming down the lane, looking rather thin, and he asked them if they^ would like a nice feed of sweet clover. ‘ Ah ! wouldn’t we ? ’ brayed the asses. So the mule with his teeth drew out the staple which fastened the gate, and let them in. Soon after, the farmer passed by and saw the animals eating his clover, so he got a cudgel and drove them all out. He not only gave the asses a good sound thrashing, but Tough Hide as well. Moral: Generosity is a very good thing, but ought not to be practised with other people’s property. H. Berkeley Score.

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1 I “ The British do not know “ The Eetreat.’ ” NAPOLEON AND THE ENGLISH DBUMMER-BOY. URING the Peninsular War, among a number of prisoners taken by the French, was an English drummer-boy. i Having come under Napoleon’s notice, he was ordered by him to sound ‘ The Retreat.’ The boy quickly replied, — ‘ The British do not know The Retreat.” ’ Napoleon was so pleased by the boy’s reply, that he ordered him to be sent home on the first exchange of prisoners. f

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CHATTERBOX. The Red-backed Shrike. ’PEATHEBBD FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE RED-BACKED SHRIKE. SO far our summer visitors have been well con¬ ducted, harmless little creatures. Possibly the insect tribe may not agree with this verdict; but, then, poor little birdies must eat something, and if all the flies, gnats, beetles, and caterpillars were left alive, the lords of creation would have a very bad time of it. Now we are going to tell of a migrant who, to my mind at least, had very much better stay in liis African home, and that is the Red-backed Shrike, known in Britain and Germany as the ‘Butcher Bird,’ to the French as ‘I’^corcheur’ or ‘the flayer,’ and a near relation of his enjoys the title in America of the ‘Nine Killer,’ from the supposed number of the victims he kills in succession. The shrike is a glutton, and a very cruel one, as he has a playful habit of killing many more birds than he can eat, and he might have been educated by an American Indian, as depicted by Captain Mayne Read or Fennimore Cooper. Just as these savages were wont to decorate their villages and wig¬ wams with piles of skulls, neck-laces of teeth, and fringes of human hair, so Mr. Red-back likes to sit upon a thorny hedge surrounded by the bodies of his victims impaled upon thorns. Here may be a large juicy beetle, there a still struggling _May fly, there a tiny wren, and beside it a freshly killed mouse and a peacock butterfly ; and not until he thinks that he has choice enough does he begin his meal. The ‘ Butcher ’ is a very handsome fellow, though instead of wearing the ‘ butcher blue,’ he still wears the executiohor’s colour of the middle ages, and appears hi red garb, though mixed with black and

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94 CHATTERBOX. "beautiful grey. His feet are large and strong, and he has sharp, curving claws with which to do his cruel work, though his short, notched bill also does its share. We like to think that amongst human beings the worst have some good points, so honesty compels us to own that even Mr. Shrike is not altogether bad. He is a model husband and father, and Mrs. Shrike may lay claim to equal domestic virtues. The children when grown quite big stay at home in most orderly fashion, quite unlike the children of more virtuous birds ; but whether it is due to family affection, or whether the fact that no self-respecting bird outside will associate with them, we do not know. Anyhow, the hedge in which the shrike household dwell must be somewhat of a terror to the weaker creatures of the neighbourhood. The nests are very solidly built of twigs, dry grass, and moss, and are lined neatly with roots and horse¬ hair. The eggs, which vary in colour, are yellow or greyish-white, with lilac markings or pale salmon with dull red spots, and are five or six in number. Shrikes build in hedgerows or in thorny bushes, where the children’s food can be stuck on the thorns till it is required. It is comforting to know that shrikes can, in their turn, be frightened by hawks, and keepers who wish to catch hawks use the red- backs, tethered to warn them by their shrieks when a hawk is in the neighbourhood, when, by putting out decoy pigeons, the keepers catch them with a net. Down swoops Mr. Hawk, but, just as it would destroy the pretty fluttering dove, it is captured ; so, on the principle of ‘ setting a thief to catch a thief,’ Mr. Shrike has been made to do his duty. We may believe how scared all the pretty little song-birds are of this terrible neighbour, and how they will all hush their sweet music if he is near. Some time ago a bird-dealer captured a shrike alive, and, thinking that he had got a great prize, he put it into a cage in his shop. As long as it was silent the birds sang as usual, but the first note it uttered there was a dead silence, and not a bird made another sound until the master carried away the shrike. Once in a way the little birds pluck up their courage, and, forming themselves into a little army, mob their enemy and force him to travel further away, and to supply his larder elsewhere. Helena Heath. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 8. — Geographical Puzzles. Find geographical names buried in the following sentences. 1. Wlien we emerged from the maze, a landscape of great beauty met our eyes. A province of Denmark. 2. He made a great blunder, went to the wrong house and knocked up the inmates. The names of two rivers in England. 3. I do not think there is any danger ; many have performed the same feat with safety. A country in Europe. 4. You will destroy those plants if you leave them out in the frost. A town in the State of New York ; also the name of a town in Asia of very great antiquity. 5. If you wait patiently for a few days, I am sure you will gain your wish. A kingdom of India. 6. That place possesses a beautiful and invigorating climate. A city in South America. 7. I shall be at home at. half-past three. A county in Ireland. 8. Can you climb a tree? — I can, Adam can’t. A large country in North America. 9. You can make the box of tin or wood. A suburb of London. 10. If nations are disaffected or kings tyrannical, what troubles may ensue I A town in Surrey. 11. Sounds of rejoicing are heard from every quarter. A town in Somersetshire. 12. We hear of rumours of war everywhere. A town in Hertfordshire. 13. I cannot take so rash a step, so much harm may be done by it. A town in Surrey. 14. This dog watched the largest rat for days, and at last he caught it. A village in Essex. C. C. [Answers at page 110.] ^ IT S E Sj . 7. — This is how the land left was divided into four pieces the same shape and size as each other : — THE SHIPS OF ANCIENT BRITAIN. rnilE ancient Britons had much to do with water, JL not only with the seas round this island, but with the numerous rivers and inland lakes. There were times when they required something to carry themselves or their goods over the water, and there¬ fore they managed to make small boats, and after¬ wards ships. These would be rather like the vessels used by the Romans, Phoenicians, and other nations two thousand years ago or more, which are frequentlv called galley s" But the first attempt of the old Britons at making a water-carriage would be fashion¬ ing a sort of boat from the trunk of some big tree. This would be made pointed at each end, and the middle scooped out, a task not easy, and rather damaging to the poor tools which the Britons would have. Hence it was, they built other boats, resem¬ bling some even yet to be seen on the many stream¬ lets of Wales and Ireland. These have several local names, such as coracle, carrack, or currsgh. One of them, if examined, will be found to have ribs of light wood, the body is made of twigs of osiers, over this are placed the skins of animals, which make the

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CHATTERBOX. 95 boat quite waterproof. From the account of the British boat given in old authors, it must have been of this kind, and of so little weight, that men could carry them upon their shoulders. About the beginning of the first century, it appears the Britons had learnt to build small ships, superior in size and strength to the coracles; they chiefly used the wood of the oak for this purpose, having discovered the hardness of the grand tree of Britain. Some of these ships were equipped as men of war, and fleets of them were engaged in sea fights which took place in the Channel during the time of Csesar. The sails of such ships were mostly of skins, but the mariners used oars too, and one historian is particular to tell us that when they were rowing the sailors sang. Between thirty and forty men was the number that manned a ship, but they could not carry much provision. In the admiral’s ship a shield was hung against the mast, and signals made by striking the bosses of this shield. In one battle of which we read, two hundred British ships were engaged. After the Homans conquered Britain, they taught the natives how to improve and enlarge their ships, but what small craft they were compared to the huge vessels which now leave our shores ! J. H. S. C. SAVED PBOM AN ALLIGATOR. GOOD many years ago, Mr. Warburton, a young man of four or five-and-twenty, be¬ came, through the deaths of his father and uncle, the head of an old-established banking business. The bank failed, and young Warburton honourably gave up his private property m order to pay the creditors twenty shillings in the pound. Being thus left without resources, he availed him¬ self of an introduction to one Don Miguel y Cerrado, a Spanish gentleman, w’ho had a hacienda^ or farm, not far from Buenos Ayres. Arrived in South America, Mr. Warburton was treated wdth nauch kindness by the Don, a very wealthy and dignified Spaniard, who was a widower with an only son, a boy about four years of age. Don Miguel’s wife had been an Englishwoman, and little Carlos was a fair, pretty child, with curly, golden hair and a sweet voice. Pie chattered away in a funny mixture of Spanish and English, and soon he became great friends with the young Englishman. It was arranged that Mr. Warburton should stay , on the farm, helping with the accounts, and giving Carlos — or Charlie, as his father preferred to have him called — lessons in English or French. It was fortunate for Warburton that he spoke Spanish fluently, and could thus make himself understood by the strange Spanish -speaking people who ^vorked for the Don. He won the hearts of these men, too, by his fearless riding, and by his kindness to the uni¬ versal pet and favourite, Charlie. The boy ought to have been well taken care of. He had a governess and a nurse-maid, and, since he was the very apple of his father’s eye, everybody had orders to look after him. Yet one day this cherished child strayed away, and was in the most horrible danger. One day Mr. Warburton was riding slowly home, when he heard a sudden scream, a cry of terror and distress. The voice was a child’s voice, and the sound came from a lagoon, or small lake, not very far away. The Englishman turned and rode rapidly towards the lake, through the long pampas grass. As he came near to the edge of the water, his heart stood still with horror : there was little Charlie, gazing with fixed, fascinated eyes at a huge, scaly monster, an alligator of the largest and most savage kind, winch was slowly crawling towards him. ‘Run! run!’ shouted Warburton; but Charlie was too paralysed with fear to move an inch. Then the Englishman put spurs to his horse and dashed forward, but the terrified horse reared and threw his rider, and then rushed away across the plain. On his feet in an instant, young Warburton saw that be must exert all his powers to save the child, perhaps himself also, from a horrible death. The creature would be upon them in a moment, and he had only two weapons, his knife and a riding-whip. What could the knife do against the horny scales of an alligator, unless, indeed, he could strike in some vulnerable spot ? Quick as thought he slipped off his long Spani;^h cloak, and, twisting it round and round his riding- whip, he rammed cloak and whip into the open jaws of the animal, just as it prepared to seize its prey. The cruel white teeth closed upon the cloak, which the immense reptile began to gnaw in fury, lashing its tail and struggling wildly. Brave Warburton struck at it with the knife again and again, wounding it so that the blood gushed out. He held on to the handle of his whip, and was dragged hither and thither as the alligator struggled to free itself. Nothing would induce either the man or the alligator to let go that riding-whip ; but the woollen cloak, which at first had perplexed and daunted the creature, would soon be gnawed to pieces, and, unless help came, Charlie must be lost. Warburton shouted with all his might, and the frightened Charlie added his weaker cry. The shouts were heard by Juan, one of the boldest riders on the farm, and this man came dashing up at the critical moment, armed with the long lasso with which the South American huntsman can perform wonderful feats. ‘ Stand aside, senor ! ’ cried J uan, throwing the lasso as he spoke. The long coiling rope, with the weight at the end, whizzed through the air, and even as Warburton looked, he saw it tightening round the alligator’s body, and knew that the worst of the danger was past. Other men now came to Juan’s assistance, and amongst them Charlie’s cruel enemy was killed. Then, and not till then, could Mr. Warburton breathe freely. His courage and presence of mind had, with Juan’s timely help, saved the little boy’s life, and great was the gratitude of Don Miguel y Cerrado. C. J. Blake.

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96 CHATTERBOX “ Warburton rammed cloak and whip into the open jaws of the animal

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CHATTERBOX. Old Christmas Customs — “The Waits.”

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98 CHATTERBOX. TONY. [Continued from page 91.) CHAPTER XIII. N the very day in which they were to leave Clear- minster, Ernest and Tony saw Keren in the street. The little girl broke away from her companion — a servant from the house in Crofton Koad — and ran up to Tony with out-stretched hands and an April face, in which smiles and tears struggled for the mastery. ‘Tony ! Tony !’ she cried, not knowing what else to say, till Ernest came to the rescue. ‘ You see I have found Tony, Keren, ^ he said. ‘ Thank you very much indeed for your letter. I have never answered it, but I shall always thank you for writing.^ ‘ Did it help you to find him ? ^ Keren asked, afraid to loose Tony’s hands, lest he should vanish out of her sight again. ‘Yes, that it did, and although Tony is going away— going to school with me, at Kelmston— you will be glad that he is found, and will always re¬ member us kindly, will you not .? ’ ‘That I will,’ said the little girl heartily. ‘But must you go? — go, just as soon as I have seen you? Oh, Tony, it is too bad, is it not ?’ Ernest saw the servant-maid fidgeting on the pavement, and knew that any long talk would only increase Keren’s distress at parting. ‘ Yes, we must go,’ he said to her ; ‘ but while there is life there is hope, you know. You and Tony may meet again some day, and be as good friends as ever. Just now we have much to do, and your maid is waiting for you ; we had better shake hands and say good-bye.’ Keren was not satisfied wdth shaking hands; she flung her arms round Tony’s neck and kissed him, to the amusement of the passers-by ; then she stood on tip-toe and held up her rosy little mouth to Ernest. ^ You must kiss me too, Ernest. I am your cousin too, although you cannot be quite the same as Tonv. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! ’ She stood on the footpath, looking after them, until they turned the corner of the street, and the brightest memory they carried with them from Clearminster was that of a little sunny-haired girl, in fur-trimmed coat and hat, bravely trying to smile at them until they were out of sight, and brighten¬ ing the dull December day with her presence. No harshness or worldliness of the life by which she was surrounded had affected Keren in the least ; amid her sharp, selfish, pushing brothers and sisters she remained still one of those little children of whom our Lord said that ‘ of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ Kelmston, and Sunrise College, were a great change for Tony. He was in a fair way to get a good deal of experience before he entered upon his teens. If the boys had been all at school, the entrance amongst so many fresh faces would have been almost too bewildering; as it was, they had most of them departed for their holidays before the two Hansons arrived. Beggie, Frank, and Alfred Parry welcomed Tony with glee as a new companion, for kind Mrs. Verschoyle had arranged that Tony should share a small dormitory with these three. As the Parrv boys were very young, and had lost their own mother, their father and step-mother being in India, the head-master’s wife had a special tenderness for them as well as for Tony, and was privately resolved to do all in her power to soften the hardness of school life for these four. Mr. Verschoyle was anxious to know, as he always was in the case of new boys, whether Tony had any particular talent which would repay cultiva¬ tion, and then Ernest felt that his early and once forlorn hopes for Tony were likely to be fulfilled. The drawing lessons, which had not been possible in Clearminster, might be easily obtained at Sunrise College. Mr. Verschoyle, a fair judge of an art which he had now no time to practise, looked at Tony’s sketches with approval, and declared that, whatever else the boy learned, he must certainly be, taught drawing. This made Tony very happy ; he was pleased, too, to know that Ernest’s immediate duty was to take care of him and of the young Parrys, and he began to look forward, not only to Christmas, but to the weeks beyond, when he would begin really to learn, and so place his foot upon the first rung of that lofty ladder which, for him, stretched up and up, until it ended in the Presidency of the Royal Academy. Nora Verschoyle was a little disappointed in Tony. ‘ I thought he would be bigger, and stronger,’ she said to herself, looking from Ernest to Tony, as they stood in the garden at some distance from her. Tony’s drawings were very clever, no doubt, but the little lady of Sunrise was really behind Keren Grist in her sense of what was most worthy of admira¬ tion; she was apt to place too high a value upon mere power to run or jump, or make a long score at cricket. When all the other pupils were gone the weather tm*ned out wet, and Mr. Verschoyle required Ernest’s aid for some writing and accounts, and the re¬ arrangement of the school library. The children were left then to amuse themselves a good deal. Then Nora found that Tony’s gifts were not to be despised. He could tell tales, he could recite poetrv — not only the ‘ John Gilpin ’ which had pleased Keren so much, but many other pieces ; he could draw pictures of anything which his playmates desired — ‘ even funny ones to make you laugh ’ — as Nora declared with amazement; and he could make curious things out of cardboard and paper, the like of which had never been seen at Sunrise. ‘ Where ifecZ you learn to do such things?’ asked Nora, looking at Ernest’s brother as though he were a sort of marvel. ‘ When I was a little boy, and used to play by myself nearly always,’ Tony replied; ‘but it is a great deal nicer to make them for some one else.

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CHATTERBOX. 99 I used to make them for Keren, after she came ; and now, if you please, I will make some for you.’ ‘ You do not like me as well as Keren,’ said Nora. * Tell me, is she anything like me ? ’ ' No, not a bit,’ declared Tony. Secretly, he did not think that there was a little girl in the world tit to compare with Keren, but he meant to be kind to Nora, of whom Ernest thought so highly; and he resolved that he would try to like her nearly as well as he did Keggie, Alf, and Frank. Christmas brought Mr. Terence to Sunrise again ; and Evelyn, too, came home for the season. The circle at the college was a large and merry one, and Ernest and Tony had more of the real home feeling than they had ever had in their lives. The Grists, both Keuben and Samson, had made but very little of Christmas ; inclining to the belief that Christmas greetings, and parties, and presents, were signs of ^ mere silly sentiment.’ To them, the twenty-tifth of December was the time to balance their books, and get in their out-standing accounts, and it was nothing more. But at Sunrise College there was good cheer ; for the Verschoyles believed in keeping up all the old Christmas customs. Mistletoe and mincepie were duly honoured, carols were sung, the ^ waits were listened to with delight, and regaled with plenty, and the house was green with holly and ivy, from dining-room to dormitories, and full of light and music when the evenings came. Tony, to whom Santa Claus had hitherto been but an empty name, had to hang up his stocking beside those of the other boys, and found his own just as strangely packed with presents as theirs were. Mr. Terence was the life of the party, but he singled Ernest out as his special companion. ^ You know I introduced you here, and I shall stick to you always, like a leech,’ he told Ernest ; who would have been contented enough with the arrangement, and would have enjoyed all the festivities of the season vastly, if he had not been always wondering what that proposal was of which Mr. Peter Verschoyle had spoken, and why he seemed to have forgotten it altogether. {Continued at page lOo.) greatly to relish and growled and fought over, as is the way of kittens with a favourite morsel. This cat, whose name with us was ‘ Punch,’ lived to be very old, and did not die of snake-bites, but her case was the exception that proved the rule. One of our own kittens, that was a great pet, also took to snake-killing when she grew to be a cat. She brought her first kittens the tail end of a good-sized snake. We saw that she was quite ex¬ hausted when she came home dragging the snake, and we supposed that there must have been a terrible battle before she gained her victory. How¬ ever, she soon fell asleep, and nothing, not even the distressing cries of her young family, could wake her. She remained in that state, lying just as she was placed, for three days and three nights, during which time she swallowed some milk and minced meat which was put into her mouth. At last she awoke from her long sleep, and was much troubled to find her poor kittens in such a dirty, neglected state, for they were not old enough to wash themselves, and, although she was so weak that she could hardly move, she did her best to get them clean and tidy. But this poor pussy did not live long ; the last time she was seen alive she was evidently watching for a snake that had been seen in the store-room. In a few days her dead body was found. We account for her first iUness by supposing she ate the head of the snake, for the poison does not kill when swallowed. We had a little dog that killed several snakes. One of my sons saw a turkey kill a snake a couple of days ago. It picked out its eyes, and when it was blind it fell an easy victim to its enemy’s strong beak. The Laughing Jackass (giant king-fisher) is known to kill snakes. If the snake is a large one, it takes the bird many hours to swallow, which he does head foremost. During this unpleasant meal, poor Jack is almost torpid, sitting still, just giving a gulp now and then. Some kinds of lizards kill snakes. One of my boys saw a great encounter between a lizard and a snake, in which the lizard was victorious. It is said that pigs feel no bad effect from snake-bites. I have never heard of one dying from that cause, although I have heard of sheep, cattle, or horses, doing so.^ A very strange thing about snakes is the long time the rest of the body will continue to move after the head had been taken off. I saw one able to move about thirty-six hours after it was beheaded, and another darting about like a blind thing twenty-four hours after it was supposed to have been killed, but in this case it was found that a little of the head containing brain had been left on the body. If the backbone of a snake is broken, unless it is very near the tail, it is not able to get away and is easily killed. A sharp blow with a stick disables it. The Australian aborigines consider the fiesh of ^ a snake quite a delicacy, but they are very particular in what way they are killed, for, if they bite themselves when dying, as they constantly do, they (the blacks) do not consider them fit for food. The fiesh is beautifully white and they look and smell like eels, but I think that you and I would be very hungry before we would care to eat them. May Collins, Victoria, AUSTRALIAN SNAKES AND SOME OF THEIR ENEMIES. I. A LTHOUGIT animals are so much afraid of snakes, x\. yet 1 have known of many that have died of snake-poisoning. Some cats and dogs kill snakes, but generally in the end they fall victims to the venomous reptiles. A cat once made herself a present to us. One ot our workmen said that he was sure that she had belonged to people who had lived some miles off, and, if she was the cat that he had known, she was a famous snake-killer. Sure enough, she proved that he was right, for when she had kittens she sometimes brought them a headless snake, which they seemed

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A Brave Act. MIDSHIPMAN LUCAS. During the bombardment of Bomarsund by the British Fleet in a.d. 1854, the forts were pouring a heavy fire on the British ships, among them being the Hecla. Suddenly, with a roar, a great shell crashed on to the Hecla! s deck. With great courage and presence of mind, it was instantly seized with both hands by a midshipman named Lucas, and hurled into the sea, where it exploded with a terrific roar. For this brave act he was recommended for the Victoria Cross when it was instituted, a.d. 1856. He^ was the first to obtain that distinction. He rapidly rose till he became Rear-Admiral Lucas.

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CHATTERBOX. 101 The House J^artin. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE HOUSE MARTIN. Have you ever watched a pretty, rather long¬ shaped bird, carrying bits of clay in its mouth, flying in and out below the cornice above your window ? It is black above, white below, and has a beautiful blue neck. If so, the name of your visitor is Mr. House Martin, and his wife is even prettier than her lord and master, having a soft grey breast. Both gentleman and lady have toes covered with down, which makes them easy to know. They will take very little notice of you, unless you try to frighten them, wliich would not be very likely. They will go on with their building, glancing at you as they pass and repass in a friendly way. House Martins belong to the same family as the swallows and swifts ; but the wings of the martins are shorter in proportion to the size of the birds, besides which they have not the forked tail which enables the swallow to steer about so easily in the air. Perhaps, however, the martins are more general favourites, as they attach themselves to human habitations, and it is said that all over the world, wherever there are men, there will also be martins. They come to us a little later than the swallows, but stay longer, only departing when the house-flies, which are their chief food, give up flying out of doors, and betake themselves into houses for greater

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102 CHATTERBOX. comfort. Often, however, the martins remain in the British islands as late as October, whilst the more adventurous spirits who visit the Arctic regions leave at the latest in September. Gibraltar, and other points of Southern Europe, serve as resting- places up to November, and the winter is spent in Central Africa. It is a wonderful thought, that, when up to fifty years ago or less, this vast country was an unknown region, and a traveller who had explored a little bit of the Zambesi or Congo was looked upon as quite a hero of romance, the little martins knew^ all the secrets of the unknown land. Martins, like all theii’ tribe, prefer former neigh¬ bourhoods, and, as soon as they reach last j ear’s haunts, they set about repairing old nests or building others in most business-like fashion. They are very particular in making their houses comfortable and neat, perhaps because, like most birds, both Mr. and Mrs. House Martin dwell in them together, and, when the first family of four or five children have been sent out to make their own way in the world, a second brood are reared in the same nest. These birds have a very proper horror of damp beds, and if they cannot fix their homes under some projection, they spend much pains in building a round roof to it, making the opening at the side. Another variety of this family are known as the sand martins, who come earlier than their relations, but also depart sooner. They are very amusing birds to watch, piercing holes in sandy cliffs wherein to make their homes. At Dawlish there are long red cliffs which are perfectly riddled by the sharp little beaks of the sand martins, and it is curious to watch them dart in and out, taking the greatest care, if they see any one watching, to fly anywhere rather than to their own particular hole, lest they should betray the secret of the family abode. Another curious habit of these birds is, that before quitting a country they assemble in vast flocks and practise all kinds of flights, resting between, and then beginning again. ^ Clearly they understand the dangers of migration, of which 1 hope to tell you later on, and are doing their best to guard against them. Helena Heath. WAGNER’S DOG FRIENDS. WAGNER, the great musical composer, had several dog friends. At one time, in Vienna, he had a dog named Pol ; and, at another time, one called Leo, whom he had saved from starvation. But his greatest dog friend was ^ Peps,’ who was his companion for thirteen years. Wagner used to say that Peps helped him to compose his famous opera, Tannhduser. He said that when he was at the piano singing. Peps, whose place was generally at his master’s feet, would sometimes spring on the table and howl piteously, and then the musician would say to him, ‘ What ! it does not suit you,’ and then, shaking the dog’s paw, he would say, quoting Tuck^ ^ Well, I will do thy bidding gently.’ If Wagner stayed too long at his work. Peps would remind him that it was time for a walk. He writes in one of his letters, ^ I am done up, and must get into the open air. Peps won’t leave me in peace any longer.’ At the time when almost all the musical world had turned against him, he would sometimes, in his walks with the dog, declaim aloud against his foes. Then the dog would rush backwards and forwards, barking and snapping, as if helping his master to defeat his enemies. When Wagner returned home from an excursion to some other city. Peps would always receive a present as well as the other members of the family. ^ Peps received me joyfully,’ he writes to a friend, after one of these excursions. ‘But then I have brought him, a beautiful collar, with his name engraved upon it.’ When the time came for the little life to be ended, Wagner scarcely left the dying dog’s side. He even put off for two days an important journey, because of Peps’s illness and death. He writes afterwards to his friend Praeger ; — ‘ He died in my arms on the night of the ninth, passing away without a sound, quietly and peace¬ fully. On the morrow we buried him in the garden beside the house. I cried much, and since then I have felt bitter pain and sorrow for the dear friend of the past thirteen years, who ever worked and walked with me — and yet there are those who would scoff at onr feeling in such a matter ! ’ LEGEND OP THE FOUNDING OP MALVERN PRIORY. WHEN the fierce Danes to Deerhurst* came. Like wolves upon their prey, One good man, Werstan, safely fled To Malvern Hills away. There in a cell full long he dwelt In holy fast and prayer ; His, and the voices of the birds> Thrilled the sweet morning air. When cruel men had murdered him. So ancient legends tell. The prayers still clung about the place Like sound of distant bell. Years afterwards, two monks had sinned, And, in remorse full sore. Resolved to Palestine to go : Talking the matter o’er. While wandering on the lone hill-side> Close by St. VVerstan’s cell. They heard a voice mysterious Bidding them there to dwell. ‘ Wait, wait, and see great things will yet Be done in Malvern fair.’ And there the glorious Abbey rose. The home of peace and prayer. * Deerhurst, near Tewkesbury.

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OHATTEPIBOX. 103 May we, uncertain where to go, Uncertain when to stay, List for the Voice — until we hear. And, when we hear, obey. A. A. D. W. HEROES AETD HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. LADY JANE GREY * [ERE are many interesting ‘ characters ’ in Mr. Ains¬ worth’s Toioer of London. Perhaps the most interesting is that of Lady Jane Grey, the victim of Queen Mary’s vengeance. The story opens with Lady Jane’s entry into the old Tower of London, in great state, a few days after the death of her cousin, Edward VI. She was only sixteen years old, and one of the most beautiful maidens of her time. She was gifted with a fine mind and a wonderful memory. Her tutor, Roger Ascham, had spared no trouble in teaching her all that he thought that she ought to learn. He found her an apt scholar. She could read the old Latin and Greek writers. She spoke French and Italian, and was a musician, of no mean skill. But, above all this, sire was noted for her piety and her goodness of heart. In the great troubles which afterwards befell her, she found religion to be her stay, and one of her chief delights was to converse with the learned and wise men of her day. On the occasion of her entry into the Tower she was dressed in cloth of gold and the royal purple, ornamented with diamonds, rubies, and pearls. She was attended by a train of high¬ born dames, damsels, nobles, pages, knights, esquires, and ushers, while at her right walked the youthful nobleman. Lord Guildford Dudley, son of the proud and ambitious Duke of Northumberland, and her husband. It was not the wish of Lady Jane to mount the English throne — indeed, for a long time she refused to think of herself as England’s rightful Queen ; but at last, yielding to the haughty Duke of Northumberland, she let herself be crowned Queen. xAt that time in England’s history public opinion was divided, and there were three claimants for the throne — Mary, the daughter of King Henry VIH., and half-sister of the young Edward VI., who had so lately died ; Elizabeth, half-sister to Mary, and to the late king; and Lady Jane Grey, a cousin. So there were three parties in the land. The most powerful and the most numerous was that of Mary, the daughter of the ill-fated Katherine, whom Henry VIII. had divorced when he wished to marry Anne Boleyn, afterwards the mother of Queen Elizabeth. “But we will not discuss here who had * The Tower of London, by Harrison Ainsworth, is now published in a sixpenny edition, and is a book which all should read. the best right to the crown, but pass on to our story, and the heroes and heroines who flit across its pages. When she arrived at a part of the ancient build¬ ing, then known as the ‘ Middle Tower,’ Lady J ane Grey was met by Lord Clinton, constable of the Tower, and her haughty father-in-law, the Duke of Northumberland, who tendered her the keys of the Tower, and the Marquis of Winchester, who offered her the Crown. At this moment, it is said, the French and Spanish Ambassadors, De Noailles and Renard, resolved on her destruction, for she was in their way, as they were both desirous of seeing Mary queen. The Spaniard wished to see Mary married to his ambitious master, Philip II. The Frenchman was jealous of the Spaniard; but, for all that, he bore no good-will to Lady Jane Grey. Renard, the Spaniard, was a treacherous and bad man, ready for every kind of cruelty, if he could further his own ends. A far different character was Cuthbert Chol- mondeley, a manly and handsome gallant. He served, as esquire, the Duke of Northumberland s son. Lord Guildford Dudley, husband of Lady Jane Grey, and he would have laid down his life on his behalf. The triumphs and trials of Cholmondeley are many, and make stirring reading. A very amusing person is Xit, a dwarf, who, as a tiny infant, was found wrapped in a piece of blanket, and given to the care of the good-natured giant, Og, one of three famous giants, said to have been nearly related to King Henry VIII. Their names were Og, Gog, and Magog, and they were brothers. It was a remarkable sight to see Xit perched on the shoulders of good-natured Og, outside whose door he was at first found. When full grown, the dwarf was scarcely two feet high, and it is said that he was anything but good-looking, nor did a shock head of yellow hair improve his appearance. He offered an odd contrast to his tall friends, as, with a halberd in his hand, and dressed in the garb of a page, he stood beside the three brothers who, on the occasion of Lady Jane Grey’s visit to the Tower, guarded its ancient doorway. A lady who plays an important part in the story is the fair Cicely, the ' Rose of the Tower,’ as she was called, supposed by many to be the daughter of Peter Trusbut, the pantler— ^.e., cook— and his dame, Soteutia. That she was of higher lineage Cuthbert Cholmondeley knew directly he saw her, in spite of the fact that her garments were poor. It was sad for fair Cicely that her beauty excited the admiration of Nightgall, the chief jailor, and one of the blackest villains of the tale. It was not long before he found out that Cholmondeley, the young esquire, cared for her, and had told her so. The jealous and savage Nightgall determined to capture the young esquire, and to confine him in one of the lowest and most noisome dungeons of the Tower, and, if need were, to take away his life. Cicely knew that the jailor admired her. He had told her of his wish to marry her, but she detested him and his evil looks and ways. When Chol¬ mondeley told her of his love, she made no secret of the fact “that she loved him in return. Cholmondeley had another bitter enemy besides the jailor, and one far more powerful — Simon

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Lady Jane Grey’s Visit to the Tower. Renard, the crafty Spanish Ambassador, who also, for reasons of his own, was anxious to remove the young man from his path. Nightgall overheard Kenard say to the Earl of Pembroke, a traitor to Queen Jane's cause, * Cholmondeley must not be allowed to return to the palace/ Then and there he replied, ‘ Pie never shall, my lord, if you will entrust his detention to me.’ A question or two from Renard, and the permission Kightgall sought was given him. Half an hour later Cholmondeley was lying senseless, from a blow on the head, on the floor of a dungeon. There we will leave him for a time while we follow the fortunes of Queen Jane and her husband. {Concluded at yage 110. )

Page 113

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106 CHATTERBOX. TONY. {Continued from page 99.) CHAPTER XIV. RNEST’S curiosity was not destined to be gratified until the holidays were nearly over ; then Mr. Ver- schoyle went away for a few days, and when he returned he was not alone, hut had under his care a boy whose singular air and manners at once attracted the attention of all at Sunrise College. The new comer was a foreigner, it was plain ; he spoke but very few words, and those he did speak were sometimes French, sometimes German, some¬ times — but more rarely — English. In face he did nob look to be more than about twelve years of age, but he was tall and well formed. His features were rather broad and heavy, but he had fine eyes, and when he was pleased, or surprised, his coun¬ tenance lighted up with a very bright smile. He was handsomely dressed, wearing a rich, fur-lined overcoat, and showing other signs of wealth, and, though very polite, he took as a matter of course all the services which were rendered to him. He had evidently been used to being very much waited upon. The evening after his arrival, Mr. Verschoyle took Ernest aside. ‘ Now, Ernest,’ he said, ' the time has come to speak of the matter to which I referred in my letter to you. You have seen the new pupil I have brought with me. In his own country he is called Vassili Ivanovitch Kolosov, the son of Count Ivan Kolosov, a very wealthy Russian nobleman ; but while he remains here he will be simply known as Basil Kolosov, and will, at his father’s wish, be treated as nearly as possible like the other boys. His stay, however, is not to be long; Count Kolosov’s business will detain him in England for perhaps two or three months. At the end of that period he desires to find an English tutor, to accompany himself and his son back to Russia, and what I have to propose to you is, that you should be the man.’ Ernest looked at Mr. Verschoyle in amazement ; he really did not know what to say in reply, but without giving him time to collect his thoughts that gentleman went on. ^In putting this before you, I am making a sacrifice of my own interests, for I really do not know how I shall fill your place. Some one else I can readily obtain, but not some one who will suit me as well as you do. The reasons why you ought, in my opinion, to go to Russia are chiefly two : first, that the salary which Count Kolosov offers is so handsome as to make it very well worth your while to do so; and, secondly, that your talent for languages points you out as especially fitted for this post. Just consider the case for a moment i this boy, in common with other aristo¬ cratic young Russians, has hardly heard the sound of his native tongue at all. As a baby he had a French nurse ; later, a French governess and a German tutor; he speaks with ease both French and German, and his father’s present desire is, as I say, that he should be perfected in English. When Basil has learned to speak English well, your task, if you undertake this, will be finished. Russians, as you must have heard, pick up foreign tongues with amazing quickness. Your absence therefore need not be long, and your reward would be great.’ Mr. Verschoyle named a sum of money so large, that Ernest’s resolution was taken before he an¬ swered. Not that, for a single moment, Ernest Hanson desired money for its own sake, but he wished with all his heart to begin, as soon as ever he could, the repayment of his debt to Mr. Bradley. It seemed as though he and Tony were always to be parted ; but if he went away now he would be leaving Tony in good hands, amongst friends upon whom he could thoroughly rely, and with every prospect of happiness. In the next two or three months Tony would, doubtless, have made himself entirely at home at Sunrise, and there would be no risk whatever in leaving him. Mr. Verschoyle went on to say : ^ You can begin to teach Basil while he is here; you will find him, in many respects, a charming pupil, aud I do think, Ernest, that this may be the beginning of a course of employment for which you are peculiarly fitted, that, as a professor and teacher of languages, you may have a most useful, and, if properly worked, most lucrative, career before you.’ ^ If Count Kolosov does not think me too young, I believe I ought to go,’ Ernest replied. ^ Do you really think, sir, that he will accept me as capable ? I am not seventeen yet, you know.’ ^ But you look more,’ replied Mr. Verschoyle. ‘ And I have told the Count what I think of you. He will be willing to take you, upon my recom¬ mendation. Nay, he is most anxious to obtain your services.’ * Truly,’ thought Ernest, ^ we do not know what a single day, or hour, may bring forth. The last thing I should have imagined would have been that I should ever take a journey to Russia, and yet this is what I may very shortly have to do.’ The prospect of seeing a wider world than he had hitherto known made his heart beat fast. He had a secret longing for * fresh woods and pastures new,’ and there was something attractive to him about the great Russian land, an expectation of mystery and romance, such as a proposal to sojourn for a while in France or Germany would not have aw^akened. Basil Kolosov could not entirely join in the ordinary school life, he was rather a spectator of than a sharer in the other boys’ lessons; but he talked to Professor Benoit with an ease which filled the Sunrise lads with hopeless envy, and having recently come from the French teacher’s beloved Paris, where he and his father had stayed for some weeks, before, crossing the Channel to Dover, he was regarded by the Professor with great favour. Sometimes the young Russian wandered in the garden, but he was very shy of Noraj who, heedless of the frost, would have borne him company. He liked best to wait until Ernest was at liberty, and then to walk and talk with him, chattering freely in

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CHATTERBOX. 107 French, or learning the English name of every object he saw. do not greatly love your country/ he told Ernest. ‘ It will be better, much better, when we are at Petersburg, and better still when the summer comes, and my father removes us all to Moscow, to our pleasure-house there. Ah ! then we shall have fine times ; and you will enjoy them, too, Monsieur Hanson, will you not ? ’ ‘ I hope so/ replied Ernest, wondering whether he really should enjoy the strange llussian life, or whether, as it was plain that Basil did in England, he should feel himself out of his element. Tony was growing taller and stronger every day ; neither Mrs. Samson's spare diet, nor old Janet’s quaint house-keeping, had suited him as well as the good meals which Mrs. Verschoyle provided for the younger boys. ^ Children must have meat, or milk ; they do best with plenty of both’ — she was fond of quoting, and Tony bade fair to prove a good illustration of her favourite axiom. He knew all about Ernest’s intended departure, but the prospects of being left without Ernest at Sunrise had no terrors for him ; he had so many friends now, that, though sorry indeed to part from his brother, he would be well able to bear the separation. Count Kolosov came from time to time to see his son, and it was thus that Ernest became acquainted with his future employer. Of imposing appearance, and gracious, polished manners, the Count was, no doubt, the finest gentleman who had ever been within the walls of Sunrise College. If a fault could be found with his behaviour, it was that he was almost too polite and condescending; and his attentions at times rather overwhelmed Ernest, who remem¬ bered to have read somewhere that ‘ it is impossible for aify one really to be as intelligent and amiable as a Russian gentleman seems,^ ‘ Perhaps a blunt Englishman has more heart under his bluntness/ thought Ernest ; but the Count stood the test of closer acquaintance-ship fairly well, as Ernest, in the near future, had to confess. Easter fell very late that year, and it was Count Kolosov’s desire to reach home before then. ^ Last year,’ he said to Ernest, ‘ we were in Moscow at the Holy Season. You must have heard of our Kremlin, Monsieur Hanson, and of the hundreds of churches which may be seen from the tall belfry of Ivan the Great ? ’ Yes, Ernest said, he had heard of both the churches and the bells, especially of the great bell which has never been hung, but stands on a stone pedestal at the base of Ivan’s tower, so huge and heavy that it cannot be hoisted into position. Then he requested the Count to tell him something of the way in which the Russians observe Easter, and that nobleman, with his usual courtesy, at once complied. ‘On the night before Easter Sunday/ he said, ‘ the churches are crowded with people, and as the clock strikes twelve the officiating priest says, in a loud voice, “ Christ is risen.” Every person in the congregation makes answer, in lower tones, “ Yea, verily. He is risen.” All at once the choir begins to sing a triumphant hymn, and every bell, in every church, is set merrily ringing. Brilliant lights are burned ; friends, as they meet, kiss one another, saying joyfully, “ Christ is risen,” and there is feast¬ ing and rejoicing everywhere. Ah ! you have nothing like it in your country. Monsieur; your Christmas and Easter festivals have not the joyous¬ ness of our Russian Easter.’ ‘ Do the poor people share in these rejoicings ? ’ asked Ernest. ‘ Oh, yes ! they eat Easter cakes, made of pressed curds, and numbers of hard-boiled eggs, stained or dyed red. They make presents of these, and play at various games with them. When you return with us you will see how much feasting and joy we have at the Holy Season ; and I think you will allow that you have never heard sweeter singing than is to be heard in our churches, or more delightful music than the ringing of our multitudes of bells.’ Ernest respected Count Kolosov, alike for his patriotism and his religious feeling. He felt, too, that it was true kindness which made this nobleman willing to talk to him about the country which was soon, for a season, to be his home. In Russia, perhaps, there would be a greater distance between ‘the wealthy Count and his son’s young tutor, but for the present Ivan Kolosov was all that was kind and friendly. Basil could not make much headway with the boys of his own age. ‘ He chatters French like a parrot; we cannot talk to him/ said Frank Parry, with something like disgust; and even Tony was not superior to this true English lad’s prejudice. So that Basil relied more and more upon Ernest for society ; and Ernest began to think that it would be a good thing when he, with the Count and Basil, had really started on the journey to the North. The sooner this undertaking was begun, the sooner it would be over ; and it was difficult to feel settled, or at ease in. any work, with the thought of shortly seeing St. Petersburg and Moscow often intruding itself on his mind. Ernest was very busy ; he had not only to attend to his usual duties, but to be ready for Basil’s various claims ; to converse with the Count when¬ ever he came ; to instruct the young man who was to fill his own place, and who had already arrived at Sunrise; and to obtain a suitable outfit for an absence of at least several months. But a full and busy life suited Ernest; he was happy when his powers were taxed to the utmost, and thankful that the old dull existence of Clearminster days had given place to one so active and varied. [Continued at page 114.) ADMIRAL HOPSON. Young Hopson was an orphan boy of Bonchurch, in the Isle of Wight, m the days of Queen Anne. He was apprenticed to a tailor, but the sight of the ships became too much for him, and he ran away and entered the navy as a common boy. The ship and fieet in which he was embarked soon fell in with a French squadron, and in a few hours after the boy’s entry into the service an action had

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“ Young Hopson appears on the quarter-deck with the French flag wound round his arm.’' begun, which was maintained on both sides with equal bravery. After the engagement had lasted some hours, he inquired when it would be over. On being told that the action would continue until the flag at the enemy’s mast-head was struck, he exclaimed : ‘ Oh ! I will see what I can do.’ At this time the ships were engaged yard-arm and yard-arm, and obscured by the smoke of the guns, young Hopson determined to haul down the enemy’s colours. He mounted the shrouds, and from the main-yard gained that of the French ship un¬ perceived, and ascending the main-top-gallant mast¬ head, he struck and carried off the French flag, with

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CHATTERBOX. 109 The Night- jar or Fern-owl. whicli he retreated to his own ship. Before he had gained the deck the British shouted ^ Victory/ seeing the enemy’s flag had disappeared. The crew of the French ship, thrown into confusion by the same circumstance, ran from their guns, and although the French officers tried to rally them, it was in vain, for the British sailors boarded the vessel and took her. Young Hopson, having gained the deck, displayed to the astonished sailors the French flag. The story of his brave action reaching the quarter-deck, our hero was ordered to attend there, when he appeared before the Admiral with the French flag wound round liis arm. The Admiral, praising his gallantry, ordered him to be rated as a midshipman. His rise was rapid, and in a short time he reached the highest rank, as Admiral Hopson, and he was the pride of the British Navy. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE NIGHT-JAR, GOAT-SUCKER. N ^ \L^ OR FERN-OWL. ^ rOu , TY E all know the proverb, ^3 * Give a dog a bad name and hang him/ and this harsh judgment certainly holds good with the poor night-jar, which, whilst a most harmless creature, has various ill deeds laid to his charge. In many districts he is known as the ^ goat-sucker’, as he is accused of robbing both goats and cows of

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110 CMATTIilRBOX. their milk; in others he is called a ^night-hawk,’ keepers asserting that he carries off young game birds to devour. To any one understanding the structure of birds, both charges are absurd, as it would be just as impossible for the poor night-jar to tear up little birds with 'its tiny weak claws, as for him to drink milk with a mouth specially formed for catching insects. You will notice in the picture what a queer mouth it is: very wide and thickly fringed at the corners with hairs. These are to shut in the moths and beetles, and inside again is a sticky secretion which holds the victims fast, until it is the pleasure of the night- jar to begin his repast. The first time that I ever saw one of these birds, I gazed at it in wonder as to what kind of a thing I was looking at ! It was young, covered with thick grey down more resembling hair than feathers, and with its enormous mouth and huge, staring eyes struck me as being more like a reptile than a bird. This baby night-jar sat up in a forked branch of a creeper covering our house, and looked at me with¬ out fear ; indeed, it let me take it out and examine it. No doubt, a few weeks later, the ugly bird would have become really handsome; its wings would have become long and pointed, its tail well grown, and its plumage of soft black, grey, brown and fawn, very much like that of a tabby pussy-cat. When flying in the twilight, which is when its real life begins, a night-jar looks very like a huge shadowy moth, but in the day-time its tints are difficult to see amongst the thick foliage. When seen, it may also be known ^ by its habit of sitting lengthways on branches instead of cross-ways, after the usual manner. Probably this is owing to its small feet being unable to adapt themselves to the greater curve. The night- jar likes to put its eggs on soft sandy soil, under trees, for it is either too lazy to make a nest, or the little claws cannot do much fetching and carrying. It scoops out a rough hole amongst the fern, from which it gets its extra name of the fern owl.’ Like sky-larks, it may often be seen rolling in the dry sand or dust, clearly to rid itself of over¬ friendly visitors. It lays only two eggs, very long in shape, and beautifully coloured in grey and brown, from which the babies come out in a fort¬ night. The cry of the night-jar is most peculiar, and, once heard, it is not to be mistaken, sounding like a harsh grating of a wheel, and it can be heard on all sides, from the bird’s trick of moving its head backwards and forwards when flying. Some¬ times night-jars fly in pairs, but more frequently singly, and I fancy that most people would be amply satisfied to have one of the family uttering its strange cry under their window in the dead of night. The night-jar is one of the latest of our summer visitors, rarely coming before May, and by the end of September they have often departed for their North African home. They travel in different fashion to the swifts, swallows, or martins, as they prefer to make the long journey either alone, or in very small, scattered companies. Helena Heath. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 9. — ^WoED Puzzles. 1. Feom the letters A, E, D, E, B, form three words, each containing all the letters, and eight each contain¬ ing four of the letters. 2. From A, E, B, T, E, H, form three words (one a name) with all the letters, two with five, and thirteen at least with four. 3. From A, E, E, G, N, D, form three words, using all the letters in each, four with five letters, and thir¬ teen (one a geographical name) with four letters in each. 4. With E, A, W, E, E, D, make three words, each containing all the letters, one with five, and six or more with four. 5. With E, I, M, T, E, make three words, using all the letters in each, and nine with four of the letters. 6. With E, A, T, T, B, L, form three words with all the letters in each, two with five, and five with four letters. C. C. [Answers at page 123.] -A-3SrS'WEIS;S. 8. — 1. Zealand. 6. Lima. 2. Derwent, Ouse. 7. Meath. 3. Germany. 8. Canada. 4. Tpy. 9. Norwood. 5. Siam. 10. Dorking. 11. Frome. 12. Ware. 13. Epsom. 14. Stratford. HEROES AHD HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. LADY JANE GEEY. {Concluded from page 104.) HOUSANDS were flocking to Mary’s standard, and every day Jane’s cause grew more hopeless, for Mary doubtless had a better right to the throne, and Jane was iU-advised when she was forced to put her¬ self forward as Queen by her ambitious father-in- law, the Duke of North¬ umberland. Every fresh messenger who arrived brought news of large accessions to the cause of the Lady Mary, who was soon at the head of thirty thousand fighting men. Soon, very soon — only ten or twelve days — after Lady Jane’s proud entry into the Tower as Queen, she was brought into it as prisoner, only to leave it when death by exe¬ cution set her free. She was beheaded on the Tower Green, and her young husband on Tower Hill — her cousin. Queen Mary, having signed their death warrant. Many who had supported their cause fell in these sad times. Amongst those who fell was the proud Duke of Northumberland, whose ambitious designs had ruined his son and his daughter-in-law.

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CHATTERBOX. Ill He was beheaded a short time before his son, also on Tower Hill. In vain did Queen Mary offer Lady Jane her life, on condition that she would abjure her faith and become reconciled with the Romish Church. She remained faithful to her old belief to the last, and died a staunch Protestant, com¬ mending her spirit into the hands of her Heavenly Father. . We now return to Cholmondeley, whom we left m the dungeon. Nightgall had him completely in his power ;°and visited him at night to get him, if possible, by threats and the offer of bribes, to give up the fair Cicely. Such, however, was not our hero s intention. Cholmondeley, aware that the jailor would never release him without the promise which he wished to extort, determined to sham death. This he did, and, when Nightgall was least prepared for any movement on his part, he suddenly sprang up and flung himself upon him, overcame him, and secured him to the wall as a prisoner. Seizing the keys, he hurried from the dungeon to open cells where he knew that some of the wicked Nightgall s victims were confined. Cholmondeley found many men and women, some of whom had been imprisoned and ill-used for years. One poor creature. Alexia— as she was called by the jailor— an old woman who had lost her reason, driven mad by Nightgall s continuous ill-treatment, turned out to be Lady Mount joy, mother of the fair Cicely. She was discovered by Cholmondeley in a stone cell, six feet long, quite dead, her body reduced almost to a skeleton. But we pass on, from a recital of these dreadful deeds done in the grim old Tower, to the story of how Xit, the dwarf, came by his title and his wife. It was a great trouble to Xit’s conceit that he was a foundling, and that none knew who his parents were. He thought that some light might be thrown on his origin if he could procure the piece of blanket in which Og had first found him; so he hurried to consult the good-humoured giant. As good luck would have it, the fragment had been used by Og to patch a pair of trousers. Unsheathing ms dao’o'er, Xit unripped the piece of flannel froin the garment in which it was stitched; the two giants, Ofy and Gog, looked on amused. For the first time it was noticed that one of the corners of the fragment was doubled over. Trembling with eagerness, the dwarf cut open the corner; he felt sure that it would reveal the name of a nobleman, for was he not worthy of the most illustrious father ? The words, ‘Narcissus Le Grand ^ appeared, and Xit, capering about, exclaimed, ‘ That was my father’s title. He must have been a nobleman.’ ‘ If that was your father’s name, returned Hog, ‘and I begin to “think you have stumbled on the right person at last, he was a Frenchman and groom of the pantry to Queen Anne Boleyn.’ ‘ He was a dwarf like yourself, added Og, and the ugliest being I ever beheld.’ , ^ . .1 Go" then went on to inform Xit that his mother was a'’ certain Mab Leatherbarrow, not a jot taller than his father, nor any better-looking; she had, moreover, been a scullion, and both parents had dis¬ appeared about the time Xit was found. ^ j The little man was for the moment disappointed, and almost wished that he had not tried to discover his parentage ; but, determining not to let his big friends have the laugh at him, he said with an amazing air of dignity, ‘ I shall be known henceforth as Sir Narcissus Le Grand. At present you may put “ Master ” to my name ; but shortly you will have to use a more honourable style of address. Farewell, sirs,’ and, thrusting the piece of flannel into his doublet, he strutted to the door. Two days after this discovery — Queen Mary being then at the Tower — as Xit was pacing the grand gallery of the palace, an usher tapped him on the shoulder and desired him to follow him. With a throbbing heart Xit obeyed, and, putting all the dignity that he could command into his de¬ portment, he entered the presence chamber. On that very morning, as good luck would have it, his tailoi had brought him his new clothes, and arrayed in a purple velvet mantle, lined with carnation-coloured silk, a crimson doublet, slashed with white, orange- coloured breeches, and a green velvet cap, decorated with a plume of ostrich feathers, and looped with a diamond aigrette, he cut, in his own opinion, a fine figure. Near the Queen stood the three giants, and, at a little distance, her maids of honour, her female jester, and her vice-chamberlain, Sir John Gage, who held a crimson velvet cushion, on which was laid a richly ornamented sword. ‘ We have not forgotten our promise, rash though it was,’ said the Queen, ‘and have summoned thy comrades to witness the distinction we are about to confer on thee. In the heart of the siege ’ (the Tower was besieged by the supporters of Lady Jane Grey, Queen Mary being present all the time), ‘ we promised whoso would bring us Bret,* alive or dead, should have his request, be it what it might. Thou wert his captor, and thou askest- - ’ • v ‘ Knighthood at your Majesty’s hands, said Xit. ‘ How shall we name thee ? ’ the Queen asked. ‘ Narcissus Le Grand,’ replied the dwarf. Mary took the sword from Sir John Gage, and placing it on the dwarf’s shoulder said, ‘ Arise, Sir N^arcissus ’ Losing no time, the new knight was^ about to withdraw, when the Queen commanded him to wait a moment, as she had a further favour to bestow on him, as she would choose him a wife. She pointed him to a young woman known as Jane the Fool, and promised t© give her a portion, , . 1 x i On the occasion of their wedding, which took place soon after at St. Peter’s Chapel on the Green, the Queen and her attendants, the three giants, and many others who knew the little man well, were present. A great crowd assembled before the doors, and the tiny knight, who had got Og to take him on his shoulder, was so elated by the applause of the crowd, that he requested the giant to walk as slowly as possible, and flung about as largesse all the gold pieces bestowed on him by the Queen. And so ends the story of how Xit obtained his title and his dame. James Cassidy. * Alexander Bret was captain of the London Trained iands, and second in command to Sir Thomas Wyatt luring the siege of the old Tower by Lady Jane Greys )arty.

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How Xit the DwcOi’f came by Iiis Title.

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Streets of St. Petersburg. ' i"iiin'i

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114 CHATTERBOX. TONY. {Continued from page 107.) CHAPTER XV. ^ April, when Count |l|| Kolosov, with Basil and iil^ Ernest, crossed the Channel, liillli being favoured with a fairly comfortable passage. Be- sides these three, the party consisted of the Count’s personal attendant and ano- ther servant; and Ernest was surprised at the im- mense quantity of boxes, bags, and packages, which these men had under their care. He was as yet ignorant of Russian travelling, and did not know how many things a Russian will drag about with him, which an Englishman would rather do without than carry in his train. Through France and Belgium, through flat and dreary German landscapes, and by dull German frontier towns, their route led them ; but everything was new, and therefore interesting, to Ernest, who had never been out of his own country before ; and hb pointed out to Basil a multitude of things which the boy otherwise would never have noticed. They were tired out when they arrived in St. Reterburg; even Ernest was too weary to observe the immense width of the streets and squares through which he was rapidly driven, in one of the carriages which were waiting to receive Count Kolosov and his party. The Count’s residence looked very large and im¬ posing, and the front part of it was brilliantly lighted up. Ernest had yet to learn that the splendour of the reception-rooms was hardly matched in the arrangements of the rest of the mansion ; that, while gilded furniture and magnificent carpets were to be found in the public rooms, there was not much com¬ fort, and not always cleanliness, in more out-of-the- way places. Although it was April, and people in St. Peters¬ burg thought it to be a very mild season, it still seemed to Ernest bitterly cold. There had been a partial thaw, followed by another frost, and the streets were very slippery, while at the same time a keen east wind was blowing. It was a pleasure to feel the warmth of the house, heated to a high temperature, as Russian houses usually are. The double windows, which kept out the cold air during eight or nine months of the year, were not yet removed; they would be taken out of their frames in summer, and the little saucers full of sand and salt, which were always placed between them, would be carried away. Meanwhile a single pane in each room was made to open, and through this a draught of biting air was admitted every morning, for a very few minutes. Otherwise the outside atmosphere was rigidly ex¬ cluded, and the warm rooms often grew close and stuffy. It was the custom then to refresh them, by burning some aromatic herbs, or scattering scent about. 1 Because the whole of the inside of the house was heated, no one troubled to close the doors ; the apartments, too, were made to open one out of the other, so that there was very little privacy. It was hard for Ernest to get used to this ; but he did not notice it on the night of his arrival. He was too tired then to do anything but lie down and sleep, after drinking the hot tea which was brought to him. Even the tea was not like the home beverage ; it was made in a ‘ samovar,’ a kind of tall urn, with a fire in the bottom, and a hollow place for the tea¬ pot at the top. Delicious in flavour, but rather weak, the tea, w^hen it was brewed, was poured, not into cups, but into glass tumblers, and thin slices of lemon were added. Sugar was offered with it, but no milk ; and every one Knew how to take his tea almost scalding, and to hold a hot tumbler without burning his fingers. Ernest had to learn these truly Russian ways by degrees; eating and drinking promised to become two of his chief difficulties. He did not like the soup, made of cold fish and cucumbers, or the sin¬ gular dishes which were prepared from dried mush¬ rooms. The ‘pevass,’ of which. those around him were so fond, appeared to him an unpleasant drink ; and the ‘ vodka,’ or corn-brandy, which was offered to him, was a spirit bo fiery and powerful, that he decided never to touch it, but to keep to the tea, which was sure not to do any harm. But custom works wonders; excepting with regard to the ‘ vodka,’ Ernest found himself in a little while able to do pretty much as others did. He was taken round to see the sights of St. Petersburg ; most of the vehicles in the streets were still sledges, but some were ‘ droshkies.’ The Russian ‘ droshky ’ take the place of the English cab ; but even the despised four-wheeler is a comfortable and luxurious chariot, compared with the ramshackle little truck on wheels with which a Russian driver dashes over the ill-made roads; while the poo^ passenger holds on for dear life with both handsT" and, if he happens to be a foreigner, never expects to see his home and family again. However, Ernest rode in a ‘droshky’ without coming to grief, though he much preferred one of the Count’s warmly cushioned sledges. The Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, the wonderful eques¬ trian statue of Peter the Great, and other sights, were duly visited ; but .Ernest cared most to looK at the many curious people who walked about the streets. Every one seemed to be either very rich, or very poor, and the rich furs of the gentlefolk contrasted with the dirty sheepskin coats worn by the peasants. A poor Russian puts on a new coat at extremely rare intervals ; it is nearly always made of sheepskin, and he wears the garment, sleeping and waking, day and night, until it drops to pieces from old age. Some of these ‘ moujiks,’ or peasants, were the roughest, most uncouth-looking beings that Ernest had ever beheld. There were but few women to be seen, and those

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CHATTERBOX. 115 that were out were wrapped up in shawls and petticoats till they looked like walking bundles of clothes. ^ Do the common people here ever wash them¬ selves ? ’ asked Ernest of the Count’s secretary, an obliging young gentleman who had volunteered to show him the city. ‘ Oh, yes,’ was the reply ; ^ they have hot vapour baths — steam themselves under the stove until they are nearly scalded, and then go out and roll in the snow. But these baths are not very frequent, and, between them, they do not trouble to use soap and water.’ Ernest was much obliged to the secretary for his company and information. Without him an in¬ spection of the city would have been attended with some difficulty, for French and German, it appeared, did not go far amongst the drivers and others to whom it was necessary to speak, and Ernest as yet knew but few Ilussian words. The thirty-six letters of the Russian alphabet seemed to be very oddly jumbled together in the names over the shop-doors and at the corners of the streets, and he could not even pronounce the name of the street in which the Count’s house was situated. To him the most striking things about St. Petersburg were the enormous space upon which the city stood, the great desolate squares and immensely broad roadways, and the shops which lined the streets, some very splendid, some poor and mean, but nearly all covered with pictures and advertisements. While Ernest made these observations, Basil was with his lady mother, the Countess, and his sister, Mariya Ivanovna. Masha, as she was familiarly called, was a tall girl several years older than Basil, with a head of very long and luxuriant hair, and eyes as fine as her brother’s. But these were the young lady’s only claims to beauty; she was of a sallow complexion and rather awkward figure, and, before strangers, had not a word to say, though she chattered away at a great rate to Basil and to the governess. The Countess, with her extremely elegant dresses, and airs of a grand lady, was at first rather too much for Ernest, but she had a good heart under her highly fashionable exterior, and she did her best to be kind to the young Englishman. All matters connected with the education of her son she left to the Count, only asking that her daughter should sometimes share the English lessons. Ernest would willingly have altered this arrangement if he could, but Mariya Ivanovna proved to be an apt pupil, and learned to speak English as quickly as her brother did. The family remained in St. Petersburg until the spring was well advanced, and Ernest witnessed the great spectacle of the breaking of the ice on the Neva. He found, too, that he had never understood what a thaw meant until he had seen the streaming, swimming streets of the Russian capital. But a milder temperature was very pleasant, and the warm weather, when it did come, set in so rapidly that every one began to talk at once of retiring to the country. Besides his St. Petersburg mansion. Count Kolosov had a house in Moscow, but the pleasure-house of * which Basil had spoken as their summer resort was a villa some miles outside of that city. Everything was bustle and preparation as the season grew warmer ; the Kolosovs and their house¬ hold were to depart, first to the Moscow house, and then to the villa beyond it, with as much speed as they could. Thanks to his position in the Count’s family, Ernest had none of the inconveniences which travellers in Russia often feel. His letters reached him in safety, and he was cheered by good accounts of Tony and of all his friends at Sunrise College. Mr. Bradley, too, sent him a long epistle, and mentioned, amongst other items, that Samson Grist, having disposed of his London business, was making haste to be rich in Clearminster. ‘ He is spending the money he makes in the Sheepmarket in speculative building,’ wrote Mr. Bradley ; ‘ and there are those who think that some of his ventures are not over- wise, and that he will burn his fingers before he has finished.’ {Contiimed at page 122.) BOYS OF THE LONDON STREETS. ^ THE TELEGRAPH BOY. ivj ^ ^ were to knock at door, I do not think it H would be opened any more H quickly than it is when knock of the ® "" telegraph boy. What is J^[ the message he has brought ^ us ? Sometimes it is one WM'l'jjll!''* of sorrow, sometimes it is une of joy; but, whichever it may ' be, the bearer is never kept waiting (unless by accident), for we know that the message is one too urgent to be trusted to the post. Per¬ haps it may have come along the wires for miles and miles, by hill and valley, river and town, till a ‘ click, click, click,’ is heard in the office nearest to where we live, and the operator at the instru¬ ment understands what that ' click ’ is saying. He writes the words down on a piece of paper, and putting it in an envelope, he hands it to one of the boys, who are always waiting to run off dnd deliver it. When we learn that in one year 79,423,556 telegrams are delivered by these boys, nobody can say that they have nothing to do. What a lot of little ‘click, click, clicks’ there must be to say all that is contained in this mass of messages ! The telegraph boy in London has to be able to walk well, and the Lord Mayor himself is more likely to get lost in the maze of streets, than the lad who dodges past his gorgeous coach to deliver a message to one of the many merchant princes whose business premises crowd closely round the Mansion House. His knowledge of London, or the district in which he works, would be hard to rival, for while the stranger makes a long circuit, the telegraph boy will take a short cut down some narrow passage, or tlirough some large building, and reach his destina-

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116 CHATTERBOX. The Telegraph Boy. tion almost as quickly as a telegraphic message will travel from Edinburgh to London. But it is not always through well-lighted and crowded streets that the telegraph boy^s path may lead him. Those who are employed by offices in the smaller towns often have long distances to travel, and if a message is dispatched after the office in the town to which it is addressed is closed, it is received at the nearest town where an office is open. There the telegraph boy is called, and, mounting a horse or a bicycle, he sets out in the dark on a very lonely ride, sometimes of many miles. No lamps, no people, no houses, and often not much of a road. But telegrams must be delivered, and we cannot choose only the pleasant paths on which to follow our daily duty. John Lea,

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The Bactrian Camel A CAMEL ON THE RAMPAGE. FRENCH settler in Nevada had a herd of camels, which he pastured on his ranch near Heenan ’ by the herders, was of great size, and had a coat of fine silky hair, almost a foot long. Some rascally Mexicans, in the neighbourhood coveted Old Heenan’s hair (for their leggings and Carson River. One of the camels, dubbed ^ Old , saddle-trimmings), and one night two of them deter-

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118 CHATTERBOX. mined to catch him and clip him. Mounted on their mustangs, they rode softly to the Frenchman’s ranch, and finding the big camel lying down, and, as they thought, an easy prey, they soon had both their lassoes round his long neck. Old Heenan felt the pull, and rose to his feet in astonishment and indignation. The little horses were horribly frightened at the mountain of flesh and bones which so suddenly towered up before them; but the strong thong lassoes were made fast to their saddles, and they could not get away. For the next few minutes the excitement was intense — as if a whole menagerie had been let loose. Old Heenan ran first at one mustang and then at the other, with his mouth wide open, and hissing and blowing with rage; and the poor mustangs snorted in terror, and jumped, and reared. The big camel rushed around, intent on vengeance, and the little horses plunged the length of the lassoes, only to be twitched back upon their haunches again. The thievish Mexicans soon began to be as anxious to get away as their horses were, and, making the best of a bad job, they whipped out their knives and cut the lasso thongs. Old Heenan stood scornfully, with the long lassoes trailing from his neck, and let his beaten tormentors gallop off the field. The thieves felt vexed enough at their failure. Besides their rough handling, they had lost their lassoes, and these would be hard to replace. They settled that they would try to recover them, and presently one of them came sneaking back on foot. Old Heenan saw him, and charged at him in full fury, blowing and snapping his teeth, and the scared Mexican ran for dear life. Then the other tried it, but came off no better. Then they led their mustangs^ to an Indian camp down the river, and told a big brave that they would give him five dollars to get their lassoes oflF the camePs neck. The big Indian was used to camels, and declared that he was not afraid. He went, but in less than fifteen minutes he came galloping back with Old Heenan at his heels. The sight struck a panic througli the camp, and all hands scattered, pell-mell — Indians, squaws, pap- pooses, and the thievish Mexicans. The old camel’s blood was up now, and he came on, fairly snorting with wrath, the lassoes still dangling from his long neck. In a short space of time the camp was cleared, some of the Indians swimming across the river, some hiding under the bank. Old Heenan felt that he had been insulted as well as injured, and he determined to make an end of it. Finding nothing else on which to vent his rage, he attacked the flimsy wigwams with his teeth, and flung them right and left, with all their furniture, till the ground looked as if a tempest had passed by. The Mexicans did not want anything more of Old Heenan or his hair. Next morning, his owner took the lassoes off his neck, and chuckled to see what good ones they were. Nobody ever called to claim them. THE STONE OP EIBBESPORD. A Legend. The daughter of a Norman lord. So beautiful and good. Was sought by all the nobles round, None had her charms withstood. One day in Severn deep she dropped A rare and precious ring. ^ Whoever of you,’ said her lord, ^ Shall to Honoria bring ^ This trinket which she values so, And lays it in her hand, He too shall wed her, and possess My castles and my land.’ Bobin her lover, poor and true, Took up his bow and left; And wandered sadly in the woods. Now of all hope bereft. Glancing at Severn’s farther side He noticed a fair doe, And, with a hunter’s instinct moved, He lifted up his bow. Just then a salmon jumped, and, lo ! The arrow sped right through The leaping fish, rushed on. And killed the poor hind too. And in that salmon was the ring ! Triumphant back he wended. Married the fair Honoria, And so their sorrows ended. A. A. D. W. AUSTRALIAN SNAKES AND SOME OP THEIR ENEMIES. II. Although there are no dangerous quadrupeds in Australia, we have what are quite as bad, a great many venomous reptiles. The most common in this neighbourhood is the tiger-snake. As you may guess from its name, its colours are very dark brown, almost black with yellow stripes ; it is seldom more than four feet long. This snake is very lively and fierce, although I do not think it ever ‘ bites any one except in self-defence, or, if it is making for its house, and finds something in its way, then it attacks its enemy in a most frantic manner, biting over and over again whatever it can reach. The black snake is even more swift in its motion than the tiger. One very rare kind of black snake is very handsome, its back is very dark, but shows all the colours of the rainbow ; underneath it is a beau¬ tiful salmon colour, with bright red spots ; it is long and thin, and very swift. The first snake of this kind, observed in this district, was good enough to

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CHATTERBOX. 119 pay us a visit. One day it was seen in our dining¬ room ; there was a great chase after it, but it was too quick for its pursuers, and, after darting here and there all over the room, it made its escape down a mouse-hole. For six weeks it showed itself now and then ; at the end of that time it was seen going into a furze bush, which had to be cut down and partly dug up before Mr. Snake was found close to the root. It was about five feet long, and so beau¬ tiful that it was skinned. The skin was shown to many old bush people, but no one had ever seen one like it before. The brown snake is very different to those I have mentioned ; it is seldom seen on open ground, and then generally at the edge of scrub land. When it sees any one coming, it tries to ^ get away, but, as it is very slow in its movements, it is often killed. Its back is of a dull colour, and it is of bright yellow underneath. All these snakes are venomous, and their bite is fatal unless steps are at once taken to prevent the poison spreading through the blood. There are many other kinds of snakes in Australia (and also a few serpents, which are harmless, having no poison fangs); the one most dreaded is the death adder, as persons bitten ^ one have been known to die within four hours. Fortu¬ nately it is a very rare species, and it is seldom seen near the haunts of man. It does not seem to be known for certain whether Australian snakes lay eggs or if their little ones are born alive. There is no doubt about their having very large families, often between thirty and forty each season. Some people say that they have seen a mother snake swallowing her young in time of danger, but I never met any one who had seen this. A very strange thing about snakes is the way in which they change their skin. The entire skin of a snake is often found, generally between two logs or in some such place. Every bit is there, even the skin that covers the eyes. How do they get out of it ? Another strange thing about snakes is that they have no eyelids, nor are they able to move their eyes as other animals are. May Collins, Victoria, SOME GERMAN CRUSOES. N the year a.d. 1871. two young Germans, named Stoltenhoff, set sail for a remote island in the Atlantic Ocean, known as Tristan dAcunha. On this island there is an English settlement, and, as the brothers were anxious to join it, they had provided themselves with stores, consisting of a boat, various articles of food, powder and shot, barrels of oil, a lamp and matches, a few books, and various other useful articles. But while they were on the voyage, the captain of the ship persuaded these young men to land on another island — one known as Inaccessible Island — instead of carrying out their first intention. It was strange that the very name of their new abode did not act as a warning to the Germans ; they must have been tempted by the captain’s stories of the fertility of the place, and of the number of wild pigs and goats which ran about the rocks there. Very lonely the brothers felt when the ship steamed away, leaving them on the shingly beach of Inaccessible Island ; but in a few days they were cheered up by a visit from some of the men of Tristan d’Acunha. These men were very kind to the strangers, showing them how to build a house, and helping them to move their stores from the windy shore to a more sheltered place. Then the visitors went away, with a promise to come again, and the Stoltenhoff s were once more alone. They were kept busy all the while, building their house, catching seals and fish, planting seed, and struggling with the many difficulties of their position. Their boat was too large and heavy, and they had to cut it in two, and use the better half to make a strange-looking vessel which they called their sea-cart. In this queer craft they went round the island, and at one point they were able to climb the rocks to its summit. Here were the pigs arid goats which the captain had promised, and when they shot and cooked some of them, they found the goat’s flesh very good ; but the pigs did not prove such pleasant eating, owing to their feeding on sea-birds. As long as the food they had brought with them lasted, and they could catch fish and shoot goats, these German Orusoes fared very well, and they endured — if they could not enjoy — their rough life. But bad weather came ; heavy rains and much wind ; their boat was wrecked, their stores were finished, and, as without the boat they could not reach the place from whence they climbed to the top of the island, the shooting of pigs and goats had to be given ^P- The brothers were reduced to living on potatoes, of which they had planted a crop ; and when even these failed they must have starved, had not soine penguins arrived on the island. The penguins laid many eggs, and the Stoltenhoffs welcomed the new supply with joy and gratitude. The inhabitants of Tristan d’Acunha had, for some unexplained reason, become unfriendly, and would not help the Germans, or come to take them away, although by this time they much desired to leave the island. They lived in their wooden house as best they could, their pipes and tobacco being their only luxury, and the few odd volumes which they had brought with them their only amusement. The books were read again and again, till they were known by heart ; the time came when the tobacco was all smoked, and Frederic Stoltenhoff and his brother were very weary of their diet of penguins* eggs and roasted potatoes. For two years this strange life lasted ; then the captain of a ship which called at Tristan d’Acunha heard of the German brothers on their lonely island, and, to their great joy, came and took them away. After all the hardships which they had undergone, they never wished to try a Robinson Crusoe life again. C. J . Blake.

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120 CHATTERBOX

Page 129

On the Way to Moscow.

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122 CHATTERBOX. TONY. (Continued from page 115.) CHAPTER XVI. C journey from St. Peters¬ burg to Moscow was made by rail. In former times the Kolosovs had set out with a whole train of carriages and baggage waggons, carrying with them not only their per¬ sonal luggage, but beds and bed(Sng to be used in the hotels by the way, a chest of tea, and other provisions, and such a number of servants that the wonder was how so many could possibly find any work to do for their masters. Even now Russian hotels are not always provided with beds for the use of travellers, but the railway service is good, and Ernest was interested in watch¬ ing their arrival at the various brightly painted stations, each embowered in a grove of flowering lilacs and other shrubs, and having a well-kept garden attached to it. The freshest verdure had overspread the face of the earth, which such a short time before was covered deeply with snow and frozen as hard as iron; plantations of birch-trees were to be seen, and villages, with their one long street, their double row of wooden houses, and the church, with its dome coloured a brilliant blue or green. Ernest’s first view of Moscow was obtained from the heights above the city. The cloudless sky overhead, the myriad of buildings below, the endless variety in shape and size and colour which the churches and houses presented, made the place look like a fairy town, as though some enchanter’s wand had called it from the bosom of the earth. But there was nothing fairy-like about the streets. Here, as everywhere in Russia, splendour and squalor went hand in hand, and there was much to spoil the magnificence of the picture. Ernest went through the Sacred Gate which gives admission to the Kremlin, an entrance through which no man may pass without baring his head. He was shown the wonderful array of churches and for¬ tresses which the Kremlin includes within its walls. Nothing surprised him so much as the extreme richness of the churches. Gold and jewels were everywhere, shrines and sacred pictures were pro¬ fusely decorated, and each of these old places of worship appeared to contain wealth enough for an ancient city. The Count’s house in Moscow was a very old one. It was inhabited during the whole year by his mother, a very aged lady who refused ever to leave this residence. Surrounded by servants who had been born there, and had spent all their lives in the house, the old Countess lived out her last years in the strict observance of the customs of her ancestors. She had a sincere affection for her son, her son’s wife, and their offspring ; but she kept the children at a great distance, requiring them to kiss her hand, and to treat her with much ceremony. But, while her wishes in this respect were complied with, the old lady did not interfere with the usual routine of the family. The days passed much in the same way in Moscow as they had done in St. Petersburg, and Ernest got many an hour to himself, while his pupils were taken out by their parents, to pay State visits to their large circle of relatives and connections who made a permanent home in the ancient city. He foresaw that these interruptions would cause his stay to be longer than had been at first expected, but the longer he remained the more money there would be for Mr. Bradley ; and, though that gentle¬ man did not wish to be repaid, Ernest knew that he himself should never feel thoroughly at rest until the debt was paid, and he was able to provide for Tony. Tony was getting excellent drawing lessons, and making good progress. Of course he learned other things too, but he was a boy with such a decided bent in the one direction, that there was never any doubt as to what his work ought to be ; so Mr. Verschoyle lent him Lives of Eminent Painters out of the school library, and, when the monthly batch of magazines came, he reserved the Art Magazine and the Art Student for Tony’s especial benefit. Another little figure, besides Tony’s, appeared often in Ernest’s solitary musings. Of all the Kelm- ston people, he remembered Nora Verschoyle the oftenest, for, though he could not altogether approve of that rather wild little girl, there was something about Nora which had endeared her to Ernest, from the time when he first caught sight of her, perched amidst the branches of the acacia in her father’s garden. He smiled at himself, and at his own fond memories ; ^ but it is not mere fancy,’ he thought, ^ it is the same feeling that makes Tony say, I hope I shall have Keren for my friend, when I am grown up, and — always.” ’ Basil and Masha were continually urging their father to let them go to the villa, and before very long he complied with their request. The villa was a long low structure, built entirely of wood ; it stood in a large garden, and had as a background a copse of birches, the trees which are most plentiful in Russia. There was a bath-house in the garden and an arbour, smothered in lilac bushes, where the family now and again drank tea and ate fruit. T like melons, though they always make me ill,’ said Basil, and Ernest remembered how he had read that travellers sailing down the Volga frequently suffer from eating the delicious melons which grow upon the banks of that stream. Count Kolosov’s children were delighted to be at this little country house. They preferred it to the dwelling on the large estate which the Count had in another part of the country, where there was a great farm, from which he drew part of his wealth, and also a factory, which cost more than it produced. The Count had founded this factory in order to give employment to his people. Like some other amiable Russian noblemen, he was full of schemes for bettering the condition of the lower classes, and could not understand how it was that, in spite of all his efforts, the people persisted in being as poor and wretched as they had always been.

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CHATTERBOX. 123 Ernest and the secretary made an expedition to the Count’s factory, but Basil and Masha did not care to go there. They liked much better to play games in the garden of the villa, chasing each other round the broken-nosed statues which stood here and there upon the turf, and resting in the arbour when Masha was so out of breath that she could not run any more. Ernest continued to be on good terms with the Count and Countess ; he talked French with the governess, and German with the secretary and the other tutor, and was always introduced to visitors if he happened to be in the room when they came. Nevertheless he felt himself to be an exile in a strange land, and ^e rejoiced in every new word which Basil added to his, by this time, copious vocabulary. There was no immediate prospect of release, for the Count desired and expected him to remain for the winter, and, though he did not know how he should like the rigorous season, he had consented to stay. Basil danced for joy at this news. ^ We are more happy than they are at Sunrise College,’ he said to his sister, in his slow English ; ^ for Monsieur Han¬ son will remain with us, and that is why we are glad.’ {Continued at page 130.) PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 10. — Historical Acrostic. Letters. 1. A VERT warlike king of ancient times ; he was very ambitious, and his whole reign was a succession of conquests over other countries. 2. A name borne by three Kings of England. 3. The family name of a man who caused the death of one of our early Norman kings — whether by accident or design seems uncertain. 4. A very great German musician and composer ; his works are chiefly of a sacred character. 6. A Grecian king who distinguished himself at the siege of Troy ; he was especially famed for his wisdom. 6. A very celebrated English painter who lived in the eighteenth century ; his portraits are especially admired. 11. — Buried Proverbs. (a..) — 1. ‘ They mourn me dead in my father’s halls.’ 2. ‘ My darling once did dwell there.’ 3. ‘ He lived in a little thatched cottage.’ ^ 4. ‘ The lovely young Lavinia once had friends.’ 5. ‘ We’ll dance till dawn of day.’ (b.) — 1, 2, 3. ‘ There’s a land that bears a well-known name, Though ’tis but a little spot.’ 4. ‘ Be this,’ she cried, as she winged her flight, ‘ My welcome gift at the gates of light.’ 6. ‘ She soon began her daily trade, To chide the man and scold the maids.’ 6. ‘ I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth, I know not where.’ C. C. [il?isuTrs at page 139.] .A.iTS'WEILS. 9. — 1. Bread, beard, bared ; bead, bear, bare, bard, read, dear, dare, drab. 2. Breath, bather, Bertha; heart, bathe; herb, heat, tear, tare, rate, brat, bear, bare, beat, hart, hare, hear, bath. 3. Danger, garden, gander; range, anger, grand, grade; Dane, dean, dear, dare, drag, read, near, Aden, aged, rage, rang. 4. Eeward, warder, drawer; drear; ward, wear, rear, draw, drew, rare. 5. Mitre, merit, remit ; mite, mire, emit, emir, rite, rime, time, tire, tier. 6. Battle, tablet, batlet ; bleat, table ; tale, late, beat, bate, bale. THE ORANGE-TREE. H E Orange, which we all know so well, is of the same family of fruits as the citron, the lemon, and the lime. The original home of the orange seems to have been India, from whence it spread to Western Asia, and thence, about the fourteenth century, to Europe. Perhaps it was first introduced into Southern Italy, and passed on to Spain and Portugal, and parts of France where the climate suits it. An orange-tree covered with fruit is a very beautiful sight, and when it is in bloom it is most fragrant. The orange blossoms are commonly a part of the decking of a bride. Orange-trees grow to a great age. They often bear abundant fruit at from fifty to eighty years of age; indeed, there are some trees whose age is reckoned by centuries, and which still yield a golden crop. Trees bear from a hundred to a thousand oranges. When the fruit is meant to be exported to cold climates, it is gathered long before it is ripe. Each orange is wrapped in paper, or in the husk of the maize, and then they are packed in boxes. Hundreds of thousands of boxes, each containing about four hundred oranges, come to Great Britain from the Azores, Sicily, Portugal and Spain. North America is supplied from Jamaica and the Bahamas; but it will soon depend on Florida, where the climate exactly suits, and where there are extensive orange- groves. The cultivation of this fruit is now in¬ creasing also in Australia. There are about eighty different kinds of orange. The mandarin oranges of China are small in size, but very fragrant and sweet ; so are the Tangerines, which are somewhat similar. The Maltese, or blood orange, is grown in Southern Italy, and has its name from the deep red colour of its pulp. It is a happy thing that oranges are so plentiful, and so cheap in almost all lands, for they are not only refreshing to the healthy, but they are a very great boon to the sick, especially in cases of fever.

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126 CHATTERBOX. TIBERIUS CJESAR. WHEN the Jews, trying to entrap Jesus, asked Him if it were lawful to pay tribute to Caesar or not. He said, ‘ Show me a penny and then He asked them whose image and superscription it bore. The image and the title were those of Tiberius Caesar, who was then Emperor of Rome. Tiberius, whose full name was Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar, was the son of Claudius Nero and Livia, and was horn b.c. 42. On the death of his father his mother married Augustus, and he named Tiberius to be his successor. In his youth Tiberius was handsome and popular, and gave promise of excellence, but, when he came to power in a.d. 14, he changed for the worse. At first he ruled with justice, but he soon showed that he was really a cruel tyrant. While victories were gained for the Roman Empire by the brave Germanicus, the Emperor left the govern¬ ment to the infamous Sejanus, and, retiring to the Island of Capreae, he gave himself up to luxury. Here he lived apart from any but his immediate attendants. Once a poor fisherman had caught a large fish which he thought would be a suitable present for the Emperor. He scaled the steep rocks of the island, and made his offering, but Tiberius rewarded him by ordering his face to be scrubbed with the fish. After a time the Emperor found out the treachery and falsehood of Sejanus, and caused him to be put to death; but he never returned to Rome. In his late years he left Caprem for Misenum, where he fell into a kind of lethargy. He was choked by the Commander of the Prsetorian Guard, in the seventy- eighth year of his age, a.d. 37. It was in the reign of the Emperor Tiberius Nero that our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. AUSTRALIAN SNARES AND SOME OF THEIR ENEMIES. in. VERY animal seems to have an instinctive fear of snakes, but, strange to say, children have to be taught to dread them. But once they have learned that lesson, they never forget it, and, though a snake has no hand to raise against man, every man’s hand is against j it. No matter how many snakes are killed each summer, next year they seem as plentiful as ever. They come to some houses much more than to others. Our house is a favourite haunt of theirs. This may be because we have many bushes and creepers close to the house. In some seasons as many as seventeen of these poisonous reptiles have been killed in or close to the house. Most of us have had very narrow escapes from snakes. I will tell you a few of our adventures. One of my girls was one evening walking along the verandah in the dark, when she trod on a snake ; she called for a light, and the snake was found in a room opening into the verandah, and was quickly killed. About ten days after this occurred, the same child and I were walking along the verandah in the dark. I remarked how foolish we were to do so after what bad so recently happened. She turned into a room, and in a moment called out to say she had again trod on a snake. This fellow got off, although seen by several ; the poor child felt the shock very much, and said that it was painful. When one of my boys was a little fellow, I sent him to bring me an empty box which was under a tree in the garden. Just as he got to me he looked down at the box, and saw that it contained a large tiger snake, which had its head raised and was touching one of his fingers. As you may imagine, he dropped the box in great haste, and the snake was soon killed. Another time I sent a little girl to get herself a pinafore out of a cupboard. As she came back to me without it, I asked her the reason ; she very quietly told me there was a snake in the cupboard. When I looked, there it was with its head hanging down off a shelf. It was also quickly killed. I am sorry to say, some of our friends have not been as fortunate as we have been. A boy of about eleven was one day last summer hunting rabbits with his brothers, and saw a rabbit go into a hollow log. He put his hand into the log, and a snake bit him. His brothers at once scarified the place and sucked the wound. He was as quickly as possible taken to a doctor, who lived twelve miles from the boy’s home, and although for some hours he did not show any signs of poisoning, he got suddenly ill in the night, and was dead in a couple of hours. A young friend of ours was bitten in the leg by a snake; everything was done for him, and, after a great deal of suffering, he recovered, but for months after he lost the senses of taste and smell. A man we knew saw a snake going into a hole in his garden, and got a spade to dig it out ; but, when close to the hole, he stood on another snake, which bit him in the leg. He had to go thirty miles to a doctor, and, after being treated, he recovered. I asked him what he had felt. He said his blood felt like fire coursing through his veins, but the greatest suffering was not being let go to sleep. One night, about two years ago, a doctor in this neighbourhood was awakened by two men galloping to his door, and calling to him ; they told him that a boy who was working at a sheep-station, seven miles away, had been bitten by a snake, and that he was being brought to him in a buggy. They asked him to have everything ready when he arrived ; the landlord of the nearest hotel was roused up to supply brandy and all was made ready for the patient, who soon drove up with two more men. He told the doctor that he had been awakened by a pain in his foot, and thought that he heard a snake beside his bed. As it was dark, he called to the men who were sleeping in the same hut. When they got a light, they found a small wound in his foot, and, thinking it must be a

Page 135

CHATTERBOX. 127 snake-bite, they cut out the part and bound a ligature round his leg. When the doctor examined him, he could find no symptom of poison; indeed, the poor lad seemed to be suffering from nothing but extreme terror. As the doctor could not see the wound, he could not be sure as to what had caused it, so he thought it best to administer the usual antidotes for snake-poisoning, and had the boy walked about for some hours to prevent his sleeping; Next morning the boy left, cured. The doctor asked the men who were with the boy to examine the surroundings of the boy’s bed, which they did, and could find no sign of a snake ; but, just at the place where the boy said that his foot had been, they found, sticking out from the side of his bunk, a sharp nail ! This, no doubt, had caused the supposed snake-bite. May Collins, Victoria. STORIES PROM THE MOUNTAINS. AVALANCHES AND LANDSLIPS. PINE chalets, as Swiss cottages are called, look exceedingly picturesque, perched as they are upon the . mountain-side, with rows of stones upon their pointed roofs, to keep' the tiles from being blown away, and with a back¬ ground of pines, or green patches where the cattle feed in summer-time. Higher still, the snowy peaks of the mountains may be seen towering into the blue ; but although the heights above add a beauty to the picture, which nothing else could give, they are the sources of many perils to the humble shepherds who live, with their families, beneath them. ‘ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch, Beware the awful avalanche !’ This, we know, was the peasant’s warning to the Alpine climber ; but it is not only the climber who suffers from the avalanche, there is danger for those who dwell upon its path. A slight movement on the part of an animal or a traveller may loosen a mass of snow from the mountain-side, which will then dash downwards, gaining in volume as it goes, until it overwhelms houses, trees, people, everything which obstructs the way, in one common ruin. Worse than the avalanche, because on a larger scale, and therefore more far-reaching in its effects, is the landslip. Harrowing as are the stories told of travellers, or shepherds who have been buried in the falling masses of snow, stones, and dust, which are called avalanches, the accounts of landslips form even more painful reading. A writer named Berlepsch gives a graphic account of the great landslip which occurred at Goldau, in Switzerland, at the beginning of the last century. He tells how, for a long time, the villagers had noticed cracks in the green slopes of the Rossberg, a mountain which overhung their valley. The weather was very wet, the sky was dark and gloomy, and strange booming sounds were heard at intervals. Still, the people did not think anything very dreadful was about to happen. It was not until they saw a great chasm suddenly opening in the mountain-side that they felt their danger. Then the whole side of the mountain began to slide downwards ; faster and faster it came, bringing with it huge rocks, and crushing or burying every¬ thing whicli opposed its progress. Among those who were thus buried were the little daughter and the maid-servant of a man named Wiget. The man and his sons saved themselves by running away, but his wife ran back to rescue her infant child, and mother and baby were both killed. Francesca, the servant, and Marianne, the little girl, though both were injured, were not killed outright. When the awful shock was passed, the maid awoke to find herself covered with earth, and to hear the faint cries of the child for help. She could not move, neither could Marianne, buried as they were beneath the fallen earth and timber. But it was some comfort to hear each other speak, and the brave servant-girl did all she could to keep up the little child’s courage. They could hear the church bells ringing somewhere above them, and they called aloud for aid, but their weak voices could not be heard. All night long they lay in the dark, sorely oppressed by the weight upon them ; then the}" heard the.' joyful sound of human voices, and found that a party, of men were come to dig them out. After being buried alive for more than fourteen hours, they were brought safely out, and long lived to tell of their marvellous rescue. J. C. Blake. A GINGERBREAD SELLER. The poet Cowper tells us, in one of his letters, the following droll story about a mishap at Olney, which startled him from sleep one night in June. He says: — Tom Francis and his wife, returning from Han- slope Fair, were coming down Weston Lane— that is, themselves, their horse, and their great wooden panniers — about ten o’clock at night. The horse, having a lively imagination and weak nerves, fancied he either saw or heard something. He sprang from the middle of the road to the side of it, and the gingerbread baker and his gingerbread wife were thrown out in a moment. The horse, not thinking himself yet out of danger, bolted as fast as he could, rushed against the gate at the bottom of the lane, and burst it open. He galloped on till he arrived at Olney. I was in bed, and heard a most uncommon noise. It was caused by the clattering of tin patty¬ pans and a Dutch oven against the sides of the panniers. Much gingerbread was picked up in the street, and Mr. Lucy’s windows were broken all to pieces. If this had been all, it would_ have been a comedy, but we heard the next morning that the poor woman had broken her collar-bone, and is not able to make her gingerbread. J. R. S. C.

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CHATTERBOX 128 “The gingerbread seller and his wife were thrown into the road.

Page 137

RETURNING HOME.

Page 138

CHATTERBOX. 129 Ernest is met on his return by Tony and Mr. Versclioyle.

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130 CHATTERBOX. 1 t i TONY. {Continued from page 123.) chapter XVII. WELLEKS in Russia have to make the most of their brief, bright summer. All too soon the foliage is spoiled with frost, the daylight wanes early, and residence in the country is no longer pleasant. The Kolosovs returned, first to Moscow, then to St. Petersburg, and with the settlement into winter quar¬ ters began for Ernest one of the hardest experiences of his life. No artificial warmth, no wearing of thick clothes, could make the season other than terrible to an Englishman. When the cold was so intense that children were not allowed out at all, lest the keen air should kill them, and when people in the streets were daily being frost-bitten or frozen, it was difficult indeed to go on with one’s work, and keep well and cheerful. Ernest did his best, but he was truly thankful when the months of that long winter came to an end ; and, though he did not suffer in health, he endured much in other ways. Basil and Masha both well repaid their father’s kindness in procuring for them that expensive luxury, an English tutor. The Count himself complimented Ernest on the success with which his pupils had learned to speak English, and it was with regrets which were not simply a polite form, but were truly spoken from the heart, that Ernest said fare¬ well to the Count and Countess and their amiable children, and turned his face towards old England again. This time he made the journey alone, but he had now learned enough Russian to make himself under¬ stood by drivers and railway servants until he reached the German frontier, and there was no diffi¬ culty during the rest of his travelling. Feeling and looking much older than when, in a previous spring, he had taken his departure, Ernest got out of the train one evening, and found himself on the familiar Kelmston platform, with Tony ready to rusb^ into his arms, and Mr. Verschoyle waiting quietly in the background. Ernest would hardly have known Tony, he had grown and improved so much. The childishness of his face and figure had given place to such a thoroughly boy-like air, that Ernest thought with a sudden pain, T shall never have my little Tony again ! ’ There was danger for Ernest of TDeing talked almost to death on the night of his arrival. Though Tony claimed first place, as a brother’s right, he had soon to give way to Mr. Verschoyle and Mr. Terence ; and no sooner was the hero of the hour seated in the dining-room, and trying, amidst a babel of voices, to reply to Mrs. Verschoyle’s kind words of welcome, than Nora came flying in, with radiant face and hair in most admired disorder, to ask a hundred questions, and to look at Ernest as though some strange change had happened to him. ^It is too bad — you look quite, guite grown up now ! ’ she cried, heedless of her mother’s reproving ‘Nora! Nora! you really must not make such personal remarks.’ So Nora, too, had her regrets ; she was regretting the boy that Ernest could never be again. The Parry boys were no longer at Sunrise College; their father and step-mother were home from India, and had taken them away to pay a round of visits, never doubting that their three sons would be as welcome at the houses of long-suffering friends as they themselves were. Tony was in hi^h favour with Mr. Morton, who had taken Ernest’s old place, and with Michael Verschoyle, who had now something to do with his tuition. He had so many things to tell his brother, that he did not know where to begin; but one of the first pieces of news was conveyed in the words, ‘ Do you know, Ernest, that Keren has been here ? ’ ‘Yes,’ added Mr. Verschoyle. ‘Mr. Samson Grist called here, not so very long since, and he brought the little girl with him. He was looking ill and worried. I am afraid, Ernest, that his affairs are in a bad way.’ Later, Mr. Verschoyle told Ernest of many dis¬ quieting rumours concerning Samson Grist. Lawyer Feme, it appeared, had been arrested on a charge of using trust moneys, and had saved himself from the exposure by flying from his country, leaving the unfortunate friends who had stood as bail for him to take the consequences of his flight. Samson Grist was one of these, and Samson could ill afford just then to pay the heavy sum required. His affairs, too, were much mixed up with the lawyer’s ; and more than one shady transaction stood to their joint credit, or rather <fe5-credit. ‘Everything is going wrong with him,’ concluded Mr. Verschoyle. ‘ I should not be surprised to hear of his failure any day. He wanted very much to see you, Ernest ; but, of course, I had to tell him that you were in Russia, and that the time of your return was uncertain. Perhaps you ought to run down to Clearminster, as soon as you can.’ ‘ Yes, I must certainly do that, in order to see Mr. Bx-adley,’ said Ernest, ‘ and then I can call upon Uncle Samson as well.’ Although his former position had been filled up, there was plenty of work for Ernest in the College. Professor Benoit, who had often been troubled with fits of home-sickness, had returned to his native land. Mr. Verschoyle thought Ernest now fully competent to succeed the Professor, as teacher of the French language, at Sunrise, and suggested that he might very well step into Monsieur Benoit’s other engage¬ ments in Kelmston and the neighbourhood. A German course, for the College boys, was also arranged, and Ernest was to share the work with Herr Hoffman, as far as the juniors were concerned. It was delightful to be in England once more. A fortnight of happiness and bright weather flew rapidly by before Ernest was able to carry out his intention of going to Clearminster. Just as he was

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CHATTERBOX. 131 on the eve of starting, a letter from Samson Grist was put into his hand. * If you are at Kelmston now, pray come over here and see me ^ — the words were scrawled feebly. * I am very ill, and have too much on my mind; there is little chance of getting better until I have seen you.’ Shocked at the writing, so different from Samson’s usual firm and upright penmanship, Ernest made haste to depart. When he reached Olearminster, his first call was at Mr. Bradley’s, as he did not wish to carry about with him longer the sum of money which he had brought. Reports of Tony’s progress, and of Ernest’s own doings, were heartily received by the Institute master, who could haive no greater pleasure than to know that his efforts to be of service had not been in vain. But when Ernest began to speak of repay¬ ment, he was met with an opposition so decided, that he had not much chance of overcoming it. 'My dear fellow,’ Mr. Bradley exclaimed, 'you have gone to a world of needless trouble. Is it possible that you have made an exile of yourself, and have put up with the discomforts of a Russian winter, simply in order to pay this debt to me .P Your conduct does you infinite credit, Ernest; but, believe me, there was no need of the sacrihce, and I shall not accept it.’ ' Indeed, sir, you must not refuse me,’ urged Ernest. ' My chief object in going to Count Kolosov’s was that I might one day be able to come to you, as I do now, and bring back what you so generously advanced. You must take it, please — for Tony’s sake, and for mine.’ The argument was a long one, and it ended in a compromise with which Ernest was obliged to be satisfied. ‘ Look here,’ said Mr. Bradley at last, ' you shall leave the sura with me, since you are so very deter¬ mined, and 1 shall do what I like with it. But I give you fair warning that the money will be in¬ vested for Tony’s benefit ; and I do not see how you, as his nearest friend, can quarrel with the arrange¬ ment. There, we have done with the business ; and now, if you have leisure, you can give me a full account of your Russian experiences.’ But Ernest had to excuse himself, on the ground that it was necessary to see Samson Grist at once ; and the master’s face grew grave as he listened. ‘Poor Grist! he has been aluiost at death’s door, I hear ; and the tougues of the gossips are wagging pretty freely about him and his doings. Go and see him, by all means ; he is in such a tight place, that even his worst enemy might be glad to do him a kind¬ ness.’ Ernest did not feel at all like an enemy. As he trod the familiar way from Mr. Bradley’s room to the Sheep- market, his thoughts of Samson were friendly, for time had softened the sense of injury which had once been so keen on Tony’s account. Jordan was behind the counter, looking much older than in the past days. He was surprised and glad to see Ernest ; but he had to tell him at once that his Uncle Samson was not upon the premises. ' He is at Crofton Road, sir ; has been there for three weeks now, for the sake of quietness. Between ourselves,’ here Jordan lowered his voice with the old caution, ^ he had to go, to get out of the sound of the missus’s tongue. Since things have been so un¬ fortunate, Mrs. Grist has been always at him ; but at last the doctor took the law into his own hands, and acked the master off. There is a good nurse with im now, and he mai/ pull through ; but it is “ touch and go,” I can tell you.’ {Concluded at page 142.) A OATS’ TEA PARTY. IN her beautifully illustrated book. Home and Garden^ Miss Jekyll gives an amusing account, with portraits, of the cats that live in her pleasant country home. They seem to be, from her description, rather remarkable cats, and very fond of their mistress. People generally, writes Miss Jekyll, do not understand how to manage cats, so they think the animals treacherous and ill-tempered. Kittens carefully and kindly brought up will become charming playmates and firm friends. Pinkieboy, we guess, was her chief favourite, a fine-sized cat, tabby and white. Tittlebat was one of lighter build, also a tabby, with a good deal of dark colour about him, and a coat which in some lights had a silvery hue. He had his name given him because he had a way of darting across a room suddenly, just as tittlebats do in a stream. Then there was two more called Pattie and Tabby, with some kittens beside. When Miss Jekyll had a little niece of nine years old stopping at her house, it occurred to her that the girl would be pleased if she gave a cats’ tea party. It was an amusement to write cards of invitation, stating that Miss Jekyll would be at home to her gue.sts on the day mentioned at four o’clock. After thinking it over, they decided that fish should be the leading article of fare, so some fresh herrings were sent for and boiled. The guests invited being four grown-up pussies and two kittens, the mistress got ready four large and two small saucers. First, a strip of fish was laid across each saucer, then over this another s^rip of rice pudding, thus making a cru^s ; into the four corner spaces cream was poured, and little bits of butter were put here and there on the fish and pudding. Quite a dainty dish for anybody, four or two-legged, indeed. In the middle of the room the mistress placed a low table, with four stools round it for the pussies, who were to sit on them, placing their fore-paws upon the table. The kittens, it was decided, must be excused from sitting on stools, so they were allowed to be in the middle of the table. When the hour came, great was the excitement. Ohloe and Brindle, the kittens, seemed quite comfortable, but one or two of the cats hesitated, as if they thought it was not good manners to put their paws upon the table-cloth. However, they all set to work as if quite used to tea parties. After they had finished, there was a general purr, and a washing of faces, as they quitted their seats to find cosy corners to sleep, and digest the delightful meal.

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132 CHATTERBOX. THE BUCKET. OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollections present them to view ; The orchard, the meadow, the deep 'tangled wild- wood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew. The wide- spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it ; The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-cover’d bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure. For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing. And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then, soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. WOBDS WORTH. BOYS OP THE LONDON STBEETS. THE CARRIER’S BOY. YX7HEN I was a < Chatterbox,’ I had a great VV ambition. It was to be a carrier’s boy. ‘Just imagine,’ said I, ‘ being able to ride on the back of a cart, with an arched canvas roof over you to keep the rain away, and a driver in front to make the horse gallop along, while you hang on to the strap behind, tossed from side to side on a tail-board like a sailor at sea. Could anything be more delightful? could anything be more exciting ?’ The carrier had been delivering a parcel at our house, and before the boy had time to clamber into the van again, the driver took up the reins and away went the horse. The little boy made a leap at the hanging strap, and, catching it in both hands, swung himseK on to the tail- board in a skilful way. From that moment my dreams were of a carrier’s van. But I am not a ‘chatterbox’ now; neither do I still have the old craving, for I know that the life of a van-boy is not all swinging and riding. I know that he works fifteen hours every day, and sometimes more, which does not leave him much time for play. Parcels to right of him ; parcels to left of him ; parcels behind him, and — I should think they must get into his dreams as well. His main duty is to remain in the van and see that none of these parcels get stolen. Like a king of the castle, he is supposed to stand among them, and keep a sharp eye on any

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CHATTERBOX. 133 The Carrier’s Boy. who approach the vehicle. Sometimes, in the busy streets of London, when the driver is engaged in handing over some heavy parcel to its rightful owner, there comes a command from the policeman on duty to * move that van.’ The small boy, who can easily walk upright under the horses’ heads, drops from the platform at the back, and proceeds to obey orders. Standing on tip-toe, he grips the straps attached to the horses’ bits, and, like an ant persuading a hippopotamus, he pulls and pushes, and pushes and pulls, until he gets the van out of the way. Some¬ times he gets the van on to the pavement, to the peril of the passer-by and the wrath of the police¬ man ; then, too, the poor carrier’s boy gets blame

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134 CHATTERBOX. from his master, the driver of the van. But such accidents are rare. As a rule, the carrier’s hoy shows that he has learned the lesson of the London streets very well, and is worthy of a great deal more than the six shillings which he is paid at the end of the week. Yet, when I have been walking through the gloomiest, narrowest, and most noisy thoroughfares of the city, the merriest whistle to reach the ear through the surrounding uproar has come from the lips of a carrier’s boy. John Lea. AUSTRALIAN INSECTS. MASON WASPS, ETC. I DARE say most of you will he surprised when I tell you that, in some cases, things are so reversed in Australia, that one kind of fly, instead of being killed hy spiders, absolutely turns the tables on the poor spiders, and kills and eats the7n in great numbers. The kind I refer to is a mason wasp ; she builds a beautiful house consisting of several rooms, one room for each of her children; she seems to be always on the look-out for a suitable site, for she uses every thing that has a small hollow — key-holes, cartridge-shells, gun-barrels, or the like. She is very pleased with the fold in a curtain, where she often builds a long, round house. The first thing she does when she fixes on a place is to line it, and, if both ends are open, to build a wall across one end. This she does with damp plaster made of clay and water, carried either in her mouth or between her front legs (it is impossible to see which), and often brought a long distance. When this is done, she begins to provide for her future family by catching a number of small green spiders (mostly about the size of a pea); these she stings so that they are in¬ sensible, but not dead. When she has enough for one child, she lays an egg, and then builds a wall ; this she does several times. One that we watched first filled one cartridge-shell, and then half filled another. While the mason wasp is building she makes a continual loud buzzing; her colour is black with fine yellow stripes ; sometimes her house is broken, and then, strange to say, the spiders revive. Another curious insect is the * Summer Bee.* She burrows a hole sideways in the ground like a rabbit, kicking the earth out with her hind legs; when she has the hole ready she cuts a round piece, about the size of a shilling, out of a rose or fruit- tree leaf, this she spreads at the end of her burrow. She packs in a number of caterpillars (or, in some cases, houseflies), lays an egg, then she gets another round of leaf and fastens, or rather seals, the two pieces of leaf together with wax; then she gets more leaf, and so on till her burrow is filled. I wonder what kind of leaf she got before roses and fruit-trees were brought to Australia, or, indeed, now at a distance from a garden, which are, of course, few and far between. In the bush, native leaves seem very unsuitable for the purpose, as they are so stiff. One wild bee makes a small hive in trees; the cells are built of clay and filled with honey ; the whole thing is about the size of a duck’s egg. There are several kinds of large hornets which are also masons. One is about an inch long and of the brightest yellow colour. She tills her cradles with large caterpillars. There are many other curious insects in Australia, but these are the most common. May Collins, ^^ictoria, BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW. A Legend of Old Engrland. IT was years and years ago — how long I can hardly* tell you — that a few poor monks arrived in England, at a time when men thought more of slaying than of praying. They wanted to serve God in that strange countiw, and to help their fellow-creatures if they could. These pious men had no other food than bread, and only a very scanty supply of that. As for money, they could give none away because they had none. But, after every frugal meal, one of the monks carefully collected all the crumbs that were left, and these were given to the birds out of love to God, Who cares even for the sparrows. There was no chapel in wliich these brethren could assemble ; so they offered their prayers and praises under the spreading boughs of the great forest trees. And every day they made it a rule to try to help some one — or some thing — poorer than themselves, for they were very much in earnest about serving Christ, Who even in His poverty was always seeking to do kindly deeds. They were not grieved because their life was so humble, and they felt quite sure that their prayers were just as ' acceptable to Heaven as if they had been offered in a splendid chapel ; nevertheless, they were sorry that they could not sing. Their voices were like themselves, old and feeble; so Brother Bartholomew, the eldest of all, decided that they would read the Psalms at the daily offices, and only chant the Magnificat at Vespers. Poor and weak though that song must sound, he trusted that listening angels would make up for the lack of melody, and so that it would be accepted by the Lord of Heaven. A sorry sort of music we should have said it was if we had heard it, for each monk sang in a different key, and lost his note and had to try again. Even the birds in the branches of the oak-trees overhead flew away, as if they were frightened. But, all the same, the holy men sang Magnificat to the end; and up in Heaven the angels hushed their own music to listen. This went on all through the golden warmth and brightness of summer. When autumn came, and the blast grew keen, and the leaves were scattered far and wide, the monks still sang, and, when winter frost and snow chilled their limbs, and their need and poverty grew worse, they still went out and sang their Magnificat, When Christmas Eve came. Brother Bartholomew was taken ill. Cold and starvation had broken him

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CHATTERBOX. 135 down ; he could not walk, and he had no cart in which to ride, but, on that night of all nights in the year, he could not bear to omit his offering of prayer and praise. So he begged his brethren, of their mercy and charity, to carry him on a hurdle to the ground under the trees when the hour for vespers came. They walked slowh*, for even the slight move¬ ment increased the poor old Brother’s pain ; crunching the snow with their bare feet, they reached the spot beneath the leafless oaks, and, setting down their burden, they began to read the appointed Psalms. What a forlorn picture we seem to see ! Brother Bartholomew’s old mantle so patched, so threadbare, that it hardly kept the frost out, and his poor lean hands folded in prayer. Round him, and no better clad, stood his brethren, hungry and weak. But up in Heaven, where hearts are known, the angels watched and wept for pity and for joy. The office went on as usual, and the monks were just about to chant their Magnificat, when a young stranger suddenly appeared in their midst, and begged most reverently to be allowed to sing with them. Permission was gladly given, and, as the stranger s voice rose clear and silvery sweet, the. monks, one by one, left off their poor, discordant efforts, so that he soon sang alone. ‘ Ah ! ’ thought they, in their humble hearts, ‘ upon this night of all the year, the angels have sent one to whose voice tlie King of Heaven will be sure to listen.’ The monks could not, of course, know that the stranger’s thoughts, as he sang, were all centred on himself, and, therefore, up in Heaven, the angels never heard a note ! No sooner had the service ended, than another stranger appeared ; this time it was an angel, flashing with radiance and glory. ^ Brother Bartholomew,' he said, ' the King has sent me to ask why, on a night so blessed as this, no Magnificat has been chanted.’ The simple monk was full of wonder. ^ Oh, my lord,’ he replied, ‘ the Magnificat has been sung, and we hoped that it might be acceptable to the King, for it never before sounded so sweetly.’ ‘ Brother Bartholomew,’ said the angel, in a tone of sadness, ^ we heard nothing of it in Heaven.’ The monks were confused; what could this mean? The unknown singer had disappeared, and there stood the radiant angel, weeping. Yes, weeping ! for he knew that the melodious voice was worthless, because he who had it was not emptied of self-glory. It is only the simple and humble offering of the heart which is acceptable to the King above. Then Brother Bartholomew raised himself pain¬ fully cm his hurdle, and began, in his cracked and trembling voice, to sing. And the other monks joined, and so the usual tuneless chanting of the Magnificat sounded on the freezing air. The angel had ceased to weep ; he stood there until all was ended, and then he made a sign to Brother Bartholomew to follow him. What could it mean ? Where was the old monk to follow, and how ? for he was so ill and so weak that he could not walk a yard. Seeing this, the angel drew near, and, with a smile. he lightly touched his lips, and took him by the hand. It was the touch of Immortality ! All that was weak and painful fell off from the poor old monk, as though it had been a loose gar¬ ment, and love, stronger than death, fllled his being. In a moment all the past was forgotten, for eternity had dawned, and, hand in hand, the angel and Brother Bartholomew passed upwards and up¬ wards to the gate of Heaven, which opened to let them in. So, with sounds of throbbing music, and through bands of angels, they went straight to the footstool of the King, while a myriad voices shouted, ‘ He hath exalted the humble and meek.’ Though, on earth. Brother Bartholomew was seen no more, the monks continued just the same life of poverty and prayer. But, in time, they won the hearts of many, and help came, so that they were able to build a chapel ; and gradually, a stately abbey rose upon the very spot where, beneath the leafless oak-trees, the good old monk had sung his last earthly Magnificat. M. C. S. MACEDONIAlSr BRIGANDS. ACEDONIA was one of the most ancient kingdoms of south - eastern Europe. It lies north of Greece, and forms a division of Turkey in Europe. The population is partly Greek and partly Turkish, not a mixture which makes a good cha¬ racter. The district is infested by brigands, who make their living by robbing any travellers who pass through the country without sufficient protection. The word brigand comes from an old term ^ bringand,’ which meant an armed man ; later on it has come to mean one who makes exactions. This is just what the brigand does. When he captures some unwary traveller, he only releases him after exacting a heavy penalty from his friends. This is called a ransom, and often amounts to thousands of pounds. It is paid by the friends or relations of the prisoner, or by the Government of his country. On many occasions, when the price has proved too heavy to be raised within a given period, the victims have been very badly treated, and have even been put to death. The reason why the Macedonian brigands baffle the pursuit of the soldiers and police is that they roam about on the frontier of Bulgaria and Turkey and so escape, as the police of one country cannot follow them into another. These outlaws do not ill-use the natives, so that the villagers are not anxious to betray them ; indeed, it is to their advantage to befriend the brigands, as, if they were to betray them, they would bring vengeance on I themselves and their families. Thus it comes that I the brigands escape the forces sent in pursuit of j them and continue their ill deeds year after year. Marguerite Ninet.

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136 CHATTERBOX. Macedonian Brigands.

Page 146

Page 147

138 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. I. the time of the disastrous war between England and France, when Napoleon kept Europe restless and uncer¬ tain as to what his next great move would be, the bold seaman who could evade the notice of his own country’s revenue cruisers, and also escape the ships of the enemy in their prowlings about the Channel, was like to have a splendid return for his enterprise in bringing cognac, lace, and other articles on which duty to the king was payable, from France into England. And of these men — mostly fine seamen, and otherwise well-conducted, decent fellows — Tom Brennan, who owned the fifteen- ton cutter, JPeggy Barthropp, was one of the best and bravest. Tom was in love with another Peggy besides the cutter, a fair-haired, winsome lass, who had refused to have anything to say to him until Tom had given up what she called his ‘bad ways’ — that is, his smuggling practices— and Tom had promised her that he would, as soon as he could find a way of making another living in a manner more pleasing to Peggy ; for, like many another of the old-fashioned seamen, Tom himself could see no great harm in landing a French cargo without payment of the customs dues. So Tom Brennan was making arrangements to give up the lucrative though risky business of running a cargo on every available dark night, and take to the more honest, but less paying, game of hauling a trawl net. The cargo he was running on this particular night of which our story tells was to be one of the last. For a man of only eight-and-twenty, Tom had made a good bit of money ; and the thought of settling down in comfort with pretty Peggy brought him consoling thoughts, even when he was most inclined to regret his decision. Between Beachy Head and Seaford, and about two miles over the downs, from the latter place, the Ouckmere river runs into the sea, and the land curves round in a small bay — it was towards this point that Brennan, the tiller held lightly in his hand, was steering the Peggy Barthropp. The night was almost too well lighted up by the stars for the smuggler’s purpose I still, he and his crew of two hands expected no particular trouble. There was no coast-guard station then, in those days — all they had to do was to unload their ankers of brandy on the shore, after beaching their boat, give them over to three or four stalwart fellows who would be waiting there to convey the stuff inland, shove off again, and get clear. The wind was light, and coming off the shore, so it was some time before the Peggy Barthropp succeeded in beating in. ‘Never mind,’ thought Tom to himself cheerily, ^ so much the easier for us to get her off again when we have landed our cargo.’ At length the water began to get more and more shallow beneath the little craft ; a lantern had been waved thrice from the shore as a signal that all was quiet there, when Joshua Wilks, Tom’s best man, suddenly put his hand on his master’s arm, and in a low voice whispered : ‘ Hush ! look, what is that ? ’ Tom looked sharply astern of him ; there, less than a mile from the shore, and evidently following them, was — practised seamen could make no mistake about such a thing — a Revenue cutter. ‘ Ready about !’ cried Tom, grasping the situation in an instant. Round came the little craft like a top ; another few yards and they had been aground, and all chance of escape, seaward, at all events, cut off. The light at the same moment disappeared from the beach altogether, the shore party had also evidently seen the Government boat, and promptly taken to their heels. The off-shore breeze was now all in Tom’s favour ; he loosened out his sheets, and the Peggy slipped silently and swiftly along, keeping as far to star¬ board as possible of the Revenue ship ; but those on board the latter had as sharp eyes as the smugglers, and at once started in pursuit. There could be but one result to a straightaway chase like this. The big boat was bound to beat the little one. Tom had been impelled to take this course by a natural desire to save his craft ; other¬ wise, by running her ashore and abandoning ship and cargo, he might easily have saved himself and his crew. Now, too late, he saw that, but for some miracle, they must all fall into the hands of the Government men. Nearer and nearer drew on the Revenue boat, until a hail came, commanding them to bring to ; resistance would have been hopeless, and they lowered their mainsail without more delay. The two boats ran alongside each other, and Tom stepped aboard the cruiser. The lieutenant in command surveyed him by the light of a ship’s lantern, not unkindly. ‘ You are a fine strapping seaman, my lad ; pity you are not at a more respectable game than cheating the king — pity that, now England needs seamen so badly, that men of your kidney should have to rot in her* jails, instead of serving on board her ships.’ * I am fairly caught, your honour,’ answered Tom, frankly; ‘ there is my cargo,’ waving his hand in the direction of the Peggy Barthropp^ ‘ that tells the whole story against me. If you will give me my choice between the King’s ship and the King’s prison — why, as a sensible man, I know which I should choose. But, if not — well, I and my two mates there must take the prison, that is all.’ The officer nodded, and a smile flickered round the corners of his mouth for a moment. He laid his hand on Brennan’s arm, and took him aside. ‘Sign on,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and I will manage the rest. But your boat and cargo are confiscated, my lad — that cannot be helped. But I would strain a point at any time to save a good seaman from chokee, and to gain him for His Majesty’s Service.’

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CI-IATTERBOX. 139 And that night’s work, bad as it seemed, at the time to Tom Brennan, was a blessing in disguise. It proved the turning point of his whole career, for, three years later, he came home from active service as boatswain of the JEurydice, a fine ‘ seventy-four.’ He was high in the esteem of otticers and messmates, an honest man again, and free to marry — as he promptly did — his pretty Peggy, who had patiently waited for him all that anxious time. F. K. 13. — Anagrams from the Titles of Sir Walter Scott’s Novels. 1. Gentle Truda. 2. A thistle, man. 3. The debt to her. 4. My gun, in anger. 5. Both beat. 6. At the pier. [A nswers 7. P. took cows. 8. Every law. 9. Gold causes a rent. 10. Ho ! a vine. 11. They stream on. 12. Quit thy arena. C. C. at 'page 158.] A SICK AND SAGE HORSE. The Age newspaper, published in Melbourne, Australia, tells a strange story of a horse. About eleven o’clock one Saturday night, a horse, which was sick unto death, passed through the entrance gates of the Alfred Hospital, and^ went up to the front door. There it whinnied as if to call attention to the fact that it needed a doctor. An attendant, hearing the strange sound, was quickly on the spot. The poor horse, on seeing him, gave a whine, but was not able to explain what was the matter. The attendant did not suspect that the horse was a patient, and hurried him out of the grounds. On reaching the roadway the poor horse dropped down and died. We have heard of cases of dogs presenting them¬ selves for treatment at a hospital, but we have never •given the horse credit for such a wise instinct. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 12. — Word Puzzles. Change words into others by the addition of a letter. (a.)— 1. Change an instrument of punishment into a public way for travelling. 2. Change actual into a kingdom. 3. Change a chamber into a domestic utensil. 4. Change harsh into the contrary. ' 5. Change a gleam of light into a sound made by an animal. 6. Change a garden tool into a savoury bird. 7. Change a lastening into a time-piece. 8. Change a violent stroke into a joint in the human body. 9. Change a small piece of meat into a fixed point of time. 10. Change to inquire into an island. (b.) — 1. Change a colouring matter into a lament. 2. Change a story into kept too long. 3. Change a poet into necessary food. 4. Change an ancient weapon of warfare into a part of the face. 5. Change a troublesome malady into to dispute. 6. Change a place which all should strive to make happy into a Greek poet. 7. Change the vapour of water into flowing water. 8. Change an industrious insect into a much-used liquid. 9. Change a shape into a Eoraan law-court. 10. Change value into a royal person. C. C. -A- S "W E IS, S . 10. — 1. Alexander. 4. Handel. 2. Kicbard. 5. Ulysses. 3. Terrel (Walter). 6. Keynolds (Sir Joshua). 11. — (a.) All’s well that ends well. (b.) a little pot is soon hot. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. CHARLES O’MALLEY. * ARLES O’MALLEY^ when a child of four, w^as left an orphan to the care of his worthy uncle, Godfrey O’Malley. His father had died deeply in debt, leaving as his only legacy his orphan child, and entreating his brother to care for him. Uncle Godfrey was a widower, and he determined to bring up his nephew as he might have done his own son, if he had had one, as the heir to his estates. From his earliest years our hero was taught to ride boldly with foxhounds ; he was the best shot within twenty miles; he could swim the Shannon at Holy Island ; drive a four-in-hand as well as the best coachman. The parish priest, who acted as his tutor, taught him a little French, a little Latin, a little geometry, and a great deal of the life and opinions of St. Jago, who presided over a holy well in the neighbourhood, and was held in great repute. On arriving at seventeen^ years of age, Charles also arrived at six feet in height ; was active, strong, and good-looking. The story opens on the eve of a general election, and almost the first work in which we find Charles engaged is connected with it. He is sent by his uncle to try and bring about a reconciliation between a distant relative, a Mr. Blake, and himself, and to secure, if possible, his interest in returning Godfrey O'Malley to Parliament. At the house of Mr. Blake our hero meets a beautiful young lady, Miss Lucy Dashwood, the daughter of Sir George Dashwood, a handsome man of about fifty years of age and a General in the * Charles O'Malley, by Charles Lever, is now published in cheap edition {Qd.) by Ward, Lock, & Co., Ltd., London.

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140 CHATTERBOX. army. He was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Captain Hammersley. We see our hero, shortly after his arrival at Mr. Blake’s, riding to hunt with a party from the house, and determined, cost him what it might, to outdo the feats, as a huntsman, of Captain Hammersley, for whom he had already conceived a dislike. The hunt was a spirited affair, both the horses of Captain Hammersley and our hero performing astonishing feats, urged on by their masters, who allowed no obstacle to stand in their path, but gloried in defying them all. Both riders were disabled, the Captain with a broken arm, while his horse, an English mare, broke her shoulder- bone and both legs in trying to clear a ditch, so that she had to be shot. The hunt, we might have said, took place in West Galway, Mr. Blake being a Galway squire, possessed of a large property. ^ Not content with this adventure, our hero, during his short stay, managed to pick a quarrel with one Miles Bodkin, who was opposed to Mr. Godfrey O’Malley in the election. Nothing but a duel, it was decided, could suffice to wipe out insults on either side. Bodkin was a noted duellist, but Charley had never fought a duel in his life. Describing the affair afterwards, Charley wrote : ‘ My eye glanced towards my opponent, I raised my pistol and fired. My hat turned half round upon my head, and Bodkin fell motionless to the earth. I saw the people around me rush forward; I caught two or three glances thrown at me with an expression of revengeful passion; I felt some one grasp me round the waist, and hurry me from the spot, and it was at least ten minutes after, as we were skimming the surface of the broad Shannon, that I could collect my scattered faculties so far as to remember all that was pass¬ ing, as my friend and second, Considine by name, pointing to the two bullet-holes in my hat, remarked, ‘‘Sharp practice, Charley; it was the over-charge saved you.” “‘Is he killed.? ’a asked. ‘ “ Not quite, 1 believe, but as good ; you took him just above the hip.” ’ As the friends neared land, they saw that a crowd of people had collected, who were signalling to the people on the opposite side of the river that Bodkin was killed. There arose at the signal a long, low wail, and the Irish death-cry filled the air, as though imploring the vengeance of Heaven. Things were growing very unsafe for our hero, and if he was to escape with his life not a moment must be wasted, for already the angry foe was after him, by boat. The only chance of escape for Charley and his friend lay in steering the boat through a narrow and dangerous channel, which left but a very slender hope. Yet even- this was seized on by Considine, who well knew that should Charley fall into tlie hands of his enraged pursuers, they would kill him. ‘Safe my boy, at last,’ cried Considine, as he clapped him on the shoulder, and steered the boat forth from its narrow path of danger, and once more reached the broad Shannon ; ‘ safe, Charley, though we have had a brush for it.’ In a minute more the land was reached, the little craft was drawn on shore, and the friends set out for O’Malley Castle, some four miles away. They were escorted in safety by a hundred or more of their own fellows, who, having been warned of the danger they were in, had set out to the rescue. Having seen our hero into safety, we must now follow him to Trinity College, Dublin. His uncle decided to send him to College, as he had meant him to be a lawyer, although Charley, and his friends for him, wished for a military life. Arriving at Trinity, he took up residence, by the recommendation of Dr. Mooney, a College Fellow, with as harum-scarum a collegian as any one could expect to find in a day’s march — a certain Mr. Frank Webber, a clever young fellow, but idle and reckless. Webber preferred wasting his time in entertaining others like himself to studying, so that, although he had been three years^ in the College, he had failed in every examination. An amusing scene occurs when Charley receives an invitation to a party, given by no less a person than Sir George Dash wood. Since the day of the election, he had not seen the beautiful Miss Dashwood, with whom he was very much in love. Webber had been told by a mutual friend named Power, that General Dashwood’s late wife had had an eccentric maiden sister who took it into her head to write to him about twenty times a year, giving him all the news from Mayo. This lady’s name was Judy Macan, and it was a constant effort of the General to keep his eccentric relative at a distance. He would sooner have incurred any known trouble than meet Miss Macan face to face. An idea, as mischievous as any he had conceived, entered Webber’s head. He invited his friends to wager him that, though he was not asked to the dance, he would appear there, receive particular attention from Sir Dashwood, and salute Lucy Dashwood, without being expelled from the house. The wager was taken up. The guests were assembled in the General’s house, when a letter was delivered to Sir George informing him that his eccentric sister-in-law, whom he so dreaded, was actually on her way to town to see him. Had a bomb-shell burst in the drawing-room, the occurrence could scarcely have alarmed Sir Dashwood more than did the announcement of the promised visit. Scarcely had the letter arrived and its contents been read, when the door was flung open and Miss Macan herself was announced, a tall elderly lady dressed in an antique brocade silk, with enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered and turned back, in the fashion of fifty years before, while her high pointed and heeled shoes completed a costume which had not been seen for nearly a century. Before her face she held a fan about the size of a modern tea-tray, and at each repetition of her name by the servant, she curtseyed deeply, looking curiously at the crowd the while. Of course Sir George felt himself obliged to ad¬ vance to meet her and bid her welcome to Dublin. The lady threw her arms round his neck, kissed him heartily, and then in a loud voice asked, ‘ Where is Lucy, brother ? Let me embrace my little darling;’ exclaiming, ‘ There she is, I am sure ; kiss me, honey.’ This request Miss Dashwood complied with, leading her aunt to the sofa and seating herself beside her, and engaging in conversation.

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The only chance of escape lay in steering through a narrow and dangerous channel. Power, making his way towards Miss Dashwood, obtained from her a formal introduction to Miss Macan. * I hope you will do me the favour to dance the next set with me ? ’ he said. The offer was declined unless an Irish jig would please ! Sir George, seeing that his relative was offended by the suggestion that she should waltz, led her away and tried to pacify her. She astonished her host by singing a comic song, ladies seldom venturing this style, and in other remarkable ways distinguished herself. Just before her carriage arrived she borrowed Power’s pocket-book to write down her name and address, having invited him to see her, and then, amid the farewells of her relatives.

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14-2 CHATTERBOX. she drove away. Directly she was gone the pocket- book was opened, and its surprised owner read aloud the signature of the mischievous Frank Webber, who, of course, had carried out his intention, and did not forget to remind his friends of it. The book abounds in fun and adventure, and is a good example of the literature that amused our grandfathers and grandmothers. There is nothing like it in the books of to-day. James Cassidy. TONY. {Concluded from page 131.) CHAPTER XVIII. R N E S T had never been in the house at Crofton Hoad, where his grandfather had met with the accident which caused his death, and where some portion of Mr. Samson’s family had resided since ; but he re¬ membered it well — the white front, the bay windows, and the prim lawn, with a dia¬ mond-shaped flower-bed in the centre, and four stunted shrubs planted at right angles. Andrew and Timothy Grist usually made this place their home ; their aunt kept house there, and other members of the Grist circle came when they were in need of change, or when the Sheep-market dwelling became over-crowded. An invalid, and one so seriously ill as was Mr. Samson, made a great deal of difference to the Crofton Road household. It was not one of the least of Samson’s troubles that his sons, as they grew older, were not doing well, and that there was constant friction between them and their aunt. Now that their father was ill they were careless and inattentive, staying in the town till a late hour, and leaving the sick man to listen with anxious feelings for the sound of their latch¬ keys in the door; and to wonder, with a sinking heart, in what doubtful company they had passed the time till the midnight chimes were ringing. Mrs. Samson’s sister, a lady who, while she was industrious and managing, and had other excellent qualities, could never get on well with the people with whom she had to live, was at feud just now with Samson’s nurse, and the bickerings of his atten¬ dants were another cause of disquiet to the poor patient, whose only gleams of brightness were the times when Keren came to see him. Sleep had well-nigh deserted the unhappy Samson, whose mind was too fuW of care for sleep to come ; but he was dozing lightly when Ernest arrived, and as the sound of the knocker brought him back to consciousness, he groaned in spirit, ‘ If I could have but slept on,’ he muttered ; ‘ but there is never any peace for me.’ When, however, his room door was opened, and Ernest was shown in, a feeling of relief came over Samson, and showed itself in his haggard face. As Ernest stood by the bed, looking down upon his uncle, he keenly felt the contrast between his own vigorous health and Samson’s shattered con¬ dition. Anything that he could say or do to help and comfort must be said or done now, for, whatever Samson’s sins had been, he was now suffering much for them. * Sit down, lad, I want to talk to you — and come as near as you can. There is nothing catching the matter with me, you know. People cannot catch worry, and that is what is killing me, though the doctor does give my complaint a learned name. But, unless you listen pretty closely, you will not hear what I say.’ It was true, the once strong man’s voice had sunk to a whisper, his face was drawn with pain, and he was thin and white. Ernest drew a chair to the bedside, and took the worn fingers in his own. ‘ I am very sorry to see you like this, uncle,’ he said, with genuine feeling in his tones. ‘ You see me a ruined man, Ernest,’ declared Mr. Samson. * That rascal Feme has drawn me into all sorts of speculations which I should never have entered upon without him. I thought I was too sharp ever to be taken in by any one, but he with his smooth tongue and his professions of friendship has been too many for me. It is not only the matter of the bail, of which I dare say you have heard, but there are hundreds — yes, thousands — that I shall have to pay to get clear "of the mess into which he has brought me.’ ‘But you have the business. Uncle Samson, and the house-property,’ urged Ernest. ‘ Matters are surely not so very bad yet.’ ‘ They are,’ returned Samson, gloomily. ‘ The business has gone down : it is nothing, compared with what it was in your grandfather’s days ; and the houses are mortgaged up to the hilt. All the money that I got for my London concern has gone too. I have neither time nor strength to explain it all to you now, but you may take my word for it that I have lost nearly everything.' * I am very sorry,’ repeated Ernest. He felt how hard this must be for Samson, who thought so much of money, though, in Samson’s place, he would have remembered that wdfe, and children, and friends were still spared to him. It seemed as though the sick man read his thoughts, for he said, as if in reply, ^ My wife blames me ; she is always casting up to me that I trusted Feme too much. If I did, I acted for what I thought was best, and any one else would have trusted him in my place. The children are all against me, all but little Keren, who is too young to understand. They side with their mother, and do not even trouble to come to see me. It puts me in mind of what one always hears, about rats leaving a sinking ship.’ He turned wearily upon the pillow, and looked at Ernest with hollow, troubled eyes. The nurse came in from an adjoining room. ‘ Are you not talking too much, sir ? ’ she said. ‘ You will tire yourself out.’ ‘ No, no,’ said Samson. ^ Leave us alone, will you, nurse. I have not said half yet that I want to say. Shut the door, my good woman,’ he added, as she

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CriATTKRBOX. 143 went out. ‘ Mr. Hanson will call you if anything is wanted.’ ‘ You may know, Ernest,’ he went on, as soon as the door was closed, ^ that I did not send for 5^ou just to talk about my own troubles. There is something 1 must tell you, while I have strength, something which concerns you and Tony. There has been wrong done you, and, though I cannot right it, I must tell you of it.’ ^ Uncle Samson, shall we not let bygones be bygones? Tony and I are well and happy now; there is no need to rake up painful memories.’ Ernest made this speech in good faith, and with the best intentions, but if he had been older and more experienced, he would have known that the truest kindness was to let the sufferer tell his tale; and this, though with faltering voice and evident difficulty, Samson proceeded to do. ^ You remember when you and Tony went to Scandrett’s, before your grandfather died ? Yes — well, it was just then that the old man made the final arrangements about the deed of gift. The deed, as you have been told, made over the bulk of the property to me ; and after that, if he had lived, he meant to make a will disposing of what little remained. But, mark me, Ernest, the property which he dealt with in the deed of gift was not his to give, it was yours, yours and Tony’s — for it had belonged to your mother, and had come to her through her own mother’s relatives.’ ‘ But why,’ asked Ernest in perplexity, ^ should my grandfather have acted such a part ? He could not wish to deprive us of our own ? ’ ^ Your grandfather,’ said Samson, Moved the Grists, and hat^d the Hansons. He never liked your father, nor you, nor your brother ; I am sure your memory will bear me out when I say so. Your father was too much of a gentleman for him, and you two boys, especially you, Ernest, took after your father in everything. The old man was determined to keep your mother’s money on his own side of the family, and he took this way of carrying out his end. The deed was an easier and surer way of securing his purpose than a will would have been ; he was careful to manage things so that no questions were asked.’ Ernest was silent ; Samson must have known all this when the deed was drawn, and yet he had taken the gift. In the face of such doings what could any honourable person find to say ? ^ Feme helped us,’ continued Samson, watching Ernest’s face eagerly. ‘ Without Feme we could never have carried the thing through. But it has done me no good, Ernest ; since I took advantage of your grandfather’s dislike, and did you out of your inheritance, nothing has prospered with me or mine. All that I have had has slipped through my fingers ; and 3^ou see me to-day a poor as well as a most unhappy man. I was bad enough to defraud you, but I am not bad enough, as some men are, to keep on afterwards without a conscience, and make a good thing out of the profits of the wrong. Some¬ thing within me has obliged me to tell you, Ernest, and perhaps now I shall get relief from the remorse which has lately tormented me.’ It was at least a sign of grace in Samson Grist that he had made his confession. Upon the arrest of Feme he had felt certain that his own fraud, as well as the lawyer’s ill-doings, must come to light. But Ferae had absconded, and had not been traced, so that Samson’s wrong might still have been hidden, if some inward power had not moved him to tell the whole. ‘ Uncle Samson,’ said Ernest gently, my grand¬ father is dead, and you are very ill ; it is impossible for me to feel any anger now. Tony and I have never been really hurt by anything that you have done. We have found friends ; we have had every¬ thing that we have needed ; and as for the money, though I do not quite agree with the saying He that steals my purse steals trash,” yet there are so^ many better things than money that I am not going to grieve about it. Let us shake hands and be friends, and think no more of that which cannot be undone.’ ‘ That is the worst of it,’ sighed Samson, ‘ that it cannot be undone. If I could refund it, Ernest, the thing would not be so black ; but I never can. ^ If my illness should be prolonged, or if anything should happen to me, I do not know how my wife and the girls would live. What is saved out of this wreck ought to be for them, and yet, if you choose, you can claim it all.’ ^ But I shall never claim anything,’ said Ernest. ^ Try to get well, uncle, and do the best you can for your family. Tony and I will get on, never fear. You need not reproach yourself any more on our account.’ ITe saw that Samson was tired out, and he thought it best to leave ; but it was a comfort, at the close of what was of necessity a painful interview, to see a look of peace settling down upon the sick man’s face, and to know that he would have an easier mind that night. The disclosure which Samson Grist had made was never used against him. Ernest, in the most general terms, told Mr. Verschoyle and Mr. Bradley something of what had passed, but only under the seal of secrecy, and on condition that they should take no steps against Samson. The latter lay long in his weak and suffering state, and, though he at last recovered, he was never again the man he had been. His business, brought within very small limits by his losses, was just enough to support his wife and daughters ; but Andrew and Timothy cut themselves adrift and went, each to fight for himself, to London, as their father had done before them. Mrs. Samson never let her husband hear the last of his imprudence in trusting to the lawyer, and Jemima and Keziah were still of their mother’s mind. Only Keren had no eyes for her father’s faults, and loved him just the same. When next the Verschoyles took their summer vacation Ernest and Tony went with them to the sea. Ernest was as good as ever at all the sports of boyhood, but the ups and downs of his life had made him more serious than many young men are. He had begged Mrs. Verschoyle to invite Keren Grist to join the party ; but he liked sometimes to leave the children to their own devices, and to sit with the elders, watching their games from a little distance off.

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I am very sorry to see you like this, uncle.” Nora, Keren, and Tony were a very merry trio, and throwing himself down by Ernest’s side. Tony being entirely changed since the time when, a ' < Ernest, I know now what it is to be perfectly pale and weary little boy, he had spent so many happy.’ lonely hours in the sitting-room over the shop in the Ernest laughed, but to himself he said, ^ Ah, well ! Sheep-market at Olearminster. if the one I love best on earth is perfectly happy, I ‘ Is it not splendid ?’ he cried, one evening, running think I must own that I am happy too.’ back, all heated and rosy, from chasing the waves, C. J. Blake.

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146 CHATTERBOX. CONTRABAND OP WAR. COTsTRABAND is merely another word for smugp^ling. It consists in passing over military lines, or frontiers of countries engaged in warfare, such articles as are most needed by the fighting forces. We have heard a good deal about con¬ traband during the South African War, especially with regard to vessels from various countries trying to land stores and arms at Lorenzo Marques, which was a neutral sea-port. In the interior of Africa, and other parts to which railroad contractors have not yet penetrated, con¬ traband is carried on by Arabs, who travel about in caravans. Under the pretence of doing harmless trade, they convey rifles, powder, or stores to tribes at war with each other. Their camels are long- suffering, patient, untiringv beasts of burden ; they can travel far longer distances than the horse or mule, and are easier to feed. The Arab still carries on the slave-trade in many districts ; he knows all the best routes over which to lead his little caravan, and, under false pretexts, he often succeeds in hand¬ ing over to those who need them all kinds of articles for carrying on their fighting. Heavy prices, often three and four times the value of the article, are paid for contraband goods. The Arab, eager to make money, will risk many dangers to make this profit without troubling his conscience as to the honesty of his doings. Marguehite Ninet. THE BISHOP AND THE PISH. A Legend. At Worcester Bishop Ecgwyn once So bold and fearless spake, His rebel hearers, furious. His ruin sought to make. Off to the Pope they quickly sped. False witness there to bear. And all the crimes he warned them of. They against him declare. The Pope then summoned him to Rome, And in this woeful plight, H is legs in iron shackles claspt ; It was a dreary sight. But Ecgwyn locked the fetters on. In Avon flung the key (Where stately Evesham Abbey was In future years to be). Good Ecgwyn, when he entered Rome, The bells began to ring. All of themselves ! right merrily. As he had been the king. But as the Tiber bridge they crossed The brave old Bishop said : ^ I to St. Peter’s go to pray. But you may fish instead.’ A salmon soon a brother hooked. And loudly praised its size ; But when at length they opened it. Could they believe their eyes ? Preparing for the evening meal, Within the fish they found The very key which Ecgwyn had In distant Avon drowned. The Pope convinced, bid Ecgwyn quick Unlock his fetters then ; And home they trudged right cheerfully, And Ecgwyn preached again. A. A. D. W. THE LIME-BURNER OP THE ROCHE-PERCEE. From the French of Emile Souvestre. I. TIND the bay of Brest, at the foot of the promontory called the peninsula of Kelern, a tiny hamlet lies hidden in the luxuriant foliage. This is Roscanvel. The place has only about thirty houses, in the midst of which rises the church, shadowed by two great walnut-trees. Beneath one of these trees was a freshly made grave. At its head had just been placed a black-painted cross. On the turf beside it was kneeling a bare¬ headed man, and with him were two little children. It was the grave of the man’s wife and the children’s mother. For a long time Claude Morvan knelt in prayer. When, at length, he and his children rose from their knees, they silently took the road which leads to Kelern. The peasant’s heart was very sore, for he had loved his Catherine dearly, but his children were a great comfort to him. Pierre, the eldest, had almost reached his ninth year, and was a bright, capable little lad. Not only did he look after his sister Ren^e, who was two years younger than himself, but he also helped with the household duties, and took a part in his father’s labours. Across a barren hill passed the three, and were soon within sight of their cottage, which stood mid¬ way between Roscanvel and the citadel of Kelern. At sight of that now silent home, Claude sighed heavily, and drew the two children closer to him. They, henceforth, thought he, should be his comfort and hope. When they reached their cottage, they found a man seated upon the door-step. It was the landlord, M. Royer. He lived in a ruinous old manor-house, not far from the village, and was noted throughout the neighbourhood for his

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CHATTERBOX. 147 violence and avarice. On several occasions he had been summoned before the magistrates for harsh conduct towards those whom he employed. As Claude Morvan approached, he raised his hat, his little boy following his example. M. Royer did not return the salutation. He kept his hat upon his head, and remained seated. ^ So your wife is dead ? ’ he said, coarsely. ‘ Don’t you know that it is a bad job for you ? ’ ^ Certainly I ouff?it to know it, monsieur,’ returned Claude, sorrowfully. ‘ No one knew her worth so well as I did. ‘The worst of it is that on her account you have lost the good place you had at M. Lenoir’s. How could you be so foolish as to leave your work there for eight days ? ’ ‘ I was obliged to do so, in order to nurse Catherine.’ ‘ Nonsense ! you could have left her with the children. You knew that her case was hopeless. See what trouble your foolishness has got you into. She is dead — and had better have died eight days earlier. M. Lenoir could not wait so long, and has engaged a man from Brest to take your place in the brick-baking. Now, pray, where are you going to get work ? ’ ‘ I shall seek it everywhere,’ replied Morvan. ‘ And find it nowhere,’ retorted" the other. ‘ Is it not the dead season ? All the same, remember that you owe me three months’ rent.’ ‘ I have-not forgotten, monsieur,’ said Claude, ‘ and I will pay you.’ ‘ How, I should like to know ? With the pig you sold to purchase medicine for your wife, or for the furniture which you disposed of, in order to give her a funeral and a cross ? As if a hole in the church¬ yard, and a pauper’s burial were not good enough for her ! ’ ‘ Monsieur,' pleaded Morvan, ‘ it was the last thing I could do for her. Her whole life was spent for us. Was it not right, then, that we should show some respect for her poor body ? The cross will mark for us the spot where it lies, so that we may sometimes kneel beside it in prayer.’ Royer, with a shrug of his shoulders, growled : * And the end of it is that you are ruined, and unable to pay me. Is it not so ? ’ ‘ It is true that I cannot pay you just at present,’ faltered the poor man ‘Then you must seek another lodging,' said the landlord. ‘ I have found a better tenant than you — one who offers me two crowns more than you have been paying. So you must be off to-morrow ! ’ Although this summary dismissal was quite un¬ expected by Claude, he accepted it with patient good temper. ‘ Certainly ! ’ said he. ‘ Since you can get a better price, I should be sorry for you to miss the chance. My cousin at Dinan will give us shelter, I hope ; I and the children will go to-morrow.’ ‘ Stop a bit,’ said Royer, rising. ‘ If once you got away, what chance should I have of recovering my money ? No ! no ! we will settle accounts first.’ ‘But, as I told monsieur, I have no money just at present,’ stammered Claude. ‘ True,’ replied the other ; ‘ but you have children. ! Let me have the pair of them, to look after my cattle, and I will acquit you of your debt.’ Pierre and h’en^e pricked up their ears. ‘It would be a tine thing for you,’ continued M. Royer. ‘ You would be well rid of the two brats, and I would teach them to work.’ The children clung to their father in terror. ‘ I do not wish to go with him ! ’ cried little Ren^e. ‘ And I won’t go ! ’ put in Pierre, stoutly. ‘ What is that you say ? ’ exclaimed Royer, seizing the boy roughly by the ear. ‘ You won’t come to the manor? Well, Mr. Impudence, if you do not come of your own accord, I will take you.’ ‘ Pardon me, monsieur,’ interrupted Claude, ^ but I do not wish to part with the children. They are used to being at home, and would be miserable elsewhere.’ M. Royer’s face became very red. ‘ Upon my word,’ said he. ‘ I offer this fellow a way of paying his debt without money ; I think to relieve him of a burden, and this is his gratitude ! And pray, sir,’ added he, turning to the boy, ‘ why are you unwilling to come to me ? ’ ‘ Because,’ answered Pierre, ‘ I like to eat when I am hungry, and the poor people at the manor are half-starved.’ ‘ What? ’ exclaimed Royer, raising his band as if to strike. ‘ I do not like being beaten,’ the child added, ‘ and a great deal of beating goes on at the manor.’ The furious landlord was about to seize and punish Pierre, but Morvan prevented him. ‘ So that is the way you bring up your. children ! ’ roared Royer. ‘ But I will pay them out when I get the chance ! ’ ‘ It is on that account I intend to keep them,’ said the father. ‘ No one has laid a hand upon them as yet, and no one ever shall do so, whilst I can prevent it.’ ‘ Very well,’ returned M. Royer, grimly. ^ Then just pay me the rent you owe me, or I will turn you out this very instant ! ’ ‘ Oh ! you will not do that, monsieur?’ said Morvan. ‘ Won’t I ? ’ cried the tyrant. ‘ We shall see. Do you mean to pay me ? ’ ‘ Alas ! you know that I cannot.’ ‘ Then I shall at once exercise my right.’ And, snatching at the key, which was in the door of the cottage, Royer turned, and walked rapidly away. The door was locked ; Claude and his children were homeless ! {Concluded at page 158.) KITTIE’S TAIL. HEN little Kittie saw her tail, She tried in vain to snatch it ; She twisted round with many a bound. But still she could not catch it. She seemed to look around for help : ‘ What’s this I’m running after ? ’ But when the children saw the sight, They could not keep from laughter.

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“When little Kittie saw her tail, She tried in vain to snatch it.” You’ll never catch that pretty tail, You foolish little Kittie ! But soon you’ll he a wise old cat (Oh, dear, it is such a pity !). And then, with solemn step and slow. Discretion’s self we’ll find you ; Your nonsense gone, and — what do you think ? The same tail still behind you I BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. THE ORDERLIES. WHEELS and horses, and wheels again, roll and trample through the endless streets. Ninety- three thousand vehicles enter the City of London in twenty-four hours, and as they are not idle during their visit, who can wonder at the clatter and hum

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CHATTERBOX 149 The Street Orderly. which they make, or at the untidy state in which they leave the road-ways? About eight o’clock in the evening some of them go home, and, as they begin to disappear, out come the brooms, and the shovels, and the hose-pipes, to sweep, and scrape, and wash ; and out come the scavengers’ carts to pick up the heaps which the shovels and the brooms have collected. And a very busy time they have for twelve hours — all night long while the great city itself is fast asleep. At half-past seven o’clock the next morning, just when the shovels, and brooms, and hose-pipes have (

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150 CHATTERBOX. finished their labours, the streets are invaded by a new army. It is the army of Street Orderlies. The increasing roll of the traffic, like the drum that calls the soldier to his duty, has summoned them to their posts. Clad in white jackets, corduroy trousers, and uniform caps, they take up various positions along the streets, armed with a little hand-broom and a short shovel, as seen in the picture. For eight hours (that is, until four or five in the afternoon) those white jackets may be seen slipping among the whirling wheels and trampling hoofs, gathering up any refuse of the street. Danger is all around them. Their faces are often fanned by the whirl of a spinning wheel ; and many a time they narrowly escape injury from a passing horse. Indeed, the street orderly is a frequent visitor to the great hospitals which are always open to receive and tend the wounded in the great battle of life. For, skill and practice, though working wonder.s, will not ahoays save that white jacket from being rolled in the mud under the ever-passing wheels. Through all weathers — snow, shine, or shower — the orderly plies his broom and shovel. The refuse which he collects he throws into a tall iron box, erected at the kerbstone here and there along the street, whence it is duly removed in the night. When frost, or light rains, lay a slippery carpet on the city streets, the orderly has the merciful duty to perform of throwing small gravel upon the asphalt or wood, to form a grip for the struggling horses’ hoofs. He generally draws this gravel from the base of the iron box in the top of which he puts the scrapings. Thus the orderly ^s tools are few ; the results of his labour may not be very apparent to the passer¬ by; but the performance of his duty is of great importance, and aids in the preservation of health in our crowded streets. John Lea. A TALK ABOUT THE BOX-TREE. YOU can hardly go into any English garden of good size, or into one of our parks, without seeing the box growing, either as a tree or a shrub. Here and there we may come upon a hedge entirely of box ; but more usually we see scattered bushes on lawns and in shrubberies. At one time it was so abundant in some places, that^ they took their name from it. There is Box Hill, near Dorking, in Surrey, famous once for its big box-trees. Two more I remember — there may be others — Boxley in Kent, and Box well in Gloucestershire. The botanists call it Buxus semper-virens, and this is suitable, since it is ‘ always green; ’ still, some of the leaves fall and new ones appear, those dying off turn to a deep red. The small creamy or yellow flowers are one of the signs of spring, for they open during April. These are followed by berries or fruits, which when ripe burst and scatter their seeds. Bravely the box endures the storms or piercing cold of winter, even though its place may happen to be on the bleak hillside, so that it has been taken for an emblem of patient courage or fortitude. Like the holly and the yew, this was a tree which the gardeners used to cut into odd shapes, representing animals, figured, and other objects. The poet Words¬ worth tells us that, in the north of England, when there was a funeral, it was customary in some vil¬ lages to have ready a basin full of sprigs of box, and each mourner took one or two, and after the service dropped them into the grave. One of our old writers speaks of persons hiding themselves in a box-tree. This must have been a tall and thick specimen of the tree — mostly ours are about twelve or thirteen feet high; but there are countries with box-trees twice as big. Many of the trees on Box Hill, Surrey, were cut down in A.D. 1815, and their value is said to have been over ten thousand pounds. Even if all the box-trees in our country, of suitable size, were to be felled yearly, they would not supply enough wood for the engravers, though, of course, new modern processes of working on metals have rather lessened the demand for boxwood. Few indeed of our English trees yield blocks of sufficient size, and they only serve for small engravings, or are used by the turner and instrument-maker, to whom box is so valuable because of its hardness. Much boxwood is imported from distant lands where the trees are larger. Much is shipped to England from Odessa and Smyrna. Some while ago it was reckoned that about three thousand tons came over yearly from all sources of supply to Britain, and no doubt America has her share too. Logs are sent over cut into pieces of from eight to one hundred feet; then these are sliced to various sized blocks of an inch thick, and the surface is carefully smoothed to prepare it for engraving upon. When extra large drawings have to be made, several square blocks are fitted and screwed together, the nuts being sunk deeply into the boxwood. J. H. S. C. THE LAST FIELD. A Syrian Legend. Long, long ago there dwelt in a valley of Palestine a wealthy Jew, whose name was Aben Jehudan. This man had as many flocks and herds as his re¬ nowned forefather, Abraham, and all the land upon which they grazed was his own. He lived like a prince, and all men spoke well of him, as men are wont to speak concerning the rich and prosperous. But Aben Jehudan had other merits besides his prosperity. His bounty was as the stream which gushed forth from the rock at the blow of Moses the prophet. For he had said to himself, ^ God hath not blessed me with children of my own, wherefore all men shall be my children, and I will try, so far as in me lies, to be a father to all.’ None who came to Aben Jehudan went empty away. It mattered nothing to him whether the needy one were a Jew of the plain, an Arab of the desert, a Syrian of the mountain, or a Greek of the city; Aben Jehudan’s ear was never turned away, his hand was never closed. When, once every year, came round the three men whose office it was to j collect alms from the richer Jews for the relief of ; their poor brethren, the gift of Aben Jehudan was ^Jways the largest of all, and, as he gave it, he

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CHATTERBOX. 151 would say, ^May this remove the curse from my dwelling ! ^ And this was the meaning of the saying. In former times Aben Jehudan’s house and the land on which it stood had been the property of a wicked Roman governor, a tyrant and oppressor, who, by selling justice, accepting bribes, and wringing money out of every one who came near him, had heaped up great riches. When he died, however, not a trace of his treasure could be found ; it seemed to have vanished like smoke. Then a report went abroad that, because of his evil deeds, a curse lay upon his house and all his possessions, and this was the reason for the prayer of Aben Jeliudan the Bountiful. For a time all went well with the pious Jew, but at length there came — as comes, sooner or later, to all men — a time of trouble. Things fell out with him as with the Patriarch Job. His sheep died, his cattle were carried off by robbers, many of those whom he had trusted with his money played him false, and at last his house was burned to the ground. He was forced to sell his land, and of all his former property nothing remained to him but one small field. Then his false friends — those who had courted him merely on account of his riches — fell away as the leaves fall from a storm-shaken tree. Happily, however, Aben Jehudan had friends of another kind, who, although themselves poor, helped him by every means in their power. They assisted him to build a small hut in one corner of his last remaining field. One man lent him a plough, another the oxen to draw it with. He and his wife set themselves bravely to work, resolved to make a living in the best way they could. When, by-and-by, came the season of the annual collection of alms, the three collectors felt greatly puzzled. They knew that Aben Jeliudan had nothing to give. They were ashamed to ask him for a contribution. On the other hand, they fe^y ed that if they did not do so they might hurt his feelings. So . they decided to visit him as usual. When Aben Jehudan saw in the distance the collectors coming towards his hut, he was distressed at the thought that he had nothing to give. He consulted with his wife as to what should be done. They agreed to sell half of their one field, and to give the price of it, so that the messengers of the All-Merciful might not go empty-handed from their door. This they did. The next morning Aben Jehudan rose early, and betook himself to work in his field. Scarcely had he begun to plough when one of his two oxen stumbled ; its foot sank deeply into the earth, and when Aben dragged it out he saw that it was torn and bleeding. Aben Jehudan’s heart failed him. He felt that his troubles were more than he could bear. He saw that the ox would now be lame ; it was one of the borrowed oxen, and how was he to make good the damage ? But what could have wounded the ox ? That he would find out. With his hands he began to scoop out the loose earth, and soon he came upon a large, jagged piece of iron, quaintly carved, which looked as if it had been broken off from some sort of box. Then Aben Jehudan grew curious, and called to his wife to bring him a s^ade. He set to work in good earnest, and soon he laid bare the lid of an iron chest, covered with strange carvings such as Aben Jehudan had never before seen. So heavy was the chest that he and his wife, using their utmost strength, could scarcely drag it out of the ground, and when they forced open the lid, lo ! the coffer was filled to the brim with shining gold. Aben Jehudan knew that this could be nothing else than the Roman governor’s lost treasure. His first impulse was to shrink from it, for he did not like to touch money which had been got by cruelty and injustice. But the thought came to him that, although the treasure had been gathered by evil means, it had doubtless been given to him by God in order that he might spend it in doing good. In this way it came to pass that Aben Jehudan the Bountiful, after being cast down from a high to a low place, was raised again by Heaven’s mercy to a yet higher place than before. After these things he deserved his title of ‘ Bountiful ’ more than ever, for now he knew by experience the sufferings of the poor, and his heart melted towards them. When, the next year, the collectors of alms came round, he gave them a larger sum than they had ever before received. Then they brought out their last year’s subscription-list, and they showed him how, al¬ though his gift that year had been the smallest of all, they had placed his name above the rest. ^ For, friend,’ said they, ‘ we reckoned thy gift, not as what it really was, but at what we well knew that it would have been if thou hadst had the means.’ In our homely English phrase, they had * taken the will for the deed.’ E. B. THE SNIGS.* A Fable, A NUMBER of little snigs were caught in a pond by a gentleman’s son, and put into a large globe where some gold-fish were kept. One of the lively creatures kept swimming round and round at the top of the water. ‘ What are you doing that for ? ’ asked one of the gold-fish. ^ I am seeking for a way of escape,’ replied the snig. ‘ All, once you are in here, you will have to stay, and be content,’ said the gold-fish. ^ Besides, even if you were quick and clever enough to jump up and get out of this prison, you would soon die, for the rivers and ponds are far away.’ However, the snig would not take the advice thus given, and he succeeded in jumping out of the globe, as the water was near the top. The snig tumbled on the fioor and was pounced upon by a Persian cat and eaten in a moment. Moral. — It is better to bear the ills we know than to seek an escape which may be our ruin. H. Berkeley Score. * Snigs are very young eels, and are often found in ditches and ponds.

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“This is the doctor of the regiment, sir, that you desired to see.” liiig

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154 CHATTERBOX. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. HARRY LORREQUER.^ E confessions of Harry Lor- requer make very amusing reading. The story opens with a splendid morning in the autumn of the year 181 — , and describes a transport, containing four hundred of His Majesty’s 4th Regi¬ ment, dropping anchor in the beautiful harbour of Cove. The men had just returned from the Peninsula, where many of the bravest and best of their regiment had fallen. Drawn up in a long line along the shore, many of the soldiers presented a sorry sight, with their patched uniforms, the scarlet mended with brown and grey, and the knees repaired with pieces of old blanket, as none of them had received new clothes for three years. The city bells of Cork rang out their glad wel¬ come on the occasion as the men marched, beneath their tattered flag, through its streets, their band playing ^Garryowen.’ After the march concluded, the warriors were feasted by the citizens of Cork, by the Corporation, then by the Sheriffs and the Mayor, so that they could not complain of want of attention ! It was not long before a gloom fell on the 4th, as they lost their beloved Lieutenant-Colonel, who had endeared himself to officers and men alike : the old finding in him a friend; the young, a father and adviser. His retirement was followed by the ap¬ pointment of Lieutenant-Colonel Carden, his opposite in every respect. He went in for constant drills, fatigue parties, and ball practice, and thoroughly tired out every man of the regiment — a regiment which had fought its way from Albuera to Waterloo, under some of the most severe generals of division, and which the new young Lieutenant-Colonel, who had never seen a shot fired save at a review in Hounslow, pronounced most disorderly and ill- disciplined regiment.^ The officers of the regiment, when off duty, amused themselves by getting up private theatricals. The new Colonel did not approve of these amusements ; but, as they were undertaken in the regiment’s own time, he had nothing really to do with the matter. The play-season was almost ended, for spring was near, and our hero, Harry Lorrequer, and his friends determined to close with a good play well rendered. See, then, the placards all over the city announc¬ ing ‘ The part of Othello by Mr. Lorrequer.’ One of the play-bills had been posted by some wag on the door of the Colonel’s quarters, as his dislike * This capital book is by Charles Lever, and has recently been published in cheap edition (price 6d. ) by Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co., London. for plays was well known. The Colonel’s short temper persuaded him that the posting of the bill in such a place was intended as an insult to him. He believed, too, that Lorrequer had done it ; Lorrequer, whom from the first he had disliked, and whom he now disliked more than ever. The play was over, everything had gone off well, and Othello had drawn storms of applause by his acting. The actors retired to bed — alas ! too unsteady and unsober to know what they were about. Sound sleep settled down on all, and Lorrequer was only awakened by a row-do w-dow beat beneath his windows. The regiment was already under arms, and the Colonel himself was taking the drill. Seeing that there was not a moment to lose, our young friend set about looking for his regimental small¬ clothes, which had been scattered anywhere and everywhere on the preceding evening when preparing to dress in Moorish robes and turban, in accordance with the part allotted him. Dressing himself with all speed, he dashed toward the corner usually occu¬ pied by the toilet-table and glass. It had been removed, left in the theatrical dressing-room ; and the same thing had happened to the basin-stand, so that not a drop of cold water was at hand. By the time Lorrequer reached the barrack-yard, the men were all drawn up in line along the square, undergoing inspection. As the young officer passed to the spot where the Colonel and officers were grouped, he noticed with surprise that a general titter ran along the lines. Reaching the group of officers, a general roar of laughter greeted his appear¬ ance. The astonished Lorrequer looked down at his garments, expecting to find some of Othello’s clothes yet on him ; but no, all was perfectly correct. The laughter increased every moment ; even the senior major, one of the gravest of the grave, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and Lorrequer himself caught the infection and laughed heartily too, with¬ out knowing why. J ust at this instant the Colonel came up — he had been a little distance away examining some men — and our hero saluted and wished him good morning. An angry look was the Colonel’s only response for the moment ; but soon he found words, and said in a tone of command, ^ Go, sir, to your quarters ; and, before you leave them, a court-martial shall decide if such continued insult to your commanding* officer warrants your name being in the Army List.’ See Lorrequer, then, in his quarters in his room turning over in his mind all the circumstances of the past evening which could possibly have suggested all the mirth in which both officers and men seemed to share. But he could remember nothing. At last he rang the bell for his servant. Scarcely had he begun to speak to him, when he turned away his head and grinned. ‘ Stubbes,’ said his master, severely, ‘ what is the meaning of this insolence ? ’ ‘ Oh, sir,’ said the man ; ‘ oh, sir, surely you did not appear on parade with that face ? ’ and then he burst into a fit of laughter. In a moment our hero sprang over to the looking- glass, which was now in its place, and judge of his dismay when he saw that his face was dyed as black as the King of Ashantee’s — the dye which he had

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CHATTERBOX. 155 put on for Othello had never been 'washed off — and there, with a huge bearskin shako and a pair of black bushy whiskers, shone his huge black and polished visage. It is satisfactory to learn that, after a long inter¬ view with the offended Colonel, our hero was pardoned. That the action was not forgotten was evident when, a fortnight later, he received march¬ ing orders for some remote part of the county of Clare, there to assist in suppressing illicit distilla¬ tion. There was nothing for it but to take the banish¬ ment kindly, and to place himself at the head of his company and march away. Lorrequer’s Siberia, however, turned out a better place than he had imagined possible. It was there that he met Lady Jane Callonby, the eldest daughter of Earl Callonby, who was a great landed proprietor, possessing a seat at Kilrush. The Lady Jane was very beautiful, and exceedingly graceful in manner. Lord Callonby’s family consisted of his wife, his son — Lord Kilkee — and two daughters. It happened that, walking on the Earl’s estate one day, our hero’s dog captured a hare. The game- keeper was in sight, leaning on his gun, evidently waiting for the culprits to come up. Seeing how matters stood, and that he must act without further loss of time, Lorrequer called in a tone of authority, f I say, my man, are you his lordship’s game-keeper:’’ Taking off his hat the man approached, saying respectfully that he was. ‘ Well, then,’ said the officer, * present this hare to his lordship, with ray respects ; here is my card, and say I shall be most happy to wait on him in the morning, and explain the circumstances.’ By this piece of presence of mind he saved Mouche, who would certainly have been shot had his master been unable to say anything. The incident led to the personal call of the Earl’s son. Lord Kilkee, and a hearty invitation to dinner followed, with a request that he would stay the night at Kilrush, his lordship’s seat. Our friend could scarcely credit his ears ; he was so much taken by surprise at what he esteemed his good luck in thus securing the friendliness of a well-known aristocratic family in this lonely part of the country. But Harry Lorrequer’s life was not entirely one of feasting and entertainments, and receptions at great houses, neither did he find his love-suit at first an altogether prosperous one. Dangers, perils, hair¬ breadth escapes, privations, and misunderstandings were his lot. Not a few of his adventures almost cost him his life. He was engaged in a duel ; fled for his life from France to Strasburg ; was welcomed at an Opera-house as a great composer, whose pass¬ port had got mixed up with his ; mistaken, at Munich for His Excellency, the new English Chargd- d’Affaires, attending a ball, and playing whist with the King of Bavaria, who, believing him to be ‘ Plis Excellency,’ selected him as partner. In short, our hero’s life was one of adventure and incident from beginning to end — the end, as recorded in the book, being his marriage with Lady Jane Callonby, and a settlement by his rich old uncle, Sir Guy Lorrequer, of seven thousand a year and a fine house and estate. Having set the reader’s mind at rest, by telling him that our story ends well, we return for a moment to relate an interesting adventure which befell Lorrequer before he became a man of wealth and position. It happened that the army doctor, a good kind-hearted fellow, had been summoned to a con¬ sultation with two other doctors over the condition of an old gentleman, suffering from a swelling in the neck. The patient resided eight miles away, and a drive to his house was necessary. On the very same morning Lorrequer was to drive out a distance of some twenty miles or so, on a special errand of his own. By some unhappy chance he jumped into the wrong chaise, and was at the hall door of the patient before he discovered his error. Now, it happened that Lorrequer had laid a wager with Dr. Fitzgerald that he would make more than fifty pounds before ten o’clock that morning, fifty pounds being the sum the doctor was supposed to ask as his fee for this special consultation. Our hero’s first impulse was an honest one — to avow his mistake and retrace his steps, taking his chance about the wager ; his next, to try and pass muster for half an hour by acting the part of doctor, and so surprise him by getting the start of him, and securing the fee. ‘ May the Lord grant that ye do not want the instrument this time, doctor ; for they say he is better this morning,’ said the grave-looking old ser¬ vant, as he lifted down the supposed doctor’s pistol- case, which he mistook for a case of instruments. Descending slowly from the chaise, as he imagined became a doctor, Lorrequer entered the house. In the small parlour sat two elderly gentlemen, evidently the two doctors he had come to meet. One of them rose and introduced himself and his fellow. The hand-shaking over, our friend asked for ‘ some history of the case,’ and the two old gentlemen, both talking together, proceeded to give it him, telling of the swelling of the neck, and of their differing in the treatment of it. Pleading his many professional engagements. Dr. Lorrequer requested that they would at once con¬ duct him to the patient. He quickly found himself in the presence of a florid-looking old man, with a face on which pain and bad temper had stamped a very unpleasing expression. ^ This is the doctor of the regiment, sir, that you desh’ed to see,’ said one of the doctors. * Oh, then ! very well. Good morning, sir ; I suppose you will find out something new the matter, for these two, there, have been doing so every day this two months.’ ' I trust, sir,’ replied Lorrequer stiffly, ^ that with the assistance of my learned friends much may be done for you. Ha ! hem ! so this is the malady. Turn your head a little to that side.’ Here an awful groan escaped the sick man, for his examiner had pressed on a delicate part. ^Does that hurt you, sir?’ asked Lorrequer, in a soothing tone of voice. The patient replied angrily that it did. ^ And here ? ’ ^ Oh, oh ! I cannot bear it any longer,’ cried the poor man. ^ I perceive,’ said Lorrequer, ‘ the thing is just as I expected.’ Here he raised his eyebrows, and looked I sagely at his brother doctors.

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156 CHATTERBOX “ Dan, I will give you something to think over.” ‘ No aneurism, doctor ? ’ said one. ‘ Certainly not.^ ‘ So you will not operate upon it ? ’ said the patient. ‘Not for a thousand pounds,’ replied Lorrequer. The consultation in the sick-room was over, and, all descending together, the two practitioners and their friend had a very hearty breakfast. ‘Well, doctor,’ said one of them, ‘what are we to do ? ’ ‘ Ay,’ said the other, ‘ that is the question.’ ‘ Go on,’ said our hero, ‘ go on as before ; I cannot advise you better’ — which was true. ‘ So you think that will be best ? ’ ‘ I am certain ; I know nothing better,’ replied Lon’equer, and with mutual congratulations the ‘friends’ parted, one of these saying at the last moment, ‘ I have been instructed to hand you this,’ at the same time slipping a cheque into his hand. Lorrequer bowed slightly, and stuffed the paper, with a half- careless air, into his waistcoat pocket, and wishing them both every species of happiness and success, he shook hands four times with each, and drove off, never believing himself safe till he saw the gate-lodge behind him, and felt himself bowling along on the road to Kilkenny. James Cassidy. DO YOUR DUTY. AN FOSTER had come to a hard place in his life, a point where two ways lay open to him, and he did not know which to choose. ‘ What is the matter, Dan ? ’ asked the kind old Rector, who loved all the lads in his parish, and was loved by them in return. Often he seemed to understand them even better than their own fathers did, and he was always ready to feel with them in the little joys and sorrows of boyhood. Dan was only too thankful to open his heart to the old man, and the two sat down on the bench by the vestry door, with the spring sunlight shining softly over them, and the shadows of the young elm-leaves dancing at their feet. ‘ Why, it is this way, sir,’ said the lad. ‘ Ja<^k has written for me to go out to him, and have a share in his farm, arid I would, like it, but father is not willing.’ ‘ No ? ’ replied the Rector, in a questioning tone, and Dan went on.

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r Pontius Pilate. ‘He says he is getting into years, and he had rather I stayed at home, so that if he is taken, I can look after mother and the little ones ; but it seems such a good opening, and such a pity not to take the chance, does it not, sir ? ' It did seem a pity, for Dan was just the lad to get on in the Colonies — strong, active, and pushing ; but the Rector knew that it could not be very long before his young stepmother and her little daughters would need all the help that he could give them. He laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘ Dan/ he said, ^ I will give you something to think over, and to-morrow we will have another talk about Jack’s letter. You will always hnd that if you do what you do not like for the sake of others, God will bless yoii in it, andif it is really good for you, He will so order things that you will have your wish in the end. Do your duty, my boy. Honour your father, and leave the rest to God.’ So Dan wrote to Jack, and said that he could not

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158 CHATTERBOX. leave England just then. He went quietly to work at his father’s trade, and soon he felt glad that he had done so, for old Foster’s health failed, and it was easy to see how Dan’s presence comforted him. * I could not have died happy,’ he often said, * if you had been over in America. You were a good lad to stay, and Emma has felt it as much as I have.’ But when at last the father was laid in his grave, the way suddenly opened out before Dan. A rich bachelor uncle invited the young widow to make her home with him, promising to leave all his property to her and her children. will not leave you, Dan,’ she said, Hf you would like to stop on as we are. You stayed at home for my sake, and I am grateful, hut if you still want to go to Jack, we need not be a burden on you any longer.’ The Hector was consulted again, and gave his advice readily enough : ^ Go, by all means, Dan, and, now that the way is clear for you, you will go with a happy heart, and the feeling that God has directed your steps and will give you His blessing.’ H.L.T. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 14. — ^Acrostic. An important city in a large country of Europe. It was formerly the capital, and contains several cathe¬ drals, convents, and colleges. It was at one time almost destroyed by the inhabitants of the country to prevent it from affording an asylum to a foreign invader. 1. The name of a people from another continent, who at one time invaded and took possession of a part of a country in the south of Europe. 2. A large river in South America, which receives many other rivers, and, after a course of more than thirteen hundred miles, falls into the Atlantic Ocean. 3. The chief town of one of the northern countries of Europe. 4. A large country in North America belonging to Great Britain ; it is subject to great extremes of heat and cold. 5. The name given to a fertile spot in the midst of a desert. 6. A market town in Somersetshire which gives the title of Duke to a great English general. 0. 0. [Ansioer at page 174.] PONTIUS PILATE. U D E A was, under the Roman Emperors, governed by an officer called a Pro¬ curator. ^ Pontius Pilate was the sixth of these officers. He was a native of Italy, and was sent into Judea A.D. 26. He is spoken of by Josephus, the Jewish historian, as a harsh tyrant, who stirred up tumults among the Jews by his oppressions. Our Lord Jesus Christ was brought before him; he tried to save Him from the fury of the Jews, though he ordered Him to be scourged, which, as he believed Him to be innocent, was contrary to Roman law. When the Jews fiercely cried out, ‘ If thou let this man go, thou art not Caesar’s friend,’ then Pilate was afraid. 12.— (A.)-l. Rod, road. 2. Real, realm. 3. Room, broom. 4. Severe, reverse. 5. Ray, bray. 6. Rake, drake. 7. Lock, clock. 8. Blow, elbow. 9. Chop, epoch. 10. Ask, Sark. 13. — 1. Red Gauntlet. 2. The Talisman. 3. The Betrothed. 4. Guy Mannering. 5. The Abbot. 6. The Pirate. (B.) — 1. Paint, plaint. 2. Tale, stale. 3. Bard, bread. 4. Bow, brow. 5. Ague, argua 6. Home, Homer. 7. Steam, stream. 8. Bee, beer. 9. Form, forum. 10. Price, prince. 7. Woodstock. 8. Waverley. 9. Castle Dangerous. 10. Ivanhoe. 11. The Monastery. 12. The Antiquary. THE LIME-BURNER OP THE ROCHE-PERCEE. (Concluded from page 147.) He knew the jealous temper of Tiberius. He felt that if the Jews did accuse him to the Emperor he would probably be put to death. So he ceased to resist the Jews, and let them crucify the Lord Jesus Christ. Some time^ after this, the Samaritans sent an embassy to Vitellius, the governor of Syria, to com¬ plain of Pilate’s cruelty in putting several of their countrymen to^ death without any just cause. Pilate was deprived of his office and sent to Rome in A.D. 36 to answer the charges brought against him. He^ arrived at Rome just after the death of Tiberius, but he was banished to Gaul by the next Emperor Caligula, where he put himself to death. He had been governor of Judea for ten years. II. AS M. Royer moved away, Morvan’s first impulse was to follow his landlord. He started to do so, but was speedily recalled by the cries of his terrified children. Also a vision flashed into his mind of what a law-suit with this man would involve : a prison, possibly, for himself, and for his hopeless little ones loneliness and starvation. He determined to set out at once for Dinan. Fortu¬ nately, a basket containing some remnants of provisions had been left in an outer shed. Taking this, and calling to Ren6e and Pierre to follow him, Claude began to ascend the hill. The children could not walk quickly, and by the time our wayfarers had reached the’ strand which

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CHATTERBOX. 159 separates Kelern from Camaret, they were overtaken by a terrific storm. Claude, in great anxiety about his children, drew them close to his side, while he looked around for shelter. There were no houses near. Presently, however, he remembered the Roche-Percde, and as quickly as possible dragged thither his trembling children. The ‘ Eoche-Percde ’ was a rock with a naturally hollowed interior, which communicated with the top by means of a chimney-like opening. It was frequently resorted to as a shelter by the herdsmen, fishermen, and children of the neighbourhood, as it was so far beyond reach of the waves that the highest tides scarcely wetted its entrance. In this cave Claude and his children found the embers of a fire which some one had evidently kindled during the day. Some pieces of wood also were lying about, and with these Morvan revived the fire. Then he made the children sit near it to dry their clothes, and gave them something to eat from the basket. The storm, meanwhile, grew fiercer every moment. The wind howled and the waves roared furiously. The pebbles flew about the shore, whilst the rain poured over the Roche-Perc^e like a cascade. Claude saw that it would not be possible to leave the cave that night. He spread out some dried seaweed so as to form a bed for Pierre and Rende, and covered them up warmly with his coat. They were soon fast asleep. But their father could not sleep, though he tried to do so. His anxious thoughts kept him awake. He saw that there had been some sense in the harsh words of M. Royer. Where, indeed, was he to get work ? He had laboured, first of all, at Brest as a lime-burner, afterwards at Roscanvel as a brick- maker. He knew nothing whatever about the management of a boat, or the guidance of a plough or team. How then was he to find employ¬ ment in a country where the only occupations were those of navigation and agriculture ? He was almost regretting his refusal of M. Royer’s proposition, when his eyes were suddenly attracted by the pebbles which served as a hearth for his now flourishing fire. Calcined by the heat, they had turned white, and had the exact appearance of lime. After bestowing upon them a more careful scrutiny, Claude withdrew them from the fire, and pushed them to the mouth of the cave, in order to expose them to the action of water, and thus he found that they were genuine hme-stone. This discovery meant a great deal to Claude Morvan. If some of these sea-shore pebbles were calcareous, they might prove for him a source of wealth. Each tide would wash up fresh supplies of this valuable material, all ready for burning. If only he had a kiln ! All night Claude lay pondering how he might profit by this discovery. Alas ! he had no money with which to purchase a kiln and the necessary light wood. But he had something better than money, for be had trust in God. He put up an earnest prayer for counsel and aid, a prayer which was speedily answered, for as soon as the first rays of morning penetrated the interior of the Roche-Perc6e, it flashed upon Claude that its peculiar form made of it a natural kiln, which, he thought, would exactly suit his purpose. At all events, he resolved to try it. After he had taken Pierre and Ren^e to Dinan, and had left them in the charge of his kind cousin, he returned to the Roche- Perc^e, and, mixing the calcareous stones with as much dry sea-weed as he could find, he tried the important experiment. At first, the result was not satisfactory. Then Claude persuaded a farmer of the neighbourhood to let him have a cartload of furze and fagots. With the aid of these he obtained excellent lime, which had a speedy sale. Pie continued to be successful, so that in a few years’ time the Roche-Perc^e was not large enough for Claude Mor van’s flourishing busi¬ ness, and he was obliged to build another kiln. Some long time after this, there was to be seen at the back of the kiln a pretty cottage, in the garden of which an old man frequently walked, accompanied by a young man and young woman, who wore the customary costume of wealthy artisans. These were Claude Morvan, Pierre, and Ren6e. The Roche-Perc6e became quite a show-place, as having played so important a part in making lime¬ burning a trade of the neighbourhood. The favourite remark of the old fisherman who acts as guide is ; ‘ Men say that the age of miracles is past, but our Roche-Perc^e is a standing witness that God, when He so pleases, can still change into gold the herbage of the rock and the pebbles of the sea-shore.’ E. D. CHINESE SHARP-SHOOTERS. The Northern Provinces of China are called Mon¬ golia and Manchuria. The men are not tall, their average height is something over four feet; they are often stout. They pride themselves on having small feet and long nails. The women and girls make their feet so small as to be almost useless, by wearing bandages which stop the growth. The natives of Manchuria are of lighter colour than the real Chinese, they are of a heavier build, and have more beard. As a rule they are industrious, polite, clever, and far-seeing. They are sober in the use of strong drink, and in commerce they are keen and sharp. Cleanliness is not one of their virtues, since in some parts the natives will only change their clothes when these are falling away in rags from long and hard wear. In their dwellings they care little for light or ventilation, and their streets are narrow ; sometimes as little as sixteen feet being thought wide enough for thoroughfares. The Chinese still have very old-fashioned notions about arms and warfare. I'he bow and arrow, as used by the followers of William Tell in Switzerland in days gone by, or by the soldiers of the first Williams of England after the Norman Conquest, is still the chief weapon of the Chinese in certain districts. They have drill practices, measuring distances, and general instruction to make their younger folk skilful with the bow and arrow. Marguerite Ninbt.

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160 CHATTERBOX Chinese Sharp-shooters.

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162 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. CHAPTER I. E mid-day sun hung* like a fire-ball over the veldt and over the pasture-fields, and seemed to have ]iut to silence the life of the farm. Cattle stood pant¬ ing, too hot to exert themselves to find food, wherever the scantiest cover appeared to afford an inch or two of shelter from the sunshine ; they whisked their tails and ears in the perpetual torment of the fly pests, and now and then stamped a hind foot in more vigorous protest. There was scarcely a sound to be heard ; peace, you would say, reigned supreme; here human voices, unless raised in song or in the music of children’s laughter, would be a desecration. The more horrible, therefore, was the contrast, when suddenly there came, from the direction of the farm buildings, three distinct forms of sound, each of them jarring, discordant, and hideous. First violent abuse, shouted aloud in Cape Dutch — vulgar and offensive words in condemnation of some fault — then the sound of lashing with whips, the sickening swish and thud of leather thongs upon naked flesh ; and, lastly, ear-piercing yells and cries for mercy, which was not granted — for both the swearing and the lashing and the shrieks continued. Suddenly the lashing ceased, though the abuse continued. The cries of pain sounded further from the house, and there ran out into the open pasture a Kaffir, his naked back streaming with blood, his evil face convulsed. He ran on, now and again looking back over his shoulder as he went, and, as he stumbled on, he spluttered out curses in his own language, mingled with groans of pain. The Kaffir ran far out of sight of the house, and for a while he did not appear again. The Dutch farmer went in to his dinner, and forgot all about it. After dinner, he lay down upon his bed upstairs for a sleep. The Kaffir was well acquainted with his master’s habits, and knew that, during the hour or so which followed dinner, the farm buildings would be deserted, and scarcely an eye about the place would be open. He therefore crept softly back, sure that he might do so without risking the observation of his angry master. But he did not return a penitent, to resume his work about the farm ; he slunk into an out-house, an unsavoury spot used for skinning and preparing beasts slaughtered for eating. Here he possessed himself of a knife, which he concealed in the scanty clothing which covered his sinewy body. Then he crept away once more, and hid himself among the boulders which lay scattered over the side of a kopje, a mile from the farm. * I will wait until night,’ thought the Kaffir, ‘ and then do it ; that will be safer and better than now.’ The day passed slowly, and the Kaffir grew | hungry. A herd of goats, wdth some fat kids, came slowly feeding towards his hiding-place. The fellow waited behind his boulder, and watched them. Presently, when they were close enough, he darted from his cover and fell upon a fat kid, which he quickly killed ; cutting a piece from the carcase, he ate it, and threw the rest away. At dusk he crept close to the farm, hoping to see the man whom he hated. His back was raw and painful; he had suffered agonies from it all the afternoon ; it was not the first time that he had borne this from the cruel brute of a Boer, but it should be the last. However, though he saw his master, and heard his voice, this did not increase his courage; the sight of that dreaded face, and the sound of the voice he had long feared, made him tremble ; when he heard his master swearing angrily at another labourer, and caught sight of the sjambok he held in his hand, the runaway crept farther off, mad with terror and anger, but feeling that he must give up the idea of direct vengeance on his master. So the devil of revenge took a new form ; he entered the soul of the Kaffir in a different guise. He spoke to him in this fashion : — ‘ You cannot kill this man because you are afraid of him ; if you wish to kill, there are other white people close at hand, they are all the same, one as bad as another ; run over the veldt to the nearest house of the white people — you know it, there is only a man and his wife and small children, without servants ; go and kill there, and loot ! ’ ‘Yes, I must kill!’ said the Kaffir, ‘and if there is loot that is all the better ; but, first, I must kill.’ Three or four miles away there lived a young missionary and his devoted wife, and their little son, a child of four years old. Against these people Kaffir Jem had no grudge. On me contrary, he had always heard them kindly spoken of, both by Zulu and Kaffir natives, as of folk who were ever ready with a kind word, or even a dish of mealies, and who had come from afar, in order to teach any who would learn about the God worshipped alike by the Dutch end the English. But Kaffir Jem did" not stop to think that he had no quarrel with these people. He only knew that the blood within him ran hot with the madness of the desire to kill, and that he dare not kill his oppressor, and must therefore find some one else. He would ‘ run amok.’ All night the wretched man prowled about near the missionary’s house. He would have crept in, if he had found a way open to him ; but he dared not try the doors and windows, for, though burning to shed blood, he was a terrible coward. If he had found an entrance, he might have murdered the family as they slept, but, as he could not do this, he slunk away and slept for a few hours, restless and feverish, by the bank of the stream, of whose waters he drank eagerly at intervals. When the morning came and the sun rose, Kaffir Jem hid himself near the track which led to the village, where the English missionary had a school. He knew well enough that the missionary would pass presently, and then he could spring out and cut him down. Afterwards he could return to the

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CHATTERBOX. KiS house and finish the woman, his wife, and then he might go on to the next farm, where white men lived, and perhaps kill another one or two ; his only instinct was now to kill and to kill — he was mad. The threatened missionary was Leslie Amber ton, young, eager, and devoted to the cause which he had taken up — that of his Master, Christ. He had left Oxford, where he had done great things, not only in the schools, but also on the river as one of the best men in his college eight, and, to the surprise and displeasure of most of his relations, he announced his determination to become, as he called it, a witness for Christ among the heathen. No one ever knew what influence had impelled him, or even suggested to him to take this course. Most of Leslie’s relations were soldiers or sailors, barristers, civil servants of the Crown, and so forth; none had ever up to now, adopted the profession of missionary, and the family did not take kindly to the idea ; they did not like it ; they tried their best to move Leslie from his determination, but they did not succeed. Leslie held that he had ‘ received the call.’ ‘ I must go,’ he said ; ‘ I have received my marching orders ; if I had not, I should listen to your arguments, but you are too late. I have put my hand to the plough ; 1 shall not turn back.’ So Leslie Amberton travelled to South Africa, and settled close to the borders of Zululand, near the Umvolosi River, in Transvaal territory ; and here, with the young wife whom he married, a woman as eager as himself in the cause he had adopted, he began his life’s work amongst strangers, in the hope, and with the intention, of shedding upon the darkness of native ignorance some few rays, at least, of the light of Christian truth and Christian teaching. He had now lived here several years, and, though he had not been quite without success, yet, in his inmost heart, poor Leslie was obliged to own that, on the whole, his work had hitherto been a failure. Not that he was hopelessly discouraged by the knowledge that this was so. On the contrary, he felt the more determined to fight on until it should please God to reward his labours with some success. In any case he would tell himself, and tell his wife also, * if one has brought light into one soul, one has not worked altogether in vain — and this we have surely done.’ Leslie was busy at this time among the Zulus of the district. He had not done much with them so far. The savage, warlike people had laughed at him at first, but had not opposed his efforts to establish a class among the women and children. The men saw that he was harmless, and, though they laughed, they trusted him. Leslie was full of hope ; being of a sanguine, fearless disposition, he was not easily discouraged. He passed along the rough road, this fatal morning, towards the native kraal in which he worked. Plis little son, Brian, went with him a short way. Brian was nearly five years old, and laughed and chattered as he trotted beside his father. He always accom¬ panied the missionary, every morning, as far as the first corner, where a steep kopje made the walking difficult. Here his father dismissed him, daily, with a kiss, bidding him return to his mother, and help her keep the house till he returned. So poor Leslie Amberton w.alked on this day to his unexpected and undeserved fate, a victim to the madness of a Kaffir labourer. He died, thinking of and rejoicing in his work, which was the service of God, and if he had had a moment to think of it, or of anything, he would have felt glad that he died in harness, even though his work was all unfinished — scarcely begun. But he walked straight into sudden death, without any time for fear ; without any pain — and the mad Kaffir ran swiftly down the road, hoping to have equal success with the child and its mother. He yelled aloud, now, as he ran. He had tasted blood, and his senses were on fire; from this time he was woBse than a wild beast, and far more dangerous. Little Brian was, ere this, safely out of his way. He had had ten minutes’ start of the mad¬ man, and was in a field behind the house, very busy in chasing a gay butterfly, which interested his infant mind. But the poor mother heard the wild shouts and rushed from the house into the road in terror for her child. A minute later, Kaffir Jem, possessed b}^ a thousand demons of insensate hate and blood-thirst, was rushing over the veldt, the weapon hidden, now, in his loin-cloth, yelling no longer, for it had occurred to him to act cautiously and quietly. ' That is two,’ his thoughts repeated a dozen times, as he left the missionary’s hut ; ‘I will kill ten more, and after that I will kill my old master ! ’ An old Zulu woman who lived in the* place, and helped Mrs. Amberton with the house duties, found her mistress presently, still alive, but sorely hurt. ‘ Sekosa,’ she said, ‘ where is the little one, Brian ? ’ The old woman, weeping and groaning aloud, replied that the child was playing in the garden. ^ Thank God,’ said the mother. * I shall die directly, Sekosa, and his father, your master, is dead already; I know it, for the mad Kaffir shouted at me that he had murdered him. Listen, now : you shall be father and mother to the child, Sekosa, and one day you shall bring him to the English in the nearest large town — do you understand me ? ’ Sekosa declared that she understood, and that nothing should part her from the light of her eyes, the little Brian. Then the dying woman asked for pencil and paper and wrote a few words : but before she had written half what she had wished to write, her strength failed her, and in a moment or two she died. Old Sekosa took the half-written paper and laid it upon a table in the room. She would take it with her when she had collected all that it would be necessary to bring away. She dared not stay a minute longer in the house than was absolutely necessary, for she feared that the murderer might return. All the money which she could find she took, and a bundle of the child’s clothes and food. She forgot the paper on the table. Then she found, and fetched away, little Brian, who would have run into the house, first, to show his mother the butterfly which he had caught. But the old woman would not let him enter the door. ^ Come with Sekosa, my lamb,’ she said ; ^ come, we will walk ir the veldt, my lamb shall see Sekosa’s own people.’ ‘ Oh, yes !’ cried Brian, clapping his hands, Get me

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“ Carry youi’ bag, sir ? ” go over the veldt, Sekosa, and catch butterflies ; perhaps we shall see the little springboks that I saw yesterday ! come quickly, Sekosa ! ’ So Brian left his English home an unconscious orphan, and went out with the old woman into a life which was strange and new. {Continued at page 170.) BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. A SEARCHER FOR ODD JOBS. HE busiest places are not the easiest in which to find something to do, and yet it is only natural that those who seek employment should go where most is being done. And where could you

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CHATTERBOX. 165 Borderers returning from a Kaid. find more bustle than at the great railway stations ? The trains are always bringing somebody into London, or taking somebody out of it, and these people generally have luggage to carry with them. Gentlemen who have very little time to spare, loaded with rugs and travelling-bags, are, perhaps, the most frequent to arrive and depart, and they are some¬ times glad to hear a boy say, ‘Carry your bag, sir?’ The boy, who has long and eagerly been watching for a chance of earning a few pence, then, loaded with the heavy bag, follows his patron, as he shoulders his way through the jostling throng. But, fflas ! it is not often that the offer made by the eager would-be carrier is accepted. Then, finding that the hour is getting late, and his pockets are still empty, the boy makes up his mind to a more toil¬ some effort. A train has just arrived from the country, and a few yards away from where he is standing, a party of travellers (an elderly lady and two young girls) are entering a cab, while the porter is lifting their heavy luggage on to the top, and putting many parcels inside. The porter pockets his ‘ tip,’ the cab door is closed, and the cab starts. The boy starts as well. In a few minutes the station yard is left behind, and street after street of flaring shops and noisy traffic is passed. The occupants of the cab might see the figure of the boy who was standing in the station yard when they arrived — now slipping through the moving crowds who throng the pavemenrs, or dodging among the traffic in the roadway; but they would not guess that he had set himself the task of following the cab to its journey’s end, in the hope of being allowed to help to carry the luggage into the house for the reward of a few coppers. On and on goes the trotting horse, increasing its pace as the streets become less crowded; and on and on jogs the poor boy, till the cab stops at the door, and the panting lad offers his help, often to be scolded and refused. But sometimes, when there is only a maid to help the cabman to get the boxes and dress-baskets upstairs, the boy’s help is accepted, and he receives the coppers for which he has run so far. John Lea. THE BORDERERS. ING JAMES I. of England, and Sixth of Scot¬ land, was the first monarch who took the title of ‘ King of Great Britain.’ He began to reign in A.D. 1603. Before that time England and Scot¬ land were not ruled as now, by one king or queen, but their peoples were foes instead of friends, and fought fierce battles against each other. Those, especially, who lived near the borders, where the two countries touched, had constant feuds and struggles. The chief wealth of these Borderers was that of cattle and sheep. Often, when a chieftain had gathered round his castle some bold men, perhaps his own sons, or servants, he would make what is called a ‘ raid ’ on the village of some other chief. If he could master him, he would drive away his flocks and herds, and make them his own. Every man was a soldier in those days, and he never knew how soon he would have to fight. Those were troublous times on the Borders.

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ion CHATTERBOX. QUEEN ELIZABETH’S VISIT TO CAMBBIDGE. IR WILLIAM CECIL, Chan¬ cellor of the University, wrote to his Vice-Chancellor on July 12th, A.D. 1*564, stating that the Queen wished to visit Cambridge. She desired to know what lodging was most suitable for her during her stay, and what ^ pleasures of learning’ could be offered to her. As for himself, Cecil said he meant to put up at St. John’s College, *his olde nurse;’ so the Master was to prepare bed and board for him. Archbishop Grindal also wrote a word in season to the heads of the Colleges. He said Her Majesty was to be entertained with Latin sermons and English, with comedies and tragedies, with speeches and de¬ bates in the classic tongues. These letters caused a great commotion, and the chief men in the University put their heads together and drew up a plan. The Queen was to be housed during her visit in King’s College, into which great stores of ale and wine were carried. The streets were newly paved and sanded, and, as it was plague¬ time, courtiers were sent beforehand to see whether the town could show a clean bill of health. Sir William Cecil, also, in spite of an unfortunate ‘ greff e,’ or sore in his leg or foot, was early on the scene, to look after the preparations. Also my Lord Robert Dudley, the favoured courtier, was there in good time. Having carefully inspected the Queen’s apartments at King’s College, my Lord went to Trinity, and passed through a double row of more than two hundred students to his lodgings in the Master’s house. On August 6th the entire University met in Edng’s College, and made a line from the west door of the chapel to Queens’ College. This street of dons and undergraduates was strewn with rushes. The Vice- Chancellor, and his Bedells with their silver maces, awaited Elizabeth on the lower step of the chapel. The building was hung with tapestry, and, where the Queen was to sit, they spread a fair Turkey carpet, and placed a chair of red velvet. The Mayor and Corporation met the Queen at Newnham. His Worship gave her a gold cup with twenty angels (a piece of money worth ten shillings) in it, which she graciously received. The Chancellor tarried on horseback at the gate beyond Queens’ College, until the royal pageant appeared. The trumpets sounded, and she came, heralded by bishops and nobles, and attended by a great company of ladies and maids of honour. She was dressed in black velvet, with a cap on her head set with jewels, and a hat^pangled with gold. At the doorway of King’s Chapel the Chancellor kneeled, and there was'much kissing of staves of office, and handing of them to the Queen, who returned them with a smile, saying she hoped that the magistrates did justly, and she trusted that they did not make justice halt, though her Chancellor did halt from his lame leg. She now had to listen to a half-hour’s speech from the Provost, who wore a rich cope of needle¬ work. She now and then interrupted the speaker, when she thought he was praising her beyond her merits. The Queen then entered the glorious chapel, under a canopy borne by four chiefs of the Univer¬ sity, and remained there some time in her devotions She was greatly impressed by the wonderful building, as she might well be, and said that she had never seen any place of worship so splendid and noble. This happened on a Saturday. Our fathers used to worship God betimes in those days ; and, after their morning prayers had been said next morning, they could still welcome their Queen between seven and eight o’clock, and accompany her to the Litany and sermon in King’s Chapel. The preacher was one Doctor Perne, and his sermon was all in Latin, and whether the Queen understood the whole or not, she was pleased to say she thought she never could hear a better one. When the afternoon service was over, what do our readers think of a play being acted on a stage in the chapel? This play went on until midnight, the needful light being provided by torches carried by the Queen’s guard. Elizabeth, wishing to hear how Cambridge men could argue, went on Monday to St. Mary’s Church, where a large stage was erected. The questions to be disputed were laid before her, and she watched the wordy quarrel with great interest, though it lasted six hours ! What wonderful people our fore¬ fathers were to sit so long and listen so patiently ! Nor was this all, for, having ‘ departed merrily ’ from St. Mary’s, she went to another play at King’s College. Tuesday was spent much as Monday, and so charmed was the Queen with all she saw that she stayed a day longer than she had intended, and would have remained longer if provision of beer and ale could have been made ! At a visit to each of the colleges various gifts were made to Her Majesty. Gloves and sweets seem to have been plentiful. Poetry also was very abundant. The Queen’s coming awoke a hundred Cambridge bards, and their verses were collected and written in the Roman hand, and bound in a book of red velvet, and presented to her. After a debate in Divinity which took place in St. Mary’s Church, the Queen was asked to say something to the University, and in Latin. This she refused at first to do. She would speak her mind in English if they liked ; but, when she was told that no language except Latin could be used in addressing so learned a body, she made a Latin speech, ^ to the great comfort of the students.’ In this address the Queen told them that there was no nearer road to her favour than to ply their studies diligently. She also lamented that she had as yet founded no college, but, said she, ‘ I hope to live long enough yet to leave some famous monument behind I me.’ The Queen concluded by saying that it was time their ears, which had been so long detained by her barbarous oration, should be released from the pain of it. A loud ‘ Vi vat Regina ! ' (‘ May the Queen live ! ’) greeted this spirited effort. But she replied that it

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CHATTERBOX. 167 should rather be said, ^ Taceat Regina 1 * C ^^7 Queen he silent ! ’). She was too tired with her Wednesday’s exertions to go to the Latin play in the evening ; moreover, she wished to leave Cambridge early the next day, v/hich she did at nine o’clock. Mr. Thomas Preston would not let her go without another speech, for which he was rewarded by being dubbed the Queen’s scholar, and by the gift of eight angels. ‘ Valete omnes ! ’ (‘ Farewell all ! ’) said Elizabeth, as the procession passed the Schools, and so she went away by Magdalene College to Hinchinbrook, ‘ committed by all men’s prayers to the grace and tuition of Almighty God.’ G. S. 0. STORIES PROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE SPECTRE OF THE BROCKEN. Mountaineering is a favourite pursuit with holiday-makers in these times, and most people have ascended mountains and admired their wonders and beauties ; but this was not the case^ in olden days. Then, great heights were regarded with fear ; not only children, but men and women^ were afraid when they thought of the crags and precipices, which, perhaps, were not far from their own homes. They believed that all sorts of strange beings lived amongst them ; that in the caves there were gnomes and elves, and queer creatures called trolls, who worked hard, at smelting and hammering metal, in the very heart of the rocks. Still more ancient beliefs were, that the mountains themselves were upraised in the great fight between the giant race called Titans and their father, the Sky, and that volcanoes and earthquakes were the results of the struggles of monsters buried under the earth, wishing to regain their freedom. It was the common tale that evil spirits with mysterious powers loved to dwell amongst the high¬ est hills, and that it was dangerous to intrude into their dwelling-places. Although, at length, these fears began to die out, there was little mountain¬ climbing, and it was a long while before even educated persons learned to care for the glorious sights of the world of nature, or found out the pleasure which may be enjoyed in gazing from high places upon the" landscape spread out below. Humble folk who are ignorant are apt to be fear¬ ful, and there was much in the mountains to terrify those who knew little or nothing of the laws of nature. The frowning precipice, the awful avalanche, or the gloomy cavern, were quite enough to frighten some of the more active peasants, who first ventured to climb part of the way up the sides of the vast mass of rocks which overshadowed their native valley. In some mountainous places there are appearances especially calculated to alarm the timid wayfarer. One of these is known as the Spectre of the Brocken, which is to be seen amongst the Hartz Mountains, in Germany. A traveller, standing upon a rocky peak, at the hours of sunrise or sunset, suddenly sees a gigantic shadow thrown upon a cloud of mist opposite to him. The shadow looks exactly like that of a man, only it is many times larger, and if the person who sees it does not happen to know that it IS nothing but the reflection of his own figure, greatly magnified, the chances are that he will really think that he has seen the awful ghost, or spectre, who is sunnosed to inhabit the mountains. C. J. Blake. PEACH-GATHERERS IN MADA- ^ ^ GASCAR. E do not hear very much about Madagascar now-a- days, yet it is a country which presents many points of interest. It is well worth a visit, though it is so far away. The island is one of the largest on the East of Africa, in the Indian Ocean. The coast is very jagged and indented by many bays. It is mountainous and picturesque, especially in the north ; it has some important towns and convenient sea-ports. The natives are coloured people, and, in spite of the missionary work which has for years been carried on in the island, slavery has not yet been entirely abolished.^ Many large land-owners own slaves, just as the rich Americans in the Southern States used to^ do before the American civil war. The inhabitants of Mada^ gascar are industrious. They weave and make good carpets. They are a sober people and drink only water. But in the way of food they eat “any curious things. Grasshoppers are a favourite dish, and in some provinces they eat the chrysalis of the silkworm. Maize and rice grow there in abundance, and are much used as articles of daily food. The Madagascar natives live in bamboo huts which they build for themselves, cleverly strengthening them with osiers and clay, after which they decorate them gaily by means of yellow and pink paint. The country is a fertile one. Beautiful and rare wood obtained from trees peculiar to the soil of the island, and fruit is very plentiful. j ^ i i* After many internal struggles and a good deal ot warfare, the inhabitants have more or less submitted to French rule, with the result that they find employ¬ ment in the cultivation of the land, and the growing of all sorts of articles imported by other countries, or used by the inhabitants of towns and villages in the island. That most delicate of all fruit, the peach, grows there in abundance, and is wonderfully che ap . The fruit is mainly gathered by children. It is packed in useful baskets, which are the work of the natives. In this way the peaches are either exported or sent to the markets of neighbouring towns and villages. Other produce — such as fowls, eggs, and rabbits— is disposed of in the same mpner, and it is thus that the natives increase in diligence, and are able to profit by their modest industi’y. Marguerite Ninet.

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168 CHATTERBOX. Peach-gatherers in Madagascar.

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3 70 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIE BRIAN. (Contin'ued from page 164.) CHAPTER II. OR nearly a day the little house, upon which so dread¬ ful a calamity had fallen, remained undisturbed in the terrible silence of death. Scarcely a sound broke that silence. Only the humming and buzzing j?f a few flies within, and the cry of a bird, or the chirrup of a grasshopper without, were to be heard. But towards evening a young Boer farmer, bound for his own home in the Transvaal, rode up to the door to ask for a night’s shelter. Finding the door wide open, and receiving no reply to his knocking, he entered. On the sofa lay poor, dead Mrs. Amberton - a sight which caused the pious Boer to pray aloud in fear and horror. He found the half- written paper upon the table, and, understanding some English, he read the following words : — ‘ May God protect my little son, Brian Amberton, and bring him into the hands of good and friendly people. I have but a few moments to live — my husband lies murdered by the same mad Kafiir— a stranger to us — we had done him no harm — to identify Brian look at left arm — vaccination mark like a V, surgeon’s knife slipped; lower down in same arm a scar where a dog - ’ At this point the manuscript ended, and the Boer pocketed the paper for futther study later, having but half understood what was written there. Then he made a tour of inspection over the house ; for, though sorry for the unhappy fate which had overtaken the poor lady, and, apparently, her husband also, he would be doing them no wrong, under the circumstances, in taking anything lie might find which would be of use to him. He did not find much, however. He exchanged his own worn boots for a newer pair, which he found in the bedroom, and which fitted him well, and he found, also, a good, shady hat of English make, which he took in place of his own, which was an inferior article. Then the Boer mounted his horse and travelled on. He found the body of the missionary lying half a mile or so further along the track, and stopped to examine it. There was nothing worth having in the pockets, excepting a knife with many blades"! This also he took, and pushed on. As he rode through the native village he informed a group of Zulu folk, squatting in the evening sunshine, that there had been trouble down at the Englishman’s station. ^ Go back, some of you, to the Dutchman’s farm by Pondwane Hill, and give notice. Tell him it was done by a Kafiir— maybe one of his— and he had better catch the fellow before he does further mischief.’ The Zulus went back, as desired, and one gave notice to the Dutch farmer, Kafiir Jem's master, who sent a messenger next day to Sefton, another English missionary, twenty- five miles further south. ‘ Let them bury each other,’ said the Boer ; ^ it is none of my business.’ Nevertheless, that Dutch farmer went in fear of his life for many days ; he went armed, and bade his wife and sons go carefully, because he knew that Kafiir Jem had disappeared, and that he was the kind of sullen, brooding, wolf - tempered rascal, who might, indeed, have run amok and done this thing. So Sefton, the missionary, came presently, and found his poor friend’s body, which the Zulus had brought with them and deposited in the house, and that of his good wife, and he buried tliem with prayers and tears, digging their graves with his own hands. His heart was heavy with grief, for these were the only friends of English blood within many a long league, and he could ill spare them, though he had seen them but seldom. Nevertheless, he was well aware that the unfortunate pair had had a little son, the delight of their eyes ; he remembered how they had shown ofiF the liule fellow with pride. Where was the child now ? The question troubled him, and he could find no answer to it. He inquired at the native village, but the villagers said they knew nothing. There had been a child, they said; pro¬ bably he was murdered also, and thrown into the river ; it was not likely that he would be spared by the murderer. ‘ And who, think you, was the murderer asked Sefton. ‘ Was there any one whom the dead man could in any way have offended ? ’ But the Zulus knew of no one. A Boer had ridden by, they said, and he had declared that a Kaffir had done it ; but the Boer wore an English hat and English boots, and, when they took the body to the house, there were his Dutch boots and his hat, and the chest of drawers all open. Sefton returned to the house, and examined these things for himself. He found them as the natives had stated. He discovered the hat and the boots ; he saw, too, that the chest of drawers had been turned inside out, and he came to his own con¬ clusions. When he wrote, reporting the circumstances, to the Governor of Natal, for the station lay near the boundary of that colony, he expressed the conclusion at whicffi he had arrived. The child might be mur¬ dered, or might have run, in his terror, into the veldt, he wrote; or he might have been carried away by some persons desiring to profit, eventually, by pro¬ ducing him if inquiries should be made as to his fate. But the parents had plainly been murdered, and possibly by a young Boer farmer or loafer, who had been seen about, and who had certainly stolen property belonging to the unfortunate people whom he or others had murdered. There had been men¬ tion of a Kaffir, but there was no evidence connect¬ ing any native with the crime. The Governor, on receipt of this report, did two things. He caused inquiries to be made on the spot, and he wrote to the nearest relative of the murdered man, with whom he had already had some corre-

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CHATTERBOX. 171 spondence on the subject of the young English missionary and his well-being. Sir Arthur Amberton, the elder brother of the dead man, had, in fact, written to the Governor more than once, begging his E^fcellency to have the kindness to keep an eye upon his brother, if possible, in ‘ the foolish career,’ as he called it, which the young man had adopted. His Excellency now wrote, reporting the sad news which he had received, promising to make every inquiry into the matter, and repeating the opinion expressed by the missionary, Sefton, who had visited the spot and buried the victims. When Sir Arthur Amberton received the letter acquainting him with the shocking news of his brother’s death, he was at his club in St. James’s Square. The letter was handed to him as he entered the club ; the envelope bore an official crest, and theit post-mark was Natal. ‘ From the Governor,’ remarked Sir Arthur to Captain Philips, a brother officer in the Royal Artillery, with whom he had come down to the club. H wish this was to tell me poor old Leslie is getting sick of the business and coming home to work in England,’ he continued ; ^ but I am afraid it is not likely. If you will excuse me, I will just read the letter.’ Arthur Amberton tore open the envelope and began to read ‘ Good heavens ! Philips,’ he suddenly exclaimed, G his is - ’ Poor Sir Arthur staggered towards a chair, and dropped into it. ‘ What is it, old man ? ’ said Philips, much con¬ cerned. ^ Not bad news, I hope.’ ^ The worst,’ said Arthur. ‘ I cannot tell you ; you shall read for yourself directly.’ He finished the letter and handed it to his com¬ panion. When Philips had read it there was silence. ‘ I shall have to get leave and go out there,’ said Sir Arthur, at length. ‘ The matter cannot be left lilie this. There is that child, Brian ; he must be found. He is the heir, you see.’ ‘ Yes,’ said Philips; ‘ if he is alive, he ought to be found, heir or no heir, poor little chap.’ There was silence for a few moments. ‘ It was that rascal of a Dutchman, the Boer fellow, who did it; I will find him, if it costs me ten thousand pounds ! ’ continued Sir Arthur. ‘ Poor, dear old Leslie, and that poor little wife of his ! I never saw her, but the old boy always wrote of her as the very best of women. Poor old Leslie ! I wish I could find the rascal who did it. Perhaps 1 may, some day. At any rate, I shall be off on his track as soon as I can get away.’ ‘ Certainly ; if you are going, you should lose no time,’ said Philips. ^ Would it be any comfort to you if I came, too ? ’ Amberton turned round and smiled cordially upon his friend. ^ I somehow thought perhaps you might say that, though I dared not expect it,’ he said. ‘ Should I like it ? It would make all the difference in the world to me, and it is like you to offer.’ ^ Well, I have got to get leave first,’ said Philips. ‘ Goodness knows,’ he added, with a laugh, ^whether the War Office folk can spare two such useful men ! as you and me at one and the same time. How¬ ever, we will do our best, and I should be glad to come.’ Leave was obtained without much difficulty, and within ten days both men were ready to take steamer for Cape Town, whence they would tranship to Durban and travel up-country by train and wagon. They went equipped for a three months’ trek into ‘ Heaven knows where,’ as Sir Arthur expressed it, and they carried arms and ammunition in plenty, for they hoped that, while sticking strictly to the business which was the object for the trip, the finding and bringing to justice the guilty parties, and the recovery of poor little lost Brian, they might combine the consoling pastime of big game-hunting with the more serious and less pleasant work which they had set themselves to do. So the two friends sailed in the Glamis Castle, for Cape Town, and duly arrived at their destination. They transhipped for Durban, where they interviewed the Governor, from whom they received all the information there was to be had with regard to the tragedy at the mission station — which was little more than they already knew. ' I have done all I could. Sir Arthur,’ said he. ‘ The police have done their best in searching for evidence bearing upon the matter ; but the whole affair is shrouded in mystery. I have even sent for, and seen Sefton, the missionary up at Springfontein. The only certain thing seems to be that your poor brother and his wife, and probably the child also, were basely murdered, and that Sefton buried the parents, but saw nothing of the child. I wish I could help you further, but it is impossible to get at the truth. Whether the natives know anything, and are concealing their knowledge, or whether they are really ignorant, as they declare, there is no getting any information out of them.’ ^ What of the Boer whom Sefton suspects ?’ asked Sir Arthur. ^ No trace of him can be found. The police are not inclined to suspect him; they can find no motive !’ <No motive. Sir Thomas!’ exclaimed Sir Arthur, almost angrily. ‘ What motive can any living soul have had for murdering a man like my poor brother ? There can have been no motive, except robbery. This man is supposed to have taken property from the house.’ ‘ Leaving his own in exchange, however 1’ said the Governor, smiling. ‘Bah! he knew he could trust the Transvaal police!’ Sir Arthur rejoined. He was disappointed that no clue had been discovered for him to follow, nothing done; time had been wasted. ^ Had they no servants ?’ he continued, after a short pause. ‘ Was there not a native nurse for the child ?’ ‘There was an old Zulu woman, a good body, Sefton reports. He made inquiries after her, thinking that she might have saved the child, but it appears that she was seen some miles away, walking without the child. A party of her own people met her, and i she told them that she had left your brother’s service ! because he had been murdered, and his wife with him. They declare that she was alone.’ ■

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172 CHATTERBOX. ‘ That is a matter which must be inquired into,’ said Sir Arthur, grimly. ‘ It looks suspicious.’ ‘ Well, you can take Sefton’s station on your way up,’ said the Governor, and this advice Sir Arthur decided to follow. {Gontimied at page 182. ) ‘And was he not, mother!' replied Philip in surprise. ‘ Oh, no ! ’ ‘ But has he long been dead, mother ? ’ • ‘ No — yes — and yet No,’ said the widow, covering her eyes. ‘ Her brain wanders,’ thought Philip ; but he spoke again : ‘ Then, where is he, mother ? ’ The widow raised herself, and a tremor ran through her whole frame as she replied, ‘ In living judgment.’ Philip was naturally deeply perplexed by this statement; but his mother, feeling that death drew very near to her, made great efforts to go on with her story. She told how, seated one midnight in that closed room, listening to the howling winds and <ffin, she had seen an apparition — her husband’s form — -enter through the casement. At first she had fainted. When she revived, it was to hear his weird tale. For nine weeks he had tried to force a passage round the Cape ; but, unable to do so, he had sworn terribly. ^ Again he tried with redoubled efforts for a second nine weeks, but he could make no headway against adverse winds and currents — then he blasphemed. The worn-out crew would have had him return to Table Bay ; but he refused. The pilot opposed him, and persuaded the men to bind him, and then, enraged beyond all patience. Captain Vanderdecken had struck at his adversary, causing him, as the ship lurched, to reel over-board. JEven the unhappy death of this man did not restrain the bold captain, for he swore a rash oath, by a relic of the Holy Cross, suspended round his wife’s neck, that he would gain his point of rounding the Cape in defi¬ ance of storm and seas, even if he should beat about until the Bay of Judgment. ‘ My oath,’ said the the apparition, ‘ was registered in thunder, and in streams of sulphurous fire. The hurricane burst upon the ship, the canvas flew away in ribbons, and in the centre of a deep over-hanging cloud, which shrouded all in utter darkness, were written in letters of livid flame these words, “ Until the Day of Judgment.” ’ The unhappy captain then put a sealed letter on the table, saying as he did so, ‘ One hope alone remains, and for this am I permitted to come here. Take this letter, Catherine, and try if you can assist me. Read it — and now farewell, my time has come.’ The form vanished as it had appeared, and the widow, for such she felt her¬ self to be, was alone with her deep and terrible grief. The narration of this incident had been too much for the troubled woman ; she fell forward into Philip’s arms, and he knew that she was dead. The story now turns on the finding of the letter, and the carrying out of its behests. The letter was discovered in the closed room. There, too, were bags of wealth, the possession of which made their owner a rich man. On breaking the seal of the missive, Philip read : — ‘ To Catherine. ‘ One of those pitying spirits, whose eyes rain tears for mortal crimes, has been permitted to inform me by what means alone my dreadful doom may be averted. HEROES AND HEROINES OP ^ FAMOUS WRITERS. phantom ship.’* j U E. hero in this story is Philip Vanderdecken, when we are first A 1 )#/ I iiitroduced to him he is ' a youth of nineteen or twenty. The author says features ^ were handsome and bold, and his y frame powerful; his eye denoted courage, and as he carelessly swung his legs and whistled an air, one formed the idea that he was a daring, adventurous, and reckless character. The house in which he dwelt was in the town of Terneuse, situated on the right bank of the Scheldt, and nearly opposite the island of Walcherin. It was a small and neat cottage surrounded by its little garden, flanked by a low hedge of privet, and en¬ circled by a moat full of water, too wide to be leaped with ease. Over the moat, in front of the cottage, was a bridge for the convenience of those wishing to pass to the house. There were four rooms in the cottage, and one of these, at the time of which we tell, had not been opened for seventeen years. The other occupant of the bright and clean kitchen in which Philip Vanderdecken was standing was his mother, a worn-looking woman of forty years or so. As, by the writer’s assistance, we see her seated on the couch, and hear her talking to her son, we note that her face shows traces of great mental suffering, and we learn that she is very ill. Her son is declaring to her his intention of going to sea, and she is imploring him to promise her never to take to a seafaring life. He persists that, as he is no longer a child, it is not fair of her to ask him to promise to stay on shore with her and starve, when she will not even trust him so far as to tell him why that room has been so long closed, although she had once declared, when half frantic with grief, that there was money in it. The excitement caused by this conversation made Mrs. Vanderdecken rupture a blood-vessel. Philip, greatly alarmed, for he loves his mother dearly, hastens for a doctor, and brings in Mynheer Poots. a little miserable miser, whose first thought is, ‘ Who will pay me ? ’ Finding that she is dying, the widow determines to tell her son the secret, the knowledge of which has so darkened her life. * It is of your father 1 would speak,’ she said. ^ It is supposed that he was drowned at sea.’ * The Phantom Ship, by Captain Marryat, is published at 0d. by Frederick Warae & Co., London.

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* Could I but receive on the deck of my own ship, the holy relic upon which 1 swore the fatal oath, kiss it in all humility, and shed one tear of deep con¬ trition on the sacred wood, I then might rest in peace. * How this may be effected, or by whom so fatal a task may be undertaken, I know not. Oh, Catherine, we have a son ; but no, no, let him not hear of me. Pray for me, and now, farewell. ‘ I. Vanderdecken ’ On reading this, Philip swore a sacred oath, on the same relic on which his father had sworn his rash one, that he would devote his days to carrying out his

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174 CMArTKJrlBOX. father’s wish, that he would avert his father’s doom or perish in the attempt. That it would be no easy task to follow a phantom he well knew. ^ YeV thought Philip, ^ it is clearly my duty, whatever the difficulties, to seek to deliver my father. As for death, should I encounter it in the search, well, how better could I die? Then, again, death can come but once to any of us. It has never come to my father, he is still wandering about, travelling up and down on the ocean in his phantom vessel, nor can any give him rest and release, except him who holds to his lips this very relic for him to kiss in penitence for his rash oath and guilty deed.’ So it came about that our hero went to sea, sternly set on the deliverance of his father. Before he went he had taken into his confidence the beautiful and high-minded daughter of Mynheer Foots, the wretched miser, who had, as doctor, attended Philip’s mother in her last illness. Mynheer Foots’ daughter was named Amine, and she was brave and noble, albeit she was not of the same faith as Philip — a Catholic — but had been brought up to worship the ^God of Nature,’ name Him as you will. Her father was a Mohammedan, and her mother an Arab, and practised mystic arts. Amine held the faith of her forefathers, as taught her by her mother. On one occasion Philip had saved her life by rescu¬ ing her from a band of marauders, who sought to rob her father’s house, believing, and rightly, that the old miser was very wealthy. Thus a friendship sprang up between Amine and Philip, and one which every day only tended to deepen. Father Seysen, the good priest who had been the friend of Philip’s family for so many years, saw how the young people were attached to one another, and, desirous that Philip should not marry an unbeliever, he sought to instruct Amine in the doctrines of his faith, but she, being deeply attached to the religion of her fore¬ fathers as revealed to her by her mother, although a willing disciple, was unable to accept his teachings for herself. Hopeful that she would be won over to his religion, Philip asked Father Seysen to perform the ceremony of marriage, and Mynheer Foots having given his consent as soon as he knew of the wealth in the room in Philip’s house, the marriage was celebrated in the little church of Terneuse, the bells ringing a merry peal on the occasion. Philip, how¬ ever, was too honourable a man not to have told his beloved of the dreadful secret in his possession. He, indeed, tried to dissuade her from casting in her lot with his, as he told her that many terrible hardships, with frequent absences from home, were in store for him, which would make grief for her, loving him as she did. But nothing could dissuade the faithful girl. She assured him that she loved him better than life, and that all the trials which she might be called on to endure were as nothing compared to the joy she would have in giving herself to him as his devoted wife. This being so, it was a dire trouble to the pair when, one morning in autumn, Philip received a summons to his ship, the Ter Schilling, bound for the | East Indies, under the old East India Company, i The messenger who brought the summons was a i meagre man, dressed in the garb of the Butch seamen | of the time. He had but one eye, his right eye-lid was closed, and this left eye was very prominent, clear, and watery, so that on looking at him it was rather one eye with a man attached, than a man with one eye, that people saw, forgetting everything else about him. His name was Schriften, and he was every bit as disagreeable a fellow as he looked. Whenever he appeared to Philip and Amine, it was always to announce some impending calamity. Amine felt convinced that Schriften was more than mortal, that he was the agent of the powers of evil, and her husband was of the same mind. Nor were they mistaken. His curious laugh, soundin"” as though he had hissed ‘ he ! he ! ’ always foreboded ill — sometimes the coming of a storm, sometimes a disastrous fire at sea, or a wreck, but always suffer¬ ing of some sort. The seamen were, on several occasions, scared out of their wits by the appearance of a Ghost Ship, a phantom vessel, which they knew as the Flying Dutchman, Disaster followed this sight. Philip and the captain of the Ter Schilling, peering through the gloom, strained their eyes to see what manner of vessel it could be, outlined before them in the dim distance. Gradually the gloom seems to clear away, and a pale blaze to light up on the horizon, and in the centre of the pale light they perceive a large ship, about three miles distant, and although there is a perfect calm she appears to be buffeting in a violent gale, plunging and lifting over a surface smooth as glass. Closer and closer she comes, until all on Philip’s ship can see the men on board the stranger vessel ; ttey can see the foaming water hurled from her bows, hear the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s pipe, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the complaining of her masts. Then the gloom gradually rises again, and in a few seconds she has totally disappeared ! Philip feels a hand laid on his shoulder, and the cold darts through his whole frame. He turns round and meets the one eye of Schriften, who screams in his ear, ^ Philip Vanderdecken — that is the Flying Dutchman' The phantom appearance was soon followed by the total wreck of the Ter' Schilling, in which most of the lives of the ship’s company were lost, and much suffering was the lot of those saved from the wreck. One of these was Philip. How he ever kept before him, with undaunted spirit, the object to which he had dedicated his life — the rescue and re¬ lease from wandering on the high seas of his father — is well told. After years of trials and hardships, after losing her who was dearer to him than life, and who accompanied him on several of his voyages, his faithful Amine, you will be relieved to learn that he at length obtained the reward of his perils and miseries, by discovering his father on the phantom ship, handing him the sacred relic to kiss, and declare his penitence, and that finally the pardoned father and the noble and filial son were united in a never to be severed union — that of a peaceful death. Schriften turned out to be the man (or his ghost) who had been killed in fury by the elder Vanderdecken. The murdered man’s appeal for vengeance had been allowed by the higher powers, so that he was per¬ mitted to remain on earth and thwart the will of Philip in his endeavours to find his father, until such time as ^ Philip should forgive his enemy,’ as Schriften

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CHATTERBOX. 175 declared himself to be. By the exercise of forgive¬ ness the malevolent Schriften was conquered, and ceased his work of thwarting one who had thus become his friend. The saddest fate of all was that of poor Amine, who fell into the hands of the Inquisition, and was burned publicly at Goa, in Portuguese territory, for sorcery, as it was announced, but in reality because she was true to the faith of her forefathers, and the creed taught her by her mother, and refused to embrace the Catholic Faith, in which she could not believe. The tale would be a gruesome one indeed, were it not that there is a deep and hidden meaning in it. That meaning is clear to all who endeavour to think about it carefully and seriously. See if you readers of Chatterbox can find it out for yourselves ! James Cassidy. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 15. — Ehyming Puzzle. I HAVE thought of a word which rhymes with ‘ sake. ’ Is it a garden implement ? 1. No, it is not a - Is it to compel by force ? 2. No, it is not to - Is it a method of cooking ? 3. No, it is not to - Is it a thin layer of any substance ? 4. No, it is not a - Is it a savoury bird ? 5. No, it is not a - Is it a school-boy’s delight? No, it is not a - Is it a kind of fern ? 7. No, it is not a - Is it a sheet of water ? 8. No, it is not a - Is it to quench thirst ? 9. No, it is not to - Is it to obtain possession ? 10. No, it is not to - Is it to destroy ? 11. No, it is not to - Is it a slice of meat ? 12. No, it is not a - Is it a bird ? 13. No, it is not a — — Is it a piece of pointed wood ? 14. No, it is not a - Is it to tremble with fear ? 15. Yes, it is to - C. C. 10. — Changed Words. 1. Change Dog to Man. 2. „ But to And. 3. „ Ape to Man. 4. >, Tom to Ned. 'lAnswers 5. Change Boy to Man. 6. ,, Jim to Bob. 7. „ Lime to Tree. 8. „ Fig to Nut. C. C. page 190.] 14. — Moscow, L. Moors. 4. Canada. 2. Orinoco. 5. Oasis. 3. Stockholm. 6. Wellington. RUSSIAN MARKET G-ARDENERS. Although farmers of most countries are grumblers, they would possibly think even their worst years very profitable if they could com¬ pare them with the distress and the difficulties which are experienced in other places. In Russia, for instance, neither the peasant nor the market gardener has a prosperous time or easy circum¬ stances. The country covers an immense tract of land, larger, in fact, than that of almost any other country in the world. In many districts the soil is poor and barren, and the distance from village to village is very great. In other parts the harvest is hmdered by the intense cold and the dreary, long winters. The cold is often such that whole families of poor peasants have remained within the four walls of their miserable dwellings^ for weeks at a time, sooner than face the biting frost. All this tends to keep the people in a state of poverty, and they sink down into dull despair. In other ways too they are often harassed, owing to the manner in which they are at the mercy of government officials, who are cruel and over¬ bearing, so that there is much discontent, though it does not always find vent in outward expression. In spite of these drawbacks, however, the Russian manages to till his small plot of land, and with wonderful energy he tries to dispose of the produce in the town. Many folk would be discouraged by the long distances which he has to carry his modest ^oods. The carts are poor constructions, and the ill-fed horses are often hardly fit for work; still, the peasant packs his cart as tightly as he can with cabbages and other vegetables. Cabbages are a staple food in Russia, as the national soup, which sometimes forms the only dish of the peasant s table, is chiefly made of that vegetable. One little corner of the cart must be saved for the driver to sit in. He could not walk, since the journey would prove too long. He needs to be well provided with straw and any other means of keeping out the cold and damp. The Russian peasant s dress plainly shows that the fear of the cold is one of ^ his chief thoughts. He wears a thick coat reaching down to his ankles, his hair is seldom cut, and the same thing may be said of his beard. A felt or fur cap with ear-pieces completes his out-door apparel, and so, with his feet and legs swathed in the straw, and his knees covered with any other wraps that he may have, the gardener sets out on his dreary journey, to be lucky or not, as the case may be. In his long journeys he does not dislike a hot drink at some wayside house, but he does not forget his horse, who always receives a little drop of the same drink. On the return journey, especially if fortune has favoured him, the Russian drives cheerily back in his empty cart, stopping at every inn for' a little refreshment. On the other hand, if business has been bad, master and steed go sadly home. Marguerite Ninet.

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CH ATTER BOX . Hussiai) JIarket Gardeners.

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CHATTERBOX.

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178 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES, n. -AST autumn, a coble called the Caroline^ carrying three hands in addition to her skipper, left Portsmouth, in ballast, for the purpose of sailing to Chichester har¬ bour. A fresh wind was blowing from the south¬ west, and the day was raw and cold. The force of both wind and wave was some¬ what broken by the friendly shores of the Isle of Wight for most part of the short journey, but, as soon as the little craft got beyond the shelter of Bembridge, she began to make bad weather of it. As the after¬ noon wore on, the wind increased in force, until about three o’clock, when it was almost a gale. The Caroline laboured heavily, and, in spite of all her crew could do, she slowly forged, and creaked, and groaned her way nearer and nearer to the leeward shore of Hayling. The coast-guard^onned their oil¬ skins and sou’-westers, and stood about the desolate shingly beach, anxiously watching the upshot of the struggle between their fellow-men and the remorseless ocean. The salt spray was dashing over the devoted craft, the wind pressing her down to a dangerous angle, every now and then, when an extra heavy gust struck her. Would she get to the mouth of the harbour always a difficult one to enter — or would she not ? Eagerly these weather-beaten men debated the point between them. Then came a furious blmding storm of ice-cold rain, hail, and wind, which, for a few moments, completely obscured their view of the ill-fated boat. When it passed over, the Caroline was not to be seen from the shore— she had no doubt capsized in the squall. A few moments later, the anxious watchers on the shore could just dimly discern, rising and falling on the top of the waves, the unfortunate vessel’s black hull lying sideways, with four human figures clinging to the rigging. Without the loss of a moment, a messenger was dispatched to summon a crew and launch the life-boat. A hurried consultation was held on the beach, as to whether it would be possible to get a life-hne out to the wreck ; but the idea was quickly abandoned. In that roaring, raging sea, the man who attempted the feat must surely have paid for his rashness with his life. ^ Harder and fiercer every moment blew the gale, The wreck lay grinding the life out of her m shoal water; at one ruoment grating on the bottom, and the next tossed high on a gigantic wave. Then came another furious squall, and when it lulled for a moment, only as it were to gather fresh force, there were seen to be only three figures left, and a minute later, one of these fell helplessly into the seeching waters, numbed to death with the biting cold. Just then a faint cheer was raised, and, looking along the shore to the westward, a tiny brown sail was seen bearing down on the scene of disaster. It was the life-boat, which had been manned and launched with all speed, and, under all the pressure her crew dared put on her, was coming on her errand of mercy. Would they be in time, or would the unhappy survivors fail to hold on until help arrived ? That was the all-important question now. Gallantly the life-boat plunged through the flying foam, and faced the rugged, angry masses of water, which rose up against her as though in awful threatening. Onward she came, but how slowly, in spite of all her crew could do. Within a quarter of a mile, the dark figure, which throughout had clung to the cross-trees, fell into the thundering seas, and in a moment was washed away ; and then, with hardly a minute’s interval, the fourth and last of that doomed vessel’s crew was swept over into the boiling surf, and the life-boat’s work had failed. How I wish that this story had had another and a better ending ! But it is hard matter-of-fact, and not fiction that I am telling, and I, the writer, was one of those whose lot it was to stand, helpless, on that wind-swept beach, and watch their fellow- creatures drown without even being able to make a struggle to save them. F. K. THE DREAM OP ANSELM. An Historical Legend. Toiling, idling, in the sunshine, In the cornfields, rich and fair, Anselm watched the harvest maidens As they seemed to dally there. So he scaled the ^ gleaming hill-tops,’ To accuse them to their Lord : ‘ Oh ! they do not do their duty, And they merit no reward.’ Then he heard the Master call him, Listening to his sore complaint, And celestial bread was given him. Whiter than the robe of saint. And his soul, refreshed and humbled, Comforted itself to know Heaven was near and all around him,^ And he felt a subtle glow Filling him with calls to service, And his troubled heart found rest ;; Lookers-on may well make errors. But the Lord knows what is best. A. A. D. W. THE DISOBEDIENT WAVES. The coastguard’s cottage was built close to the sea ; and his garden had a high wall round it, made of stones, and painted white, to keep the flowers from the wind and the salt spray. And the fl.owers, to show that they were grateful, grew more beautifully there than they did anywhere else ; the roses, and scarlet lilies, and huge red poppies, made

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CHATTERBOX. 179 a perfect blaze of colour against the house, and the whole air was sweet with the perfume of musk and 4 mignonette. The bees came to gather honey there, and then flew back to their hives in the little Tillage under the shadow of the hills ; and the birds sang their best to please the flowers, and then flew away to spread the fame of the garden far and near. Down below on the beach the waves broke in tiny ripples on the sand, and looked up at the white¬ washed walls above them and longed to see what was on the other side. Sometimes a great scarlet lily would grow taller than usual, and its flaming head could be seen over the top of the wall. Or a venturesome rose would climb up and hang some of its pink buds over the wall, and then the waves would get very excited, and run races with each other to try and reach the flowers, but they only washed up on the sand and were no nearer than before. * Oh ! we should so like to see what the garden is like,’ they used to murmur. ‘ Why cannot we go to the wall and climb over and play among the flowers, instead of always having to stop down here among the sand and stones ? ’ But a great force seemed to hold them back which they could not break, and to draw them into the ocean again. And the Ocean chid them for wishing to have what they could not get. ‘If you did climb the wall, there would be no lovely flowers left to play with, for your play would be so rough that you would kill them all. So be happy with the seaweed and shells which you have got, and do not grumble so often.’ But the little waves did not believe what they heard. ‘ As if we would kill them ! — did you ever hear anything so absurd ? We only wish to play with them, and we would be so careful. The little shells that we play with do not get broken. But the Ocean is always so conceited, and thinks that it knows better than any one else.' They were so curious about what was on the other side of the wall, that they asked the seagulls what the garden was like. And the birds skimmed back and forth on their grey-white wings, and then settled on the water, and, as they rocked gently on the green waves, they told of all the wonderful flowers, and how beautiful they were, of all colours and kinds ; and about a pair of white doves that hung in a great wicker cage just outside the porch, which was covered with roses. And then the waves would ask the Moon to tell them what it saw, as it hung up above in the midnight sky ; and if she had time to spare from other things she would be good-natured, and look over the wall for them. ‘I can see beds of flowers, and some of them have gone to sleep. But the roses, red, and yellow, and white, are all awake. And the currant bushes are full of fruit, and there is a white kitten playing with her tail on the grass.’ And all this excited the waves so much that they made up their minds that nothing would prevent them from seeing over the wall for themselves, and having something better to play with than the sand, the seaweed, and the shells. And so when one day there came a great storm of wind, and the waves broke with a roar on to the beach, the Ocean could hardly hold them back. And the wind grew worse and worse, and the waves got bigger and bigger, till they were dashing up against the foot of the garden wall. ‘ If we were only a little stronger we could get inside and play. We shall never get such a splendid chance again ! ’ And then gathering themselves for one mighty rush, they rose up in a huge white crest, and the next moment they were pouring over the little white wall, and were down among the lovely flowers. But their play was far too rough, though they tried to be very gentle, and when the tide went down the garden lay desolate. The flowers were drowned and covered with sand ; the roses were black from the salt water, and the doves and their cage had been swept away, and the white kitten stood on the roof of the cottage, and mewed with terror. And the waves were frightened at what they had done, and sobbed on the beach below, as they tried not to see the broken-down wall and the desolation beyond. The circling gulls gave shrill cries of dis¬ may as they looked down at what had once been a garden. ‘ That comes of disobedience,’ said the Ocean severely. ‘ If you had listened to me and not thought that you knew a great deal better, you would not have broken down the wall out of mere idle curiosity, to see what was on the other side. And now you have killed all the beauty which gave so much pleasure to so many people, because you refused to listen to one who is far wiser than you are.’ ‘ But can we not put it all right ? ’ the waves pleaded. ‘ We would so much like to do so.’ But the Ocean told them that what they had done could never be undone. And so they were very sorrowful. Florence A. G. Davidson. BOYS OF THE LONDON STBEETS. ICE CREAMS. WHEN the summer has come with its flowers, and the sun has found its way into the streets of London, there is a certain person who knows that he will be welcome there as well. This person is the ice-cream man. Oh, dear, how hot it is ! There is hardly any shade at all. Surely it is surprising that the sun, having come into the streets so seldom during the wet and foggy winter, is able to find its way all about the great city ? Not a street is missed. The hot dust is under foot ; the hot sky is overhead, and— Where is the ice-cream man ^ Oh, where ? When the Lord Mayor gives a banquet, a large party is happy to sit down at the Mansion House, but I do not think that any of them are more delighted than the boys who crowd round the ice-cream stand. The metal lid is lifted; the spoon goes into the cool ‘ well,’ and comes out again with

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rsr*Br a pennyworth of the ice-cold cream, flavoured with r^pherry or vanilla, or what passes for such. The London street boys do not trouble to use a spoon, but they hold the thick glass, with the ice in it, to their lips and lick the ice till it disappears. Hence a somewhat vulgar riddle. Why is a horse like a halfpenny ice ? — Because the more you lick it the faster it goes. But of recent years the choice is given to the customers at the ice-cream barrow, of having their ice between two wafer biscuits, instead of in a glass. The ice-cream man was first known in the streets of London some forty years ago, but he was not then such a favourite. Indeed, he had to give up the trade, for he had not learned how to keep his ices cool. But he knows how to do his business better now, and in many street corners the kindly Italian may be seen with a group of boys round his gaudily painted wheel-barrow.

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When the sun’s summer visit is over, and it travels south for the winter, the ice-cream man puts on his coat and comes into the street with a m ^re suitable dainty. On his barrow there is a glo\ying tire, and over the fire is a metal tray with roasting cheatnuts in it. Then his guests gather round his fire with the same delight as they showed in the summer. and the same mouths that swallowed the cool ice cream are opened for hot chestnuts. ^iVhat a jolly feast it is for— a halfpenny ! It is wonderful what a halfpenny will do in this way ; but, though ice creams and chestnuts are very nice, it is a good thing not to have too many of them. John Lea.

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182 CHATTERBOX. CURE FOR A MISCHIEVOUS MONKEY. Duke of Richmond had his hunters in Sussex. A monkey that was kept in the stable was fond of riding’ on the horses, skipping from one to the other, and teasing them much. The groom made a complaint to the Duke, who formed a plan to cure the mischievous monkey. ‘If he is so fond of riding,’ said his Grace, ‘ we will give him enough of it.’ A hunting dress was provided for the monkey, and the next time the hounds went out, Jacko, in his red coat, was fastened bv a strap to the saddle of one of the best hunters. When the fox was found, away they went, through thick and thin. The monkev^s horse, carrying so light a weight, presently left all the company behind. Some of the party, passing by a faim-house, asked a countryman whether he had seen the fox. zure,’ said the man, ‘he be gone over yon fallow. ‘ And was there any one up with him ? ’ . Whoy, yes,’ said John. ‘There be a little man in a red jacket, riding like mad. 1 hope the young gentleman has not had a fall, but he rides monstrous hard. When the horse got back to the stable the poor monkey was nearly dead, and never wished to be on horseback again. lost sir BRIAN. {Continued from page 172.) CHAPTER III. J3AN WHILE Brian, poor little waif, is lost in dark Africa. Old Sekosa was thoroughly to be trusted. Poor iMrs. Amberton knew that well enough when, with almost her last breath, she trusted , , ker treasure to the old Zulu womans keeping. Sekosa’s love for the child was real and intense. She would guard and keep him with her own life. She was, in a way, too fond of him; for, whereas her bidding, as received from her mistress s dying lips, was to protect the child until she saw a chance of delivering him to his own p^ple, the old woman knew well enough — or would have known if she had thought about it — that she would never part with the child, if she could help it, now that she had him safely for her owm. Had Mrs. Amberton’s strength held out, she w^ould have written out upon the slip of paper, which she meant to contain full instructions for Brian’s future, the address of Sir Arthur in England, to be given with the child, to the first trustworthy Englishman whom Sekosa should find, together with a prayer that her countryman, whoever he might be, would see that the orphan was duly sent back to Durban, and dispatched, under care, to England. Sekosa set out for her own kraal, which lay a hundred and fifty miles from the Ambertons’ station. She avoided all villages, for she did not wish to be seen with the child, lest questions should be asked, and she might, by some ill chance, be deprived of her precious charge. Brian was gay enough at first, well pleased with the noyelt}^ of the proceeding. He ran at the old woman’s side, or took a ride upon her back when he was tired. ^ He laughed and chatted, and chased the butterflies, and never thought of returning home, until the afternoon of the first day was well spent. Then he suddenly sat down and cried. ‘ I want to go back to Mammy ! ’ he wailed. ‘Ah! no Mammy now; no go back home!’ said Sekosa; ‘ there bad man, want to kill Brian and eat him.’ ‘ WiU he kill and eat Mammy ?’ asked Brian. ‘ Yes, and Father too !’ said Sekosa. ‘Better not go near ; come with Sekosa, and bad man shall not hurt Brian.’ ‘ To-morrow I will go and kill that bad man if he hurts Mammy,’ said Brian. And with this under¬ standing the child soon fell asleep, well wrapped in the blanket, which old Sekosa had brought for his use. On the following day, it was easy to persuade the child that he was on his way home, by means of which pious fraud Sekosa contrived to satisfy him, whenever he cried for his mother. Once, on the second day, the old woman, anxious to travel without being seen with her little charge, lest he should be taken from her, was obliged to devise a plan in order to avoid the danger which she feared ; for, as they toiled slowly up a steep hill, she suddenly saw a party of three or four natives coming downwards to meet them. Sekosa instantly pushed the child behind a large boulder, bidding him lie still there, and neither move nor utter a sound. ‘If you^ do,’ fihe said, ‘ bad man, coming down the hill, will find you and kill you.’ The scared child crept into the hiding-place which Sekosa had found for him. ‘ Sekosa come and hide too,’ he whispered. But the old woman raised a warning finger, and bade him lie very still. So Brian lay quiet, scarcely daring to breathe, while the old woman went slowly up the hill to meet the party. She walked along weeping and wailing, playing the part by which she hoped to deceive them. Up came the natives, a moment or two later, and, seeing the woman’s distress, naturally asked her what was the matter. ‘ I have lost my situation,’ she exclaimed, ‘ which brought me pioney ; my good English mistress is dead, and so is my master, and, worst of all, so is the babe which was my charge — murdered, all every one ! ’ ‘ For what offence ?’ asked the Zulus. For none that I know,’ said Sekosa ; ‘ they were kind people ; if a dog had bitten them, they would have been sorry to beat it ; who can say why there came an enemy ‘ Maybe for loot !’ grunted one of the Zulus. ‘ Is the house empty— is there anything left to take? lou have loot, I see; give ine the bundle you carry ! ’

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CHATTERBOX. 183 ‘ Alas ! it is but clothes to warm me. I shall be cold on the mountains,’ said poor Sekosa. ‘ Nevertheless, give me the bundle ; where is this station ? is there tobacco in the house ? is there a gun?’ Sekosa described the position of the house. ‘ There is tobacco,’ she said. Away hurried the four men, intent upon loot. They passed within twenty paces of little Brian’s boulder, but the frightened child lay with closed eyes and scarcely breathing lips, making no sound. Sekosa came back to him, when she had watched the men safely away. She soothed his fears and gave him food, and presently the child fell asleep and forgot his terror. The incident alarmed the old woman, for it had become fixed in her mind that she must not on any account let her cliarge be seen, or she would be robbed of him, and, at all hazards, that must not happen, for she loved him as dearly as though he had been a child of her own. This fear lest she should be deprived of him led the old woman to take a rash course. She presently left the track which led across the veldt towards her own country, and went in the opposite direction. Food soon ran out, but this the old woman did not mind, because she thought that each night, when the child was asleep, she would go to the nearest kraal and obtain provisions for the following day. And on the first nig-ht the plan succeeded well enough, for Sekosa chose for her halting-place a kopje, from which she could see a native kraal in the distance. The night was cold, and the extra clothing which she had brought with her had been stolen by the Zulu fellows yesterday. When Sekosa came back with food from the kraal, she found Brian awake, shivering with cold, though she had given him her own shawl, and screaming with terror at finding himself alone. ^ That will not do, thought the old woman ; * he must not be left at night. If he cries so, he might be heard and stolen from me while I was absent ; or even a wild beast might be attracted by his voice.’ So Sekosa starved herself next day in order that the child need not be left at night while she went to look for food. She hoped to see a kraal in the day¬ time, in which case she would hide the child while she fetched provisions ; but she found no kraal, and she lay down to rest beside the child, cold and hungry. All next day she went forward with achingjiead, and her mind wandered from time to time. There was a little food left, and this she gave to the child. Brian was weary and hungry ; he cried constantly for his mother, and would not be comforted. The old woman began to despair. She carried the child, and fondled and kissed him, entreating him to be quiet lest bad men should hear him, and come and take him from Sekosa, who loved him. But she was weak, and even Brian’s little body was too heavy for the feeble old woman ; she stumbled and fell, pitching Brian into a bush. Sekosa helped him out, but was so exhausted with the effort that she lay and panted for an hour. After that time she suddenly roused herself. She placed a hand to her eyes and stared out into the veldt. T^’ool that I am,’ she exclaimed; Hhere is a kraal close at hand, and we starving here.’ There was no kraal within sight, but her brain wandered through weakness, and she fancied that she saw that which did not exist. ‘ Stay here, my lamb, and do not move,’ she said. ^ Sekosa will fetch good supper for Brian.’ Away tottered the devoted old creature, heading for her imaginary kraal. She passed over the brow of a hillock, a hundred yards or so from the spot at which she left her charge. That moderate distance took half an hour to traverse, for she was giddy and faint, and stood resting at each boulder which afforded her support as she went ; but when she disappeared from the child’s sight, and began to descend the opposite slope of the hillock, she found no convenient boulder against which to prop herself ; then the old woman looked helplessly around, took a step or two, tottered, wavered, and fell with a sigh, unconscious. Brian called to her presently, but she did not hear. Even when the child, losing courage a few minutes later, passed, screaming within a few yards of where she lay, but without seeing her, she neither heard nor knew that her beloved little white lamb was close to her and called in terror upon her name. If a regiment had passed within a yard of her, with full band playing and drums beating, Sekosa would have known nothing of it, for her faithful soul had left the poor abode of skin and bone which had been her body. Sekosa was dead, and it seemed as if little Brian could not live long. Away wandered the poor little waif, hungry, terrified, screaming at the top of his voice as he went, shouting for Sekosa, for his mother, for his father, running as he cried, and stumbling, but making good way down-hill. It was nearly evening, and in an hour or two Brian would have been overtaken by dsirkness and night. If this had happened, he could not have survived without Sekosa to warm and soothe him. But Brian had sound British lungs, and his yells were not unheard and unheeded. The great Umthali — his friends and acquaintances thought him great, because he was a very fearless and a very successful hunter — the great Umthali chanced to be out that day, and in that district, in search of meat or skins, and Umthali, as his admirers said, had the ears of the springbok, and the eyes of the eagle, and the nose of the vulture. Umthali heard the cries of the child a mile off, and wondered what strange new beast was about. Indeed, he did Brian the honour of stalking him, until, having- come within a few hundred yards of the Uiproar, he found, to his very great wonder, that the noise was nothing more important than the full-lunged yelling of an able-bodied child. So disgusted was Umthali at this discovery that it was only with an effort he determined to take the trouble to see what ailed the brat. When he did so, however, and realised that he had found a white child, he changed his mind as to the importance of the incident. ‘ This is even better than a lion-skin,’ Umthali thought. ^ Ugh ! and I nearly left him to yell ! ’ (^Continued at page 186.)

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184 CHATTERBOX. Umthali found a white child. ‘ Ugh ! I nearly left him to yell ! ’ ”

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186 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 183.) CHAPTEH IV. 0 0 R Brian did not take kindty \ to his new protector. This, ^ thought, as he screamed struggled in Umthali’s arms, this must be the bad man of whom Sekosa had spoken during the last day two. He struggled and screamed, and called aloud upon poor, dead Sekosa, upon 'W V father; but no one came to his assistance. IJmthali was quite kind and gentle with him. He laughed and did his best to speak soothingly in his own tongue, of which Brian knew the sound well, so that it did not add to his alarm. Gradually, find¬ ing that nothing happened to harm him, the child’s cries subsided. Umthali seated him upon the grass, and laughed and chattered to him, and Brian, still sobbing at regular intervals, glanced askance at him, frowning with his eyes full of unshed tears. Umthali produced a scrap of food and placed it in the child’s fist. Here it remained for some minutes unheeded ; but, presently, Brian tasted the stuff and finished it — it was a piece of sun-dried antelope flesh, Umthali laughed, and made a remark which was possibly the Zulu for ‘ Well done, little one ; have another bit ! ’ At any rate, he produced more food, and presently, water, both of which were pleasant and welcome to the child, who ate and drank heartily. Afterwards, when, exhausted as he was, he fell asleep, Umthali carried him in his arms to the place where he intended to pass the night, and here, close to the tire, and with a corner of Umthali’s blanket over him, Brian slept the sleep of weary childhood. When morning came, terror came with it, though it did not last very long. He cried for Sekosa first, then for his mother; but Umthali was kind, and spoke gently to him, and Brian began gradually to accustom hinaself to his new companion, and presently to tike him. But Umthali found the child a hindrance while out on the veldt after game ; he therefore determined to carry him straight to his kraal, where he could be taken care of, while he him¬ self continued his hunting expeditions. So little Brian was brought to a Zulu kraal, where he soon became accustomed to his new surroundings, and in a few months he had probably forgotten Sekosa, or he mixed up her memory with the presence of other old Zulu women like her. As for his parents, if he sometimes recalled them, Vaguely, as in a dream, he probably felt but little longing for them. If it had been possible, at any time during the first year or two, for Brian to see either of his parents, he would, doubtless, have known them, and all his love for them would have returned ; but neither seeing them, nor hearing them spoken of, he forgot them, as was natural in the case of so vouno* a child. ° The Zulu villagers, even the children, knew very well that this child was not of their own kindred. He was well taken care of, however, because Umthali the hunter must be obeyed, and his instructions had been very clear. Umthali informed the women of the kraal clearly enough that, if anything happened to the child, he would make matters so unpleasant for them that they would wish they had never been born. But the women liked and caressed the child ; he was a beautiful little boy, strong, and clean-limbed, and there was no chance of any kind of harm coming to him, through neglect or for lack of attention. As for the children, they played with the new comer, this little bird of strange plumage, treating him as one of themselves; while he did not stand aloof, but adopted his new playmates with all his heart. He soon picked up their language, for he was used to the sound of it, and even knew a little, as taught him by old Sekosa; but, what was far more important, the children, for their amuse¬ ment, caused the little white boy to chatter to them in his own language — a small matter, as any one would think, yet it is upon the pivot of some such trifies that a man’s life often turns. They laughed to hear it, and clapped their hands, and Brian laughed also, and repeated English sentences for their amuse¬ ment very often — even long after he had forgotten the meaning of the words, so that the sounds remained ghbly upon his lips, like lines of poetry learned at school, and never forgotten; and thus several sentences of his own lost language remained to him ; a kind of link with the past, which might one day, in default of better evidence, prove that he was of British birth. So the child became like a little Zulu, and lived the life of the natives of the country. But Umthali did not intend always to keep him in his own kraal. Umthali liked the child, but his intention was to take him to the nearest Transvaal district, and then sell him to the first farmer who would buy him at a price. Somebody might have lost him and would be pleased to have him back again; that was Umthali’s idea. Any Boer with an eye to profit would be glad to speculate in him, and find his belongings, who would be glad to pay a good price for his recovery. Umthali did not greatly concern himself with the mystery of Brian’s sudden appearance, wandering alone in the veldt. If he thought about it at all, he supposed that the child had fallen out of the wagon of some trekking Boer, who had driven on knowing nothing of the accident. Umthali had business friends in the Transvaal, men to whom he sold lions^ and other skins, when he had any, and he would add this little human item to his next load of skins to be taken over the border. The Transvaal was, at the time now spoken of, British territory ; that is, it had been annexed by the Imperial Government, whose soldiers had lately broken the Zulu power, which menaced the ex¬ istence of the Boers. The English were not popular in the Transvaal at this time — over twenty years ago; for the Boers — though a large proportion of

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CHATTERBOX. 187 them had petitioned for the annexation by England of their country in order that English soldiers might save them from the dangers which threatened them upon the Zulu frontier — now that these troubles and perils had been removed, changed their minds and petitioned for the repeal of the Act of Annexation. Little Brian knew nothing of all this when Umthali brought him for sale into the Transvaal, and offered him here and there until he found a buyer. The child did not even know that he was English — how should he? — neither did Umthali, though he had an idea that this might he so, judging from the few words of English which Brian now and then pattered off for the amusement of his play¬ fellows, and which Umthali believed to be English, because he did not know it as Dutch, of which he had a slight smattering. But Umthali did not find it so easy as he expected to get rid of the child for a price. He was a pretty boy, said the Boers, hut of what use would the lad be to them ? He must be fed and clothed for ten years or so before he would begin to be of use in the farm work. Who was he ? A waif, Umthali would explain, whom he had found alone on the veldt — a statement which no one believed. ^ You mean,’ they would say, ^you mean you stole the child during the war-time, after having killed his father and mother in some outlyjng farm. Take him back to the district where you looted him ; you may find some one who wants him there.’ But at length Umthali found a buyer for the boy. This was a prosperous young Boer farmer, married, and parent of one little girl, but without sons. Umthali visited the farm, and brought Brian to the door for inspection, just as a pedlar might go from house to house to show off his wares. ‘ It is a pretty child ! ’ said the Boer. ‘ Come out here, wife, and see what this fellow has for sale.’ Out came Mrs. Boer, a fat, comely woman of some thirty-five summers. This good soul was charmed with the fine little boy who stood by the Zulu’s side, scantily clad, and holding his head shyly down. ‘ We have no son — what say you, wife?’ said the Boer. H say that the Almighty has sent him to us, he is a boy after my very heart !’ said the woman; ^buy him, Willem — what does the fellow ask ? ’ Umthali asked three pounds, or, if the Boer preferred it, an old rifle and a supply of cartridges, if he happened to have such things to spare. Willem had an old rifle, a poor weapon at best, and one that he would never use again, but it suited Umthali well, and the bargain was easily struck. Umthali went away examining his new treasure, and in the excitement and the delight of anew possession, he forgot to bid Brian farewell. Umthali was not a person of sentiment. The woman, Anna Meyerlutz, caught up the child to her bosom, and hugged him close, kissing him repeatedly. ^Praise to the Almighty, Willem,’ she said. ^ This is an unlooked-for mercy. See what a beautiful boy is this! He shall grow up a useful Boer, and possess much land ; and meanwhile he shall play with our Greta, who pines for a playmate.’ {Continued at page 194.) AUSTRALIAN INSECTS. LOCUSTS. YOU have all heard of the plague of locusts in Egypt ; but I do not think, unless you saw a great swarm of these insects, that you could under¬ stand what it must have been. I am sorry to say that we sometimes have such a visitation in Australia; we generally know when it is coming before we see it, for the papers announce that locusts have been seen in the north, and are coming south, in which direction they always fly, unless they meet a very strong head- wind. There is always an advance guard, one flying here and there ; but soon the whole army arrives in all its terrible strength. It is a beautiful sight, like a great snow-storm composed of giant flakes, the bright wings glistening in the sun ; but the country looks very sad which they have passed over ; hardly a green thing is left ; they rob the farmers of tens of thousand pounds’ worth of crops and grass. A horse will often refuse to face a flight of locusts, as a blow from a flying one is very painful. An immense multitude of locusts passed over a lake north of this, and so many were drowned in it that there was a bright red border, some feet wide, along the south and east shore, composed of the legs of the dead locusts, and the water was of no use for some time. So many were drowned because they cannot fly far without alighting. When I tell you that this lake is thirteen miles long by seven wide, it will give you some idea of the number of drowned locusts, and yet it did not seem to make the great cloud a bit less dense. The maned locust is a strange-looking fellow. I once tried to make a likeness of him from life ; he was under a tumbler while being drawn. He did not behave well, as he would keep on hopping, and he seemed very glad when his portrait was finished and he was set free again. He has a thing like a mane, from which he gets his name ; his colour is that of a faded leaf, and his favourite haunt is among dead leaves. May Collins, Victoria. ANCIENT RULERS OF THE EAST. ARETAS, KING OF ARABIA Arabia was, in ancient times, divided amongst a number of independent chiefs. The part of it known as Arabia Petraea was ruled by a succes¬ sion of kings bearing the name of Aretas. When St. Paul, in a.d. 35, was by miracle con¬ verted to the faith of Christ, he retired to Damascus, which was then held by Aretas, king of Arabia. St. Paul himself tells us (2 Corinthians, xi. 33) how he escaped by being let down from the city walls in a basket when the governor under Aretas, the king, wished to put him in prison. Herod Antipas had married the daughter of Aretas, but he deserted her for Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip, for which he was rebuked by John Baptist. King Aretas, to avenge the wrongs of his daughter,

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Aretas, king of Arabia. made war on Herod, and defeated him in a great battle. Herod then sought the help of the Romans, and Vitellius, the governor of Syi’ia, the same man who had dismissed Pontius Pilate from his office, received orders to punish Aretas. Vitellius therefore marched against Petra, the capital of Arabia, but hearing of the death of the Emperor Tiberius, he gave up the expedition and re¬ turned to Sjria. Petra, the city of Aretas, was so called from the Greek word for a rock. It was situated in a plain well supplied with trees and water, but all sur¬ rounded by steep rocks. It could only be entered on one side, and that with difficulty. The ruins of Petra remain to this day, and are often visited by travellers in the East. There are several coins of Aretas in existence, from one of which our engraving is taken.

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CHATTERBOX. 189 THE CHURCH MOUSE. WHAT brought thee hither, little mouse ? There are few comforts here for thee ; Why didst thou leave the farmer’s house And all its cheerful glee ? I pity, mouse, the erring thought W^hich brought thee here to pine away ; For who would wish to spend for naught His labour and his day ? It was not wise to quit the fire, And platters full of broken bread, E’en though the hassock of the squire Now serves thee for a bed. Poor little creature of a day ! Without a hope, without a soul, Thou hast no need, like us, to pray That God would make thee whole. TALES AND TALLIES. VEKYBODY knows very well what a tale is; there are plenty, long and short, to be found in Chatterbox, and to most people it is a pleasure to hear or read a good one. But the word had formerly quite a different meaning, which it seems nearly to have lost now. A tale ’ was a number of objects alive or dead, and the word also meant the thing upon which they were reckoned up sometimes. Pharaoh’s task-musters required the Israelites, who worked under their order, to deliver in daily a certain tale or number of bricks. We read in the First Book of Chronicles (ix. 28) that the vessels of the Temple were brought ‘in and out by tale/ being counted, lest any should be missing. A poet of our country, describing the life of a shepherd, says that he ‘ tells his tale ’ while sitting under the shadow of a tree ; he reckons up the sheep that are lying down or feeding around him. Cowper, too, in one of his poems, mentions a habit of schoolboys, how they took a stick the first day of term, and on it as many notches were cut as there were days to follow. Every morning they took off a bit of the stick, till they came to the last notch, which announced the arrival of holidays. Such a stick we might call the schoolboy’s ‘ tale,’ and some way of reckoning like this existed far back, into the times when few could write letters or figures. Savage nations still reckon by marks made upon wood, or by counting up pieces of wood, stones, and other things. In English history we often find ‘ tallies ’ referred to, and this is only a different name for a tale. Very large and important accounts were kept by the help of simple wooden tallies. Sir John Fenn says that,

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190 CHATTERBOX. before the Norman times, tallies were used by the Danes to register debts. They chose a straight stick of hazel or willow, which was cut into two parts, notches being made on each half to show what was due. One part was kept by the man who owed the money, the other by the lender. Afterwards, reckoning by tallies was adopted in the Exchequer, when money was raised for war, and various purposes, by our English kings. Notches of a particular shape stood for a penny, a shilling, or a pound; larger notches were contrived which meant hundreds or thousands. The tallies were sent out over the country to the towns and villages, so, we are told, showing how much was to be paid by the different persons ; and they were taken back to the Exchequer, and kept as proofs that the money had been collected. There was formerly a curious kind of almanack, called a ^ clog,’ which was a sort of tally. In some country inns, these were hung up beside the chimney for the public benefit. One of them is described as having four sides, three months being marked upon each by different lines and strokes, showing dajs, weeks, and months. Even yet, we hear of a baker’s or milkman’s tally, where chalk is used to keep account, the marks being made upon a waU. It is supposed that the great fire at the Houses of Parlia¬ ment, in A.D. 1834, was caused by the burning up of a quantity of old tallies, which caused the flue to get too hot. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 17. — WoRD-BUrLDINa (a.) — 1. A PREPOSITION of two letters. 2. An action necessary to support life. 3. A cardinal point. 4. A distinct order in society. 5. A fortified building. 6. A province in a country in the south of Europe, once a kingdom. (b.) — 1. An adverb of two letters. 2. A male child. 3. A feature ; an organ of one of the senses. 4. Short letters ; sounds. 5. A poem containing a limited number of lines. 6. Head-gear worn by women and Scotchmen. (c.) — 1. By some esteemed the most important letter in the alphabet. 2. A much- used preposition. 3. Before your eyes. 4. Amiable, friendly. 5. To imbibe a liquid. 6 The comparative of No. 4. 7. Relations, belonging to the same family. (n.) — 1. A masculine pronoun. 2. A garden implement. 3. Worn on the foot. 4. A possessive and interrogative pronoun. 5. Conspicuous, bright in colour. 6. April days. C. 0. [,Answers at page 207.] A. K.S . 15. — 1. Rake. 2. Make. 3. Bake. 4. Flake. 5. Drake. 16. — 1. Dog. Don. Dan. Man. 5. Boy. Bay. May. Man. 6. Cake. 7. Brake. 8. Lake. 9. Slake. 10. Take. 2. But. Bud. Bad. And. 6. Jim. Jib. Bib. Bob. 11. Break. 12. Steak. 13. (Corn) 14. Stake. 15. Quake. 4. Tom. Not. Nod. Ned. 8. Fig. Fit. Tin. Nut. 3. Ape. Map. Man. 7. Lime. Time. Tire. Tree. crake. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE DANGERS OF MIGRATION. 1^0 ST people, whether young or old, enjoy reading the adventures of great tra¬ vellers, and I pity the boy who has not, at some time or other of his life, followed, with breathless interest, the doings of Marco Polo, Cap¬ tain Cook, Stanley, or some other of the exploring heroes. Their disregard of danger made us also feel quite brave, as we sat in a cosy chair over the fire ; their endurance of hunger and thirst seemed per¬ fectly natural, as we munched our comfortable meals ; and our association with them was, for the time, so real, that, by the last chapter, we felt quite entitled to share in the glory of their successes. But how few of us, as we watch a skimming swallow, a cuckoo winging his more leisurely flight, or a pipet pouring out his love song as he sprins-s into the air, think of the tale of hardship and endurance which our feathered visitor could unfold, if he were to do a little grumbling and we could understand him ! I doubt if a bird' traveller exists who could not tell a harrowing tale of some friend or relation coming to an untimely end by dropping into the sea from exhaustion, to be swallowed up by the hungry waves, or tossed ashore by them as they frolicked in the sunshine. Now and then we might hear a happier tale of a wife or sister saved from this sad fate by the appearance of a friendly vessel conveniently provided with perches, whereon the tired little birdie could fold her wings, and take the much-needed sleep. Then, with renewed vigour, she would resume her flight, to the far glade where her home lay amongst the rafters of some ivy-clad out-house. There her children of last year were born and flourished, and there she looked forward again to hear the old barn resound with the music of baby voices. Or, alas ! the little bird might tell of the cruel end of a father or brother, who, after battling with wind,

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OHATTKRBOX. 191 fog, hunger, and thirst, gained the longed-for shore only to become the prey of some savage hawk, owl, or falcon, watching from a rock the arrival of its exhausted prey. Or we might hear of disaster on a larger scale, « when a whole company of feathered migrants fell into horrible nets hung along the Lincoln or Norfolk shores, when thousands on thousands were caught and killed and sold in strings, to furnish pies for greedy folk. Or our informant might tell us woeful legends, current in bird-land, of huge bright stars which, suddenly flashing out through driving clouds and banks of fog, allured unwary travellers to their death. One frantic rush through the darkness, one sudden blow against the hard cold surface of the light-house lamps, and then down for ever into the black waters below. The more naturalists learn of bird life, the more they tell us of the immense dangers consequent on migration, and they reckon that of the birds which assemble in flocks, to leave our shores in autumn, very few live to return again. There is a tiny island in the North Sea, now belonging to Germany, named Heligoland, a mere rock in the wide ocean, but there, for the last fifty years, a professor, Herr Gatke by name, has been noting the flocks of birds passing over and resting on the island. Sometimes the ground is quite covered with feathered creatures, and, on one dark night, fifteen thousand larks were taken in nets, in three hours, and, but that the clouds took pity on the poor birds and rolled away, so that the oncoming flock could see its danger and keep out to sea, thousands more might have fallen victims. The lovely little golden-crested wrens also visit this island in immense numbers, and many of them perish here, by beating against the light-house windows. About twenty years ago there was an extraordinary flight of these creatures, and for three nights and days a perfect cloud of them kept passing over Heligoland. On the Galloper light-ship, at the mouth of the Thames, it was noted that, on one night, thousands of birds kept flying against the glass of the lantern, their white breasts looking like whirling snow in the darkness. The next morning the deck of the vessel was strewn with countless dead birds : larks, starlings, tit-mice, wrens, red-breasts, chaffinches, and plovers. Woodcocks dash with such force against the glass of light-houses, that, from time to time, they have broken panes three-eighths of" an inch in thickness, and from this we may gain some idea of the swiftness with which they speed through the air. Any one who has tried to carry on severe bodily exercise for many hours together can more or less realise the fa-tigue involved in a long flight, especially when neither food nor water is to be got. The most active pedestrian or cyclist looks forward to the village inns, as he passes on his way ; the cricketer or football-player to a bath and refreshments; but the poor bird has no such helps. However his little wings may ache, however his throat be parched with dryness, or his breath come in long gasping sobs, his choice lies between going on or giving in, and giving in means simply to die. How much the birds suffer from want of sleep is shown by the following tale of a swallow, told by a light-keeper of the Bell Rock Light-house. His attention was attracted by the peculiar way in which the bird hovered against the glass of his kitchen window, and, on this being opened, the little creature at once entered, and let the man take it in his hand and put it into a cage. Here it lay down, and fell so sound asleep that it seemed to have ceased to breathe. Some sixteen hours later it awakened, took a little water, and went off to sleep again. After another long rest the rays of the sun fell on it, and revived it, for it rose, drank some more water, g-ave a cheery twitter, as if saying ^ thank you ’ to its entertainer, and, spreading its wings, flew through the open doors of the cage and window, and vanished in the direction of land. Telegraph wires, which afford such convenient perches by day, are responsible for many bird deaths by night, when, on reaching land, the birds are flying low and rapidly. Many others perish, by straying from the flocks and losing their way, which was, no doubt, the case of the fortunate swallow saved at the Bell Rock. Helena Heath. SMUGGLERS’ CAVES. 17 VER since the time^ when stories of adventure were j_J first told or written, there has been no life more frequently described than that of the smuggler. The difficulties with which smuggling was surrounded, the wonderful caves and secret places where the goods were hidden, the fortunes made by persons who were thought to be honest, but who depended on contraband goods for their wealth, have all been often told. The reason for which men resorted to this business lies in the fact that certain goods, such as tobacco, spirits, lace, and so on, are heavily taxed by the country to which they are imported. In order to avoid the payment due for bringing in these goods, people began to convey them into the various countries secretly. This was always fraught with danger, and it appealed to many venturesome minds who enjoy an exciting life. Coast-guards were set to watch over the shores, and to signal or discover boats loaded with contraband articles. Many and exciting are the plans to which smugglers resort, and there were many struggles in olden days. There were lords on rocky shores who hoarded treasures brought from foreign lands in the underground cellars of their castles, which could be reached by secret ways from the sea. In England no great feats of smuggling have been carried out in these latter days, though it is still practised in a small way ; but in Spain, and other countries bounded by seas, there is still much trade done in that way. Smugglers are not like brigands. They never attempt to capture prisoners, who would only be in I their way ; but they are often engaged in struggles ! which, if they were not against the law, would be held to be heroic. Smugglers love this life of ad¬ venture ; they glory in it, and they are, on the whole, light-hearted and often good-hearted fellows. Marguerite Ninet.

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192 CHATTERBOX. The Spanish Smugglers’ Cave.

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GRANDPA’S LITTLE PUPIL.

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194 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. (^Continued from page 187.) CHAPTER V. 1 1 A N found his life at Bloemenkop very different and vastly more agreeable than the barbarous existence of the Zulu kraal, though the natives, both young and old, had been, as a rule, kind and good to him. His new foster-mother was the most warm - hearted of beings, though not quite a stranger to fits of ill- temper, during which she could speak and deal roughly enough with the two children now living as equals under her roof. Brian was frightened at first by her anger when anything happened to put her out, but he soon grew used to her ways, and knew very well that the storm would be followed by much sunshine; in other words, that any stray slaps or unkind words would presently be amply atoned for by cakes or other dainties. He began to pick up the Dutch language quickly, and, a few days after his arrival, while playing with Greta, mindful of the amusement caused at his last home by the gabbling of a sentence or two of English, he rattled out a string of nonsense, which produced quite the desired and expected effect, for it caused little Greta to laugh very merrily, and to ask for a second display of this unexpected knowledge. ^ Good-morning-how-do-you-do- very- well-I-thank- you-how-are-you ? ’ said Brian, galloping the words quickly in a string, and laughing with Greta at the end of the sentence. ‘ Come and say it again to mother,’ said Greta, and Brian, nothing loth, repeated the performance for worthy Anna’s benefit. ^ Wonderful ! ’ exclaimed the good woma^n. ‘ What is that he says ? Listen, Willem ; what nonsense the child Brun speaks ! ’ * Brun ’ was Umthali’s version of Brian, being the nearest approach to the correct sound of that name, as pronounced by the child himself, that the lips of the Zulu could attain to. Brun recited his rigmarole a fourth time. ‘ Thunder ! ’ exclaimed Boer Willem, ^ it is English. What is the meaning of it — is this a little Rooinek we have taken to our hearts, wife ? ’ He took the child roughly by the arm, and swung him round. ^ Are you English, you brat ? ’ he said. ^ Are you a little sneaking, false-hearted English whelp, eh ? ’ Poor Brian was frightened by his rough manner, and cried; he did not understand the point of the remarks — how should he ? ^ Do not frighten the child,’ said good Anna. ‘ See, you have made him cry. The Lord has sent us a son ; let his parents be Rooineks or what they _ — - — will, it matters nothing to us. He is too young to know that he is English — he will never know it. He shall be a good Boer, shall you not, my white lamb ? Cry no more ; no one shall hurt you.’ Boer Willem was one of those who had been the most deeply distressed by the action of England in annexing the Transvaal. He was independent and very stupid. He hated the English, and saw no good thing in all they had done. The discovery that little Brian might have sprung from English parentage made a difference in his regard for the child; it made none whatever in his wife’s. As for the girl Greta, she knew nothing of the differences between Dutch and English, and was only too happy to have found a playmate who would be with her constantly and add an interest to her somewhat dull life. Only, when the two had a childish quarrel, she would call Brian a ‘little Rooinek,’ without knowing what it meant, having heard her father apply the nickname. ‘ What is Rooinek ? ’ Brian would ask, and Greta, being unable to reply, would only repeat, ‘ Ah ! Rooinek ! Who is a Rooinek ? aha ! ’ Nevertheless, Greta asked her father, one day, what the word meant, and the Boer replied with a laugh, happening to be in a good humour, that a Rooinek was a person who saw another man drowning and took the chance of stealing his clothes. ‘ We call the English Rooineks,’ he added, ‘ because they have treated the Boers badly, but we shall teach Brun to grow up a good, honest Boer.’ ‘ Is Brun one of the English ? ’ the child asked. And Boer Willem replied that perhaps he was and perhaps he was not ; it did not matter much what he had been, since the Almighty had been merciful to him and made a Boer of him. So that, in future, Greta, when angry or mis¬ chievous, called her playfellow ‘ Englishman,' using the word as a term of abuse, and poor Brian learned to look upon the name of Englishman with dislike. Meanwhile, we have left Sir Arthur Amberton a year behind in his search for the little nephew who was his heir, and whom he was anxious to discover, if alive, and for the murderers of his brother, whom he wished to bring to justice. The two friends travelled up, first, to Sefton’s station, and saw the missionary. Sefton explained that he had heard of the tragedy, and had ridden with all speed to poor Amberton’s house, only to find the report too true. He had buried the two victims, his only friends within a two-da3^8’ ride, and had made all possible inquiries, but without result ; the police had been told without delay, but he believed no trace of the murderers had been found. ‘ I know,’ said Arthur. ‘ They heard one or two rumours and made a few inquiries, but learned little. There was a Kaffir, who disappeared from a farm near, but the Boer declared he was a mere loafer, too lazy to work, who had been sfamhoked for idle¬ ness, and had preferred to cut and run. He was not likely to have been the culprit ; the rascal had not the spirit to attack a white man, neither had he

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CHATTERBOX. 195 motive. They found a good clue in certain articles left in the house by a Boer — boots, a hat, and so on — and followed the chap to Vryheid, where they lost all trace of him, and returned ; and, there you are, that is the whole story. I do not doubt that this Boer was the culprit.’ ' Yet, what motive could he have found for such a deed ? ’ asked Sefton. ^ Oh, loot, probably ; no money was found in the house. Leslie must have had some; he was well enough off, you know. The rascal wanted money, and took it. As I say, I do not doubt that the Boer was the culprit ; one day we may bring him to justice. But the question at present is, what became of the child ? That boy, Mr. Sefton, is the head of the family, after myself, and the only male of our branch. I am unmarried, and likely to remain so. It is my duty to discover the fate of this child. What is your opinion : is he alive or dead ’ ^ Heaven only knows. One would hope and pray that no miscreant, however brutal, would have murdered the child as well as the parents. On the other hand, what else could have become of him ? There was a Zulu nurse, an old woman ; I have thought that she might have been the murderer — the Zulus are still angry with the white people, as you know — and she might have received orders from her people - ’ ‘ Oh, no ; I think that most unlikely, Mr. Sefton.’ * 1 had thought, though, mind you, I do not now believe' it ; I had thought it possible that the old woman might have committed the crime. She certainly disappeared, and she was seen travelling without the child, but I have since heard that this woman was most devoted to the boy, and I cannot believe that, under any pressure, she would have agreed to do him an injury. The party of Zulus who met her declared, 1 am told, that she informed them, with many tears, that not only her master and mistress, but also the child, had been murdered. She may, of course, have rushed away at the first alarm, when her mistress was attacked, leaving the child to his fate." ‘ But, then, why was not the body of the child found with his parents ? I have considered all these things, Mr. Sefton, and I have become con¬ vinced, in my own mind, that the boy was not murdered, but carried away, possibly by the murderer, but more likely by the old woman in v/hose charge he was, and who, as you say, was very fond of the child. She was not without the child — good ; but would it not be possible that, with the cunning of her race, she would prefer to be seen without him, lest others should deprive her of the treasure ? In that case she would take care that the child was hidden whenever she saw or heard signs of fellow-creatures approaching.’ Sefton laughed. Ht is a theory, at any rate,’ he said, ‘ and one that may possibly be correct, even though it does seem over likely. I confess I had not thought of the old woman hiding her little charge from the envious eyes of her fellow natives. She would, of course, have wild ideas as to the im¬ portance of her treasure.’ ^ She would know that any Zulu would be glad to get hold of a white child for the sake of the ransom sure to be paid upon its recovery; or, on the other hand, she may have feared that, in the present state of feeling between natives and whites, some savage Zulu might wring his neck.’ ^ Yes; all that is quite true,’ said Sefton. ‘ If you wish to follow up the matter from the point of view of your theory, your plan would be to trek towards the old woman’s kraal. I can give you the name of it ; the native folk at Springfontein told me. She would naturally have headed for her own kraal, carrying the child with her, always supposing your idea to be the correct one.’ This was exactly what Sir Arthur had determined to do. The two friends, therefore, took leave of the missionary and travelled up to Springfontein. Leslie Amberton’s old station, in order to make a few inquiries on the spot. They would start from this point upon their trek into Zululand. First, they visited the Boer farm and saw the burgher whose mad Kaffir labourer had been, if only they had guessed it, the author of all the trouble. The Boer received them sulkily. He had been worried already in this matter of the murder of a fool of an Englishman and his wife, and was not inclined to say much. ‘ Find the Kaffir for yourselves, if you can,’ was the substance of his remarks. ^ I have never seen him since the day of his departure. If you find him, tell him I have a sjambok ready for him when he returns ! ’ ^ Would he be the kind of man to murder a mis¬ sionary for the sake of a meal or loot?’ asked Arthur. ‘ No ! he had not the spirit to murder a sleeping cat,’ said the Boer. ^Now I have told you all I know.’ * One other question— did you see a young Boer go by, that day ? Maybe he called at your house and spoke to you. There is suspicion that such a man may have committed the crime.’ ‘ Ah ! ’ laughed the Boer, ‘ now we speak of things that are possible ; for a Boer to kill two red-necks, that is a different story. Maybe, though, he did God service.’ Sir Arthur Amberton with difficulty kept his hands off this brutal person, but, feeling that he would do his cause no good by chastising the fellow, he swallowed the offence and left the man with a cold farewell. They found poor Leslie’s house looted of every¬ thing. This had been done by the Zulus before the police visited the premises, for the latter had come in due time and locked up the house. There was nothing to be learned by wandering sadly about the dismantled rooms, and after a pilgrimage to the grave of the victims, hard by the river, a lovely, flowery spot, chosen by the good Sefton for the burial of his friends, the two men returned somewhat sadly to their camp, half a mile away, in the open veldt. * We will start for Zululand to-morrow, old man, said Sir Arthur. ^ At any rate; a trek after big game will do us both good, even though we do not meet with much success in the chief object of our trip.’ ( Continued at page 202. )

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196 CHATTERBOX. The Cuckoo. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE CUCKOO. OF all the bird songs familiar to our ears in spring-time, that of the cuckoo is at the same time the most impossible to mistake, and the most eagerly longed for. Warmth, growth, vigour, and joyous life seem borne to us on the wings of this welcome visitor, and short dark days, bitter winds and raging storms vanish * when the cuckooes silver sound wakes the woodland all around.’ Every one hears the cuckoo, but few see him. It would seem that when one of these birds takes possession of a special shrubbery or copse, his fellows keep clear of it. Unlike their two-legged betters, gentleinen, amongst cuckoos, are far more plentiful than ladies, which is lucky for smaller birds, as they have ^ peculiar arrangements for bringing up their babies. The mother bird steadily declines any family life, and the cosy party in a nest, with the father watching from a neighbouring bough, has clearly no attractions for her. The reason for this avoidance of the chief object of most birds’ existence has puzzled naturalists, but it may perhaps be accounted for by the fact that

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A Street Musician. cuckoos only lay one egg, and pause a while before producing another, so that, if the poor lady tried to hatch her own babies, she would have to spend all the summer on the nest, instead of enjoying the leafy woodlands. Any way, the result is that Mother Cuckoo acts much after the manner of fashionable ladies, and turns her baby over to a nurse, for care and attention ; ouly^ as my Lady Cuckoo has neither a fine house nor money with which to pay for her substitute, she has to tax her brains to find out a way by which her child can be fed, housed, and educated for nothing. She begins by peering into the nests of various insect-eating birds, and, having chosen one, say that of a robin with pale blue eggs, or a tree-pipit with those of browny grey, she proceeds to lay her own egg on the ground beneath ; and, strange to say, it will be of the same colour as those in the nest which she has selected. Also the crafty Mrs. Cuckoo is careful to lay a small egg, so that it may

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198 CHATTERBOX. differ as little as possible from the rest, and it is a curious fact that, although this bird is four times as large as a lark, it can lay an egg of the same size. Picking this up in her bill, she puts it carefully in the nest, and whether she ever again gives a thought to the fate of her baby is a doubtful point, although, to interested lookers-on, the future pro¬ ceedings of the creature wrapped in the blue or brown shell are quite clear. The stranger usually hatches first, and for some days the intruder lives peaceably with the children of the household, then it begins to be restless and impatient, desiring more room than it can get; next, taking advantage of the absence of the old birds in search of food, Master Cuckoo digs its head under the body of one of his foster-brothers, works away until he has got the latter on his own back, and finally, with much struggling, and after many failures, succeeds in tossing the smaller nestling over the edge of the nest. Day after day it repeats this process, until it has the home to itself, and, strange to say, becomes the only object of the care of the deluded parents. Naturally it grows rapidly, and apparently retains in after-life a pleasant recollection of its providers, as learned folks tell us that it is the custom amongst cuckoos to lay their eggs in the same species of nest in which they spent tlieir own infancy, whether that of a hedge-sparrow, tree-pipit, or some other. It is a fact worth remembering, that of the eleven thousand known birds, the cuckoo and one other, the oriole, or cow-bird of America, are the only ones which deposit eggs in nests not their own. Cuckoos have one very practical use, which is to destroy caterpillars, for which they have a special liking, and, strange to say, they prefer the hairy kinds, whose hairs will not digest, but form a felt-like lining to the stomach of the bird. In size a cuckoo is about twelve inches long, and in appearance very much resembles a sparrow-hawk. As it is a very defenceless bird, unprovided with any warlike weapon, this likeness stands it in good stead, in preventing other bh’ds from daring to molest it, and in this way the cuckoo furnishes a good example of what is called protective colouring. Helena Heath. BOYS OP THE LOHDOH STREETS. A STREET MUSICIAN. From the vlne-clad hills of southern Italy to the suburban streets of London, what a journey to make I From cloudless skies to (some¬ times) cloudy weather ; from the land of soft airs to a rough climate, where the frosty north wind sings a merry song in the ears of an English boy, but a song which hardly sounds so cheerful to a child of sunny Italy. Then why did Pedro make this journey ? Because the streets of London pro¬ mised him a very humble living, which he and his father were unable to obtain at home. So over the broad seas they came, and, among others like themselves, found a poor dwelling at Saffron Hill, near Holborn, almost in the heart of the great city. The spot on which the street stands was once a pleasant hill-side, covered by golden crops of saffron, but that was a long, long time before Pedro was born, and the name of the pretty blossoms is all that is left to grace the poor and noisy district where they grew. Every morning, wet or fine, Pedro and his partner (his portrait is given in the picture) make their journey into the suburbs. While going his rounds from day to day, the boy has found that he is more welcome at some places than at others ; and he knows of certain windows in certain houses, where he is sure to find a row of merry faces eagerly watching for him — and his partner. Then what antics, what laughter, are seen and heard ! Bounding from the area railings, the monkey alights on the window-ledge, as though anxious to make friends with the English children, and tell them funny tales of his African home. But Pedro calls him back and tells him, laughingly, not to chatter so much. Away he goes again up some tree which overhangs the garden path, while the tune from Pedro’s hurdy-gurdy really seems very well suited to his merry movements. But what a doleful tune it is when the children are not at the window; what a dull world when the clouds are overhead, and a cold wind drives the slanting rain against the poor musician’s face ! The little shivering partner is tucked away in the boy’s coat, and only his small, wizened face is seen. On such days as these Pedro returns with saddened steps to Saffron Hill. There is very little in his pockets ; those pockets are never called upon to carry much. If 'you met Pedro once every Saturday, he could tell you sometimes that the week had brought him thirteen shillings — seldom more, and, alas ! too often less. But he and his father (who hires a piano organ) are very frugal, and a piano organ-grinder has been known to save enough money to go back to Italy at last and buy a little vineyard of his own. Then Saffron Hill is changed for the slopes of Mount Vesuvius ; the cloudy skies of England for the blue roof which covers the Bay of Naples. Let us hope that the promise which Pedro has read about the streets of London will thus be kept, some day, for him. John Lea. STORIES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. GEIER-ANNA Far up in the Swiss mountains, even above the spots whither the cattle are driven for their summer pasturage, the active, hardy goat climbs the rocks ; and the chamois, light of foot as the passing breeze, springs from point to point with wonderful swiftness and grace. The leaps which the chamois can take are amazing in extent, and it will stand with all four feet crowded upon a tiny space no larger than a tea-plate, with the sheer depths of the precipice descending on every side. Besides the goats and the chamois, there are birds, notably the mountain vulture, a lai^e and powerful bird of prey, of a fierce and rapacious

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CHATTERBOX. 199 nature. This bird has been known to be dangerous, not only to animals, but to human beings. , , The kory is told of two peasants — a husband and. — who went to work on their little plo^ or clearing, of land, high up the mountain-side, they had with them their only child, a baby between two and three years of age, named Anna, ihe little one played about while her parents worked, and }.resently, wearied with her sport, she lay down to sleep in a corner of the field. Father and mother watched her tenderly till she had dropped into a sound slumber, then they covered her over and went on with their toil in a distant part of the ground. , „ When, toward evening, the mother returned tor her infant, the baby was nowhere to be seen, ihe manner of her disappearance was a mystery, until the cries of a huge vulture circling overhead, warned the distracted parents that a bird so powerful as to be able to carry off a lainb, or a half-grown kid, might easily have taken their child. ^ Full of fears, they scaled the mountain, and tor a lono- while searched without success. Their distress may be imagined, as they thought of their little one, and of the fate which might already have overtaken her. Perhaps she had fallen from the vulture s rude nest of rough branches and twigs, built, as it probably would be, upon some dangerous ledge ot rock. Perhaps she had been devoured by the young birds of prey. They dared not dwell upon such thoughts, but pressed on, calling their darling by name. At length a faint cry was heard, and, rushing forwards, the father discovered his infant daughter lying on the very edge of a precipice, from which, in a little while, she must have rolled into the depths beneath. „ Either weary of its burden, or from some other cause, the vulture must have laid the this perilous place. Though cold, and half dead with terror, she was unhurt, and was soon no the adventure. She lived to grow up ^d tell the tale; but afterwards she was called 6^e^e/•-Anna, geier being the word which means ‘vulture in her native tongue. mantis ; it is more curious than pretty, being just like a dry stick. You cannot imagine what a funny-looking fellow he is; he is sometimes called the 'praying mantis, for he looks as if he is kneeling, with his hands raised and folded with a great air of devotion, and while in this position he has such a droll way of turning round his head and looking one in the The smallest mantis I know of is one we call the graceful dancing lady; her legs are finer than the finest thread, and she balances herself on them with much grace. I believe that the mantis lives on tiies, but I am sorry to say I know very little of their habits, as there are very few in my neighbourhood. May Collins, Victoria. AUSTRALIAN INSECTS. THE MANTIS. The Mantis is one of the most curious of all insects; it seems to imitate, both m shape and colour, the objects near which it lives. The large leaf mantis is the most beautiful. I have seen one in Australia about six inches long, its wing-cases were of the most brilliant green, and bright vermilion where they join the body; they are just like leaves, being perfectly veined. When flying, it is very beautiful. The wings, which are semi-transparent, are all the colours of the rainbow, and the body shows emerald green, bright blue, and vermilion, it makes a loud, chirruping noise like a bird, not only when flying, but also when alighting on branches of trees. There are smaller kinds of leaf mantis, but none so brilliant as the giant one. ^ Another kind, perfectly different, is the stick A MAORI CAMP. HE Maoris were the original inhabitants of that wonder¬ ful British possession called New Zealand, wonderful for many reasons: for its great natural beauty, for its mountains and hot springs, fur its fruitful soil, and for its delightful health-giving climate. It lies in the Pacific Ocean, the North and South Islands being divided by Cook’s Straits, while another smaller one further south, Stewart or New Leinster, is reached by that part of the ocean called Furneaux Straits. The Maoris belong to the Polynesian race; the men tattoo their faces, hips, and thighs, the women their upper lip only. By the different styles of that tattoo, different tribes are known one from another. Asa race they were on the whole slovenly, dirty, and vain, with a great desire for war and bloodshed ; yet their promises were held sacred, and never broken. These features describe the race as it used to be ; now tattooing is going out ot fashion, and many Maoris are as civilised and indiis- trious and as well-to-do as the best of white ^ old times their villages (Pahs) were usually built on the hill-tops, and well fortified, for the people were always at war ; gradually, however, cannibalism and slavery were abolished, and the people left their high places and lived on the plains. Warfare among the Maori tribes ceased with the gradual introduction o Christianity into the island. This was indeed a blessing, for after a victory the vanquished were either made slaves, massacred, or eaten by their con¬ querors. The ways of the Maori m hia camps and tents are interesting; but the race is rapidly diminishing, and although our present Prince and Princess of Wales, on their recent visit to h.ew Zealand, were feted by some Maori Chiefs, yet they had no chance of seeing any of the barbarous customs which marked the ancient race, ihe some- what noisy songs and quaint words of welcome amused the Royal visitors, who, like all visitors to New Zealand, greatly admired the beauties ot that far-off part of the British Empire. Margurrite Ninet.

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200 CHATTERBOX

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202 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 195.) CHAPTEE VI. |[^HE two Englishmen had not been travelling over the veldt for more than a few hours when a circumstance occurred which, trifling as it seemed, filled them with hope for the success of their search. They had separated in order to circumvent a herd of antelopes. Arthur Amberton went round, accompanied by the native hunter, to turn the flank of the herd, while Philips was to creep cautiously to the foot of a low kopje, half a mile away, and there hide himself among the boulders, in the hope that the animals, started by Arthur and the native, would pass within rifle-shot of his position. The movement was well executed, and resulted io the death of two beautiful little creatures, both of which fell, however, to Arthur’s own gun, though he had insisted upon giving his friend the post of honour in this, their first drive for big game. Arthur came back to Philip’s kopje full of apologies and regrets. Tf 1 had only guessed, old chap,’ he said, ‘ that the little rascals would break back and give me such a lovely shot, I should have got you to go in my place ; one little bok nearly knocked us both down— did they not, eh, J ohnnie ? ’ said the hunter, addressing a native whose real name was Jujhondi, or something of the kind. Philips laughingly assured his friend that he did not in the least regret Arthur’s good fortune. ' I shall get my turn all right,’ he said, ‘ and mean¬ while I have had, in a way, what may turn out to • be better sport than your two little antelopes.” 'What do you mean? said Arthur, surprised, 'I did not hear you fire a shot ! ’ 'Mine was a bloodless victory !' said Philips; 'look here ! ’ With the words he produced from his pocket, where he had concealed it till this moment, a little book. ‘ Look at it well !’ he said. Arthur took it. 'Alice in Wonderland,’ he read out—' and a very tattered copy at that— well, what of it ? do you mean that while 1 have been wasting my time over springboks, you have been improving your mind with juvenile literature ?’ • 'I found it,’ said Philips, ' lying on the grass.’ 'Great Scott !’ exclaimed Arthur, ' out here on the veldt — why — ’he suddenly reddened, and hastily turned back the leaves as far as the title-page. He stared for a few minutes at some words written there, saying nothing but breathing quickly. Presently he spoke. 'Philips, old man,’ he said, ' this is a great find ; it means a lot for me.’ ' I really think it does,’ said Philips ; ‘ it seems to mean that the little chap passed this way, and that probably the old Zulu woman threw away the book as being usele.'^s luggage to carry, or dropped it by accident — at any rate they have passed this way.’ ' Yes, at any rate they passed this way, repeated Arthur, speaking as one in a dream, ‘ how wonderful that you should have found it ; these things are not exactly accidental ; I am not a superstitious kind of a person, as you know, but. Philips, it is like a voice from the grave.’ Arthur slowly read out the words written in a woman’s hand upon the title- page * Brian Amberton, from his loving mother, on his fourth birthday.’ ' It is like a voice from the dead,’ he repeated, ' bidding one persevere, and showing that it is the right tack we have started on. Nothing shall ever make me believe that child is dead, after this. I shall persevere till I find him; he is alive all right. Philips.’ ‘ I thoroughly believe it !’ said Philips. ' Now let us cook a bit of one of your antelopes, for I am half famished with hunger.’ Dinner was a happy, as well as a savoury function that night. Arthur declared that he felt as though success had already crowned their etforts. The discovery of that little book had, as Arthur declared, made a wonderful difference in the spirit with which their present enterprise might hence¬ forward be conducted. There was now strong hope, amounting, in Arthur’s mind, to absolute certainty, that, at least, the child was alive, and, if alive, he might be found. Meanwhile, how came the little book to be lying out on the veldt, exposed to sun and wet, in the midst of wild South Africa ? The explanation is simple. The party of Zulus who had relieved poor old Sekosa of the bundle containing Brian’s possessions, had clamoured that they should divide the loot. The bundle had been opened, and the contents tossed about with grunts. There was little that was of the slightest use to any one, from their point of view. Tiny handkerchiefs, a few socks, some underwear, a muffler — all these things were kept, received disdain¬ fully indeed, but preserved; — a small copy of the Bible, which was tossed aside, and now lay, had Philips guessed it, within a yard or two of ' Alice,’ concealed by a stone or a tuft of grass. The story¬ book had been thrown away, like the Bible, as a useless article, and awkward to be carried about by persons who do not enjoy the advantage of wearing pockets, or anything else to speak of. On the morrow the two friends came face to face with something which had a strong bearing upon the cause they had in hand ; but, luckily for their peace of mind, they did not know it or guess it. W andering at some distance from the beaten track across the veldt, which was the only high road towards the native kraal, their destination ; creeping cautiously along in hopes of putting up game of some kind, while the waggon crawled slowly forward on their right, both men were startled by the sudden rising, from the ground close at their feet, of a couple of great vultures.

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CHATTERBOX. 203 Philips immediately raised his gun at the creatures. ^ Shall 1 shoot ? ’ he said. ‘ Are they good for eating ? ’ ‘ Heaven forbid ! ’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘ Why, they are vultures, man alive ! the foulest birds that fly. See,’ he added, pointing to a clean-picked skeleton that lay almost in their path, ' that is their business here, scavengers of the veldt ; they are nasty brutes, but they do useful work.’ ‘ Bah ! ^ said* Philips, * I had not seen one before. How they have picked the bones, eh ? some poor chap that has got lost in the veldt, and starved to death, I dare say, or maybe got at by a lion. They were old Sekosa’s bones, and if the two friends had guessed the fact, it would have been a severe blow to the sanguine spirit in which they were now conducting their search. Indeed, they would have spent much time in scrutinising every yard of ground within a mile or two of the spot,^ in the expectation of finding a second skeleton— a tiny one. That would have been a sad search indeed, and Sir Arthur was fortunate in not linking the skeleton he had seen with the faithful living creature in whose charge the child had escaped from the death that befell his parents. So in ignorance, which in their case was certainly blissful, the two Englishmen trekked onwards towards their destination. They did not greatly hurry themselves, because there was no special reason for haste. They hunted, whenever they found signs of the presence of any game. They were honoured by a nightly visit from a hungry lion, which they slew, both having a hand in his execution, and so, at length, they arrived within sight of Sekosa’s kraal. They pitched their camp within a mile of the village, and Johnny was sent to make inquiries, while Arthur remained awaiting his return in some agitation, which he did his best to conceal from Philips by pretending to be asleep, lying full length in the shade of the big waggon, and closing his eyes in order that he might not be spoken to. Johnny came back alone, and Arthur’s heart sank low as he watched him coming. ‘ He does not seem to have got them to come with him,’ said Philips. Arthur said nothing until Johnny reached the camp. ‘ Well ? ’ he asked. ^ Sekosa not come home, not yet, nor yet her little English boy,’ said Johnny. ' Zulu know nothing, heard nothing ; say most likely big lion eat both.’ Arthur said nothing ; he turned aside, then he walked away ever the veldt. Philips followed him and took his arm. ‘ Cheer up, old man,’ he said, kindly. ^ It is a Jong journey ; maybe the old woman failed a bit, and had to take a big rest at some kraal off the road ’ ^ Yes,’ said Arthur; ‘that is true. We had better wait a while in the neighbourhood, and then, if they do not turn up, visit every kraal on each side of the road on our way back.’ Philips was quite ready to agree to anything that his friend proposed. The two Englishmen, therefore, waited a month within a few miles of the kraal, constantly sending Johnny in to inquire for news. At the end of that time they started on their return journey, calling for inquiries at every village within four or five miles of the road. But, although they sought diligently, they did not find the lost ones, although once, when within a day’s journey or so of Springfontein, Johnny brought home a piece of news which revived the spark of hope then rapidly dying out in Sir Arthur’s heart. Johnny had seen a man in a kraal near the road who, several months ago, was told by a band of Zulus whom he met on the road, that they had seen a native^ a big man with a gun, and a lion-skin over his shoulders, leading a little white boy by the hand. They had inquired where he found the child, and the big hunter said ‘ he had found him in the veldt, and that he was worth more than a lion-skin if he could only find the Dutchman he belonged to, who must have let him drop out of the waggon.’ This, then, was now the measure of Arthur’s knowledge. His nephew was alive, and, probably, by this time had been sold to some Boer by the rascally Zulu, who had stolen him from old Sekosa for this very purpose. ‘ At any rate, we have learned that much,’ was the conclusion of a long conversation on the subject with Philips. ‘ We must be thankful for small mercies. I detest the Boers, but if he was really sold to one, and the fellow paid money for him, we may reckon that he will take care of him.’ ‘ You will find him yet,’ said Philips. ‘ Yes ; I mean to ! ’ said Arthur.’ {Continued at page 214.) FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COMB AND GO. THE PIED FLY-CATCHER. The name Fly-catcher is somewhat vague, as it might be used of any of the class of birds called ‘ Passerine,’ of which two hundred and eighty species are known. All of these are small birds, and have short, strong bills, with more or less bristles at the base, and many are brightly coloured. Passerines abound in all warm parts of ^ the Old AVorld and Australia, but, with rare exceptions, they are unknown in the New World. Clearly they need a Christopher Columbus to give them a . lead, as, if they could once find a way to cross the Atlantic, they would certainly find no lack of prey in the hot regions of either North or South America. The graceful creatures which we know as pied fly-catchers are as sociably inclined as the house martins, and seem to have little fear of human beings. Certainly they should have no doubt of our feelings towards them when the benefit we derive from their visits is taken into account. It is said that one fly-catcher has been seen to visit its nest between five and six hundred times in one day, each time bringing at least one insect for its babies’ food, and when we consider the ravages of caterpillars, blight, and such-like, we may well be polite to such desirable guests, if we have any desire for our due share of fruit and vegetables.

Page 214

204 CHATTERBOX. The Pied Fly- catcher. Like the swallows, the pied fly-catchers return year after year to the same nest; for a number of seasons a pair built, or rather nested, in the creepers over the porch of our home in Gloucester¬ shire, and great pleasure we derived from their company. It was most amusing to watch their pretty ways, and their evident idea that the croquet hoops on the lawn were put up for their especial use. One or other were generally to be seen, poised lightly on a hoop until some unwary insect came in sight, when, with a sudden dart, the fly-catcher would sweep upon its prey, and return at his leisure to wait for more. Pied fly-catchers are easily known from the strong contrast of dark and light feathers, as well as from their smooth gliding flight. Unlike many birds which are gradually vanishing from our over-populated country, this bird is yearly becoming a more frequent visitor, and of late has been known to visit Ireland, where it was formerly unknown. Mrs. Pied Fly-catcher makes her nest either in holes in masonry or in pollard trees, though, as in the case of our friends, she is at times contented to make use of a stone cornice or other projection. These birds take great pains with their nests, fetching long grass stems and horse hair, one end of which is made fast to a rough foundation and the remainder wound round in circle after circle, and when the home is completed she lays in it five or six eggs of pale greenish blue. She seems to be a clever bird, for it has been noticed that, when the indoor temperature rose above 72® Fahrenheit, she left her eggs, return¬ ing to them when the air became cooler. Certain it is that fly-catchers are good fathers

Page 215

“ Jack sent his coil of light line hurling through the air,” and mothers, and, when their children can fly, they remain with them until they have proved that they can provide food for themselves. Useful as these little creatures are, even they do not escape unjust blame, and in Kent they are^ known by the name of cherry-suckers, owing to their habit of searching the cherry trees for insect food. Helena Heath. COAST TALES. 111. ACK PENRHYN had been invited to spend his Christmas holidays with a schoolfellow, George Sherborne, who lived with his father at the head of a small cove called Tremorven, on the Cornish coast. The old grey-stone house was far

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20n CHATTERBOX. removed from the haunts of man, near a splendid spot for bathing and boating when summer seas lay blue and beautiful in the sunshine, but exposed on three sides to the storm and stress of winter gale and driving squall. George’s father was an old sea-captain who had retired from the Koyal Navy some years before the boy had been sent to school. Here he had first met Jack Penrhyn, and the two lads had quickly become great friends. Captain Sherborne, on the death of his wife — George’s mother— had resolved to pass the evening of his life near the sea which he still loved ; and finding the old grey-stone house to let, at a moderate rental, he had settled down there with his only son, and a former boatswain of his last ship, as general servant to the establishment. Many were the ‘ yarns ’ old Ben would spin to the two boys in the evening beside the roaring wood fire which seemed to blaze half-way up the kitchen chimney, and great was their interest as they listened. The only other in¬ mate of the house was the cook and housekeeper, widow of a former fisherman in the little village not far away. One night, old Ben ha.d just loaded his pipe, pre¬ paratory to telling the boys of an adventure which he had had whilst ashore at Valparaiso, when, in the act of raising a lighted match to the bowl, he paused suddenly and exclaimed, ^ Hark ! what was that ? ’ The wind was roaring and whistling round the chimney-stacks, furious gusts of driving rain thrashed at the diamond-leaded window panes, and it was very difficult to distinguish any sound above the howling of the storm ; but the practised ear of the old sailor had caught a sound which was stormy, yet not of the storm. He laid down his pipe, walked q^uickly across to the door, and reached down an oil- i3xin coat and sou’-wester, and turning to the boys said : 1 1 am going out, young gentlemen, down to the point, to see if I can hear anything more. That sound seemed to me like the boom of a signal gun.’ In an instant the lads were on their feet. ‘No, no; it is a terrible rough night. You wiU both get wet, and what wiU the Captain say to me for letting you go - ’ began Ben, but he felt all the time that his words would be wasted on the two high-spirited English boys of sixteen. Of course, they meant to go, and huddling on their great-coats, off they started with the old sailor, staggering against the wintry blast, beating dead-in from the Atlantic, and hurling the salt spray into their faces as they approached the edge of the low cliff. ‘I fear that gun meant some ship in distress — hah ! look ! that is the flash ; there is the gun again ! ’ and as he spoke, a momentary spit of fire quite close into the shore — followed, a moment or two later, by a dull, sullen boom — confirmed his words. It was indeed a ship in dire distress, for she was driving rapidly on the rocks at the mouth of the little cove. ‘Can nothing be done, Ben.?’ asked George Sher- bourne anxiously. ‘ Afraid not. Master George, they are bound to strike that spit of sand that runs out the west side of the cove, and then— — ‘ Yes — and then? ’ asked George. ‘ Well, then you both had better go indoors ; you would not like to hear those poor fellows shouting for help as they drown, and no power, short of God’s power, can save them ; for the ship will begin to break up directly she strikes.’ George shuddered, and pressed Jack Penrhyn’s hand. The latter returned the pressure in silence. He was thinking. At length he spoke — or rather, shouted — in order to make his voice heard above I the shrieking of the gale. ‘ Ben, how close will she strike P ’ he asked. ‘ Bight in here — right under the cliff we’re stand¬ ing on, probably. Why, sir ? ’ ‘Is there no rocket apparatus anywhere near ?^ ‘ Nothing nearer than eight miles away, worse luck.’ Again did Penrhyn relapse into silence. They all watched, straining their eyes through the gloom to catch the first sight of the doomed vessel; at length they could dimly make out the dark hull, labouring heavily in the breakers, and driving nearer, and nearer, broadside on, to the sand spit. Ben turned to speak to Jack Penrhyn. ‘ It will not be long now before it is all over,’ he exclaimed. But he spoke to the empty air ; Jack Penrhyn had disappeared. Five minutes later, struggling against the fury of the gale, he came staggering along from the house. Slung over his shoulder was a large coil of rope, and by one hand he dragged behind him a huge basket. ‘ We have not got a rocket, but we are going to have a jolly good try for these men’s lives, all the same ! ’ he shouted to Ben. ‘ It is no good,’ began the old fellow ; but George cut in with, ‘ Well, it cannot do any harm to try, Ben,’ and whilst Penrhyn began preparing his rope and basket, Ben went back to the house for a hurricane lantern and old Captain Sherborne tottered down to the cliff-edge. Nearer and still nearer through the darkness and the flying spray came the great black hull. Ben now waved his lantern to show the unfortunate people on board that human hearts and hands were ready to assist, if assistance were in any way possible. Although so close, it would have been quite hopeless, in the teeth of that awful hurricane, to shout to them. Jack had been fortunate in discovering a large quantity of old rope of various sizes, in the shed devoted, during the winter months, to holding the yacht’s stores, for the old Captain spent much of his summer, each year, afloat in his own forty-tonner, and he quickly got Ben to make fast a stout rope — rather thinner than a hawser, but quite equal to sustaining the weight of the heaviest man — to the light fine which he now held, poised in a coil, for throwing. Then, in breathless suspense, he waited for his chance. Onwards drove the wreck, until, with an ear-split¬ ting crash, the great waves first lifted her high in the sea and then dashed her, broadside on, on the SHud. Instniitly the air was rent with the screams of

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CHATTERBOX. 207 those who had been hurled overboard or injured by the falling masts when the vessel struck. ‘Now try, sir!’ cried Ben. Something of the boy’s enthusiasm had infected the old salt, and he began to have faint hopes of some success, after all. Steadily, and after a long searching look through the blackness of the night. Jack sent his coil of light line hurling through th,e air, and w^aited to find whether it had reached the wreck. Ben waved his lantern more violently than before, and suddenly a glad cry burst from Jack Penrhyn’s throat. A dis¬ tinct tug, repeated twice over, came at the line. Without the delay of a moment, some of those on board began rapidly to haul in the line, until the end of the heavier rope was on board and evidently made fast. Then the rescuers quickly sent dovvn the basket with another two lines affixed. Ten minutes later the signal rope was violently tugged, those on the cliff hauled with a will, and the basket came up again containing the half-drowned body of a young man. , Backwards and forwards worked Jack Penrhyns hastily made apparatus, until no less than seven poor fellows were snatched from the fury of the sea. Then, with a grinding crash, the vessel’s back broke, one half of her going down in deep water, whilst the other remained firmly fixed upon the spit. The survivors were quickly assisted into the house, where hot blankets and hotter drinks soon put a little life into the poor creatures. Old Ben, after gazing at them with supreme satisfaction, turned to Penrhyn, and speaking in a subdued tone, remarked : ‘ Well, the Captain here has often told me I was an old fool; now l know that he was right; must have been, for I should never have thought of that plan— and here are seven poor chaps, at any rate, saved from Davy Jones’s locker by it. We are none of us too old to learn ; and when a human life is lymg betwixt wind and water, it is always worth having a try for it, even if you do not think much of the chance.’ 6. An island in the Mediterranean, famous as having been for a short time the enforced residence of a re¬ markable man. 7. A town in the south-east of Kent, one of the Cinque Ports. ^ j 8. A river in Spain which rises in New Castile, and falls into the Atlantic Ocean at Lisbon. 9. The chief town of a beautiful county in the South of England. It has a fine cathedral, and many other public buildings. ... 10. A town in Warwickshire celebrated for its public school. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 18. — Acrostic. A VERY important city in the north of England ; it was once a Roman station, and is now celebrated for its manufactures, especially cotton, and is remarkable for every branch of industry connected with the cotton trade. It is now a Bishopric. 1 One of the original thirteen United States of North America which declared themselves independent in 1776. , . . -rr 11 • 2. An important commercial city in Holland ; it is buiit in a marsh upon piles, and has a fine harbour. 3. One of the greatest of English philosophers, who lived in the seventeenth century. 4 A rich and productive island belonging to the Great Antilles, in the West Indies. It has forests of mahogany, ebony, and cedar; it exports great quantities of sugar, and the finest tobacco is produced here. 5. A group of islands off the coast of Scotland, famous for their herring fisheries. [Answer at page 223.] )— 1. At. (b.) — 1. So. 2. Eat. 2. Son. 3. East. 3. Nose. 4. Caste. 4. Notes. 5. Castle. 6. Sonnet. 6. Castile. 6. Bonnets. >-l. I. (n.) — 1. He. 2. In. 2. Hoe. 3. Ink. 3. Shoe. 4. Kind. 4. Whose. 5. Drink. Showey. 6. Kinder. 6. Showery, 7. Kindred. CHINESE WARRIORS. HINAMEN are the sons of a most wonderful nation, and^ a vast Empire in Oriental Asia. It would be difficult in a small space to give any idea of the provinces and divisions of this extraordinary country, which has existed for many ages, and from which many civilised countries have learnt profitable lessons. The Chinaman, to us, suggests a quaint costume, with his strangely shaped shoes, and the pigtail down his back. It is thus that he has been drawn for us in many pictures, and we have all known him by sight from our childhood. Not long ago, we' heard a great deal about John Chinaman, on the occasion of the famous Chino- Japanese War. . It seems strange to see warriors wearing long tunics and petticoats, but such is their custom. Their notions of mihtary rank seem strange to us. Thus the man who has reached a certain rank deems it a great honour to carry a flag, though this honour often makes the bearer insolent and rude. They call themselves Commander of the sixth and seventh button, for instance, and know nothing whatever of the rules of warfare. To keep out the intense cold which prevails in Manchuria, one of their northern provinces, a man will wear as many as sixteen coats, one over the other. Their poor steeds are often in a sad plight, as they are fed on sawdust, if nothing else happens to be at hand. Marguerite Ninet.

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208 CHATTERBOX Chinese Warriors.

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CHATTERBOX 209

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210 CHATTERBOX. A SOLDIER’S TIME PIECE. The King of Prussia had heard that a corporal in one of his regiments, who was rather a yain fellow, wore a watch-chain with only a bullet instead of a watch in his pocket. The King was curious about it, walking past him one morning, he said, ^ Why, corporal, you are a brave fellow to have saved enough to buy a watch.’ ^ Sire,’ said the corporal, ^ I flatter myself I am brave, but as for my watch, it is of little worth.’ The King, pulling out a gold watch, said, ‘ By my watch it is five o’clock ; what is it by yoursj” The corporal, pulling out his bullet with a trembling hand, replied, ^ My watch neither tells me five nor six, but shows me clearly that I must be ready at any time to die for your Majesty.’ KINDLY POLK. From the French of Paul ArenjS. HE silkworms had proved a failure ; that was the reason of Madame PeyroUes’ sharp temper, which was not usual. Monsieur Peyrolles, in a spirit of resignation, was listening to her, without venturing to interrupt. ‘ Ten pounds of cocoons ! ’ said Madame Peyrolles. ‘ Not the worth of the eggs! There is no buying a shawl out of that 1 ’ Her husband plucked up courage to remark, 'Never mind, Ambroisine; you can buy cme next year. The months will quickly pass.’ ^Who knows anything about next year? I am sure of one thing only— that I shall not get the shawl this year. And 1 had quite reckoned upon it 1’ For a time she was silent. Monsieur Peyrolles, thinking that she had calmed down, took up a pruning-knife, with the intention of strolling round the garden. His wife’s voice stopped him, with, ‘ l)o leave those trees alone ! Before it was meddled with, that old pear-tree was fruitful enough, but since that Parisian professor visited the town, and delivered his lecture, and you have been so taken up with your new-fangled methods, I have not tasted a single pear! ’ Wounded by this rebuke, which he felt was rather too true. Monsieur Peyrolles threw aside his pmning-knife, and Madame went on ‘ So much trouble for nothing I For the last two rnonths we have been wearing ourselves out, toiling night and day with Scholastique, to whom — poor thing! I had promised my old shawl, thinking, of course, that I should have a new one. JNow she will have to wear her old one all through the winter ! In the first place, the silkworms were in too great a hurry to leave their eggs. They came out a week too soon, before there was any green on the mul¬ berry-trees. Every morning we had to gather leaves fruin the brambles along the ditches. ° See! there are scratches on my hands still. After their second sleep, the worms suddenly looked sickly. Then, at the risk of a nasty fall, lavender and marjoram, with which to fumigate them, had to be plucked from the castle rocks. There was no end of bother besides! At last things seemed to be going on all right. The silkworms had had their third sleep they were bright as gold, transparent, fat, full of silk. They were climbing up the hea«her- twigs — the bravest of them were already spinning — when we had that terrible storm. I saw the poor creatures ^ome down to die. What a misfortune it was ! Scholastique cried, and I felt very much inclined to do so ! ’ The heart of Monsieur Peyrolles was touched. He soothed his feelings by taking a double pinch out of his tortoise-shell snuff-box. Husband and wife gazed at each other in silence for some seconds, j Monsieur and Madame Peyrolles — familiarly 1 spoken of in the rieighbourliood as Monsieur Vic trice and Madame Ambroisine — were old- fashioned people in the fullest sense of the term. Although very old, they enjoyed good health. They had a modest income from c'ertain small rents, such as in days gone by would have been reckoned a fortune. Really poor now, they lived with content in their little house, where the faded furniture and tarnished mirrors were ever fresh to them. Every year, as April came round, Madame Ambroisine spread out in a white-washed loft her ounce or two of silkworms’ eggs. When the yield was good, it enabled the old couple to buy a few small luxuries, but, as we have seen, the silkworms had not been a success this year. The tine old face of Monsieur Victrice brightened suddenly. * What geese we are ! Of course I can buy the shawl for you ! Is there not our rent from the Brame-Faim? We have had none of it since our uncle left us the property — two years ago. At one hundred and fifty francs a year, the total comes to three hundred francs, without reckoning the interest — just the sum that you hoped to o-ain by your cocoons!’ The spirits of Monsieur and Madame Peyrolles revived. How could they have so neglected their own interests? Three hundred francs were not to be despised ; and they had never even seen the farmer, whose name was Fr^d^ri. For a whole week the old people talked of little else but their proposed journey — for they had decided to visit Brame-Faim in person. It was a rather serious undertaking, for Brame-Faim was situated on a high hill, above the village of Entre- pierres. The ascent would take four hours, and the same time would be spent on the return journey. This meant a whole day’s absence from home. Preparations were made. A neighbour lent her donkey, and a baker lent them his cart. In the cart two chairs were securely fixed, and on these Monsieur and Madame seated themselves in the midst of the wraps and provisions, collected by the thoughtful Scholastique. Scholastique, who knew the country, had said to the old couple • ‘ \ou must go straight on as far as Entrepierres. Then you will leave the high road, but any one will

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CHATTERBOX. 211 show you the way. You can stop for lunch at a | spring under an oak, but after that Madame must I mount the donkey, as carts can go no higher. You will find the pack-saddle at the back of the cart, and I hope that you will manage to saddle the donkey.’ These directions were followed. After four hours of up-hill work over stony ground, the travellers drew near to Brame-Faim. ^ Is it not beautiful ? ’ exclaimed Madame Am- broisine, pulling hard at her donkey’s bridle, so that j she might take a good look at the pebble-built hovel, ; from the low roof of which rose a slender column j of smoke. ‘ The wheat is very straggling,’ said Monsieur I Victrice. i ‘ Bah ! ' answered Madame. ^ You cannot expect • to have the castle of the Mar(][uis de Carabas for j one hundred and fifty francs per annum. 1 Assisted by her husband, Madame alighted from i her donkey, and the aged pair advanced towards I the house, followed by the animal. The wretched ! appearance of everything made them feel uncom¬ fortable about their errand. < You will speak first, and explain matters, Victrice ? ’ ' Indeed, I think that it would be better for you to do so, Ambroisine.’ At sight of the strangers, two youngsters, who were playing on a' heap of straw, took to their heels. Their mother rose from a tree-trunkj on which she had been sitting, while she plied her distaff. ^ You have lost your way, I see. No doubt you wish to go to Pierre-Ecrite ? It is farther down, near the spring.’ a i. • • i i ^ Victrice looked at Ambroisine, Ambroisine looked at Victrice. Neither had the courage to speak, j They let it be supposed that they had gpne wrong, I and were looking for Pierre-Ecrite. j The woman’s face wore an expression, of relief as 1 she said, ‘ I feared at first that you might be Monsieur ■ and Madame Peyrolles. This place belongs to them, and we owe them money.’ ^ n • i Then she called to her husband : Mt is all right, Fr6d6ri. You can show 5 ourself.' Fr4d6ri came down from the loft, followed by the I children. He set before the visitors milk, walnuts, apples, and honey in the comb. ' . hi is all that we have,’ said he ; ‘ the ground is so poor. Fortunately, the new master does not worry ’ us to pay. If he did so, we should just have to put the key under the door and go. We have never seen these good people— the Peyrolles — but you doubt- ! less know them, as you are from the town? Victrice and Ambroisine replied that they had some acquaintance with the Peyrolles. ! The sun was now getting low. It was necessary • to come to some decision. * Speak ! ’ whispered Madame. ^ Speak yourself ! ’ said M. Victrice. Neither spoke. . , ' When Madame Ambroisine was again upon her i donkey’s back, the tenant’s wife^ said to her, I ^Perhaps you would not mind doing us a little , kindness ? It is to convey this from us to Monsieur • an 1 Madame Peyrolles.’ . ' ‘ This ’ was a great cock, with a string already around its legs. It was lean and sinewy, and protested loudly against being sent away. The fowl was fastened to the pack-saddle, and that evening, as the two good old people appeared in the town of Canteperdrix, their neighbours, with a spice of envy, remarked one to another : ^ ^Madame Ambroisine and Monsieur Victrice are returning from Brame-Faim with their rent.’ ^ T7\ T\ EVIL COMPANY. SOPHRONIUS, a wise teacher, would not let even his grown-up sons and daughters associate with those whose conduct was not pure and upright. ‘ Dear father,’ said the gentle Eulaha to him one day, when he forbade her and her brother to visit the ill-behaved Lucinda — Mear father, you must think us very childish if you imagine that we should be in any danger.’ The father took a dead coal from the hearth, and handed it to his daughter : ‘ It will not burn you, my child — take it.’ Eulalia did so, and her hand was soiled, and, as it chanced, her white dress also was blackened. ‘ We cannot be too careful in handling coals,’ said Eulalia in vexation. ' Yes, truly,’ said the father. ‘ You see, my child, that coals, even if they do not burn, blacken ; so it is with the company of the vicious.’ From the German. BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. THE PAGE-BOY: THEN AND NOW. IGHT hundred years ago, a page (in England) was the son of some Norman baron, and the warlike father, wishing him to become a chivalrous gentleman, sent him to the castle of his nearest neighbour, if that nearest neighbour happened to be at peace with him, and equal in social position. Here, the boy was taken under the ])ro- tection of the fair lady of the castle, who. dressed him in a velvet suit, like the rest of her pages, taught him how to sing old songs of valiant knights, and how to be courteous and gentle to all whom he met. He waited on my lord and lady at table ; he played on the lute, and he listened to tales told before the winter-fire, in the castle-hall, by wander¬ ing troubadours, and, when he had done all these things for a few years, he was allowed to follow the baron, his 'master, to the battle-field, as his Squire. This was a promotion indeed, in the school or his life, for it placed him on the high-road to hood, and, when that honour was at last reached, he sometimes charged through glorious deeds into the pages of history itself, where many boys and girls delight to find him.

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The Page Boy. But now it is not exactly the same. He generally starts from the door of a humble home. Now, he is often the son of some small tradesman, who is anxious to find employment for the boy who has just left school, and who gets him taken into the service of one of the wealthy families in the neighbourhood as a page-boy. Instead of the velvet suit, he wears * the buttons ’ ; instead of singing songs for his mistress’s delight, he is expected to maintain a respectful silence — and there is nothing to complain of in that. His duties are not very laborious, but they need his good attention, and, if the errands he runs on are not properly done, there is more confusion caused than there was when his brother of eight hundred years ago played out of tune on his lady’s lute.

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CHATTERBOX 213 The Nightingale. The page-boy of to-day, if he does his work well, may be promoted in time to the position of footman. If he makes a good footman, it is reasonable to believe that he will make a good butler, and a good butler is often raised to the responsible office of a steward, with very good wages. Thus you see that, although a page-boy does not now set out with the hope or intention of some day wearing the plume and carrying the sword of a gallant knight, his path, like most paths honestly pursued, may lead him to a position of trust, and even dignity. John Lea. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE NIGHTINGALE. The Nightingale, known to science by its poetical name of Philomela, is perhaps the most re¬ nowned of the bird family. Shakespeare, Milton, Cowper, and many other poets sing its praises ; and, indeed, those favoured people who have stood upon some breezy heath beside a wind-swept thorn-bush, wherein one of these songsters is practising its trills.

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214 CHATTERBOX . shakes, and long, soft notes, do not marvel that it is accounted an unrivalled bird artist. Nig'htingales are rarely seen, though they are by no means shy, and constantly build quit-e near human habitations, h or one season a pair of nightingales built in a low arbutus-shrub on our lawn in Gloucestershire, close to a much frequented high road, and the bird did not seem to he disturbed by the passers-by, who would assemble in little crowds to listen. As, however, contrary to their usual practice, the pair never built there again, it is possible that Mrs. Philomela had doubts c-s to the safety of so much publicity. In many^ ways the nightingale is not unlike the robin, hopping about under cover in the same re.-*tless fashion, seeking worms, beetles, ants’ eggs, cater¬ pillars, and larvae of insects in general. It is a graceful, dainty little bird, some seven inches in length, soft russet brown above, and whitey grey below,^ with a long, buoyant flight, though usually only flitting from bush to bush. The nightingale’s nest is made of grass, rushes, bits of bark and dead leaves, loosely but neatly put together, and is large for the size of the bird, who lines it carefully inside with rootlets, fine grass or horsehair, if she can find any. Here, the lady lays from four to six eggs, olive brown or mottled bluish I peen, and,, as she sits on her treasures, Mr. Night- ' ingale diverts her mind with his choicest bits of I melody. Formerly, it was supposed that these birds only sang at night, but any one who lives in a | neighbourhood frequented by nightingales knows | that they are equally vocal by day, although their song is heard to most advantage when Nature is hushed to rest. I shall never forget a nightingale concert to which I listened the first night of my arrival at an old house above Annonay, in the Oevennes Mountains. The whole ^ air, far and near, seemed absolutely vibrating with the richest melody, and although very tired, after a long, hot journey, I could not wish to sleep. Nightingales are found in most warm parts of Europe, and go north as far as Sweden, but they are most capricious in their choice, and, among other other places, do not visit Scotland, Ireland, or more than the eastern fringe of Wales. The experiment has^ been tried of putting nightingales’ eggs into robins nests in Scotland, and the young birds were hatched, and flourished very well. In September, however, the old migratory instinct asserted itself, and, departing southward, they never came back. No doubt they met with members of the family, who gave them excellent reasons why Scotland was" not a desirable place for nightingales, which might have been that the clouds, hanging over the mountains with so much mist and rain, would spoil the quality of their beautiful voices. In the winter these birds betake themselves to Africa, where they range from Abyssinia to the I Gold Coast, and, of course, share in the dangers of all migratory birds. One was seen on a troopship in the Mediterranean, resting on the arm of a soldier who ! lay asleep; and we may well believe that the poor biid was utterly exhausted before behaving in such a confiding fashion. Helena Heath. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 203.) CHAPTER VII. ARTHUR AMBERTON was obliged to own, when his leave ended, an d he returned to Town and took ship for ) England, that, for the present, |m1 he had failed in the mission which had brought him out South Africa. Little did Sir Arthur expect, when he saw the last of Table Bay, as J • the good ship Raglan Castle VS??- carried him to sea, that in a short time he would return to this part of the world upon another mission ; yet this was so. During the voyage home he often thought of his small nephew. It seemed a shocking thing that the child should be, as it were, deserted, abandoned to the Kaffirs or the Boers, whom Arthur looKed upon as little better than Zulus, for he was, at this time, deeply prejudiced against the Boer race by reason of his suspicion that the murderer of his brother sprang from it. What a bringing up for a young Englishman of good birth and old family, the heir to a baronet’s title, and to a large income ! Why, if not rescued before it was too late, the poor child would grow up ignorant, a heathen, perhaps; certainly, speaking nothing but Zulu or Cape Dutch! The idea was terrible and haunting to him, yet he knew not what he could do, unless he left the army, which he loved, in order to return to Africa and continue his search for the lost child. This weighed very heavily upon Sir Arthur’s mind, and on the voyage home Philips found him dull company. Yet, when his friend confided to him the trouble which weighed upon his mind. Philips could give him little comfort, for he knew very well that what Arthur said was true, and he would j have to leave the army if he were to undertake i the family duty which he seemed to consider so 1 important. ^ ‘ How glad I am that I have not to hand on a great position, and to find an heir for my name and fortune,’ thought Philips. Here was poor Arthur, about to sacrifice himself and his entire career, in order that his nephew, an Amberton, like himself, might inherit his money and position instead of some other fellow, very likely quite as worthy, probably indeed, under the circum¬ stances, a more suitable successor than poor little ignorant Brian. Yet it was hard for the child to be abandoned to the rough waters of chance, to drift about, life-long, at worst a savage, at best an ignorant Boer, nameless and friendless, and alone. ^ I shall be sorry, indeed, if you have to sell out of the army,’ said Philips. 'Perhaps you will think of some other way.’ ' There is no other way,’ said Sir Arthur, grimly ; ' and, what is more, old man, you would be the last

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CHATTERBOX. to attf-nipt to dissuade me from doing as I say; you know you would.’ Philips knew this, and kept silence, though he thought very hard in hopes of seeing some way out of the difficulty for his friend. But Fate had prepared another solution of the difficulty, affording, at any rate, temporary respite to Arthur. For, before he had tendered his resigna¬ tion, telegraphic news suddenly reached England of the treacherous massacre by Boer forces of a small body of English troops unprepared for attack (since war had not been declared), the affair known, and for ever to be remembered in history, as the ambush of Bronkhorst Spruit. When the news of this affair arrived, Arthur Amberton saw his chance to return to South Africa. He was one of the first to reach the War Office, and to put in his application for employment and to obtain it. With little delay, Arthur was once more on board ship, and on his way to Cape Town, paying his own passage rather than wait for the more leisurely arrangements of the War Office. This call to arms was most timely. Not only was it no longer neces¬ sary to leave the army, but he was to enjoy the pleasure of a set-to with the very people whom he had come to consider his special enemies — the Boers, the men who, he was convinced, had murdered his brother and driven his poor little nephew into exile. Before leaving for the Cape, Arthur had a hurried interview with Philips, with whom he left a letter, to be kept carefully, and restored to himself if he returned safely, but to be opened and read in case he* fell in the campaign. ‘The rascals may murder me as they murdered poor Leslie,’ he said, ‘ and, if they do, there are a few things I should like you to know, and a few others which I want to get you to do for me — or, rather, for the little chap who will then stand in my shoes, if he enjoys his rights. Will you promise to do what you can in the matter ? ’ Philip promised. ‘ But you had better come back and see to things yourself,’ he laughed, ‘ and save me the trouble.’ ‘ You may depend upon it, I shall dodge the rascals if I can,’ said Arthur, ‘ it would be a queer way for a man to save himself trouble by getting himself knocked on the head in order that others may have to do the work for him ! But, joking apart, the matter might involve a good deal of trouble to you — not expense, I have seen to that — would you rather not undertake it ? ’ ‘ OP course 1 will do it,’ said Philips, quite seriously ; ‘ I do not promise to give up the service in order to hunt South Africa for your nephew, but I will do what I can in reason.’ ‘ Thanks, old man, I knew you would say that,’ replied Arthur. ‘ No, it would not be a matter of hunting through Africa, I have thought that this might be arranged by means of agents ; but you might have some trouble on this side of the water — you will see what I mean if ever you read the letter, there will be a fellow trying on my shoes as soon as — I am gone, you understand ; and, well, I should turn in my grave if he were allowed to get what belongs by right to the little fellow over yonder. I have drawn up a statement of all the evidence which we collected as to the child being still alive.’ Philips promised all that was demanded of him, and saw his friend away. ‘ Hemember,’ said Arthur, as he pressed Philips’ hand for the last time, ‘in case I do not come back, Brian will have no friend to look to but you.’ ‘ I will not forget him,’ replied Philips ; ‘but 1 shall expect you back all the same.’ ‘ I intend to come back,’ laughed Arthur, waving his hand. He departed in the best of spirits, and, reaching Cape Town in wonderfully quick time, he set out for the front without a day’s delay. Affairs had not gone well with Colley’s too small force. The tragedy of Bronkhorst Spruit had been followed a month later by the unfortunate, but heroic, attempt of Sir George Colley and his little band of five hundred odd fighting men to dislodge several thousand Boers from a strong position occupied by the Transvaal forces in Laing’s Nek. Arthur Amberton was too late to take part in this splendid attempt to perform the impossible, though he arrived in time to claim a share in Colley’s next battle upon the Ingogo Heights. Here, the English general, with the remnant of his little army — of which two hundred had been killed or wounded at Laing’s Nek — fought most gallantly from morning till night, against a force out-numbering his own by three to one. The battle was drawn, for each side was obliged to leave its position in the darkness of the following night; but once more the un¬ fortunate Britishers had paid dearly for their heroic attempt to hold their own against odds, losing one hundred and fifty men out of a total of little more than three hundred engaged. Sir Arthur was slightly wounded in this battle, a bullet carrying away a portion of the little finger of his left hand. This took place when February was a week old ; on the last day of that month was fought a battle which is one of the saddest pages of the history of our race, the battle of Majuba Hill. The story of this fight is too well known to need repetition in this place. Let the Boers have all the credit which is due to them for their fine performance on this occasion. They fought well. Colley’s force was outwitted. The tactics of the attacking Boers were too clever for them; creeping from cover to cover, they gradually scaled the height with scarcely a casualty. Yard by yard the advance was made, the astute burghers offered no chance of a shot to those awaiting them upon the hill-top, though they picked off their victims in scores, and, when, at length, they rushed over the brow of the hill, they found a scared, panic-struck force, a body of men who had lost their heads, and whom they .shot down and scattered, and pursued till half of them were destroyed, and numbers taken prisoners. Among those who, with brave, unfortunate General Colley, preferred to die where they stood rather than retire or surrender, was poor Arthur Amberton. He fell pierced by half-a-dozen bullets, and, when his brave soul left his riddled body, a baronetcy, and a good income with it, were waiting t for little Brian to claim them. ' (Continued at page 218.)

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216 CHATTERBOX.

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218 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 215.) CHAPTER VIII. E war with England, and the hatred and contempt with which Englishmen were just at this time regarded by the Boers, had its effect upon little Brian’s life at Koog’s Nek — which was the name of his present home. Boer Willem, never fond of the English, and espe¬ cially embittered against them at this time, visited his wrathful feelings upon the poor little lad adopted by him, for no better reason than that he had revealed his possible English origin by chattering a few words learnt at his mother’s knee. In moments of ill-humour he would speak roughly to the child, punishing him for every little fault, and, what poor Brian felt more deeply than anything else, he laughed at him as a little ‘ hound of a redneck.’ Willem was not always in a bad humour; now and then he was kind enough, but, even when well disposed towards the lad, he would, laughingly, address him as ‘ little redneck.’ It was, therefore, only natural that the boy, knowing nothing but what he had heard in this place and in this manner, began to detest the very name of Englishman, and to feel for his own race, of which he knew nothing but the name, and that only when used as a term of abuse, a dislike which must have been as real as Willem’s, and was certainly founded upon more solid ground, for poor Brian had some reason for his dislike to the word ‘ English,’ while Willem had none. One day, the boy, now about ten years old, came to his adopted mother after Boer Willem, in one of his fits of ill- humour, had given him reproachful words and a cuff or two. ^ Tante Anna,’ said the boy, ^ why does Oom Willem call me Redneck, and beat me ? ’ ^ He means no harm,’ said kind old Anna ; ‘ but sometimes he is angry, and then he is rough with us all, even Greta knows that.’ * But he does not call her Redneck,” and English Wolf,” and such names ! ’ said Brian. ^ Bah ! what matter if he calls you English ? there are good English and had, I doubt not, though it is said most of the bad ones come this way, I know not why ; I never see one. If you are an Englishman, be one of the good ones, then he will not laugh at you.’ ‘ No, no, I will not be an Englishman, good or bad ; they steal the Boers’ clothes while the Boers are drowning ! ’ cried the boy, recalling an old gibe of Willem’s. T will not be a Redneck, I will be a Boer like you, Tante Anna.’ ‘ Then be a brave Boer, and do not mind when you are called names,’ said the old woman. ^ It matters not whether one is called Boer or Englishman so long as one serves the Lord.’ ^ Greta says she remembers when I was not here, said Brian, ^ when she used to pla}^ alone.’ ^ Let her forget it, as one tries to forget all griefs ; it is better to have a playmate ; let her remember to be grateful that she has one.’ ^ But I remember also, Tante Anna — I remember many things that Greta has forgotten.’ ^ Forget them if they are bad, my boy, or remember them if they are pleasant; that is the best rule. What are these things ? ’ * I remember when you read stories to me, Tante Anna— about fairies and princes, and a man who killed giants.’ ‘Nay,’ laughed the old woman, ‘that thou hast dreamed, child, surely, for I never read to thee that I know of, unless it were from the Lord’s book.’ ‘ Then who read to me ? ’ asked Brian. ‘ Did you not tell me, Tante Anna, when I cried, and was frightened about the giants, that God would not let me be hurt if I was good ? ’ ‘I think you must be remembering things of which I know nothing,’ said Tante Anna ; ‘ but it was a good saying, and you may remember such things. What else have you in your mind of those days ? ’ ‘I remember walking — walking — always walking over the veldt with — with Sekosa,’ said Brian, with an effort that led to a burst of memory, ‘ and living with little dark children that spat at me, and played with me. Then I remember Greta coming.’ ‘ Nay, Greta came not, you came,’ laughed Anna ; ‘ you came, hungry and tired, and crying, and Oom Willem took you in and gave you a home ; that was kind of Oom Willem ; you must remember it when he is rough, or calls you names that you do not like.’ ‘ But why does he call me English ? were those dark, naked children that 1 played with English ? ’ ‘ No — no — no, God forbid ; not English, nor Boers — not even Christians; those were children that know not God ; it is well that Oom AVillem took you from there. Do you not love to be here better than there ? ’ ‘ When he is not unkind, I like to be here. I love you, Tante Anna, and Greta.’ ‘ And Oom Willem also; come, say it, boy, he it is that feeds you, and his hand protects you.’ ‘ You told me that was God,’ said Brian. ‘ God, and Oom Willem, who is His servant.’ ‘ Well, I do not love him much — not yet,’ said the boy, sturdily. ‘ If he wishes me to love him, let him not call me English Wolf, and Redneck.’ ‘ Hush, hush, that is wicked,’ said Anna, much shocked; ‘moreover, what if, after all, it is English that you are, and not Boer-born ? ’ ‘I will not be English, 1 am a Boer like you, Tante Anna, and like — like Greta. If Oora Willem calls me English Wolf, I shall run away when I am big, and go where they do not call me names that I hate.’ ‘ Better learn to believe that there are good English as well as bad. If you were English, I should not love you less, nor yet would Greta.’ ‘ Oom Willem would ! ’ said Brian ; ^ it is when he is angry that he calls me the bad name.’

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CHATTERBOX. 219 Brian brooded much over these things. He is not to be blamed because he learned at this time to hate the very sound of the word ^ English.^ He was sharp enough, as his last words showed, to see that Willem only called him by this name when he was angry, therefore it was clear that the name must be intended as a word of abuse. Brian led, however, on the whole, n pleasant life. He was very ignorant, of course, though a minister from the nearest town rode over once' a week, and spent the morning in teaching the boy and girl as much reading, writing, and arithmetic as he could cram into two hours. The day on which ‘ the Preacher’ came to keep them indoors, and^ worry them with lessons, was disliked by both Brian and Greta. Both children preferred the open air, the fields, and the veldt, and, above all, riding upon any of the farm horses which they could press into their service. This was an occupation which Boer Willem did not regard with great satisfaction, though, when in a good humour, he winked at it. ‘ The lad rides well, and has no fear,’ he said, speaking to Anna of the children’s favourite amuse¬ ment. ‘I am glad Greta learns to follow his example in this ; but they tire the farm horses, which have plenty of work without carrying them at a gallop for half the day.’ ‘ Peace, Willem, and let the children ride,’ said Anna; ‘ it gives them red cheeks and a good spirit. See them now. How well our Greta looks for the exercise, and Brian’s cheeks are like rosebuds ; he grows’ prettier every day. If he is an English lad, he is a beautiful one.’ ' So are lion-cubs that rob the sheep-folds ! ’ said Willem, with a guffaw, for he was in a good humour this day. Brian grew very comely, as Anna said; he was straight and well put together, and his fair hair curled over a brown face and big blue eyes. There was no doubt as to his good looks. Moreover, he grew in activity and strength and in independence. He rode already like a cowboy ; he swam well in the river ; he could even shoot with a rifle, for of late, now that he had lived with Boer Willem and his family for seven or eight years, the farmer, when in the mood, or in need of a change of diet, would take the lad over the veldt in search of game, and was surprised how soon the boy could use the rifle. The cleverness of Brian in this department of the life of the veldt pleased as well as surprised old Willem. He admired the lad, in spite of himself, for it must be confessed that he became more inclined to be prejudiced against him in proportion as the lad grew more English-looking. But this feeling showed itself rather in than out of doors; the love and admiration of his wife and daughter rendered him jealous of this little foreign interloper, and he found himself from time to time foolishly resenting the boy’s presence in the house, forgetting that he himself was responsible for it, and might, if he chose, end it at any moment. As a matter of fact, he did not dream ^ of ending it. He had never thought of ridding himself of the boy, whom, in his inmost heart, he liked and admired. {Continued at 'page 230.) THE ELDER-TREE. The Common Elder is a native of Britain, and as a tree, or a shrub, we often see it, both in town and country, and in different kinds of places. We find it struggling for existence amid the stones and rank grass of an old City churchyard, or perhaps growing on the ridge of a thick wall, where a little earth has been deposited. It grows along many hedgerows with other shrubs, and it is frequent in woods and copses. Few insects resort to the elder, and cattle refuse to eat its leaves, but a syrup and a wine are made from the berries, which are believed to be very wholesome ; the flowers also have their use, a lotion and an ointment being prepared from them. To many a village boy, the elder has furnished amusement, for its hollow stems he has made into a sort of flute or pipe. We are told that the great Dr. Boerhaave, of Leyden, thought so highly of the elder that, if he passed a tree of the kind, he raised his hat to it; but there have been people who had little faith in its excellence as a medicine. Amongst our superstitious ancestors, the elder seems to have been planted in churchyards from an idea that it was a defence against witches or evil spirits. In Denmark, there was an old belief that a person standing under an elder-tree at ^twelve o’clock, Midsummer Eve, would see the King of the Fairies pass, with all his attendant sprites. The Germans used to think that this tree was haunted by elves, who would avenge any injury done to it, for which reason they avoided making weapons or tools out of elder wood. Villagers in some parts of England suppose that an elder-bush which grows on a wall or tower, and which is self-sown, has special virtues; so they gather its leaves to cure children who suffer from fits. Another fancy about the elder is, that people may stand near one in a thunder¬ storm without danger, because lightning will not strike it. During damp weather a fungus of curious shape occurs upon the trunks or roots of some elder- trees. It has been called a * Jew’s ear, and those who suffered from quinsy, in the olden time, thought the juice of it, could they obtain some, would prove a cure. ANCIENT RULERS OP THE EAST. CANDACE, QUEEN OF ETHIOPIA. I]1THI0PIA, or more properly ^Ethiopia, was the J ancient name of that part of Africa now called Nubia and Abyssinia. It was so named by the Greeks on account of the black colour of the people there, the word ^Ethiopia being formed from two Greek words, which mean ‘burnt and ‘ face,’ as though the faces of the people had been burnt black by the heat of the sun. Though they were black, these people were highly civilised", and had a great trade with Mia. The part of Ethiopia which had Merbe for its

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Candace, queen of Ethiopia. capital, was ruled by women for several centuries. All the queens bore the name of Candace. The first of these queens who is mentioned in history was a brave and warlike woman, who invaded Egypt, and made war on the Romans, about twenty-four years before the birth of our Lord. She was defeated, but when she sent ambassadors to. Augustus, he received them well, and remitted the tribute due from her country. Her successor was probably the Candace whose servant was baptized by Philip, as we read in the Acts of the Apostles. Ruins of the ancient city of Merde still exist. They are remarkable for a number of small pyramids of a very curious shape. Many sculptures have also been found there in which the queens of Ethiopia are shown making offerings to their idols, for though the people of Ethiopia are said to have had copies of the Hebrew Scriptures from very early times, yet they did not worship the true God.

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CHATTERBOX. The Wryneck. FEATHERED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE WRYNECK. CUCKOO’S Mate, Cuckoo’s Messenger, Cuckoo’s Leader, are names under which this pretty bird passes in different parts of the country. All tell, however, the same tale, that when our best known summer visitor is singing the old ditty that ^ Suinmer is a cornin’ in,’ we may be sure that the dainty wryneck is also sheltering under the leafy boughs of old England. Wrynecks have much in common with wood-peckers, but differ in that they do not bore into wood in search of prey, but catch it on the surface. They have very long, flexible tongues, which are able to search out crevices in trunks and branches for the tiny insects abiding there. A busy ant-hill is the delight of a wryneck, as his most coveted dainties are clusters of their eggs, which he gobbles up, possibly regarding the earth and gravel swallowed at the same time as aids to digestion. It is quite pretty to watch the excitement of the graceful creature as it hops to and fro on its quest of prey, although the ants can scarcely share in the admiration. The wryneck gets its name from its habits of twisting its neck in a curious way when disturbed, thrusting out its tongue and hissing like a snake at the same time. Possibly this trick may serve to scare away mice and other small animals who might injure its eggs, and who have a lively terror of the serpent kind. Wrynecks take no trouble over nest-building, but search out a hole in a tree or bush, to which they will return year after year. The eggs are white, but

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CHATTERBOX. less polished than those of the wood-peckers. If left in peace, Mrs. Wryneck expects to bring up from six to ten children each season, and both she and her mate work hard to supply them with food. Both parents show the greatest affection for the babies, and, when they leave the nest, fly about with them for some time until they can manage their own business. They are shy birds, and usually keep under cover, but may be easily detected both by their voices and sometimes by their peculiar tree- tapping, when the blows of the beak are so rapid that they produce something like the tone of an electric bell. Any one who has once heard a wryneck’s note cannot fail to detect it in future. It consists of short, sharp sounds repeated four or five times, some¬ times sounding like ‘ dear, dear, dear, dear,’ at other times like ‘ vite, vite, vite, vite ; ’ whilst in Sussex it is known as the ‘ pay, pay ’ bird from its note. When alarmed its cry is quite different, being more like that of the hawk, Tik, kik.’ Wrynecks leave England in August or early in September, and, much to their own woe, stay awhile in the south of Europe on their way to their winter quarters in Africa, Asia Minor, or India, as the case may be. Their form of the ‘ Boast beef of Old Eui/land seems to agree with them, as they reach tl'e South very fat/ and, their flavour having a special attraction for the ill-fed peasants of Italy and Greece, many a poor wryneck goes to make the family supper. Hpilkna Heath. THE TWO SHEIKS. WHEN God creates a human being. He creates also his inheritance, which must come into his possession.’ These words are found in the Koran. In a certain Eastern, land prisoners are allowed by the rulers such a meagre supply of bread and water that— unless friends provide them with food, as thev are allowed to do— these poor creatures often die of starvation. It is a custom of kindly, well-to-do persons to give a certain quantity of food to the prisoners as a thank-offering, or in fulfilment of some vow which they have made in some time of distress. These doles often extend over a stated period. Two Sheiks were once undergoing imprisonment tor debt. Sheik Kassim w’as blind. Sheik Ahmed was lame. By profession both were reciters of passages from the Koran for the dead. These reci¬ tations were ii-sualiy made at the grave, and were paid for, either in money or food, by the friends of the dead person. But, as they were in prison, the pair had no chance of earning anvthing bv means of their profession. ‘ " I he two friends constantly argued about the above- mentioned passage from the Koran. Sheik Kassim held to its literal interpretation, and Mserted that whatever God had destined for a man He would send him, without any exertion on the man’s part. Sheik Ahmed, although a devout Moslem, was of a different opinion, and held that a-lthough God created a special inheritance for each created human being. He at the same time intended that human being to exert himself to obtain possession of his inheritance. It chanced that a wealthy merchant of the place had bound him.se]f by a vow to supply the prisoners not only with wholesome food, but also with extra dainties, for a term of seven days. On these occasions a herald passes through the prison and makes the following proclamation : ^ Ho! all ye poor, ye that hunger and thirst, come and par¬ take of the inheritance and bounty from God 1 * The prisoners then assemble in the prison-yard, where the food is given out to them. Sheik Ahmed, on hearing the proclamation, offered to lead Sheik Kassim to the yard, in order that he, with himself, might receive a share of the merchant’s bount3% But Slieik Kassim sat in a corner of his cell, praying, and reciting bits from the Koran. ^ 'Nay, good brother,’ said he, ^if I have any inheritance in this supply, Allah will send it to me here. Then he continued his prayers, while Sheik Ahmed, knowing that further argument would be useless, hobbled off to the yard to secure his own portion. This scene w^as repeated for six days. On the seventh day the merchant visited the prison, in order to see for himself whether every pri.soner had obtained bis share in the food. He was much interested in the blind Sheik, whom he questioned as to whether his wants had received due attention. My lord, said Kassim, ^ if I have any inheritance m this supply, Allah will certainly send it to me.’ Touched by this expression of faith, the merchant gave orders that a generous supply of food should be brought to the blind man. The next time that Ahmed saw his friend, Kassim told him how the kindly merchant had caused his portion to be brought to him, a circum¬ stance which he held to prove that his own view of the verse of the Koran was the right one. ' Very true and very beautiful ! ’ Sheik Ahmed replied ; ^ Allah is indeed good to all who trust in Him. ^ But,’ he added, 'remember that to you, as you waited, Allah sent a portion only once, whereas 1, who took the trouble to go, received a portion seven times from His bountiful hand.’ E. D. STORIES PROM THE MOHHTAIHS. THE PIED PIPER. Youngsters do not often read the works of Mr. Robert Browning, the poems of that man of genius being too difficult to be understood by juvenile readers. But there are exceptions to this rule, and perhaps some of those who turn the pages of Chatterbox may know the quaintly humorous verses in which the poet has told the ^ory of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Those who have not heard, or read, the tale will be glad to find it here, and will observe the part which a mountain played in adding to the misfortunes of the unhappy people of Hamelin.

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CHATTERBOX. -2-23 Long ago, this little German town was terribly infested with rats. There were rats in all the houses ; rats in the shops and the streets ; the greedy animals even ran over the table when the Mayor and Cor¬ poration had a banquet, and helped themselves to the dishes. The lives of the citizens became almost unbearable through this plague. Traps and poison were alike useless against such an invasion, and almost in despair the authorities offered a prize of a thousand golden guelders to any one who would rid them of the rats. For some time no one tried for the prize, then a man, drest in a queerly coloured coat and blowing upon a pipe, came marching through the streets, and, going straight to the Mayor, he offered to free the town, upon condition that the money was paid to him as soon as the rats were gone. The Mayor and Council readily promised this — they would have promised anything at th*^ moment — and the piper, going out into the streets again , began to blow upon his pipe. He played strange music; to the rats it sounded like the scraping of butter-tubs, the emptying of sacks of corn, the popping of corks, the running of taps, the flowing of streams of oil, and other appetising, sounds. ' One by one they came forth from their holes ; big and little, old and young, they followed the piper, a great army of rats ; and he, true to his promise, led them to the river, where, in the rushing waters, they were all drowned. The Mayor and all the people rejoiced greatly, but they never gave a thought to the piper. When, in the market-place, he appeared, asking for the reward, they refused him and bade him begone. But they little knew the man with whom they had to deal ; the piper, finding persuasion useless, determined to have his revenge. He went forth into the streets again, playing on his pipe ; but this time it was the children who heard all sorts of pleasant sounds, and followed the man in the queer coat. In vain their distracted parents called upon them to return ; they went on and oi^ till the piper brought them to a mountain outside the town. There the mountain-side opened to receive them, and they went in after their guide, and were hidden from the eyes of their weeping friends for evermore. C. J, Blake. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS, 19. — ^WoRD Puzzles. 1. A, E, C, D, N, O. With these letters make one word containing the whole number, two with five, and seven with four. 2. E, I, P, S, S, R, T. Make two words using all the letters in each, two with six, and three with five in each. 3. A, A, E, H, N, P, S, T. Make one word using all the letters, one using seven, two with six, one of them a geographical name, four with five, one of these also the name of a place. 4. A, E, E, H, R, T, T. Make three words using all the letters, four with six, and six with five. 5. A, E, E, C, H, R, T. Make two words using all the letters, seven with five, and ten (at least) with four. 6. E, E, N, R, S, V. Make two words (one the name of a river), using all the letters, four using five, and three with four. 7. E, 0, F, R, T, S. Make three words using all the letters, three with five, and seven (at least) with four. 8. A, E, D, G, N, R. Make three, using all the letters, three with five, and seven with four. C. C. {Answers at page 235.] ^ S VTV" E E/ * 18. — Manchester. 1. Massachusetts. 2. Amsterdam. 3. Newton. 4. Cuba. 5. Hebrides. 6. Elba. 7. Sandwich. 8. Tagus. 9. Exeter. 10. Rugby. ELEPHAl5rT HUNTING- IN INDIA. Elephant hunting is splendid sport for the lover of big game ; besides the fact that the animal is greatly desired for zoological gardens and large menageries, the ivory of its tusks is very valuable. For this reason many Europeans spend a good deal of time and money over this f^einating and exciting sport. ^ , v ^ 4.1. u In its tame condition the elephant, tnougn apparently ungainly and clumsy, is useful to its owner in many ways; in the wild state it is peaceful, and it rarely shows fight unless in absolute self- defence. The animal lives in herds, as a rule, and lives on a variety of foods, especially such as are of a sweet nature ; with its trunk it is able to uproot small trees, and break down huge branches and other obstructions which may block its course. And yet this marvellous proboscis, which is a prolongation of the upper lip, is so sensitive and tender, that the slightest wound received on that part of the body will make the elephant howl with pain, and become dangerously enraged. When fighting "^th other wild beasts— for instance, with the tiger, which is one of its most cruel enemies — the elephant will raise its trunk high up in the air, keeping it out of reach of its foe, whilst the powerful tusks are used as defences. It was a providential despensation which gave this member to the elephant, since without it the animal would be unable to convey either food or drink to its mouth, owing to the shortness of its The hunter may wish to take a single animal captive, in which case a female is generally used as a decoy ; or herds are captured at one and the same time. This is, of course, a much more lengthy and troublesome chase. Beaters are employed, chosen from among native Indians, who drive the beasts through an opening of a specially constructed ‘ corral, made from branches twined together into a thick hedge.

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‘A refreshing shower-bath.’ Or, again, the animal may be taken when having a bath. For this favourite pastime, the elephant is helped by its trunk ; by allowing the opening of the proboscis to remain just above the surface, the elephant can hide under water for some length of time, or, if the river or pool is too shallow for complete immersion, it can till its trunk and throw the contents over its huge back, thus making for itself a refreshing shower-bath. It is unfortunately not possible to give many details of the habits and life of this most interesting animal ; pages might be covered with accounts of its intelligence, which is far above that of other quadrupeds. Marguerite Ninet,

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CHATTERBOX 225

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22Ci CHATTERBOX. HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS WRITERS. ‘JACOB FAITHFUL.’* ACOB FAITHFUL was born upon the water ; not upon the salt and angry sea, but upon a fresh and rapid - flowing liver. It was in a floating sort of box, called a lighter, and upon the River Thames, at low-water, that he first ^ smelt the mud.’ His father and mother were the only occupants of the craft. Mr. Faithful was an easy, good-natured man, with three favourite sayings, which he thought met all difficulties. The first was, ‘ Can’t be helped ; ’ the second, ‘ Take it coolly ; ’ and the third, ‘ Better luck next time.’ Jacob’s mother was not a sober woman; she had formed the evil habit of drinking too much, which at last cost her her life, and caused also the death of her husband. The boy was thus left an orphan at the age of eleven, without friends or relations, and with no money. The owner of the lighter, being a kind-hearted man, befriended him, keeping him in his house for a short time, where Mrs. Drummond, the owner’s wife, and little Sarah Drummond, their daughter, showed him much kindness. One of the boy’s earliest experiences was a charity school, to which, by the influence of Mr. Drummond, he was sent. Here he wore a long coat of pepper and salt, yellow leather breeches tied in at the knees, a worsted cap with a tuft at the top of it, and a large pewter plate upon his breast, with the number ‘ 63 ’ marked on it. The head master of the school. Dominie Dobiensis, was a delightful old man. Very tall and thin, with a big nose, he delighted in Latin, Greek, and algebra, and frequently forgot what was going on in the schoolroom as he gave his mind up to the problems. Tlie boys were quick to find out when their master ^ dreamed,’ and took advantage of his dreaminess to play pranks on each other. On one occasion a lad named Barnaby Bracegirdle, who had noticed that Jacob, who was not used to shoes, had slipped his feet out of his, put the shoes in the pockets of the Dominie and his usher, Mr. Knapps, but not before the sharp-eyed Jacob had seen hm trick. The school was dismissed to the play¬ ground, and all the boys rushed from the desks to their games, except our hero, who was unwilling to go without his shoes. The Dominie, noticing the boy still in his seat, asked him why he did not join his companions in play. He answered that he had no shoes — that they were in the pockets of the masters. Being further questioned as to how they came there, he gave the information, and the school was rung in from the playground, and Bracegirdle, who at first denied having taken them, was, by command of the Dominie, ‘ hoisted.’ The birch descended with all the * Jacob Faithfid^ by Captain Marry att, can be bought at most booksellers, price 6d. vigour of the Dominie’s arm, for although he could forgive a prank, he set his face like a flint against lying. One of the first results of Barnaby’s well-deseiwed punishment was a fight between him and Jacob, whom he blamed for his thrashing. The tight ended in favour of Jacob, who although a much smaller boy, had very strong, muscular arms, owing to his constant rowing practice. At first Jacob was not unhappy at school, as the Dominie showed him great kindness, treating him almost as if he had been his son, leading him by the hand when the school walked out, and answer¬ ing patiently his many questions, so that he made quick progress. This manifest favour ex¬ pressed by the head master for the orphan boy caused great jealousy, not only on the part of the other lads, but also on that of the usher, Mr. Knapps, who showed his meanness by plotting with some of the worst boys to ruin Jacob in the opinion of the head master. But here is his own account of the affair. * Barnaby Bracegirdle had a talent for caricature which was well known to all but the Dominie . He made an oft-repeated caricature of the Dominie with a vast nose, which he showed to the usher as my performance. The usher understood what Barnaby was at, and put it into his desk without comment. Several other caricatures were made of the Dominie and of the matron, all of which were given to Mr. Knapps by the boys, as being the work of my pencil At last, when the usher had obtained quite a number of these drawings, and thought the plot fully ripe, he told the Dominie that his favourite scholar, Jacob Faithful, of whom he thought so much, and to whom he had been so kind, had caricatured him and the matron on several occasions, and that he had proofs of his guilt. One morning, the whole school assembled, the Dominie taxed Jacob with caricaturing and holding up to ridicule ‘me — thy master. Upon any other boy such disrespect should be visited severely, but from thee, Jacob, I must add I had expected something otherwise.’ Fortunately for our hero, his good sense and sharp wits enabled him to prove his innocence, and to fix the guilt on the right shoulders. Mr. Knapps was expelled by the Governors, and Barnaby, who had helped him in his ill designs, received for a second time the thrashing he deserved, and was told by the Dominie that he must leave the school. After this, the head master’s love for Jacob — who had so nearly been injured by the ill-will of the usher and the envy of his school-fellows — was increased day by day, and the boy made such good progress under his tuition that, when he reached the age of fourteen, he was able to compete well with others of his own age. Then it was that Mr. Drummond looked him up again, and suggested that he should be bound apprentice to a Thames waterman. Jacob was delighted with the idea, and gladly fell in with Mr. Drummond’s idea that he should be articled on board one of his own lighters, free of all expense, leaving him at liberty to change into any other vessel that he might think proper. By the regulations of the

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CIIATTKRBOX. 227 Watermen’s Company, it is necessary that every one who wishes to ply on the river on his own account should serve as an apprentice from the age of four¬ teen to twenty-one ; at all events, he must serve an apprenticeship for seven years, and be fourteen years old before he signs the articles. Our hero and Mr. Drummond, therefore, betook themselves to Water¬ man’s Hall, to sign the papers which bound Jacob * ’prentice to a waterman.’ The story of Jacob Faithful is now worked out, as we should expect, on the river. His first craft was the Folly barge, and the man in charge was named Marables. He Avas assisted by another named Fleming. This Fleming was a bad man, who made it his practice to go on shore and rob houses, bringing the stolen goods, under cover of night, to the vessel, and locking them up in the cabin. This did not escape Jacob, who was very troubled at what he saw, and made known to Mr. Drummond, his old master, all that was going on on board his lighter. When Fleming accidentally found that Jacob knew of the booty secured in the cabin, and of his frequent calls on shore, he determined to put an end to his life, and threw him overboard, dashing him into the dark, swift river. Our hero could swim, and this knowledge saved his life, for he was able to keep afloat till picked up by the river police, whom he was able to guide to the Polly barge, where some startling discoveries were made, which ended in the arrest of Marables and Fleming, both of whom Avere sentenced to death, the penalty which in those days was passed on thieves. Marables, who Avas not bad at heart like Fleming, but weak and easily led astray, was recommended to mercy, and his sentence was changed to seven years’ trans¬ portation. Soon after this, Jacob was taken into Mr. Drummond’s house for a time, that he might fill the place of an under-clerk Avho had been sent away. Here he got on well, taking pains with his work and pleasing his master, until, unhappily, there came into the office as clerk, one Hodgson, Avho gave himself ridiculous airs and graces, and took a dislike to our hero. A quarrel aro«e, both using high words, and at last aiming things at each other’s heads. Appearances were decidedly against Jacob, as Mr. Drummond entered the office just in time to see Mr. Hodgson felled to the ground by the blow from a well-aimed ruler from Jacob Faithful’s hand. Mr. Drummond, presentl}^ asking Hodgson the cause of the quarrel, learned from him a great many things to Jacob’s discredit, for Hodgson did not scruple to misrepresent him. On this, Jacob was dismissed from his master s house, and informed that, tis he had been bound apprentice to the river, he must now follow up his apprenticeship, but expect nothing further from his former benefactor. Even Mrs. Drummond and little Sarah at- first believed him LMiilty of the things laid to his charge ; but before he said his * farewell,’ Sarah broke down and sobbed sorrowfully over his distresses. Forgetting his pride, he explained to her the injustice of his treatment, and she confessed that she believed in his innocence. And now follows a sad chapter in the life-story of our hero, who becomes, in his disappointment in being misjudged, very wdld and reckless. But happily his recklessness does not last ; good principles assert themselves, and Jacob Faithful again takes up his duties in a right spirit. The tale ends well, our hero, the orphan and charity-boy, rising to wealth, and making a good use of his possessions in helping others. He married Sarah Drummond, Mr. and Mrs. Drummond giving their full consent, after an explanation and reconcilia¬ tion had taken place. James Cassidy. FEATHEHED FRIENDS THAT COME AND GO. THE TREE-PIPIT. Perhaps, of all the attractive things in the world, a happy, joyous nature is the most attractive, a nature that seems to find pleasure in the mere joy of living ; probably this is why the pipit family, and more especially the variety known as the tree-pipit, is such a favourite wherever he goes. In his way of showing his delight, be is like the larks, only he is contented with less ambitious flights. All through the nesting season Father Pipit loves to sit on the top spray of a bough, and, Avhen his feelings of admiration for his clever wife and wonderful babies are too much for him, he springs high into the air, carolling a most musical love-song. Then, after hovering there a while, he slowly descends, with his wings and tail extended after the manner of a parachute, and finishes the melody on the ground, or in his particular tree. He has a clear, powerful voice, and winds up his ditty with a few long-drawn plaintive notes. Besides this special musical effort, he has also a more quiet warbling song wherewith to amuse Mrs. Pipit sitting on her nest, but from time to time he interrupts this entertainment, by fluttering down to catch a fat fly or juicy gnat for the refreshment of the much-occupied lady. The pipits arrive here early in April, and sing on until the middle of July. Then they begin to moult or change their feathers, and this is such an exhausting process that, like all other birds at this period, they have no breath or spirits to expend on music. Mr. and Mrs. Pipit are a really devoted couple, and keep together all their lives. They build their nests on the ground, or in a field near large trees, but the place dearest to a pipit’s heart is a bank covered with blue-bells. Here they either scoop out a fairly deep hole, or profit by one already there, and in this they construct a most tidy nest, dry grass, rootlets, and moss on the outside, and fine grass or horse-hair (if they can find any) in¬ side. Here the lady deposits about five eggs, varying very much in colour, and it has been noted that pipits building in shady places lay darker eggs than those in nests where more light can penetrate. Sometimes the eggs are pinkish- white, sometimes greenish-blue, sometimes spotted all over, or, again, blotched in places. Father Pipit is very wary, and terribly afraid of betraying the place he loves so well; so, when he comes to bring food to the family, he takes care to fly to a spot some little way off, and to make his Avay through the long grass or brambles, running very swiftly and stealthily, that he may

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228 CHATTERBOX. The Tree-pipit. not be seen. The mother bird is very brave in guarding her children, and in a field of long grass will often sit quite still and let the mower pass his scythe right over her head without moving. Caterpillars, small worms, beetles and files are the favourite food of the pipits, but, by way of varying this diet, they do not dislike a little soft young corn, which they shell with great neatness. About September the tree-pipits assemble in little groups, evidently to discuss their travelling arrange¬ ments, and early in October they betake themselves to warmer regions, although whither they go is not known, though many certainly find their way to India and China. In colour these birds are soft brown above, with darker centres in the feathers, and below a yellowish- 1 white, with spotted breasts, but this is plainer in the I young birds than in those of older growth. Besides tree-pipits there are several varieties of these birds, of which our most common is the meadow-pipit ; but, as he is not a migrant, but lives in our islands, he has no place in these little papers. Helena Heath. BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. PRINTERS’ BOYS AT PLAY. All work and no play — well ! I am sure I need not tell you what that does to Jack. So Jack is quite right to secure a certain amount of fun to prevent himself from becoming a dull boy.

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CHATTERBOX 229 Printers* Boys at Play. There is an hour in the busy London day, which comes into the wide streets and the narrow streets, into the noisy workshops and the quiet offices, like a pleasant sunbeam. Everybody welcomes it, and it is quite right that they should. Where large numbers of ‘ hands ^ are employed, its arrival is announced by a whistle or a bell. Hark ! There it is ! Through every room in these great printing works the long shrill pipe is sounding. It is as though freedom were turning a key in the prison door, and the lock needed oiling. The busy hands cease work, and almost before the sound has died away, out into the street breaks a crovv^d of noisy lads. Some hurry to a shop close at

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230 OtLATTERBOX. hand for the mid-day meal ; some sit down on the nearest door-step, and unwrap a newspaper parcel which contains a humble dinner brought from home. But, whichever course they take, it is not long before they get back to the nearest court for a good game, before that whistle sounds again to pipe ^em back to work. * Fox and geese,’ football (often made from the paper which held the dinner), Houcli,’ or leap-frog. At it they go, laughing and shouting, till the bell of St. Paul’s, not far away, chiming the last quarter, warns them that the happy hour is drawing to a close. Over and over, and faster and furious, Let not timidity get in the way ; Time is behind us, and is it not curious How he will race through a minute of play ? Down with your ‘ tuppenny ! ’ Here wo come leaping it. Round in a circle as light as the wind. Time slips ahead — there is no way of keeping it; Who is the last that will linger behind ? Over and over, and - But the playful uproar of the printers’ boys, in which you might fancy you hear this song, is interrupted by a shrill whistle. The dinner-hour is over, and through the open door the merry lads return to work. John Lea. A BOY PHYSICIAN. Among the lives of eminent persons recorded by Dr. Johnson is that of Herman Boerhaave, a very celebrated Dutch physician. From his early childhood young Boerhaave was extremely fond of learning, and very soon his thoughts turned to the study of medicine. When he was little more than eleven years old he was afflicted with a painful disease in his left thigh, and none of the surgeons or physicians could do him any good. This strange boy, by constant experiment, and careful study of bis own case, succeeded in curing himself. ' He was most persevering and successful in his studies, gaining mpy prizes; and, when he became a Professor, he did a great deal for the cause of learning, especially of medical science. Though a strong man he had many illnesses, and thus he learned to feel for his patients. On one occasion when he recovered from sickness, and again opened his medical classes, there was so much joy at his recovery that the streets of the city were illuminated. Dr. Boerhaave used to tell his friends that when he lay whole days and nights without sleep, and in great pain, nothing gave him so much relief as thinking about his studies, and repeating from memory the many things which he had read and learned. He was always patient under suffering, and the more he had to bear, the more he tried to ease the pains of others. C. J. Blake. LOST SIB BRIAN. {Continued from page 219.) CHAPTER IX. OER WILLEM was at his best when there was a chance of big game shoot¬ ing, a pastime in which his soul delighted. When there was evidence of antelopes in the neighbourhood, large or small, from the tiny springbok to the grand hartebeest, Willem would shake off his Boer sloth, and, taking rifle and car¬ tridge-bag, sally forth, with a Kaffir or two to help drive the game ; and he rarely returned without some signs of his skill, in the shape of a good supply of meat and a pretty pair of horns or so, for, in truth, Oom Willem was a very good shot, like most of the Boers of his day. Willem had shot several Englishmen during the war which ended at Majuba, a fact of which he often reminded Brian when angry, and of which he boasted when among his fellow burghers at market or elsewhere. The circumstance did not interest Brian, however, still less enrage or annoy him, except in an indirect way, as rendering the title of Redneck even more offensive than before, since, according to Willem, the feeble English appeared to have been unable, during the late war, to make any stand whatever against the Boers. Now that the boy had come to an age when he could enter, with his guardian, into the delights of the chase, and showed a decided taste in that direc¬ tion, the old Boer found him very useful as an assistant, employing him to drive the game, while he himself, prepared to shoot, took up a position, after the manner of Boers, behind some boulder or other cover, whence he could fire unseen whensoever any game should approach close enough for a fairly certain shot. Brian proved an adept at this kind of thing once the old Boer had taught him what was required of him, and it was during their joint expeditions into the veldt that T\^illem was most fond of his young ward and on the best terms with him. ^ One morning, when Brian went to bathe in the river, at some distance from the house, he saw, browsing half a mile away, a splendid herd of antelopes — a sight which filled him with joy, for he knevv that, as soon as he made over this good news to Willem, there would be an outing arranged, and a day or two spent out on the veldt, a most welcome change from the dreary farm life. ^ Joy and thanksgiving ! ’ exclaimed the Boer, when Brian told him of the herd. ^ We will have a day out, my son ; and, as you found the game, you shall be allowed, as a great favour, to use my second gun, the Majuba one.’ This was an English military rifle, which Willem had acquired on that disastrous day, a weapon which Brian had used once or twice in

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CHATTERBOX. 231 practising at a mark, though he had never yet been allowed to take it out into the veldt after game. Great, therefore, was his delight. He cleaned the weapon with the greatest care, Greta helping and he showed off the points of the rifle for the girl s benefit. ^ ^ it 4.1, ‘ It was a Kedneck s weapon,’ said Greta, r atner ; killed them all, and to^.k their guns. ‘ The more fools the Rednecks,’ said Brian. W hy ; did not they fight, then ? ’ ‘ But father says they ran away because they were startled,’ said Greta. , ‘ Then I cannot be a Redneck, as he pretends, replied Brian, ' for I should never have run away if 1 had this!' He patted lovingly the barrel of the weapon he was cleaning. ‘ I shall kill a hok with this to-day, Greta,’ he added, ‘ and you shall have its horns.’ . ‘ I would rather have a lion-skin,' said Greta. Brian laughed. ‘There are very few of them, about now,’ he said, ‘ though there used to be some, i Perhaps, one day, I may shoot one, Greta, and then the skin shall be your very own.’ Presently Brian and the Boer rode out, making a wide sweep over the veldt, in order to reach a spot towards which the antelopes might be driven.^ Two Kaffirs were left, well concealed, but within sight of the antelope herd, with orders to separate and drive the animals down the wind in about half an hour, i Brian and the Boer took up their positions, well hidden behind boulders, at a distance of one hundred yards from one another, and waited. They waited half an hour, and then another half hour, and a third, but nothing happened. Then Willem grew impatient, and whistled softly to Brian to come to < Those fools of Kaffirs have fallen asleep, or they have made a mess of it, he said. ^ Ride round, my son, and see if you can find the herd if so, diive them down this way. 1 shall be ready.’ ^ Am I to shoot if 1 got a chance ? ’ asked Brian, waiting breathlessly for an answer. < Why not? only remember where 1 am, and do not shoot me.' , j xj Then Brian was proud and happy indeed. He intended to have a shot at those boks, and to stalk them until he could do so. So awav he rode, taking a wide sweep as before, in order not to disturb the game. Then he crept on foot to the spot at which the Kaffirs had been left, but found no trace of them ; they had departed, Brian could not think why. He raised his head very carefully over the top of a thorny bush, and looked around for the antelopes ; they were theie all right. . ^ ^ Brian’s heart beat high with excitement ; the creatures were half a mile away, he would stalk them at once, and drive them, by means of a shot at two hundred, paces, towards Oom Willem ; and if he did not succeed in dropping one, besides enabling the < old one ’ to have a shot at them also, why, it would not be his fault. . . So down on his stomach went Brian, in approved Kaffir style, dragging his gun after him. He took advantage of everv tree, and every rock, and 01 unevenness of ground, in order to remain hidden from the suspicious little creatures whose every sense was always on the alert. And while Brian is busily engaged upon his scouting work, which he managed very well, and with great success, let us take a look at Oom Willem, for he had a notable experience that day. Willem sat and smoked behind his cover, smoking very carefully, so that no big clouds should rise in tlie air and reveal his presence, when of a sudden a strange little animal made its appearance, followed a moment later by a second, like itself; Willems gun instantly went half way to his shoulder, but it fell back again, for, though the sight was rare indeed in this part of the country, he had seen such creatuies before, and he knew them at once. ' Lion cubs 1 ’ he muttered. ' This is a new thing ! ’ The two little kitten-like animals, each about the size of a spaniel, had come out of some scrub on the left, to play together in the long grass, just in front of the Boer’s very eyes, as though for his amusement. Thev tumbled one another over and over, and stalked one another m and out of the cover, and made wonderful springs, and stealthy darts, in imitation of their parents ; and as, at one instant, both lay wiith- ino* in a mock death-struggle, one upon another, out suddenly darted a third, and stood over both, showing teeth^ and hissing with prettily feigned triumph and Boer Willem made a slight sound, and in a moment all three had scuttled into shelter, whence he could still see one or two little faces looking out. Willem watched them with, mixed feelings, for he knew well enough that this promising family, entertaining as they were, must represent a couple or full-grown parents somewhere, not very far away. Suddenly three sounds, following almost instantly one upon another, set old Willem’s pulses beating and his blood coursing; sent also the three cubs Heaven knows whither, in real fear this time, right out of sight. , First a shout— Brian’s voice at its full pitch— then the roar of a lion , then a shot. • • • Willem stood right up and looked abroad ; he was half-way up a small kopje, so that he could see over a mile or two of the flat country that lay at his teet, on the side from which Brian was to drive the game. The tdain before him was covered with long grass and patches of scrub, and far away in the distance Willem kught sight of Brian, still mount ed, galloping as fast as his horse could lay legs to the ground, with the evident intention of cutting off the antelopes, which were heading in a direction that would carry them far out of reach of the Boer’s rifie. Willem watched them until both parties disappeared behind a ]utting plantation of trees, which hid them could see plainlv enough that Brian would fail to cut them off ; the antelope hunt was over, and had tailed, for the present at least; but what about the lion, 01 lions, parents of the little fellows he had seen ? one had roared, probably in anger at the departure of the bok-herd, which, of course, he had been hunting hence the presence of his family here. ‘I think I will mount my horse and ride atter Brian,’ thought WUlem; ^ it is not right to let him go in danger without waning him ; maybe he did not see the lion, or bear him.’

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“ Willem’s blood froze in his veins, for a huge lion stood glaring at him.” Willem^s horse was secured a hundred yards away, tied to a tree, well surrounded by rocks and boulders, behind his own position ; a spot chosen with a view to keeping the horse well out of sight and shot, in case the game headed this way. Willem tui’ned towards his horse, and made a step or two in his direction, then he faced round once more to see whether Brian had not given up his attempt to turn the game. And now Willem’s blood suddenly froze in his veins, and for a moment ^ he stood still in terror, for a huge lion stood glaring at him from the very spot where the cubs had played a few minutes before; the lion was watching him, with swinging tail and surly mien. {Continued at page 238. )

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234 CHATTERBOX. HUNGABIAN PEDLARS. often hear of pedlars, but the youngest among us hardly know what the word means. Railways and^ rapid means of tra¬ velling have done away with them altogether ; yet in former days the pedlar made a good harvest in villages and country towns. In Hungary, which is a large country, there are still huge tracts of land where the village folk could not afford to reach a large town in which to make their purchases. This is where the profit of the travelling trader is made. The carrier loads his horse with all sorts of goods, the variety of which would astonish us if we could take stock of it : kitchen utensils, pots and pans, brooms, linen, cloth for coats and dresses, groceries for the household, ribbons, lace — in short, every possible article required by human beings for food and comfort. In the summer this sort of business is pleasant enough ; but in winter, when snow covers the ground, *t is fraught with discomfort and occasional danger. Thieves are always on the prowl wherever they :hink they can make a haul ; and in cold countries wolves abound, and these animals naturally have to seek their food where they can find it; nor are they particular when they meet unwary travellers I But the pedlar is a fearless man ; his living de¬ pends on the success he meets with his wares. He is looked for with joy, for he brings not only useful ^ticles, but scraps of news from here and there. He delivers his orders, finds sale for what are thought to be novelties in these out-of-the-way regions, and is treated right royally wherever he takes lip fresh merchandise, or leaves what has been expected and waited for months at a time. Mabguebite Ninet. LEGEISTD OP THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. The weary camels came from far, Their stately heads they lift; And the wise men, guided by the star, Descended with their gift. With golden treasures, scents and silks, Of Eastern beauty rare, They passed within the lowly roof. Nor noticed the despair Of a poor shepherd maiden, who Stood weeping in the cold ; Yearning for something rich to give, To prove her love imtold. A gentle spirit flitted down, ‘ What is thy grief ? ’ he said ; She whispered she had nought to give, Whereat her sad heart bled. Stooping, he pushed the snow away, And there you might descry Fair Christmas roses blossoming. All hid from mortal eye. ^ Better than gold and frankincense,’ He said in accents mild, * More meet than all their costly gifts For yonder Holy Child.’ A. A. D. W. THE INSECTS WE EAT. YOU may think this title sounds singular, and say that in these islands we do not eat insects, but there you may make a mistake. Certainly we do not eat them by choice ; but they mav be in our food or drink ; and we do not discover them soon enough to avoid swallowing them. Still, something depends on what we call an insect ; the name is not always used correctly. You may have read the story about a gentleman who was going to take a ticket for a train, and had a tortoise under his arm. He asked one of the porters if he should have to pay a fare for it as he would for a dog. He answered, ‘ No ; cats and rabbits are dogs, but that is an insect.’^ Then I have hep’d some one say that shrimps must be a sort of sea insect, because they cannot be fish or shells. This is not exactly the fact, though shrimps are near relations to the true insects, like other crustaceans. There are reasons why some insects might serve as food in time of famine, even if they were not eaten as choice morsels, it has been stated that a rather popular sauce owes its special flavour to a preparation of kitchen black-beetles, which is possible, though I had better not mention its name. The Romans of ancient times are said to have been fond of an insect called cossusj and some en¬ tomologists have supposed this was the caterpillar of the goat-moth, for we read that it was taken from the trunks of trees. Most likely it was the soft, fat grub of a beetle ; such grubs are eaten in some countries. Yet there are some Eastern lands where many persons think it wicked to eat anything that has life; so they carefully avoid swallowing the smallest insect.^ Locusts, again, are a terrible pest in parts of Asia and Africa, destroying plants or even trees; the natives take revenge upon them by eating them, and travellers say they do not taste amiss when properly fried. Ants, which swarm in hot countries, have been turned to good account by some people, who declare that the insects have a pleasant acid taste. With us in Britain, the ant is a common insect in the fields ; woods, and sometimes houses, are infested by a tiny, very active sort. They creep upon meat, bread, sugar, jams; and we may have an ant on our food without perceiving it, or take one in a cup of tea. It is when eating such vegetables as

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CHATTERBOX . 235 cabbages and cauliflowers that we have a good cbance of eating insects; caterpillars frequently hide in the heart of these, and escape the notice of the cook. Sometimes it happens that you do not eat the caterpillar, but only the juice of it, extracted in the boiling process. But caterpillars may usually be removed from vegetables by soaking them in salt and water before boiling. It is not easy to remove the small insects of the Aphis tribe, which sometimes swarm upon cabbage- leaves ; now and then we find dozens of them near the heart of an apple or pear ; the wonder is how they get there. Various are the insects which feed upon fruit, ripe and unripe ; we get some of them in our tarts, no doubt. It is not pleasant, while eating a ripe strawberry, to find that you have bitten^ a centinede in half, and swallowed part of him. Tnere may be a serious result from eating a plum or peach in which a wasp is hidden, if the insect should stin^ the throat. Sometimes a wasp, bee, or often a fly, IS swallowed when one is drinking lemonade, or some such sweet liquid. During the summer season it is not an uncommon thing for various insects to fly wildly into our mouths if we are in the country; but we do not always swallow them. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 20. — Conundrums. 1. Why should a man always wear a watch when he travels in a waterless desert ? 2. What vegetable put into soup will make it run out of the saucepan ? 3. Why are A, E, and XJ the handsomest of the vowels ? 4. What word is that which, by changing the posi¬ tion of one letter, will give the reverse meaning ? 5. What is that which, the more you take from it, the larger it becomes ? 6. Wiiat is that which is always invisible, yet never out of sight ? 7. What bird can lift the heaviest weights ? 8. What is that which Livingstone had once, Lincoln twice, and Longfellow three times, and yet each had about him all his life ? 9. Why is I the happiest vowel ? 10. Why is the deserted hut of an Ethiopian like a bandy-legged man ? 21. — Acrostic. A HEROINE of one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels who met with a very tragic fate. 1. My first is in Maiden, but not in Girl ; 2. My second’s in Diamond, but not in Pearl. 3. My third is in Haughty, but not in Proud ; 4. My fourth is in Vapour, but not in Cloud. 5. My fifth is in Glory, but not in Fame ; 6. My sixth is in Object, but not in Name. 7. My seventh’s in Forest, but not in Wood ; 8. My eighth’s in Attractive, but not in Good. 9. My ninth is in Early, but not in Soon ; 10. My tenth is in Planet, but not in Moon. C. C. [Ansioers at page 255 ] 19. — 1. Deacon, Canoe, Caned, Dane, Cane, Cone, Code, Node, Done, Dace. 2. Persist, Stripes, Strips, Spirts, Tripe, Trips, Spite. 3. Pheasant, Peasant, Hasten, Athens, Hants, Paste, Pants, Thane. 4. Theatre, Thereat, Teareth, Threat, Hatter, Tether, Tareth, Heart, Three, Treat, There, Hater, Teeth. 5. Teacher, Cheater, Heart, Cheat, Chart, Caret, Three, There, Cheer, Hear, Hare, Here, Care, Cart, Chat, Tear, Thee, Hart, Hate. 6. Severn, Nerves, Seven, Sever, Never, Verse, Seer, Seen, Veer. 7. Forest, Foster, Softer, Frost, Ports, Store, Rose, Sore, Soft, Serf, Fore, Rote, Sort. 8. Garden, Gander, Danger, Grand, Range, Grade, Dare, Read, Rend, Rage, Near, Dean, Dane. HEROES AND HEROIHES OF FAMOUS WRITERS. ‘THE PATHFINDER.’* H E story opens in a wood, and we are introduced to four persons — two men and two women. They had managed to mount on some trees which had been torn up by a tem¬ pest, in order to look around them. The storm had piled tree on tree until the climbers had been able to ascend as high as thirty feet above the ground. Two of the party — a man, ‘ Arrowhead,’ and a woman, belonged to an Indian tribe, the Tuscaroras. The other two were a man who had passed his days on the ocean, and his niece, a maiden both good and beautiful. The party were looking towards the west. As they were admiring the view afforded by this lovely American forest, the girl, ‘ Magnet,’ as her uncle fondly called her, exclaimed : ‘ See, yonder is a smoke, curling over the tops of the trees — can it come from a house ? ’ ‘ Ay, ay, there is a look of humanity in that smoke,’ answered the old seaman, ‘ which is worth a thousand trees. I must show it to Arrowhead, who may be running past a port without knowing it. It is probable there is a caboose where there is smoke.’ ‘There must be Oneidas or Tuscaroras near us. Arrowhead,’ said the Englishman, Charles Cap; ‘ will it not be well to join company with them, and get a berth for the night ? ’ ‘ No wigwams there,’ answered Arrowhead ; ‘ too much tree.’ * The Pathfinder^ by Pcnimore Cooper, price 6ci.

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“ The elder wliite man bid her fear nothing, for she had found Christian men in the wilderness.” ‘ But Indians must be there ; perhaps some old messmates of your own, Master Arrowhead.’ ‘No Tuscarora — no Oneida — no Mohawk; pale¬ face fire.’ ‘ A pale-face’s fire ; surely, uncle, he cannot know that ? ’ But Arrowhead was right, he knew that ‘black smoke' was the result of damp wood, and that the native Indians were ‘too cunning to make fire with water.’ The party set out to discover the strangers. Were they friends or foes.? As they approached near the smoke and saw three forms — two ‘ pale¬ faces/ and a red man — it was decided that Magnet

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CHATTERBOX. 237 should approach them alone, as it was agreed that the white men, being Christians, would not lire at an unprotected girl, or otherwise attempt to harm her. When she approached, the elder white man bade her fear nothing, for she had found Christian men in the wilderness, who knew how to treat kindly all who were disposed to peace and justice. ‘The troops and rangers along this side of the water call me “ Pathfinder,” ’ he added. The effect of the name on Magnet was instan¬ taneous. She clasped her hands eagerly and repeated the word ‘ Pathfinder.’ This, then, was the friend her father had promised to send to meet her, who was to see her safe to the garrison. At this moment her uncle and Arrowhead came up, and soon knew as much as Magnet herself. The younger white man, who until now had been seated by the fire and had not greeted Magnet, was introduced to her as Jasper Western, who had passed his days on the waters of Ontario. Master Cap had but a poor opinion of fresh -water sailors, while Jasper felt a deference for a mariner of the ocean, on which he had often pined to sail. Pathfinder and Western both noticed how inclined Master Cap was to boast of his being a salt-water sailor, and to despise those engaged on the lakes. Neither Pathfinder nor Jasper being averse to fun, it was decided to ‘ try his temper and run him over the falls.’ These falls were made by the junction of two rivers, both of which start from lakes, and, uniting their waters, are known as the Oswego. This river pursues its way some eight or ten miles, until it reaches the margin of a sort of natural terrace, down which it tumbles some ten or fifteen feet to another level, across which it glides, at last pouring its waters into the Ontario. Seated in the centre of the canoe. Master Cap, as the boat swept along the river and came within half a mile of the falls, asked what the heavy sound he could hear might be. He was informed, ‘ It is merely this river tumbling over some rocks half a mile below.’ Magnet asked if there were a fall in the stream. She was told there was. Then Master Cap suggested that Pathfinder, Jasper, and the rest should get the canoe in rearer towards the shore, as falls generally have rapids above. They assured him ttiat they understood all about rifts, rapids, and cataracts, and added that they would not disgrace themselves in going down. ‘In going down ! ’ exclaimed Master Cap ; ‘ you do not dream of going down a waterfall in this egg¬ shell of a box?° They told him they did, as it w'ould be easier to shoot it than to unload the canoe. The whole party, with the exception of Pathfinder, Jasper, and Cap, were first safely landed, and then the three men, steering the canoe to the middle of the stream, pointed its head towards the centre of the fall. Jasper gave a sweep with his paddle, the canoe glanced into the channel, and for a few seconds it seemed to Cap that he was tossing in a caldron. He felt the bow of the canoe tip, saw the raging. foaming water rushing madly by his side, felt the little bark in which he floated tossed about like an egg-sbell, and then, not less to his great joy than to his surprise, he discovered that it was gliding across the basin of still water below the fall, under the steady impulse of Jasper’s paddle. Now, although Master Cap would have given all he possessed to be again safe on shore at the time that he was passing through the falls, yet when the danger was over he was not cured of his boastful¬ ness. The after history of the party serves to show that the dangers on shore which stood between them and the garrison, to which they had to bring Magnet, were more real than those incurred in racing over the falls. Along the shore the party came on traces of the enemy, the Iroquois. A fire was kindled by Jasper to mislead them. Fifteen of them came down to the fire, looked about them, and finally deserted it, evidently aware that it had only been kindled to put them off the track. Some of them plunged into the woods, while six or eight followed the footsteps of Jasper along the shore, and came down the stream towards the place where the canoes had landed. Pathfinder and his party lay low in cover which was thickened by twigs of alder, which they had recently cut and inserted in the mud, and which looked as if they were growing. As the savages drew near the hiding-place of our friends, pulling aside the bushes in their search, the hearts of the party beat wildly. Would they escape? Was the screen sufficient to cover them? One, two, of the enemy passed, and Pathfinder hoped that he and his party had escaped, when the youngest of the warriors showed that his suspicions were awakened by the drooping of the leaves exposed to the sun. He drew the bushes aside, saying nothing to his elders — for he would have the glory of discovery ah me, or at any rate escape being laughed at, should his suspicions prove groundless — advanced, a step within the hiding-place, where he saw the concealed party, like so many breathless statues. He was instantly shot by an arrow by Chingachook, a Delaware Indian, one of the party, and his lifeless body, falling into the river, was whirled down the current. Then Jasper cried as he tore the bushes aside : ‘ There is not a moment to lose ! Do as I do, Master Cap, if you would save your niece, and you, Mabel ’ (Magnet was a pet name), ‘ lie at your length in the canoe.’ In an instant Jasper had seized the bow of the canoe, and dragged it along the shore, wading him¬ self. Cap aided behind, keeping so near the bank as to avoid being seen by the savages below. The Pathfinder’s canoe lay nearest to the bank, and was the last to quit the shore. The brave and hardy man, shouting to Jasper that the sergeant’s daughter must be saved at all risks, bade him keep well up the current and pull for the bushes opposite. At the same time he urged his own canoe into the current at a point much lower down than that of his companions, thus offering his own person as a target to the enemy, to save his friends. Shot followed shot in quick succession. Many times he was in great danger. He saw that his friends had

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238 OHATTEIRBOX. reached the opposite shore, and knew that for the present, at any rate, they were safe, and the know¬ ledge cheered him. When only a hundred yards from his foes and exposed to the constant discharge of their rifles, his steadiness and skill stood him in good service. He saw that his safety depended on keeping the canoe in motion, and that he must not only keep it in motion, but constantly change its course. If he were to keep on in one direction only, his enem -es, who were used to kill the bounding deer, would vary their line of aim so as to strike him. He therefore constantlj’’ changed the course of the canoe, at one moment shooting down "with the current, with the swiftness of an arruw ; and at the next checking the canoe and slipping athwart the stream. Fortu¬ nately for our hero, Pathflnder, the Iroquois could not load their pieces in the water, and the bushes, which everywhere fringed the shore, made it difficult to keep him in view when on the land. Ihe Pathfinder was gaining fast in distance, both downwards and across the current, when a new danger suddenly presented itself. A second party had been left in ambush below, with a view to watch the river. They were ten in number, all warriors. They knew just how to post themselves to the greatest advantage. They thought that 1 athfinder would be forced to approach the point where they were posted, and they saw that, if he did, they would either kill or capture him. Pathfinder, however, surprised them by springing into the water and beginning to wade towards the western shore, jumping from rock to rock. The canoe whirled about in the furious current, and at last lodged within a few yards of the spot where the enemy was standing. For a moment the foe stood in silent^ surprise, lost in admiration of the man’s daring. I hen they began to fire, flash followed flash, and the bullets whistled round his head. At times he was obliged to wade in water which rose nearly to his arms, while he kept his rifle and powder raised current. At last fatigue com¬ pelled him to stop, and he stood upon a small rock, placing on this his powder horn. Only fifty feet ^ western shore. Would he ever reach it . Ihe enemy had secured the deserted canoe, and having found the paddles, they were preparing to cross the river, when a voice from the bushes on the shore called ^ Pathfinder.’ In a moment he knew it to be the voice of Jasper, who assured nim that friends were at hand, and asked him to leave his rifle on the rock and swim, before the la'Cals could get afloat. Good sportsman that he \v as. Pathfinder said that he could not make up bis mind to leave his gun while powder remained in his horn and a bullet in his pouch. By the help of Jasper, the brave man was enabled o get to land, and then to shoot the traitorous i Arrowhead, who had deserted and betrayed his party. ^ | After more striking adventures and many narrow i escapes, the friends arrived safely at the garrison, | where Magnet ’ was welcomed by Sergeant Bun- ham, her father, whom she had not seen since she i was quite a small child. i The story goes on to tell of many more adventures which befell our friends, and of the marriage of j ^Magnet' and Jasper, whose love story runs plea¬ santly through the book. Its last page closes by telling us that Uncle Cap’s pressing invitations led his niece and her husband to join him in New York, where Jasper became a successful merchant. Pathfinder kept to his beloved forests, finding in them his interests and happiness. ^ Every reader of Chatterbox should secure for himself or herself a copy of this dehghtful book, written so brightly and interestingly, and by one who knew well the habits of the people of whom he James Cassidy. LOST SIR BRIAN. (Contimied from page 232.) CHAPTER X. 0 R a moment or two poor Willem felt that he must let his rifle drop; he had never seen a lion so close as this. The few he had met with had been timid creatures, that appeared to be far more anxious to keep out of his way, and out of reach of his rifle, than to come to close quarters and fight it out. But this great creature, be felt, was a different order of animal. This lion was furious, because the game which it had hunted for many hours had suddenly I escaped its clutches. It looked viciously at the Boer, j lashing its sides, and suddenly it uttered a sound I which, though not very loud, was very fearsome. Instantly, as though the cry were a summons to her, out into the open beside him, leapt a splendid creature— his mate— lithe, clean-limbed, as beautiful a lioness as ever obeyed the call of her lord. At the sight W^illem suddenly recovered a portion of his nerve, that is, he recovered just so much as to enable him to raise the gun to his shoulder and to pull the trigger, quite without aim. At the shot the lioness lost heart, and bounded, with a roar, into cover. The male lion roared also, but remained. Then old Boer Willem began to feel that he was in a tight place, and must pull himself together, or he might come to a sudden ending. He therefore made an effort, and, to a certain extent, he succeeded in bracing himself. He knew he must act cautiously; he had thrown away bis first shot, he dare not reload that barrel ; there only remained one bullet between him and a violent death, he must see that the shot sped straight this time. I Meanwhile the lion lashed its sides with its long tail, standing and staring at its enemy, and a great array of teeth revealed themselves, as it began to utter a continuous sound like a deep growl ; it had not, as yet, made up its mind whether to charge this queer-looking new creature, with the startling' voice, or spring aside into the cover as his queen had done. Willem waited, rifle to shoulder, hoping that something might happen to cause the brute to turn

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CHATTKRBOX. 239 slightly asid©, so that he could fire behind the shoulder, a safer shot for his last, he knew, than a frontal one. For several minutes the pair stood and stared. The suspense was beginning to react upon Willem’s nerves ; his knees be^an to shake, and his arms followed suit, so that tne sight of the rifle travelled up and down over the lion’s head and above and below it. Something, perhaps the slight movement of the man, seemed to enrage the lion, for he now began to act differently. He roared aloud, crouched as though to launch himself into the air, he roared a second time, and his tail went with a jerk straight up over his back and returned with a swish to the ground. ‘Heaven help me, he is coming !’ muttered Willem, and pulled the trigger. At the same moment two things happened, or we might call it as three if we count the collapsing backwards of poor ^^illem, who- fainted and fell. Of the other two things, one was a second shot, that only followed Willem’s by the minutest portion of a second ; the other was the springing into the air of the lion, a great jump, which would have landed him to a nicety upon Boer Willem’s carcase but for the fact that in mid-spring his legs collapsed, the roar died away in a feeble moaning growl, and the savage brute rolled over in the grass, dead. A moment later up ran Brian. He glanced at the still struggling lion and gave it a wide berth. ‘ Oom Willem, where are you ? ’ he shouted. Then he went behind the bush which had served the Boer as a hiding-place, and found poor Willem just recovering his senses. ‘ Where am I ? ’ he muttered. /Is the lion dead ? ‘ He is dead,’ said Brian ; ‘ all is well.’ *Ha ! my last shot was a grand one,’ said Willem, reviving rapidly at the news. ^ I saw he would charge, and aimed for the forehead.’ But when, a moment later, they examined the great beast, now quite still in death, Willem was puzzled to find that the body bore no trace of a wound in front, either in head or chest. er this,’ she declared, in discussing the adventure with her husband that night, ‘ for, without doubt, he saved your life.’ ' To God be the praise,’ said the Boer. \\aien the Lord is on our side, who then is against us ? ’ ^ Come, you should praise the lad as well,* J-aid good Tante Anna ; ‘ he behaved bravely, and deserves well of us.’ ' He has had well of us,’ said the Boer ; 'do we not feed him and clothe and defend him ? Have we not taught him the fear of the Lord? Moreover, I have given him the gun with which he shot the lion. I think he is satisfied.’ 'At any rate, do not vex him by calling him Rooinek,’ said Anna. ‘ If he is unfortunate enough to be English, let him forget it.’ , . , ' God forbid, he shall never forget it 1 exclaimed Willem, angry as ever at the very mention of the lated name. ‘ If he belongs to the accursed race, it 8 the duty of every one about him to see that he escapes not the chastisement due to all who have the wolfs blood in their veins.’ ' Far better that he should forget, and become a Tood Boer and one of ourselves. The lad is a good ^^^\Vhat, and mix his blood, one day— the wolf’s blood — with our own honest Dutch stuff, to poison ours ? God forbid ! ’ exclaimed Willem. ' He shall never pass as a Boer while I live. We want no Kooinek Boers.’ ^ ‘ Nevertheless, he saved thy life, Willem, and that shall not be forgotten to him, be he Boer or English¬ man ; and it seems to me that you, who should be the first to remember it, are the first to desire to forget it.’ 1 T j • ‘ Tush ! I remember that the Lord is my Defender,’ said Willem ; ' and to Him be all praise.’ {Continued at page 242.)

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240 CHATTERBOX. The savage brute rolled over iu the grass, dead.”

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242 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 239.) CHAPTER XI. OR a while, however, Boer Willem did his best to be kind, after his own clumsy Dutch fashion, and, when he thought of it, not to annoy young Brian, who now grew apace, and was already nearly as tall as his ‘ uncle,’ though the farmer was not a small man. But, unfortunately, the year which followed after the adventure of the lion was a bad one for the Boer ; the crops suffered from drought, disease showed Itself among the cattle, several of the horses tell ill and died. It was a disastrous year for the farms all over the country, so that Willem was not the only sufferer ; but this did not weigh much with him. He grew morose and easily put out by trifles, and inclined to be rude towards the inmates of his house, and more cruel to the Kaffir labourers in the place. Brian was growing useful on the farm now ; he worked well and was not lazy, though he did not care for the work, and showed little love for farming, otill, he did all he was told to do without com¬ plaining, though he would much rather have spent his time in wandering alone over the veldt, rifle in hand, or in riding where he would, with Greta, who loved to be taken out for a gallop. One day, Brian, having done all he had to do upon the farm, bade Greta get herself ready as quickly as she could, and come for a ride over the veldt. MJave you asked father if we can have the horses ? ^ said Greta, for, though it had been the custom of the youngsters to use the animals when¬ ever they liked without asking permission, horses were at this time scarce, and Boer Willem had more than once surlily remarked that ' the beasts of the farm were for labour, not for saving the leo-s of idle persons and those who loved to spend their time in godless amusement.^ ‘ Come along/ said Brian. ‘ We need not ask Com Willem ; he is away in the mealie fields. The horses have finished work for the day.’ ‘ Father is so angrj' to-day, I am afraid,’ said Greta. ‘Very well; then I will ride alone,’ lauo-hed Bnan, turning and marchino- off toward.s the stables. JNo; 1 will come,’ said Greta. ‘Do not ffo Without me, Brun.’ ^ Brian laughingly promised to wait, and presently the pair were cantering over the veldt together, laughing and talking. Brian was growing independent and somewhat restless, and he felt the need of more freedom. ‘ We will have a long ride to-dav, Greta,' he cried : the horses are not tired. We will go as far as the big hiU and back ; it is ten miles each way, and two rivers to ford.’ That would be lovely,’ said Greta ; ‘ but we should be so late home, and father - ’ [ You are too afraid of your father,’ laughed Brian. ‘ See here, now : this is my affair, this ride, and all the blame is going to be mine ; I am not afraid, and you are. Bet Oom Willem say what he pleases to me ; my back is broad.’ ‘ He used the s^jamhoh yesterday upon Kaffir Jan. If you made him very angry, he might lift his arm to you - ’ ‘ Well, it would be the last time if he did,’ said Brian. ^ Do you think I should stand still to be beaten, now, Greta, as if I were a child or a Kaffir? I am sixteen, and nearly a man.’ ' But you would not strike father ; that would be a deadly sin ? ’ ^No; perhaps I should not strike him, though I do not know, for I should be angrv also ; but I should - ’ Brian paused, and looked at his com¬ panion; Greta was very fond of him, and he was quite aware of the fact, therefore he hesitated to complete his sentence. ' What would you do P ’ she asked, breathlessly. ^ Well, I should go away,’ said Brian. < I should be very sorry to leave you and Xante Anna, but I could not stand to be whipped, Greta, like a Kaffir.’ ' Oh, no, Brun, no ! Do not do that. You would nut, surely ?’ ' Yes, I would,’ said Brian, grimly. ‘ What is more, I have determined, besides, that I will no longer submit to be insulted with the lips any more than with the S'janihok, If Oom W^illem annoys me by calling me Rooinek, I shall go for that reason also. I shall go away in order to find out who I am, and perhaps I shall return one day to prove that I am as good a Boer as he.’ ‘ What does it matter P Do not think of going, Brun; think how my mother would wepp, and I,^ and even my father would be sorry, I know, though you say he - ’ ° ^Oh, come, you will dry your tears if you hear I am an Englishman, for maybe I shall find that Oom Willem is right in this. You would not weep long for a Rooinek.’ T shall love you the same whether you are English or Boer. What does it matter? you are our Brun. When I see you, I think neither of Boer nor of English, but just of you.’ ‘Fie ! ’ laughed Brian, ‘that is not the speech of a ^ue Boer maiden. Oom Willem thinks that all Rooineks should be hated and chased out of the country.’ ‘Let him chase them all— what care I— only not you. You are ours, whether Boer or English, iust the same.’ Then the conversation changed, and the pair raced over the plain very happily, forgetting the future and the possible results of disobedience, and every¬ thing unpleasant, in the delight of spinning rapidly through the fine air of the veldt. They crossed the first river, their own, at the ford. It was somewhat flooded, but they had little diffi¬ culty in getting over the ‘ drift,’ as they called it, but when they came to the second river Greta hesitated upon the bank. ‘ Look, Brun, how deep the drift is to-day,’ she

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CHATTERBOX. 243 eaid, ^ and the current is very strong ! only see how the water swirls. I am frightened.’ ^ What, of a wetting ? You used not to mind that, Greta.’ ‘ Not of a wetting, I am used enough to that,’ she said ; ^ but the flood is out, and it is deep enough to be dangerous.’ ^ ^ Well, we can both swim, and so can the horses,’ cried Brian, who was in a wild mood this day. ^ Come, who is afraid ? I do not love cowards, Greta.’ The girl said no more, but followed Brian to the edge of the drift. The horses stood with drooped necks, sniffing at the water and snorting. Their instincts told them that it was dangerous, as, of course, it was. But Brian was not in the mood to let his horsd choose for himself ; he would be obeyed, and the animal plunged in, Greta’s following clusely. For a few yards the horses swam well side by side, then they came into the swirl of the current, and Greta’s animal, a small and rather nervous creature, began to plungo heavily, splashing with its forefoot in alarm. * We had better turn and go back, Brun,’ said Greta ; ‘ my horse is frightened.’ ‘ Kick him with your heel,’ said Brian ; ‘ he is only fooling. Besides, it would be as bad to turn as to go on.’ But in a moment or two things began to look very serious. Greta’s horse had begun to lose heart ; it wasted its strength in splashing and snorting. The current was strong, and though Greta headed the animal up stream, as Brian bade her, it was gradually carried downwards. Brian caught at her bridle. ‘ Do not fear, Greta,’ he said. * There is not much danger. If your horse cannot hold his own, we will let him go and you shall sit upon mine.’ It became necessary to do something of this sort almost immediately, for Greta’s horse was a poor swimmer at best, and the current had mastered him, he was helpless. Brian slipped from his saddle, holding the edge of it and swimming with his right ' hand. ‘ Let yourself slide into the water quietly,’ he said ; *do not be afraid, you shall be quite safe, but the horse must go.’ Greta wasted no time in argument, she did as she was told ; she was used to obey orders, being, as a rule, a model Boer daughter in the virtues of obedience and patience, and in other good domestic qualities of her race. It was well for her that she obeyed in time on this occasion, for she had scarcely done as Brian bade her, and slipped into the water by his side, when her poor horse splashed madly once or twice with his forefeet, snorted in helpless anguish, and went under. ‘ Catch hold of my saddle, and of the bridle,’ said Brian. ‘ Do not lose your head, and I will hoist you up.’ This was not very easy, but Brian contrived, after some exertion, to push the girl into the saddle ; he swam alongside, holding the stirrup-leather with one hand. The horse — a good performer in the water — was never in danger, and reached the opposite shore without disaster. ‘ Now we are safe,’ said Brian, wringing the wet from his clothes as he stumbled ashore ; ‘ you see, there was no danger.’ ‘ Nay, I thought I saw much danger,’ said Greta; ‘ but you are brave, and made great things small. Also, we have to get back to the other side.^ ‘ That is easily done with old Piet here to carry you instead of that fool of a Karl — he was a coward, and deserved to be drowned.’ ^ My father will think differently, that is what I fear,’ said Greta ; ‘ he will be so angry that I do not like to think what he will do and say ! ’ ‘ Bah ! let him say what he will ; I am sorry that a farm horse is lost to Oom Willem, because there are now fewer because of the horse-sickness; there¬ fore, I shall bear more from him this time ; I shall tell him that you are not to be blamed, therefore you need not fear.’ ‘I do not fear for myself, but for you,’ said Greta. ‘ Well, then, you need not fear at all,’ Brian laughed * for I am growing different, Greta, every day ; do you not see it ? I think that Oom Willem when he sees that the man in me is showing, he will treat me as a man.’ ‘ And if he does not you will quarrel, and you will go away, and that is what I fear,’ said Greta. {Continued at page 250.) A CLEVER SPAlSriEL. GENTLEMAN owned a clever black-and-white spaniel called Dash. One morning, a country¬ man arrived with a letter while the gentleman was at breakfast, and he was told to wait for an answer. The servant put him into a parlour, and he was just going to sit down, when a growl came to his ears. He turned sharply round, and saw Dash lying in a chair near the fire-place ; close to him was the ring of the bell-pull, and the dog laid his paw upon it. As often as the man tried to take a seat, so often did Dash growl, till, at last, his curiosity being excited to find out what the dog would do if he persevered, he dropped into a chair. Dash then pulled the bell most effectually. A servant, answering the summons, was much surprised to hear who had rung. Still, he was also pleased, because it explained a mystery, which had several times puzzled him and his fellow- servants. Now and then one or more had to sit up for their master and mistress, when they went out for the evening ; and while they were having a quiet doze, they would hear the parlour bell ring smartly. They did not suspect the dog, though they noticed that when they woke he was not to be seen. MOORISH PIRATES. The South of Spain, which was formerly in possession of the people called Moors, is still in some parts infested by pirates of the same race. They belong to the tribe of the Reefs, and are as active and dangerous as the sea-robbers who are still met with in Chinese waters. They carry on the 'Same sort of contraband or

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Moorish Pirates. smuggling, hut not content with this, they also keep a watch on all disabled ships, with a view to plunder¬ ing^ them ; and they are not always particular in their treatment of the crew. Baving discovered a prey, they board the vessel, remove by fair or foul play all they can lay hands on, and carry off the spoil. Their boats are manned with oars, helped by huge sails when the wind is favourable. These pirates know the coast thoroughly, and are well accustomed to cheat the guards, who rarely catch them. There is no mercy given to the crew, nor indeed to any one who attempts to oppose them in their marauding, and the goods are con¬ veyed to mountain caves, and other safe recesses known only to themselves. Marguerite Ninet.

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The Doctor’s Boy. BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. THE DOCTOR’S BOY. A GOOD deal depends on the doctor’s boy. When XA, his master has paid his visits, and returned home to prepare the medicines for his patients, the boy has to be in readiness to deliver them^ at the right houses, and I dare say the doctor is very careful to have them properly directed, so that no mistakes can be made ; but just think of the trouble that would follow if Master Thomas Tucker received the physic which was meant for the baby who lived next door ! , ^ .l Perhaps Master Thomas had a birthday party the previous night, and the buns and the cakes and the sweets were so nice that he said : ^ Y ou cannot have too much of a good thing ’ ; and he is finding out to day what a mistake it is to think anything of the sort. Perhaps the poor baby next door has got the whooping-cough, and the medicine which will cure

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24fi CHATTERBOX. whooping-cough is really no good to boys who talk aDcl eat like Tommy Tucker. Therefore, when the doctor’s boy takes the basket on his arm, he must not let his thoughts wander, for tear that he may knock at the right door and hand in the wrong bottle. Alas ! he always has his round to make, but there are certain times in the year when he knocks at more doors than usual. It is very fortunate that the anniversary of every boy’s birth does not fall on the same day, and it is still more fortunate that every boy is not so fond of cakes and buns and sweets as Tom Tucker is. Never¬ theless, at a certain season, which is near the close ot the year, everybody has a right to be merry, and ail on the same glad day. There is a merry fire, burning in a merry grate, and a merry crowd telling merry stories all round it. And as to the children, well, I never heard such laughter, or saw such gamies in my life. Tommy Tucker has got quite S ‘Blindman’s- iiutt, and leaves off playing for a while,, to pay a ^sit to a aish of chocolate creams on a side table. He had made frequent calls to this part of the room before, and when I told him he had been there fifteen times, he said, ‘ Could it be so often But Tommy Tucker was not the only one, and so, when the merry Christmas Day was over, the doctor followed the footprints of Santa Claus, and followed the footprints of the doctor. When poor Tommy Tucker’s mother told him that the medicine which had been sent was a ^good thing for him, he never once said : ' Oh very well, you cannot have too much of a good thing.’ So I hope you will remember that, if you are not careful when dear eld Santa Claus comes to brio-hten your home again, the doctor’s boy will be aTmost sure to follow not far behind him. John Lra. AUSTRALIAN INSECTS. SPIDERS. npHERE is a vast number of different kinds of i spiders in Australia. I can only tell you about f range in size from the great tarantula, called after its European cousin, to a^wee one not larger than the head of a pin. The taran¬ tula IS greatly feared by some people, I think quite without reason, for I never heard of its biting any one. A much smaller one is not so harmless: black, with a bright red spot on his back, he gives trZl “T and inflames greatly. I heard about a year ago of one biting a man in the ^roat, which swelled so that the poor wan was suffocated. The spider which the mason wasp takes for her young is a small green one. It lives on hedges, and looks so like the little green bud of the plant, that it is very difficult to tell which is differenL”*^ Another kind of spider is one which lives close to water, and seems to be able to skate along its surface while It catches mosquitoes. It builds a nest near its hunting-ground of web under a bit of fallen bark or stick. ^ Another curious fellow is the jumping spider ; he IS small but fat, and ver^ active. As he makes no web, he has to depend for his food on his quickness ; he springs on his prey, which are flies which live about trees. He makes a wee nest in the bark of a tree, about the size of a pea, which is divided in two like a box with a hinge, and when he goes home he shuts himself in. Another kind of spider makes a hole in the ground with a door to it, which he can shut after him ; another ground spider makes a hole in the ground, and over it (I suppose as a protection) he builds a beautiful tower about an inch and a half high. It is made of pieces of grass fastened together with web, and is so elastic that, even after being walked on, it springs up again. All these ground spiders live on giasshoppers.^ Another spider makes its home in a ^um-leaf, which it makes into a sort of funnel, and joins together with web. May Collins, Victoria, STORIES PROM THE MOUHTAINTS. THE HOSPICE. |7HERE the perils of the Swiss V!> mountain-way are thickest, there is often a hospice, or house of shelter for tra¬ vellers, where they mav take refuge from the storm, and obtain much-needed rest and refresh ment. The m ost noted of all these is the Hospice of St. Bernard. Here, where ,, „ , winter lasts for liine months of the year, and where, even in the three months of summer, there are mists and snow-falls a number of pious monks have taken up their abode I ''' and solitude, so' that they may succour the travellers on the road between Switzerland and Italy. These devoted men enter upon their work while they are still young, and at first their youthful health and spints help them to bear up against the hardships of the life. They are supposed to remain tor lourteen years, but many of them die before that time, overcome by a cold so intense that human nature is unable to contend against it. They suffer in many ways, but they are most kind and hospitable to strangers; waiting upon them with their own hands, and doing all in their power not only to save the lives of those who are in actual danger, but to add to the comfort of visitors wlio come out of mere curiosity, or who use the hospice as a sort or hotel. Neither do the good monks look for a reward for their services; they make no charge for their entertainment, but a box is placed, in which visitors may put what money they please, to help to pay the expenses of the house. ^ ^ It is sad to think that in this feaifullv cold place great care has to be exercised in the use of fuel.

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CHATTERBOX. 247 The monks have no coal, only wood for their fires, and the wood has to be brought long distances across the mountains. A clergyman who visited the hospice during the month of August, gives an interesting account of his reception there. Even at that time of the year the cold was extreme, the thermometer falling to more than six degrees below freezing-point. A meal of soup, roast chamois, and boiled rice and milk, with prunes and a bottle of red wine, was prepared for this gentleman and other travellers ; they were provided with comfortable beds, and, until bed-time came, were invited to rest in a room hung with pictures and well supplied with newspapers and magazines. The monks, who are learned and accomplished men, converse in French with their visitors, and appear to live only that they may be of service to those who are brought to their doors. The chief interest of the Hospice of St. Bernard centres around the marons, the wonderful dogs who do so much towards saving the lives of persons lost in the mountain snows. These dogs are very large and strong, and are of a brown colour ; the body of one of them, named 'Barry,’ who is said to have saved more than forty lives, has been stuffed, and placed in the museum at Berne. This noble animal came to a sad end; like other dogs of St. Bernard he was of rather wild and savage appearance, and, springing suddenly upon a traveller who was in danger, the man mistook him for a wolf, and gave him such a hard blow that the faithful dog never recovered, but died soon after¬ wards. 0. J. Blake. loose. It was a weapon that just suited him. This he seized hold of, and, whirling it round with his trunk, directed it so truly, that he swept more than a dozen natives off the raft, to take their chance j with a strong tide and plenty of sharks. His self- possession was remarkable, for, though swinging in the air, he did this as coolly as if he had been roam¬ ing in his native forest. Being safely lodged on board, he was conveyed to Rangoon, and made one of a party of elephants that were employed in collect¬ ing wood from the forest, carrying baggage, and in other ways. Afterwards, the captain saw a remarkable proof that this great creature could be kind to a child. Like the rest of his brethren, he suffered much annoyance from flies and mosquitoes, which lodge in the cracks of the elephant’s thick hide. To drive them away, an elephant often makes for himself a sort of whisk, or brush, by taking a long bough, and pulling off the side twigs, he leaves the leaves at the top. This large elephant was a good mark for the hosts of insects, and he would be very busy, flapping right and left to keep away his persecutors. But one day the keeper brought to him a black baby, and uttered two Hindu words, which were 'Watch it!’ he walked into the town. Instantly, the elephant gave his whole attention to the child. First, he broke off part of a bough to make a small and convenient whisk ; then, for two hours, till the keeper returned, he fanned the little blacky, driving ofi every mosquito that came near. It happened that the captain also witnessed the large elephant’s departure from Rangoon, which occurred under rather singular circumstances. Some of the troops being ordered to march, the services of the elephants were required. The Quartermaster- General — the man with four eyes, as the^ natives called him, because he wore spectacles — superintended the loading of the animals. Tent after tent was heaped upon his big friend, who said nothing, till he thought they were overdoing the thing, and he roared out his complaints ; the keeper explained, or tried to do so. However, there was still a tent to be carried, and therefore, as one more or less would make no difference, it was put upon his back. The elephant said no more, but he turned sulky. It hap¬ pened that just at this time the main street of the town, through which he had to go — narrow, as Eastern streets mostly are — ^was very busy. Jogging along it were a number of small oxen and ponies, each loaded with packages of various sizes, also bottles. These were attended by coolies, who made the scene lively by their pushing, beating, and shout¬ ing. When the last tent was put upon the big elephant, he looked like a mountain of canvas and cloth; these bulged out on each side so that there was little space to spare between the rows of houses. The keeper told him to go on, and he did. Off he went at a trot, mowing down before him every coolie, pony, or ox that barred his passage. The confusion was amazing. The animals rolled about, the coolies ran for the doorways, wines and spirits ran in rivulets from smashed bottles, and the cap¬ tain’s eyes followed his friend, till he vanished down the street in a cloud of dust. J. R. S. 0. DOINGS OF A BIG ELEPHANT. ® [pdN officer, formerly in the Queen’s i ^ ^ ^ service, has given us a rather l/#/ amusing account of his deal- ings with a large elephant while he was on duty in India. This elephant had /7 captured by the expedi- tion sent to Martaban, and quite four feet higher than the average of his culty with him was to get him upon the transport. A raft was made, and he was very unwillingly per¬ suaded to trust his big carcase upon it ; tliia was towed off, with about thirty natives attending him. Blocks were prepared to hoist him on board. The animal was properly fastened ; the capstan, or wind¬ lass, was manned, and his huge bulk began to rise in the air, when the ropes broke. He came down upon the raft with a heavy splash, an experiment of which he did not seem to approve. However, the tackle was rearranged, and again his lordship began to ascend ; but he had not forgotten the accident, and, apparently, he ascribed it to the natives on the raft. He looked about him very wroth, his trunk being the only part of his body at liberty. As he rose, he espied a portion of a top-sail yard, which hung down

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248 CHATTERBOX. “ When the last tent was put upon the big elephant, he looked like a inouutain of canvas and cloth.”

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“ Brian fetched a ladder and appeared at the window.”

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250 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. (Continued from page 243.) CHAPTER XII. IAN made light of the ^ danger of crossing the ford, . and, as it turned out, he was right, for, with himself swimming at her side, old Piet had no difficulty in carrying Greta safely to the But Greta was somewhat depressed and tearful when farm was reached. ^ ^ ^ . Riding slowly in wet clotHea does not brace the nerves and prepare them to meet disaster, such as the fury of an angry father. In a word, the girl was terribly afraid of meeting her father. That her fears were quite justified by the event was proved as soon as tne still dripping pair arrived. Old Willem met them at the porch. ‘ What is this ? ’ he said ; ^ why are you wet, girl — what have you done ? — why do you look ashamed ? ’ ^ We have been riding, Oom Willem, contrary to your orders, for which I alone am to blame, and not Greta. That is not the worst, the floods are out, and we had difficulty in crossing the drift at Shuldani River, where we lost a horse ; all this is my fault, therefore do not punish Greta, she was persuaded by me.’ ^ What is this you say — how dare you say it — lost a horse in the river — drowned ? you dare to tell me this ? ’ tell you because I must,’ said Brian, ^and because it is the truth.’ ‘ Is it true, Greta — is it possible that a horse is drowned — which horse ? ’ he suddenly added. Boer Willem had been wonderfully calm up to this moment. ‘ It is true, father ; I was disobedient and rode with Brun, knowing well that I ought not, and for my sin the horse Karl wag carmed away and drowned ; Brun saved me and gave me his horse.’ Then Oom Willem suddenly lost control over him¬ self ; he swore, and stamped, and raved, and vowed that he had been robbed of his horse, and that in future^he would have no thieving Englishman about his house. ‘ As for you,’ he shouted at poor Greta, ^ you shall never speak to him again, disobedient minx that you are; oh, 1 know, I have seen! he would make you love him, if he could, in order that one day he may mix his wolf’s blood with ours ; but I will show him that I will have no wolf ’s blood mingled with our honest stuff ; away now, go to your room, and stay there for half a month ; your door shall be locked, and you shall speak neither to Rooineks nor to honest folk ; I will teach you tliat I am to be obeyed.’ ^ Oom Willem, you shall not punish her for my fault ; I tell you that it was I who persuaded her against her will.’ ^Silence, fool, or the sjambok shall make you give tongue in earnest ! You tell me that you persuaded her to this sin, that is no excuse ; so does the Evil One persuade, but his persuasion is no excuse when a man listei^s to him.’ ^ Neither shall I be sjamboked nor shall Greta be punished,’ said Brian, boldly. ‘ I am sorry the horse is lost, and that is the truth ; but I did my best with him, and no man could have saved the horse and the maiden as well.’ Willem gazed savagely a't Brian for a moment, speechless ; then, by way of answer, he aimed a clumsy back-hand blow at the lad. The blow did not reach him, however; Brian laughed aloud. ^ You are vicious to-day, Oom Willem,’ he said ; ' but I take no notice, because it was my fault that the horse Karl was lost.’ Willem shook his fist, but said nothing. He went into the house, driving the weeping Greta before him. ‘ We shall see who is to be obeyed,’ he muttered, as the two disappeared. When supper- time came round, Brian was passed over by the old Boer, who helped himself and his wife, but ignored the youth. Brian first flushed with surprise and anger, then laughed aloud and quitted the room, taking no notice of certain signs from poor distressed Tante Anna, which would have told him that he should have his supper presently. Afterwards the kind soul brought him a great sandwich of bread and beef, and bade him eat it and give thanks. ‘ Ask forgiveness also for this great sin, my son,’ she said ; ‘ for Oom Willem is very angry with thee, and no wonder, seeing that you have lost a horse ! ’ ‘ I am sorry we lost the horse, and I have told him so,’ said Brian. ^ Is Greta to be starved, also, as well as imprisoned ? ’ ^She is to have no more supper than thou, poor child, or, indeed, less, for, while I was able to smuggle this sandwich into this room, her room is locked, and the key is in the uncle’s pocket.’ ^Rest in peace, Tante, she shall have food,’ said Brian ; ^ I will see to that.’ ^ You cannot ; how is it to be done ’ asked Anna, looking frightened. ‘ I fear for you, Brun, for I can see that you are in a rash mood to-day.’ ‘I will throw it in at her window — half of this sandwich,’ said Brian. ‘ She may not open it, the uncle has forbidden it — the poor child must sleep without food to-night.’ Tante Anna left the room almost weeping; she knew that she could do nothing with old Willem while he was in his present mood, and Willem had ■said that Greta should go to bed without supper. But Brian went straight to Greta’s door and knocked. Greta was crying within. ^ Who is it .P’ she asked; ^ the door is locked, and I cannot open it.’ ^ That does not matter,’ said Brian ; ^ but open the window, Greta, and I will throw some supper in from outside.’ ‘ Oh, I dare not, go away, Brun, father will hear, and will be more angry ; thank you, dear Brun, for thinking of me, but go away, because you make me afraid.’

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OI-IATTERBOX. 251 Brian persisted a while, but without success, and was forced, presentl}^ to retire without having persuaded Greta to accept his offer of a share of his supper. This angered Brian; he was angry, how¬ ever, with Oom Willetu, not with Greta. t go, Greta, for a while at least.’ ‘ Alas ! I shall never see you again 1 ’ Greta sobbed ; ‘ how could you ever return when once you left thus, in anger and without permission ? Father, too, will be angry, his anger is worse than yours! He will never take you back again, and — and I cannot bear to let you go, dear brother, and that is the truth.’ ‘This is foolish,’ said Brian, ‘ and 1 see that we shall not agree ; therefore I tell you, Greta, that my mind is made up, I am going away, and now; you shall hear where I am, and, of course, you shall see me again, whether Oom Willem will have it or no.’ Greta wept and entreated, but in vain, aiid presently Brian bade her let him go, for it was time he departed. He left her crying bitterly. Having put away the ladder, he sought old Tante Anna — first securing his rifle and a bundle of necessaries. ‘ Farewell, Tante,’ he said. ^ ‘ Farewell — why — where are you going, my son ? she asked in surprise. ‘ Over the veldt for a day or two of hunting ; better there than here while the Uncle is mad with me 1 ’ laughed Brian. ‘ And a better chance of food 1 he added. ‘ His anger will depart as it came ; stay and brave it out, my son, it is better that way.’ ‘ No, it shall blow over without me, Tante,’ said Brian. , , , j i • Thus Brian left the house which had sheltered him so long. If Tante Anna had known as much as Greta of Brian’s intentions when he left her that morning, there would have been two despairing hearts beneath the Boer’s roof-tree, instead of one. But even then perhaps Greta’s would have been somewhat the sorer of the two, greatly as old Anna had learned to love her adopted son. [Continued at page 258.) HIPPOPOTAMUS HUNTING ON THE NILE. This wonderful river runs through a district inhabited by the Somalis, who were formerly independent, but are now under British rule. They are very clever in capturing the hippopotamus, which is found in great numbers in the river. The Somali goes out alone in his small canoe, and shows great patience in paddling about, waiting for his

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Hippopotamus Hunting on the Upper Nile. prey. He is armed with an ingenious weapon of his own construction, viz., a short, massive spear, pro¬ vided with two bent hooks; to this is attached a rope, at the other end of which a log of wood is tied. When the hippopotamus hides under the water, the hunter is often guided in his search by a species of bird which hovers about in search of food ; oddly enough, the birds find it in the remnants of food from the monster’s huge teeth. When the hippo¬ potamus comes to the surface and opens his mouth, they hop in and out to find their means of subsistence. The hunter flings out his spear (with the log tied to the rope) as soon as he sees his prey ; but this has to be repeated many times, as the hide of the hippo¬ potamus is very tough. At last, however, the log, which floats on the surface of the water, becomes

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Nero. stationary — a sure sign that the animal has ceased to swim. Then begins the landing of the prey, which is naturally a hard task ; yet the game is well worth the trouble, for the hide is used in the manufacture of many valuable articles, and the flesh, which is like pork, provides good food for the hunter, ihe word ‘ hippopotamus ’ is derived from two Greek words : hippus, meaning horse, and potamus^ river— that is, the river-horse. Marguerite Ninet. ANCIENT BITLERS. NERO. NERO’S full name, after his adoption by his step¬ father, the Emperor Claudius, was Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus. He was the Caesar to whom St. Paul appealed when he was brought before Festus, the Roman Governor of J udaea. He was born in a.d. 37, and was the son of Caius

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254 CT-IATTKRROX. Domitius and Agrippina. On the death of his father his mother married Claudius, whom he succeeded on the throne. At first young Nero showed much mercy, so that once, when he was asked to sign a warrant for the execution of some criminal, he exclaimed, ^ I wish that I could not write ! ’ This goodness caused him- to be much liked by the people, but their love soon changed to hate, for he became one of the most horrible monsters of cruelty that ever lived : he put to death his mother, his two wives, Octavia and Poppsea, besides many of the best men of his time. It was that he might be judged by this dreadful tyrant that St. Paul was sent to Home. However, St. Paul was allowed to live in his own hired house, in custody of a soldier, for two years. Then he was released, and renewed his labours in preaching the Gospel in various countries. He returned to Rome, and was again accused by his enemies, and thrown into prison. Pie was brought before Nero, who condemned him to death. About this time there was a general persecution of the Christians, for Home had been set on fire. It was thought that Nero himself had done it, for it is said that while the fire was raging he sat on a lofty tower that he might enjoy the sight, and sang to his lyre songs about the destruction of Troy. The greater part of the city was burned down. The Emperor, to divert suspicion from himself, spread the report that the fire had been caused by the Christians ; and very many of them were put to death in ways of horrible cruelty. At length the Romans could no longer bear Nero’s cruelties, or endure the sight of an Emperor who, not content with the most shameless crimes, disgraced himself by appearing as an actor on the public stage. His enemies plotted against him, and Galba was declared Emperor. The Senate condemned Nero to be dragged throuo-h the streets of Rome, flogged to death, and his body thrown from the Tarpeiah rock. But the wretched man escaped the sentence by killing himself, in A.D. 68. All Rome rejoiced at his death, yet even this man had some one who loved him, for a flower was secretly placed by an unknown hand in the urn which contained his ashes. THE SCTNIilNTG. An Indian Fable. IN the good old days, a clown in the East, on a visit to a city kinsman, while at dinner, pointed to a burning candle and asked what it was. The city man said, in jest, that it was a sunling, or one of the children of the sun. The clown thought that it was something rare; so he waited for a chance, and hid it in a chest of drawers close by. Soon the chest caught fire, then the curtains by its side, then the room, then the whole house. After the flames had been put out, the city man and the clown went into the burnt building to see what remained. The clown turned over the embers of the chest of drawers. The cit^ man asked what he was seeking for. The clown said, ^It is in this chest that I hid the bright sunling ; 1 wish to know if he has survived the flames.’ ‘ Alas ! ’ said the city man, who now found out the cause of all the mischief, ^ never jest with fools.’ ‘ THUGGEE.’ O M E half-century or more ago the villainous ^ Thuggee’ was largely practised in India, and parties of British troops were at length sent out to put a stop to it. But most success in this good work was won by small parties of Sepoys with some smart officer who knew the wiles of these villains from long experience of the country. Captain Whitehead was on-^ of those sharp officers, and in the year A.D. 1836, he started off in pursuit of a party of Thugs, leading only about twenty -eight Sepoys. After a fortnight of false scents and failure. White- head heard that a murder and robbery had been committed in a village some eight miles from where he then was. He made a rapid march thither, and seized a man of the name of Tantia Ali. If White¬ head’s information about him were true, even before this last crime, he had deserved hanging ; and now he was caught almost red-handed. But the British captain was too clever to hang the fellow. What he wanted was that he should betray his rascally com¬ panions, so that the ^ haul ’ should be one worth making. Without any beating about the bush, Whitehead looked the man steadily in the eyes and said : ‘ You are a Thug, and perhaps it would be better to hang you out of hand ; yet I might spare your life if you will give me information of the other Thugs in this neighbourhood.’ The fellow threw up his hands with a tragic gesture. ‘ No, sahib, I know nothing,’ he said. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Whitehead, with seeming indifference; ‘then if you know nothing, you will be no use to me, and we will hang you at once. Will a quarter of an hour from now suit you ? ’—looking at his watch as he spoke. Tantia did not seem to think that that would be a convenient time. He fidgeted uneasily, and then said : H would willingly tell the sahib if I knew.’ ‘ Precisely ; but as you say you do not know, you see, you will not be any use to me, and if you have no objection to offer, it would really be more convenient to our movements that you should be hanged at once, than - ’ But here the fellow broke in eagerly : ‘ Would my life be given me if I told what I knew ?' ‘ But I thought you knew nothing?’ said White- head. Tantia shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Perhaps I can tell something— yes, sahib, I will tell — I will tell you all 1 know.’ ‘

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CHATTERBOX . •255 Whitehead carelessly glanced at the rope, now held in view by a Sepoy. ‘Very well, then ; your life shall be spared under those conditions.^ And then the prisoner reeled off a long list of murder and robbery which made the blood run cold. For the next few weeks Whitehead moved from village to village, guided by Tantia, who, faithful to his promise, gave information against about forty different men. All of these were seized by White- head and his Sepoys, and sent down for trial. On one occasion he was nearly outwitted by the craft and wiles of a band of these murderous rascals. Tantia had named the direction taken by a party of Thugs, and, following hot upon the scent, Whitehead had burst in upon their encampment, only to find them, as it seemed, in deep distress over the death of one of their number. The body lay in the midst of them, covered with a winding-sheet, and the fellows were loudly mourning. Whitehead was deceived, and would have passed on his way, but Tantia whispered in his ear ; ^ Sahib, believe not in these men, nor their words. Let me examine the body.’ Whitehead assenting to this course, the ex-Thug stepped forward and stripped the sheet off the rigid form. Then he pointed to the marks upon the throat, which showed that the man had been naur- dexed. In a twinkling all the wretches were seized and securely bound by the Sepoys. At their trial, they were clearly proved to be a band of notorious scoundrels, and whilst two of the leaders were hanged, the rest were sent to imprisonment for life. Tantia Ali of course received his freedom, as the price of his valuable information. From the time he was first taken prisoner he had been faithful to Whitehead, showing that there must have been some good in him so that he kept his promise strictly. Of course, fear had something to do with it, but not aU. F. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 22. — Anagrams. Names of Eminent Men, 1. Him a speaker all wise. A poet. 2. S - in a new coat. A philosopher. 3. Lie a log. An astronomer. 4. No rest. A Grecian king of very ancient times. 5. A tram. A Swiss who became one of the leaders of the French Kevolution. G. C. 23. —Word Building. (A.)— 1. The infinitive of a very irregular verb. (Two letters.) 2. A place of rest. 3. A small round ornament. 4. Part of a knife or sword. 6. An inferior officer of a church, college, parish, or public company. (b.)— 1. A vowel. 2. Part of a much-used verb. 3. To assume a resting position. 4. To tear open. 5. Chiefly seen on roofs. 6. Having no sound. (c.)— 1. A word of two letters used before a vowel. 2. A shallow vessel, mostly found in your kitchen. 3. A scheme. 4. A vegetable production. 5. Seen in the heavens. (d.)— 1. A much-used preposition. (Two letters.) 2. Not in. 3. Denoting movement towards a person or thing. 4. To calculate ; a title. 5. A division of a country. 6. A division of a continent. {Answers at page 270.] 20, — 1. Because every watch has a spring in it. 2. Leeks. 3. Because there is no beauty without them. 4. United, untied. 6. A hole. 6. The letter S. 7. The crane. 8. The letter L. 9. Because it is in the centre of bliss. 10. Because the negro’s out (the knee grows out). 21. — Amy Bobsart. THE YOUNG SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG. TRAVELLEHS in some of the glens and straths of Sutherlandshire, a few years since, might have noticed, along the paths, a shepherd boy, who was always followed by a favourite and faithtul dog. Many boys, looking at his rough coat and awkward figure, might have thought he ^as an animal not worthy to be kindly treated, but their opinions would have changed on getting to know the noble character of Oappie. We may give the follow¬ ing instance of his sagacity and courage One day, his master sat on the hill-side in Slactiel, looking over the cattle under his care in the valley below. With alarm, he saw one of the vveak calves of the herd attacked by a large eagle, which, failing to carry off the animal by its first assault, rose again to the sky. The experience of the lad taught nim that every moment was precious, as the eagle would renew the attack, and come down with gre^r force. ‘See! Cappie, Oappie 1’ he cried. ^ The poor beast will be killed!’— at the same time taking the doo- and directing his eyes to the eagle as it soared aloft. Away darted Cappie from hia master, down into the hollow. He took his place Reside the trem¬ bling animal he was told to guard. Hardly had he time to get breath after his run from the hill, before the eagle swooped down again, eager for its prev. With a leap, Cappie sprang at the assailant, who turned tail and escaped to the heights which were its home. Cappie, however, had obtained a mouthtul of the eagle’s feathers, which, when his master came up, he showed him, as much as to say, ‘ I would have caught him if I could, but he escaped. ^ ^ ^

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256 CHATTERBOX The Young Shepherd and his Dog.

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SYMPATHY.

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258 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued frovi 'page 251.) CHAPTER XIII. I A N was Dot entirely with- ^ out plan when he left his 1 } iiome under old Willem’s 1 roof “tree, and set out to seek his fortune, wherever such a thing might be found. There were a great many ^ riddles which he wished to solve. For one thing, he most anxious to know more than Willem ^ Jiad chosen to tell him of ‘ these English.’ It might he that his hatred for the English race was not so deserved as, in his childhood, Brian had believed it must be, since ‘ the Uncle ’ said so. Something had lately happened which led Brian’s thoughts into this line of reasoning — a very simple thing. Greta had shown him a large atlas. ^ A picture of the world,’ she called it, and it had greatly interested Brian. Geography and history had formed no part of his education ; he knew nothing of either, though Greta had a slight smattering of the former. Xante Anna was herself almost without education. She could read and write her own language, and this much she had taught both the children. She had bought one or two old books at a lumber store in the nearest town, and among them this atlas ; but, beyond what Greta had taught herself out of the big tattered volume, no geography whatever had been learned within this ignorant Boer home. ‘Show me where we are,’ Brian had asked, when Greta opened out before him her map of the world. Greta laid her finger upon the Transvaal. ‘ Now show me where the English live.’ Greta pointed out a certain small island far away up in the northern seas. ‘What, in that little place exclaimed Brian, surprised. ‘ Then there cannot be very many of them. What are they doing here, all this way from home ?’ he added a moment later. ‘ Oh, but they own a lot of land all over the world,’ said Greta ; ‘ look here ! ’ The girl turned over a few pages and revealed a map entitled ‘ The British Empire.’ In this plate, all British possessions and colonies were coloured pink, the rest of the world remaining plain. ‘ Why, they fill half the world ! ‘ Brian exclaimed, ‘ there must be more of them than of the Boers ; now show me the Boer lands, where are they on this picture ? ’ Greta found the spot with some difficulty. ‘ Why, that is pink also ! ’ said Brian; ‘yet it is not a part of the English lands! ’ ‘ When this picture was made, it was ; but father says we Boers took it away from them, when he shot the Englishmen at Majuba Battle.’ ^ ‘ But have the Boers no more land than this little bit.^” asked Brian; and when Greta told him that, so far as she knew, this little spot in Africa was the only possession of the Boer people, Brian became thoughtful, and the seeds were sown which ripened into a strong desire to know more of these English,, to whom he was accused of being kin. Thus, when Brian left home he went with a certain plan in his head that he would make his vvay to the new goldfields at Johannesburg, an attraction which, it was said, had already lured many English¬ men, who were anxious to make their fortunes by the digging of gold. Twice during the last year wandering Englishmen had ridden up to Boer Willem’s farm to ask shelter for a night and a morsel of food. These travellers had been on the way to the goldfields, journeying from some out-of-the-way place across country, hence their presence in this quiet part of the Transvaal. They spoke Dutch after a fashion, for they were not new arrivals in the country, but the sons of farmers already in the Transvaal, anxious to improve their prospects. Brian had spofon to them, and had heard from them of the goldfields now oflter- ing splendid chances for young men of spirit to better themselves. One of these fellows had told Brian that he would be sworn he was no Boer, but an Englishman. ‘ Why do you say that.P’ asked Brian, not too pleased. ‘Because you are a Britisher from the sole of your foot to the crown of your head,’ laughed the other ; ‘ do you speak English ? ’ ‘ Good-morning - how-do-you-do-quite- well- thank- you-how-are-you ! ’ said Brian, smilingly rattling out his old rigmarole ‘ is that English ? ^ ‘Yes, of a kind,’ said the other, laughing; ‘ where did you learn that ? ’ ‘ I did not learn it, I have always known it,’ said Brian. ‘ Then you must have been among English at one time — you were lost, stolen, or strayed when you were a child, my lad, take my word for it.’ The fellow was proud of his discovery and harped upon it, repeating himself a dozen times as he ate the food Xante Anna placed before him, until suddenly Oom Willem appeared and turned him out, finding that he was a Rooinekf and boasted of it. ‘ We have no room here for cubs of that litter,’ said the Boer, surlily ; ‘ I would not trust an Englishman in the house at night.’ ‘ Well, I have known many surly brutes among your people,’ said the Englishman, angrily ; ‘ but, of all the ill-mannered ruffians ever I saw, you are about the worst.’ ‘ Very well,’ said Willem, ‘ quite likely ; that is the way out of the yard.’ ‘ As for your trusting an Englishman in your house, you have one living with you now,’ continued the traveller; ‘probably you murdered his people and stole him.’ ‘ I shot four Rooineks at Majuba,’ said the Boer, ‘ and I pray the Almighty that I shall live to shoot four more. If you are one of them, I shall not cry about it.’ ‘Oh, come, two can play at that game, my friend 1’ said the other, slowly taking his departure. ‘ I

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CHATTERBOX. 259 shall look out for you, and when I see you I shall remember your good manners of to-day.’ Oom Willem was no more courteous towards the second of the English gold-seeking wayfarers, whom he turned out without ceremony upon hearing that he was English. Towards Dutch travellers he was hospitable, though surly enough if in an ill humour. Xante Anna sent Brian out after this second miner with food, for she had a kind heart that made no distinctions when folk were hungry; she would feed a Kooinek as readily as a Boer, even though she had the usual Boer prejudice against English¬ men. ‘ Thank you, mate, I am much obliged,’ said the fellow in English; ^ that old skinflint there is as ill-mannered a barbarian as ever I saw under a white skin ! ’ But Brian shook his head — do not understand English,’ he said, speaking Dutch. ‘ What, aren’t you a Britisher?’ asked the fellow in surprise. * The Almighty who made me knows,’ said Brian. ^ I do not ; every one calls me an English¬ man ; I do not understand why.’ ^ I would swear to you anywhere as one — you are built on English lines, my man; you are a Britisher right enough, and a good-looking one, too ! ’ Brian was certainly that, if a frank, good-featured face, and curly fair hair, with blue eyes and a well- set up figure, could make him so. ‘Well — if ever you come to Johannesburg, you can ask for me — Billy Harberton — and there is a .square meal for you and a shake down in return for this. How come you here, by the way ? ’ ‘ I know nothing of myself,’ said Brian, turning away, and strolling back to the house; he disliked being obliged to own that he knew nothing about himself, it shamed him. One day, he felt, all this uncertainty must be put right. Meanwhile these two men thought more than once of this odd encounter at a Boer farm, with a fine young fellow plainly of English appearance, who knew nothing of his birth, and who spoke a few words of English, but without understanding them. Both men remembered these things as curious, and wished they had taken the chance of making more inquiries as to the lad’s history. All these things went towards making up Brian’s mind as to his plan of campaign, when the time should come for leaving the ‘ Uncle’s ’ roof. That time had come now, and Brian scarcely thought twice as to the direction in which his steps should be turned. H is rifle under his arm, a small supply of food in one wallet, and his cartridges in another, he turned in the direction which both of his English acquaint¬ ances had chosen, the road to Johannesburg. CHAPTER XIV. Brian’s chances of being discovered and restored to his rightful position in England certainly stood at a low ebb at this time. His champion. Sir Arthur, was dead long since and in his grave by Majuba Hill. At home others already sat in his seat and enjoyed the income and all the advantages of a position which belonged by rights to Arthur Amberton’s nephew, for Captain Philips could not see his way to prevent this taking possession by the next heir of Brian’s rank and estates. This man, a distant cousin, though bearing the same name, had little difficulty in asserting his claim. The child was, probably, dead ; at any rate, he was hopelessly lost, there was no clue to his whereabouts. It was not Philips’s fault that he could do nothing in the matter; he did his best to prevent a decision, but he was unable to convince the Court of the existence of Brian as a living being. ‘ Produce him,’ said the Court ; and this was just what it was impossible to do. Then Philips appealed to the good feeling of the claimant. ‘ The child was carried away by his nurse, who is sure to have taken the most pious care of him,’ he argued. ‘ We found traces of him on the veldt ’ (Philips had brought forward all these details a dozen times, and the claimant knew every point in the case quite as well as he did). ‘ He was carried away alive, and is alive now, you may depend upon it.’ ‘Well, And him; produce him,’ said the other. ‘ These things, that you and Sir Arthur picked up on the veldt, prove nothing. The child may have been alive at the time, or lie may not ; as for the book, most probably it was thought useless as loot, and thrown aside as the murderer ran away.’ No further steps could be taken until Brian could be discovered, and Philips, though he held the discovery of the child a legacy left in his hands at his death by Sir Arthur, and therefore a duty to be borne in mind and to be taken up and carried through whensoever the chance should arise, did not think it necessary to sacriflce his own career in order to obey the wishes of his dead friend. He had his own duties in life and his own ambitions; these could not be neglected in order to undertake what most of his friends assured him would be a most foolish and useless quest. Most of his friends were of opinion that the child had been murdered with his parents. Some agreed that possibly he may have been carried alive into Zululand or elsewhere, but that it would be difficult or impossible to trace him even though he were still living, and that in any case such a quest could only be undertaken by a man who had complete leisure ; no man with his own way to make should devote time and energy to such a wild-goose chase. ‘ I shall get a year’s leave very soon,’ said Philips, ‘ and then, please God, I shall be able to set about the business with a clear conscience.’ Sir Arthur had not imposed this burden upon his friend without thought and care. On the contrary, when the will was read after the sad news of Majuba, it was found that his whole stock of rifles and other things, all of which he had left stored up in Cape Town, in readiness for a great trek in search of Brian, which stock included waggons and everything else necessary for the purpose for which th»y had been intended, had been left, together with a sum of one thousand pounds, to Captain Philips, ‘ to be used at his discretion.’ Philips knew very well what this meant, and he felt the more bound to carry out the wishes of his dead friend.

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Interview between Captain Philips and Mr. Billy Harberton. So when he found himself free to undertake such an enterprise, he started for the Cape. Philips was a bachelor, and had no particular ties in England to keep him. Many of his friends laughed when they heard that he had set out upon his wild-goose chase. ^ It is good of the old chap,’ they said, ‘ and he is proving himself a rare faithful friend to the dead man, but - ’ Then followed all the arguments which went to prove that there was about as much chance of finding the little lost baronet in Africa as there would be of discovering a grain of wheat in the bushel of chaff, and that, even if found, the youth would prove, like

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CHATTERBOX. 261 the grain of wheat, not worth the finding, a kind of white Zulu, a little savage, who would be much better left alone among his barbarian friends than brought over to create a social scandal in England. When Philips arrived at Cape Town and began to make preparations for his journey, he felt almost overwhelmed with the magnitude of his task. Africa was so huge ; where was he to begin — which way to go ? As a matter of fact, he very nearly hit upon the exact course which would have landed him in the goal of success — very nearly, but not quite. He trekked, with native guides, through Cape Colony and into the Transvaal, inquiring at every farm he passed whether anything had ever been heard of such an English lad as he was seeking. Philips trekked patiently northwards and then eastwards, but he learned nothing. He found most of the Boers very surly, and their lack of the hospitable spirit shocked him. He felt inclined to despair ; for, he thought, so bitter were these Boer fellows against evervthing English, that it was possible they would Keep back information even if they had it. Several of those to whom he addressed inquiries, however, had recommended him, half in jest, to go to Johannesburg, and look for his Englishman there. ‘They are all there,’ these men said, in effect, ‘grubbing after Transvaal gold, having none of their own and being too lazy to do honest work upon the land.’ Philips was anxious to see Johannesburg, and was quite inclined to take the advices thus offered him. He did not think it likely that the lost boy could have been carried to the new city of gold ; but it was possible, and Johannesburg might just as well lie in his line of march. So to Johannesburg Philips turned his steps. Here he made inquiries right and left, and if Brian had been there he would probably have found him. Brian, ought, moreover, to have been there ; for he started from his home about a year ago with the intention of going to the goldfields ; but, for reasons which shall be set forth in good time, Brian was not at the golden city. Philips had almost made up his mind that this was so, and that he might as well trek in some other direction, when one evening, as he sat in his hotel at dinner, the waiter informed him that a gentleman had called to see him. ‘ What sort of a gentleman ? ’ asked Philips. The waiter hesitated. ‘ English, sir, I should say, without occupation at present — somewhat out at elbows, and in want of a job.’ ‘Not a youth of seventeen or eighteen ? ’ said Philips, somewhat excitedly. It had occurred to him that by some wonderful turn of good fortune this might be Brian himself, who had heard of his inquiries, and come to answer them in person. But this proved to be a much older man — a seedy- looking person, as the waiter had hinted — who looked somewhat out of place in the smart drawing¬ room of the hotel, into which he had been shown to await Philips, and who gave his name as ‘ Mr. Billy Harberton.’ {Continued at page 270.) THE DESERT ISLAND. A Tale from tlie Talmud. WEALTHY master to a grateful slave, Who long had served him well, his freedom gpe ; A cargo of rich merchandise as well Right generously bestowed, and said, ‘ Farewell ! This in far countries for thy profit sell. ’Tis all thine own ! ’ Forthwith the slave set sail, But soon, o’er taken by a mighty gale. His luckless vessel, 'with tremendous shock. Was driven to destruction on a rock, And all on board were lost except this slave. Who, bravely struggling in the stormy wave. In safety gained the shelter of the shoie. Upon an isle he stood, poor man once more ! — For all his goods were swallowed by the sea — Thus desolate and sad of heart was he. The shipwrecked man traversed the unknown isle, And soon approached a fair, majestic pile — A royal city — whence, to his surprise, A crowd came forth to meet him, with glad cries Of ‘Welcome! welcome! may our king live long!’ Forthwith with shouts, and high, triumphant song, The former slave in blazoned car they bore. And set him down before a palace door. Within were many servants, who arrayed His form in royal robes, and homage paid To him as sovereign, whilst they loud professed Their willingness to do their lord’s behest. Bewildered and amazed, the new-made king Thought surely he had dreamed this wondrous thing. Convinced at length that all indeed was real. Amazement yet he did not cease to feel ; ‘ And, wherefore,’ said he, ‘ make ye choice of me, A wanderer unknown, your king to be ? ’ ‘ Sire,’ was the answer, ‘ in this island, know That spirits dwell who, very long ago. Petitioned God that yearly He would bring Hither a son of man to be their king. Their prayers was granted. Once a year, in state A stranger they receive, and elevate With honour to the throne ; but one year’s space He reigns, and then another takes his place. With ruthless hand the spirits snatch the state From him who was their king — and this his fate — Stripped of his regal robes, he is conveyed Unto an isle where, if he have not made Provision previously with prudent care. He finds nor friend nor subject — all is bare And desolate around him. He is left Alone and comfortless, of all bereft. Another king meanwhile is chosen here ; And thus the tale is acted year by year. Careless have been the kings preceding thee ; They, thoughtless of the speedy end to be, Enjoyed their pleasure and their kingly power, Until overtaken by the evil hour. Be wiser thou ! Let these our words find rest Within thy heart, so be for ever blest ! ’

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262 CHATTERBOX. The new-made monarch lent attentive ear, Regretting that already of the year Some precious moments unemployed had sped. Him who had spoken thus the king addressed; — * Spirit, by thy wise words I will be led. Instruct me how I may prepare me best For that great change of which thou tellest me.^ Replied the other : ‘ Nothing must thou take With thee when thou departest; wisely make Provision now. As monarch, thou art free To do whatever pleases thee ; wherefore, while This freedom lasteth, workmen to the isle Send over, for thy coming to prepare, Jly tilling fields and building houses there. 'I'heir labours shall transform that barren isle Into a fruitful garden, by whose smile Attracted, men shall journey there to dwell. And be thy subjects. Thus shall all be well ; And when thou comest to thy kingdom fair, (Far better than the realm thou rulest here), A w elcome sure from friends already there Shall sweetly greet thy coming. Short the year, And long the labour ; wherefore earnest be And diligent, while time is granted thee ! ’ The king obeyed ; and, ere the year was o’er, His destined home was desolate no more, But warm with human doings, and alight W ith glow of human faces, brave and bright. Preceding kings had met with dread the day That snatched from them their power and pomp away. And some of them had chosen not to think Beforehand of it ; this one did not shrink From thoughts thereof, so well assured was he That it to him a joyful day would be. The months rolled swiftly by, the day arrived ; 1 he temporary ruler was deprived Of royal rank and raiment. Naked, he Provisionless was launched upon the sea. But when his ship approached the island-shore. The people he had thither sent before Came forth in crowds to greet him — with glad song. Triumph an tl}'^ swept on that joyous throng ; Their king unto his palace home they bore — More splendid far than he had had b*. fore ! — To reign in peace and plenty evermore. The meaning of this parable is plain: Eternal habitations we may gain — Friends who will never fail us we may choose — If but the things of earth we rightlv use, As preparation for the life to come— Remembering alwavs this is not our home. E. D. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. The tastes of young folk alter as time goes on, and the^ juvenile books which delighted many, when Victoria became Queen, are not much cared i for now. Amongst the favourites of the old times j was a little volume telling some of the adventures of Robin Hood and Little John. There seems to I have been an adventurer of the name of Robin Hood, who lived between six and seven hundred years ago. There are several things which keep him, and his companions, in remembrance; for example, if you go to the town of Nottingham, you will find a ‘ Robin Hood Street.’ His history is linked with that of this well-known midland town. On the Yorkshire coast is a ‘ Robin Hood ’ Bay, where, for a change from deer-hunting, he is said to have fished. Robin Hood is supposed to have been born in A.n. 1160. He had some claim to call himself Earl of Huntingdon, but^ he was outlawed while only a young man. This led him to seek refuge in the woods or forests, and he soon became noted for his skill with the long-bow. One of the stories about his early life is, that he was going through a royal forest, carrying a bow of great strength, when he met some woodmen, who jeered him because he had a bow which, they said, no man could shoot with. Robin laughed, and replied it was only a ^birding bow,’ he had a bigger one at Locksley. They challenged him to kill a deer which was a long way off. He killed the deer, but they refused to pay the money, and ran away. After this, Robin took to deer-hunting, and visited Sherwood Forest, Plimpton Park, and Barnsdale Wood, often having quarrels with the rangers. He also, according to the historians, sometimes acted the part of robber, taking money or valuables from travellers along lonely places, but he never hurt persons unless he was forced to defend himself. Nor did he keep all his spoil, for when he had given a share to his companions, he distributed the rest amongst poor persons, of whom there were plenty in sore need during those troublous times. Of course, Robin Hood had his ‘ merry men,’ skilful with the bow like himself, brave and active, who took part in many daring enterprises. His special friend was Little "John, but this name was a joke, since he was not little, but very tall. When Robin died, Little John fled from England, and is said to have died in Ireland ; though at Hathersage, Derbyshire, they used to show his grave. Then there was in the party Friar Tuck, a wandering priest ; Will Scarlett or Scathlock; Mutch, the Miller’s son, and others, to the number of a hundred. Robin defied all attempts to break up his band, though sometimes he and his archers had to fly in small parties, when they were hotly pursued, till they could gather together again. It is told that on one occasion the Sheriff of Nottingham caught a follower of Robin’s, and brought him into the town, where he was going to hang him. Suddenly Robin appeared with a troop of his men, who overcame the Sheriff’s party, and, seizing the Sheriff himself, Robin put the rope round his neck, but, showing his usual good nature, he let the Sheriff go, though he took his money. Stories still more startling are told about Robin Hood, particularly some referring to his skill in archery. Thus, it is said that he could send an arrow the distance of a mile, and strike deer running at full speed so far away, that nobody else would try to aim at them. In the parish of Halifax an immense stone was exhibited, which, according to report,

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CHATTERBOX. 263 Kobin Hood for amusement took up, and threw to hit a mark on t he hill-side. In A.D. 1760, the Nottingham people showed to travellers what was called Robin Hood’s chair, and also his cap, and one of his shoes. Though he led a dangerous life, it is said that he reached the age of eighty-seven. Clifford. STREET SCENES AT VICTORIA’S CORONATION. EWS PAPERS of the year a.d. 1838 tell us that June 28th was a pleasant day. A shower of rain fell in the morning, but after that it was fine — ‘ Queen’s weather,’ in fact, as was fitting on her Coronation Day. No doubt the vast gathering of people — some supposed about half a million were in the streets — felt thankful the weather favoured them too, and they could enjoy the sight without anxiety. Her Majesty was to all the chief object of attraction, and at every point of the route the cheers were loud and united. The Queen acknowledged them by bows or smiles, while she conversed pleasantly with the Duchess of Sutherland and Lord Albemarle, who had seats in the royal state coach. Near the Horse- guards, however, the crowd was so great that the police had to ply their truncheons. This the Queen noticed, and sne spoke of it to Lord Albemarle, evidently pained to witness the sight, but she could do nothing. • j Amongst the illustrious persons recognised by the assemblage, next to the Queen, the heartiest greetings were received by the excellent Duchess of Kent, Her Majesty’s mother. Her honoured uncle, the Duke of Sussex, also called forth applause when he passed the houses and galleries. Many of the carriages belong¬ ing to ambassadors or foreign ministers were so beautifully adorned that they added much to the splendour of the show. The carriage of Marshal Soult excited great interest, being a fine specimen of French work, the body brown and gold, with silver fittings, its panels embroidered, the lining blue and scarlet. Not less admired was that of the Sardinian Ambassador, the horses having toques of blue and white feathers, while the liveries were velvet and silk, heavy with gold lace. Amongst the new costumes were those worn by the royal bargemen, of scarlet cloth, having large silver-gilt badges on their breasts and backs. The royal huntsmen were also in scarlet. With them came the foresters in green velvet and golden belts. The people looked admiringly at the Duke of Buccleuch, who, as Captain-General of the Royal Archers of Scotland, followed the state coach. He too was in green, bearing a gold wand, and his horse was splendidly caparisoned. It was one of the happy events of the day that the number dP accidents proved to be small, and very few persons were taken up for drunkenness or any mis¬ conduct. Many thousands of the printed programmes were sold before or on the Coronation Day, and numbers of people had coronation pocket-handker¬ chiefs, of the kind commonly used sixty or seventy years ago, though the same sort are still to be had, printed from blocks, and mostly patronised by young folk. These handkerchiefs had portraits and national emblems, with particulars about the Coronation cere¬ mony. The Government medals were in gold and silver, the latter being as big as a crown, and others were struck of common metal for cheap memorials. One curious event was the roasting of a coronation ox and two deer, in Bishopsgate, over a coke fire. It occupied many hours, thousands of persons paying sixpence each to witness this remarkable sight. A balloon was sent up from the Green Park, containing a gentleman and a lady, but it behaved rather badly, and after travelling over London for an hour or two, came down suddenly in Marylebone. Hyde Park was chosen as the spot for a large fair, which was open four days, and contained long rows of booths, with the usual amusements of a fancy fair. Most of the London places of amusement were opened free during the evening of Coronation Day. Displays of fireworks were made from eleven to one o’clock in the Green and Hyde Parks. After dark, all over London, every street blazed with illumina¬ tions in gas or oil, many being magnificent, and even the humble cottagers arranged little lamps along ^eir windows. J. R. S. C. TATTOOING A MAORI BRAVE. AJEW ZEALAND is well known to all English IN people, even though they may ^ not have travelled so far. This island, famous for its splendid climate, as well as for its natural beauties, was once the home of a native tribe called Maoris. Now these people are as civilised as ourselves, but some of their customs were strange and interesting. They wore but little clothing, probably in order to show off better the extraordinary tattooing of thmr bodies, which was considered too important to be left unnoticed. This work is done by means of long needles steeped in colouring materials, and the stjde of designs, as well as the amount reproduced on the body, varied according to the rank of the person on whom they were performed. Our knowledge of this art is very limited ; the most we see of it is on the wrist or arm of many of our sailors, and then it is only done in blue, so that we have no idea of the wonderful patterns wrought in many vivid colours by those who are past-masters in the science. Moreover, the designs we know are not numerous, and generally consist of wreaths, or initials, or hearts entwined. The variety of strange, brilliant colours used by the savages may be blended with doubtful taste, but the effects are extraordinaiy. The wonderful hue of their skin makes it all the more so, indeed, and the results of their elaborate work are better imagined than described. Marguerite Ninbt.

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264 CHATTERBOX.

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266 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. IV. the brave old days, when smugglers ran their cargoes on dark nights, evading the Preventive men in their Revenue cutters and long¬ boats, or getting captured after a stout %ht, there was a sort of romance which appealed to the hearts of British boys — aye, and men, too — about such enterprises. Now, however, what little all is shorn of its former merely, in the eye of the public at large, a sordid attempt to cheat the Cus¬ toms out of a petty charge for excise duty. But some of the methods in use at the present day are funny and ingenious. Noticing that a female passenger, landing from one of the Newhaven and Dieppe boats, was .somewhat bulky in appearance, a Customs officer detained her. The lady was highly indignant and protested loudly, but in vain. The female searcher was sent for, and, on making a careful examination, .she discovered that, swathed around the lady’s body, beneath her shirt, were many yards of valuable lace. The stoke-hold of a steamship sometimes conceals articles— chiefly cigars — on which duty should be paid. In the many dark corners near, and even sometimes in the great engines, a convenient hiding- place is found ; but should the vigilance of the Revenue officer be rewarded by discovering anything excisable, the would-be smuggler is haled before a magistrate, and, on conviction, he is fined treble the duty, and forced to give up the goods themselves, and sometimes, when the offence is a bad one, or has been often repeated, he is sent to prison. One of the most unlikely things for the ordinary seaman to desire — Eau de Cologne — is some¬ times smuggled ihto this country from French and German ports. A yacht’s ‘ hand,’ well known to the writer, who has sailed several cruises with him, once outwitted the Customs officials in a very ingenious manner. The yacht on which he was had been lying in Peter Port, Guernsey, for several days, and whilst ashore there, Jack, as we will call him for the sake of brevity, had purchased a dozen bottles of Eau de Cologne. The yacht started out from Peter Port in a light, variable breeze, bound for Portland. Before she had done two miles of her journey, the breeze entirely died away, and the Firp^i/ drifted about all day, making ^ next to no progress on her journey. During the night a little wind sprang up and helped her a few miles on her course, but after three days of sluggish drifting, s^he was obliged to make for Fowey (Cornwall). Knowing that she would be boarded there by the Customs officers, and that they would thoroughly search her below. Jack struck upon a scheme^ for hiding his treasure from their gaze. Whilst stiU a mile or so from the mouth of the river which forms a fine natural harbour for Fowey, he climbed the rigging to the foot of the topmast, and carefully arranged his row of little bottles on the cross-trees, fastening them there with a piece of line. ‘ And bless you, sir, they never once thought of looking up there ! their thoughts all ran on the below- stairs part of the ship,’ said Jack, with a laugh. The plan of having false bottoms made to trunks is an old one ; but the insertion of a measuring-yard inside and out, and a comparison between the two depths, very quickly reveals the attempted deception. Nevertheless, there is little doubt but that many thousands of cigars have been — through this trick — brought into this country duty free. A very .stout, countrified-looking man crossed so frequently between Dover and Calais that the Customs officers began to suspect something wrong. Accordingly a strict watch was kept, and one fine day an official tapped him on the shoulder and requested the pleasure of an interview within the walls of the Custom House. Resistance was impossible — an invitation of that kind is one very difficult to decline! — and, on being stripped, it was found that the man’s ^ corpulency ’ was caused entirely by the fact that, inside his clothes, tin cans, and in some parts even India-rubber bags, were fitted, all of which were tilled with finest old Cognac brandy ! Another case of attempting to smuggle brandy was detected by a Customs officer, who evidently possessed a strong sense of humour. Having first satisfied himself, beyond all reasonable doubt, that a certain male passenger’s bulk was caused by his having concealed matter about him, the official thrust a long pin into the suspected part. On withdrawing the pin, not blood, but brandy trickled forth 1 A woman was stopped about a year ago, and, when examined by the female searcher, it was found that her petticoat was fitted with cases like those in a cartridge bandolier. In each case there was a choice cigar, and some thousand cigars were thus carried at each journey. As another instance of misplaced ingenuity, we may cite the case of an American lady who, return¬ ing to her native country after a trip to Europe, tried to escape the charges of the New York Custom House, by placing a valuable diamond, which she had purchased in Paris, within the folds of her hair ! A bold trick was carried out by a mau who, on landing at Calais, gave his Gladstone bng to the French Customs officer to hold, whilst he searched for the key to open his heavy portmanteau for inspection. The searcher went through the latter, and found nothing liable to duty. He affixed the Customs mark on it, and handed back the Gladstone to the passenger, who was duly passed through. The Gladstone bag which the official had actually been holding in his hand, and never looked into, was crammed with expensive cigars ! These are but a few of the many ingenious devices, known to Customs officers of our own and other countries, for the evasion of the duties. But in these latter days, smuggling, except in very insignificant matters, is dying out, simply because, with light smuggling is done at attractiveness, and is

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OHATTERBOX. 267 imposts, backed up by heavy punishment for infring¬ ing the law, it is hardly worth the risk and trouble to attempt it. These remark.^, be it understood, apply mainly to smuggling between England, France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and America. Excessive duties, such as some of the Eastern countries still keep up, always have produced a crop of smugglers, and probably always will. E. R. gate. Monk, duke of Albemarle, also lay there for several weeks. During the time of the early Georges, various nobles lived at the palace, mostly belonging to the Court. George III. gave in 1763 a splendid fete to the Venetian ambassadors ; soon after, however, the old mansion was taken down. The present Somerset House began to be built in 1776, and took several years. J. R. S. C. OLD SOMERSET HOUSE. HE lads, not only of Central London, but of most parts of the Empire’s capital, well know Somerset House, in the Strand. It is conspicuous to V along that busy thoroughfare; also a striking ^ object when viewed from the Thames, or the opposite Cousins or friends from the country, who may be visiting the big City, should they approach Somerset House, naturally ask what this large pile of buildings is used for, and they are told that in it are a number of important Government offices. For one thing, all wills over a certain amount have to be proved here, and various taxes are paid. Many documents and important papers are carefully preserved at Somerset House. Some people say this grand old fabric is not secure, and may need to be taken down; it is true that at one time the tide often entered the vaults. Though it has known other names, the building now goes by the one first used, which was taken from the proud and powerful Lord Protector Seymour, duke of Somerset, uncle to Edward VI. This noble¬ man is supposed to have begun building his mansion in the reign of Henry Vi 11., and he pulled down e.xtensively to carry out his plan. He had a church removed, and the London houses of two of the bishops, and some other buildings. Some of the materials he got by taking down a priory at Clerken- well, and cloisters near St. Paul’s Cathedral. After his execution, the Princess Elizabeth owned the house, and when she became Queen, her Chamber- lain, Lord Hunsdou, lived in it. After James 1. became the King of England as well as of Scotland, he chose Somerset House for his Queen’s palace ; commanding, in 1616, that it should be called Denmark House — Anne, his consort, being sister of the King of Denmark, who came to visit her there. Her Majesty had a splendid court at this palace, which w^as enlarged and beautified, and sup¬ plied with water from springs at Hyde Park. One thing notable in the history of old Somerset House is that several famous persons lay there in state before their funerals. Inigo Jones, who designed the chapel, and other parts of the palace, died at it in 1652. There was a grand display when Oliver Cromwell lay in state, but the mob threw dirt at his escutcheon, which was placed on the great THE SHOE-HAIL. A FARMER saddled his horse to ride to town, jlX and though he saw that one of the shoes needed a nail, he only said, ^ It does not matter much about a nail,’ and rode away. He had not yet completed half his journey, when his horse cast his shoe. ^ If there were a forge near at hand,’ said he, ‘I should have the horse shod; meanwhile, there are still three shoes to go on with.’ But the horse next hurt his hoof upon the stony ground, and began to go lame. Suddenly there sprang forward two robbers from the forest, to plunder the traveller. He was unable to escape on a horse that limped, and so they took from him his horse, with bridle, saddle, and portmanteau. ‘I could not have expected,’ said he, ‘ to lose my horse and my property on account of a single nail ! ’ From the German of C. von Schmid. BOYS OP THE LOHDOH STREETS. THE NEWSBOY AT THE STATION. rp HE Hast minute’ is sometimes the most impor- \_ tant of all. It is very often in the Mast minute ’ that the boy at school succeeds in answering the question on his examination paper, and it is generally in the Mast minute’ that many people, who have very likely dawdled on the road, dash along the station platform to catch the train. The signal has dropped; the guard has blown his whistle, when up they come, all breathless with their haste, and tumble into the carriage pell-mell, to the dis¬ comfort of those who have taken their seats earlier. Then they find, also in the ‘ last minute,’ that they have nothing to read. But the newsboy is ready, with his flat basket hanging in front of him full of various newspapers, and the moment the belated traveller pops his hand out of the carriage window, the paper he requires is handed up to him, and the money in payment is dropped into the basket. It is a noisy, bustling bu.siness that the station newsboy has to follow. If his place is at one of the great stations, his whole day is spent at the book¬ stall and on the platform. People are coming and people are going in an endless stream, and in the midst of all the uproar the carts drive up at certain hours with fresh editions of the evening papers. The old ‘ contents bills ’ must be taken down and the new ones exposed in their places ; the papers must be separated and folded. This is no easy task when

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268 CHATTERBOX. The Newsboy at the Station. some great event has taken place, and the crowd are eager for the news. But practice makes the hands more speedy, and the newsboy seldom keeps his customer waiting while he folds his paper. ^ If the station at which he works is in the suburbs, his duties are not quite the same. There is not so much bustle and confusion, but there is quite as much work. The printing presses have been busy all night, and the boy must be ready at his station stall when the early morning train comes panting in with its load of ‘ dailies.^ Then his fingers have to move, and when the large sheets have been duly folded, his feet must begin to move too, for it is time to start on the morning delivery. Before breakfast

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The Canadian Trapper. this is all done, and the hoy is back at his stall to attend to any chance customers on their way ‘up to town.^ After that, he has an easier time until the evening papers arrive, when the suburban station puts on a busy air, something like its great brothers in the city. There are over 14,000 miles of railway in England, but I should not like to have to count the stations. As there is a newsboy in nearly all the important ones (not to count the salesman at the book-stall), it is easy to believe that no one need travel without his magazine or paper, even though he delays buying it until the ‘ very last minute.’ John Lea.

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270 « - CHATTERBOX. THE CAHADIAH TRAPPER. The trapper’s life is full of excitement, and of darger too, but he would not exchange it for all the pleasures of civilised European society. First of all, his country is a beautiful one, aud the climate, though very cold in the winter, is far more healthy and less subject to sudden trying changes than ours. The name, ^ trapper,’ for those who make their living by the sale of the skins and flesh of the animals they kill or catch, came from the fact that they used traps to catch their booty. lu Canada this custom still prevails; otters, seals, moose, bears, and other big game are procured in thousands by these means, although, of course, now-a-days the gun is largely used by the hunters; but they "still go° by the name of trappers. These men are generally accompanied by a magnificent dog, of the hound species, whose wonder¬ ful sense of smell enables them to track their prey, whatever it may be. To the trapper who wanders many miles a day, sometimes with forced night marches, the hound proves not only of great assistance, but a pleasant companion in the long silent wander¬ ings through plain and forest land. Once the noble {inimal starts a scent, the eventual finding of the game is certain. Marguerite Ninet. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 24. — Geographicai. Puzzles. Towns in England, 1. I, 0, B, S, T, L, R, A town in the South of England, partly in one county and partly in another. 2. A, U, D, M, H, R. The chief town of a northern county ; it has a Cathedral, castle and University. 3. E, E, I, D, H, E, S, L, F. A town in a northern county famous for its manufactures in metal. C, N, T, P, R, F, T. A town in a northern county in which was a fortress where one of our kings was assassinated. 5. A, I, H, G, N, S, S, T. A popular watering- place m the south of England, celebrated for a battle in which one of our kings was defeated and killed by a foreign invader. 6. A, E, I, 0, D, M, T, S, N. A town in the soutb- ea‘it of England, which is famous for its hop trade. 7. A, O, H, R, W, R. A town in one of the south midland counties, celebrated for its public school founded in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. ' 8. I, 0, D, N, R, W, S. A town in a south midland county famed for it castle, which has long been a royal residence. 9. O, O, U, H, M, S, T, T, R, P. A town in a county on the southern coast, the best-fortified town in the kingdom. 10. A, E, M, L, N, R, V. A town in a midland county beautifully situated among hills, famed for its salubrious air. q q [A7mvers at page 282.] 22. — 1. William Shakespeare. 4. Nestor. 2. Isaac Newton. 5. Marat. 3. Galileo. 23.— (a.)— 1. Be. 2. Bed. 3. Bead. 4. Blade. 5. Beadle. (c.)— 1. An. 2. Pan. 3. Plan. 4. Plant. 5. Planet. 2. Is. 3. Sit. 4. Slit. 5. Tiles. 6. Silent, (n.)— 1. To. 2. Out. 3. Unto. 4. Count. 5. County. 6. Country. LOST SIR BRIAN. (Continued from page 261.) CHAPTER XV. Mr. HARBERTON, though he seemed slightljr over-awed by the grandeur of the place in which he now found himself, was not a shy man. He quickly let it be understood that he had heard the gentleman was making inquiries after ‘ a certain party,’ and that if the gentleman made it worth his while it was possible he might be able to put him upon the track, to find the party he wanted. ^ ^ ‘ Name, your figure,’ said Philips, ' and if it is not unreasonable, and you are successful in showing me the person I want, why, you shall have it, and gladly.’ Billy named his figure; it was a large one, he thought, but, when Captain Philips instantly accepted his offer, he wished he had made it double the amount. ^ Only mind you,’ said Philips, ‘ you have got to find the lad I want — no other.’ ‘ Right, oh ! ’ said Billy ; ‘ I dare say you will give me something for loss of time, if he is not the one, Captain ; but it sounds likely my man will do, from your description of age, and so on.’ Philips proinised that Billy should be well paid for his loss of time, in case he should prove to have started on a false scent : — ^ Always assuming that you are genuine in this,’ added Philips. ‘ Well, I am not a hard worker, and I prefer to loaf around,’ said Billy; ^ but I am right enough. I liked the lad, what I saw of him ; he did not know he was a Britisher, but I did.’ ‘ What did they call him ? ’ asked Philips. But his companion could not remember, though he detailed the whole of the conversation he had had with Brian, on the occasion of his visit to the Boer s farm. 'Well, it sounds^ as though there might be something in it,’ said Philips. ' When can you start ? ’ ' To-night, if you like,’ said Mr. Billy. ' To-morrow morning will do — be here at ten, ready to go! ’ said Philips, and at that time on the morrow Mr. Billy Harberton duly appeared. It was a fairly long journey up to Brian’s home, which lay close to the north-western frontier of the Transvaal, within a ride or so of the Matabele

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CHATTERBOX. 271 country, which had been annexed a year before by the Chartered Company, after their campaign against Lobengula, the Matabele king. Billy had taken part in that campaign. He was not bad company, and Philips was quite pleased to have him as a comrade. He shot well, too, and the trek towards the frontier was pleasant enough. But a disappointment awaited them at the farm. They pitched their camp out of sight of the house, in order to escape the observation of Boer Willem, of whom Billy had an unpleasant recollection. When morning came, the latter took the precaution of watching until he saw the Boer leave the yard and go into his fields on farm business, then he returned to Philips, and reported that the coast was clear. Tante Anna received the travellers and offered hospitality. She knew that her husband would disapprove of her offering kindness to Englishmen, but old Anna was too kind-hearted to abstain on that account, though she was somewhat relieved when the offer was declined with thanks. Then Billy explained in his best Dutch that his companion had come to make inquiries after the young English lad who had lived here with the family. Old Anna instantly became interested and excited; she clasped her hands. ^ Oh, does he know anything of him ? ’ she cried. ‘A very great deal,’ said Billy. ^ He knows - ’ < Greta!’ shouted the old lady, interrupting the speaker without ceremony in her delight; ^ Greta, there is an Englishman here with news of our Brun. Come quickly 1 ’ Greta burst into the room almost as quickly as the words were uttered. She was a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen, and looked prettier for her excitement. ‘ Oh 1 ’ she cried, * where is he — when is he coming back ? Alas 1 how we have missed him ; have we not, mother?’ ‘ Why, is he not with you now? ’ asked the dis¬ gusted Mr. Billy. ‘ This gentleman has come all the way from England to find him.’ ‘ But he is not here, of course he is not ; he left us a year ago or more. Did you not say you knew something of him ? Why did you deceive us ?’ Anna actually wept in her disappointment, and Greta followed suit. ^ Alas 1 ’ she cried, ‘ we shall never see him again ; it will be as I said, mother. He has gone from us, and he will never return. Oh, why was my father ano-ry and unkind, so that he drove him from us ? ’ ° What is it all about ? ’ asked Philips, in English, for he had not understood a word of the conversa- tion. ^ He has gone— bolted, apparently, a year ago, said Dilly. ^ , ^ Find out which way he went, at any rate. Philips said. ^No; ask what his name was, first; let us see if he was the lad we are after.’ 'They called him "Brun” just now,’ said Billy. ' It does not sound very English.’ ' No, not quite ; but it is probably all right. His name ought to be Brian, but that may be their way of pronouncing it, or the way they learned it from those who brought the child to them. Brun Brian ; it is not so very different. Ask where they got him from.’ . But Anna was suspicious, and refused the in¬ formation. _ rr • f ^ ‘ Tell the Englishman that is not his affair, she said. ' The child has been with us since he was a thing so big ’ (Anna held her hand about two feet from the ground) ; ^ we have fed him, and he is ours.’ ' But he is not a cow, or a sheep, Tante, nor yet a slave,’ said Billy. ^ This gentleman has come to find him because he is heir to great riches in his own country, which is England. He is not your property because you have fed him and shown him kindness, though for that, I have no doubt, you will be well paid.’ ' It is not a matter of payment, it is a matter ot love,’ said Anna, still weeping. ^ He is like a son to me and a brother to Greta, here. ^Ye should never have parted from him of our own wills, but the lad was angry with the uncle, and left us.’ ' We shall never see him again, mother,’ Greta chimed in. ' It will be as I said; these Englishmen will find him and carry him away if he is alive. We are poor and humble people, and they say that he has wealth in his own country. Who can fight against fate ? We shall see him no more.’ ' If I find him, I can promise that you shall see him,’ said Philips, Billy translating. * Only help me to find him by telling me which way he went from here.’ ' He went over the veldt, and I think he has been eaten by a lion or drowned at the drift,’ said Greta, who was in a very sad mood. ^ He was angry, and did not care whether he lived or died, perhaps.’ ' Greta, get back to your room ; you speak like a fool to-day,’ said old Anna, severely. ‘ Our Brun is a]iy0 — you think I do not know it — and one day he will return. Pray to the Almighty, girl, and do not give way to wicked and foolish thoughts which have no faith in them.’ ' Yes ; I will pray,’ said poor Greta ; ‘ that is the best of all. Perhaps God will give back to us what we have lost.’ Old Anna could not ^ be moved to give any information as to the origin of Brian’s first appear¬ ance at the farm. This concerned no one, she said, but themselves, and more than that she would not say. When Philips found that it would be useless to persevere, he wisely determined to waste no further time in the attempt. He had learned enough to convince him that probably this had been Brian’s house. He had made a great step towards finding the lad. He had ascertained that he was alive Snd well a year ago, and that he had left his home in anger in consequence of rough treatment from the Boer head of the farm. It was not likely that he would have travelled very far. Probably he would be found upon some farm in the neighbour- hood. Well, every homestead within a radius of fifty miles or more should be searched ; there was still plenty of time. , Philips offered the old lady, at parting, so hand¬ some a sum of money that she scarcely believed her eyes when she saw it ; but she put it aside.

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visits the Boer farm to make inquiries after lost Sir Brian. ‘God forbid!’ she i-aid. ‘Am I to be paid for suckling my own child? ^ Take it for his benefit, then, in case he should return,' Philips insisted. But the old dame would have none of it. 'My husband would shout at me if I accepted BnG’liah money ! ' she said. ° But the money is his own,’ urged Philips. Anna shook her head. 'He used to call the child " itooinek,” and " English Wolf,’^ when he was angry ; but he loved him, and now that he is gone he will let no one say that the lad was English. I would never dare to tell him what you have told me to-day ; it would be a terribfe offence to the Uncle.’ {Continued at page 278.)

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274 CHATTERBOX. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. PETER SIMPLE.* ^ETER SIMPLE was the son of a clergyman, who was the youngest brother of a noble family. . At the age of four¬ teen it was decided by bis father, mother, uncles, aunts, and cousins, that he should enter the navy. A fortnight later we find the little fellow ^forwarded' by his father, from the north-country town where he lived, to one ‘ Mr. Thomas Handy cock, of No. 14 Clement’s Lane — carriage paid.’ His luggage consisted of his best suit of bottle-green, and six shirts. The parting from those at home bad been very trying, for his mother had cried bitterly, his sisters had cried because their mother wept, his brother Tom had roared more loudly than all the rest, and his father had paced the room impatiently. The men-.servants and maid-servants had also been affected, while our hero himself had cried until his eyes were red and his head aching. In due time the journey to London by coach was over, and Peter arrived at the house of Mr. Handycock, in St. Clement’s Lane. That gentle¬ man was a stock- broker, and was good-tempered or ill-tempered at home, as the case might be, according to whether his business had been good ’ or ‘ bad? Mrs. Handycock was ‘ a meagre little woman, who did not speak very good English.’ On the evening of Peter Simple’s arrival, Mr. Handycock was in a very bad temper: he had had a ‘ bad ’ day, so that his reception of his young guest was not kind. On the second day his manner was better, and sending for a linen-draper, who fitted out cadets, he gave orders for Peter’s outfit to be ready for the next day. The clothes were duly delivered, and at six o’clock the following morning, Peter mounted to the top of the coach which was to take him to Ports¬ mouth, arriving before eight at the ‘Elephant and Castle,’ where it stopped for a quarter of an hour, and on starting took up a new passenger, a sailor who was intoxicated. This man soon found out from our hero that he was going to sea for the first time. Besides the sailor there was a gentleman, in a plaid cloak, seated on the coach. He began a conveisation with Peter, and on learning that he was going to sea, asked, ‘ Have you a letter of introduction to the captain ? ’ ‘Yes, I have,’ replied Peter, as he pulled out his pocket-book in which the letter was. ‘ Captain Sa-vage, H.M S. Diomede' he continued, reading it to him. To the bov's surprise the stranger coolly proceeded to open the letter. Believing hnn to have no right to it, and regarding the act as an impertinence, the boy snatched the letter from him, saying that it was a breach of honour, and that, in his opinion, the stranger was no gentleman. ^ * The story of Peter Simple, told by Captain JVIarryatt. IS a capital book, which may be bought for .sixpence. ‘Just as you please, youngster,’ replied he. ‘Re¬ collect you have told me I am no gentleman.’ i ^ And our hero did recollect it when, on being , introduced afterwards to the captain of the Diomede, he found himself face to face with the same man. He says, ‘ 1 was just sinking down upon my knees to beg for mercy, when the captain, perceiving my confusion, burst into a laugh and said, “So y^ou I know me again, Mr. Simple.? Well, do not be ' ttlarmed ; y’’ou did your duty in not permitting me i to open the letter, supposing me, as you did, to I be some other person, and you were perfectly right to tell me that I was no gentleman. I give you credit for your conduct.”’ After this incident, which took place before Peter Simple had boarded his ship, he was introduced to the quarter-deck, and the first lieutenant, who informed him that he expected great things of him, as he ^could ‘ see by his face ’ that he ' w’^as ‘ v'ery clever.’ This speech surprised and also alarmed Simple, who determined to try and keep up this new reputation. The lieutenant then sent for the quarter-master, Mr. Trotter, and pas.sed the lad over to his care, bidding him introduce him into his berth, and see his hammock slung. When he had descended three ladders, following Trotter, he was informed that he was now- in the cock-pit. Mr. Trotter also told him that the midshipmen’s mess was on the deck above the pit, and that he was at liberty to have his meals there if he liked, but he added, ‘ this I tell you as a friend, that you will be thrashed all day long, and fare very badly ; the weakest always goes to the w-all there, but perhaps you do not mind that.?’ This speech produced on Simple the effect w-hich the wily Trotter meant it shoidd ; he felt nervous, almost afraid, as he thought of the dining with the young midshipmen. His companion soon followed it up by suggesting that our hero should mess with Ml'S. Trotter and himself, paying one guinea a w-eek for the privilege, and two guineas as entrance money. Three guineas were at once handed over by Peter Simple, whose pockets were thus cleared of all but half a guinea. Trotter’s behaviour on this occasion was quite enough to point out what kind of man he was, so that w'hen, later, he was dismissed from the ship, no one felt sorry, it being well known that he was dishonest and a hard drinker, setting a bad example to all the young men on board. Time flew away quickly, as it has ever a habit of doing, and Simple was able, after six months on his ship, to write, ‘ There certainly is something in the life of a sailor that enlarges the mind. When I w-as at home I let other people think for me, and acted wholly on their suggestions ; on board, to the best of my ability, I thought for myself. I became happy with my messmates— those who were harsh upon me left off, because I never resented their conduct, and those who were kind to me were even kinder than before.’ The first lieutenant was a man whom Simple greatly respected. He was a ver}- amusing man, and particularly so in his modes of punishment. Simple writes : ‘ We were stowing the hammocks in the quarter-deck nettings, when one of the boys came up with his hammock on his shoulder, and as

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CHATTERBOX. 275 he passed the first lieutenant, the latter saw that he had a quid of tobacco in his cheek. What have you got there, my good lad — gum¬ boil? Your cheek is very much swollen.” ^‘^No, sir,” replied the boy, there is nothing at all the matter.” ‘ Oh, there must be, it is a bad tooth then. Open your mouth and let me see.” Wery unwillingly the boy opened his mouth, and showed a large roll of tobacco -leaf. ^ I see, 1 see,” said the first lieutenant, your mouth wants overhauling, and your teeth cleaning. I wish we had a demist on board, but as we have not, I will operate as well as I can. Send the armourer up here with his tongs.” ^ When the armourer made his appearance, the boy was made to open his mouth, while the tobacco was extracted with his rough instrument. There now,” said the first lieutenant, am sure that you must feel better already — you never could have had any appetite.” ‘Now the captain of the after-guard came forward, and putting the boy’s head between his knees, scrubbed his teeth well with the sand and canvas for two or three minutes. ‘ “ There, that will do,” said the first lieutenant. “Now, my little fellow, your mouth is nice and clean, and you will enjoy your breakfast. It was impossible for you to have eaten anything with your mouth in such a nasty state. When it is dirty again, come to me, and I will be your dentist.” ‘ We do not hear that the boy ever went again.’ As the years passed, the hero of our tale went through many strange experiences in his sea-going life. The ships on which he served fell in with rivations, and frequently his life — with the lives of is shipmates — was in great danger. Hurricanes, and foul weather ; the loss of his ships, and perilous hours in an open boat on a stormy sea, during the darkness of night ; mutiny, captivity, broken ribs, and desert rock, with finally a happy and successful ending to an adventurous career, all go to make up the life-story of our hero. He succeeds in every¬ thing, and as we close the book we are bound to confess ‘ all’s well that ends well.’ James Cassidy. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. I.— THE SEA-PENS. The reason why we came to spend a whole term on the sea instead of at school was this : Mother was very ill, and our aunt, with whom we usually stayed so as to be near our school, was away, and she would not return home for some time. So when Captain Reeves proposed to father that we should go on a voyage to Valparaiso with him in his ship, father did not very much mind our missing one term if we got some good out of our trip. ‘ Look here. Woodward,’ said Captain Reeves to father, ‘ you do not know what to do with these young folk ; now my wife and I would like nothing better than to have them with us for a bit. Why not let them come ? Hugh is overworked, and Robbie is not strong; a sea voyage would be just the thing to set them up, whilst Jack and Elsie will be all the better for seeing something of the world. Send nurse wdth them ; we shall have a doctor on board this trip, as we have a good many passengers.’ Well, the end of it was that we all went, and enjoyed ourselves mightily. We saw the Azores and the Bahamas, and met with no end of queer sea creatures, about which I know some of you will like to hear. I am going to tell you first about the ‘ Sea-pens,’ which are a great deal more interesting than the wretched things that you use to write with at school. ‘ The early bird catches the worm,’ cried Elsie, as we three boys appeared on deck about seven o’clock one morning ; ‘ see what I got by getting up early,’ and she held up a curious bright red thing, about as long as a man’s hand, with a thick stalk running up the centre, and regularly divided on each side like the fronds of a fern. ‘ What a queer thing ! ’ said I. ‘ What on earth is it P ’ ‘ If you had been up at the proper time, half an hour ago, you would have heard a wise lecture about its structure, and so on,’ said Elsie ; ‘ but now you had better ask the captain to lend you one of his learned books if you wish to know what it is.’ Here Hugh, who had been looking at the object with great interest, broke in, ‘ Be quiet, Elsie ! I know all about the creature, and will tell you boj's ; I am glad to see a real live one, I have only read about it in books before. How did you get it, Elsie?’ ‘ It was brought up in the dredging-net early this morning, and the boatswain kept it for me. He told me that it was one of the “ Sea-pens ” with which the mermaids wrote their letters at the bottom of the sea. But just then the captain came along, and told me what it really was — a town swarming with inhabitants. Poly-somethings, and all about the way they live. It was not bad, but the boatswain and I agreed afterwards that the mermaid business was ever so much prettier, and quite as likely to be true.’ ‘ You are a goose, Elsie,’ declared Hugh. ‘ Of course fairy stories may often be prettier than facts, but you know they are not true. Now look here, boys, you see this centre stalk is very like a thick quill, only it is soft outside, but stiff and solid in the middle. This Mr. Pennatula (that is his long Latin name) sticks in the mud down below when he is tired of drifting about in the water, for he has no idea of regular swimming, and there he stands just like a big quill pen in an inkpot. Most of the Sea-pens are phosphorescent (that is, they give out a light of their own accord), and I have read that a lot of them shining at night through the dark water are a really splendid sight ; perhaps we may see it before we go home again. The feather-like fronds are really numbers of polypes, growing together in close masses, and the beautiful red culour comes from tiny bits of lime built into the walls of I their cells. Some kinds have spines like the Sea Urchins, and are prickly to the touch, others are

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The Sea-pens. smooth with rounded edges, some are deeply cleft, others have nearly straight edges, but all are made up of very tiny animals, joined together for mutual safety. ^ The Pens belong to a family closely related to the Red- Corals, which you have often seen at home in museums. Now, Miss Elsie, does my tale agree best with the captain’s, or with the boatswain’s account of the Mermaids’ Pens ? ’ ‘Clever boy ’.’laughed Elsie; <he shall have the prize, that he shall,’ and tossing to him the object of so much learned talk, she ran off in search of some¬ thing else to do. Helena Heath. KILLING AN ASSAM TIGER. An Assam tea-planter tells us this story of an adventure which he had with a tiger some years ago. He says ; ‘ One day, about five in the afternoon, two Assamese came running up to my bungalow to say that a tiger had entered their village, three miles off, and killed two cows close to their houses, on an open piece of common, that the people by shouting had driven him back to the edge of the jungle, not very far from where the cows lay. They begged me to come and kill the brute, as he had done them much mischief for some time, and would still

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Killing an Assam Tiger. do so unless destroyed. I asked the nature of the place, and the size of the tiger; finding the ground was good, and the tiger a big one, I mounted my pony, and set off for the village. On arriving there I found the spot to be as the men described, a line ot huts, a piece of open land, behind this the usual tall iungle. The two cows were lying in view, large holes on their necks showing the tiger’s work. All over the common vultures were fluttering, and several stray dogs were gnawing at the cows ; within the jungle lurked a few jackals. I left my pony in the enclosure of a hut, and took my station amongst some tall bamboos near the cows, having one man with me to hold my bag of bullets and keep watch. Then I ordered the rest of the villagers to go into their huts and remain quiet. This they did, and

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278 in about ten minutes I had a sight of the ti-er’ at a distance, through mi^ht + “7®*^ towards me much as an English bull might travel over a cornfield. The man with me would have run away if he had dared, though we were both well hidden by the leaves of the bamboos Presently ^e jackals made their wailing cry ; vultures and dogs fled in affright as the tigerf affer iSg C^^d of tlm jungle with a nr^v Tr approached his prey. 1 his was a moment of intense excitement. I “fr hreech-loader, and found it was .'“"’^on at a trot; I pointed the gun, steadily following his line of march till he stopped and opened his mouth to seize a cow, his eyes glarinra„^ e , tuey need; he would be at the nearest farm, or the nearest but one Nevertheless, though Philips and his new friend < visited both the nearest and many other farms, they found no trace of Brian. None of those whom they guestioned had ever seen the youth, and had neither information nor suggestion to offer, excepting one or two who repeated the old cry: ‘Try Johannesburg, " ilt-r “ outlander, they all go there for the gold.’ ■\r\ trekked towards the frontier of the liiod^ia beginning to be known as The first Matabele war had taken place but a short while since, and Philips made the suggestion that the ost youth might have missed his way, wandered over veldt and mountain, and emerged in Matabele- land during war-time ; in which case, said Billy, the Matabele fellows would have knocked him on the bead if they found him.’ On the other hand, he might have wandered into an -binglish camp, in which case he would probably have joined the Britishers, and have taken part in the campaign. ^ a strong imagination, my friend,’ said Ih dips, laughing. ‘Do you seriously suggest that we should trek all the way up to Bulawayo on such a taint chance ? 'At^any mte, he avoided the farms and waggon tiacks,^ said Billy, and I will bet my boots that 'any mie doing that would soon lose his way in the veldt He was near the frontier, and was as likely to have Glossed into Matabeleland as to go wandering around in Transvaal country. I am your man, to go where you please; I thought perhaps you would like to have a look at the new bit of England up north, here ; we would be among friends, there, who would give us news if they had any— not like these un¬ friendly chaps here.’ Philips still had plenty of time. He thought over Billy s suggestion for a day and a night, and ended by adoptmg it. They might just as Well visit a few farms in Khodesia. The plan offered as good a chance as the present aimless wandering over Boer countrv. And, strangely enough, they had scarcely trekked a couple of days in Matabeleland when they did actually receive news of the wanderer. This was not from an Englishman, however, but from a Boer farmer who occupied an outlying farm not far from Mafeking. This man reporfed that a young English¬ man, who could not speak English, had visited the Urm--oh, a long time ago-more than a year and a half, he thought; he had come in a destitute condition, having walked Heaven only knew how far without food He had intended to go to Johannes- burg, but had lost the way. He stayed a night, and then went on. f Englishmen, ‘The Lord knows— I don’t,’ said the Boer; ‘he went early, while I slept, but I had advised him not to wander again on the veldt, but to strike south¬ wards if he desired to get among his own people.’ ^ Ts that what he most wished ? ’ asked Philips. J do not know what he wanted ; he was one of those who do not say much.’ This was not a very large amount of information, InL delighted to become possessed of it, such as it was, and he presented the Boer with a rifle, to the immense astonishment and

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CHATTERBOX. 279 delight of that worthy, whose opinion as to the virtues of Englishmen underwent a sudden and rapid change from that moment. ‘ Come, Billy, we will go south,’ said Philips, ^ the poor chap was hungering after his own people, you see — first he tried to get to Johanne.sburg ; then he will have made for Vryburg, or somewhere down there. 1 am beginning to hope we shall find him yet.' ‘Anywhere you please, Captain,’ said Billy, who was receiving good wages for time, and was, besides, most thoroughly enjoying this trip over the veldt with a sportsman who could afford to do the thing comfortably, and in some style. So southwards they trekked for a while, and presently got upon the pioneer road from Vryburg to Bulawayo, the road made for themselves by the conquering Colonists, who, a year or two ago, had set out to punish old Lobengula for his ^ins, and to annex his country. And they had not gone far along this road, travelling south, when they met a large force of English troops, regulars and irregulars, hurrying northwards as fast as their horses and wagons could travel. They had with them maxims and artillery, and they were in a desperate hurry. Then Philips heard" that the English population of Rhodesia, late Matabeleland, were in trouble, and in sore need of help and reinforcements. The Ii-:.tabele fellows had risen against their conquerors, and were killing those of the English who lived in outlying parts of the country. ‘ You had better come with us,’ one of the officers of the party suggested ; ‘ we shall want every man we can get.’ This was an enterprise after Philips’ heart. After all, he thought, Brian might have gone northwards just as well as southwards. He would have heard of the conquest of Matabeleland ; he might even have met parties of English who were taking part in the war, and have gone up with them. He might be at Bulawayo at this moment, just as well as somewhere in Cape Colony. Philips did not waste much time in making up his miov:^. There were Englishmen in great danger : it was surely his duty to do his best for them, and he would. Billy had no objection to the new enterprise, and soon Philips’ train, oxen, horses, waggons, drivers, guides, and all, had turned right about and joined the larger party, and were travelling northwards at a speed which surprised the natives and the oxen, who had so far had a very easy time of it. At Bulawayo, which they did not reach without a "brush or two with bodies of Matabele — who could do nothing, however, against the maxims — they found matters somewhat urgent, and their arrival was welcomed with the greatest joy. The town was, after a fashion, in a state of siege, though there was no enemy actually besieging it. The inhabitants were, however, in hourly danger of being attacked, and all who could bear arms were prepared to resist to the death. Very many of its defenders were absent, forming parties for the succour of settlers in outlying districts. Of these many had already been brought safely in, but all w’ho up to this time had not been relieved were in terrible danger. Some were known to be holding out against over¬ whelming numbers of the rebel natives, and these must be relieved and brought in at all risks. When he learned all this. Philips was right glad he had not hesitated to come up and lend what assistance he could ; and, indeed, when his new friends had said that every man that could be got was most urgently needed, they had spoken the truth. Nevertheless, though soon occupied heart and soul in the work of defending the town (in which depart¬ ment, as an officer of artillery, he was most valuable). Philips did not neglect to make inquiries from all with whom he came in contact, in hopes of gleaning news of some kind bearing upon the disappearance of young Brian. For some time he had no success, probably because he happened to ask the wrong people, but, when he had been a week or so in the place, he bit upon the lost scent. Philips was conversing with a colonist, a young fellow from the Cape, who had taken part in the Matabele war a year or two before, and had settled in the conquered country. He was one of those w^ho, stranded in an outlying farm, thirty miles from the town, had been suddenly attacked by the Matabele rebels with scarcely an hour’s warning. A relieving party had brought him in with his partners, arriving after he had been besieged for two days, just in time to save their throats. This man, Beverley by name, was narrating his experiences to Philips, whose acquaintance he had just made ; he was telling the story of the late Avar from the beginning, explaining how he^ and his com¬ panions, a mixed company of colonist irregulars, armed in all sorts of fashions, but with a maxim or two to help them, and some good men to lead, had marched up from Vryburg, making their own roads as they went, and had carried all before them. ‘ You did not happen to see anything of a young chap lost in the veldt, who could not speak English, though he looked English, a lad of about eighteen, fa'r curly hair, and well set up ? ’ Philips was giving the description of Brian as he had it from Billy Harberton. . It came to him with a shock of almost incredible happiness when Beverley immediately replied : ‘ Did I ? I should say I did. You mean the lad we called Brown Johnnie, one of the very best fellows that ever lived. Why, do you know him ? ’ Philips explained that he not only knew him, or rather of him, but was at present searching South Africa for him. ‘ Why, we found him half starved and took him on,’ Beverley exclaimed ; ^ he went through the cain- paign with us. What is more, if there is a man in thi'< world I owe my life to more than another, it is Brown Johnnie. We called him that because he said his name was Brun, which we took to mean Brown, and we added Johnnie for want of a better surname, since he did not seem to have one. Stop, though, perhaps I shall be giving you pain if I tell you about what he did for me, for I do not know that it has not cost him his life — it may have. Are you a near relation ? ’ ^No relation at all,’ said Philips. ‘Tell me all about it as quickly as you can.’ {Coiitimied at par/e 286.)

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CHATTERBOX 281 Returning from the Pyramids.

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282 CHATTERBOX. KETURNING FROM THE PYRAMIDS. Egypt is a country which seemed very far away before easy travelling became possible. It is full of wonderful relics of the past, and is now visited not only by thousands of English people, who go there in search of health in that wonderful climate, but also by scientific people, who wish to inspect all the glorious monuments of its ancient inhabitants. We have all heard of the Pyramids, the rock-built tombs which are to be seen in the neighbourhood of Cairo, on the left bank of the Nile. They are solid masses. of stone and brick, with sepulchral chambers in the centre, reached by a gallery, which opens from the outside. No one who goes to Cairo fails to see these wonders of ancient times — so ancient that it is hard to believe that they were built by Cheops, an king who lived three thousand vears before the birth of Christ ! Visitors to Egypt go to see the pyramids either in a carriage or on donkeys; this does not sound a pleasant thing, but the donkeys in that country are far finer than the poor beasts of burden we see here, and it is not considered at all strange to ride them — not more so than if we rode horses here. The Arabs who own them count on a good harvest during the winter, which is the season at which Europeans visit Egypt ; they run alongside of the tourist, stick in hand, shouting out in a wonderful manner to make the animals trot gaily along. The backsheesh (money) they receive for the loan or hire of their donkeys is thought a fortune by the Arab donkey-driver. Mabguerite Ninet. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 25. — Decapitations. 26. — Arithmetical Puzzles. 1. To the double of a certain number add 2 and the result is 30. What is the number ? 2. To a certain number I add 20 and the sum is 6 times the number. 3. The difference between two numbers of which 12 is the greater, is equal to twice the smaller. What is the smaller ? 4. A certain number subtracted from 18 leaves twice the original number. Find the number. 5. The sum of three consecutive whole numbers is 48. What are the numbers ? 6. A man who is 60 years of age has three sons whose united ages are equal to his own, and there is a difference of 2 years between each brother and the one next to him. What are the sons’ ages ? 7. Three men, A, B, and C, raise a capital of 120^. A puts in a certain amount, B 10^. less, and C 101. more than A. What is the share of each? 8. Find two numbers whose sum is 112 and their difference 34. 9. A man bought a horse, a gig, and harness, for 721. For the horse he gave lOi. more, and for the harness lOL less than he did for the gig. What did he give for each? ^ 10. Divide lOOZ. among three persons, A, B, and C, giving B lOZ. more than A, and 0 as much as A and B together. [Ansioers at page 298.] 24. — 1. Bristol. 4. Pontefract. 8. Windsor. 2. Durham. 5. Hastings, 9. Portmouth. 3. Sheffield. 6. Maidstone. 10. Malvern. 7. Harrow. COAST TALES. 1. Behead a wild animal, and find part of a flower. 2. Behead a sprightly dance, and find a lively fish. 3. Behead the evidence of a bodily injury, and find a carriage. 4. Behead the fifteenth part of three hundred, and find the innermost part of anything. 5. Behead a cry of terror or pain, and find something from your diary. 6. Behead a warlike weapon, and find something before your eyes at this moment. 7. Behead one of twelve, and find a beautiful form. 8. Behead a forbidding look, and find a monk’s head- gear. 9. Behead an expression of pleasure, and find a d stance. 10. Behead a word expressing several things, and find a colour. 11. Behead a transparent substance, and find a young girl. 12. Behead a wild animal, and find an implement only used on the water. 13. Behead a beautiful natural object, and find a defender of his country. ^ 14. Behead a savoury bird, and find a garden implement. q q V. U RING the great war between England and France, which, beginning in a. d. 1793, lasted, on and off, well into the new century, a period of scarcity, bad seasons, poor harvests, and general de¬ pression, drove many poor people into dishonest methods of making a livelihood, and largely recruited the ranks of the smugglers; forRevenue duties were high, and the people were not able to pay heavily for even the necessaries, let alone the luxuries of life. The sufferings of the poor may well be guessed when we state that frequently, during the war, flour rose to one hundred shillings, and even higher, per sack, and that, for a time, bread was selling at one- and-fourpence the quartern loaf. That sad time witnessed a strange example of the difference in temperament of the two great nations then con¬ fronting each other. For, whilst the French rose

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against their own upper classes, and spread red ruin and desolation through their country by means ot a revolution which made their streets run with blood, the English people, thinking in their old, practical way, that such mad, foolish conduct could only end in bringing down both their country and themselves, preferred to hold on and suffer in silence, well know¬ ing that their upper classes, so far from being to blame, were doing noble acts from day to day m trying to relieve their poorer brethren. But, as we have already said, in this time of dearth many of the stout fisher-folk took to smuggling as a means of making money. And in the terrible want of sailors to man the ships of King George, the smugglers knew that, even if taken prisoners, the worst that would befall them was to serve on board a man-o’-war for a year or two ; for in those days, it was customary for magistrates and judges to give a convicted person the choice, unless his crime had been a serious one, of either going to prison, or serving the King aboard one of His Ma3estys Xraono'st many who took to smuggling was a big- limbed, hne-looking fellow named James Lewin, a Solent fisherman. Enable to make a living by the fish he caught, he turned smuggler, and ran his cargoes chiefty between Havre or Cherbourg and the Hampshire coast. . , One dark, still niglit, the small lugger, which carried Lewin and his fortunes, was quietly standing in for the snug little harbourage of Fiahbourne Creek, in the Isle ot Wight. Lewin and his crew of five men had been keeping a very sharp look-out all the way up the west channel from the IseedlM, and nothing in the shape of Revenue cruisers had been It was no easy matter to find the channel of the creek, so dark was the night; hut James knew every inch of the place so well that he felt pretty sure of not getting ashore on the mud-banks, a serious matter in a falling tide. « u i,™ wn„ The Little -Susan— Lewin s lugger-felt her vvay through the thick darkness, travelling slowly, tor the breeze was a light one, until well into the channel, and then James began to look about for the signal agreed upon between him and his shore mates the swinging of a ship’s lantern. /. i i *1 He vwiited patiently, lowering one of his lugsails meantime, so as to take off the little way there still was on the vessel, and, after what seemed a long delay, the fiash of the lantern saluted his eyes, and, turning to his helmsman, he said : ‘ It’s^ all right. Jack ; make straight down-channel for the light.’ . ^ ^ ^ . , . , , He then went forward with a lantern in his hand, to wave an answering signal. Three minutes later, they ran the lugger ashore at the point desired, and as the crew leapt out on to the ‘ hard,’ they were instantly seized by men in uniform, with the words : ^ I arrest you in the King’s name ! , The little band of smugglers were overpowered m a moment; their captors out-numbered them by nearly three to one. r. i .r* -u • Without a word of remonstrance, fighting being useless, the lugger’s men submitted to be handcuffed to each other. • Now lead them away,’ cried the man who seemed to be in command of the party, and m the silence of the darkness, the unlucky six were marched r^idly off on the path leading over the fields to Quaii ^^Tlns is a bad business for us, lads,’ said poor Lewin ; ‘ they will not only send us to gaol— or, at the best, to serve aboard a man-o’-war against the French —but our boat and cargo we shall never see again, and that is a terrible loss. However, it is no good tor Englishmen, whether they are smugglers or anything else, to howl when they are hit, so let us put a bold face on it, and take whatever befalls us like ™*A.nd, with such cold comfort as this, they trudged do^'gedly on, on the way into Ryde. About a mile outside the town the prisoners were halted without any explanation being given them, and here they were kept standing for some time, wondering what would be done next. At the end of a dreary two hours’ wait, they were able to^ perceive that their captors had quietly slipped off in the dark¬ ness, and that, with the exception of their handcuffs, they were free men 1 A hurried consultation quickly took place between them, and then James Lewin said : ‘Lads, there is something queer about all this. Let us get a big flint stone— there are plenty down at Quarr Abbey -then break my handcuffs, and as soon as I am free, I will creep back down to the creek and see if there is a boat about that we could borrow. We might get clear off still — that is, if none of the Preventive men are lurking about.’ No sooner said than done; they all moved down to the old ruined Abbey, where a big and a little hard work soon freed their skipper s hand from the iron bracelet which had held him to his fellow, and in a few minutes Lewin was creeping towards the bed of the creek, on the look-out both for Preventive men and a handy boat. . As dawn began to break and objects became plainei , he advanced more rapidly, but still with the greatest caution ; and one of the first ob]ect8 which met his keen, observant eye, was his own and dry, a couple of yards or so out of the mam channel-the tide was just beginning Taking a cautious glance round about to see if any of the Preventive men had ^een left to ’^atch, Lewin’s confidence returned, and finding that, as far as he could see, no one was about, he naade his way quickly down to the Little Susan and loolmd in. Lery’^ article they had brought over from Havr^ with’^such care and at so great a risk, had been removed. He climbed over the side and crawled ^nto the little cabin; yes, everything of any vaU^e had been taken, and James gave a great what a haul the Government oihcials had made. But Lewin was a bright, cheery fellow, not at all inclined to look at the worst side of m general; so he gave a little laugh, and said to '"'“weU if we could get off scot-free with our boat and escape the county gaol, we should imt mucrto^-umble at after alh Hullo! ^hy what is this?’ he^ suddenly broke off, as his eye fell upon a piece of paper, scrawled over in pencil, and stuck

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hrou^h with a jack-knife blade to the cabin table. He bent over it and read : ‘Jim Lewin, we have taken your cargo, which we have as much right to as you, seeing that you were trying to smuggle it. We found out the signal to be given by waving the lamp, got your friends out of the way, and pretended to arrest you as Preventive men, when we were only “long shore loafers.” We will drink your health on what we sell the cargo for. It does make us laugh to think what fools we made of you ! ’ James Lewin sat speechless with rage. He had been robbed, then, cheated and laughed at! He went slowdy back to fetch his crew up, and got to sea again. It was true, as the thieves had said, that they had

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The Boy Messenger. the laugh of him. But ' they laugh heat who laugh last/ and speedy retribution awaited the thieves, for, that very day, they were pounced upon by the Excisemen, who arrested the whole of them with the plunder still in their possession. Explanations were no use, and, whilst they were bewailing their ill-luck within the four walls of the county gaol, James Lewin and his men were once more ploughing their way through the highuseas to Havre de Grace. BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. THE MESSENGER. E wears a blue coat and a braided cap. His uniform is smart, and so is he, for the leather wallet, attached to the broad strap crossing his right shoulder, often contains matter of importance with which no dull boy could safely be trusted. Once every three months, this shining strap must surely glow with a richer lustre, if he has won the prize

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286 CHATTERBOX. which is always given to the boy who has performed his duty best during that period. The army of messenger boys, in their cheerful uniform, invaded London in 1890, and took it by storm. If any one wished to send a letter and receive a reply more quickly than he could by send¬ ing through the post, the boy messenger stood at the door ready to take it. And so many people found this a convenience, that the rulers of the General Post Office had to shake their fingers at the blue ariny, and tell them it was against the law to take business out of the Queen^s hands. So the ‘boys’ asked the Post Office to sell them a licence, and when this was granted they trotted off again in all directions. When anybody is needed at all points of the compass at the same time, it is not a bad plan to have houses built in the various districts, so as to be ready when called. Thus, there are offices all about the great metropolis where a boy messenger may be found, and there is no moment in the day or night when he is not fully prepared to start off on any journey. Sometimes it is only into the next street, to tell a cabman that he is wanted at the house of Mr. So-and-so. Mr. So-and-so has an electric bell in his house, and when he moves the handle of it t^o that an arrow-head at the other end of the handle points to the word ‘cab,’ the same thing happens in the distant ‘ messenger office,’ and away runs the boy to tell the driver where to go. But sometimes it is much farther that the ‘ boy- blue ’ has to travel, and one day, not so very long ago, a bell in one of the offices tinkled in the usual way. When the boy, who was sent in reply, arrived at the house of the person who had rung, he was handed a letter addressed to some one living in America, and told to be off as quickly as he could and bring back an answer. He was not very big, even for a boy messenger, but it is not size that makes the traveller ; so, seeing that his wallet was properly fastened, and having received what was necessary for expenses, away he went. The train at the station was ready when he got there, and so was the ship at the docks. Steam was up when he stepped on board ; the whistle blew, the anchor was lifted, and in a very little while the boy messenger was looking back at England fading rapidly from sight. The blue coat and braided cap soon threaded the streets of the distant city, and reached the particular house described in the direction. A smart rap at the door, and the letter was handed in. The boy waited for a reply just as though he had only come out of the next street, and, having received it, he set off on the return journey. The poor mail bags, which had been bundled off from the General Post Office on the same day that he left London, ha,d never over¬ taken him, and when he reached London again, I do not know how far behind they were. He had performed his journey well, and had proved that a boy with his wits about him can travel with as little loss of time as anybody else. ^ To show how useful this army of young travellers IS found to be, I need only tell you that one company alone has twelve thousand subscribers who tinkle the ‘ electric calls ’ when in need of assistance. John Lea. LOST SIR BRIAN. [Continued from page 215.) CHAPTKH xvir. LL, we picked him up somewhere half-way be¬ tween this and Vryburg; he was half starved, poor chap — said his name was Brun, he had never heard of a surname, and only talked Dutch. He was immensely surprised when he found we were English, and a decent sort of people, for he said the Boers had always told him we were a lot of blackguards. We taught him English, and he fought the Matabele with us, right through ; he was a splendid shot, and did good service ; scouted well, too, and had not an ounce of fear in him. At the end of the war he got a farm — or land, rather, to make one, thirty miles out. He chummed with two others, Royce and Falcon, and they were doing well when these niggers broke out again. Well, I should have been knocked on the head for a certaintv, and my partner, too, for we had not heard of the re¬ bellion, and the beggars were on us an hour after wo got warning, and that warning came from Brown Johnnie, and no other. He rode over, mate, from his own place to tell me that the rascals were out, at the greatest risk, mind you, so great that God only knows whether he is alive or dead at this moment - ’ ‘ Well, but surely his farm was relieved, like yours,’ interrupted ^ Philips ; ‘ you do not mean to say he and his partners were left to be- massacred ? ’ ‘ God forbid. We went over to their place, we and the fellows who relieved us, as soon as ever we had driven away the rascals who had besieged ours, but their shanty was all turned topsy-turvy, and looted, and there was not a sign of Brownie and Lis pals.’ ‘ You do not suppose they were murdered, do you ? ’ asked Philips. ‘ That would indeed be miserable ill- luck for poor Brian,’ he thought — to be massacred by a party of Matabele brutes, just when he might have been on the threshold of being placed in his rightful position. ‘No, I am sure they were not murdered then and there, as we should have found their bodies, there was not a trace of them ; the Matabeles never take the trouble to remove their victims, they leave them where they die. There was not a trace, as I say, of any bodies; but the whole country was alive with Matabele rascals, and it is a toss-up whether they can have reached any place where they would be safe among Englishmen.’ ‘I would give something to know where they went,’ said Philips. ‘ He seems a fine plucky lad, this Brown Johnnie, or Brownie, as you call him; his real name is Brian.’ ‘ He is that. Captain ; I tell you, I would go a

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CHATTERBOX. 287 Jong way to help him if I knew where he was to be found.’ However, this was impossible, and, once again. Philips felt that, though he had come, by good fortune, near to success, the prize had once more escaped out of his hands. Nevertheless, he saw the campaign out, helping to subdue the rebels, and doing as much as any one towards securing peace and safety for those who had made this country their home. But, alas! when it was all over, and peace restored, it was time for him to return to Enofland. Before leaving Bulawayo, Philips extracted^ a promise from Beverley, that he would make a point of informing him if ever he should come across Brian again. He also left a letter for Brian commonly known as Brown J ohnnie, or Brownie,’ as the address upon the envelope expressed it), which he placed in the hands of the Chartered Company’s agent at Bulawayo. In this letter he informed Brian as to his parentage, the claims which he had to title and wealth, and the means to be employed in order to sustain these claims. Billy Harberton, too, was pressed into the service. He was promised a reward of one hundred pounds if, by coming across Brian, lie should be the means of his restoration to his friends and his rights. ^ Billy promised to keep a steady look-out for^ his old acquaintance, for the prospect of earning one hundred pounds so easily was not to be lightly neglected. Then Philips returned to the Cape, sold his oxen and waggon and provisions, and all that he had, and took his departure for England. He returned un¬ successful, indeed, but he had established certain facts of great importance. In the first place, Brian had been alive up to the beginning of the rising. In the second place, he had foregathered with Englishmen, and fought with them ; they had liked him, and taught him English ; and he liked them also, since he chummed with a couple of them and went into joint partnership with them in reclaiming and farming the land which he and they had earned from the Company by helping to create Rhodesia. When Philips arrived in England, he thought it as well to inform the present baronet of the result^ of his search. This gentleman knew of Philips’ mission in South Africa, and had laughed at it, though, in his heart, he did not bless this officious fellow — as he considered him — for his labours. ‘ In fact, he may be alive or he may not,’ said Sir Edward, ^ but we knew as much as that before. I think I need not draw down the blinds and remove my family into the workhouse just yet. As for this fellow you heard of, the gentleman who seems to you to answer to all descriptions of the lost son of my cousin, Leslie, a mysterious being who is never to be found when wanted ; why, even if you had found him, it seems to me you would have some difficulty in identifying him "as the person you wish to discover ; you would have to do that, you know, to the satisfaction of the Court— prove his identity, I mean.’ ‘ Certainly,’ Philips agreed; ^I am quite aware of that, and I intend to do it one day.’ ‘ Very well, I wish you all the success you deserve. You are, of course, a friend of my cousin Arthur’s, and therefore entitled to respect; otherwise,^ I should say that you were interfering in matters which do not concern you.’ ‘ I received a message, as it were, from the grave, for the letter arrived long after poor Arthur was dead and buried ; it would be unpardonable if I had not done what I could on behalf of the nephew of my friend.’ ‘ The more especially, since you were, I believe, a legatee to a considerable extent by my late cousin’s will — a sort of payment in advance for favours to be received P ’ Philips flushed. ^Arthur left me one thousand pounds to defray expenses incurred during the search I was to make throughout South Africa.’ ‘ Hah 1 the chasing of the wild goose is an expensive pastime, and one generally involving a good deal of disappointment 1 ’ said Sir ^ Edward, laughing. ‘The geese have a habit of flying away* before the sportsman can come within range is it not so ? ’ . Philips kept his temper well, and was not in the least disturbed by this kind of humour ; he replied in kind : i -i ‘ I have heard of such sport ending more happily for the sportsman than for those who laughed at him. The others laughed first, and the sportsman last and longest.’ ^ ‘ Well, good luck to your hunting, Mr. Sportsman, said Sir Edward ; ‘ and, if you catch your wHd goose, I shall say that you have a right to laugh ; mean¬ while, the laugh is mine, for I have a strong opinion that your wild goose died in the nest, and that your chase will end as it began.’ ‘It may, of course,’ said Philips ; ‘ but I came to give you fair warning, and that warning I now give, that I believe the youth who is entitled, before yourself, to the position and income you now enjoy, is still alive, and will presently come forward to claim his own - ’ o- ‘ And to prove his identity 1 ' added Sir Edward, laughing. ‘ That is a trifling detail which has to be observed in these days of legal formality ; you will not forget that.’ Philips did not forget this point. It was, as a matter of fact, constantly in his mind. He knew that, even when he had found Brian, if ever he should do so, there might be difficulty in proving him to be the nephew of his old friend. But, though Philips felt somewhat anxious on this point, Sir Edward, for all his assumed confidence, was far more worried by the news Philips had brought him than he chose to show. ^ His temper during the evening which followed Philips visit was bad, and his wife suffered for the supposed sins of his visitor. He did not relieve the burden of his anxieties by sharing them with her, and therefore she did not know what was the cause of his ill-temper. Thus, she was surprised when, long after she had thought him fast asleep at night, he suddenly said aloud, and with great emphasis: — , . ‘ I wish those Matabele fellows had knocked th^ j meddling fool on the head.’ i (Continued at page 294.) _ _ _ _

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Captain Philips hears tidings of Lost Sir Brian.

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CHATTERBOX 289

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290 CHATTERBOX. A LOVING- DAUGHTER. IT is told of Gustavus III. of Sweden that one day, when hunting, he got separated from his attendants. Passing a spring, he saw a little girl filling her pitcher. Being very thirsty after his hunt, he asked her for a draught of the cool water. She gave him the pitcher with a smile, and the King took a long draught. Giving her back the pitcher, he asked who she was, and where she lived. The little girl gave him very modest answers to all his (questions, and he was so pleased with her behaviour that he offered to provide for her at his court, telling her at the same time who he was. But she refused, thanking him for so splendid an offer ; for she said she had a sick mother, who had no one else to look after her and work for her. Gustavus asked if he might come and see the cottage where they lived, and the little maid led him to the wretched hut in which her mother lay. But the poor woman begged the King not to take away her only comfort, her little daughter. He was so struck with the child s devotion, that when he went away he gave the woman a purse full of gold, and a little while afterwards he settled on her a comfort¬ able pension, which was to be her daughter’s after her death. JT, j, H. CORONATION HOMAGE TO QUEEN VICTORIA. ONE of the interesting and important parts of the Coronation ceremonial is the homage done to the sovereign by the bishops and peers of the realm. In the case of King Edward VII. this may hardly be so impressive a performance as that which took place at the coronation of his beloved mother, our late Queen. What was so remarkable then was the homage rendered to a girl-queen of eighteen by many peers old enough to be her father or grand¬ father, to some of whom she had been almost un¬ known. Did any of them think what a long and glorious reign was just beginning ? Perhaps a few of thein did, though only two or three lived to see the end of it and the close of the old century. Queen Victoria received the Peers’ homage after the Benediction and the Te Deum^ having taken her seat on the throne. To shorten the ceremony, the Archbishop of Canterbury knelt before Her Majesty, the other Bishops being arranged on each side of him, repeating the form of words together, after which they kissed the Queen’s hand. Then the Peers followed, doing homage in the same manner, the Dukes all together, the Marquesses next, and so on to the Barons, all putting off their coronets and kneel¬ ing down. Her good uncle, the Duke of Sussex, was so aiiected by the act that he had to be assisted away. This was not all the homage, for , every noble, going one by one, ascended the steps' of the throne, to touch the crown on the Queen’s head, engaging to support it with all their power. When they had each kissed their sovereign’s hand, the turn came for the House of Commons. The duty or privilege of the members was that of raising nine hearty cheers, which were taken up by the crowds of people occupying the galleries, and other positions giving a view of the scene. During the homage the Queen handed to the Duke of Norfolk the sceptre bearing the cross on its top, and the sceptre mounted with a dove was taken by the Duke of Richmond. Mean¬ while, the Earl of Surrey, treasurer of Her Majesty’s Household, had to fulfil his office of throwing about the coronation medals amongst the large assemblage. Perhaps this custom is not quite a wise one, for it caused a rather undignified scramble ; privy council¬ lors, knights, generals, aldermen, and other persons of note were to be seen upon their knees, struggling to get the medals on the floor. It is even said there were one or two fights for the possession of medals, and some had their dress swords broken, or their coats damaged. Next came an anthem from the choir, followed by the blowing of trumpets, and a general shout of ‘ God save Queen Victoria !’ which closed the coronation ceremonies, and the Archbishop of Canterbury proceeded with the Communion Service. J. R. S. C. ABOUT THE PORTCULLIS. SOME young folk whom I have known, reading in histories or story-books of what is called a Portcullis, have been puzzled over it, and wondered what sort of thing this was. Perhaps one is not very easy to describe, and even a picture representing a portcullis does not always help. We see it upon the arms of the City of Westminster, and it is figured in other heraldic designs ; but it looks rather like a harrow, which we notice about the fields, used in farming work. We find the portcullis commonly among the decorations of places built or repaired by the Lancas¬ trian monarchs, for it was their badge, assumed, so it is said, by the famous John of Gaunt. We might call a portcullis a sort of door, put in the entrance of a castle beside the ordinary gate, the place of which it sometimes took. A portcullis was often placed at the entrance to a city or town. It had no handle, and did not open sideways like a door, but was contrived to drop down from above when people wished to block the passage. It was made of strong wood, the pieces crossing each other, so as to leave open squares ; a few seem to have been of iron, with sharp teeth at the bottom, which had their purpose. The name evidently comes from the French porte coulisse, meaning a door sliding in a groove. The hinges and the machinery by which it was moved were hidden. Thus a portcullis could be dropped suddenly to stop persons who were going out of a fortress, as well as to prevent any from entering who were not wanted. You may remember how in Scott’s poem, Marmion, he represents Lord Marmion going away from the castle of the great Scotch chief, Douglas, and, after angry words had passed, Douglas calls upon his men to drop the portcullis while the English lord is riding along the way out. Marmion puts his horse to the gallop and escapes, the port¬ cullis just touching his plumed helmet !

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CHATTERBOX. 291 Of course, for defence in the event of a long siege, the massive door or gate, studded with nails, and secured by bolts, chain, and locks, was of more importance than a portcullis, which was mainly useful in case of surprise. We are told that in some castles they contrived openings near the portcullis from which missiles could be hurled upon the head of a foe. Warwick Castle, in the olden time, had two port¬ cullises, and that of Carnarvon, in Wales, had four along the chief entrance. When the English held the castle of Linlithgow, in the days of Bruce, it was cleverly taken by a Scotch¬ man named Binnoch. He concealed eight men in a waggon, apparently loaded with hay, and he himself, accompanied by another man, drove the horses. Just as the cart came under the portcullis he struck the harness with his axe in front of the cart, md the 'horses started forward. The gate-keeper raised an alarm, and the English tried to lower the portcullis or shut the gate, but could not do so, because the cart stood in the way. The armed men leaped from the hay, and the guard of the castle rushed forward, hearing their shouts. ^ I)uring the struggle other Scotchmen, who were in ambush before, ran into the entrance, and the castle was taken. Clifford. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. II.— THE SPONGE FAMILY. N E morning, about ten o’clock, we weighed anchor ol¥ Watling Island, in the Bahamas, just as Chris¬ topher Columbus and his crew did four hundred years or more ago. We were not allowed to go ashore, as we had very little freight to deliver here, and the captain was anxious to get on to Nassau, where he had more business. Quite a lot of boats came alongside, bringing pine -apples, oranges, lemons, tamarinds, olives, cocoanuts, and above all, huge bales of sponges. The sponges are found all round the Bahamas, and give work to a number of men, but they are of a large, coarse kind, and do not sell for high prices. •The poor creatures are torn off their beloved rocks by forks stuck at the end of long poles, buried for a few days in the sand until the animal matter in them decomposes, and then dug up, soaked, washed, and packed into bundles to be shipped for sale. We bought some to add to the museum which we mean to set up when we get home again ; and in the after¬ noon, when we were under way, we showed them to the captain, who told us a number of interesting things, some of which I will pass on to the readers of Chatterbox, In former times, even learned folk regarded the sponge as a vegetable, or a kind of seaweed, in si)ite of Pliny, who declared that each sponge had ^ a sensible life of its own.’ It was very clever of him to find this out, for it is chiefly due to the microscope that naturalists have got to know so much now-a-days. There is no doubt that sponges are one of the oldest known forms of nnimal life. They are made up of a lot ^ of walled cells ; between these run a number of little canals, and by means of tiny threads, called ^ cilia,’ the sponge can regulate the water supply which serves it for breath, food, and drink, and so means life to himself and his family. They multiply by throwing off what are called ^ gem mules,’ which stick to the parent as long as it lives; when the mother-sponge dies, each ^gemmule floats off to live by itself. Each is a ball full of cells, and floats about freely for a time, till it gets a hold with its mouth on a bit of rock, a shell, or something firm ; when it is well fixed, pores open in the walls, and after a few more changes the young sponge is perfect. When it is big enough to provide shelter, numbers of polypes, worms, and other tiny creatures take refuge in its cells, as well as little AlgSB, or Seaweeds. p • i On the whole, the sponge seems to have a fairly comfortable life, until some two-legged creature comes to break up his happiness, for few sea aninaals care to devour him, probably because walls of lime are not good for the digestion. ^ Captain Reeves told us that he had once seen sponge-fishing in the Levant, where the choicest kinds are found. These live in very deep water, out of reach of storms, where there is hardly any varia¬ tion in the temperature. They are taken by diving, and the trade employs from four to five thousand men, and six hundred boats, and is worth from ninety to one hundred thousand pounds a year. Diving for sponges is the chief occupation of many of the men of the smaller islands in the Levant. It is dangerous work, for it is apt to bring on apo^exy, and the divers are often^ injured by large ^ fishes which resent this invasion of their territories. When first the season begins, the men suffer greatly from bleeding at the . nose, eyes, and ears, from the great pressure of the water ; but this soon ^°In weather, the diver hopes to take from fifteen to twenty dives a day. He keeps himself in strict training, eating nothing until the day s work is over, and only taking a small cup of coffee and a pipe once in a way. Before diving he clears his lung passages, and draws very long slow breaths for five or ten minutes, so as to get as much oxygen as possible into his blood. Then he picks up a slab of marble weighing about twenty-five pounds, and, holding it at arm’s length before his head, dives A rope runs through a corner of the stone. On reaching the bottom he tucks the marble under one arm, and, keening hold of the rope, prowls along the edo-e of the 'reefs in search of the unfortunate sponges, which are enjoying life so harmlessly and peacefully. Tearing them from their base, he crams them into a string bag hanging round his neck, and in about two minutes’ time be is tugging at the rope to show he is to be pulled up again.

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The Sponge Family. Whilst he is below, the men in the boat are watching very carefully, and they never quit hold of the rope, as the diver’s life might depend on the loss of a second or two. Usually, the poor fellow is greatly distressed for breath when he comes up, and ne is held outside the boat for a minute or so to enable him to gasp a little before being drawn into the boat. I rather wish that I had not found out what a bad time my poor sponge had been through, and it does seem hard that I cannot even wash my face without some poor fellow having had to risk his life. Helena Heath. THE ALPINE POSTMAN. WHEN we take our holidays abroad, and admire the wonderful heights and the snow-crowned summits of the Swiss mountains, it is difficult to realise the condition of those lovely summer haunts after the winter has laid its heavy mantle of snow on mountain pass and green pasture-land. Where in summer the rapid diligence (a kind of coach used where there is no railway) leaves a cloud of dust, as it rattles along the white zig-zag ribbon of the wonderfully-made road, and where the sturdy peasan: sends forth his Jddsl (a peculiar Swiss cry)

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The Alpine Postman. as he strides down a green slope at milking-time, the snow lies deep, and familiar spots are hard to recognise. But in many villages high up, the brown chalets have their nests of human beings, who pass the short, cold days as best they can: spinning, mending, and living on and waiting for spring and summer. The great event of their ordinary life is the postman’s visit, and that, in more than one remote hamlet, is only a weekly one. The mountain paths, rugged and steep as they are in summer, are naturally much more difficult in bad weather, and the postman’s journey becomes a weary one. Besides the arduous walk, in which he often is delayed by unexpected difficulties, he is in no

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294 CHATTERBOX. small danger of being attacked by hungry beasts of prey. In some mountainous districts, there are wolves to be feared ; in Switzerland also the eagle is a dangerous enemy of man, and is not a pleasant foe to meet. The huge bird, with its powerful beak and cruel claws, hovers above the man as he climbs the steep paths, defending himself as best he can by means of his alpenstock (a long, spiked stick). Rabbits, hares, birds, lambs are all good enough for the king of birds, which has its nest on steep rocks which the foot of man can rarely reach. It has even been known to carry off children, and once it opens its mighty wings and soars away with its prey, the chances of escape are very slight indeed. Marguerite Ninet. A SHARP JESTER. LTHOUGIl a king’s jester was free to use his tongue as he pleased, yet one of these personages used his hands also with such licence that he was put on trial, and condemned to death. He begged for mercy, but the king refused to commute the sentence. ‘ However,’ said the king, ^ as you have served me long, I will grant you to choose the manner of your death.’ ‘Sire,’ replied the jester, with twinkling eye, ‘ your royal mercy is boundless. I desire to die of old age.’ The king was so struck by the wit of this answer that the jester escaped with a reprimand. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 287.) CHAPTER XVIII. low it is high time to return to the cause of all this anxiety, in order to see whether ‘the Matabele fel¬ lows’ have, by cutting his throat, put an end ta his history. Brian had the worst of luck after leaving Willem’s farm. He lost his way on the veldt, and finding no game, and having soon enough finished the supply of food he had brought with him, he found himself presently extremely hungry, with¬ out the means of satisfying his appetite. For two days he wandered without food, ignorant of the direction in which he went, half mad with hunger, which he vainly tried to satisfy with grass and a prickly pear or two which he found and ate. At last, when he was almost ready to lie down and die, he met a body of English colonists heading for Lobengula’s kraal at Bulawayo. These naen fed him, and took him on with them. He picked up enough English to carry him along, and in a very short while he was a favourite with every man of the corps. Soon, too, he saw that — as he had begun to suspect— these Rooinelis did not in the least resemble the bogey Englishmen of old Willem’s tales. He liked his new friends, most of them ; some were rougher than he would have chosen. He was not used to this sort of thing, having been brought up in a quiet Boer farm, and he did not under¬ stand it. But every one was kind to him, and he was happier than he had ever felt before in his life. Moreover, Brian, coming of a warlike race, entered with zest into the war, and acquitted himself to the entire satisfaction of his officers. He made many friends, but the two men with whom he struck up the firmest and most lasting friendship were Royce and Falcon, and with these two he afterwards went into partnership in the prospecting and farming business, taking over land, with them, from the Chartered Company, in accordance with the privileges offered by the Company to those who had helped to annex the splendid territory now to be known as Rhodesia. Here the three young men worked hard to clear their land and make a good property of it. They prospected it for gold — Royce knew something of prospecting — hut found it of little value that way As farming land it promised well, however, and they were already in a fair way to a good trade, when the Matabele rising took place, and spoiled aU their plans. Royce it was who first brought news of the terror that suddenly walked abroad through veldt and smiling farm-lands. He had been far afield, prospect¬ ing, and, when ten miles from home, had been attacked and pursued by a large body of natives on the war-path. He had escaped, by good fortune, but as he galloped home he saw in the distance a second and larger impi, travelling across country at a trot, groaning, panting, sighing, after the fashion of Matabele warriors on the war-path. Knowing that there was no state of war existing, Royce rightly concluded that this meant insurrection and massacre for all those whose farms had the misfortune to lie in the path of these natives. Therefore he galloped home at all speed, for his partners must be warned and the house placed in a state of defence. ‘But we must warn our neighbours also!’ said Brian, when he heard the news ; ‘ we cannot leave them to be surprised and massacred.’ And as this was agreed to, and as Royce’s horse was tired with the journey he had just accomplished, Brian rode off at full speed, to warn the neighbours to the north of the farm while Falcon went south¬ wards, leaving Royce to put the house in a state of defence, and prepare it for the attack which was pretty sure to be made upon it before many hours had passed. The attack came much sooner than was expected. It came before either Falcon or Brian could return ; it came before Royce was half prepared for it, and he was obliged to abandon the house to the savages, escaping by the back, as they rushed howling and yelling upon the front. Had he attempted to do so two minutes later, he would have been too late ; as it fell out, he contrived to creep away unperceived, thus saving his life. When Brian returned an hour later, he found the house invaded by a mob of looting savages. He saw them from a distance, and did not at once approach

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CHATTERBOX. 295 very near, lest he should be seen and attacked. He retired to a safe distance and waited for nig;ht, when, the Matahele having drawn olf and departed, he made a survey of the ruined and looted farm. To Brian’s relief there were no signs of either Koyce or Falcon — they must have escaped, both of them ; but everything that could be destroyed or carried away had disappeared, and an attempt — partly successful— had been made to burn the shanty. Brian still had his gun and his horse ; what was best to be done ? Try to get into Bulawayo ? Probably the way would be blocked, but he would try. But though Brian hung about the district for several days, trying to make his way into the town, he met some hostile impi, turn which way he would. Then Brian grew desperate and determined to take the risk of a rush through. He made the attempt, but it ended in failure. As Brian crept through the cover, hgiving tied up his horse a quarter of a mile away, a body of Matabele suddenly pounced out upon him from behind a patch of cover ; Brian fired a shot or two, but, feeling that an assegai had pierced him between the shoulders, and fearing that something worse might happen to him any moment, he turned and ran pell-mell for his horse, pursued by half an impi, like a dog that is chased by a mob. Brian contrived to reach his horse and to escape from his yelling pursuers, but he was wounded, and the wound was painful, and he knew not where to go from his enemies. So he turned south and rode as fast as his horse could carry him ; he would ride, he determined, as long as the darkness lasted, and, when daylight came he would hide among the rocks or in some cave. All the night his good horse carried him safely and well, and when morning came he caressed the* weary creature and bade it go and find a new master ; than he let it loose on the veldt, and watched it a while limp wearily hither and thither in search of food, till it passed out of sight. Then he lay and groaned by the bank of a small river, drinking the water and washing his wound as well as he could get at it. He shot an antelope, which was a piece of good fortune, and laid out strips of its flesh to dry in the sun. While it dried, he slept, and when he woke up it was almost evening, and his wound felt very stiff and painful. Pie ate his supper and waited a while for the dusk ; then he sallied forth to walk the night out, carrying a supply of food. That night he met no Matabele; he had passed out of the zone of their rebellion, or they had all gone northward. Brian wearied very often, for he felt weak and ill ; but he pushed on. His head felt light, and he had no very settled idea as to whither he intended to go. He would find and follow his partners, if he only knew where they had gone, but it was impossible to guess what had become of them. Where could he go to rest ? Ah ! rest, that was what he needed now — needed, and pined, and longed for ! ‘ 1 will go to Tante Anna,’ thought Brian, ‘ to Tante Anna and Greta; they loved me and will take care of me, for I think I am very ill. Oom Willem will be sorry when he sees that I am ill and weak, and will not worry me.’ But Brian soon found that he was quite unable to walk back to his old home, even if -he had known the way ; he was far too weak and ill. He went on in a delirious dream, his brain on fire, his feet totter¬ ing, his mind full of wild ideas. He thought that he was in his own farm again, with Royce and Falcon, and that Oom Willem led an attack of natives against them. He remonstrated with the Boer, who shouted ^ Rooinek,’ and fired his rifle in Brian’s face. Then Brian stumbled and fell, and suddenly his old life ill a Zulu village, as a child of five years, came back to him, and he was playing once more with Zulu children, and making them laugh by repeating his rigmarole in English. Kind native women came and gave him water to drink, and bathed his wound and placed herbs upon it, and he lay and slept comfortably. When he awoke his dream remained. He was certainly in a native kraal, and native women laughed and chattered round him, speaking to one another and to him words which he could not understand, but which sounded kind and encourag¬ ing. Soon he found that this was no dream ; he had been brought, or had stumbled, into the kraal of some Matabele chief— absent, doubtless, in the north — and he was comfortable and in kind hands. As a matter of fact he had fallen senseless close to the kraal, and had been found and brought in several days ago. The women pitied him, and, no men being by to object to the work of mercy, they doctored his wound after their own crude fashion. Brian was young and healthy, and 'what was wanting in the treatment of the good Matabele women he found in rest and quiet, and the absence of any necessity to be up and moving. For a week and a day Brian lay and recovered strength. He scarcely knew a word of the language of these good folk, but there was an elderly woman among them who had acted as a servant of some kind in Buluwayo during the past year, and therefore was able to speak a little English. This woman acted as interpreter, and obtained a horse for Brian, the arrangement being that he should pay for the animal all the money which he had in his pocket. Tliis proved to be about two pounds, which amply satisfied the owner. The horse was a poor creature, but it was able to carry Brian far better than his own limbs, weakened by ten days of illness, could have done; and, after grateful farewells, he mounted the animal and rode away from the hospitable kraal. A few days later a pale, worn-out horseman rode up to the "door of Boer Willem’s farmhouse. A Kaffir labourer, a new hand, standing near, laughed to see the shabby pair, and pointed mockingly at the wretched- looking horse. But his Boer mistress suddenly opened the door, and, with a cry of great joy, received the wanderer in her arms. ‘ Greta,’ she cried, ‘ he has come — our Brun is here — it is he ! ’ And, when the Kaffir saw and heard this, he felt that he had laughed too soon, and hoped that his mistress had not noticed it. {Continued at page 302.)

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Sir Humphrey Davy and the Mad Do^

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CHATTERBOX. SIR HUMPHREY DAVY AND THE MAD DOa. a fine spring morning in the year 1790, young Humph¬ rey Davy went forth on a fishing expedition, a pas¬ time of which he was passionately fond all his life. At his side ambled his favourite water-spaniel, ‘ Chloe,’ her long tail wag¬ ging as she stopped now and then to look up in her master’s face, for she seemed to be as delighted as the boy himself at the thought of the sport that she knew was about to ensue. lo wards evening the couple returned after a successful day. As they passed down the street of the little country town, and Davy was telling Chloe she should soon have her supper, a loud cry was heard. As the lad turned to see what was the cause of the noise, he beheld to his horror a huge dog hurry¬ ing in that direction at full speed, white with foam at the mouth, and followed by a mob of frightened people, hooting and hallooing at his heels. Some of the men were armed with pikes, and others carried rnuskets, intent on the destruction of the rabid animal. The boy saw in an instant that night was impossible, and dreadiner lest his favourite dog should be attacked, he shouted, 'Back! back!’ to her, in his most commanding tone. In another moment his own dog would be seized by the mad one, and the slightest graze from its teeth he knew would be enough to make Chloe’s immediate destruction a matter of duty. It was no time for reflection, so the excited boy, eager to save the life of his favourite spaniel, rushed past her with his heavy fishing-rod raised high in the air, and ready to fell the dangerous brute to the earth. Ere he could aim a blow, however, the hunted dog had fastened on Humphrey’s leg, inflicting a wound that made the lad shriek again with pain. The cry of her master brought Chloe instantly to the rescue ; she sprang yelping towards the savage brute. Humphrey knew the danger Chloe would meet with if she were bitten, and finding the animal about to ^ flesh, he seized it by the neck and held its head firmly to the ground, while the townsfolk rushed immediately to the spot, and with their \yeapons soon put an end to all the danger. While the bystanders directed him to go to the doctor, Humphrey, knowing that any delay might be fatal, drew down his stocking, while the eager throno- crowded around him, and seeing the marks of the animals teeth in his flesh, he deliberately drew his knife from his pocket, and there upon the spot cut out the lacerated part without flinching. He was many weeks under the doctor’s hands ; but for his intrepidity and resolution it would have ^ terrible death, and one of our most brilliant scientific men would have been lost to the world. STORIES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE DRUMMER-BOY. IN Switzerland the mountain heights are not only covered with snow, but often seamed with jagged and broken ice, called glaciers. To make a way over these glaciers is a most difficult task, and one in which many mountaineers have lost their lives, for the ice is full of deep, narrow cracks, known as crevasses, down which the most wary may fall. To prevent these accidents, climbers are often roped together, so that, if one happens to slip, his companions may, by pulling at the rope, drag him back to safety again. But sometimes the mouths of the crevasses get covered with frozen snow, and not until he steps upon the treacherous surface, smooth and white as the icing on a Christmas cake, does the traveller know his danger. Unless his guides can help him, he is likely enough to go crashing through the snow-crust into the depths beneath; perhaps to be carried away by the cold, rushing torrent which flows at the bottom of the crack ; perhaps to lie, with broken limbs, upon the hard and cruel rock, until merciful death comes, to end life and pain together. Such an accident happened once to a French drummer-boy, who, with his regiment, was crossing the Alps, in the time of the wars of the great Napoleon. A companj^ of more than four hundred soldiers went on their way light-heartedly enough; and blithest of all was the drummer, proud of ^liis office, and beating a gay ran-tan-tan upon his drum suspended round his neck. Suddenly he trod upon one of the fatal crevasses, and down, from light and companionship, he fell, between narrow walls of ice and rock, for many, many feet. The bottom of the crevasse was not filled with running water, as is so often the case, and, great as was the fall, the drummer-boy was not killed by it. He lay upon the ground where he had fallen, sorely injured and in terrible fear, and there, for hours, he was heard beating his drum, in the vain hope that help might come to him. But it was impossible for those who heard to help the poor drummer; no rope which they had could reach him, and none of them could descend to such a depth. They were obliged to leave him to his fate, hoping and praying that his sufferings might be short, and that he might soon be safe in the better ^oTld. ^ c. J. Blake. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 27. — Well-known Proverbs with the Vowels Omitted. 1. R, L, L, N, G, S, T, N, G, T, H, R, S, N, M, S, S. 2. S, T, T, C, H, N, T, M, S, V, S, N, N. 3. V, R, Y, C, L, D, H, S, S, L, V, E, L, N, N, G. 4. H, M, S, H, M, B, T, V, R, S, H, M, L, T. 5. M, N, Y, H, N, D, S, M, E, L, G, H, T, W. R, K. 6. N, N, S, D, F, S, T, H, S, W, H, W, N, T, H, R. 7. N, V, R, D, S, P, R. 8. P, N, C, T, L, T, Y, S, T, H, S, L, F, B, S, N, S, S. c. c.

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CHATTERBOX. 299 28. — Word Building. (a.) — 1. A well-known preposition, spelt with two letters. 2. A large vessel for holding liquor. 3. Very great in size or importance. 4. A narrow piece of timber, from which casks are made. 5. To perish from want. 6. A time of ingathering. (b.) — 1. A negative : two letters. 2. A heavy weight. 3. Eent apart by violence. 4. A troublesome appendage to a beautiful object. 5. A monarch’s seat. (o.) — 1. A preposition : two letters. 2. The seventeenth part of one-third of fifty-one. 3. A sound, sometimes, but not always, musical. 4. A hard, useful, mineral substance. 5. Just and upright; fair in dealing with others; truthful. (d.) — 1. One of the parts of speech: two letters. 2. The past tense of a verb of motion. 3. Not far. 4. To acquire knowledge. 5. One who catches his prey from the water. C. C. [A?isii?ers at page 318.] 25. — 1. Panther. 2. Eeel. 3. Scar. 4. Scare. 5. Scream. 6. Sword. 7. March. 8. Scowl. 9. Smile. 10. Number. 11. Glass. 12. Boar. 13. Star. 14. Drake. 26. — 1. Fourteen. 2. Four. 3. Four. 4. Six. 5. 15, 16, 17. 6. 18, 20, 22. 7. A 40Z., B 30Z., C 50i. 8. 73 and 39. 9. Gig 24Z., Horse 34/., Harness 14L 10. A 20Z., B 30Z., C 50Z. EJSTQLAND’S KOLL OF HONOUR. WOLFE AT QUEBEC. OVER the Canadian landscape, the shades of a September evening were quickly falling. The last light of the sun shone on the broad waters of the St. Lawrence river, and touched the towers and spires of the city of Quebec, which crowned thn cliff-like shores of the river. The spot on which the city stands juts out like a great headland, and separates the St. Lawrence from the St. Charles, which flows into it. Thus surrounded by water on three sides, and protected in the rear by very steep cliffs, Quebec is well fitted to withstand any attack. On this particular September evening, a.d. 1759, the pa -sing of day was watched by many anxious eyes. For some months past the city had been in a state of siege. War was raging between England and France, and the time was near at hand when the question as to which of the two nations should rule over Canada would be decided. The long campaign in North America had led King George II. to feel some displeasure with his Generals ; but in one feat of arms (the taking of Louisbourg in Cape Breton), a certain officer had greatly distinguished himself. It was Brigadier James Wolfe, a young man of thirty-two years of age. He had been in the King|s service ever since he was a boy of fifteen. On his return to England, with his health injured by the severe trials he had undergone, he was chosen by the Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt, for the chief enterprise of the whole war — the capture of Quebec and the driving of the French out of Canada. James Wolfe forgot his delicate health ; he forgot the services he had already done his country; he never thought of saying, ^ Well, surely I have done enough to earn a little rest.’ He had a great and courageous spirit, and before many months had flown, the English fleet, which brought him and his soldiers from England, was seen sailing up the St. Lawrence as though they meant to take Quebec without more ado. The troops were landed on the opposite shore, called the Island of Orleans, four miles from Quebec. That was in June 1759. All along the noithern side of the river lay the French force under General Montcalm — an army many times larger than the English. An anxious time was now before the young commander. He had been led to expect that a large body of men would come to his aid from the south. But they did not arrive, and knowing that the terrible Canadian winter would be worse to face than any army, and would be fatal to his object, he turned towards Quebec, and made up his mind to wait no longer. But Quebec was a very strong place — far stronger than Mr. Pitt or George II. supposed it to be — and though the cannon shots that sped across the St. Lawrence did much damage to the lower parts of the town, they failed to shake the flag that floated from the ramparts higher up the heights. Then a terrible illness attacked the young English Genera], and for many days he lay ar^ death’s door. But such was the strength of his will and spirit that he kept hope alive, when many would have given way ; and even on this bed of illness, he arranged his plan to capture the city. VVhen the soldiers who had learned to love him so well were prepared to mourn his death, he had risen and was moving among them again. The grand project had been settled upon, but, with very few exceptions, those who obeyed his orders did not know his e-xact plans. It was September 12th. All day the cannon had been roaring out its summons to surrender ; all day long the French General, on the opposite side of the river, had been expecting a great attack ; for he had seen the English moving hither and thither more actively than usual. But it was only part of the English army that he saw, and their movements were only made to hold the enemy’s attention. The rest, to the number of about four thousand, had marched up the river-bank with their commander, to a place

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300 CHATTERBOX. many miles above Quebec. Here, after nightfall, they were joined by the English ships, and, in perfect silence, began one of the most daring enterprises ever planned — so daring, indeed, that the French General had not thought of it at all seriously. Behind Quebec, the shore of the river, for many miles, rose in cliffs of two hundred and three hundred feet high. It was up the face of one of these that James Wolfe meant to make his way to victory. Shortly after midnight, as the tide turned, boats laden with soldiers floated silently down the stream to the spot at which the commander had decided to make his attempt. In perfect silence the men landed ; and twenty-five volunteers, led by an officer, began to scale the almost perpendicular path that led to the cliff-top, two hundred feet above. In breathless suspense, Wolfe and his men waited below. The moments crept slowly by, till the report of a musket was heard. The enemy’s guard was attacked ! In an instant all was commotion. Up the path they went, one after the other, clutching at any shrubs or grasses that grew on the face of the cliff, to help them in the hard climb. The transports in the river, receiving signals, landed the remainder of the force, and before sunrise General Wolfe had driven back the enemy’s pickets, and stood prepared with his four thousand men, to march on the city at its weakest point. In the enemy’s camp there was the utmost surprise and dismay. Montcalm had never dreamed that it was possible for an army to scale that terrible cliff walk Yet the early sunlight showed him the red streak of the British troops advancing along the Heights of Abraham, not a mile from his city. Leaving his position along the river-shore, he hastened to meet the foe. Early in the terrible engagement which followed, the young English commander had his wrist shat¬ tered by a musket ball, but, binding his handkerchief around it, he continued to lead his troops. But the short distance that separated them from Quebec was never to be passed by him. At the very moment that Montcalm’s army broke into flight, a sharp-shooter hidden among the trees which skirt the northern edge of the Heights of Abraham, levelled his musket at the English leader. The ball passed through his chest, and he was seen to sink to the ground. His friends ran to help him, but it was too late ; no earthly aid could save him now. One of the officers, who supported him in his last moments, cried out, as he turned his glance on the battle field : — ‘ See ! see ! they run ! ’ The dying man raised his eyes to the speaker. ^ Who ? ’ he said, with failing breath. ‘ The enemy.’ ‘Then,’ said Wolfe, dropping back as though composing himself for sleep, ‘ I die happy.’ Almost with the words his breathing ceased, and one of the most dauntless heroes who have ever fought for the honour of our flag had ended his career, at the very moment when, by his skill and courage, the dominion of Canada was secured to England. John Lea. COAST TALES. VI. N E of the most vivid and impressive pictures made in the minds of British boys, as they read the history of England, is that of the attempt by Philip of Spain to conquer our country, by the aid of the Invincible Armada. Then it was that the whole manhood and womanhood of the nation arose and sprang to arms. We say ‘ womanhood,’ for the courageous Queen Elizabeth, mounting her horse, put herself at the head of a portion of the defending forces, and she also encouraged her troops from day to day by brave words, declaring that as long as they had life they must resist the Spanish forces. Our fleet, it will be remembered, at that time was far inferior to the huge floating armament of Spain, and although we did not lack for stout-hearted admirals and captains, well skilled in all the arts of seamanship, sheer weight of metal and weight of numbers seemed likely to overpower us. Ship for ship, there could be no comparison between the rival fleets, the huge, towering vessels of the Dons com¬ pletely overtopping our own far smaller ships. But men like Drake, Frobisher, and Hawkins were not easily daunted. We all remember the historic game of bowls which the first-named admiral insisted upon finishing before he left the Hoe at Plymouth to sail out to meet the enemy ; a cool hand who could do that was one worthy to meet the best of Spam’s commanders, and worthy of the trust reposed in him by the men of England — no longer ‘ Merrie England ’ then. For bells clanged from the church steeples throughout the country, calling the people to arms — and right hearty was the answer made to the summons. Old and young, sound and halt, each one in his heart determined to fight for the land, inch by inch, and to die fighting if needs were, rather than let the invader triumph. And there were stout hearts afloat, too, as well as ashore. Amongst the bravest of the brave, on that anxious day, when all England was awaiting the arrival of the Armada, was a fisherman whose name was John Brennan. His own boat and another a little larger, had been fishing some forty miles out of Plymouth, when, as morning broke, they espied a dozen or more of the mighty Spanish ships close upon them. At once they cut away their gear and ran for it, to give the news at Plymouth. The sea was rising rapidly ; already the wind blew in violent, though fitful gusts — the great ships, even, were rolling about in the trough of the sea, whilst the two small fishing craft quickly began to make bad weather of it. The larger boat began to leave her fellow rapidly behind in the race homeward, though they both had a long-enough start of the nearest Spaniard to give them an excellent chance of escape. By mid-day the wind had freshened up until half

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As morning broke, they espied a dozen or more of the mighty Spanish ships close upon them. a gale was blowing — and then a dire disaster occurred to Brennan’s boat. His mainmast, unable to stand the press of sail he was keeping up, snapped short off like a rotten carrot and went over the side. He could hear the shout of exultation which went up from the pursuing Spaniard, now driving along close in his wake, liesistance and escape were alike hopeless, and presently, when a boat was lowered from the Sancta Maria^ and pulled alongside the English craft, Brennan and the two men who formed his little crew were quickly transferred to it, and a few minutes later they were standing on the quarter-deck of the mighty vessel, which had been built for the express purpose of invading England.

Page 313

302 CHATTERBOX. By means of an interpreter, the Spanish admiral found out that Brennan was a pilot and fisherman from the port of Plymouth. Then (through the in¬ terpreter, of course) a few brief words of question and answer passed between the admiral and his prisoner. ‘Will you act as pilot of this ship, and take her into Plymouth ? ^ Brennan folded his arms and looked his captor squarely in the eyes. ‘Not if you were to roast me for refusing ! ’ he answered, boldly . The Spaniard swore a great oath ; then he said : ‘We will both roast you and put out your eyes unless you comply with my desire. But wait a little ; take him below to a dark cell, put irons on his hands and feet, and see that he has nothing either to eat or drink.’ The day wore slowly on for the unhappy prisoner, heavily manacled as he was, hungry and thirsty, too, as evening fell, but none the less resolute to die rather than guide the Spaniards to defeat his own countrymen. At eight o’clock that night, a couple of guards came to his cell, his shackles were removed, and between them he was again marched up to the quarter-deck, and brought before the admiral. The wind was blowing furiously, and to make any speech heard it was necessary for the men to shout to each other. Holding on to a rail, the Spanish commander spoke to the interpreter, who, in turn, bawled into Brennan’s ear: ‘Will you pilot us, now? You know what you have to expect if you refuse.’ dphn Brennan had been earnestly gazing about, and taking his bearings; there were dim lights on different points of the coast to be seen, and he knew every inch of the sea around. A thought of how he could best serve England in her peril had just come to him; and serve her he would, if only he could manage it. ‘ Yes !’ he shouted, in a voice which rose above the hoarse roar of the gale, and the shrieking of the wind. ‘ Yes, I will steer you ! take me to the wheel ! ' As fast as the pitching and rolling of the great vessel permitted, Brennan was hurried off the quarter-deck and aft. Seizing the wheel from the hands of the two helmsmen, he set his foot upon the spokes and hauled it over towards him ; the ship fell off her course a little, and so, for nearly half-an-hour, they held on, pitching through the heavy, murky seas. Suddenly, the English pilot let go the spokes, and the wheel spun round; another minute, and, with a great crash, the Sanota Maria struck a huge rock, her mainmast coming down on deck from the shock. With his pair of brawny arms, the British seaman had dealt this terrible blow at his country’s enemies. He had struck home ; for ten minutes later the roar¬ ing waters had closed over the great Spanish ship for ever — and out of those on board, but two escaped that fearful night — a couple of Philip’s soldiers, who were washed ashore more dead than alive, when the next morning broke. They alone were left to tell the tale of heroism and self-sacrifice ; the sea never engulfed a more gallant man than the Plymouth pilot, John Brennan. F. B, LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from 'page 295.) CHAPTER XIX. i55J^^RIAN’S reception by kind old Tante Anna and Greta was of the warmest; they wept tears of joy over him, and said many foolish things. But, when Brian inquired after Oom Willem, both looked grave and uncom¬ fortable. ‘What is the matter?’ said Brian, smiling. ‘ He is still angry with me — is that it ?’ ‘ Alas ! that and more ! ’ said Anna. ‘ Well, he will forgive me, maybe, and if not I must be content with the love you and Greta give me.’ ‘You shall always have that to count upon, my son,’ said Anna; ‘but, alas! the uncle — I know not what he will say when he returns and finds you. I fear he will never forgive nor speak to you.’ ‘What have I done that has been so terrible a sin ? ’ laughed Brian. ‘ Is it that I ran away because I saw he no longer desired my'presence ? ’ ‘It is that he considers your departure a loss and a grievance to him. The uncle regards you as a son who owes his father duty, and also as a servant who owes his master service, but who has departed with his debt unpaid. I am speaking the words of the uncle, not my own.’ ‘ But he is neither my father nor my master,’ said Brian ; ‘ he bought me, as you have told me, for an old rifle, but I am not his slave for ever on that account. I am a free man.’ Oom Willem returned from his fields a very short while after this conversation ; he found Brian seated with Anna and the girl, feasting and laughing. Willem, at the first glance, looked pleased to see Brian, but his face clouded in a moment, and, when Brian stood up and offered his hand with a kindly greeting, the Boer refused to notice him. He turned and spoke to his wife. ‘ This is the youth whom we have fed and pro¬ tected,’ he said, ‘and who has repaid our love with, the rod, and our kindness with scorpions; let him depart whence he came ; he is accursed of Heaven, for he has bitten the hand that fed him,’ ‘ He has bitten no hand, Willem,’ old Anna sobbed, ‘ he is good and faithful, and full of love for those who have cared for him — is it not so, Brun ? speak ! And you shall forgive him, Willem, and he shall live with us, and be our own son as before.’ ‘ Not so,’ said Willem, ‘ he shall go where he will, but he shall not rest in my sight.’ ‘ Oom Willem, do not fear, I shall depart when I have rested ; I have been Ul and nearly dead, and my heart was sick with desire to see Greta and Tante Anna, whom 1 love.

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CHATTERBOX. 803 ^ Well, let him stay, then, for two days, no longer,’ said Willem, picking up his rifle from the corner and filling a cartridge wallet ; ^ I shall go into the veldt, for I will neither see nor speak to him. See that he is out of my sight when I return, and let him remain away afterwards, for I have done with him.’ ^ You will forgive me yet, Oom Willem,’ said Brian, ‘ for you are a Christian man.’ But the Boer took his departure without hearing the end of the sentence. When Brian presently told Greta his adventures, as the two walked over the fields together, and she learned that he had been among the English, and fought with them, and had learned to love them and to be one of them, she said that she believed the chief reason for her fathers turning against him, from the first, had been his English appearance. ‘ You look more English than ever now,’ she added, ^for your clothes are different, and father would notice that, and that would enrage him.’ ^And do you hate the English,’ said Brian, ‘and English clothes, and all that is English ? ’ ‘ Why should I ? ’ said Greta; ' I only know one, and he looks very well in his English dress, though it needs much mending and cleaning.’ Brian did look well in his Norfolk coat and knickers, which he had got at Bulawayo — second¬ hand clothes, most of them, sold to him by his chums or others, and, thanks to his hasty flight and his sojourn in a native kraal, in terrible need just now, as Greta said, of needle and clothes-brush. When the time came for Brian to go — for old Willem would be back from his shooting trip, and Anna was obliged to confess, with tears, that she dared not allow him to stay longer — he was sorry to depart. He had not known, until now, how fond he was of these good people ; maybe he did not know, even now, how much he cared for one of them. When would he see them again ? But Brian was anxious to get back to Bulawayo. He had tasted the sweets of ownership, and of work¬ ing one’s own property for one’s own advantage, and he longed to rebuild his fortunes ruined for a while by the Matabele rebels. And yet, in spite of all this, he felt sorry to go when the time came to depart. The war was not yet over, and it was still a dangerous matter to ride alone through Rhodesia, for nurnerous parties of rebels were crossing and recrossing the veldt in all directions, destroying all that came in their way. Brian had many an exciting half-hour before he reached Bulawayo, but reach it he did after much dodging, hiding, and stalking, and weary travelling, mostly on foot. In Bulawayo he found Boyce, who greeted him as one returned from the grave. Boyce had had as narrow an escape of destruction as Brian himself, and had many interesting things to tell of ; but their partner. Falcon, had not yet turned up, and it was doubtful now whether he ever would. ^ ‘ Probably the niggers got hold of him, the day our house was wrecked,’ he said. ‘ They nearly got ??ie, I can tell you, sonny.’ ^ Well, we are ruined for the present, 1 suppose. said Brian. ‘Is it worth taking up the property again, when all is quiet ? ’ ‘ Well, rather!’ said Boyce. ‘In the first place the Company will pay us compensation — they are bound to do that ; and, in the second, we shall find gold on our land, or I will eat my waistcoat. We shall be company-promoters, you and I, and millionaires before we die.’ ‘ What’s that? ’ asked Brian, laughing. ‘ Why, we will get up a company to work our gold. For all we know, there may be tons of it ; our poor little ruined shanty may be standing over the top of a perfect Johannesburg of wealth. Ten years ago there was no Johannesburg, remember, and people walked about over the present gold-mines, and farmed the land for twopenny-halfpenny crops, with millions of pounds’ worth of gold scarcely lower down than the ploughshares dug in, when they turned up their fields ! ’ When, presently, the Matabele rising was over, things turned out very much as Boyce predicted. Boyce, who knew as well as most what he was about, claimed for compensation, and duly received it. Brian and he returned to their farm. Their house had been looted and pulled about a dozen times since the first day of the rising. It was not found necessary to rebuild it completely ; but, as for furniture, arid the various odds-and-ends necessary for the working of a household, even a small one, there was nothing remaining, and everything had to be renewed. Then the two men began again to stock and work the land, and in this peaceful occupation, varied on Boyce’s part by prospecting for gold, they spent a year or more, until one day Boyce came home to the evening meal in a state of suppressed excite¬ ment. . ‘Brownie, old man,’ he said suddenly during supper, ‘ what would you take for your share of the farm, houses and land— come, name a figure ?’ ‘Why should I?’ said Brian, laughing. ‘I do not want to sell at all !’ ‘Sensible man, stick to that!’ said Boyce. ‘Do you know, sonny, we are rich men from this day — I am not joking— I told you that there would be gold on the land. Well, I have found it.’ ^ ‘ That is all right, anyway,’ said Brian. ‘ I do not understand anything about it, nor why people seem so anxious to find the stuff, but I know it is con¬ sidered valuable.’ 1 ‘ Oh, you know that much, do you ? What a fool 1 I am not to swindle you, you pretty innocent,’ laughed Boyce. ‘ Why, the gold is so much money, so many bank-notes, so many horses, carriages, lands, everything 1 We will have a man up from Johannesburg to inspect the find, and, if he reports favourably, we will go to Johannesburg ourselves, and start a company.’ ‘Why not keep it to ourselves?’ said puzzled Brian. ‘Companies pay better, and we could not aiiord to work it on our own account; I have not the capital, nor have you.’ Capital, indeed 1 poor Brian had scarcely ever ' handled, much less possessed, a gold piece. Five- ' pound notes and he were absolute strangers. {Continued at page 307.)

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CHATTERBOX. 305 All Unpleasant Surprise.

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306 CHATTERBOX. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. Tigers abound in some parts of India; in fact, hunters fond of tracking big game often make expeditions into that wonderful country simply for the sake of bringing back the skin and claws of this ferocious beast. It is hard in our quiet country to imagine what it must be to live in a land where one is risking a meeting with animals which we only know from a visit to the Zoological Gardens — and they look fierce enough there when they walk up and down their cages, waiting for their daily food ! The native woman who quietly goes on her way, bearing a pitcher of water poised on her head, meets with an unpleasant surprise when startled by the sound of a terrible growl ; close by she sees a huge beast showing his white and gleaming teeth. Will he spring at her ? Is he lying in wait for her ? What can she do ? All these thoughts cross her brain in a moment. A second quick glance shows her that the tiger is fully occupied in tearing to pieces his freshly caught prey ; a beautiful antelope, half devoured, is weighted down by his merciless claws, and she understands that the growl is only caused by the fear that the approaching person may pb him of his meal. The native, on the other hand, ^ only too anxious to pass on. So the mutual error is found out ; the woman, with quaking heart, rapidly and quietly resumes her journey, and the tiger is left to the enjoyment of an exceptional feast. Marguerite Ninet. A TAME TORTOISE GOOD many people, both in town and country, keep tor¬ toises. It is not uncommon to see them for sale about the streets, as well as in shops which are kept by persons who call themselves naturalists, it does not seem to be a very attractive crea¬ ture for a pet, though Gilbert White said a tortoise can show affection or gratitude to any one who is kind to it. Sorne think tortoises kill troublesome insects, and for this reason they give one the run of a garden, or it may be allowed to live in the cellar of a house. In a valuable little magazine on Natural H^tory, known as Nature Notes, a lady has given her experiences of a tame tortoise, which are rather amusing. At the time of purchase he was selected from others because his shell was clean and shiny, and because he put out his head and waved his legs. After he w'^as brought home (in a brown-paper bag), the weather turned cold; so he was put into a room, where he lay for hours motionless on the floor, and did not even keep a look-out lest he should get a chance kick from some one. Towards evening he became brisker, and clattered along the oil-cloth" now and then attempting the difficult feat of climbing up the fender. When it was rather warmer, his mistress thought that the tortoise must need food, and bread with milk was prepared for him in a doll’s dish. Its height just suited him, but, as after a few mouthfuls he walked across the dish, the lady found it better to feed him in the garden. Experiments were now tried with living things, some tempting w’orras being dug up and put before him; he w^atdied them wriggle about, but let them escape. Wood-lice he peered at, but their activity puzzled him, and for slugs he did not care. Somebody proposed lifting up a paving-stone in the greenhouse of the garden, whicli was done, and his lordship was placed in the middle of a variety of insects, suddenly roused to quick movements. But they did not please him at all, and he seemed anxious to get away from the crowd. Green food in summer was much to his taste, especially cresses and lettuces ; in eating the lettuce he now and then choked over a bit of stalk, and tliere seemed no way to relieve him but drumming on his shell. Strawberries greatly delighted the tortoise ; he hurried over the gravel to snap at these, some¬ times laying hold of the tips of the fingers which were offering the fruit. Cherries and raspberries also pleased him, and he bedaubed himself in their juice till he had to wipe his head with his claws. His eyesight sometimes deceived him, for more than once he tried to lay hold of a finger adorned by a ring having a red stone, which he mistook for fruit. He did not care for water, unless he was short of green food. When winter approached, the tortoise lost his appetite, and his kind friend began to think how he might be made comfortable indoors. The experiment was tried of putting him in the greenhouse, but he seemed chilly and limp there. Probably tortoises that are left in gardens during the cold season find some hole or nook where they are sheltered from the rain and cold if left to themselves, but this garden was too small to give him any hiding-place. A person who kept a tortoise for years, said that hers lived through the winter in an old hat, placed within a cupboard. At last this one was given a winter abode, an old chocolate-box, with a piece of flannel at the bottom ; there he reposed by day. Sometimes at night, when lamps were lighted, he roused up, and made a tour of the room. One of his positions was standing on his hind legs, weaving bis front pair over the side of the box. People laughed, and said that he was preaching; sometimes he lost his balance, and went over-head downwards. J. R. S. C. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. III.— THE SKATE OR RAY. The sea is all very well in its way, but it is clear that we young ones do not belong to the fish tribe, for we were all uncommonly glad to catch a sight of Barbadoes, and to hear that we might have a few hours ashore there. Some of our cargo had

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CHATTERBOX. 307 to be landed there, so we four, with Mrs. Reeves, nurse, and the old boatswain to keep us out of mischief, went exploring along the shores of Carlisle Bay. We had a fine time, for we were glad to get some place to run about in, without being always brought up by the deck-rail. The shore is very flat, and so surrounded by coral reefs that Bridgetown is the only good landing-place in the island, which is hilly inland. The boatswain told me that Barbadoes gets the most awful hurricanes, which sweep everything before them ; and small wonder, for it lies on the outside edge of the Wind¬ ward Islands, and has nothing to protect it from the fury of the Atlantic winds and waters. But I want to tell you about a monster fish which we found lying dead on the shore. The boatswain said it was the biggest he ever came across, and he thought it was quite twenty feet wide by eighteen long. It was a queer-shaped brute, spreading out the wrong way for fishes, and was some sort of skate, or devil¬ fish as the boatswain called it. Hugh was very glad to hear this; he said that in one of mother’s old story-books, Robert and Harold; or, the Young Maroonersj there was a devil-fish which carried four children in a boat out to sea, in Tampa Bay, and he never before believed that it could be true. When we went on board in the evening, we told Captain Reeves about the creature, and he said that it was certainly one of the great horned ^ Rays,’ and that we were very lucky to have seen such a fine one, for although there were plenty as large or larger in the sea, they usually stayed there, lying down at the bottom, or moving along in slow, lazy fashion. They are nearly related to the sharks, but as they have a habit of beating these voracious gentlemen to death with their flexible sides, their cousins do not see more of them than they can help. At any rate, the old boatswain said that at high water the sharks would make a fine meal off their relation’s fat body. Skates are very cunning; when struck by a harpoon they dive down and bury themselves in the sand or mud, and their flat bodies stick so tight by suction, that no line can get them up again ; besides this, when they suspect danger, they turn on one side and swim with their edges uppermost, so that it is difficult to strike them with a harpoon. Poor brutes ! it is well for them that they have some way of saving their skins, though it is hard on the men who miss catching them after all their trouble. The rays’ heads are very narrow, and their tails thin and usually short, although one kind, the ^ Sting Ray,’ has a tail long enough to twist round his enemy, with a good sharp spike at the end, which cuts like a knife. Some of the skate or ray tribe have another weapon of defence — nothing less than electricity ! Those fishes, known as ^ Electric Rays,’ when only two or three feet long can discharge enough force to disable a full-grown man at one shock. They were used by the ancients, who had no electric machines, to cure certain diseases. The power is stored in narrow plates, sometimes in the head and sometimes in the tail. The boatswain said that no one who has ever handled one of these creatures ever touches it a second time ; and even through the water they can make a man tingle all over when they let fly at him. Some of them are called ‘ Torpedo Rays,’ and these are those which hurt most. The Torpedoes are found in the Atlantic and Mediterranean, and have smooth skins, though most rays are generally covered with spines. ^Thornback Skates ’ are quite pretty creai ures, and very good to eat, especially in November, though the easiest time to catch them is in spring and autumn, when they come into shallow water to lay their eggs. They have a pretty habit of fastening these eggs up in sealed packets before sending them adrift. The captain showed us some of these envelopes, and we were quite surprised to see that they were just like the brown things with handles at the corners which are found on the shore in Cornwall. ^ Eagle Rays ’ are caught from the Cape of Good Hope to the North Sea; one was taken which measured forty- two feet round, and ten men could not move it. Helena Heath. LOST SIR BRIANT, (Continued from page 303.) CHAPTER XX. SHORT while after his return to his farm, Brian was sitting smoking with his partner, Royce, one even¬ ing, when a man from Bulawayo rode in, put up his horse, and entered the shanty. ‘ \\ hich of you is known as Brown Johnnie ? ’ he asked ; and, learning that this was Brian, he handed him the letter left by Captain Philips. ‘I was passing by your farm,’ he said, ^ and they asked me to leave this. The Colonel would have sent it sooner, but he had not heard you had arrived — says he is glad you both escaped, and wishes you luck. If Mr. Brown Johnnie wants to know particulars about this letter, he can call and have them when he is passing.’ Brian was not, as yet, very quick about reading written English, but he puzzled through the letter which Philips had written, taking an hour or more over it, and but half understanding it then. ‘ Good news, I hope ? ’ said Royce, when he had finished and laid down the paper with a gasp. ^ Read it — perhaps you will understand it,’ said Brian ; ‘if so, you can tell me what it means.’ Royce read the letter. ‘ Why, Brownie,’ he exclaimed, ‘ I think it means that we have found you a father and mother, though only dead ones, and perhaps a fortune, only that I do not know how we are going to prove that you are the baronet. He seems a. bit doubtful in the postscript whether he can prove you to be the fellow he thinks you are. Hoes all the first part seem all

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Thornback Skate swimming ; Torpedo Eay lying down. right? Were you taken away by an old nurse, and brought back and lived with a Boer, and so on ? ^ ‘ I remember very little till I came to live with Oom Willem,’ said Brian, ‘ but it may be all right. Of course, I cannot prove anything — how should I ? ’ ‘ That is what I cannot see either. It seems some other Johnnie, the next heir, is standing in your shoes, if you are the person this Philips supposes, and that if you are, and can prove it, you are a bit of a swell, a Sir Somebody Something, and so on, and rich.’ ^Is that my name, then — Sir Brian Amberton?’ asked Brian, simply ; ^ I would like to have a name, I must say. Do I pronounce it right ? What does the Sir mean ? ’ ^ Why, it means you are a lord, of sorts, if only you can prove it; there is no money, though. You had better wait till we have made our pile with this gold company,’ he added, ‘ then you can go over to England and fight it out. If you have got money, you have got everything, and can do everything ; a chap without money is without hands and feet — he is helpless.’ ‘ Oh, I do not know about that,’ laughed Brian

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Arranging a Plan of Attack. have never had any money, but I can fight a bit.^ ^ It is not that kind of fighting you will have to do, sonnie, to establish your rights ; wait a bit and see ; let us work our gold before we go further.’ And at this the matter rested for the present. When Brian thought of the matter at all, which was not very often, for he soon became deeply interested in other questions, more pressing and immediate, he did not adopt the name to which Philips believed him to be entitled, because Royce was somewhat discouraging. ^ You would look such a fool,’ he said, ^afterwards, if you took the name and used it, and then found out

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310 CirlATTERBOX. you were some totally different person. When you have time and money, you can start and find out who you are, and I will help ; but we will make that pile of ours first.’ And so it remained, and the matter was, to a large extent, forgotten by Brian in the midst of more absorbing affairs, for an expert from Johannesburg presently arrived to report upon Boyce’s great ^ find ’ of gold. This scientific person prepared a great array of figures and drew up a very long statement, all of which might have been summed up in the sentence : ‘ the prospects of finding gold are fairly good ; capital will be required to work it, and you had better raise it — if you can.’ Boyce, desiring to be generous towards his own neighbours, and to keep the matter, as far as possible, in the hollow of his hand, endeavoured first to find the required capital in Bhodesia ; but the good folk in this new country were of opinion, most of them, that their own chance of possessing a private gold mine was as good as Boyce’s, and that they would be likely to need all the capital they could lay hands upon for themselves. ‘ We shall have to go to Johannesburg,’ said Boyce, at length, ^ there is nothing to be done here ; but they have any amount of money in those parts, and I really do not see that we can do much better than take a trip through.’ Brian had no objection whatever. On the contrary, he had long wished to see the big new city of gold, and had, as the reader is aware, already tried to find his way there, but without success. Things were in an uncomfortable state at Johannes¬ burg at this time. For many a weary month the Out landers, as the Boers called the foreigners whom they grudgingly allowed to live in their midst, but carefully excluded from privileges of citizenship, had tried by every means in their power to get rid of the abuses of their position, but in vain. Now, when it became known that Boyce and Brian were going to Johannesburg, many young men came to their shanty, riding over from Bulawayo and elsewhere, full of a plan to attack the Boers, which was to be led by a certain ‘ Dr. Jim.’ Brian knew ‘ Dr. Jim.’ He had seen and admired him from afar during the first Matabele campaign. ^ If it is Dr. Jim, I will come,’ he said. ‘ I do not understand the quarrel as you do, but of course the English must not be ill-treated by the Boers; we must not allow that — we English.’ Brian was now English. Oom Willem might now call him Booinek without offending him. Boyce was all for the Baid. Like most of those concerned, he knew nothing of the exact rights and wrongs of the question ; he shared the general indignation, and was as thoroughly imbued as his fellows with the misleading idea that the English people were to be delivered from persecuting Boers, and that was all. Moreover, he thought that the Baid would offer a pleasant and cheap way of getting to Johannesburg both for him and for Brian. Instead of a long, tedious, and expensive journey, there would be a pleasant ride, possibly a fight, certainly a victory, and then a triumphal entry into a city full of shouting and delighted Outlanders. ^ We are in luck. Brownie, my boy,’ he said heartily, when the decision had been made, and both were enrolled among Dr. Jim’s troopers, and told to assemble at Mafeking. AVe are in luck. This ought to be a good thing for us ; it will make us many friends at Johannesburg, and the millionaires there will plank down their thousands for us with smiling faces. They will do anything for us when we have released them from bondage.’ ‘ I do not understand what it all means, except that I know the Boers hate us English,’ said Brian ; ^ but I like the idea of fighting, though I should not care to shoot Oom Willem. I hope he will not be about.’ CHAPTER XXI. Brian liked his companions in Dr. Jim’s force, and, though the four days of incessant riding were fatiguing, this was a manner of passing the time quite after his own heart. The fighting at Doornkop excited him ; he fought fiercely, even though he understood little of the rights and wrongs of the quarrel. Great was his grief when the force surrendered, after making a fight against heavy odds, which caust d even the Boers to express admiration for the pluck of the unfortunate, misguided troopers. Some of Brian’s companions were doleful enough as the force, deprived of their arms but with their ! horses left to them, were assembled in the market- i place at Krugersdorp. ‘ What will they do with us?’ he asked a com¬ panion. * Heaven knows ! ’ said the fellow. * Hang us, I should not wonder, or imprison us for life ! ’ Another trooper standing by reported that he himself had heard Commandant Malan say to Commandant Cronje, who had promised the lives of ail as a condition of surrender, that ‘ the old man would have something to say as to that promise, which Cronje had no right to make, because the Boer Council of War alone could decide upon such a question.’ * We may have a chance of escaping,’ said Brian ; ‘ 1 shall certainly have a try.’ ^ Then good-bye, old chap,’ laughed another, ‘for you will get shot.’ ‘ Better that than hung,’ said Brian, ‘ or even imprisonment for life.’ When, afterwards, Brian rode dejectedly with his fellows towards their destination, he happened to be in the last troop. Two or three Boers, armed with loaded rifles, rode on either side of the small column, and Brian was suddenly startled by hearing him¬ self addressed in Dutch by a big Boer riding at his flank, whose voice he instantly knew as Oom Willem’s. I The Boer spoke very softly, as though he would j rather not be overheard conversing with a prisoner, : though the troopers spoke freely with their guards — with any of them, that is, who seemed to know English. ‘ So you have finally declared for the Booineks,’

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CHATTERBOX. Bll said Willem. ^ Well, now you have seen for your¬ self that you are a fool for your pains, for we have whipped them like dogs, as we have always done and shall always do.’ Brian’s heart sank when he heard the well-known voice. It was distinctly the worst of luck that Willem should have been commandeered for this service, and should huve been placed — he, of all others — in charge of Brian’s own troop. Escape would now be impossible. Brian had seen enough of Willem’s shooting to know that. ^ Yes,’ he replied, looking the old man straight in the face, T have learned that I am English. We made a good fight, but you hid behind the kopjes, where you could neither be seen nor hit ; I am told the Boers always fight in that way, as though they feared to face their enemies.’ ^They win,’ said Willem; ^ they capture their enemies and hang them, and the world is well rid of them. This is what you have got for your foolish¬ ness.’ ‘ If I am hung, what will Greta say ? ’ said Brian. He did not know why he said it. Probably, it occurred to him that there was just a shadow of a chance that Willem might connive at his escape if be reflected that his beloved Greta would suffer should Brian fall a victim to Boer cruelty. ‘Greta would know better than to weep for the death of an English wolf which bites the hand that fed it.’ Brian had nothing to say in reply to this, and there was silence for half-an-hour. Great was bis surprise when Willem suddenly resumed the conversation in a sense which showed that he had spent the interval in thinking over the matter of which they had last spoken. ‘ The Almighty knows,’ he now said, ‘ that what I am abonf, to say to you is said not on your account, but on Greta’s; I would not go out of my way to raise a finger to save you from hanging, but that I fear it is true that Greta would suffer if such a thing should happen, as you deserve.’ ‘ I do not know that she would,’ said Brian. ‘Well, she has made no secret of her folly,’ said Willem, ‘ and therefore I should dread the effect upon her of your hanging. These fellows will hang or be shot, every one of them ; the Commandant Malan has said so, and it is true, for they deserve it, and especially Jameson. As for you, I am going to play the traitor for Greta’s sake.’ Brian was silent; his surprise and relief were so great that he could find nothing to say. ‘ I will show my grat tude one day for your kind¬ ness,’ he began presently, but Willem quickly silenced him. ‘ Peace, fool,’ he said. ‘ I am not kind for your sake ; I would rather you should die, for you have been a nuisance and a constant shame to me.’ ‘ At any rate, you are kind to Greta, and are risk¬ ing much for her sake ; I can thank you for that,’ said Brian. ‘ Do not waste words and anger me, lest I think better of my intention, which is, perhaps, a foolish one at the best. Drop behind and pretend your horse has a stone in his shoe ; I will then drop behind also, as though to guard you. When you remount, gallop straight away. I shall shoot at you, but only for appearance’ sake. Get as quickly as you can behind the small kopje on the right, and ride where you will — and may the Lord forgive me ! ’ Brian did not speak again, fearing lest old Willem should be annoyed and perhaps change his mind at the last moment. But he suddenly jumped off his horse and examined its off hind hoof, allowing the rest to ride on — which they did after a moment, only waiting to see that one of the guards remained behind with him. ‘ Now they are at a safe distance — mount quickly and ride as though the evil one pursued you. Get behind the kopje at the nearest point, for the others will shoot, and I do not answer even for myself. When I see you going from me, I may be unable to control myself — now go, and go quickly.’ ‘ You will remember Greta — you will not shoot me in the back ! ’ said Brian. ‘ Go, you fool, and do not speak ! ’ Willem murmured hoarsely. Away went Brian at full speed. Willem fired a shot-prisoners and guards all turned at the sound, and a Boer or two rode forward shouldering their rifles, but the small kopje was now between them and the runaway. Suddenly a wave of changed feeling passed over Willem’s heart. What was he doing This was treachery — God would never forgive this treason to his own country and his own people — why was he doing this ? He was saving the life of this English¬ man in order that he might presently shame him for ever by marrying his daughter — no — he should die. Willem raised his rifle for a second shot. Brian was in the act of turning the corner of the low', rock- covered hill wdiich screened him from the rest — in an instant he wmuld disappear — Willem fired, aiming this time, and with extra care. He saw Brian fall forward upon the horse’s neck. ‘Thanks to the Almighty!’ exclaimed Willem, ‘I have been spared this sin.’ Then he set spurs to his horse and rode round the kopje. Brian lay on the ground, dead apparently, while his faithful horse stood over him. Willem loosened the girths and took away the saddle. ‘ The horse will follow where the others go 1 ’ he muttered. Then, with a glance at poor Brian and a twinge of regret, he rode away after his com¬ panions. ‘ The fool thought he could escape in broad day¬ light 1 ’ he said ; and the others laughed. Some of Brian’s companions sighed, and a few almost wi.'^hed they were in Brian’s place — better there than hang¬ ing from the gallows ! Brian was not dead, however; he wj\s badly wounded indeed, and might die, but for the present he was alive enough to sham death until Willem rode away. Then, with a groan of pain, he stood up ; with more pain and many groans he slowly remounted his saddleless steed, and finally, but half¬ conscious, he rode away also, heading straight for Greta’s home. ‘ I may as well see the dear girl once more, and die there,’ he thought. {Continued at page 318.)

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CHATTERBOX. 813 The Red Deer aud the Golden Eagle.

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Bl4 CHATTERBOX. THE RED DEER AND THE GOLDEN EAGLE. IT is in Scotland that the Red Deer exists in great numbers, and both in Irish and Scottish forests still roams about in a wild state, giving ex¬ cellent opportunities for the sport known to us by the name of deer-stalking. The animal is a finely- made creature ; the body a rich, red brown, the neck thickly coated with grey. The beautiful antlers, curved and symmetrical, make a splendid weapon of defence for the deer in times of danger. A very fine species of eagle, called the Golden Eagle, is, strange to say, one of its enemies, and though the latter is only a bird, the fight between them is not by any means a short or unequal one. With its bent beak and mighty talons, the eagle is not to be despised, nor are the wounds it gives so freely of a trifling nature. The deer generally live in herds, and, like the in¬ habitants of Scotland, are very clannish by nature. When an eagle swoops down among them, the male proves an able general, and holds the enemy at bay, whilst the rest of the flock disperse, or reach a haven of refuge. In the meantime, the struggle is often a terrible one ; more than once, in spite of its strength and the well-directed stabs of its antlers, the deer may again and again be nearly mastered by its opponent. The bird will pounce upon the deer’s back, and for a time it would be hard to tell which is likely to win. When the others are in safety the defender of the herd makes a final mighty efEort, and with many scratches, tears himself away, whilst the bird soars back to its eyrie disappointed of its prey, and leaving many feathers to mark the scene of a desperate fight. Marguerite Ninet. THE STORY OP RHAMPSINITUS. As told by the ancient Greek historian, Herodotus. There was once a King of Egypt called Rhampsinitus, who was so rich that at last he had a special room built to contain his treasure. He called to him a skilful mason, and ordered him to build a strong treasure chamber, with only one entrance, and that a secret one. The mason did as the king commanded, and built a wonderful chamber of thick stones, with an en¬ trance known only to the king and to himself. The king put all his treasures in this chamber, and fastened up the entrance, and sealed it with his own seal, so that he would be sure to know if any one broke in. A little while afterwards the mason died, for he was an old man, and the king was thus the only man who knew of the entrance to the treasure chamber. The king used to go about once a week and un¬ seal the door, and count his treasures to see that they were safe. One morning, on doing this, he thought that a little had been taken ; hut, not being sure of it, he carefully noted the amount, and came h.ck in a few days’ time. To his astonishment, he found that some gold pieces had certainly been stolen. But yet the seals on the door had not been | broken. The king was amazed ; he did not know how the thief could have got in, nor how he could be caught. So he waited a few weeks more, to see if the robberies continued. But the king had need to be surprised. The crafty old mason had been false to him. He had built one entrance, as King Rhampsinitus ordered, but he had also contrived that one of the great stones should swing back on a pivot if any one who knew the secret pressed a spring in the right way. He had not told any one of this, but on his death-bed he called his two sons and informed them of his device, warning them not to make too frequent use of it, and to be very careful not to trust the secret to any one else. After his death the two sons and their mother fell into great want, and so they made use of the king’s treasure to support themselves. The king at length set a trap in the chamber, near the sacks of gold. The two brothers came as usual, and began to take what gold they wished. But, just as they were going, the elder of them was caught fast in the trap, and could not get free again. They were in a fix. The younger did not wish to leave his brother there, to be found by the king and put to death; and besides, if one were found and known, disaster would come upon all the family alike, for King Rhampsinitus was not likely to spare any one who might by any chance know a secret which enabled him to carry off the treasure. And even if they both remained, their mother would be sought out, and most likely executed with them. At last the elder brother hit upon a plan. ^ Do you,’ said he, ‘ cut off my head and leave me here. Thus they will not know me, for they will find only my headless body. You and our mother will be safe, and our secret will not be known.’ The younger brother at first refused ; but at last, seeing that his brother would die by the king’s hands if he were left, he cut off his head, and fled with it home to his mother, whose grief at the loss of her eldest son knew no bounds. Meanwhile, the king came and found the body without a head. He saw that he was tricked again, and that there must be another thief still to be caught. Nor did he know who it was who was in the trap ; so he had the body hung up in chains in the market-place witii an insulting inscription. Round it he set a strong guard of soldiers, ordering them to arrest any one who came and wept at the sight, or tried to take the body down, for he thought that the other thief, whoever he was, would not endure the sight of his companion’s body thus ex¬ posed. In this hope he was right. The mother of the thief saw the body, but without showing any emotion before the guards. She hurried home, and there she began to abuse her son for letting his brother’s body be dishonoured. He urged that he would only be killed too if he made any attempt to steal the body. But his mother’s entreaties at length prevailed, and he made up his mind to get the body if possible. He filled two skins with wine, and set them behind him on a mule, which he rode through the market-place towards dusk. As he came near the soldiers, he secretly pricked a hole in one of the skins,

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CHATTERBOX. 315 SO that the wine began to run out fast. The soldiers laughed at him, and presently one began to run after him, and try to catch the wine as it trickled out. Then the rest followed. The thief turned round as if in amazement, crying, ^ Kascals, what have you done ? Alas ! my good wine, whereby I hoped to make my fortune, has all run away. Un¬ happy that I am ! What shall I do ? ’ But the soldiers only laughed, till he pretended to recover his temper, saying, ^Well, I have lost half my fortune, and no one will want to buy one skin of wine. Shall we share this that remains, com¬ rades? You can drink it as you sit at your posts.’ . So they fell to drinking up what was left in the second skin ; but the wine in this skin was drugged, and the soldiers had not drunk much before they fell sound asleep where they were, and the thief carried off his brother’s body safely. When the king heard what had happened, he ordered all the soldiers to be executed. But no amount of executions would catch the thief for him, and he was at his wits’ end to know what to do. At last he hit upon the following device. He issued a proclamation, saying that he would give his daughter in marriage to the man who had done the cleverest deed, which must be told by the suitor to the princess. Rhampsinitus hoped that the thief, confident in his cunning, would come and tell the story of how he outwitted the king, and the princess w{\s bidden to scream loudly, and seize any one who told her this tale. The king was not wrong, for the thief said to himself, ^ Here is my chance. I will tell my story and be pardoned, and wed the princess and be king.’ But first he cut off the arm of his dead brother, and put it up his sleeve. Then he went to the princess, and said, ‘ Daughter of Rhampsinitus, hear my tale,’ recounting how he had cut his brother’s head off and stolen the body. At that the princess cried out loudly, and caught him by the arm. But it was the dead brother’s arm, which the thief left in her hand, and fled away just as the guards came running up. So the king was outwitted once more. And now, in admiration of the thief’s cleverness, he published a proclamation, offering free pardon and the hand of the princess in marriage to whosoever it was who had stolen the king’s treasure and had thrice out¬ witted him. Then the thief confessed, and was married to the princess, and when Rhampsinitus died he became king in his stead. F. J. Harvey. His barking caused her turn aside, And on the grass she found A shaggy, worn-out, weary man. With iron fetters bound. She fetched her lady, much amazed : ^ Oh, love, can it be you ? ’ And then an old and broken ring He from his bosom drew. It fitted one she held herself ; A smith was quickly sought, The iron fetters to break off. And home the knight they brought. • He told them how in prison long He wore his life away ; Until one night he wrestled hard. And nothing did but pray. ^ Oh, for deliverance ! ’ he cried, And strange what happened then : An angel, or archangel, bore Him to his home again. He humbly thought it was a swan, Its feathers soft he felt ; And well you may believe that long He and his lady knelt. Their crest at Worcester, on their tomb. Has swan and fetters yet. And at their feet the faithful dog, Who never could forget. A. A. D. W. BOYS OP THE LONDON STREETS. SHOEBLACK. R E and there about the liL London streets the red- MW coated shoeblack rnay be seen ever ready, like the I'll red -coated ^ letter-box, which occupies much the illll same position on the pave- 1 r ^ ment, to perform his duty. Their services are generally paid for at about the same rate. The box will take care of your letter for a penny stamp; the boy will polish your shoes for a copj^er coin. ^ i • r j It is now nearly fifty-two years since this red regiment’ first invaded the London streets; its first commander was John MacGregor (Rob Roy), who has written so many interesting stories about his daring canoe voyages. On the morning of March 31st, 1851, five boys in scarlet jerseys, black aprons, and red caps, marched out from No. 10 York Place, in the Strand, which was the head-quarters of the Ragged School Union. Each carried in his hand a wooden box, containing brushes and blacking. They dispersed to various positions about the streets, one taking up his quarters in Trafalgar Square. The box THE ATTWOODS OF WOLVERLEY COURT. A Legend. ^ KNIGHT went off to the Crusades, And was so long away. His tender lady sighed for him. And mourned him day by day. Her milk-maid went to milk the cows At early dawn of day, An ancient dog had followed her, And he began to bay.

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The Shoeblack. was placed upon the ground, and Mr, John MacGregor, anxious to set the public a good example, put one foot upon it and asked the boy to polish his shoe. A crowd gathered round to see what was being done, and they were so pleased with the idea that one after another they followed ' Rob Roy,’ and gladly paid their pennies. The boys soon grew in number, and at half-past seven every morning, an increasing army marched from the door of the Ragged School. The boys themselves came from every part of London to join the new brigade. Boys who were destitute, and boys who had given way to the temptations of an idle life, now found here a means of gaining an honest living. Their daily earnings were carried back to the school, when each boy received six-pence as payment for his day’s work, and one-third of all that he had earned. Another third was placed in a bank for his future benefit, and the remainder went towards supporting the Society. Many boys

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Drowning Children saved by an Elephant. were thus started in life, for, by industrious brushes, quite a little fortune could be collected in the bank. In the year 1851, a vast army of foreigners came to England to see the Great Exhibition. These visitors were in the habit of getting their feet muddy, and the twenty-five red-coated boys employed to clean them had a busy time. They polished over a hundred thousand pairs of shoes, and the pennies they received amounted to five hundred pounds ! Since then their brushes have never been idle. In 1859 the various brigades earned £4,548, in 1871 £11,031 — not because one year was muddier than another, but because there were more busy hands at work. Only a few years ago the Ragged School

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318 CHATTERBOX. IjDion alone had three hundred and nineteen boys, whose united efforts earned £6,770 in one year. With such a story to tell as this, do you not think that the shoeblacks would be justified in saying that their labours place London on a brighter footing? John Lea. A IjIfe-saving elephant. A FEW years ago, two children were bathing in the sea at a little town on the coast of France, when suddenly, for some reason or other, they were carried out of their depth. In a few moments their cries, as they struggled in the ‘ deep water, roused attention, but before any one could reach them, they were rescued in an altogether unexpected manner. ^ An immense elephant, belonging to a travelling circus, happened to have been led down to the sea that morning, to bathe, and, as he was enjoying his bath close at hand, he heard the cries of the children ; plunging through the water towards them, he lifted them very gently, one at a time, and carried them to a place of safety. This elephant, whose name was ‘Gus,^ recently died at Hereford from the effects of a .‘^evere cold : he had reached a great age, and was said to be one hundred and thirty-five years old. Every care was taken of him during his illness, and bottle after bottle of medicine was given him ; fancy having to take enough medicine for an elephant ! But it was all in vain, and the poor old animal gradually got worse and died. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 29. — -^Esop’s Fables with Anagrams. The lier-car^ and the lion. Transpose each word or group of words into a word which will make sense with the others. ^ A man who saw^ very skilful with his bow, went up into the Tom-is-a nun^ to hunt at his poach-rap^, there was a great no-stern-action® and fear go-man® the wild nail-sam^, the lion on-ale® showing any determination to fight. ‘Post,’® said the man to him, ‘and await my green-mess^®, who has tbaw- me-soii to say to you.’ With that he host^^ an arrow^ after the lion and wounded him the dies^®. The lion, sing-mart^^ with a-pin^®, fied into the depth of the the-ticks^®, hut a fox seeing him run, bade him take our-cagei7 and face the enemy. ‘ Any^®,’ said the Lion, ‘you will not use-drape^® me to that ; for if the green-mess2o he sends is so harps^h what must be the or-pew-2 of him how^ sends it ? ’ C. C. [A7is2yers at page 330.] -A. asr s WE ^7. — 1. A rolling stone gathers no moss. 2. A stitch in time saves nine. 3. Every cloud has a silver lining. 4. Home is home be it ever so homely. 5. Many hands make light work. 6. None so deaf as those who won’t hear. 7. Never despair. 8. Punctuality is the soul of business. 28.— (A.)— 1. At. 2. Vat. 3. Vast. 4. Stave. 5. Starve. 6. Harvest, (c.)— 1. On. 2. One. 3. Tone. 4. Stone. 5. Honest. (B.)— 1. No. 2. Ton. 3. Torn. 4. Thorn. 5. Throne. (D.)— 1. An. 2. Ean. 3. Near. 4. Learn. 5. Angler. LOST SIB BBIAN. {Continued from page 311.) CHAPTER XXII. AINT and weak, and barely able to exert his last remain¬ ing strength to knock at the door, which was closed and locked for the night, Brian feebly tapped with his hand, then he propped himself against the side of the porch and waited. He had ridden over thirty miles, and scarcely knew whether he was dead or alive. Fortunately for him, for he could not have found strength to knock any louder, his tapping was heard and the door opened. It was Greta who opened it. ^ Who is it ?’ she said. ' And what do you want at this hour of night ? ’ ^ It is I, Greta, come home again,’ said Brian, ^ and come to die, I think ! ’ ^ Greta gave a scream, half of joy, half of terror, for his last words filled her with fear. ^Mother!’ she cried, ^come quickly with a light; it is Brun, and he is hurt.’ Then she went upon her knees by the wounded youth’s side. She found his forehead and kissed it. ^ No — no — not to die ! ’ she cried. ‘ God has given you back to us, and He will let you live ; whatever it is that ails you, we shall nurse you back to life and health, do not fear.’ ^ Maybe,’ said Brian ; ‘ pray for me, Greta ; I am very bad — I am - ’ Poor Brian fainted at this point, and, Tante Anna arriving with a light, the two weeping women contrived to raise him between them, and carry iiim to a bed, upon which they laid him. Then Tante Anna carefully removed his blood¬ stained coat, and cut his shirt away and examined his wound. The bullet, she soon found, had passed right through his shoulder, the wound had become inflamed from neglect, but was not in itself necessarily fatal ; indeed, the fact that he had been able to ride so far with such a wound — for she could see that it was of many hours’ standing — proved that it was not a mortal one. So the two women washed and dressed it, and put cooling herbs upon it, according to Anna’s Boer medical lore, and they poured a fever- mixture down

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CHATTERBOX. 319' his throat, and placed cool bandages about his head, and prayed very devoutly, and then sat and watched. All that night Brian lay and tossed and spoke wildly, and seemed to sink in the early hours of the morning, but revived and slept almost peacefully towards six. The sick man enjoyed the very best chance that a patient can have of coming safely through a crisis, namely, the being nursed by those who love him. During the day he was conscious, and recognised his friends with a grateful smile, but he was now too weak to attempt to speak. Towards evening the fever returned, and Tante Anna grew anxious again, for she knew her patient was not yet out of the wood. But he came through the night well, on the whole, and in the morning he was certainly better. All the day hope strengthened in their hearts, for Brian was evidently gaining ground. Late in the evening Oom Willem arrived. They had dreaded his coming, for they said, ‘ He will be angry and wish us to turn him away, and then what shall we do ? ’ Therefore they had agreed to tell him nothing about Brian’s presence, and to keep the secret as long as possible, in order that the patient might mean¬ while gain time for recovery ; not that they had any intention of obeying Willem should he command them to remove Brian, well or ill. This they would never dream of doing, but there might be high words and an agitating scene in the sick-room, and that would be so bad for the patient. So Willem arrived, weary and haggard-looking, and evidently ill at ease, and, since Tante Anna had never seen the sturdy farmer in anything but robust health, his condition alarmed her, and she asked him, in some anxiety, what ailed him. ‘ Nothing,’ he said, ^nothing — or, if anything, it is nothing that I shall tell you at present — let me rest first and take food.’ Willem took his supper, and as he ate he gazed much at Greta, who served him. Greta was bent on assuming a particularly cheerful air in order that her father should not suspect her anxiety, and thus discover the presence of poor, sick Brian. But her gaiety seemed to depress old Willem all the more. He sighed constantly as he watched her, and he spoke very little. Then Willem rose and took Greta’s head between his hands and kissed her. ‘ My poor lamb,’ he said, ‘ you must not hate me for it.’ ‘ Hate you, father ? ’ said Greta, ^ that could never be.’ ^ Could it not — are you sure ? — could nothing make you hate your old father ? ’ All this was so unusual, coming from old Willem, that it somewhat alarmed Greta, who loved the old man well, and was a good daughter. ^ You are tired, father — over-tired with your long ride — go to bed and have a good rest.’ Old Willem sighed, and seemed about to speak again. Then he turned from her. ‘ Yes,’ he said, simply, ' I will go to bed.’ Greta watched at Brian’s couch until her father was asleep, then Tante Anna crept away from the old Boer’s side, and came to relieve her daughter. She, too, had been surprised, and, at first, somewhat alarmed by Willem’s conversation that night. Be¬ fore falling asleep he had hinted at impending sorrow, of bad news to be broken to herself and Greta on the morrow. She had asked, by way of a feeler, whether he had heard of anything happening to Brian. If he had known of Brian’s wound, for instance— though she could not conceive how he should — and imagined that the lad was dead, and it should prove that his sorrow was caused by that imagined event, then Tante Anna would have revealed at once Brian’s presence in the house. But Willem quickly replied that the sorrow must wait until to-morrow. ' Our Greta still loves that Rooinek,’ were his last words before falling asleep. ‘ Would to God she had long since forgotten him ! ’ ‘ She will as soon forget you, Willem, and her own mother,’ said Anna; ^and, as for me, 1 am sure that, in your heart, you love him also as we do ; it is not his fault if he is English-born.’ ‘ No — you are wrong, wife ; I do not love* him, but I love Greta,’ said the Boer, and presently he fell asleep without further explanation of his mysterious words. But Brian steadily improved throughout the night, and Tante Anna almost resolved that she would confess to her husband in the morning that the lad was in the house, and must remain for some while. But old Willem anticipated her. His mood had changed somewhat after the rest he had enjoyed, a,nd he now determined that there need be no beating about the bush — he would tell his wife that Brian was dead, and that his own shot had killed him. It had been his duty to fire the shot, and he had done it — there was nothing to regret, only Greta could not be expected to understand the rights and wrongs of such a question, and therefore Greta need not be told how the lad had died, but only that he was dead. . , So Willem braced himself up to tell bis wife the bad news; he did not like the job. now it had come to telling, because he knew it would make Anna miserable, and he loved his wife after his own fashion. ‘ Well, we have seen the last of that young Kooinelv,’ he began, ‘ and, maybe, a good thing in the end— better such folk should be dead than living, they only cumber the earth uselessly ; now there is one Englishman less in the world. As for wasting love upon such beings, they bite the hands of those that feed them — you have seen it for yourself— therefore you will not grieve like a fool, but rejoice like a wise woman.’ Tante Anna burst out laughing at the end of thi-^ speech. ‘ How strangely you take the news, wife, he said, gazing anxiously at her ; ‘ nevertheless, it is wiser to laugh than to weep. Maybe you have learned, as I have done long since, that this youth was not worth loving ? ’ ‘ I have never learned it, Willem, and will never learn it ; and, as for you, you know well that you too have never learned it. Moreover, Brian is not only not dead, but will not die, for see,, he is in the lower room yonder and doing right well,’ {Contimi^d a,fi 3.260,

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320 CHATTERBOX.

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WHICH WILL YOU HAVE, THE APPLE OR THE PENNY?

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322 CHATTERBOX. THE HONEST PARMER. There is a story told in one of the newspapers of a nobleman whose family holds large estates in the county of Yorkshire, which is a good testimony to the honesty of his tenants and the land-owner’s generosity. A farmer came to the Earl one day to complain that his wheat had been greatly damaged I by the hounds, when the hunt passed over his fields a few days before. The Earl was willing to make up for the damage in any way possible, and asked what was the value of the injured crop. The farmer named a certain sum, which was at once paid. A short time afterwards, when the harvest was over, the Earl was again told that the farmer desired to speak to him. On being asked his business, the man replied that the wheat which he had thought to be ruined was not only unharmed, but had proved the best of the whole crop ; he had therefore brought back the sum paid him as compen¬ sation, feeling that he had no right to it. The Earl was much struck by the farmer’s strict honesty. * This is as it should be between man and man,’ said he. Then he wrote out a cheque for double the amount, and presented it to him with these words, ^ Take care of this, and when your eldest son comes of age give it to him, and tell him how you came by it.’ CORONATION TICKETS. T the Coronation of Queen Victoria every effort was made to fill, up all available spaces in Westminster Abbey with seats. It is stated more than fifteen hundred cart-loads of wood were carried in for this purpose. About eleven thousand persons were admitted ; but at the Coronation of William IV. there T^re places for eight thousand only. Tickets varied in price from ten to forty-five guineas. A great many went at twenty guineas, giving a fairly good view of the ceremony. Some of them cost thirty guineas, and had eager purchasers, because they had the privilege of a position on the roof as well, giving a sight of the arriving procession. After the procession had gone in, the holders of the tickets were able to reach their seats within the building in time. People, however, found it necessary to be at the Abbey early— many, indeed, over-early — for when the policemen arrived who were to have kept the way up to the doors, they discovered a vast crowd round the Abbey, which had begun to assemble between three and four in the morning. At five the doors were opened, and the space appointed for the public was filled by six. Most of the peers came before nine o’clock, as the procession was to leave Buckingham Palace about ten, reaching the Abbey by half -past eleven. The route chosen was not the direct one, but went round a long way, in the journey from Buckingham Palace to Westminster. This gave an opportunity for multitudes to see the procession, from houses, from galleries put up in open spaces, or by standing along the streets. Several very large galleries were erected near the Abbey, which, it is stated, supplied seats to full twenty thousand persons. Seats in these galleries and in houses or shops were let at prices varying from five shillings to five guineas. Even for a standing-place on some roof, half-a-guinea was often asked. Speculative people took a whole house for the day and filled it with seats, selling them at a good profit. J. R. S. C. COAST TALES. vn. the earlier part of the last century the Cornish wreckers were still plying their deadly calling, in spite of all efforts to prevent them. It was a hard matter to check these savage crimes, this murder on a wholesale scale. Their mode of working, their cau¬ tion and secrecy, baffled the force of watchers on the coast — men who, indeed, were placed there for quite another purpose, that of preventing the much lighter offence of smuggling. For many years, in those days when railways had never been heard of, and travelling was difflcult — especially in such rough, rugged places as Corn¬ wall — the wreckers plied their cruel trade with great success, and almost unchecked. Their plan of action was simple, and, in many cases, much of the work was done by their women. The Cornish coast abounds in bays, jutting rocks, and inlets; bold peaks run far out from the iron- bound coast into the stormy seas. Nature herself seems to have aided the wreckers in their deadly work ; for by simply lighting fires on one or two of the ‘ heads,’ on dark or stormy nights, vessels were lured to their doom. Those on board, anxiously seeking for the harbour lights, mistook these false beacon-fires for the guides which they sought, and often the first intimation of their danger was the noise of the breakers, or the grinding crash of their ship on the rocks, which ran far out into the sea. Then the WTreckers came down from the heights above to collect what the sea might cast on the shore. No help was given to the poor victims, tossed hither and thither by the waves. ‘ Dead men tell no tales,’ and the fewer who lived the less the chance of any accusing voice — though a charge of * false lights ’ was, by its nature, very difficult to prove. One dark, stormy night in February, the wind blowing furiously from the south-west, a large brig, labouring heavily as she rolled her way in from the Atlantic, was made out by a group of ‘ wreckers ’ who were standing on one of the rocky headlands of the Cornish coast. The brig was making heavy weather of it; blowing hard though it then was, the great inky masses of scudding cloud threatened that worse was to come. The wreckers had already lighted up one of their false beacons, and as far as the fitful moon showed them, those on board the vessel had altered their course on seeing it, and were

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CHATTERBOX. 323 now steering in dangerously close to the shore. The wreckers on the watch waited eagerly for the good things which the sea should cast up at their feet ! One man had been left to keep up the beacon-fire ; the rest had gone to the shore below, whence the fire was not visible. Suddenly a loud report — dulled though it was by the furious wind — broke upon their ears, and for a moment a glare shone over sea and sky. The cruel men on the shore were filled with fear and wonder. What could it have been? It came from the direction of their false fire. Should they go and see what had happened or not ? And now let us return to the rocky height on which the beacon-fire had been kindled. The man, Adam Penwhele, who had been left in charge of it, moved slowly about the fire, putting an armful of fresh fuel on the blaze from time to time, his dark figure thrown up vividly in the strong glare of the burning wood. Adam was a middle-aged seaman, with no sentiment in his hard, practical head ; nevertheless, he had a strange feeling that he was not alone on the great headland that night. He shivered slightly as he turned from the fire, intending to seek some sheltered spot amongst the rocks. As he did so another dark figure arose, as if out of the very ground at his feet, and in an instant Adam felt an iron grasp laid upon his throat. Penwhele was a powerful man, whose muscles had been hardened by a rough, out-door life on the roughest of coasts; but when he struggled for his liberty, he was helpless in the hands of his tall, dark assailant, who uttered no word, but hurled the wrecker on to his broad back, and held him there whilst he drew a piece of thin rope from his pocket. Then, kneeling on his foe’s chest, the man tied his victim’s hands behind him. The tall stranger then took from a pocket of the long black garment which he wore a small metal flask. This he rapidly opened at one end and then cast into the flames. Instantly a great sheet of fire leaped into the air, lighting up the rocks around and below. An instant later followed a loud report like that of some signal-gun. It was plain that those on board the ship both heard the report and saw the flash, for the watchers on the shore saw that the vessel’s helm was put hard-aport, and she came slowly round— so slowly, indeed, that for a moment or two the wreckers thought that she had missed stays, and would drive helplessly on to the rocks. But she came round at last, and the wretches, waiting for their prey, gave a cry of anger as they saw that the brig had weathered her great danger, and was safely off on the other tack. Her crew, doubtless, had been warned in the very nick of time by the sheet of flame which had given them a glimpse of their dangerous position, and away went the brig, rolling and plunging up-channel, to a place where the wrecker dare not show his face. Then the angry wreckers turned to climb the great rocks behind them, and find out what had happened at the beacon -fire to spoil their wicked plans. When they arrived on the spot they found the fire dying down, whilst their watchman, Adam Pen¬ whele, lay bound hand and foot, still groaning for mercy, though no one was near him. Keleased by his comrades, he told them that, whilst tending the fire, he had been seized upon by the devil — he was quite sure it must have been the devil, as no human being could have had strength enough to treat him as though he had been a baby. He added that the figure was at least ten feet high, and had in a moment bound him and thrown him on the ground. Then he had ^ said something to the fire,’ and the flame had leapt hundreds of feet into the air with a report which warned the sailors of their danger. And then — well, Adam knew no more. The crowd of ignorant, superstitious seamen huddled closer to each other, each man anxious to know his neighbour’s opinion. A slight shudder seemed to run through the lawless crew. There was Adam bound fast — he could not be lying over that part of his story, at least, and they had all heard the report, and seen that those aboard the brig had be¬ come aware of their danger just in time. ^ Eagerly they all talked things over, and then their leader, old Gronow Bassett, who had been a wrecker from his boyhood, suddenly held up his hand for silence. Baring his head in the pale light of the moon, the old man said : ^Lads, from to-night neither me nor any of the people of this village has ought to do with wrecking. This is a warning, a terrible warning to me and to all. And look ye here, lads ’ — and the old fellow’s voice grew fierce as he spoke — ‘ look ye here, lads ! let me find any one lighting a fire, or doing ought to lure a vessel out of its course, and I will crack his skull for him.’ And his hearers knew old Bassett would keep his word. From that time forth the supposed visit of the Evil One was spoken of in subdued voices — the little alehouse in the village was filled with talkers on the one subject. But certain it was that no man in the whole of the little community would dare to walk alone on the cliff-heads after dark — let alone light a fire there ! And all the time, a certain Lieutenant George Kansford, of the Eoyal Navy, who had been spending a two months’ leave with his uncle at a little village some four miles from the scene of this mysterious occurrence, was quietly laughing in his sleeve : for the gallant young officer held the key to the secret, and no one else in the world knew it but he. He had heard vague rumours of the misdeeds of the wreckers, and he determined to see for himself the truth or falsehood of them. So, wrapping his cloak round him, and armed with nothing but his own brawny fists — in which he put full confidence, as befits a British seaman — he sallied forth in search of adventure. But for some time none came ; then, at last, one day after shooting rabbits for an hour or two in the afternoon, he determined on again trying his luck. Attracted by the reflected glare of the beacon-fire, he had walked across the desolate bit of country to see what it meant; then crept up behind the watcher, Adam Penwhele, seized him, and with a bit of line which he, sailor-like, always carried about with him, bound him fast. Guessing that this must be a deliberate attempt at wrecking, he cast about to see what he could do to warn any coming ship that this fire was no harbour light, g,nd his hand

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felt the powder-flask which he had left in his pocket after the rabbit-shooting. He wrenched off the top and flung the flask into the flames. The explosion and illumination of the place followed as a matter of course. Naturally enough, Adam was thoroughly frightened at being suddenly seized, so that the young fellow’s six feet two inches were promptly magnified into ten feet ! — and as to George Hansford’s strength, he bore the reputation of being the most muscular and powerful man in His Majesty’s Navy. Adam, tough, strong man as he was, was helpless in the grip of the Lieutenant. The ‘mystery^ was no mystery after all — but never again did the superstitious inhabitants of that village do any more wrecking. F. R,

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Badiolarians, larger than life-size ; and the Ocean Butterfly. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THEBE. IV.— BADIOLARIANS AND THE OCEAN BUTTERFLY. * A^HAT are Radiolarians ? ^ Hugh asked Captain VV Reeves one day at dinner. see them mentioned in your books as very interesting creatures, but I can find no account of them.’ ^ Radiolarians, Hugh, are indeed -wonderful, not only from their own structure, but from their curious connection with the vegetable kingdom. They are a most distinct example of what scientific folks call ^‘Symbiosis,” the plain Engjish of which means a mutual help society between plants and animals. ^ They are colonies of tiny creatures sticking to one another in masses from a quarter to half an inch in size, and these living masses cover the surface of the ocean for many miles together. The ship Challenger ^ when hunting for marine wonders, sailed for days through water covered with these creatures, in the neighbourhood of the Azores.’ ‘ But we saw none,’ broke in Robbie. ‘ Perhaps we may be more lucky going home,’ said the captain ; ^ you must remember, Robin, that we had stormy weather off the Azores, besides which

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326 CHATTERBOX. it rained a good deal, and you young ones were mostly down below. Well, each of these tiny radiolarians has a shining drop of oil in its little body, and it is supposed that these drops enable the creatures to rise or sink at pleasure. Some of them are mere atoms of jelly, whilst others have quite a definite skeleton ; the babies are always bom in the centre of the living mass, and as they grow older they pass to the outside. And now for the most wonderful part of their life history. ^ Each creature carries in its body tiny yellow cells of exactly the same substance as the cells of a cabbage or a potato plant, and on the products of these tiny vegetables the living animal exists. The plant yields oxygen and starch to feed the creature, which in its turn nourishes the plant with carbonic acid gas and other waste products. You see what a wonderful example this is of Nature’s economy, which turns everything to account. By the way, that reminds me that I have a curious creature to show you, which was brought up when sounding this morning. Come into my cabin I ’ And away we all trooped after him. ‘Why, it is a butterfly,’ cried Kobih, ‘a pretty butterfly with long legs ! ’ But Elsie and I promptly came down on him with our superior knowledge that butterflies could not live in the sea ! The captain laughed, ‘ Never mind, Robbie,’ said he ; ‘ at any rate you have the best of it for once, for this creature is really known as the ocean butterfly, and it uses its beautiful wings to flutter through the water, just as a land butterfly goes through the air. Its proper name is the “ Hyalea Diocrea.” If you notice, it has a handsome shell, and what Robbie calls its legs are really two long streamers hanging out behind. It uses these to steer itself through the water, and if any mischievous crab or fish bites them off, the poor creature has to tumble along as best it can. If it only loses one of its rudders it makes the best of it, and turning on one side swims fairly straight. After all, as it has no eyes it cannot matter much which way it goes, for no doubt its sense of touch and taste enable it to catch food in any position.’ Helena Heath. LOST SIB BBIAN. {Continued from page 319.) CHAPTER xxm. TO do Willem justice, his first sensation upon hearing that Brian was alive, if we except that of surprise and amazement, was one of deep relief and thankfulness. It is fair to admit this, because his second, quickly following the other, was one of dread; for like a flash it occurred to him that both his wife and Greta must abeady be aware of the part he had played in this matter; in which case Greta at least, whom he dearly loved, would certainly never be the same to him. ‘ It is impossible, wife,’ he muttered, ‘ myself I saw him lying for dead upon the veldt ; sorrow has made you mad for a while.’ ^ No, no, no ! it is true, come and see for yourself ; you are glad that he is alive, I see it, my Willem. Ah, you have forgiven him for being by blood an Englishman, and you will yet love him !’ ‘ Well, I will see him, I will see him presently,’ said Willem ; ‘ how well is he, or how ill ? ’ he asked, ‘ can he speak — has he spoken ? ’ ‘ Alas, no ! it is only now that we begin to hope he will pull through ; he arrived, as it seemed, at his last gasp, but the Lord is merciful ! ’ ‘ Yes, the Lord is merciful I ’ repeated the Boer, but it is probable that his gratitude was the result of a line of thought that differed widely from the simple workings of good Tante Anna’s mind. Nevertheless, it was thought wiser that old Willem should not see Brian that day, nor yet the next. During this time Brian steadily improved, and it became evident that he would survive his illness. It was a happy time this for Greta, for Brian, though so weak that he could scarcely move his lips to breathe her name, would he and gaze in her face,k^ holding her hand in his own thin fingers ; it was no longer possible to doubt that he loved her, and that he found in her simple presence the fulfil¬ ment of his heart’s desires. All this made a happy girl of Greta. As for the old Boer, he went about a changed and much-aged man. He was restless and agitated ; he lived in hourly terror lest Brian should tell his tale, and turn his wife and daughter in loathing from him. He longed to see Brian before he should be strong enough to speak out and condemn him ; yet he was also in dread of the interview. At one moment he would wish to Heaven that he had never fired the shot, the next he was savagely angry that, having shot, he had not killed out¬ right. Gradually he passed out of his mood of repentance His heart hardened again, and he decided that, after all, he had done right, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. It had been his duty to shoot down an escaping prisoner, and he had done it. Had he failed to do so, he would have been a traitor to his own people and country. In this last mood he entered Brian’s room, at length, in order to visit the invalid. He was going to carry this visit through with a high hand, to express neither regret nor repentance, he was going to be the hard man that Brian had nearly always known him. Brian was much better, and could speak a little. He flushed as the Boer entered, but said nothing, though he looked at Willem with a gaze that did not flinch. Willem did not find it so easy to carry out his intentions as he had expected, but he began haughtily enough. ‘ Doubtless, you expect me to explain how it came about,’ he began, ‘ that I suggested your escape and then shot you, after all. A man may conceive a treachery, and repent of it before it is too late. That is what happened in my case. After I had agreed to let you go, I understood, the Lord Himself inspiring me, that I was about to act as a traitor to my country ; therefore, at the last, I shot you. I did my best to kill you, as was my duty, but, since you

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CHATTERBOX. 327 escaped, I do not say that I am not relieved that yoiir death is not at my door/ Brian smiled, but said nothing. ^ Not for your own sake, mind you,^ continued Willem, annoyed by his silence, ‘ but for hers.’ ^ Yes,’ murmured Brian, ‘ I understand.’ ‘Even though,’ continued Willem, ^even though I do not doubt that you will give your version of the tale, or maybe have already given it, and though this may poison the minds of Greta and my wife against me.’ ‘ Oh, no ! ’ whispered Brian ; ^ that is the last thing I should ever do, to tell them.’ Willem was silent again for a moment or two. * Do you mean,’ he said, much more softly, ‘ that you neither have told, nor intend to tell them, the story?’ ‘ I do not dream of telling them,’ murmured Brian weakly. Willem was silent again for a while. ^ Why not ?’ he asked presently. ‘ I do not wish that Greta should hate her father,’ said Brian ; ^ I understand, but maybe she would not ; at any rate she would suffer, and I will not have that.’ ‘No,’ said Willem, ‘I too would not have Greta suffer.’ After this Willem sat for a long time without speaking. Brian fell asleep, somewhat exhausted by even this short, though agitating, conversation. Presently Willem began to quote Scripture aloud : “Praise thou the Lord, oh, my soul,”’ he said, * “ and forget not all His benefits.” ’ ‘Almighty!’ he began again, after a pause; * what should I have done if he had told them ? But, above all, praise be to the Lord that my aim is not as it was in the olden days, for if I had shot the lad dead, as I meant to do, but for Thy mercy, 0 Lord, Greta - ’ Tears came into the eyes of the hard old man ; he sank upon his knees and continued his devotions in silence by Brian’s bed. When he had finished he arose, and stood looking down upon the sleeping youth. He laid a hand with marvellous softness upon his forehead. Brian opened his eyes. ‘ I think I did wrong, lad, in shooting thee,’ said Willem. ‘Let us forget what has happened.’ ‘ Yes — forget,’ murmured Brian, smiling. ‘ And Tante Anna need know nothing of my deed ; neither she nor Greta.’ ‘ Yes ; it is better so,’ Brian sighed, shutting his eyes once more and falling asleep. Old Willem stood and gazed a while longer ; he felt wonderfully relieved and softened, for, in spite of his determination to harden his heart, the last few days had been a time of torment and dread. He had never thought that Brian would prove so easily for¬ giving. ‘ It is wonderful,’ he reflected, as he stepped softly from the sick-room, ‘ that a Rooinek should have behaved as he has done. It shows that there is some good even in the English, when brought up under the influence of Boers ; and that proves that Dutch supremacy in South Africa is needed in order to bring about the happiness of all parties.’ Old Anna saw her husband leave the sick-room; indeed, she had been waiting outside for him, anxious to read his looks after seeing the invalid. His subdued aspect did not escape her, though he quickly exchanged his softened expression for the usual harder set of features assumed in the presence of others. ‘ Oh, Willem, you are sorry for the lad — I can see it — and you have said so. Tell me that you have said something kind to him.' ‘ Well, perhaps I have,’ said Willem. ‘A man must be a fool sometimes, and when one sees a strong lad stricken down and weak, one cannot help feeling sorry for him.’ ‘ Ah, and you have said so ; you have been kind. I knew it,’ said Tante Anna, delighted ; ‘ for there is no doubt you still love the lad, and have always loved him. It is we that brought him up, Willem, and now Greta - ’ ‘ Ah, yes ; it is for Greta’s sake that I have been kind to him; it is unfortunate that she should have learned to love one of the Enghsh, but for her sake we will bear with him.’ ‘No, Willem; 1 will have you say that you love the lad for his own sake, because, on the whole, he has been a good son to you. Come, say it ; I can see that your heart is soft to-day. Say it, for remember that I, too, love this lad as my sou, and it grieves me more than you know that you make a show of dis¬ liking him.’ ‘ I will tell you the truth once for all, wife. I would rather Greta loved any one else than an Englishman. But there is good in this one — I have learned that ; it may be that the good has come from your bringing up. At any rate, there is good, and I have been soft "with the lad this day. Moreover, I have determined that Greta shall have her will and marry him, on condition that she does not leave her home.’ ‘ Now thank we all our God,’ exclaimed Anna, piously, ‘ for I can ask no greater mercy of Him ; and thank you, too, my Willem. Now, indeed, good has come out of evil ; this is my very heart’s desire, and Greta’s also; the maid has no secrets from her mother. May I tell them, Willem P Oh, how I love you for this. I shall grow young again in seeing my child’s children, and you also.’ Willem laughed. ‘ Go in and tell him, if you must gabble,’ he said, ‘ and settle all things quickly, for my soft moods do not last for ever, as none should know better than you.’ Tante Anna was not loth to do as she was bidden ill this matter. She ran first to tell Greta the good news that her father had spoken kindly to Brian, and had promised that he would no longer oppose her marriage with him. ‘ To the Lord be praise,’ said Greta, almost speech¬ less with joy. ‘ But what has made my father come round ? How have you done this, mother ; what have you said to him ? ’ ‘ Nay, it is not I ; it is the love he bears you, my beloved, and — yes, the love he has in his heart of hearts for our Brun. Did I not always say that it was there in spite of all ? To the Lord be praise, indeed 1 ’ ( Continued at page 334.)

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The Mischievous Magpie.

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330 CHATTERBOX . THE MISCHIEVOUS MAGPIE. The magpie is well known for its mischievous and often ill-natured tricks, as well as for its clever mimicry. One which had a home near a little country village in the Midlands was the terror of the neighbourhood. He was so bold that he showed no fear of human beings at all, but would even attack them of his own accord. None of the servants in the district would go near him without a broom or some such weapon to drive him off ; and as for the schoolboys whose path to school lay past his home, they would go a long distance out of their way, by another road, to avoid him. Woe betide the unhappy boy whose legs came within range of the bird’s sharp beak. Close to this magpie’s home was a toll-gate, where, in the old days, the toll-keeper had to collect fees from travellers who wished to pass the gate. One of the favourite pranks of the bird was to perch on top of the gate and cry, ‘ Gate ! gate ! ’ as loudly as he could (he was an exceedingly clever mimic). But when the old keeper came hurrying out to collect the toU, all he saw was the magpie, as it flew off with a hoarse mocking chuckle. STORIES PROM THE MOUNTAINS. RIP VAN WINKLE. Man Y stories are told — something like the ancient nursery-tale of the Sleeping Beauty — of people who lie in magic sleep, or live spell-bound and enchanted, in the heart of the mountains. In Germany it used to be believed that the ancient German Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, was still to be found, with all his courtiers round him, seated in an immense cavern within a mountain, and that the Emperor’s great red beard — from which his name of Barbarossa was taken — had grown right through the stone table behind which he was sitting, and reached down to the ground. One of the most popular of these stories — though it is not so old as the rest — is that of Rip Van Winkle. There are different versions of the tale, but most of them agree in relating that Rip was an idle and worthless man, who was much more fond of spending his time in the village ale-house, than of working for his wife and family. His wife had a sharp, nagging tongue of hel* own, and did not forget to tell her husband of his failings, when he came strolling idly homewards. To get out of the shrill sound of scolding. Rip Van Winfle was in the habit of climbing the mountain at the back of his house, and there resting until his wife’s temper should have spent itself. One day, as he made the familiar climb, he met with some funny little dwarfs, who were rolling casks up the mountain side. They compelled Rip to help them in the work, and when all the casks were rolled to a level spot, where an overhanging rock made a shelter, they gave him, as a reward for his aid, a drink from one of the casks. The liquor was a magic draught — it sent Rip Van Winkle to sleep ; and there he slept for more than twenty years, till his clothes were worn to rags, and till he himself had grown so shaggy and grey and unkempt, that, when at last he awoke, and descended to the village again, his own daughter was frightened at him. The scolding wife was dead; the daughter, who had been only a child when her father went away, had grown up and married, and had children of her own. Many other changes had taken place ; and yet the long sleep had only seemed to Rip Van Winkle like the after-dinner nap, which a man may take in a few careless minutes. The moral seems to be that idleness and self-indulgence cause terrible waste of life ; but most likely those who believe the tale care nothing about the moral. 0. J. Blake. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 30. — Squabed Words. 1. — An outward sign of fatigue or weariness. A tree which flowers but rarely. Misfortunes. The dwelling of a feathered biped. 2. — ^Violent anger. Quickly, very soon. (Not in common use.) * Kind, amiable, benevolent. Terminations. 3. — A tree. The space upon which a building stands. Not so large. Part of a ship. 4. — A fruit. A false object of worship. A substance sometimes growing on trees* Otherwise^ 5. — A very small particle. A weed resembling a valuable plant. By word of mouth, not written. To change a solid to a fluid. 31. — Puzzles. (a.) — Geographical names omitting the vowels. 1. F, L, R, N, C. A beautiful city in Italy, containing the works of many of the greatest painters, 2. P, T, R, S, B, R, G. The capital of a large country in Europe, named after a great Emperor by whom it was founded. 3. P, N, T, F, R, C, T. A town in Yorkshire where an English king was assassinated. 4. S, T, R, C, N. A province and city in Asiatic Russia. 5. L, L, N, S. One of the most fertile of the United States of America ; there is a river of the same name. 6. P, R, T. A city in Portugal, famous for its wines. (b. ) — Names with all the letters used and transposed. 1. 0, U, L, P, H, T, Y, M. A town in Devonshire, one of the greatest naval arsenals of Britain. 2. E, E, I, W, C, N, R, T, H, S. A city in Hamp¬ shire. 3. I, A, K, L, F, R, K. A town in Stirlingshire, near which Edward the First defeated the Scots.

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CHATTERBOX. 331 4. A, A, I, G, T, E, B, L, E. A town in Spaic, in the possession of Great Britain. 5. E, E, 0, U, G, E, T, S, C, L. A city in one of the south midland counties of England; it has a beautiful Cathedral. 6. I, I, H, P, C, W, S. A town in Suffolk, of very great antiquity. 7. A, A, A, E, E, E, C. A town in Italy famous for its beautiful marble. 8. A, E, E, I, S, L, L, M, E, S. The most ancient city in France. {^Answers at page 346.] 29.— 1. Archer. 13. Side. 2. Was. 14. Smarting. 3. Mountains. 15. Pain. 4. Approach. 16. Thickets. 5. Consternation. 17. Courage. 6. Among. 18. Nay. 7. Animals. 19. Persuade. 8. Alone. 20. Messenger. 9. Stop. 21. Sharp. 10. Messenger. 22. Power. 11. Somewhat. 23. Who. 12. Shot. young folk on deck ; the mate sends word that we are passing through a shoal of Medusidse, and he thinks you would like to look at it.’ ‘ May we go now, captain ? ’ ‘ If Mrs. Iteeves will allow you to be so disorderly,’ and, as she laughed and nodded, we all scampered off. Sure enough, it was something worth looking at ! As far as we could see on every side we seemed to be passing through a soft green field studded over with wonderfully-coloured mushrooms, some as big as a small sunshade, and more quite tiny things. Each one sparkled in the sunshine, and the water was so clear that we could see long stems and clusters of leaf-like things spreading below. ‘ I have heard that folk in old times called these creatures “ Sea Lungs,”’ said the old boatswain, who stood by ; ‘ and there does not seem to be much else but air in them.’ ‘ There is a good deal more than that,’ answered the captain, who had soon followed us. ‘Sea-nettles have eyes, and know how to use them, and although they breathe only through pores in the skin, they have a fine big mouth at the end of a trumpet¬ shaped tube, as the tiny molluscs and worms know to their cost. If they get a prey too big or strong to snap up all at once, they hold it tightly with their tentacles or arms until it is too much exhausted to fight any more, and then devour it at their leisiu’e.’ ‘ It seems to me that everything eats everything,’ remarked Hugh, gravely ; and little Bobbie broke in : ‘ Then I hope something eats the cruel things vdth a long name.’ The captain laughed. ‘ The things with a long name, Bobbie, have the honour of feeding the biggest living thing on sea or land. The Whale family regard the Medusidoe much as we do bread and butter; and a good many of these pretty creatures go to make one mouthful for such a huge body.’ ‘They are pretty, and no mistake,’ cried Elsie. ‘ Oh, I do wish we could just jump overboard and have a swim amongst them ; how surprised they would be, and I should like to see them at close quarters.’ ‘ You would soon wish yourself out again, little Missie,’ said the boatswain; ‘you might just as well jump into a bed of nettles, or a wasp’s nest, while you were about it ! Those pretty bits of jelly sting terribly ; but we will soon have some up for you to look at.’ Five minutes later a bucket was brought to us, and we knelt down on the deck to examine the captives. Some were of a lovely bright rose colour, and more were soft blue, and the captain cautiously fished out one of the latter, but alas ! it had hardly come out of the water before it became a mere colourless, flabby mass of jelly. ‘ You may often find quantities of Medusidae at home on the shore,’ he said ; ‘ but they look like lumps of brown gummy stuff which you would rather not touch, and give no idea of how beautiful they have been in life. ‘ They are really wonderfully interesting creatures, for, although they look so fragile, and die so easily, they are great travellers, and make long voyages. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THEBE. V.— SEA NETTLES. N E day, as we stood leaning rail' watching the smooth, greeny -blue sea, XVvfcllllr^vl 1 iMJ ' V Captain Beeves passed us, ^ calling out a cheery ‘ Good morning.’ Hugh nudged audacious one of the family : ‘Run after him, Elsie, and ask about those queer things we saw last night.’ And knowing that Hugh was too shy to ask much on his own account, Elsie raced after the captain, and caught him just by the binnacle. ‘Oh, captain,’ she said, breathlessly, ‘please will you tell me what were shining in the sea as we went along last night ? We saw them out of the port¬ hole, bright things that look like big glow-worms, and at first we thought they must be stars reflected in the water, only they were too bright, and seemed all packed together.’ ‘Those are creatures wdiich sailors call “Sea Nettles,” Elsie, but learned folk know them as “ Medusidae.” Many of them are phosphorescent, or have the power of shining in the dark. If we pass any to-night I will let the men fish some up for you to look at them more closely ; indeed, if you all keep your eyes well open it is likely that you will see plenty of them to-day, though they will not have their evening dresses on.’ Some hours later, as we sat at dinner, the steward whispered to the captain, who turned to us with a smile, and said • ^ There is a pretty sight for you

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Sea Nettles moving slowly along by contracting and swelling out their bodies, but greatly helped by the waves as well. Their home is in very deep water, but they come to the surface to enjoy the light and air, and in search of prey. Those beautiful pink ones, called Rose Amelias, have a very interesting life history. The Mother Rose lays eggs, and these turn into oval¬ shaped larvae. Each of these swims about in lively fashion for about forty-eight hours; then its move¬ ments get slower, and it finally sticks itself to some bit of rock or stone with thick glue-like stuff. Soon afterwards a few arms or tentacles appear, and these rapidly increase by buds and shoots in much (Medusidse). the same way as a strawberry plant does. Later on, rings form one over the other, which give the mushroom-like or umbrella shape ; when it is finally settled, the creature looses itself from its moorings, and once more swims freely like those we are watching. ‘ Medusidse are found in all seas, from Greenland to the hottest latitudes; sometimes they are as much as a yard across, and often so small as to be dmost invisible without a microscope. They vary in colour, being of all shades of red, blue, violet, and pink ; but the Rose Amelia is always like some form of bell or umbrella.’ Helena Heath.

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A HERD OP ELK. The American Red Deer, the Elk or Wapiti, as it is generally called, is an animal which seems to he rapidly dying out. They are still to be found in the wild hill-country on the western side of the United States, or in the less hilly districts where the timber trade finds its supplies ; but now- a-days one never sees a really large herd, such as might have been met with before civilisation began to reach the land of the Far West. In those days it was often possible to trace the presence of herds a thousand or more head in number, roaming along the streams to the great rivers which run through the marshes and sand-hills of Nebraska. The chief hunting-ground lay in the territory reserved for the

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334 CHATTEIRBOX. Sioux Indians, who, for many years, were the only elk-hunters in the country. But when the American Government set up military stations along the borders of this territory (or ^ reservation,’ as it was called), the elk soon began to disappear, until at last it was found necessary to forbid the hunting of the animal except for properly equipped military parties. A nother reason for this order was that the hunting- ground was overrun with the Indians, who, at that time, were bitterly hostile to the white men. Thus, between the red men, who wished to keep the wapiti for themselves, and the whites, who wanted both the wapiti and the land, the elk did not have a very good time, and he was shifted about and hunted till his numbers were very much reduced. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from 'page 327.) CHAPTER XXIV. C next two or three years of Brian’s life were peace¬ ful and happy. He was glad to agree to the terms upon which Willem would let the marriage take place be¬ tween Greta and himself. He would rather have settled down upon his own farm in Rhodesia ; but, since it had been made a condition that he should remain under Willem’s roof, he did not think twice about agreeing to it. Besides, as old Anna explained, she had been used to have Greta with her for twenty years, and she knew not whether she could now do without her. It would be cruel to take Greia from her, and leave the old Tante alone with Willem. For Willem, as he had himself reminded her, was not often in a soft mood, nor was he in that mood for long. After the simple marriage rite had been performed, Brian and Greta took up their abode, as man and wife? in the old farm ; and, to do him justice, Willem did his best to be fairly polite to Brian. Brian made a journey to Bulawayo in order to find his partner, and learn whether anything had been done about the gold mine. His appearance filled his partner with amazement, for reports of his death had been freely circulated. But the gold mining company was formed and in full swing by this time, and Royce, somewhat to his disgust, was obliged to buy his partner out, Brian was an easy man to deal with, however, and went away quite content with about half the amount he might have claimed. He met many old English friends at Bulawayo, and the seeing these good fellows made Brian, for a while, somewhat discontented with his lot. He did not, for a moment, regret his marriage, but he wished that he could live among Englishmen once more, for his heart warmed towards the people of his blood. ‘ Some day, Greta, we will go over the sea and see England,’ he said. ‘ The English are a fine people, and you must not take what the Uncle says for Gospel; he does not love them, because he is jealous of them, and therefore he speaks ill of them; but they are good — quite as good as the Boers.’ ‘ I know one who is,’ said Greta, ^ at any rate ! But we must not leave the farm while father lives ; and, as for the sea, I ain afraid of ships, though I have never seen one, nor the sea either.’ ‘ Well, neither have I seen them, but the sea is the friend of the English, they say, and we are the kings of the sea; the ships are large and safe.’ Boer Willem was inclined to think very highly of his son-in-law, when Brian returned from Bulawayo with a goodly supply of ready cash. This was laid out to great advantage in the purchase of stock and implements, and the farm began to pay as it had never paid before, and for a longer while than usual the old man treated his English son-in-law with respect and courtesy. So, for a couple of years and more aU went very well, until, one day, the shadow of approaching war-clouds began to fall over the landscape. Mysterious visitors from time to time arrived at the farm, who had long interviews with Willem — from which Brian was excluded. Now and again a Boer paper found its way to the homestead, and the state of affairs was studied by all from the Boer point of view. Once a packet of English ones was sent to Brian by a friend at Bulawayo, together with a short note containing these words : — ^ I thought you might like to know what is going on. We are going to have war, thank Heaven. If it is true you are rapidly becoming a Boer, take care, old man, they do not commandeer you to fight against us. I should be sorry to have to bayonet you for a traitor ! Joking apart, do not let them commandeer you, if it comes to commandeering — as seems likely — because it would cost you a fine or imprisonment.’ Brian read all the papers. He did not understand much at the beginning, and he was bewildered as to the rights and wrongs of the question by the time he came to the end; but this much was clear to him, that, if it came to war, his position would be extremely awkward ; for, married to a Boer wife, and the partner of a Boer farmer, he might with sonae justice be expected to side against the English, while he was all on the side of his own people and against the Boers. Willem evidently suspected that this was so — it was only natural that he should — for he asked Brian one evening what course he should pursue if war should be declared. ‘ Let us wait until there is war ; it will be time enough to decide when I must ! ’ he replied.

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OHATT^]RBOX. 335 But Willem said it would be wiser to be prepared beforehand. ‘ If you are here, you will be commandeered for certain,’ he said. ‘ I can understand that you would rather not fight against the English, since you consider them to be your own people.’ ‘ That is certain,’ said Brian ; ^ the English are my people, and I should never fight against them.^ ^Then go over the border until the war is over — that is the only safe way.’ ‘Safe ? ’ said Brian, scornfully. ‘ What do I care which is safe ? Can any one compel me to fight if I wHl not ? I do not desire to fight either one way or the other ; not against Greta’s people nor against my own people ; how will any one compel me to go and fight r ’ ‘ By commandeering you. It is our law that to refuse to follow the field cornet, when he calls out the burghers to war, is punishable with death. If you sat here and refused to go forth, you would be shot for a skulker.’ ‘If that is so, I must think what is best to do. Maybe, when he learns how I am placed, the field cornet will allow me to stay and protect the farm.’ ‘No, do not believe it. If here, you will be commandeered for certain ; and if absent, but not over the border, you will be found and com¬ mandeered. Only over the border can you do what you please.’ ‘ I will think and tell you,' said Brian. Meanwhile the war clouds came ever nearer and grew ever blacker ; there was no talk in the country but of war ; even the Kaffirs sat and talked of it, and all the Boers, whether in farm, or village, or market town, said that this time they would fight and win, and drive the English into the sea. ‘What is best to be done, Greta?’ asked Brian, in despair. ‘ Shall I stay and face it out here, or leave you for a while and cross the border into Cape Colony or Natal ? ’ ‘ If you stay, you will be commandeered for certain,’ sighed Greta. ‘No, that cannot be; I will go, and you shall remain here in peace. I cannot stay to be com¬ mandeered to fight against my own people.’ But Brian found it very hard to leave Greta, and he put off the evil hour as long as possible. Each day, finding that the threatened war did not come, he waited until the next, hoping that the clouds might yet pass over ; and so the day came when the Republics sent in that defiant message which was the signal for the war to begin. Then Brian saddled the best horse in the stable, and kissed his wife and old Anna, and rode away as fast as he could, hoping to geft over the border before he should be caught and commandeered. ‘ If the war should come in this direction,’ he said, at parting, ‘ I shall be here to take you into a place of safety.’ Brian galloped until his horse nearly dropped with fatigue. He met several small commandoes being brought up by their field-cornets, and was hailed more than once and bidden to give an accpunt of himself ; but he shouted back that he hastened to join his own people, and the Boers, believing him to be one of themselves, naturally supposed that he intended them to understand that ne desired to be with his own commando in time for its marching out. But one sturdy field-cornet, at the head of a hundred or more men, being out of temper with the hardness of the day’s work, or maybe with the heat of the weather, placed himself in Brian’s^ path as he rode along the highway, and bade him give an account of himself. ‘ Do not stop me ! ’ cried Brian, ‘ I go to join my own people.’ ‘ And who may they be ? ’ asked the field-cornet. ‘ The English ! ’ replied Brian, boldly. ‘ Oho ! oho ! an Englishman — and in Boer dress — do not let him by, men; we must know more of this Englishman ! Shall I tell you what kind of an Englishman you are ? you are very like a Boer who is afraid to fight, and would escape across the border.’ . ^ ‘ No, you are wrong ; I am really an Englishman, said Brian ; ‘ cannot you see by my appearance ? Let me go and avoid trouble.’ ‘ Show me your papers first.’ ‘I have none.’ ^Then I summon you in the name of the State to join my commando, and follow me to the fj^ont.’ ‘What? to fight against my own people.^ I protest, Mr. Field Cornet; the English in all the towns are allowed to leave ; nay, they are ordered to leave without delay — you may read it for yourself in the Staats Courant.' ‘ But I do not believe that you are English; the English do not speak Dutch as you do — explain that.’ ‘ I cannot give my whole history — let me go by ; you exceed your duties, Mr. Field Cornet.’ Come now, I will tell you one more thing ; you shall follow me with this commando, or I shall order half a dozen of these fellows to shoot ypui down. We have shot one man to-day, anothe?i skulker hke you, only you are worse, for he', simply refused to ride with us, while you are a-; liar as well as a coward, as any one may see.’ Had Brian been a bachelor with only himself td think about, he would have driven his fist between the eyes of this man, and made a dash for freedom, trusting that, if any of the men shot at him, they would miss, or wound him but slightly. But he thought of his wife and pocketed the insult. ‘ You have made a mistake, officer,’ he said, ‘ but you have the strong hand, and I must obey.’ ‘ Ah,’ said the Boer, ‘ so ; fall in and let us have no more talk, now that we understand one another, ray friend ; and be sure I shall keep my eye upon you, for it is clear that you would shirk your duty if you could.’ Thus Brian found himself among the ranks of the Boers, and before many weeks had passed he stood with his commando upon the heights of Elandslaagte, with the English troops swarming below, and English shells bursting about his ears. (Continued at page 338.)

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338 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR briar; (Continued from page 335.) CHAPTER XXV. E field-cornet in charge of Brian’s battalion kept, as he had threatened to do, a careful eye upon Brian ; he did not trust him. Perhaps it should rather be said that he did not trust him¬ self, for the more he saw of his unwilling soldier the more he doubted whether indeed Brian had not spoken the truth when he declared that he was no Boer, but an Englishman. As for Brian himself, he wasted a great deal of ammunition, for, like a sensible man, he made a great show of shooting, but at the same time he took great care that his bullets flew wide of the mark. His intention was to escape at the first chance, and that, he thought, might come this very day, for if the English should storm the rocky heights held by his commando, it would be easy enough to pretend to be wounded, and lie by until the victorious British should send their ambulances round to pick up the wounded. Brian’s heart swelled with delight and pride as he watched the heroism of the British infantry that day. The Boers fought well, he was quite ready to admit that much; but the sturdy fellows down below were heroes, every one, creeping upward and onward, over rocks and boulders and across open spaces, under the deadly fire, never flinching, pro¬ gressing inch by inch. It was splendid, and Brian wished that he could be among them. ^ ^ Shoot straigh ter, you!’ cried the field-cornet, giving Brian a dig in the side with the muzzle of his revolver ; ‘ I have watched your firing, and I have not seen one buUet strike anywhere. Can you shoot?’ ‘ Yes, if I like ! ’ said Brian. ^ Then shoot, or the Commandant shall hear of it. I have a bullet for traitors myself if need be — so be careful, my friend, what you do ! ’ Brian took no notice of the man’s remarks, but his shooting did not improve, and presently the field- cornet was so busy encouraging his men under the terror of the advancing British troops, that he had no time to spare for bullying Brian. The English were drawing very close to the Boer position now. They had received orders to fix bayonets. The field-cornet ground his teeth, for he knew what bayonets meant in the hands of these determined fellows, and what the effect of cold steel would be upon his own men. ‘ Shoot them down by tens — now is the time ! ’ he shouted, ^now or never.’ A terrific volley was poured into the cheering, 1 singing British soldiers, movdng down many of them, but not for one moment checking the rest. On I they came, creeping behind the rocks and scrub, rushing, jumping from cover to cover, but ever advancing nearer and nearer, and the hearts of the Boers began to quake within them. The field-cornet stood close behind Brian. ‘ Lie down all,’ he cried, suddenly, ‘and be ready — let each mark his man.’ The English were within forty yards now, cheer¬ ing and shouting. Suddenly the field-cornet fastened his handkerchief to a rifle- barrel, and waved it in the air. Instantly a hundred of the English soldiers, who had advanced hitherto in a crouching position in order to take advantage of all the shelter to be had, stood up in their places to cheer and wave their caps. ‘ Now fire a double volley, quick ! ’ said the field- cornet, and at the words a murderous hail of bullets shot out at the deluded English, unprepared for the treachery. Brian saw the move, and his whole soul revolted against the meanness of the trick. ‘ You miserable, sneaking worm 1 ’ he cried, ^ take that for your treachery ! ’ With the words he drove his fist into the face of the field-cornet, who promptly returned the compliment by snapping two shots from his revolver in Brian’s face. One of the shots took effect in his upper arm, just under the shoulder, and Brian, feeling faint, leaned up against a boulder, his brain reeling, and only half conscious of what went on about him. He dimly saw a mass of khaki-clad soldiers come rushing towards him. He saw the field-cornet fall dead, thrust through the body by the bayonet of a soldier, who said, ^ I’ll white-flag you, you sneaking scoundrel.’ Brian sat down with his back to a rock, and watched the Boers scuttle over the hill-side with the British after them. He heard the rush of cavalry in the distance, and knew that the retreating Boers were being cut to pieces. His heart felt light, though his head was dizzy. The English had certainly won the day. How enraged old Willem would be when he heard of it! So the English could fight, after all — man for man they were better than the Boers ; he had now seen it for himself ; but how painful the wound in his arm was, the limb hung limp and useless — the bone must be broken; his thigh hurt him, too . Brian knew no more until he opened his eyes in a field hospital. An English surgeon was attending him, and asked him whether he spoke English. ‘ Yes, I am English,’ said Brian, at which the surgeon raised his eyebrows, but continued his ministrations as kindly and as skilfully as before. When he had extracted the bullet, which he found imbedded in the bone of Brian’s arm, he made the remark that it was ^ a Boer pill.’ ^ What I do not understand is,’ he said, at his next visit, ‘ that you are among the Boer wounded, here ; you wear Boer clothes, too, it appears, and yet your wound was inflicted by a Boer weapon.’ ^ I was commandeered,’ said Brian, wearily, ^ but, of course, I took no part against the English, and a Boer shot me because I hit him in the face for treachery.’ ^ I see ; well, I am glad you have an explanation,’ said the doctor kindly, ‘ for one does not like to see an Englishman among the enemy’s wounded.’

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CHATTERBOX. 339 That evening a Boer, lying in the bed next to Brian’s, entered into conversation. ‘I overheard what you said to the doctor,^ he began, ^ about your being English. What is your name ? ’ ‘ Who are you that ask,’ said Brian, ^ and why do you wish to know ? ’ ‘ Well, I do not ask for curiosity,’ said the Boer ; ^my name is Schentz, and the reason I ask you about yourself is that I heard you say you were English, and that I saw, when you were stripped for the treating of your wound, an odd mark upon your arm.’ ‘That sounds a curious reason for asking me my name,’ said Brian. ‘What can I, or my name, or the marks upon my arm, matter to you ? ’ ‘ It does seem odd, does it not ? The mark looked like clumsy work of some vaccinating surgeon.’ ‘ So it was, I believe,’ laughed Brian. ‘ What a clever fellow you are ! Now you know all you wished to know, excepting my name.’ ‘ Perhaps I know that too ! ’ said the Boer. ‘ No, that I will swear you do not.’ ‘ Swear not in haste ; listen rather to what I have to say. Twenty years ago, more or less, I rode past a house in which lay a murdered Englishwoman. Her husband lay dead, murdered by the same hand, a few hundred yards up the road. Heaven knows who killed them, I do not. On the table of the room in which the woman died was a piece of paper, written upon and signed by her, and that piece of paper I put in my pocket. For twenty years, or more, I have hoped to meet the youth who is alluded to in the writing, but have been unable. In yourself I believe I may have found him. When I can get at my papers, I will show you that one which I mean. Maybe the name signed to the paper is your name.’ A nurse happening to pass the bed at this moment, the Boer begged her to find, and pass over to him, his letter-case. From this he presently produced a faded piece of paper. ‘ There,’ he said, handing it across to Brian, ‘ that is the slip of paper ; you will soon know whether it has anything to do with you.* ‘ Brian took the paper, which was signed ‘ Lilian Amberton,’ and read what was written in English : ‘ May God protect my little son, Brian Amberton, and bring him into the hands of good and friendly people. I lie dying, and have but a few moments to live — my husband lies murdered by the same mad¬ man, a Kaffir — a stranger to us — we have done him no harm — to identify Brian, look at left arm — vaccination mark like a V, surgeon’s knife slipped — lower down in same arm a scar where a dog - ‘ Lilian Amberton.’ ‘ I will buy that from you,’ said Brian, when he had finished reading. ‘ It is valuable to me.’ ^ ‘ Take it, then,’ said the Boer ; ‘to me it is of no use. I have only carried it in the hope of meeting one day him to whom the writing refers.’ Brian accepted the gift with gratitude. ‘ Now, at any rate, I am certain of my name !’ he thought to himself. {Continued at page 350.) LEGEND OP ST. CHAD AND THE SUNBEAM. IN Peterborough Abbey they tell, in days of yore The good St. Chad kept praying as none had prayed before. King Wulfere watched him reverently, he yearned to know the truth. But sad had been his trial, sin-soiled his early youth ; And presently the Saint arose, his eyes all bright and clear, And hung his dazzling chasuble upon a sunbeam near. It fell not, Wulfere marvelled much ; and taking off his belt. And drawing off his gloves besides, he hung them, and then knelt. Alas I alas ! they fell to earth : ‘ Now, by my faith and creed, I do believe, for only holy men can do this deed.’ Though in these days we trust not to a sunbeam in the air. Full well we know great things are won by goodness and by prayer. A. A. D. W. COAST TALES. VIIL the year a.d. 1801, the little village of Wey bourne, on the Dorset coast, held but some dozen or twenty houses, placed widely apart. A tiny church and the rectory — such as it was — occupied the best part of the village, and at the far end dwelt a retired naval surgeon, John Whyte by name. Two years before coming to live at Wey- bourne, he had received a serious injury to the left arm, through a fall on deck, and although getting well again before his sick-leave expired, he had judged it best to quit the service, and retire on his small pension. Why he had chosen so dull and remote a spot as this in which to pass his declining days was a nine days’ wonder to the villagers, and then the new-comer quickly became as one of them¬ selves. This year (1801) saw the disastrous bread riots, the war having sent food up to prices almost en¬ tirely beyond the reach of the very poor, and starvation was rife through the land. Happily placed were the small villages such as Weybourne, in which the Squire gave employment to every one willing to work, and which thus escaped the stress and pinch of those hard times. The people of other villages, not so fortunate, were to be seen now and then within the one old- fashioned street — ^if street it could be called — of Weybourne, prowling about in quest of food or

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“ There is the man, sir. We are willing to pay you, and pay you handsomely, for your help.” begging alms, often adding threats. One or two houses had been broken into at night, and most of the villagers had armed themselves for the protection of their goods and chattels. John Whyte, who had lived a life of rough sea¬ faring, troubled his head little about such matters. ^ There is nothing to take,’ growled the old fellow. ^ so I do not fancy that thieves will trouble me. The only plate in the house is made of china ! ’ and he chuckled as he sat over his pipe, and listened to the roar of the wind, and the distant booming of the surf against the granite rocks, half a mile away. He threw a log on to the fire and began to fill a

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CHATTERBOX. 341 second pipe. Suddenly he paused in the midst of so doing, as his ear caught the sound of a low rapping at his outer door. ‘ Come in ! ^ roared the old fellow. It was already half-past nine — an hour when all Weyhourne, as a rule, was safely tucked in between the sheets. The door was rattled from the outside, hut was not opened. ‘Come ini’ roared John Whyte in still louder tones. Then, recollecting that he had shot the catch, he muttered something to himself, laid his pipe down, and went across to the outer door. As he opened it, the rush of wind blew out his only candle, and he and his visitor, whoever it might be, were alone together in the darkness. ^ What do you want?’ asked old John, gruffly, feeling about for the candle which had fallen on the floor. He re¬ covered it, and, taking a brand from the fire, he lighted it again. Before him stood, not one visitor, but three : big, rough-looking men, bearded and brawny. The old naval surgeon saw at a glance that they were sea¬ farers. ^ What do you want, lads ? ’ he repeated in a milder tone ; after all, these men were fellow-sailors. The red-bearded man who had first stepped into the room, replied : ^ Well, doctor, we want you to do a bit of mending limbs for us to-night. Fact is - ’ ‘Then I will not — that is flat!’ cried old John, sharply. ‘I have retired from His Majesty’s Navy and from all doctoring a couple of years ago, and I do not mean to begin it again, to please you or anybody else ! ’ ‘ But we have heard that you do a bit of doctoring to help the villagers when they get hurt any ways, doctor - ’ ‘ What I do for the villagers is no concern of yours,’ snapped the old man. ‘ If I choose to do a little service, out of charity, that does not mean that I am to be at the beck and call of every one. There is no regular doctor in the village ; that is why I have done little bits of surgery for them, when they have needed help.’ ‘ Well, doctor, we — we are in rather a queer fix, you see. We cannot call in anybody — we must have a man that we can trust, and we must take him to our mate, blindfold. He — our mate — has broken his leg.’ John Whyte paused. ‘ Who are ye, and where do ye hail from ? ’ he asked bluntly. The three men looked at each other uneasily. After a pause, one fellow sitting nearest the door spoke. ‘ We cannot tell ye that, doctor. But ye must come and set that broken leg. We will not hurt a hair of your head ; but come ye must ! ’ ‘ Oh, must, must I — and suppose I say I will not P ’ said the old surgeon. ‘ What then ? ’ ‘ You are a good plucked one, doctor, that you are. But we must have a surgeon this night. We will give you a good stiff fee, ten golden guineas, and I will bring you safely home a^ain. But you must be blindfolded. Do you agree ? ^ , John Whyte cast a glance at his own small, wiry frame ; then looked up and measured the strength of his three burly visitors. A smile wrinkled his old face as he thought how absurd any resistance would be. So — sailor-like — he made the best of the situation. ‘ Right you are, lads. I suppose there is no help for it, and I must come. I will just get some things I will need — there, that will do. Now, tie on your bandage, and mind you do not let me stumble over anything. That is right; no, not so tight — ah, that is better. Now I am ready.’ The four of them silently set out through the deserted street — then, as nearly as the doctor could guess, they struck into the open down, which led alongside the sea cliffs. Continuing across the soft, springy grass for some distance, they then halted and began to descend the face of the steep rock. The sea roared close to them, the wind was blowing hard on shore, and the old doctor, after one or two slips, was safely guided behind a big boulder, and the next moment the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he stood up and looked around him. Some eighteen to twenty men — all of the seafaring type — stood or sat round on bales, boxes, or jutting ledges of the bare rock itself, within a spacious cave hollowed out of the granite cliff-side ; a rough deal table was set in the middle of the room. In the corner, and away from the yellow glare of oil lamps, lay a young fellow of some five-and-twenty years old. He was lying on a pile of rugs, and his face showed that he was in pain. Some of the men rose and touched their forelocks as the doctor entered. Their leader then said: ^ There is the man, sir. Sorry to drag you here like this, but — well, you see, sir, we could not help ourselves. We are outlaws, for whom the law thinks hanging is too good ! Yes, doctor, you are an old sailor, too, and I see you have guessed it correctly. Smugglers, that is what we are. Still, even smugglers cannot do without a doctor’s help if it is to be had. We will pay, and pay handsomely, for your help to-night.’ John Whyte dropped on his knees beside the injured man, and made a quick examination. Then, taking out his surgical appliances, he began his task. ****** ‘ And now you have finished, doctor, perhaps you will take a bit of supper with us ? ’ said the leader of the band. Old John Whyte felt ve^ much inclined to accept the invitation. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty : still, he could not forget that he was in the midst of the King’s enemies, and that he himself had held the King’s commission. So he declined, gruffly, but not unkindly. He bore these men no grudge, but the remembrance of the old uniform and the ideas of a lifetime could not be quickly changed. < Well, good night, doctor; even if you will not eat or drink with us, we will take care that you are not a loser by to-night’s work. Good night, sir, and thank you.’ Again John Whyte’s eyes were bandaged, and he was carefully taken by the arm and steered out of the cave, up the face of the rock on to the down, and thence led to within fifty yards of his own door. Here his guides wished him a civil farewell, and

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342 CHATTERBOX. returned along the way they had come. The doctor, wearied out, was quickly in bed and asleep. Three weeks later, on the eve of Christmas, a knock came to his door about nine p.m., and on going to answer the summons, the old surgeon found, to his surprise, a large packet of choice tobacco. A piece of rough paper lay on the top of the packet, with the words ^ Tor the Doctor ’ scrawled in a hie:, bold hand. And for nearly ten years, as Christmas Eve came round, so surely did the old doctor find some present left in the same way for him from the grateful smugglers. At the end of that time, the Excisemen got wind of the cave, and — but I must tell the story of the attack and defence of that tight little strong¬ hold on some other occasion. E. R. ENGLAND’S ROLL OP HONOUR. I WILSON’S LAST STAND, NOVEMBER, A.D. 1893. RAID by the Matabele warriors had been made on an out¬ lying English station in Ma- shonaland, in South Africa. Though the whites them¬ selves were not attacked, their native servants were killed in the streets of the little town, or taken into slavery by the raiding bands. The English authorities sent complaints to Lobengula, the King of the Matabele, but, in spite of promises of better behaviour, he allowed the raids to continue. Property was destroyed, progress was stopped, and, worse still, deeds of most savage cruelty were done under the eyes of the Europeans. This was in July. English patience at last came to an end, and small bodies of troops were led from the chief stations to punish the offenders. In the short war that followed, Buluwayo (the king’s capital) was taken, and, early in November, Loben¬ gula himself was forced to flee. Rut the saddest part of the story was yet to come. Though the king had taken to flight, it was known that he was not subdued, for a large force of young warriors had gone with him, and with these he might soon return to war. So on November 14th, three hundred men set out from Buluwayo, led by Majors Forbes, Wilson, and Raaf. For three weeks they pushed their way through the rough country, following the tracks of Lobengula’s waggons. On the 3rd December they reached the banks of the river Shangani, across which the Matabele king and his followers had passed only a few hours before. It was drawing near to sundown. All around them lay a pleasant country, green with young grass, and undulating into hills and hollows, with broad patches of undergrowth here and there. Less than a mile away flowed the Shangani, still shallow and narrow, for the rainy season had only just begun. Selecting an open space, Major Forbes prepared to encamp for the night ; but as there still remained an hour or two of daylight, he requested Captain Wilson to ride on with a few men and get what further news he could concerning the movements of the enemy, and to return to the camp, before night¬ fall. Volunteers were soon ready, and, with Captain Wilson at their head, the little band (fifteen in all) bade farewell to their comrades, and following the cart-tracks so recently made, rode towards the river. The ford was easy, for the water was low; but little did they think that before many hours had passed, the river would have risen into a full, strong current, cutting them off from their fellows and any chance of help. But all was quiet as yet, and the sun never went down on a moro peaceful scene. The little company rode on, and had not left the river very far behind when the twinkling of camp¬ fires was seen upon the right. Large numbers of natives were soon met with, but as they all quickly withdrew from sight into the underwood, Captain Wilson and his companions were inclined to think that the king did not mean to fight, and, if surprised, would surrender at their summons. A native whom they captured told them that the king was a little farther on, and proceeded to guide them to the royal waggon. In the rapidly falling darkness, they rode up an open valley, and, halting in front of th^^ fence which surrounded the Matabele encampment, Captain Wilson’s interpreter called out in a loud voice : ‘ We do not want to fight any more. Let your king come out and hear the words we bring from the chief of the white men.’ But the silence that followed was only broken by hurried movements in the dark enclosure, and the click of gunlocks. Fearing that his little company might be overwhelmed by numbers, Captain Wilson quietly withdrew, and sent a messenger back to Major Forbes to say that he was close to the king. In a heavy storm of rain, and complete dark¬ ness, the little band of men stood by their horses waiting for the dawn. Suddenly the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard, and a company of twenty men under Captain Borrow drew rein where they stood. Major Forbes had sent them in case an attack should be made, and with this addition to their number, it was decided that, with the first light of day, another visit should be made to Lobengula’s camp, with another demand for his surrender. At last the eastern sky grew grey with dawn. The command was given to mount. Again up that green valley they rode towards the stockade. Again the call for surrender was heard. This time, in response, a hundred natives rushed from the en¬ closure, and, hiding rapidly in the surrounding bush, they opened fire on the little group of hor.'^emen. Two horses fell dead. Their riders were taken up behind two of their comrades. Captain Wilson, seeing the enemy. endeavouring to cut off his retreat, galloped with his men down the valley to the shelter of^ an ant-hill. Throwing themselves hastily into a position of defence, they returned the enemy’s fire. But from bush to bush on either side of the green valley, the black forms, ever increasing in number, could be seen in the pale morning light.

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CHATTERBOX. 343 creeping stealthily on. Two more horses fell beneath the murderous storm of shot. From among the little crowd three scouts were chosen, who undertook to try and break through the enemy’s lines, and seek help from Major Forbes. They mounted and rode off on their perilous journey. Twice on the way they met and avoided great bands of Matabele hastening to the scene of Captain Wilson’s struggle; and when at last they rode into Major Forbes’ camp, it was to find him .so hard pressed that it was impossible to send aid across the river ; besides which, the waters were now so high that no armed force could pass them. ^ Meanwhile, the sandy ant-hill behind which Captain Wilson and his men were defending them¬ selves, was powdered by the storm of bullets. Again the order was given to mount. Even now, if the little band had broken up, and each one had thought of himself alone, some might have escaped with their lives ; but on that terrible morning, no one thought of himself alone, and when again, a short distance from the river-bank, a halt was made, stood shoulder to shoulder, with their faces to the black wave that hung on the sides of the valley, ready to overwhelm them. With the bodies of the slain horses they raised a rampart, and from behind this carried on the unequal war. It was six hours since the struggle had begun, when those on the other side of the river heard the firing cease. The ammunition of Captain Wilson s little party was all gone, and with death drawing nearer round them, those who were still left began writing, on leaves of their note-books, farewell messages to their friends at home. And the^ natives said that just before the end, all the white men stood up and sang together ^ God Save the Queen. Then the great wave of shouting savages came surging, storming on. It leapt the ghastly rampart, every soldier standing erect to meet it; and when at last it eddied sullenly away, one more story of dauntless courage in the hour of death had been added to England’s record. Nine years have passed since that December morning. Matabeleland is fast progressing towards a prosperous state ; but many more years will have to pass before English people forget to point out with pride a spot near the Shangani Kiver as the scene of ‘ Wilson’s last stand.’ John Lea. THE MODEST HOMAN. LUCIUS VALERIUS was a young Roman who lived in the reign of the Emperor Trajan. Nature made him a poet, and he was only thirteen years old when he ventured to compete for a prize which every five years was awarded for the best poem ; the prize was a gold medal and a beautiful ivory lyre (a kind of harp). Valerius, though opposed by many competitors double his age, was judged to have written the be.st poem. So fine was it, indeed, that unheard-of honours were voted for the young poet: a brazen statue was to be set up in his honour, and a great festival was to be held, when the statue would be publicly crowned with a laurel wreath. On the day when this was to be done, Valerius stood near the statue, just as the chief magistrate of the city was placing the wreath on it. Looking round on the spectators, the poet saw close by a young man who had also entered for the prize, but without success, though many people thought that he deserved to win it. He was looking on the scene with a very sorrowful and downcast expression. The kind heart of Valerius was touched pressing forward, he seized the wreath and placed it on the head of his disappointed rival, saying— ‘You are more deserving of it than I am ; I obtained it more on account of my youth than by merit, and rather to encourage me than to reward me.’ This generous act was loudly applauded by the spectators, who from that moment gave Valerius the name of Pudens, or the Modest, by which he was always known thereafter. Later in his life he became a famous poet, but for no deed was he more honoured than for thi.s act which F J. H. wnn bim his mn7cncf,'}n6. DANGEROUS TRAVELLING. ^ E find it hard to fancy that vS travelling can be accom¬ panied by great and ter¬ rible difficulties. For in¬ stance, in the desert it is fraught with many dangers, and those who return from their wanderings in coun¬ tries where railroads are unknown have many extra¬ ordinary tales to tell. The Arab, going from place to place with wife and children, has only the camel to depend upon as a means of travel. They meet with terrible dis¬ comforts, such as extreme heat, and the trying dust of white-hot sand, where every shadow is almost black. Then there is lack of water, which cannot be understood by those who have never felt it. Further, the traveller has to fear marauders, always on the track of people whom they can rob ; and last, though not least, wild beasts, especially lions, are always on the look-out for a prey. It is difficult to escape such followers as these ; they follow slowly in the day-time, watching for a chance to fall upon the party. The leader of this party has to walk with the camel, rifle in hand, ready for every emergency, knowing that when darkness sets in he will have to display all his skill to escape the lions. Night havimg come, a place of encampment must be chosen carefully, and when a huge tire has been lighted, the traveller must fiind means of erecting some kind of barricade, and watch all the time till day-break, awaiting events. In this manner he may cheat the watchful beasts, but has little rest to"' help him to endure the difficulties of his journey. Marguerite Ninet.

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344 CHATTERBOX.

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CHATTERBOX 345

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346 CHATTERBOX. JAM WITH HIS POWDEH. I^OGS, like boys and girls, have to take medicine Jv sometimes, and very often they are extremely unwilling to do so. A veterinary surgeon, or dog- doctor, will perhaps force them to swallow their dose by holding their mouth open and pushing the mixture down ; but that is not an easy matter, and the dog’s master or mistress may not like doing it. The best way is to mix the medicine with biscuit or milk, or something else that the animal likes, so that he does not know what he is swallowing. But even so he is often very suspicious. One dog, indeed, became so cunning that it was impossible to mix the medicine and the food in his presence ; it had to be done very quietly in another room, for if he suspected his master of ‘ doctoring ’ his food, he would sniff at it, walk round it, examine it carefully all over, and finally refuse to take it. But if only the basin of bread and milk (with a dose hidden in it, like a powder covered up with jam) was brought in in an innocent way, as if it were his regular food, he would sit up and beg, or dance round, barking wildly with delight, till he got the food which he was so anxious for! Thus he was cured against his will. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 32. — Geogeaphical Anageams. 1. Lag, seen. A river in Afr'cd. 2. Eater, push. A river in Turkey in Asia. 3. Bay, tart, A country in Asia. 4. Ada, cram, gas. A large island off the coast of Africa. 5. Eetire, am, Anne. A large sea between two continents. 6. A lean cod, I. An ancient name for one of the British Islands. 7. Lo, say, pine. The name given to several large groups of islands in the Pacific Ocean. 8. In, mead. A town in Arabia. 9. At a time, B. A town in Egypt. 10. Gale, sir. A country in the north of Africa. 11. Is man fled ? A town in one of the north midland counties of England. 12. Can L stare ? A town in the north of England. 13. Us at a rail. A large division of the world. 14. Court, gain. The scene of a great battle between the French ai^d English. 15. At store. A town in Egypt. 16. Eia, came. A continent. Q, 33. — WoED Puzzles. 1. Fbom the letters of the word ‘stream* make another word containing all the letters ; 12 words containing o letters ; and at least 12 words each containing 4 letters. 2. Make four more words from the letters in the word spot, using all the letters in each word. 3. Make four more words with the letters in the word live, using all the letters in each word 4. With the letters E, E,S,V,E, make three words of nve letters. q q [A7iswers at page 362.] WE r 2. E A G E ANON GOOD ENDS 5. A 30. — 1. YAWN ALOE W O B S NEST 4. L I M E IDOL MOSS ELSE 31.— (a.) — 1. Florence. 2. Petersburg. 3. Pontefract. 4. Astracan. 5. Illinois. 6. Oporto. PALM A E E A LESS MAST O M E E A L L T (b.)— 1. Plymouth. 2. Winchester, 3. Falkirk. 4. Gibraltar. 5. Gloucester, 6. Ipswich. 7. Carrara. 8. Marseilles. STORIES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. ‘ BRAN,’ THE COLLIE. HEPHERDS in the High¬ lands of Scotland sometimes have their homes in wild and lonely places, and five for weeks together without see¬ ing fresh faces, or hearing other voices than those of their own famihes. But they have companions in their solitude, as dear to them as human friends would be ; their faithful dogs enter into their joys and sorrows, love them in life, and mourn over them in death. Such a dog was Highland Bran, of whom I have now to tell you. Bran worked hard for his living ; from morning till night he was with his master on the mountain, looking after a large flock of sheep. He w^as often out in the freezing cold and deep snow, and but for him many of the sheep must have perished in the hard winter. But summer was like a holiday to Bran ; his toil was lighter then, and every evening, when he and his master turned homewards, the shepherd’s child, a boy of three or four years, would come bounding over the heather to meet them. Once, when the days were beginning to shorten, the child’s mother greeted her husband and the dog, as they entered the cottage, with a cry of dismay. Her darling boy had run to meet his father an hour before, and here were father and Bran come home without him. The shepherd heard the news with a sinking heart ; already the mist was creeping up, and it was' grow¬ ing dark ; the boy was not safe wherever he had strayed. There could be no rest for the tired pair that evening- they must go out again to look for ^ wee Donald.' But although they searched till morning light came, and throughout the next day, not a trace of the child could be found. Heart-sick and weary, the father and mother sat by their cheerless hearth,

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CHATTERBOX. 347 trying to resign themselves to the^ thought that they should never see their darling again. In spite of her grief, the good-wife noticed that Bran was hungry , and cut for him, as usual, a big slice from the loaf. Instead of eating it, he ran, \nth the bread in his mouth, out at the open door. This happened dav after day, till a gleam of hope came to the poor father. He followed Bran, and saw the dog creep down a steep and dangerous path beside a waterfall. The shepherd ran home to get help, and he soon had himself lowered by a rope down the rocky place. There was faithful Bran, watching little Donald, who sat eating the barley bread, almost unhurt by his fall. p j The good dog had gone hungry to feed the shepherd’s child, and by his self-sacrifice he had saved the little one’s life. C. J. Blake. HOLIDAYS OH THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. VL— THE SHIP- WORM. N E day it rained early, and so we were not allowed on deck until about eleven o’clock ; when we got there we were surprised to find that no one paid us any attention at all. Usually, one or another came to tell us bits of news ; what the log said about our progress, whether any specially big birds or fish had been seen ; whether the dredging- net had brought up any new wonders ; but to-day no one came near us. The captain stood on the starboard side of the deck with the two mates, the boatswain, and the carpenter, who was doing most of the talking. I edged up close to see a big thing the captain was holding, but was promptly told to go away ’; so, not particularly happy, we went by our¬ selves up into the bows, and watched the green water foaming on either side of the cutwater. ‘ Look ! ’ at last whispered Robbie, for we were ad somewhat subdued, ‘ the captain is going overboard’; and sure enough a ropo ladder was put over the side, and the captain climbed over the rail and ke going to drown himself ? ’ asked Robbie ; but Elsie,''whom nothing daunts, started away to see for herself. In two minutes she was back “®^Come and see, boys; lie is a long way down, scraping away at something ever so hard. We went to watch his proceedings from a little distance. Presently he came up again, and soon the carpenter and a sailor, both covered m oilskm, went over, carrving pieces of wood and a basket of tools slung round their necks. They disappeared beneath the curve of the vessel, and seemed to be quite in the water ; but they made such a noise, hammering and pounding, that it was quite clear they were alive and flourishing. Late that afternoon, when we were sitting some¬ what dejectedly in the cuddy, trying to amuse our¬ selves, the captain appeared. n , ^ ‘ Well, young folk,’ said he, ‘ we have all been too busy to think of you to-day; now come and sit by me while I get something to eat, and you shall hear about the enemy we have been fighting to-day. Stay ! Hugh, run and ask the carpenter to send me the large piece of wood he got out this morning. In a few minutes Hugh was back again with the identical thing I had seen in the captains hands. It was about two feet long by fifteen inches wide, and so thick that we were surprised to see how easily Hugh carried it in one hand. ^ It is as light as it can be,’ he said, ‘ and does not seem like wood at ‘ There is very little wood left in it,’ answered Captain Reeves ; ‘ just look at it closely.’ ‘ Why, it is nearly all turned into shell, I cried, <a lot of long, thin* shells laid side by side, one on top of the other.’ ‘It is, indeed, Jack, my boy, worse luck; and it one of the men had not gone over the ^de tins morning to see what was wrong with a porthole, we should have regretted it by-and-by. Those shells are the homes of the sailor’s most deadly enemy, the Teredo, or Ship-worm. Like most vessels of any size, we have a copper bottom expressly to prevent those pests doing damage ; but, owing to a heavy cargo, we are a trifle low in the water, and so Mr. Teredo and Co. are paying us attentions. ‘ Then are these the creatures that bore tunnels in wood ? ’ asked Hugh. ‘ I thought their name was Pholas.’ . . ^ ^ ‘The Pholas brotherhood is 3ust about as mischievous as the Teredos, Hugh ; but as Pholas bores against the grain, and Teredo with it, the latter is able to do the most harm in a short time, and no end of wrecks may be put down to his iniquities. Happily, this was found out in time, and a new piece of wood was grafted in ; so, by keeping careful watch, the cargo being already a good deal lightened, we hope that we are all right for the present; but when we reach Rio de Janeiro we will have a good overhauling in dock before going further. , » • ‘ Apart from his mischief, the ship-worm is a most interesting creature, and it was his clever work that suggested to the great engineer, Brunei, how to make the Thames Tunnel. See, he con¬ tinued, tearing off a bit of the rotten wood, and picking away one of the long shells without any re^nird for its feelings, ‘ it is only like a long, soft- bodied worm., from a few inches to two or three teet long, and yet it can bore its way through oak and teak, two of the hardest of known woods. It seems to take this trouble solely for the sake of a home, as it does not eat the wood, and is quite as fond ot piers and piles of wood driven under water as ot \ 0SS©1-S* ^ A pier at Yarmouth was entirely destroyed by the Teredo family; and it was through these creatures that great calamities happened in Holland in the eighteenth century, they having eaten through the piers of wood on which the towns there are built.

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Ship Worms. * The creature has a curious life-history, and like most molluscs, goes through various changes before it becomes a worm. As a tiny baby it is nearly round, and covered with prickly spines, like a young hedgehog ; this, no doubt, saves it from being gobbled up by hungry animals in search of prey. On the second day of its life, the outer skin bursts, and salts from the water enter, which enable it to begin shell¬ building. This shell is first oval, then angular, and finally round, whilst, in place of the ball of quills, the young Teredo is protected by a frill or collar with fringed edges, which makes swimming easy. Its next performance is to grow a soft, fieshy foot or tongue, which it can extend or contract at will ; and up to this time it has organs both for seeing or hearing. Now, however, childhood is ended, and henceforth outside pleasures fail him ; his body turns into a long worm, his ruffle vanishes, his sight and hearing desert him, and, only longing to rest, he betakes himself into what is really his coffin, made of beautiful glossy shell, enclosed, as you see, in wood ; from this he never comes out alive. It seems quite a pity that a creature which has led such a harmless life, should wind up his days by doing such terrible mischief as the carpenter has been all day repairing.’ Helena Heath.

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AN UNWILLING BULL. IT often happens in Switzerland that the cattle have to be driven some distance from their ordinary home before they can be killed for food. The animals seem almost to know what is going to be done to them, and, naturally enough, they frequently try to escape. If a bull gets loose before he can be properly secured, it is a very serious matter, and the bystanders do well to reach some place of safety as quickly as possible, for the furious and terrified animal has often been known to injure men severely, or even to gore them to death.

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350 CHATTERBOX. Very often a butcher on his rounds will strike a bargain for a particular beast which pleases his fancy, and he proceeds then and there to drive his purchase away. A white cloth is placed over the animars head, tied securely so as to blindfold him altogether; an ordinary halter is fastened on, and besides that his body is encircled by a stout leather strap. Two ropes are fastened to the halter ; they pass down to the fore-knees, to which they are securely tied, and the ends are then held by two men. Thus prepared, the procession begins, the butcher walking in front, followed by the bull, with the two men holding the cords, and last of all, very often, comes a great St. Bernard dog. If the bull becomes at all unruly, the men at once pull at the cords, and the poor beast is forced down upon his knees. Even thus, he often contrives to give a great deal of trouble, and sometimes to do real harm. But in the end he is brought safely to his destination, where he is speedily dispatched. THE GECKO. IN the Book of Proverbs we read of the ‘ four little wise ones,’ and the last of these is the spider. ‘ She taketh hold with her hands and is in Lings’ palaces,’ so we read ; and though the spider has not hands such as we possess, it is wonderful what the insect can do in constructing webs and lines — doing, in fact, what even our hands could not. Also, it is true that spiders make their abodes or set their snares everywhere, and are quite at home in royal palaces. But many who have studied natural history in Eastern lands, think that the creature to which the wise man refers is not the spider, but a small lizard, called the Gecko. It appears that the geckos lie still and flat upon walls or other objects, watching for flies and various insects that are their prey. These are caught upon the tongue. They are said to have their name from a peculiar sound which some kinds make, like ^ geek,’ with a long ' o ’ at the end. When geckos are quiet, however, they often escape being noticed by people near, and it is a well-known fact that they prefer to take walks at night. Amongst them we find different shades of colour, but most of them are grey or dull brown, and hence they are not easily seen when on the earth. A gecko’s eyes are very bright, and after dark they seem larger, though this lizard does not feel the glare of the sun. The head is flat, and the body is usually dotted over with little knobs and warts ; the tail is as long as, perhaps longer, than the body. Like flies and some other insects, a gecko can walk upon a surface, contrary to what we call the ' law of gravity.’ This comes about by the peculiar -structure of the feet. Each of the four has five claws ; sharp nails are at the tips of these claws, which enable a gecko to climb a wall, or a smooth trunk of a tree ; they, like the claws of cats, can be drawn in when not needed. Besides, along the under side of the toes are a number of little flaps or plates, from which comes a sticky liquid which enables the gecko to hold on, even if it is Hopsy-turvy.’ J. K. S. 0. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from -page 339 ) CHAPTER XXVI. 0 U G H the young English doctor had begun by re¬ garding with grave sus¬ picion a man who called himself British, but who was known to have been fighting in the Boer ranks, he ended by taking a great liking to Brian, whose story he gradually learned from him, piece by piece, in the course of many conversa¬ tions at his bed-side. ‘ But has no one ever taken the trouble to inquire about you — any of your friends or relations in England ? ’ he asked. ‘ There is this letter,’ said Brian, producing Philip’s epistlej in which he set forth Brian’s undoubted claim to the Amberton title and estates, provided he could prove his identity. ‘That is what I am if I can prove it,’ laughed Brian ; ‘ but how can a man prove that he is he ? ’ ‘ You have a pull over most others by possessing those two scars, and, now that our friend in the next bed has provided you with your mother’s dying message, it should be easy enough to prove you to be you, as you express it.’ ‘ Should I gain anything by claiming ? ’ asked Brian. ‘ If a man is happy where he is, and how he is, does he not deserve to be unhappy if he throws away what he has in order to get more ? ’ Doctor Anderson shrugged his shoulders. ‘If I had a baronetcy and a fine estate waiting for me so soon as I cared to claim them, I should not be long hesitating about it ! ’ he said. ‘ One day, perhaps,’ said Brian, ‘ I may think as you do ; at present I like Africa well enough.’ A week or two afterwards the doctor, finding that Brian was most anxious to perform any service for the English cause, short of actual fighting against the Boers, employed him upon the dangerous service of passing through the Boer lines to Ladysmith, with a report of the wounded English soldiers at Dundee. For these unfortunates, together with the doctors and nurses attending them, had been abandoned by the retreating English when, after their fight at Dundee, it became necessary for Yule’s forces to hasten southwards in order to join hands with Sir George White at Ladysmith, lest they should be cut off by the advancing Boers. Brian procured a cart and horse from a neigh¬ bouring farm, and stacked his vehicle with fruit, cheese, and eggs. Thus equipped, he started, in the character of Boer farmer, for the invested British camp. First he visited the Boer laagers, and did a roaring trade there ; after which he obtained permission to visit the outposts closer into Ladysmith. ‘ Very weU,’ said the officer, from whom he asked

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CHATTERBOX. 351 permission ; ^ sell to the Boers, if you like, hut see you do not provide the rascals down in the town with food. We are going to starve them out, and it would not do to have you fattening them up with fresh victuals.^ Brian promised that he would carry no food into the British camp, and was allowed to depart to the front. He kept his promise, for he left his cart close to the patrol camp which he first visited. ‘ How far off is the next Boer camp ? ’ he asked, ^ and where is it ? ’ ^ A quarter of a mile on the left, and half a mile on the right,’ said the man asked. Brian went off as though to visit the outpost on the left, but he left his cart among the boulders at the base of the kopje, and crept away on foot, or upon his stomach towards the British lines. He had not gone far before a British voice hailed him. ‘ And where may you be going, Mr, Boer ? ’ asked an Irish Fusilier; 4tis walHng into the wrong camp ye are.’ T am an Englishman,’ explained Brian, ^and I have crept through from Dundee with doctors’ dispatches.’ * I would like to see those same dispatches, first ! ’ said the soldier ; and Brian waited until these had been puzzled out and returned to him. ^Very good, Mr. Englishman Boer,’ said the Fusilier ; ‘ but as I cannot altogether trust you in spite of your dispatches, which may be right and may not, why, 1 will walk with ye to Sir George.’ So another man, who stood grinning by, took Pat’s lace while the latter, with Brian, walked off towards eadquarters. Here Brian received so kind a welcome from the General, that he felt himself amply repaid for all the trouble and risk he had gone through ; and when Brian inquired whether there was any other way in which he could be of service, the General patted him on the back and said he was a good fellow, and asked whether he would care to make an attempt to get out of Ladysmith and through the Boer lines to Estcourt, with a copy of the doctor’s report and other dispatches. To this proposal Brian gladly agreed. Then the General offered to provide him with a good horse, but Brian preferred to go afoot, for he would rather trust to his scouting talent, learned on the veldt in the pursuit of game, than to the speed of a horse, which, he remarked with a laugh, was nothing to the speed of a bullet. The General offered money, or to make an order upon the pay department at Estcourt in his favour ; but, to his surprise, Brian refused payment. ‘ You are an odd fellow,’ said the General. ‘There is no shame in accepting remuneration for services — accept pay myself, and am glad to get it. May I know your name, at least ? ’ ‘ Sir Brian Amberton,’ said Brian. And the reply caused the General to wonder whether, after all, he had been wise to trust his dispatches to the care of an amiable lunatic. Then Brian set out with his dispatches carefully wrapped in the midst of a packet of sandwiches, large ones, which well overlapped the slight paper parcel hidden among them. He travelled by night, creeping along in the dark¬ ness. Once he was fired at and pursued, but he hid himself among the rocks and boulders of a small kopje, and the mounted patrol, though it passed close to him more than once, could not discover him in the darkness, and was compelled to abandon the search. By day he slept wherever he could find shelter — sometimes in an abandoned farm out-house, some¬ times on the rocky ground. One evening he walked straight into the arms of a Boer outpost. The fellow was as cunning as Brian himself, and hearing him coming creeping along, with many pauses for listening, he rightly judged that there was some individual anxious to travel without being caught ‘ at it.’ ‘ Stand there ! ’ said the Boer. ‘ Who are you,. Boer or English ? ’ ‘ How you startled me ! ’ said Brian ; ‘ I thought 1 must have walked into the English lines — am a non-combatant, as you may see.’ ‘ I see you have no rifle, but that means nothing ; what are you wandering here for, by night ? ’ ‘ I have a farm near by which I have been obliged to abandon for a while during the war ; I live at Weenen at present, and I have been to see my property. That is talking enough without a drink — join me, if you like, it is English whisky.’ Th© Boer accepted a drink. ‘ What have you in your wallet ? ’ he said. ‘ I am bound to ask, though I dare say your story is true.’ ‘ Sandwiches; if you are not proud, take one ; I was about to eat my supper when you startled me.’ The Boer was apparently as hungry as he was thirsty. He took a sandwich, and Brian ate one himself. There were three on each side of the packet of dispatches. Brian turned the parcel up¬ side down, and offered the Boer a second, which he accepted. ‘ You are not eating fair yourself ! ’ said the fellow. Brian dared not take a second, for, if he did, there would remain but one between the dispatches and the inquisitive eyes of the Boer; moreover, if the Boer should help himself to a third, there would be a sudden revelation and a struggle. Brian was at his wits’ end. ‘I was so well fed up before I left Weenen in the afternoon,’ he said, ‘ that I have little appetite. There remains the more for you — take a third sandwich ! ’ The Boer did so. ‘ They are good,’ he said. ‘ Your wife must be a clever Vrauw, you may tell her so from me ; thanks — now put the rest in your pocket — you have half a dozen miles to go to get to Weenen, and you may want them.’ Brian did so, much relieved, and as a second outpost man seemed to be coming up to know what the talk was about, and as he might express a desire to taste the sandwiches, Brian continued his journey without further delay, and presently de¬ livered his dispatches in safety at Estcourt camp, where he received both thanks and praise, and was beset by newspaper correspondents for accurate and detailed descriptions of his adventures. {Continued at 'page 358.)

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‘ And where may you be going, Mr. Boer ? ’ asked an Irish Fusilier.’

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CHATTERBOX 353

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354 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. IX. OR several years after the strange experience of John Whyte, the old naval sur¬ geon (which we narrated in our last story), things went on without much incident in the little vil¬ lage of Weyhourne. Times got brighter, for not only was the terror of Europe, Napoleon Bonaparte, no longer likely to invade England, hut harvests had been more plentiful, and bread had fallen in price. In the village of Wey bourne things went on as usual, but Exciseman Durward was quietly active. Certain small matters had come to his knowledge, here and there, which had caused him to look sharply about him and keep his ears open for fresh information. He had noticed amongst other things that Farmer Wyld, who hved a mile inland, was ahyays well provided with fine old Cognac brandy, which he gave to his friends on festive occasions. Mr. Hurward’s observant eye had also caught sight of Dame Weatherly’s black satin Sunday dress, trimmed with French lace, and had seen that her daughter was also arrayed, on ‘high days and holidays,’ in Lyons silk. Old Hixson, too, comforted his hours of ease with tobacco which seemed very fragrant to the Exciseman’s nostrils, and bit by bit Mr. Durward came to the conclusion that smuggling was going on somewhere very near at hand. For weeks after arriving at this decision, he rowled about, night after night; but nothing efinite came to his knowledge. At last he struck upon something which looked like a clue. One dark night, a tax-cart driven by Farmer Wyld himself started aw^ay from the Mailings, as his place was called, just before midnight. Mr. Durward was on the look-out, and, attracted by the noise of wheels, he determined to learn for himself both where the cart had started from, and whither it was bound. A fugitive moon-ray lighting up the farmer’s face as he drove past the concealed Exciseman, gave the answer to the first question, whilst Mr. Durward had to trust to the strength of his owm legs^ in order to get the rest of the in¬ formation w^hich he wanted. Starting away after the cart, he pursued it for two or three hundred yards in the direction of the shore, and then, guessing that the driver was making for a deep chine which led by a narrow, slippery path down to the sea-shore, the Exciseman pushed through a hedge, and ran across a grass field ; by climbing over a low stone wall, he managed to reach the head of the chine just as the cart drove up. In the darkness, Durward could just make out a man’s figure standing on the down. He was waiting for the arrival of the cart. ‘You are sharp to time to-night, farmer,’ he said in deep tones, striding up to the cart. Mr. Durward had just time to drop on his knees behind the stone wall which guarded the great gap by the chine-head, before the man was within arm’s length of him. Farmer Wyld threw down the reins on his steady old horse’s back, and after returning the other’s salutation said, ‘ Has the cutter come in yet ? ’ The seafaring man shook his head. ‘ No, worse luck. This wind dropping light will have delayed them, I expect. They may not be more than in mid-channel by now. And if they do not run in here in less than a couple of hours’ time, why, of course, there is another whole day lost ; we cannot run cargoes in daytime, farmer? Hoi ho ! ho !’ The farmer joined in the laugh, then he asked : ‘la there nothing for me to take then, to-night ?’ ‘ Why, yes ; there are a few ankers of brandy,, and a tidy bit of lace, too. But the main lot, of course, is still drifting about channel. You will have to trot out here again to-morrow night. I will whistle the lads — there are only two of them left ashore with me — and they will bring up the stuff.’ The seaman advanced to the head of the chine, and gave four short, sharp whistles. A few moments elapsed, and then, from his hiding-place, Durward heard the trampling of feet coming slowly, and peering over the top of the wall, just caught the gleam of a swinging ship’s lantern being carried up from the shore. In a few moments more, first one and then another dark form came up from the chine. Both men were heavily laden and seemed not at all sorry to put their burdens in the cart. Farmer Wyld picked up his reins again and said, ‘ It is a nuisance, having to come back to-morrow night. However, we cannot help ourselves, so I will be getting home again. Good-night, lads, good¬ night,’ and away he drove, in the direction of his farm again. This time, the Exciseman did not require to follow him. He waited in his concealment until the three men had returned slowly down the chine, and then he decided upon a very venturesome plan of action; he determined to follow them and try to find out where they were hidden. Directly the head of the last man had disappeared below the level of the cliff, Mr. Durward stepped from the shadow of the stone wall, and began cautiously to descend the chine. Every now and then the loose stones rolled away from under his feet, threatening to betray him, and then the men below would stop and listen, but Mr. Durward kept as still as a mouse whenever this happened. When their suspicions was allayed they went on again, and so did the man warily following them. About half-way down the face of the cliff, the three were suddenly lost to view in the. darkness. Mr. Durward was alone, with the sound of the leaping waves below, as the only thing to break the stillness of the night. The Exciseman crept slowly on down the gully, until he reached the spot where the trio had dis¬ appeared. He peered about, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes ; a subdued murmur of voices came to his ear ; he stepped forward to listen, striking his foot against a fragment of rock and knocking it over the ledge. It fell with a loud

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OHATT ERBOX. 355 clatter, and the Exciseman turned to clamber up the foully again and escape. He was too late, however ; in an instant the three seamen had dashed out of a cave in the steep cliff-side, and Mr. Durward was lield fast and a prisoner. They dragged him into the dark cave, Avhere one of the men, by means of tinder and a flint and steel, struck a light. He lighted the bit of candle stuck in the ship’s lantern, then held it up close to their captive’s face. ‘ Durward ! ’ The name leaped from the three throats together. The man they had most dreaded, the chief Excise officer of the district; and here he was, delivered over, by his own rashness, into their hands. ^ So you wanted to know a little too much, Mr. Exciseman, did you ? ’ said one of the trio jeeringly. ‘ Well, it is a lucky thing that you were not able to get back to your men and bring the whole lot of them down on us here. As it is, you will have to make up your mind to stay with us for a few days, at all events, till our friends from over the water arrive. We shall not hurt you, Durward, we bear you no grudge. In fact, we are much obliged to you for letting us carry on our trade, right under your nose, for so long a time. We have all done pretty well at it; so now you have found us out we can afford to retire, and live as private gentle¬ men ! ’ The other two laughed, but the Exciseman ground his teeth with rage. His wrists were securely fastened behind his back, and he passed the rest of the night seated on the head, of a small keg of brandy, which had certainly paid no duty to the King. The whole of the following day Durward was kept a close prisoner in the cave. The Exciseman was well fed, allowed to smoke, and his hands were released during meal-times. What a deep revenge he would take upon these men, and upon Farmer Wyld as well, as soon as he regained his liberty ! The following night, about eleven o’clock, the smugglers’ cutter hove in sight. Signals were exchanged by means of ship’s lanterns, and an hour later, one man being left to guard the prisoner in the cave, the other two consulted with their fellows of the boat. Durward never knew what was done with that cargo ; he could only guess that, though the cave had been discovered, the contents of the cutter were landed and passed away — probably with Farmer Wyld’s help— inland. The smugglers, after unload¬ ing their boat, all came into the cave by daybreak, and flung themselves down to sleep. Nothing was done during the dav, but at nightfall all that was left in the cave was stowed away in the cutter, Durward was marched down to her and ordered to sit down in the stern-sheets, the sails were broken out, and away they went, shaping a course forFowey, on the Cornish coast. ‘We are going to take care that you do us no harm, Mr. Exciseman,’ grinned the weather-beaten old skipper ; ‘ we are going to put you ashore at a point near Fowey harbour, and you will find it a mighty long walk to get back to Weybourne. By the time you get there, and reach your own place again, we shall be well out of your reach ; we happen to know there are no Revenue boats at Fowey, just now ! So we will wish you good-bye and good luck ; you might use the cave for a look¬ out station — ho, ho !’ and the old seamen gave a laugh at the idea. ‘Neyer mind,’ thought Durward as he inwardly chafed with rage; ‘there is Farmer Wyld still left to deal with. 1 will get a search warrant, and in his cellars and barns there will be evidence enough against him to get a conviction for aiding and abetting the smugglers, I will warrant.’ ♦ # * * » A little later, when, after tramping every yard of the way to the nearest post town, some twenty miles off, Exciseman Durward took coach for the scene of his late adventure in the cave, his heart was full of fury against the men who had outwitted him. Directly he arrived at Weybourne, he was met by the news that his men, having missed him, had traced him to the chine and thence to the cave, and attacked and stormed the place, only to find, to their disgust, that they had wasted powder and shot on a nest from which the birds had flown. Durward hastened off to the nearest magistrate, and, armed with his search warrant, at once made a descent upon Farmer Wyld’s house. The Excisemen rp- sackedboth it and the outbuildings, but all in vain; not a thing of a suspicious nature did their search reveal. The old fellow had been duly warned, with¬ out a doubt, by the smugglers before they finally sailed away, and he had cleared out everything which had come ‘ across the water,’ before the visit from the Exciseman. Durward had the satisfaction, however, of knowing that, if he had been worsted in the encounter, he had put an end to the smuggling which had been going on at Weybourne for so long a time. GOOD TESTIMONIALS. A SOLDIER had received many wounds in the service of his country. He presented his prince with a petition asking him for assistance. ‘ We shall see,’ said the prince, ‘ when I have had your testimonials.’ ‘ You can see at once, your highness,’ answered the soldier, opening his vest and showing the scars left by his many wounds. The prince laughed, and granted his request at once, saying that he was pleased to notice that the poor fellow’s wounds were all in front. A GREEDY PONY. IN my stable, alongside of each other in stalls, live a little brown pony and a large grey horse : they are only separated by a wooden^partition, on the top of which are iron railings. Nora, the pony, and Joe, the horse, are great friends, and have many a conversation through the

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“ Poking a mouthful at a time over the partition.” bars. Out of each feed of hay given to Joe he reserves some for Nora, poking a mouthful at a time over the partition, and following it with his nose till it is well within her reach. The last time, however, that I visited the stables, poor Joe had a wounded nose — the pony having bitten a piece out. The groom explained to me that the horse had been feeding his favourite with hay as usual, and when she had eaten all, he had offered her a mouthful of straw, at which Nora was so angry that she snapped at his nostrils. The man evidently credited Nora with spitefulness ; but personally I believe it was pure greed on her part. Joe will soon forget his injury and continue to try to share his meals with Nora, but she will now be tied up too closely to reach the hay he would wish to give her, so that her sin has speedily brought its own punish¬ ment.

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The Brigade Boys. nothing to think about, nothing to entertain them, unless some other equally lazy boy came along to play at tip-cat, or, worse still, toss-penny, in some courtyard near at hand. Such recreation and amuse¬ ment never brought sunshine into the heart; and many years ago an institution was started in Glasgow which gave young Scotland something else to think about. It was called ‘ the Boy’s Brigade,’ and it threw its door open to all boys of good character who belonged to any Christian organization. BOYS OP THE LONDOIST STREETS. THE BRIGADE BOYS. lirHEN the factory bell had rung for the closing y V hour, when the office doors were locked, and business was over for the day, there were (and are) a great many boys who did not know what to do with their leisure. Sometimes they pushed their hands into their nockets and loitered in the streets —

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358 CHATTERBOX. Recruits for this young army were soon enlisting in all the towns of Scotland, eager to march towards a better knowledge of obedience, discipline, self- respect, and all that makes a Christian gentleman. But the boys of this Brigade were not drilled in good behaviour only. They were called upon to act the part of soldiers, and when they dropped the tools in the factory, or the pen in the office, it was only to hurry off to the Drill Hall and take up the rifle or carbine. Then the bugle sounded for the march, and a moment later the streets echoed to the rattle of the drum and the martial strains of the cornet, as the young army marched past, to show their country that her soldiers were not all bearded men. The good example set by the ^ Boy^s Brigade,’ was quickly followed, and England has now a large number of similar institutions. To name them all woifld make too long a list, but we may mention that the flag was lifted in London by the London Diocesan Church Lad’s Brigade, on December 1st, 1891, with the Bishop of London as * Commander-in-Chief.’ It was not lifted in vain ; one hundred and fifty companies (spread over various parishes) now owe it allegiance, with six thousand officers and lads. This army is divided into nineteen battalions. Bible classes are opened, and regularity in attend¬ ance at these is as necessary as punctuality in ' attendance at drill. The boy who shirks the one will not prosper at the other. Performance of duty is the great key to success, and no boy stands a better chance of learning this to his advantage than the Brigade boy. But military drill, splendid as it Is for cultivating habits of regularity, is not all that a boy requires. Gymnastics and swimming are taught, and. if a company finds it possible, they form a cricket or football club under the control of their officers. Their games are thus conducted in perfect order, with none of that confused shouting and ordering about which we hear so often among undisciplined boys, as though all the members of the club were captains, and none of them knew how to play ; but each one understands his duty, and attends to it, leaving the management to the leader, as the best cricketers do. In connection with the London Diocesan Brigade there is a Camp for Working Boys, at the seaside, and once a year the lads of the Brigade are able to spend a week in the Camp, for less than half of what it would otherwise cost them. The curtain of smoke ' which, in London, hangs between them and the sky, I is lost sight of ; they breathe the clear air of the sea, and bathe in its crested breakers. They - But there ! when we talk of the pleasures of the sea we could easily go on until the Brigade boy’s holiday is over, and he is back once more in London. In his busy year there are many eventful days, but perhaps none of greater interest than the one on which he marches to Guildhall to show there, before a distinguished company, how well he has learned his lessons : obedience to his officer, military precision and skill, and skill in attending to the wounded. This splendid army is rapidly spreading over the colonies, so that the sound of its bugle, w’e may almost say, is heard all round the world— for the sun never sets on British soil. Long may its call resound, and ever louder may it grow, to summon young England from unhappy paths to a strong and healthy life. John Lea. STBAISTGE NESTS. At Stoke Park, Nottingham, a heron’s nest was blown out of a tree, and it was found to be built almost entirely of the wire which is used by some reaping machines to bind the sheaves. At an exhibition of nests by the British Club of ^Ornithologists,’ (those who study the habits of birds) there was a wood-chat’s nest made entirely of flowers, a swift’s nest into which feathers had been worked, the nest of a chaffinch in which a good deal of paper had been used. A collector showed the nest of a fly-catcher built to a great extent of wax vestas, with two cigarette-ends embedded in its sides. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 351.) CHAPTER XXVII. RIAN lived for some little time at Estcourt, and after¬ wards at Chieveley Camp, where he soon acquired a reputation as one of the best scouts in the place. He would rather have figured as an active combatant, but he felt, somehow, averse to carrying a rifle against the Boers, his wife’s people, among whom — after all — he had been brought up from childhood, and who had, on the whole, been good to him. Therefore he preferred to act as one of the eyes and ears of the English, but not as a regular combatant. He became rather a popular character, moreover, among those who knew him, and was ‘ Sir Brian ’ to all, for, if any one asked his name, he always replied, ^Sir Brian Amberton,’ answering, as, he believed, correctly ; but, though people called him Sir Brian, they did so as a kind of good-natured concession to a harmless delusion, which appeared to please Brian while it could certainly hurt no one else. But Brian nearly got himself hanged or shot one fine day, and that by his own people. He had been away upon a scouting enterprise for some little while, seeking for information concerning the country north of the Tugela. He had undertaken this at the special request of the General. While Brian was absent many reinforcements arrived for the British troops, and among them there came to Chieveley Colonel Philips, he who had, several years ago, acted so well on behalf of his dead comrade. Sir Arthur Amberton, in trying to trace

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CHATTERBOX. 369 his lost nephew, a sacred trust which he believed himself to have inherited from his friend. Probably by this time Colonel Philips had grown somewhat lukewarm in his endeavours to find the lost youth ; for nothing had come of his devoted efforts of several years ago, when he had struck the right trail and all but found his man. He had not heard that Brian received the letter which he left behind for him. Philips had been sent to the front, much to his delight, with the sixth division, having been appointed upon the staff of the General com¬ manding it. A handful of British cavalry about this time made a bold ride on the north side of the Tugela. They crossed some miles west of the Potgieter Ford, and patrolled a league or two in the direction of Ladysmith. Near the drift they were fortunate enough to come upon a Boer patrol, whom they captured after the exchange of a few shots, and brought along with them to the British camp, where the men were examined, as it happened, by Colonel Philips, his superior officer being absent with the General at his quarters. Among the Boers captured was one whom the troopers regarded with great suspicion ; they declared that they believed him to be an Englishman, pretending to be a Boer. He had seemed very friendly with the enemy, and it was thought he might have been supplying them with information. At any rate he was an Englishman, he confessed as much, though he declined to say what he did within the Boer lines, and in friendly communication with the Boers. ‘ Well, what have you to say for yourself asked Colonel Philips, sternly. ^Are you a Boer, or an Englishman ? ’ ^ An Englishman — I told them so,’ said Brian, for •of course it was he. ‘ If they were not all new chums here, they would have known me without being told!’ ^ Oh ! and what were you doing in the Boer camp — seemingly on friendly terms with the enemy ? ’ ‘ I am a scout,’ said Brian. * On whose side ? ’ * On the English, of course.’ ‘ This is a very serious case,’ said Philips, ^ and must be reported to headquarters. I may say that you stand an excellent chance, young man, of being shot for a traitor. What have you to say for your¬ self ? ’ ‘I shall say it before the General,’ said Brian, laughing ; ‘ maybe he will believe me, though you do not.’ ^ You refuse to speak ? Very well — but I warn you that you will do better to say what you have to : say now, for the General is a busy man, and is likely to have you shot without wasting much time in listening to your explanations. Treason is a difficult matter to explain away.’ ^ Ask me what you like,’ said Brian, ^ only you will not believe me — 1 can see that. I tell you I am an English scout, and was myself gathering information while pretending to give it.’ ‘ WeU, you shall have a chance of explaining all this to the General to-morrow,’ said Colonel Philips. ^ Remove the prisoner. Sergeant, and see that he is put in a safe place.’ ‘ You are not going to treat me as a prisoner, Sergeant ? ’ said Brian, as he was led away by the guard. ^ Of course, you are new-comers, you chaps ; but any one down at the main camp will tell you who I am.’ * I have got to obey orders, sonny/ said the Sergeant. ^ You will be as well off to-night as any of us, however, and to-morrow you can prove what you like.’ ^ Well, it is a nice way to treat a scout that risks his life all day and every day for his own folk. When he gets among his own people, he is locked up as a prisoner.’ ^ You can lay a complaint with the General, whom you seem to know so well,’ laughed the Sergeant ; ^ but it is not a paying game as a rule, and if I was you I should let the Colonel off this time, just for once like. Now, then, here you are, into this tent ; mind you do not tread on the sentry’s toes if you try to make a bolt in the dark.’ The Sergeant plainly did not believe in the innocence of his prisoner, and his manner enraged Brian, who had been somewhat put out already by his interview, as a prisoner, with the Colonel. He was upset, too, by a letter he had had from Greta. This letter caused him much anxiety, for Greta wrote that her father had been commandeered to serve with Lukas Meyer’s force at Dundee, and had left her mother and herself at the farm to manage affairs as best they could. Then came news that poor old Willem had been badly wounded, and lay in a critical condition at Dundee, on receipt of which alarming news old Anna had started off, bidding Greta stay and see to the farm, which, she said, Greta could easily do with the help of the Kaffirs. But, wrote Greta, though all went well for a while, rumours began to arrive that Brian had been heard to threaten his field-cornet, and had openly avowed bis sympathy with the English, and, on the very day before she wrote, an officer had ridden up to the farm at the head of a small commando, and, acting under ^authority,’ had commandeered every horse in the stables, and every trek ox and waggon in the sheds, as well as every atom of stores that he could lay hands upon. When Greta protested, she had been informed that the property was forfeited because the owner, or part-owner, had been proved a traitor, and was now known to be in the camp of the enemy. ^ But the farm is my father’s,’ poor Greta protested. < Then his goods are forfeited all the same,’ said the cornet, ‘ because he has harboured a traitor and a rebel.’ ‘I did all I could,’ wrote poor Greta, ‘but he would not listen, and soon they rode off with every¬ thing they could carry away. Oh, I hateihQ war, and I do so wish and pray you were back, for now I do not know what to do, and I dare not go to father and mother for fear you should come to seek me here, having missed this letter, and find the place deserted. The Kaffirs are getting discontented, too,’ poor Greta ended, ‘for there is not enough food to give them their usual rations.’ (Continued at page 366.)

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362 CHATTERBOX. ARTFUL DONKEY JACK. JACK, after all, was not such a donkey as he looked ; he knew well enough that a bridle meant work, and work in any form he disliked. Any trick, therefore, to avoid" having the hateful thing put on, was very welcome to him. It was quite impossible to walk up to him with the bridle openly showing; he would keep a good distance away at the mere sight of it. The best way to catch him was to conceal the bridle behind you with one hand, while with the other you held out a tempting bowl of bread and milk, of which he was very fond. Then, while he eagerly ate the food, you put an arm round his neck— gently and lovingly, for he was easily roused to suspicion— and in a moment he was a prisoner. The plan generally succeeded ; but Jack nad one last ruse which often saved him. He would watch till he saw two of the horses feed¬ ing side by side in the paddock; then he would go up and get between them, staying there till danger was past, moving with them so as to keep one on each side between himself and the enemy. Thus it was impossible even to reach him, much more to put a bridle on his head. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 34. — Anagrams. 1. If you look in that warder you will find a pretty I-pet-cur. 2. His manners are quite those of a Out-crier of the old school. 3. I am quite ye-war of hearing that old story over and over again. 4. She was lost-ma exhausted with running scare. 5. There has been a bad nice-cat-D on the railway this morning. 6. Do you know who that rest -rang was who called this morning ? No, not in the steal. 7. I am afraid there were a great many nor-spires taken in the last engagement. 8. Do you see many yes -pigs about in your part of the country ? 9. Do you suspect that man’s shy-tone ? I do. 10. Where are you going this summer ? I am going to us e-grey -N. 11. What a pure-seal it is to see old friends I 12. You will need a great deal of glide-nice to finish your undertaking in time. [Answers at page 391.] -A.iTSWEl2.S. • 32. — 1. Senegal. 2. Euphrates. 3. Tartary. 4. Madagascar. 5. Mediterranean. 6. Caledonia. 7. Polynesia, 8. Medina. 9. Damietta. 10. Algiers. 11. Mansfield. 12. Lancaster, 13. Australia. 14. Agincourt. 15. Bosetta. 16. America, 33. — 1. Master, steam, trams, team=, meats, mates, tames, marts, tamer, smart, stare, tears, reams, same, star, stem, seam, sear, seat, tear, tare, ream, rest, mast, mare — and probably more. 2. Stop, tops, pots, post, 3. Levi, vile, veil, evil. 4. Verse, serve, sever. STORIES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. LOST ON SNOWDON. SNOWTON is the mountain which English youngsters have the best chance of seeing and ascending. It is not too long a journey to beautiful Llanberis, with its placid lakes ; and then one may go by coach, or walk, through the far-famed Pass of Llanberis. Who that has taken it can forget that walk through the Pass — the five or six miles of winding road, fringed on either side by steep crags, where hardy mountain goats peep from their rocky perches, and ferns and flowers spring in the stony places ? Tourists are glad to rest for the night in the hotel at the head of the Pass, whence they can start, refreshed, to go up the mountain. Now that there is a railroad up Snowdon, the ascent is easy ; but years ago this was not the case, and guides were necessary. There is a story of a party of American travellers, a father and mother with a large family of children, who once ascended Snowdon. Before they started the father cautioned all the children to keep together, and on no account to wander from the guide. But little Nellie, the youngest of the party, was tempted by some bright flowers, and stayed behind for a few moments. When she hastened on, her friends were lost to sight. She went from point to point, hoping to see them at every turn, and being always disappointed. Then she got out of the right path, and wandered about on the rough tl-'Ws, till darkness came on. In the dark she fell and sprained her ankle, and all night she lay, unable to move, and wept to think that she would never see mother and home again. When morning came she saw that she was at the brink of a precipice, down which a few steps more would have caused her to fall, so that the sprained ankle was a blessing in disguise. She bound up her foot as well as she could with her handkerchief, and waited, in the hope that some one would pass. By-and-by some miners, going to their work, saw her, and came to her aid. They were very kind to Nellie, wrapping her in their rough coats, and giving her hot coffee from their tin cans to drink. Meanwhile, her parents had been in great distress ; they had missed Nellie when thev called their children together, on the top of the mountain. They hastened down to search for her, and when, next morning, they heard of the child whom the miners had found, they felt sure that she must be their own daughter, and soon they had the joy of finding her restored to their love and care. 0. J. Blake.

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CHATTERBOX, 363 HEROES AHD HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS.* This story opens by introducing us to the wooded scenery of Canada, at the time when French and English were at war, fightinsr for the possession of a country to which it may be that neither had any right. General Webb commanded the armies of King George II. in the northern provinces, and when our story opens, we hnd him at Fort Edward, awaiting the advance of the enterprising French General Montcalm. The nearest forest fa'»tness to Fort Edward was Fort William Henry, and the camp was entrenched along the shores of the Hudson river. As the rumour spread that the Frenchman was moving, a chosen detachment of fifteen hundred men was ordered to depart at dawn from Fort Edward to Fort Henry. The heavy sleep of the army was broken by the rolling of the warning drums, whose rattling echoes were heard piercing the damp morning air from the woods all around, just as the day began to show up the shaggy outlines of some tad pines against the opening brightness of a soft and cloudless eastern sky. In an instant the whole camp was in motion, and soon the sounds of the marching column had died away on the breeze ; but there still remained the signs of another depar¬ ture, before a log cabin of unusual size, which belonged to the English General. Two steeds were already saddled and bridled, and were for the use of ladies. One of the ladies was blueeyed and fair-haired, little more than a girl; the other was perhaps four or five years older, and her hair was black and her eyes dark. The two women were half-sisters, the name of the fair one being Alice, and that of the dark one, Cora. Their companion was a young man in the dress of an officer, whom they called sometimes Heyward, and as often, Duncan ; their attendants were two singular men, one an Indian runner, the other a white man, remarkably til l and gaunt, dressed in a fantastic garb. The Indian, to whom Alice took an immediate dislike, had volunteered to guide the party to the lake, by a path little known; and Heyward informed the ladies, in answer to inquiries, that after the fashion of his people he might be accounted a hero. ^ IShould we distrust the man because his manners are not our manners, and his skin dark ? ’ coldly asked Cora of her more timid sister. This question decided Alice, and she pressed for¬ ward into the dense forest without further hesitation. As they went on their journey, the young officer who escorted them thought that he saw in the woods the glistening eyeballs of a prowling savage. But soon he smiled to himself, believing that he had mistaken some shining berries for the eyes of a foe. Could he but have seen the branches of the bushes pulled apart cautiously, and a fierce, wild face peering out from them, his action would have been * The Last of the Mohicans^ by G. Fern' more Cooper. Published by Walter Scott, Ltd., Paternoster Square. very different. The cruel-looking painted warrior was tracking the path of those to whom he meant ill, with a gleam of exultation on his face, for he thought that he had them in his power, and would soon betray them into the hands of their barbarous foes. Hey¬ ward had yet to learn that his prudence must keep a sharper outlook, and that in the country of a treacherous foe his generous pride should not be I indulged, if he valued the trust reposed in him by his superior officer, and wished to conduct the two I young ladies to the fort in safety, i It is a few miles to the westward of this place I when we again meet with DuncMii Heyward and his friends. But on this later occasion we find the party increased by another white man, whom they soon learned to know as Hawk-eye, and Chingachgook, with his brave young son tineas, the hero of the story, and the character after whom it is named, for he was the Last of the Mohicans. By the skill and the wonderful forest knowledge of these new-found friends, Heyward was able to escape the wily traps of the traitorous Indian runner, Le Eenard Subtil, or Cunning Fox, as he loved to be called; but not without adventures and many misgivings. When the false runner discovered that his treachery was known to those whom he had pretended to befriend, he dashed otf into the da*k- ness of the woods, Chingachgook and Uncas after him, and though the rifle-bullet of Hawk-eye fiashed so near him that it wounded him in the arm, the Fox yet managed to escape. It was in this escape that the immediate danger of the party lay, for he would certainly contrive to guide his party to them, and they would leave no stone unturned in their endeavour to obtain that coveted prize of the red man, the scalp of his foe. ^ Come, friends,’ said Hawk-eye, ‘ let us move our station, and in such a fashion, too, as will throw the cunning of a Mingo (the Indian runner was a Mingo) on a wrong scent, or our scalps will be drying in the wind in front of Montcalm’s marquee by this hour to-morrow.^ Heyward felt his folly now, as the gathering darkness placed them at the mercy of their hidden foes, and he blamed himself again and again for not taking better precautions. ^ What is to be done ? ’ asked the young officer. ' Do not desert us.’ Hawk-eye, Chingachgook, and Uncas took counsel together, and, as a result, they insisted on Heyward’s promising for himself and his friends two things ; they undertook on this condition to do their best to bring them to a place of safety. One promise was that they would be as still as the sleeping woods, whatever might happen ; the other, that they would keep the place where they might be taken for ever a secret from mortal men. The promise given, the whole party entered a light canoe, and by the skill and cool courage of the red men and Hawk-eye, were piloted in it over the whirling, tumbling, eddying waters, known now as Glow’s Falls, on the Hudson. Alice hid her eyes in terror, as they stemmed the rapids in their frail bark, and all were thankful when, the fearful journey accomplished, they landed on a large flat rock that lay level with the water. In the rock was a cavern, or more correctly, two caverns, so that once hidden

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The whole party was piloted over the tumbling, eddying waters. within, they had the falls on two sides of them, and the river above and below. No securer hiding-place could be imagined than was afforded by these caves on the rocky island. Nor were the hunger and thirst of the rescued party forgotten by their rescuers. A meal of venison was speedily cooked, and served to them by Uncas, whose fine fearless face and figure delighted both Alice and Cora, and gained the confidence of all. Passing over many details, all interestingly told in the intervening chapters, let us turn to that part of our story which concerns itself with the capture of Cora and Alice. {Concluded at page 374.)

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The Paper Nautilus. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THEBE. VIL — THE PAPER NAUTILUS. IT was much more amusing to cruise among islands —as we did for part of the time— than to spend weeks together with nothing to look at but sky and sea. One evening, just after sunset, the Steward came down with a message from the Boatswain, that we were to come aft at once if we wanted to see a pretty sight ; and you may be sure we lost no time in going. •That is right,’ grunted the old fellow, light la Koing so fast that you would have missed it a tew minutes later,’ and he pointed to the it on the surface of the water a little to leeward. ‘ It is a toy boat ! ’ shouted Robin ; as tiny as the one I sailed on the canoe lake at Southsea. ‘It is a queer-shaped boat,’ corrected Elsie, who is rather fond of snubbing Robbie. ‘It is more like a Chinese junk, but the sails are a very strange rig. Tell us what it is, Boatsy dear, she went on coaxingly, and the old man chuckled : Now, Master Huo-h,^how much have all your learned bo(*s taught you, that you must come to poor old Boatswain for knowledge after all ? ’

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366 CHATTERBOX. Enough to show me a Paper Nautilus when I see one, answered Hugh, with his slow, wise smile; put it IS good of you to have shown us a live one, all the same/ For a few minutes longer we could see the tiny thing, less than a foot long, sailing gracefully beside us, and then the short twilight vanisned, and with it the fragile vessel. So down we went to supper, and later on we captured the Captain, and persuaded him to tell us all about the plucky little sailor who steered its boat so fearlessly alone on the wide ocean. ^ Hugh,’ he began, ^ as a classical scholar, must know that from very early times the nautilus has been a favourite with ancient writers. Pliny called it PompiliuSj^and sailors of his day, when starting from port, if they met one of these tiny craft, considered it a good omen of a prosperous voyage. Other Greek writers also told wonderful tales '"of this little mariner, and the Chinese have much to say in its favour, whilst the Indian nautilus shells are considered magnificent ornaments, and are carried by dancing-women at solemn festivals. ‘ Until of late years, the paper nautilus has been confused with the true nautilus, whose large pearly shell, with its beautiful spiral markings, may often be bought of dealers in curiosities, and which is found in numbers round the islands in the Indian Ocean and the shores of Australasia. The shell of the paper nautilus is more simple in form, and far more fragile, being really a temporary home wherein Mrs. Argonauta (that is her Latin name) brings up her I babies. Father Argonauta is a very insignificant ' person, for he is simply an octopus without a shell ; and you read all about his family affairs in Chatterbox two 3’^ears ago. His wife, though also an octopus, is such a very superior creature, that she needs careful ! attention. Not only can she contrive, out of the elements of sea- water, to make a comfortable and secure home for her children, but she is clever enough to steer it about in the sea without compass j or rudder. The ancients declared that she moved | through the water by spreading an arm or two as sails, but modern science assures us that Mrs. Argonauta makes her way along after the fashion of ordinary cuttle-fish, by means of a long locomotive tube. This not only serves her for lungs, but for ejecting water with such force that it propels her vessel, much as a screw sends a ship along. When the good lady is disturbed, and believes her babies to be in danger, she retreats into her shell, which promptly overturns and sinks to the bottom of the ocean. There she is quite at home, marching about on her eight long legs, or arms, if you like to call them so, carrying her house on her back. Mrs. Argonauta is very sensitive to outside infiuences, and has the power of changing colour, giving a lovely rose tint, or some other brilliant hue to her delicate mantle or shell. ^ A great deal was learnt about the structure and life-history of these creatures, by a lady living on the South Italian shores, but as she had no scruple in cutting off arms to see how fast they would grow again, picking off bits of their shells for the same purpose, or maldng various other unpleasant experi¬ ments, her discoveries must have been more interest- j ing to herself, and to her scientific friends, than to the argonauts themselves.’ ^ ‘ And I think,’ announced Elsie, as she said good¬ night, ‘that Mrs. Argonauta deserves something bad for being so selfish. Fancy leaving the poor father all alone, and carrying his babies away from him ! ’ To which little Robin sagely responded : ‘ That is all very well, but, at least, she takes all the bother of the babies, and he can go and amuse himself in any way he pleases.’ Helena Heath. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from 'page 359.) CHAPTER XXVIII. EN Brian received this letter he had been about to start for the Boer camp in search of information, and it had been his intention to bring in his news and then start at once northwards. When, only a day later, he was captured, together with the enemy’s patrol, and brought into Chieveley, he did not greatly deplore his capture, for he imagined that he would be soon known, and released by his English captors, in which case he would start to see after Greta. Now that he found himself a prisoner, the position was specially galling, for there might be delay, and he was anxious in his mind. Brian was not the kind of person to sit patiently through tribulation and wait for the sun to shine. He was angry and indignant. ‘They may whistle for my information,' he thought, ‘if they are going to treat me like this; I am off, when it is dark, by their leave or with¬ out it.’ Escape proved easy enough. Brian lay with his head close to the canvas side of the tent, to all appearance fast asleep and snoring. But when all was quiet in camp, and only the footsteps of the sentry outside were to be heard tramping at intervals to keep his feet warm, he produced a knife and slit the canvas. Through the hole thus made he crawled, and using all the stalking experience which he had picked up in the veldt before the war, and in many exciting scouting enterprises during the last month or two, he contrived to creep safely through the British pickets and away. Brian had no difficulty in passing himself off as a Boer when met and questioned during his rapid journey northward, nor in getting a»<ihorse. ‘ They have commandeered all ours,’ he thought, ‘ and many other things besides ; they will have to let me have this horse/ So Brian chose the best animal he could find behind a Boer laager which he passed north of Ladysmith. It was now some weeks since Greta had written her disquieting letter, and Brian grew more and more

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CHATTERBOX. 367 anxious as he gradually neared his old home. What if he should had the old place looted and destroyed, and Greta gone ? Brian ground his teeth at the thought. Tf they have driven her away/ he said, ^ I swear I will have no more sympathy with the Dutch ; I will destroy them where I meet them ; I will be all English and spare no more Boers.’ But what should he do with Greta, even though he should still find her at the farm ? * She shall be no longer among the Boers/ he decided, ‘ I do not think they are to be trusted ; I will take her into Rhodesia and settle there.’ As Brian rode nearer the farm he soon saw that no smoke rose from the chimneys, no oxen lowed in their yard; there was no sound of life in the place. His heart stood still ; he pulled up and sat a while, too dismayed to go nearer. A Kaffir came out of the house carrying a bundle. Brian knew him and shouted to him, but the Kaffir threw down his bundle and fled. Brian fired a shot over his head and brought him up. The fellow went on his knees and begged for mercy. ‘ You have been looting/ said Brian, and he 3umped from his saddle and thrashed the man, in a sudden fury. ^Now tell me, you rascal, what is the meaning of all this, and where is the young mistress ? ’ The Kaffir was frightened, but he was even more angry than alarmed, not being used to violence from Brian, whose manner towards the natives was always kind and tolerant. Therefore he resolved on the spot to revenge himself upon Brian in the best way open to him, by giving him a report which would be likely to cause him pain. With groans and much realism the Kaffir pro¬ ceeded to describe what had happened. The old master had gone to the war, he said, and had been wounded so badly that the old missus had gone to nurse him. Then a commando had come and looted the place and taken all the food and all the horses. The young missus had protested, but they laughed at her. When they had gone there was nothing to eat, and the young missus had grown very weak, and so had they all, until at length she had decided to go on foot to the nearest farm and ask for shelter; that was Waldenhuis’s farm, ten miles away over the river. Having no horse, the young missus had tried to swim the drift, but she was weak and the current was rapid and had carried her away. * You rascal/ interrupted Brian, ‘ you are lying, you know you are ! ’ But the Kaffir protested that he spoke the simplest truth, and that, if any of the rest were about, they would bear him out ; but all had gone,^ and he had only returned to see whether he could find any food to keep him from starving. Brian laughed. The whole thing he knew was a lie told to cover this rascally Kaffir’s thieving. Greta would never do so foolish a thing. She might indeed have quitted the farm — that was likely enough; but surely she would have left word some¬ how, chalked up on the wall, or bv means of a note deposited in some known spot for him to find. Brian rushed into the house^ upsetting the kneeling Kaffir as he went, who quickly picked up himself and his bundle and disappeared. Everything within was topsy-turvy and broken ; the ruin was complete, furniture destroyed and piled up, floors hacked to pieces, cupboards looted. On the wall in the living-room was chalked up the following legend : ‘ Thus shall the ungodly be uprooted and driven out of the land ! ’ And another below it : ‘ This is the house of an English spy.’ But of any kind of message or letter from Greta there was not a trace. Then Brian lost heart for a few moments and stood helpless and hopeless, unable to collect his thoughts. He sat down upon a heap of broken furniture and tried to think over the matter calmly. Greta would certainly have let him know of her departure; she must have written, and the letter had not reached him before his departure. Where could she have gone for refuge in a moment of necessity ? Why, naturally she would make for the place where her mother and father were to be found. Any of the neighbours would lend her a horse, and from the nearest station she would travel by train. ^ ‘ Fool that I am ! ’ exclaimed Brian, starting up and rushing from the house ; * here am I, wasting time, and the poor girl waiting for me at Dundee and breaking her heart to see me. As for that lying Kaffir, 1 will wring his neck before 1 start.’ The Kaffir was gone and his neck was safe, but in any case Brian would not have interfered with him. He thought that if the fellow’s story was true in part, as the appearance of the farm showed, what if the rest of it should prove to be true also ? But such a thing, he assured himself, could not possibly happen. Greta would loiow better than to attempt to cross a swollen drift on foot. She was a born Afrikander, she knew her way about in these parts ; oh, no, there was no fear ! Kaffirs are terrible liars ; they do not know how to tell the whole truth. If this rascal told part of the story with some truth, it was all the more likely that he would lie at the end of it. . ^ With some such thoughts as these Brian tried to comfort his spirit, but he failed miserably. A horrible fear and anxiety occupied hina as he rode away. Should he ever see Greta again ? was she really drowned ? ‘ If so/ said Brian to himself, ‘ I swear that 1 shall have revenge upon her murderers, for murderers they are and no less ! ’ ^ But Brian found no comfort awaiting him at Dundee. Old Willem was there, in hospital, and at the point of death ; and Tante Anna, distracted with grief, could scarcely bring a calm mind to the question of Greta’s whereabouts. She had not been in Dundee, and the last letter from her had told the tale of her trials at the farm no further than that which Brian had received. ‘ But, Tante, tell me, for Heaven’s sake/ said |)oor Brian, ‘ to where would she have gone for refuge in a moment of real need ? She is not there, she is not here. Where then is she ? ’ ‘ She would have come to her mother, to whom else ? ’ said Anna, * since her husband could not

Page 380

•«¥r={|- W Iste \'vv'K$,Tvs7. k‘' V '-■f-Ji'Afr'A* tsf k|1-!_-« &?5r-:"S;?-v jj^cC-v.f't W “ Brian contrived to creep safely through the British pickets and away.’ receive her. God is sending many sorrows to us, my poor Brun — Willem is so ill that he scarcely knows his own wife, and now Greta lost — oh, the war, the war ! and the farm looted and ruined, though that is a small misfortune compared with this/ Brian did not tell the old Xante the Kaffir’s story of Greta’s fate. It was not worth repeating, he told him¬ self ; and besides, the poor old woman might beKeve it, and the shock would be too much for her, added to the trouble of Willem’s illness. ‘Of course I, for my part, can laugh at such foolish lies,’ Brian reflected ; ‘ but old Xante is less strong-minded and might believe the tale.’ {Continued at page 370.)

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CHATTERBOX 369

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370 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. (Continued from ‘page 368.) CHAPTEB XXIX. HEN Brian left Dundee in order to return to the English headquarters, he was a changed man. Though he would have protested, if asked, that he did not believe Greta to have been drowned, and would have laughed at the idea of such a thing; nevertheless, in his inmost soul, he now regarded her death as a fact, and looked upon the entire Boer nation as re¬ sponsible for it. Mad with grief and fuiy, he hastened southwards. From this time forth he would throw in his lot with the English, and, if he did not perform his share against the enemy, it would not be for want of doing his very best. He returned to Chieveley, but found no letter awaiting him. Then Brian went to the General commanding, and informed that officer that he was tired of life, and wished for some employment that would take him into dangerous places. < There are always dispatches for Ladysmith,' said the General, ^if you think that trip dangerous enough for you.' 'I would rather blow up some place where the Boers swarm,' said Brian, quite seriously, ^ and get rid of a hundred or two at once.' ‘ If I remember rightly,' said the General, * you refused, at first, to carry arms against the Boers ! ’ The General had taken a fancy to Brian, whose story of himself had interested him. ‘Since then they have wronged me, and I hate them !' said Brian. ‘ Oh, come,' laughed the General, ^ we do not wage civilised warfare as though we were wild beasts fighting together. The killing is an un¬ fortunate but necessary part of warfare, but we can fight lihe gentlemen. I cannot employ you if your object is to satisfy a private spite.' ' Give me something to do, sir,' said Brian, sigh- ing ; am miserable, and want something to change my thoughts.' The end of this conversation was that Brian disappeared for a while westwards, and, after a fortnight, returned with sketch-maps of drifts and kopjes on the left flank of the English position, which the General was much pleased to receive, and which, with information of a similar nature, gathered from other sources, resulted in the masterly occupation of Potgieter’s Drift over the Tugela, and a gallant attempt to reach Ladysmith from the westward, foiled, in the end, by misunder¬ standings, which brought about the lamentable abandonment of Spion Kop. Brian took part in the capture of Spion Kop, acting as one of the guides, but, when once the position | was in the hands of the British, he scouted forward in advance, never dreaming that the hill would be abandoned, and that the British forces would find it necessary to recross the Tugela ; but since he happened to be well in advance of his own people on the morning when it was discovered by the enemy that the dominating position of Spion Kop had been surrendered, poor Brian was captured by the Boers. After having been questioned by Commandant Hofmeyer, he was ordered to follow a man named Hegel, who was told to take him to the rear. Before this was done, however, a British column with four guns was seen marching quickly towards the Tugela, and he was set.free. The retreat of the English from Spion Kop had sorely tried him ; Brian disappeared from the actual seat of war, and went up once more to Dundee to see whether Tante Anna were still there, and whether, though he felt this was a forlorn hope, she had heard anything of Greta. But at Dundee nothing was remembered at the Boer hospital, either of old Willem or of the old Tante who had come to nurse him. ^ W e cannot be expected to remember the name of every Boer that has been treated here ! ' he was told. * Probably he is dead and buried ! ' ‘ How is any one to know what is happening to their folk at the front if you do not keep lists of dead and wounded ? ’ he asked. ‘ If they do not turn up at home after the war, they are dead, and there is an end of the matter,' said the doctor. ^ I can tell you no more.' Brian then resolved that he would go up to Rho¬ desia and see whether any of his old friends remained at Bulawayo. On the way, he could have one more look at the old home — the last time — he would never set eyes on it again after this. But suddenly news came that the veteran General had arrived at the front. Whispers went round of French's splendid ride to Kimberley ; Cronje and his army were said to be in trouble— Brian could hold out no longer. * I must be where these things are being done,' he reflected.^ *My people have found a man to lead them ! this is the kind of General to work for — ^I shall scout for Roberts ! ' CHAPTER XXX. So away into the Free State went Brian, and after^ a long journey contrived to cross into the English lines ; finding friends among the troops after Paardeberg, he obtained employment as scout, and entered into the excitement of the campaign. During the march to Bloemfontein, he did useful service, working in advance of the army upon the left flank, his instructions being to keep a special eye upon spruits and narrow passes, thoroughly searching such places for parties of the enemy intending to ‘ambush' any advance patrols which the British Commander might send forward. One day Brian lay down to rest by a pool in a little valley between two kopjes. Here he ate his dinner and fell asleep, being exhausted by his scouting, which had been done mostly on foot, and by the heat of the sun. He had walked through the spruit, and

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CHATTERBOX. 371 examined the cover on each side for possible lurkers, but he had found none ; therefore .he had returned with a quiet mind to the little pool in the shade ; he ate his rations, and, intending* to rest a while and think, fell fast asleep. It was late in the afternoon when he opened his eyes, and with a shock he saw that several men sat around him. His first feeling was one of shame ; his duty was to keep well ahead of the light advance guard of the main force, and here he had fallen asleep and let them overtake him. Then he looked more closely at the fellows, and saw that they were Boers. One, the nearest, at his side, seemed familiar. He stared at him a moment — it was Hegel. * Oh,’ said the Boer, ‘ awake, are you ? Here I am again, you see. Fine day, is it not ? ’ ^ Very,’ said Brian, yawning with as much uncon¬ cern as he could ; * rather hotter than I like.’ ^ Cheer up,’ said Hegel ; ^ you will be somewhere else soon.’ ^ What do you mean ? ’ said Brian. ^ Well, you know what we do with spies when we catch them, don’t you ? No ? — you soon will. You got away rather luckily down by Spion Kop — con¬ found you, I feel my arm still, at times.’ ‘lam bad at riddles,’ said Brian; ‘perhaps you will explain what you are driving at.’ ‘Last time we met, you pushed me down a precipice and got away,’ said Hegel. ‘ My arm was broken in that affair. This time I intend to be one of the firing party that is going to make us quits.’ Brian’s rifle had been taken away, but he had a small revolver in his breast pocket, which had not been found. ‘ I may have a word to say yet at that firing party,’ he thought to himself. ‘ I am in command of this little band,’ said Hegel ; ‘ you are to have exactly half an hour to think about your past; I am sorry we cannot spare you more time, for we have a little surprise waiting for your advance guard, in the spruit yonder, and it would not be wise to fire shots when they come within hearing — we might hang you, of course, if you would like to wait another hour or so.’ ‘ No, thanks,’ said Brian, ‘ I had rather be shot, of the two.’ ‘You ought to have found us, you know,’ said Hegel ; ‘ it is pretty bad to be a spy, but it is worse to be a bad one.’ There was a spice of truth in this remark which hit poor Brian rather hard. He ought to have discovered these Boers. The advance guard would walk into a death-trap, as other parties of English¬ men had done during this war, through the fault of their scouts. ‘ I do not care whether they shoot me or not,’ Brian thought. ‘ If only I could first let our chaps know they are riding into a trap. — They may hear the shots when these fellows shoot me,’ he thought a moment later ; ‘ that is about the only chance for them — if only they would come within hearing before my half-hour is up ! ’ Now it happened that the British patrol was nearer than Hegel supposed, having ridden out faster than usual that day. In giving Brian half an hour Plegel made a mistake. The British scouts were only a mile away; and almost before Hegel had finished his last sentence Brian himself caught sight of khaki-clad horsemen in the distance. ‘ You are too late already,’ he laughed ; ‘ look there ! ’ ‘ Yes, he is right,’ exclaimed Hegel, looking up the valley, ‘ they are coming ; ‘ back, all, to the guns, and quietly; keep an eye on this fellow, some of you, gag him instantly or knock him oh the head, if he shows signs of making a noise.’ ‘ I will be quiet,’ said Brian, ‘ do not murder me ! ’ Brian knew what he was going to do ; he felt that much depended upon his remaining alive for a few minutes, and his words were not prompted by cowardice. Back through the spruit ran the six Boers and the one Englishman, and suddenly Brian found himself in a sheltered hollow, full of Boers. Four grim- looking guns stood pointing down the spruit, their muzzles, well hidden by uptorn bushes placed in front of them — ^just peeping over the edge, level with the ground, ready to pour a deadly hail of lead into any troops advancing up the valley. Brian was taken to the rear of the ambush and placed in the charge of three men. ‘ Emock him on the head if he opens his mouth ! ’ said Hegel. ‘ I shall wait till I hear the hoofs of their horses coming along,’ thought Brian, ‘ and then - ’ These, he was convinced, were his last moments upon earth ; he was going to die bravely, for, of course, these chaps would shoot him down in a moment, once they understood his game, but, please God, they would be too late ; the English would hear his shots, and would pause just before entering the ambush. Folk would wonder why the Boers gave themselves away by firing shots, when dead silence would have given them complete success ; no one would ever know what he had done for his own people ! ‘ Never mind,’ thought Brian, ‘ that is not the most important thing ! I shall see Greta, maybe, if all they say is true ; Greta will know,’ his thoughts ran, ‘ she will be glad I did it, even though they are her own people ; there, I hear the English horses, now I must act.’ Brian uttered a simple prayer, and whipped out his revolver. The Boers had forgotten him, ail their attention being absorbed by the approach of the English. ‘ Let them come half-way up the spruit, then open fire,’ said the officer. Brian could hear the English scouts shouting to one another in .the distance ; well, they would hear his pistol shots just as clearly as he heard their shouts, would it stop them ? Another instant, and the Boers, standing over the guns, were startled and enraged to hear three quick shots from behind. One fellow turned at Brian’s | first shot and rushed at him. Brian fired the other ; two straight in his face, and ran to cover like a flash among the boulders which clad the hill-side. The shot had put the English upon their guard. The English officer halted his men. He detached two men and bade them ride cautiously forward along the spruit. They rode as far as the hollow,

Page 384

The Boers were startled and enraged to hear three quick shots from behind.” and were then fallen upon and captured in silence ; one of their horses escaped and galloped back down the road. ‘Just look at that!’ exclaimed the officer, ‘We seem to have been riding straight into a wasp’s nest !’ At this moment Brian himself came panting through the cover. ‘ Do not go on — do not go on ! ’ he shouted, ‘ it is an ambush ! ’ ‘ Did you fire those shots ? ’ asked the officer, ‘ and are you one of our scouts ?’ ‘ Yes,’ said Brian, ‘ I fired them to warn you ; I am a scout and should never have let you run into the trap.’

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A Sea Horse and Sea Fan. * That is true enough/ said the officer ; * however, as you have got us out again, we will say no more about it ; how many are there in there ^ About sixty or seventy, and four small guns; the guns and men are all hidden in a donga a c[uarter of a mile on.’ * If only our chaps would come up in time, exclaimed the officer, ‘ we should bag these guns ; we cannot do it by ourselves.’ * If you could hold the small kopje yonder/ Brian suggested, * you might block the way till the column came up.’ But when the little body of Englishmen ad¬ vanced presently, avoiding the road, and giving Brian’s donga a wide berth, they found that the Boers had already departed northwards, guns and all. And no one realised how brave a deed Brian had done that afternoon. He himself had, indeed, a pretty good idea that he deserved well of his people ; but Brian was the last person in the world to mention the fact to others. He knew also that this little spruit had almost been for him the valley of the Shadow of Death ; and he was indeed grateful for his escape. {Continued at page 382.)

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374 CHATTERBOX. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. VIIL— A SEA HORSE AND A SEA FAN. The dredging-net was pretty busy at one time during our voyage, and nearly every morning there was some curious thing to look at when we came on deck. Two very queer creatures were once brought up, which you will see in the picture. Mr. Hippocampus is the last relic of the Sea Horses on which the watery gods were said to ride m the days of old, and he has certainly fallen from his great estate, as he seldom 'is more than from four to five inches long. He is wonderfully like a chess knight, and swims splendidly, almost upright in the water. His favourite attitude is to be fastened by his tail to some stalk of seaweed, or a coraline, or, failing these, to one of his own brethren, and from this retreat he darts out like a flph upon any luckless tiny animal that may cross his range of vision. He has a very curious eye arrangement ; each one moves quite separately from ’ ^ have heard those of chameleons do. Ihe iris is very bright, and there is a blue band round it, which gives it a strange expression. You will notice that his coat is a regular suit of armour, composed of triangular scales, and altogether he has much the look of a knight clothed in a steel-blue coat of mail. He is quite worthy of belonging to the days of chivalry, for, understanding the respect due to ladies, he saves his wife the trouble of carrv- ing her eggs, by storing them in a pouch beneath his own tail. There is rather a different species of sea horse found in Australian waters: they have long strearners floating from the points of their spines, which gives them a somewhat untidy appearance, as if they were hung all over with bits of seaweed. You will notice that our especial hippo has anchored himself by his tail to what looks like a I stiff, spiky plant. This is called a Gorgonia, and it / IS not merely a plant, but a whole colony of polypes of the coral or alcyonarian type. When seen at home in their native ocean, their colours are wonder- f Lilly beautiful, but they soon fade and get a dingy look if kept in museums. Colour and life seem to go even more closely together in sea creatures than in those of the land, and this interferes with the pleasure of making marine collections. You will notice that the stems are dotted all over with little points, like the seeds on a fern frond. These are tiny animals, some of which are fishing with their arms or tentacles outspread, and others are closed up, resting, and probably asleep. These plant-like creatures are found in all deep seas, but are larger and more plentiful in tropical oceans, where they flourish in great variety of form and colour. There IS another and quite different species, much more delicate in form than Mr. Hippo’s restin£r-place. Ihe gorgonias are usually known by the name of bea Fans, and you have already made acquaintance with some members of the family in the Sea Pens. Helena Heath, PEG TAIiTKARDS. Avery curious article, belonging to the early time of English history, to be seen now and then in a museum, is a peg tankard. Sometimes it was called a pin tankard, and the odd name explains several sayings which have come down to us from our ancestors. But why did they have these peg or pin tankards, which were not made of metal, but of wood F They were used when drinking vessels were scarce, so it often happened that a number of persons had to drink out of the same tankard. This was awkward, because greedy folk might take more than their right share, and quarrels arose. .Hence the custom of marking by pegs, on the inside of the tankard, how much each driukef should take. Covvper, in his ^ John Gilpin,’ uses a saying com¬ mon when he wrote that droll poem. He says that the worthy citizen was ^ in merry pin,' that is, he was lively or cheery, as somebody might be who had taken a refreshing drink from pin to pin. Even now, we may hear one person say to another, angrily, < 1 will take you down a peg ! ’ It seems odd, but this again has to do with the tankard, hrequently it happened that a vessel contained some drink, which was not so nice towards the end as at first, so those who drank first had the best, the last drinker or two got the dregs. ‘ 1 will take you down a peg ! ’ that is, you shall wait for your turn, which will be unpleasant to you ; thus it came to mean doing something that would humble a person. According to one chronicler, Diinstan intro¬ duced the pegged or marked tankard, to encourage moderation in drinking, though another supposes it to have been brought in by an Anglo-Saxon King, one of the Edgars, at an earlier date. There is in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford one of these tankards, which, oddly, was presented to the museum by a Sir Christopher Pegge. One was shown for years at Glastonbury. Some are preserved els^here, mostly made of maple wood. Some are of Saxon tiroes, and a few are Norman. Generally they have eight pegs or pins one above the other at equal distances, the tankard holding two quarts, or more than that, it may be. J. R. S. O. HEROES AND HEROINES OP FAMOUS WRITERS. THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. {Concluded from page 364.) The French General. Montcalm, had taken posses¬ sion of F ort AV illiam Henry, Colonel Munro, who held it, having yielded it on ‘'honourable terms, after a private interview with the French general, who had clearly shown him the helplessness of still sustaining the siege, and the useless loss of life that was certain to follow should he persist in holding out. Montcalm offered generous terms, and to induce Colonel Munro to accept, he placed in his hands a

Page 387

CHATTERBOX. 375 letter which had fallen into his bands by the fortunes of war, from General Webb, advising the Colonel to lose no time in surrendering, and urging, as a reason, in the plainest language, that it was quite impossible for him to send a single man to their rescue. Duncan, who accompanied the old Colonel to the tent of the French general, asked what would become of ^ Our Colours ? ’ ^ Carry them to England, and show them to your king,’ replied the liberal Frenchman. ‘ Our arms ? ’ ‘ Keep them ; none can use them better,’ replied Montcalm. ‘Our march — the surrender of the place?’ persisted Heyward. ‘ Shall all take place in a way most honourable to yourselves,’ answered the generous foe. And so Colonel Munro signed a treaty by which the place was to be yielded to the enemy with the morning; the garrison to retain their arms, their colours, and their baggage, and, conse¬ quently, according to military opinion, their honour. The Fort had changed hands, and the English and Americans were preparing to depart. The un¬ expected blow had struck deep into the heart of Colonel Munro, and he walked dejectedly. Duncan Heyward saw and understood his grief, and pressing to the side of the old man, asked how he might serve him. ‘ My daughters,’ replied the Colonel. Major Heyward, who had thought that all arrangements had been made for their convenience, was surprised to find that in his distress at the loss of the Fort, the brave soldier had not remembered to care for his own most valued possessions — his children. The young man found them both standing on the threshold, surrounded by a group of friends, who were gathered about them weeping. Cora’s face was pale and anxious, but she had lost none of her firmness. The eyes of Alice were red with weeping. Both the sisters received the young soldier with evident pleasure. Soon the British column was marching away, and the Colonel’s daughters, attended by the musical David Gamut, the man in the fantastic dress, whom we mentioned at the commencement of our story, and the domestics of the family, followed at an easy distance. As the column wound along a defile, pass¬ ing on their way a dark cloud of savages, whose sympathies were with the French, Cora and her si.^ter noticed a collection of stragglers, and heard the sounds of strife. Voices grew loud and angry, and a hundred savages appeared, as it were by magic, where a dozen only had been seen a minute before. It was then that Cora saw the form of Magua, the Minto runner, gliding about among his countrymen, and speaking the vvords of discord that would make trouble. Presently one of the Indians caught sight of^ a gaudily-coloured shawl. As he advanced to seize it without the least hesitation, the woman, in terror, wrapped her child in it, and folded both closely to her. Upon this the savage tore the child from her, and another Indian seized the shawl. Then he who had first wanted it ferociously dashed the infant’s head against a rock, and cast the poor little creature’s dead body at her feet. Hardly had he done this, than, enraged by her grief, he drove his tomahawk into her brain, and so mother and child both perished. It was at this moment that Magua, the runner, placed his hands to his mouth, and raised the appalling war-whoop, which the Indians knew so well. It was enough. In a moment, more than two thousand raving savages broke from the forest at the signal, and fearful scenes of carnage ensued. It was in vain that trained bodies of the troops threw themselves quickly into solid masses and en¬ deavoured to check their assailants. But their efforts were worse than useless; they were com¬ pletely unavailing to stem the torrent of angry passions let loose. Cora and Alice were in the midst of the terrible confusion. In vain Alice screamed aloud to her father as he passed at no great distance, on his way to seek Montcalm to claim the promised escort, which had not yet appeared. Again and again was the cry repeated, but the old man heard her not. It was just at this moment that Magua re-appeared, Magua, the false friend who had led them into ambush and danger; who had betrayed their con¬ fidence on every occasion within his power, and had finally stirred up the savages against them ! Seizing the light and senseless form of Alice in his arms (she had fainted), the subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain towards the woods. ^ Hold,’ cried Cora, as she followed wildly on his footsteps ; ‘ release the child ! wretch, what is it you do!’ On sped the Huron, and after him ran Cora and the psalm-singer, David Gamut, whose belief in the powers of music to put an end to savagery and slaughter was by this time severely tried. Passing through the woods, they came to a low ravine. Here Magua placed his fair victim on one of the horses, held ready by another savage as fierce and evil-looking as himself, and made a sio:n to Cora to mount too. The Indian seized the bridle, and plunged deeper into the forest. The cries from the plain reached the ears of Cora, and made her shudder. When they had gained the flat surface of the mountain-top, Magua allowed them to dismount, and they could see below the captured, flying from their relentless persecutors, while the armed columns of the Christian King of France stood by in an indifference which has never been explained, and which has left a blot on the otherwise fair fame of their leader. Some fifteen hundred fell in this slaughter. What happened to Cora and Alice, how the noble Uncas, the last of the Mohicans, attempted her rescue, and what befell them all, is told in the remaining chapters of this interesting book; also what happened to Magua, the villain of the tale. Every boy and girl should read the story for himself or herself ; it is a remarkable chapter in Colonial history, remarkably told. James Cassidy.

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376 CHATTERBOX.

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378 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. X. 5T is rarely as severe along the coast-line of our country as it is inland. Neverthe¬ less, when frost seizes upon the estuaries of the sea with its iron grip, accompanied, as it so often is, by a more or less dense fog, the careful and hard-working pilot is likely to have a far more trying time of it than men working on the land, far removed from the ^perils of the sea.’ Many years ago, there was a great frost early in January. The arms of the sea at Langston, and upon the vast expanse of water known as Chichester Harbour, were covered with great blocks of ice, the oyster beds were nearly destroyed, whilst vessels had the greatest difficulty in feeling their way through the fog into, and out of, the harbour. The barque Juno^ of Shields, was standing slowly in for the mouth of the harbour on one bitterly cold afternoon in the middle of the month. Her skipper stood on the main deck, peering through the thick white mist and then speaking in low tones to his mate. ‘ We must be well round Selsey Bill,’ he said, ‘ slow as we have been going ; I should say we can¬ not be very far off of thn harbour mouth, by now. If we could only get a pilot aboard, I should not so much mind it, but no pilot could possibly see us in this fog. I would give a good deal to know just how far off land we are now.’ The mate said nothing ; he was a grim, old- fashioned seaman, who hardly ever spoke unless compelled. It took a good deal in the way of a sea danger to frighten old Tom Wilks, but he did not like the look of things now. They were sailing slowly on in complete ignorance of their where¬ abouts. It was quite impossible to see even the ship’s length. The shrill boatswain’s whistle was kept going, together with a fog-horn, so as to warn any other vessel to keep clear. But there was a serious danger ahead which no amount of sounding whistles and fog-horns could help to guard against, the danger lurking beneath the surface of the smooth, cold sea. With a scrape and a groan, the Juno suddenly ran on to the spit of stone and sand-covered beach which runs out at right angles to the shore-line. ^ We are aground I ’ cried the men in a breath ; then, next moment, as the vessel still moved along with a tearing, ripping noise, they cried, No ! we are off again ! ’ and gave a little cheer. But the skipper’s face did not agree with the merry ones of the men. He went down below, followed by old ‘ Wilks, in silence, to see what mischief had been done. ^ She is making water fast, Tom,’ said the captain. ^ Get the men to the pumps ; we must try to keep her afloat, and, if we cannot do that, we must see if we can run her ashore on the beach before she goes down.’ ^Do you think it is as bad as that?’ asked old Wilks. ‘ I do. Just look for yourself at what a rate the water is coming in. We must have ripped out some of our seams pretty badly.’ In relays, the men were started working at the pumps. The Juno slowly drifted on, driven more by the set of the tide than by the light air overhead. Little by little, however, it was evident that she was filling and settling down. And still they were not able to make out whereabouts they were. Suddenly a shout came up through the fog, ^ Ship ahoy ! ’ ^ Hullo I ’ roared the skipper through his hands, in reply. ^ Are you a pilot ? ’ ^ Yes. What ship are you ? ’ ^ Juno, of Shields. Will you come aboard and take us in ? How far are we from land ? ’ * Matter of two miles or more,’ came the mys¬ terious voice again, this time fainter than before. Evidently the man was getting farther away from the ship, instead of approaching her. The skipper saw this and at once sounded his fog¬ horn sharply, to let the pilot know whereabouts he was. An answering shout came back, and in five minutes the stranger was clambering over the Juno's side. xYfter a hurried consultation between the skipper, old Wilks, and the new-comer — a big, bearded, finely built man — the latter said : ^ Yes, there is nothing for it but to try to beach her. I doubt though whether she will float long enough to do it. Have your boats all ready for launching, in case she shows signs of going down.’ Wilks nodded. Pie had seen to that beforehand. The tide unfortunately tended to carry them off shore, instead of on it. After nearly two hours spent in trying to reach the shore, the bearded man said to the skipper : ‘No good, sir ; she is settling down fast now, and may roll over us any minute. In this fog neither I nor any other mortal man can see where the laud is. And if I could, that would not help us, for in this tide and with no wind and a water-logged ship, we could do nothing. We must get out the boats, and even then we may have a lot of trouble before we find the land, for I have pretty well lost my bearings now.’ They got the boats out in silence. The sea was perfectly calm, so there was no danger about that. The men all went over the side of the fast-sinking vessel, the skipper being the last to leave. Then they took to the oars and pulled a few yards away so as to be clear of the vortex caused by the foundering of the ship, then paused and waited for the end. Their time of watching was a short one. In less than five minutes from the crew taking to their boats, the poor old Juno took a roll and then a plunge head foremost, and with a sighing noise as the air rushed up her companion-way, giving place to the dull masses of grey water, she sank to the bottom. And not till a few minutes later was it decided which way the boats were to pull in order to reach )

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CHATTERBOX. 379 the land. For in the haste to secure their own personal effects, no one had thought of a compass. The pilot had left his in his boat ; and besides, were they not within a mile or two of the beach ? And yet, when it came to deciding which way to head, they were all at a loss to say in which direction the land lay ! Thicker than ever lay the fog around, below, and above them. At last the pilot spoke : ^ Let us pull straight ahead, lads ; none of us can do more than guess, in this dense fog, which way to go. I think we must be heading for the land, judging by the tide, but even that is slack now ; well, let us pull on, anyhow.^ ‘Light you are,’ rejoined old Wilks, and the men, at a sign from him, laid to their oars with a will. For an hour or more they laboured on at the oars without result, and then for half an hour longer. At the end of that time, the pilot suddenly cried, ‘ All right, boys ! I see something looming up out of the mist. It must be land.’ They pulled on, and a minute later, in great wreaths, the fog began to lift. The pilot gave a great gasp of wonder: ‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, ‘it is land ; but we have rowed right across the Solent, and the land is the Isle of Wight ! ’ F. R. THE TWO WALLETS. A Fable. An old philosopher says : — Every man carries two wallets, one before and one behind, and both full of faults ; but the one before is full of his neigh¬ bours’ faults, the one behind of his own. Thus it happens that men are blind to their own faults, but never lose sight of their neighbours’. • ^sop. HOLIDAYS OH THE OCEAH, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. IX.— THE STROMBUS GIGAS AND THE CYPRiEA TIGRIS. ONE morning Hugh and I were roused by Elsie’s voice, very clear and shrill : ‘No, Steward, you shall not kill him ; it is verv mean and cruel of you ! ’ And then we heard the low drawl of the steward : ‘ Very well. Miss Elsie, and so a poor man, with bairns at home, is to lose ten and sixpence, and maybe more, because you think more of a miserable mollusc than of his welfare. Well, to please you, I will not kill the animal, but will just let him die.’ ‘ That is more wicked still ! ’ cried Elsie. ‘ You ought to sell him to me for my five shillings, and I will put him back into the sea.’ ‘ Ten and sixpence, Missie, and a terrible loss at that.^ ‘ Get up. Jack! ’ said Hugh, ‘and see what is the matter. So, putting my head out of the window of the deck cabin, in which we slept, I shouted : ‘ What is it, Elsie ? ’ I saw a large tin foot-bath, and in it a huge shell, like the lower one in the picture, with a great fleshy animal protruding from it, and waving before him a queer thing like an elephant’s trunk. ‘ Oh, Jack ! ’ shrieked Elsie, ‘ this horrid naan is going to kill that poor creature, or to starve him to death, that he may have his house to sell for a curiosity, and I have offered him my only five shillings, and he wants five and sixpence more.’ ‘ Gently, Elsie ! ’ I said. ‘ You must admit that you have eaten periwinkles, and I do^ not know that size makes much difference in the animal’s feelings.’ ‘ Oh, you cruel boy, how can you say so ? And I do so want him to go back to be happy in his own home,’ and Elsie fairly stamped with wrath, and her eyes shone with tears. ‘ I say, Steward, can you let her have it, if she is goose enough to pay five shillings for it? ’ ‘Ten and sixpence is my price. Master Jack, and very cheap for a Strombus Gigas.’ Now, Hugh hates to hear Elsie cry. ‘ Find my purse in my pocket, Jack,’ said he, ‘ and let him have his five and sixpence.’ Comforting Elsie with the promise of Hugh’s help, I dressed as fast as I could, but, by the time I appeared outside, the matter had ended by Mr. Strombus Gigas taking the law into his own hands, and dying. The canny steward proposed that we should buy the shell, but I informed him that we had several at home, which we used to keep doors open. The defunct owner was a very queer animal, with a distinct head, and two horns or tentacles, each of which carried an eye. Moreover, it had a long snout like a trunk, and a huge divided foot, on which it walked, with a claw at the end. It must be a formidable foe prowling on the war-path at the bottom of the sea, and its shell is so solid that it would be difficult for other creatures to hurt it. You may see the Strombus in any good collection, and he is usually about nine inches to a foot long ; be sure to notice the lovely rose colour of the opening. The same day, one of the sailors showed Hugh another shell-fish, which had also come up in the net, a Cypra3a Tigris. I suppose this animal had a stronger constitution than poor Mr. Strombus, for it looked very lively in a bowl of water with some sea¬ weed. Hugh bought it promptly for Elsie, that she might have the happiness of returning it to its native element. 1 wonder if you will be sharper than we were, in recognising it as our old friend the ‘ Sea Roar ’ or ‘ Porcelain Shell.’ Though we had often held one to our ears, and listened to the murmuring of distant waves in it, the great folds of the foot on which it gets along, the broad fleshy belt turned back over part of the shell, and the curious crowned head and long feelers quite puzzled us at first. Mr. Cypreea is very timid and detests light, spending most of his time buried in the sand. He prefers tropical seas, where he varies greatly in colour and markings. The baby cyprseas are long thin creatures, and begin by making their shells to fit them. Later on they fill out, they pile on fresh layers of shell-stuff in the centre, and leave openings at the ends, so that they can entirely conceal themselves in times of danger. The young

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The Strombus Gigas and the Cyprasa Tigris. shells are pale in colour, but when the growing is finished, the painting-up begins with rich browns, greys, and yellows, beautifully marked and shaded. You will notice behind the strombus the delicate Coralline, one of the most graceful forms of the Sea Fan. Helena Heath. A KNOWING PARROT. E are told by a lady, who died in 1870, of a wonderful parrot which she met with in her childhood ; this clever bird was given to her brother by an uncle, who was a sailor, and had been all over the known world in his ship at various times. When he sent the parrot to England, he warned his nephew that the bird was very bad-tempered, but said also that it soon became attached to its master. This proved true; the parrot grew very fond of the boy to whom it now belonged, and was always gentle and well- behaved to him ; but to his sister, and indeed to every one else except a gardener to whom it took a fancy, it was unfriendly and rude ; it would flap its wings, hobble up and down its perch, and stretch out its neck screaming, * Gway, Gway ! ’ (the nearest it could get to * go away.’) ‘ Bad man, bad man ! ’ However hard other members of the

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A Knowing Parrot. family tried to make friends, the parrot refused all advances, and if he could be persuaded to sit quiet instead of screaming at his enemies, he looked as sulky as a parrot can. This queer temper had one good result. One day, when all the family were absent from the room in which the bird’s perch happened to be, a passing tramp stole in and laid his hands on a fine silver paper-knife, meaning to purloin it, and not noticing the parrot. Suddenly he was startled by a piercing shriek, and a hoarse voice began screaming ‘ Gway ! bad man, bad man ! ' He fled hastily ; but the bird’s cries had roused attention, and the thief was captured.

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882 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAN. {Continued from page 373.) CHAPTER XXXI. , after some delay, the British army moved forward once more from Bloemfon¬ tein, Brian obtained per¬ mission to scout upon the extreme left flank of the British force, hoping that by so doing he might pos¬ sibly extend his operations so far westwards as to embrace the old home at Bloemenkop. For possibly old Xante Anna would by this time be back again, and possibly also she might have some news as to poor Greta’s fate. Brian no longer cherished the slightest hope of hearing that his young wife still lived; he had long since made up his mind that the Kaffir had spoken the truth, and that Greta had been drowned — through some misadventure — while crossing the drift on foot. Poor old Anna would be glad to see him, however, and might be in need of his help. Most likely old Wniem had died at Dundee, and with Greta dead also, and himself away, the old Xante might well be lonely and distressed, especially as she would have returned to a home which the villainy of her own folk had brought to ruin and desolation through no fault of her own. Xhe march from Bloemfontein was accomplished, as all the world knows, with wonderful energy and success. Brian’s work on the extreme left flank was easy. Xhere was no attempt made to ambush the advancing troops. Indeed, the main object of the Boers seemed to be to clear out of the positions they had taken up, however strong, so soon as the victorious British troops were in view. One day Brian found that he was near his old home. He sat down a while to think. His heart was full, for the sight of the place recalled many memories, and in each one Greta played so large a part, that it became painful to him to look out upon the familiar scenes, and he began to wish that he had chosen to scout upon the opposite flank-— as far as possible from the old home— so that he might never again set eyes upon scenes which recalled such memories. Xhen Brian pulled himself together. ‘ What a fool a man can be if he lets himself go ! ’ he thought. ^ I will go down to the farm and see whether old Xante is back and whether she needs anything that I can give her or do for her.* So over the hillock he went and full into sight of the farm-house hallowed for him by many memories. Xhere it stood, just as of old. Xhere were — he saw to his surprise — Kaffirs working in the fields; smoke rose from the chimneys, the place was obviously inhabited and the farm was being worked. Old Xante could scarcely have set matters in order by herself and engaged her labourers to get the crops in. She would require a man’s assistance. Either old Willem had recovered and returned with her, or else the farm had been confiscated as well as looted and ruined. If so, strangers were now in possession ; and the men who had driven Greta forth and who were responsible, in his eyes, for her death were settled in the place. Xhen Brian caught sight of two things which set his thoughts flowing in another channel. Firstly, several horsemen — Boers evidently — rode up from the farther side and entered the farmyard. And, secondly, he now noticed that a large white flag floated over the house. That meant, he knew, either that those in occupation of the farm-house were ready to surrender to the Jilnglish on the arrival of the latter, or else that the place was tenanted by non-combatants. As for the latter theory, the mounted fellows he had seen ride in at the yard gate disposed of it at once. Xhere were mounted and armed men present ; therefore the white flag must signify that they were ready to surrender, should the enemy arrive. Brian sat down and reflected a while. Xhen he rose and went quickly down the hill and towards the house. He had seen the white flag put to very base uses more than once, of late ; it would be better to inquire into the good faith of these people rather than let a body of troops be tricked and shot down under cover of the flag of peace. ‘ I, too, can show a white flag,’ he thought ; and Brian approached the house with his handkerchief attached to his gun-barrel. It only occurred to him when too late, after he had been observed, that it would have been a better Elan to pretend he was a Boer. Now, having by is white flag declared himself an enemy, he might suffer from the ‘slimness’ of these people, and so be useless as a scout on the English side. ‘ It does ngt do to have private feelings,’ thought Brian. * I was anxious to get into the old place and in too much of a hiCtly ; if I had reflected as I ought, 1 should have plS^ ed a better hand.’ However, being qommitted to the enterprise as an avowed Enghsh scout, he must go through with it, and Brian advanced boldly towards the house, deter¬ mined to keep his wits about him and out-fox these Boer foxes. Half-a-dozen fellows met him, saluting him quite courteously. ‘ You are scouting in front of the English left flank, no doubt?’ asked the leader, and Brian assented. ‘ How far are they away — not the main body, the outriders — skirmishers — patrol — what do you call them?’ ‘ Oh, they will be up in an hour,’ said Brian; ‘you intend to surrender, I suppose ? ’ ‘ What else can we do ? Hundreds cannot stand up to thousands; you are too many for us. How many are coming up behind you now ? ’ ‘ Maybe a couple of dozen,’ said Brian, well aware that he might have said two htuidred and been nearer the mark. Xhe Boer glanced at his companions; it was but a fleeting, momentary glance, but Briam saw it. f

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CHATTERBOX. 383 ‘Well, we are sick of the war; if we surrender and lay down our arms, we shall be allowed to go back to our farms, no doubt ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ said Brian, ‘ that is so. There have been some who have first raised the white flag as though they would surrender, but, when the English came near, expecting no treachery, have fired at them.’ The Boer, glancing again at his companions, said, ‘ That was very disgraceful conduct. And what be¬ came of the wicked men who did such things ? Did they succeed in wiping a few English oS the face of earth ? ’ ‘ Maybe ; but be sure they suffered for it.’ ‘ What, skinned alive? ’ laughed the Boer. ^That is what ought to have been,’ said Brian, ‘ but the English are too merciful.’ ‘ Well, my merciful Englishman, enter the house and we will follow — through the stoep, so — and into the room on the left.’ The room was the little larder of the place, Brian remembered it well; often, as a child, he had followed old Anna into it of a morning, he and Greta, to be given a piece of cake or a bit of pudding, by the kind old Tante. There was no pudding there now, the place was as bare of food as a schoolboy’s hamper, three days after its arrival. Brian was hustled in and the door closed after him ; it did not lock. ‘ Stay there,’ said the Boer officer ; ^ you cannot do any good by coming out unless you are anxious to have a Mauser bullet in your kop ? You are a prisoner — do not forget it.’ ‘No, do not shoot me,' said Brian, ‘ I will re¬ member I am a prisoner, only give me some food and a drink.’ ‘You shall have that when the other prisoners come along — an hour did you say ? good — you shall all sup together, you and your two dozen friends, except a few, maybe, who will not need any more suppers in this world.’ ‘ Are you going to murder them ? ’ said Brian. ‘ They will skin you if you do, you know, and burn the farm ! ’ ‘ They are welcome to burn the farm — it does not belong to any of us — there is an old woman locked up somewhere — she is the farmer. When the main body comes up, we shall be miles away, and you and your couple of dozen with us. They can capture the old woman and burn her house — it is about all your chaps are good for.’ ‘ Which room is the old Tante in ? ’ asked Brian, and was informed that she was locked into her bedroom for safety, she and the other, her friend. Brian was now left to himself, and to the problem as to how best to act for the safetjr of the fellows who would, he knew, ride up within an hour or two. They would, of course, capture the farm and all who were in it, but before that could happen a treacherous volley would empty a dozen saddles, and this must at all costs be avoided. Moreover, the British must be warned against firing upon the farm, lest poor old Anna should suffer. ‘ There is only one way,’ Brian reflected, ‘ I must get out of this and warn them.’ A couple of Boers sat in the passage without. talking and laughing ; there they would remain, he knew; there was no chance of escaping that way. Outside, a sentry sat beneath a tree, taking it very easily. Brian watched him. He would rise, yawn, and stretch himself, and walk about a little. Once he came to the window, which was. open, and looked in. ‘Hi, you in there, how long are these fellows going to be ? ’ he asked. ‘ 1 believe I saw one or two cross that little nek by wood up there, just now,’ said Brian ; ‘ you must have been asleep.’ ‘ Are you lying ? ’ said the fellow. ‘ I may have closed my eyes.’ ‘ Well, watch the place — if I was not mistaken, yOji will see them all pass in a minute ; those must have been the outriders.’ The sentry went forward twenty-flve paces, and stood staring with his back turned, which was what Brian wanted. He slipped noiselessly out of the window — he had done it many and many a time in the old days — ^into old Tante’s kitchen garden, full of weeds, now, instead of good garden stuff. Down among the lush growths he dropped, lying along upon his stomach, and creeping like a snake, making for the cornfield which led out of it ; the wheat grew high there, and at this moment half-a- dozen Kaffirs were busy cutting it at the far end. Within a few minutes Brian was a quarter of a mile from the house, and carefully crawling over a little kopje where, if he did not take advantage of' every stone and boulder, he might be seen from tho' house. At the foot of the hillock lay pasture fields, where, of course, he would be easily visible, but he could now keep the kopje between himself and those who, watching from the farm windows, would soon pick him off with a Mauser bullet if ^ they caught sight of him. But Brian was a good scout, and knew as well as, any man how to remain unseeir, cautiously creeping: on his stomach here, but rising and running there, according to the cover he found and the formation of the ground ; he was soon a mile from the house, and bearing quickly round towards the point at which he would meet the British outriders. At two miles from the house he was upon the actual road, and might sit and pant a while, and wait for them, if he pleased j he was safe now. ‘The rascals,’ said the officer in command of the scouting detachment, which rode up a few minutes later, ‘ going to shoot us down under the white flag, are they? Well, you seem to have warned us just in time, my friend; how far away is this farm ? ’ ‘ Two miles,’ said Brian ; ‘ the owner is a prisoner, and locked up in her room ; it is not a case where the farm should be destroyed as a punishment to the owner for harbouring the treacherous scoundrels.’ ‘ How do you know that ? ’ asked the officer. ‘ They told me themselves,’ said Brian. ‘ A lie, my friend, to save the owner,’ laughed Captain Rapson ; ‘ do not believe it — ^the farm must burn.’ ‘But it is an old woman — know the place well,

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“ Brian noticed that a large white flag floated over the house.” I have lived there/ said Brian ; ‘ for Heaven’s sake, Captain, do nothing rash.’ ‘ That alters the case,’ laughed Rapson. ‘ We •will interview the old lady when we nave netted her friends.’ ^ Thank you, sir,’ said Brian, much relieved, ‘ only they are not her friends, they have locked her up ; may 1 show your men her window and get them to keep away from that corner when they shoot — if they do ?’ ' * Certainly, by all means,’ said Rapson. ^ Halt a bit here, men ; when it grows darker, we will take on these white-flag rascals.’ {Concluded at page 386. )

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386 CHATTERBOX. LOST SIR BRIAIT. {Concluded from page 384.) , ^ CHAPTER XXXII. wy HEN it was discovered at the farm-house that Brian had disappeared, there was strife. The Boers in the passage swore truthfully enough that he had not come out of the door, while the sentry in the yard without was equally posi¬ tive that he had not es¬ caped out of the window. * At any rate,^ some said, ‘ he has gone, and will now warn his friends ; either they will not come at all, or they will wait and come in force.’ But the Boer officer said that he would not leave the farm that day for the sake of two dozen rooineks; warned or not warned, he said, they could deal with two dozen. So the garrison of poor Tante Anna’s house re¬ mained in possession for that night; if their prey should escape them to-day, they would abandon it to-morrow and decamp. But there came a rude awakening, for soon after dusk Captain Rapson and his merry men surrounded the farm, while a small detachment, guided by Brian, came to acquaint them with the fact that they were caught, and had better surrender without resistance if they were wise, because there were certain penalties for firing upon honest folk under cover of the white flag which they would find disagreeable. ^ How many are there outside ? ’ asked the Boer officer, in Dutch, of Brian. ‘ About two hundred men,’ said Brian, laughing. * You are fairly caught, Mr. Officer.’ ‘ Not fairly,’ said the Boer, who was furious with Brian’s success in outwitting him ; ^ you deceived me.’ ‘ Deception is a virtue in scouts, officer,’ said Rapson. But the Boer cried to his men to fire upon the party. * If this fellow lied once, he may be lying again,’ he said ; ^ as likely as not, there is not another Englishman within ten miles. Fire on the rascals, men — shoot them down.’ But the men did not obey : they did not like the look of things. Not a man fired excepting the officer himself, who raised his rifle and snapped it straight in Brian’s face. Fortunately, one of Rapson’s men fired almost at the same instant, seeing the Boer’s intention, and shot the fellow dead, the consequence of which timely action was that, instead of blowing out Brian’s brains, the Mauser bullet went too high, and made a groove along the very top of his skull — ‘ knocking him silly,’ as the trooper who picked him up presently explained, meaning that Brian was deprived of consciousness, though the bullet had not inflicted a fatal, or even a very serious, injury. The rest of the Boers were quickly disarmed and shut up in an outhouse under guard, while the British troops bivouacked in the fields close to the farm-house, intending to continue their forward march in the morning. Rapson left orders that Brian should be left in the house. will look after him myself,’ he said; ‘ he is too valuable a scout to be neglected ! ’ Brian still lay unconscious, but it was obvious that the wound was not a very serious one. ^ By the bye, let the old lady be released. Sergeant,’ he continued ; ^ she is a friend of our good scout here, he told us, and she can nurse him.’ Two women came out of the Tante’s room when the door was unlocked ; the elder one was scared, having heard the shots and the commotion, but the younger one bade her fear nothing. ^ These are English soldiers,’ she said, ‘ and they have taken possession of the farm — they will not hurt us.’ ^ It is all right, Tante,’ said Rapson, in English, nodding his head, ‘ do not be afraid.^ ‘ Tell her,’ he added to the interpreter who stood at his elbow ; ‘ tell her there is a chap wounded, who said he knew her; he wants nursing, and she can take on the job. Tell her she may thank him that her farm is not burnt by now, and that a big murder was not committed by the Boer rascals she had in the place.’ When, presently. Captain Rapson heard the cry uttered by old Tante upon seeing the wounded man, he was somewhat touched, and went to tell her that her patient was not so seriou.sly hurt as she supposed. But the old lady had, as he afterwards declared, gone stark, staring mad — more, as it seemed, with joy than with alarm for his condition ; kneeling at his side and ci7ing to the other woman to come, kissing his pale face, calling him by the name of ' Brun,’ and ‘ altogether behaving,’ as Rapson described it, ^like an elderly lunatic.’ ^ But when the other woman came,’ said Rapson, ^she put the old woman into the shade altogether ; she outdid her at every point, in the kissing and the crying; so I thought the chap knows them both pretty well, it seems, and I cannot do better than leave him in their charge.’ When Brian opened his eyes he saw about his pillow two faces so familiar and so dear — one especially — that he thought, at first, he must be in Heaven, having been dispatched to a better place in some fight, which he could not remember. But a severe spasm of pain in his head seemed to prove that he was not yet in another world. ^ It cannot be Greta, alive ! ’ he muttered. Then Greta, whose head had been bent over some woman’s w'ork that lay in her lap, looked up and saw that Brian was conscious, and — well, Brian was not left long in his delusion as to Paradise, but woke to learn that even this old world can be a happy place again for him. CHAPTER XXXin. Colonel Philips walked, one afternoon in J uly, through the streets of Pretoria. Plis companion was an officer of his own corps, and he astonished that gentleman very much by suddenly seizing his arm and pinching it somewhat violently.

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Cl-iATTERBOX. 387 ^ Great Scott ! Lawson/ he exclaimed, ‘ do you see that chap ? ’ ^ Which chappy asked Lawson. ‘What is up? how you startled me.’ ‘The Colonial-looking fellow with the bronzed face — a good-looking chap, but as sly a rascal as ever breathed. We were talking about Pretoria being full of spies — that chap is one, and, what is more, I mean to have him ! ’ ‘ What for — how do you know liim — and what have you against him ? ’ asked Law'son. ‘ I caught him at Chieveley, months ago, and the rascal escaped by slitting the tent-canvas, or I should have hanged him in the morning; he is an English¬ man, and spied for the Boers; the worst sort of scoundrel ! ’ ‘ Well, get him arrested — it is simple enough — if you can prove your case, you may hang him yet, or shoot him.’ A gunner of Philips’ own battery happened to be at hand, and Philips, pointing out Brian to him, bade him follow the man and find out where he lodged. Then PJiilips went to the Governor and applied for the arrest of a Boer spy. ‘ Catch him by all means,’ said the Governor ; ‘ the place SAvarms with them.’ So Brian was arrested and brought before Philips, in order that his examination might be completed, Brian having put an end to further inquiries on the first occasion by splitting an excellent service tent in order to go his own way. Colonel Philips called for the court-martial the same Sergeant and men who had given evidence on the former occasion. ‘Weh, what have you to say?’ said Colonel Philips. Brian was not in the least disconcerted. On the contrary, he regarded the matter as a huge joke. ‘ I can produce any number of witnesses to prove that I have worked well as a scout on the British side, and I have been wounded more than once by -Mauser bullets,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘ Am I being seriously accused, sir ? ’ ‘ You can call wdtnesses in your defence, if you like, presently ; meanwhile, can you prove whether you are English or Boer ? ’ ‘ I have a document or two in my wallet that might help ; you can see them if you like,’ said Brian. ‘ Search him. Sergeant,’ said Philips, ^ and see w^h ether he has papers that bear out his assertions.’ ‘ Here, Sergeant, you can look through the lot,’ laughed Brian, handing over his wallet; ‘you will not find any very private letters.’ The Sergeant took the packet and opened it. Among the papers here was a letter from Philips himself ; that which he had caused to be delivered to Brian Amberton at Bulawayo ; there was also the faded old sheet of blue paper written by d3dng Lilian Amberton, and given to Brian but a short while since by a wounded Boer at Dundee. ‘ A few letters, sir,’ said the Sergeant, ‘ and that seems about all.’ ‘ Well, we must read them, I am afraid/ said Philips ; ‘ look over them. Sergeant — you need not read far — just see if there is any evidence.’ The Sergeant opened several papers and read a line or two ; there were agreements and quittances from Brian’s late partner in the Rhodesian property ; then he came to a longer letter and looked at the signa¬ ture. ‘Seems to be signed by a gentleman of your own name, sir,’ he said, with a grin, passing the letter to the Colonel. Philips flushed as his eye fell upon the document. He looked keenly at the prisoner. ‘ Tell me the truth,’ he said, ‘ how did you come by this ? Stop, where did you come from, and what is your name ? ’ ‘ I came from Bloemenkop, where I have a farm, and my name is Sir Brian Amberton, and as for that letter - ’ Philips started. ‘ Stop — why do you say that is your name ? ’ ‘ Why should I not, when it is ? ’ laughed Brian ; ‘ it took me some time to find it, but I am going to stick to it now I have got it.’ The Sergeant began to be interested on his own account. ‘ If you will excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘I have heard tell in camp there is a young scout as insists as his name is Sir Brian Something, and he is spoken of as a good scout, too ; I do not know the young gentleman, myself, but as he gives that name, this ma}^ be the one I have heard of. If so, there are plenty in camp who would answer for him, as I remember his saying down at Chieveley when we first took him.’ ‘ Beg your pardon, sir/ said an interested soldier, one of those forming a guard about the court. ‘ Well/ said Philips, ‘ speak.’ ‘That is Sir Brian all right, sir; he has been pointed out to me before. 1 could swear to him any¬ where, having a good memory for faces.’ ‘ Well, we can look into that matter later/ said Colonel Philips ; ‘ let us finish with the original inquiry first. You were captured together ; with a number of Boers, prisoners, near Chieveley ; you seemed to be on friendly terms with them — what have 3mu to say in explanation of this ? ’ i ‘Simply that it is my plan of scouting; 1 speak • Dutch and look something like a Boer, having been brought up by them ; I go among them, learn their secrets, and tell them 3'arns from the English camp, i into which they suppose that I penetrated as a Boer ; spy. I told those Chieveley fellows that, upon hearing of the Colenso affair, Chamberlain and Salisbury both died of apoplexy, and that Buffer had since refused to leave his tent; the news was after¬ wards published in the Staats Courant as authentic. That is all the important news they got out of me, that and similar stuff; I told them there were only two men and a few boys left in England after our last reinforcements, and they believed even that.’ By this time Philips was no longer in doubt that circumstances had made a fool of him. He enter¬ tained scarcely more doubt that this young man was the very man he had tried for years to discover. How extraordinary if he should prove himself to be Arthur’s nephew ! ‘ There is more than accident in this 1’ he reflected. ‘To think that I, of all people, should have been the one to accuse the lad. Thank God, it looks like an easy acquittal.’

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‘ Search him, Sergeant. See whether he has papers that bear out his assertions.” Philips had entered upon the inquiry with the fullest intention and desire to convict the accused ; he was ending it by thanking Heaven that he would be able to acquit him. ‘ Can you give me the name of any officer now in Pretoria who can identify you as a scout employed in the English service ? ^ Brian mentioned a gentleman so highly placed that Philips was surprised. * W ell, I will speak to the General,’ he said ; * and^ of course, a word from him will suffice. It is a pity that you did not clear yourself at Chieveley instead of escaping in the night and thus giving colour to the suspicion under which you lay.’

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CHATTERBOX. 389 ‘ I was in a hurry to get away/ laughed Brian, ‘ and I knew it was a mistake.’ ^ Kemove the prisoner, Sergeant/ said Philips ; * but see that he is brought to my quarters in two hours; most likely he will then be discharged.’ When Philips spoke to the great man whose name Brian had given, that exalted officer laughed merrily over the mistake. * Why, you have arrested one of my very best scouts, man/ he said. ^Barring Burnham, and perhaps another, I do not know where I should look for a better.’ Brian was duly brought to Philips’s quarters at the appointed hour. ^ You can leave him, Sergeant/ said the Colonel, *he is discharged. Stay a moment, Amberton, if you will,’ he continued, should like to have a word with you — sit down ; now, I will ask you to give me an outline of your own history, so far as you know it ; I do not ask this for curiosity, but because I would do you a service if I could, for the sake of one who is dead, but who was once a dear friend of mine. Sir Arthur Amberton; it is possible that you may prove to be his nephew.’ ‘ But who are you, meanwhile ? ’ asked Brian bluntly, * and why do you wish to know so much ? ’ * My name is Philips, and it was 1 who wrote the letter you have in your wallet, signed by that name.’ * Ah V said Brian, * what a lot of time we have wasted ; it is a pity I did not know that months ago. How oddly things go. Well, you can hear what I have to tell, if you like.’ And Brian launched out into a history, as far as he knew it, of his career, a history which comprised a portion of what has been told in these pages, dis¬ jointed and incomplete, but correct in so far as it went. * Well, I think there is no doubt that you are the lost Sir Brian/ he said, at last; ^your tale tallies correctly with my own, and the case might be considered as proved, though, legally, there might be difficulty. Now listen to my story.’ And Brian heard for the first time the story of his life, as put together by Sir Arthur and Philips himself. * You see,’ he ended, * you and I may feel reasonably sure that you are you, but the law requires more conclusive proofs.’ * Stop/ said Brian, * you have not read this yet.’ He handed Philips the faded sheet written by Lilian Amberton. Philips read it with interest and even emotion. * That looks like the finger of Fate, indeed/ he said, presently. ^ Have you always possessed this ? ’ Brian explained that he had come by it lately, and by the merest accident. ^ Accident is only another name for God’s provi¬ dence,’ said Philips ; ^ but stay — what about those marks here spoken of — have you them ? ’ Brian bared his arm, laughing. ‘ Not much doubt of that,’ he said ; ^ there is the V of the blundering surgeon, and there is the dog’s mark below.’ * Yes,’ said Philips. ‘ There is not a doubt of it ; how wild old Sir Edward will be ! Well, I con¬ gratulate you, lad — I thought I was going to have you shot once, and I find that, after all, you are the man I have spent years in looking for.’ ^ The General would not have let you shoot me ! ’ laughed Brian. ^ I am glad I know for certain who I am ; but Sir Edward need not worry yet. How old is he ? I am not going to law about it. Better wait for my property than spend it on the lawyers.’ ^ He is an old man/ said Philips, * and an extremely disagreeable one to deal with. Perhaps an arrange¬ ment might be made when he learns that you have a strong case. You are right to keep out of the grip of the courts, if possible.’ When, a month later, Brian journeyed with Philips to England, both he and Greta agreed that they preferred the Transvaal. There were too many people here, and too many restrictions as to dress, and such matters. * Let the old boy remain at Amberton Court/ said Brian, * till he dies — he may pay me an allowance, and re-stock the farm at Bloemenkop, and he may have the Court and the title too, for all I care.’ And so it was arranged, with the exception of the matter of the title, which fell naturally to Brian. The old man saw his Colonial relative, and, strange to say, actually took a fancy to him and to Greta ; moreover, he was sorry when they insisted upon returning to Africa. And now, dear reader, but one word more. I am empowered by Sir Brian to issue a general invitation to all and sundry of you who may be travelling in that direction to off-saddle at Bloemenkop, and to stay a few days at the farm. He will be charmed to see and to entertain you, and so will Greta. Old Tante Anna, I am to say, bakes the most delicious breakfast-rolls, and loves to see strange faces in the house. Yet she often thinks of her husband, who was buried at Dundee, with many other brave men, English and Boer, who gave their lives for the cause they supported. The hospitality of the farm is not denied to Englishmen now. There is still some good shooting to be had — and, above all, you will be sure of a hearty welcome. The End. STORIES PROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE BRIGANDS. Mountains in foreign lands have been — and in some places still are — favourite hiding- places for robbers. It is so easy to hide where there are caves and crevices, high rocks behind which to shelter, and deep ravines where only those who know the way dare venture. People have sometimes made the brigands — as mountain robbers are called — into heroes of the same sort as those we have in some of our popular stories. They have told tales about them such as are told of Robin Hood and his band of merry men, and have represented them as being brave and generous, and good friends to the poor. There is not much truth in these tales. In Greece and Italy, where brigandage has most prevailed, and ) where it is not, even now, entirely put down, these I robbers used to lead a wretched, hunted sort of life.

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390 CHATTERBOX. and to be always quarrelling amongst themselves. They were often half-starved, and could have earned more, by any kind of honest work, than they got out of their wicked ventures. When they heard that any wealthy travellers were likely to pass through their mountains, it was the custom of these men to hide themselves near the road. Then, when the carriage reached some lonely spot, the robbers would leap out; holding their long guns to the heads of the frightened people, and demanding money, with threats and violence. Not content with this, they frequently carried their unhappy victims off as prisoners, and kept them among the mountains until a heavy ransom was paid, threatening 1:0 kill them if the money were not soon forthcoming. An English gentleman who was thus taken prisoner by a party of Greek brigands, tells how they made him walk rapidly, all night long, till they reached their camp, or chief hiding-place ; and how he was made to live, for weeks, on scraps of coarse food, and often suffered from thirst and hunger. According to this truthful witness the robbers were a dirty, vicious, quarrelsome crew, full of jealousies and fears; and though they did not treat their captive — as some do — with extreme cruelty,, they made his days and nights very miserable. Their evil ways, and the close contact in which he was obliged to live with them, caused him to long intensely for release. His friends in England made great efforts to raise the money demanded ; and, after spending more than a month in the haunts of the robbers, he was at length set free ; and he was able to assure his friends that there is nothing really noble or grand about the brigands. C. J. Blake. THE BABOON AND THE MIBROR. An Eastern Fable. ONCE on a time a baboon picked up a small looking- glass in the forest, and he went about showing it to the various animals that lived near. The gorilla looked into it, and after making a very wry face, said, ‘ If that is like me, I would rather be a lion.’ His majesty the lion looked into it and exclaimed : ‘ Why, my head is much too big for my body.’ Old Bruin then came up, and, seeing his reflection, said he would rather have the face of a stag, with its branching horns. Even the pig looked into it, and grunted out, ‘ I am a fat-looking fellow to be sure ; no wonder they catch us and make us into pork.’ Thus each animal was dissatisfied with its own appearance. An owl, who had witnessed the whole scene, began to laugh. The baboon begged the owl to come and see her image in the glass — ‘for,’ said he, ‘ you look quite charming when you smile.’ ‘ No, no,’ replied the owl, ‘ for T know very well that if I saw myself, I should never be happy again.’ ‘ Quite right,’ cried all the beasts ; so the old baboon in a rage took up the mirror and dashed it into a thousand bits against a tree, exclaiming ; ‘ Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.’ QUEEN VICTORIA’S REMARKABLE ESCAPES. WHEN our late beloved Queen came to the throne of this great Empire, in one of her short speeches she remarked that its great, anxieties would overwhelm her, but for the hope that she would be guided and guarded by God’s Provi¬ dence. This hope was quite fulfilled ; she reigned more than sixty-three years, and escaped many dangers which might have suddenly ended her life. Her escapes from perils which might have caused serious injury or death began very early in Her Majesty’s life. When the little princess was only three years old, taking a drive in a pony chaise near Kensington Palace, by some mischance she fell out, and was in danger of being run over. A soldier, fortunately, was close by ; he seized her dress, and swung her away from the approaching wheels. This was not forgotten by the Queen, who provided for him in his old age. In A.D. 1833, when she was fourteen, she sat on the deck of the yacht Emerald. As sometimes happens, a strong gale came up suddenly. As the Princess watched the scene, a loud crack was heard at the topmast. The pilot rushed forward, and lifted the Princess to a place of safety; not long after the mast crashed down upon the very spot where the Princess had just been. After Victoria became Queen, her escapes were as marvellous and more numerous, perils by water being amongst them. One day Her Majesty was on board a yacht, steaming along the south coast, and a fog came over when the yacht happened to be amongst a number of vessels much larger and heavier. Her captain knew that the yacht was in terrible danger, and had the fog-horn sounded. He was obliged to explain that this was necessary, when the Queen required to know the reason of the horrid noise. After a time the fog cleared. Her Majesty being scarcely aware how perilous had been her position. In a.d. 1876, the royal yacht was crossing from Cowes to Gosport, and another yacht, the Mistletoe^ ran across her bow, turned over, and sank. Two lives were lost, much to the Queen’s distress, but her vessel escaped any serious damage. When out for a drive, one summer’s day, in Windsor Great Park, the Queen’s carriage passed amongst some lofty old elms. It is a peculiarity of the elm-tree, that it will drop a large branch without warning, or seeming reason, and even a whole tree may come down suddenly. John Brown, the Queen’s faithful attendant, saw a large tree in the act of falling, and pulled up the pony only just in time to prevent Her Majesty from being crushed under its trunk. On another drive, the Queen’s carriage did actually turn over while it was going over an awkward piece of road ; the royal occupants were turned out, and the horses fell. Great was the fright of the coachman, for Her Majesty’s face came, with force, to the ground, being much bruised, and one of her thumbs was hurt. Cheerful and brave, as usual, she at once

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CHATTERBOX. 391 assured the others that she had not received hurts of a serious nature. But, above all, we see the hand of God in frustra¬ ting the attempts of wicked or insane persons, who tried to take the Queen’s valuable life. She had reigned only three years, when Oxford, who proved to be a lunatic, fired at her as she drove up Consti¬ tution Hill with Prince Albert, the pistol containing a bullet. On May ilOth, a.d. 1842, John Francis pre¬ sented a loaded pistol at Her Majesty, in St. James’s Park ; happily somebody dashed it aside, and he was seized by a soldier and a policeman. Tried at the Central Criminal Court, he was sentenced to death ; but the Queen, with her usual kindness, remitted this, and he was confined in prison for a term. Aga?in, on May 19th, a.d. 1849, an Irish bricklayer, James Hamilton, let ofif a pistol at the Queen in St. James’s Park, but fortunately it proved to be loaded merely with powder ; he was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment. In May of the next year, an ex¬ lieutenant of the 10th Hussars struck Her Majesty on the head with a stick, in Pall Mall ; the blow might have been a dangerous one. For the last time, the Queen was fired at by Robert Maclear, in a.d. 1882, near Windsor station ; the Princess Beatrice was with her, bub they were unhurt. J. R. S. C. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS* 35. — Word Puzzles. Metagrams, Change the first letter. (a.) — 1. Power. 2. After the sun has set. 3. A small bay between two points of land. 4. The reverse of darkness. 5. What our actions should always be. 6. A spectacle. 7. To struggle for victory. 8. The nineteenth part of the half of three hundred and four. 9. Not loose nor open, not admitting air. (b.)— 1. A piece of flat timber. 2. Empty, void, white, not written on. 3. The extreme right or left of a body of troops. (o.) — 1. Not the greatest. 2. A sumptuous meal. 3. An animal. 4. The froth of a liquor in fermentation. To take the outer covering from a fruit. 2. Anxiety, trouble. 3. A wild plant resembling one used for food. 4. Uncovered; unadorned.* 5. To risk, to venture, 6. A timid animal. 7. Unusual, uncommon. 8. The amount paid for a journey. 36. — Geographical Acrostic. A CELEBRATED ancient city in Africa, once the rival of a still more important city in the south of Europe. 1. An island in the Mediterranean, the birthplace of a very remarkable man. 2. A town in European Turkey, named after a famous Roman Emperor. 3. A city in Kent containing a cathedral and the remains of an ancient castle. 4. A Roman emperor who was much loved by his people on account of his mercy and kindness. 5. The last Saxon king who reigned in England. 6. The name of a Queen of England. 7. A large province in Spain which was long in the possession of a foreign people who came from another continent. 8. A river in Spain. [Answers at page 407.] 34.— 1. Drawer, picture. 2. Courtier. 3. Weary. 4. Almost, races. 5. Accident. 6. Stranger, least. 7. Prisoners. 8. Gipseys. 9. Honesty. 10. Guernsey. 11. Pleasure. 12. Diligence. THE OKAPI. ERE are now so many great hunters of big game, who follow their sport under tro¬ pical suns, in places where wild animals were formerly almost secure from human enemies, that we are told some species are getting scarce or may even vanish alto¬ gether. Lions, leopards, ele¬ phants, and hippopotami are not easily found, large as they are, ^ and ^ the tall giraffe is a conspicuous animal that is said to be in danger. Ever since the first specimens known in England arrived on our shores, the giraffe, with its long neck and forelegs, lustrous eyes, and brown spots upon a fawn-coloured skin, has been a favourite with young people. Many would be sorry if its stately form was no more to be seen in Zoo¬ logical Gardens. Certainly baby giraffes have been born in confinement, but they are difficult to rear. However, we may hope that for some time yet Africa wiU supply more specimens, especially as lions are fewer, for the king of beasts dares to assail the giraffe. When pressed, the animal can defend itself successfully by horns and hoofs. Naturalists have observed that the giraffe is akin to the camel tribe, and also to the antelopes ; in the okapi, recently discovered in Central Africa, we have a quadruped which takes a place between antelopes and the true giraffes. It has a resemblance to an extinct animal called the Sinotherium, and is of less size than the giraffe, but appears to be better equipped with horns. At present we know nothing about the habits of the okapi, and our only British specimen is in the Natural History Museum at South Kensington, the giver being Sir Harry Johnstone, K.C.B. It comes from the Semlik Forest, near the Albert Edward Lake in Congo. It is a queer sort of animal, looking as though it were un¬ finished, for its coat is not so evenly marked as the giraffe’s, and its shorter legs give it a strange appearance. Clifford.

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392 CHATTERBOX.

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CHATTERBOX 393

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394 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. XI. EVON and Cornwall, without any doubt, must be awarded the palm for beauty, wild¬ ness, and charm, along the whole of the coast-line of our island. At this, the beginning of the twentieth century, it is hard to credit the undoubted fact that two or three of the remoter fish¬ ing villages in each of these counties are peopled by a race, most interesting in itself, very different from their countrymen. They are the descendants of a party of Spaniards, wrecked on our shores in the time of Queen Elizabeth. In due course, they married the West- country village women, and settled down chiefly as crab and lobster fishers. Those of us w^ho have visited Bee Sands can recall the dark, swarthy, black-eyed men and women whom we met, and wondered to find so different to the Anglo-Saxons all around us. They are a highly interesting race, living hard-working fishermen’s lives, and mingling as little as possible with the rest of mankind. In this respect they are very like the Basques, who inhabit the seaboard at the foot of the Pyrenees ; these also never intermarry with either Spaniards or French, although living almost in between those two races. . I have mentioned Bee Sands, as being the place most likely to be known to the majority of our readers, of all these strange villages. But it was ! much farther down the coast to the westward that the following incident took place. The inhabitants of Bee Sands had no hand or part in it. I have only spoken of them as people who are typical of the race in question. In the little village of Trehayne, lived some five- and-twenty to thirty of these dark-skinned fisher¬ men — fierce, jealous, but honest and hard-working fellows, earning their daily bread amidst the dangers of the sea. They interfered with no one, and save that they were suspected— probably with good reason, too — of doing some petty smuggling, here and there, and that their Spanish blood led them, at rare in¬ tervals, to draw knives in anger^ they were decent, law-abiding men. It was ^ in good King George’s golden day,’ when the press-gang was working to fill the King’s ships of war with men, that the sharp eye of a warrant officer, a Cornishman himself, fell upon the village of Trehayne. He pried about a little, and counted heads, finding that over a score of the male population were young and strong seamen. ‘If we could press these fellows,’ thought the boatswain to himself, ‘they would be handy seamen and come in useful, in place of the wounded and invalid.s we have just had to discharge from the Royal Sovereign. I will speak to the first lieutenant about it, this very night.’ And so he did, and the officer in question was only too thankful at the chance of gaining so many likely young fellows, at one swoop, to serve aboard his frigate, for she was terribly under-manned. A recent severe engagement with the enemy had crippled her in men, as badly as in the matter of rigging shot away and sails blown to rags. The latter admitted of quick repair ; but to find men, in place of the poor fellows killed and wounded, was no such easy matter. Most of the men who fell victims to the press- gang were utterly unfitted for a seaman’s life. Drapers’ and grocers’ assistants, hulking lads from off the farms, all these were the rawest of material from which to fashion trained hands before the mast. Many of them, in fact, looked so hope¬ lessly unfit for the business, that they were dis¬ charged almost as soon as they were taken aboard. But here, argued the boatswain, were over a score of trained, practical seamen, in full health and strength, able — if not willing — to go aloft in a gale of wind, to hand or reef sails, and, with a little teaching, to make admirable helmsmen, later on. Yes, these men of Trehayne were well worth try¬ ing for. How the unhappy women and children were to live whilst the bread-winners were absent, fighting the wars of their country, was nothing to do with the boatswain — at all events, such was the view which that worthy petty officer took of the matter. The weather was calm — it was midsummer — and a great Seventy-four had brought up off the mouth of the river which skirts Trehayne on the east side. The summer day deepened into the short, warm night; all lay stiU at the little fishing village — almost every inhabitant who was not at sea was abed and asleep. Suddenly, the sound of a horse’s hoofs, clattering over the cobble-stones of the single, ill-paved street, brought several heads to the windows of the houses. And to all the rider saw, he uttered just these two ominous words: ‘ The press-gang ! ’ Like wildfire the news rushed over the little village. Dark forms hurried to and fro, every man who was ashore that night turned out quickly into the street. Then, after a hasty conversation, they all started off, pell-mell for the beach. They had learned from the mounted messenger that a contingent from the man-o’-war was marching in the direction of the village, and that a cutter was putting towards the level strip of beach below, so as to assail them on both sides at once. In a moment, the men saw where their best chance lay — for escape by the ordinary means of flight was quite impossible, as they were now cut off both by land and sea ; they were desperate, and had to resort to desperate remedies. Not a fishing-boat was left on the beach — and even if there had been, it would have availed them little, as the cutter, in the then-prevailing light, variable breeze, would certainly overtake it; and so they determined to use both force and strategy in defence of their liberty. Arrived at the beach, they silently concealed them¬ selves behind the immense rocks and waited for the coming of the boat. They knew she must land close by the spot w^bere they were then standing.

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CHATTERBOX. 395 and, armed with knives and stout oak staves, they anxiously waited for the sound of the cutter’s oars. Just upon the stroke of midnight, a faint sound struck upon the ears of the listening fishermen. It became stronger and stronger until there could no longer be any doubt that it was the noise of oars working in the rowlocks ; then, each of the waiting men gripped his weapon a little tighter, and prepared to brace up his nerves for battle. The cutter came steadily on until her stem grated on the beach. Instantly the bow-man leapt out, painter in hand, and he was. at once joined by two more seamen. They gave the cutter a short haul up, and 'then all her crew came merrily tumbling out, and two yoimg officers stepped along from the stern- sheets on to the beach, and began quietly giving directions. They were evidently going to march straight up to the village. 'When the fishermen were first roused out of their sleep, and betook themselves to the shore, their idea had been to make a desperate attack on the boat’s crew, seize the cutter and escape to sea, trying to meet their comrades who were out with ihe nets, not very far away, and warn them. But now an easier task suddenly presented itself to them — the cutter was about to be left in charge of a couple of the 'hands’— all they had to do was to overpower them and take possession of the boat ! Away tramped the merry bluejackets, their cutlasses buckled to their sides, and stout cudgels in their hands. Officers and men alike expected to have snme tough work before them in capturing the hardy fisher-folk of Trehayue. No sooner had the sound of their retreating foot¬ steps died away in the distance than Oscar Manuel, who, as though by tacit consent, was looked up to as the leader in this venture, silently stepped out of his concealment, but still keeping carefully in the black shadow of the rocks, moved cautiously along to where three of his comrades were hiding, and com¬ municated his plans in a whisper to them. Allowing another minute for the man-o’-war’s men to be safely out of hearing, these four, quickly followed by the rest of the Trehayne men, suddenly rushed out and seized upon the two men left in charge of the cutter. Completely taken by surprise, the seamen offered practically no resistance. They were quickly and quietly bound, and handkerchiefs made fast over their mouths in order to prevent their crying out for help. 'Tumble in, lads — look sharp, for they will not be long before they are back again now !’ cried Manuel. Ill less than two minutes the fishermen had em¬ barked in the man-o’-war’s cutter and pushed off. They bent to their oars with a will, and in half an hour’s time had come within hail of their own little fleet. They pulled on until they could get aboard the vessels — a couple of men here and a couple there, as one boat would not have been large enough to hold them all — and quickly gave the alarm. Then, the last of the men being out of her, they sent the cutter adrift, and awaited the daylight in patience. As soon as dawn broke, one of the fishing fleet was deputed to sail up close to the man-o’-war, then lying, as we have said, at anchor off the mouth of the river. Having arrived there, they watched her closely. About five o’clock, signals were made, from the shore, in response to which two boats were swung out and quickly lowered. A small crew got into them, and they were rowed to the river side. Twenty minutes later those on board the fishing craft saw the boats start on their return journey, loaded down to the gunwales with armed bluejackets and marines. They pulled out slowly to the ship, clambered on board, and the boats were hoisted in. The fishermen still remained watching her move¬ ments until, to their great relief, they saw the men piped to the capstans, and the handle-bars fixed. I They were getting up their anchors, and in an hour’s 1 time the great ship had spread her sails and was , fairly under way. The danger was past, and the men of Trehayne were safe. F. R. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. X.-SOMB CHiETODONS. WE were very glad to hear that we should anchor for at least some days, on reaching Rio de Janeiro, the capital of Brazil. We were told that it was a lovely place, but the reality was far beyond our expectations. We entered by quite a narrow water-way, between two fine headlands, and found ourselves in a grand natural harbour, fifteen miles long, and from two to seven miles wide. Mrs. Reeves has relations at Rio, so we went on shore every day for pic-nics or some kind of ex¬ peditions. The city and suburbs run for ten miles along the shore, and there is a conical mountain close by with a cog- rail way running up to the top, where we got a wonderful view. There is also a grand avenue of palm-trees near the town, and the flowers and creepers all about are simply splendid. In the picture you will find some of the odd¬ looking fishes which were brought up one day from the harbour. You can see how curiously they are covered with scales and wonderful markings, but unless you saw them in the water or only just taken out of it, you could have no idea how beautiful they really are. Their colouring is most vivid, and they dart about amongst the corallines and seaweed just as the humming-birds do on shore amongst the flowers. Hashing rose-colour, violet, sky blue, rich black, and pearly grey. They are smallish creatures, and as they love the sunshine it is quite easy to watch them at play in the smooth, transparent water. Their bodies and fins are so thickly coated with scales that it is difficult to know where one begins and the other ends. These fishes are called Chaetodon, and they belong to the family of Squanii- pennes, which contains about seventy varieties. They live mostly in tropical oceans, but some species are found in rivers and inland seas. One of these is known as the Archer-fish, for he is supposed to let fly a drop of water at an insect perching within reach on a rush or overhanging leaf. The drop of water makes the lly or gnat fall off, and Mr. Chatodoii gobbles up the juicy morsel. The Chinese

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Some Chaetodons. are fond of keeping archer-fishes in jars or tanks, and providing them with prey, for their own amusement. Another species, known as Zanchus, has a queer head with a horn on it, and the fishermen of the Malaccas, when they chance to catch one, salute it with the utmost reverence, and put it back care¬ fully into the sea. Chsetodons have mostly very small mouths at the end of a kind of snout, and very long hair-like teeth, with which they contrive to demolish a vast number of small molluscs and crustaceans which have the ill-luck to come in their way. Helena Heath, WILD HORSES. NE of the little school-books in use many years ago, when Chatterbox was quite young, gives a very good account of the horse, amongst other animals. Special mention was made of the Arab horse, remarkable for its beauty, swiftness, and affectionate nature. The writer suggested that Arab horses may have been the first brought over to Europe, and described the way in which the Arabs trained their favourites. The deserts which bordered Arabia, it was also said, were the abode of troops of wild horses which were captured from

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time to time, and "brought into the villages. This, doubtless, was true then, but now very few are to he seen in Arabia wandering at liberty. Still, there are countries that have yet plenty of wild horses, and among the recent arrivals at the Zoological Gardens are specimens of the wild horses of Asia, brought from Prjavalsky, a breed quite strangers to Britain. They seem comfortable in their paddock, and though somewhat rough, might no doubt be made friendly to mankind. The steppes about the Sea of Azof are stated to have their herds of horses, too, which are rather different, probably smaller, than those on exhibition here. Then, again, upon the Pampas, or great plains,

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898 CHATTJKRBOX. of South America, thousands of horses roam, wild now, but descended from those which the Spaniards brought over many years ago. When there is any danger, they put themselves under the direction of a leader, who arranges them so as to oppose the attack of an enemy. Even in our own islands, wild horses are found, or, at least, ponies. In the northern islands, a small breed runs wild, and Shetland ponies may be taken and kept by anybody who can secure them. Usually the wild horse shuns forests and woods, preferring open places, and well satistied | with poor fare. J. K. S. C. ENGLAND’S ROLL OF HONOUR. LUCKNOW, AD. 1857. E storm of rebellion which arose in Meerut on the 10th May, 1857, swept rapidly from town to town, and ere the month was over the inhabitants of Lucknow, one hundred and ninety miles away, knew of its approach. Then came a scene of busy preparation. Sir Henry Lawrence was Governor of Oude, the great province of which Lucknow is the capital, and he saw the need of immediately putting the town in a state of defence. Food was stored in the European quarter of the town ; earth-works were thrown up, and cannon were posted at various positions, forming a ring of defences round the Kesidency. Into the fort thus formed, the women and little children were hurried. The defenders, consisting of the few native troops who had remained faithful, and a handful of European soldiers and civilians, took up their duties. Scarcely had these precautions been made, when the storm broke ; so suddenly, indeed, that many who had intended to store provisions for the siege were obliged to give up their object, and look only to the supply which Sir Henry Lawrence had brouglit into the town. Shut away from the outside world, the Lucknow garrison now stood face to face with a terrible ordeal. The speed with which the crisis had risen had made it impossible to find time to destroy the buildings which stood all round the Residency. Into these houses the foe swarmed, and on the first of July be^an to pour upon the garrison that deluge of shot which was to last for eighty-seven days without ceasing. Alas ! one of the first cannonades brought a sad disaster. Crashing through the walls, a shell burst in the room where Sir Henry Lawrence was lying on a bed exhausted by constant labour, but still engaged in giving orders to a irroup of officers for the proper defence of the town. " A fragment of the shell dealt him a mortal wound, and two da3’^s later (on the fourth of July) the sorrowing garrison la’d him in his grave. The command now fell upon Colonel Inglis. Without pause the thunder of the guns roared over their heads ; the wails of their houses crumbled beneath the heavy bombardment, and the shells thrown from across the river were bursting in the squares and open spaces. Not a house, and hardly a room within the ring of defence was safe, for the enemy had taken up positions on distant roofs, and in high towers that overlooked the Residency, and many a musket ball from some unseen rebel carried death where it was least expected. Treachery as well as war beset the garrison, for it was plain, by the enemy’s tactics, that they were kept informed of every movement which took place behind the European defences. At one time the wild storm of musket shots, beating down into the streets, made it impossible to reach the quarter where the horses were lodged. In consequence, the poor animals, maddened by hunger, broke from their stalls and galloped in herds through the streets, to fall wounded or dead in the open squares and narrow lanes. Thus a fresh task was created for the besieged. Under shelter of the night parties must be formed to bury the poor victims ; and the little rest that the darkness might have brought must be sacrificed. Disease and sickness had long since come over those shot-torn ramparts which the enemy had found impossible to scale ; and the ravages of this foe would grow more fatal if the dead remained unburied. The little children sank day by day before the attacks of this silent enemy, and the hearts of those still left grew heavy. Not a night came but there was some comrade to be laid to rest, slain by sickness or war ; not a morning dawned that was not sadder than the last. Yet Lucknow did not fall. Rumours of approach¬ ing aid would be brought sometimes, but only to be found false ; and the hot days came and went, each with its terrible burden. Large rewards were promised to those natives who would convey letters to the English general who was fighting his way through the enemy’s country. But to these letters no answers came, and if the hearts at Lucknow had not been stalwart indeed, hope would have died within them. At last, when July was nearly over, a messenger came back with the news that General Havelock was on his way from Cawnpore, and would reach Luck¬ now in six days. But the six days passed, and General Havelock did not come. "Had England forgotten them ? No man in Lucknow asked him¬ self that question, for all knew that such a thing was impossible. The deafening cannonade went on; the enemy drew nearer and nearer, making frequent attempts to storm the walls. Then, like moles in the darkness, they dug mines beneath the houses and batteries of the besieged ; but quick ears heard the sound of their tools, and other mines were sunk to meet them, frustrating many an effort to blow up some battery or ^ building. Then the heavy rains began to fall, doing more damage to the earthworks than the enemy’s guns had done ; for the water washed away the dry soil, and rotted the sand-bags. But fresh bags were made, while, knee-deep in the flood, the never-resting toilers repaired their fortifications.

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CHATTIERBOX. 399 August came and went, with scorching heat and pitiless rain, with the never-ending storm of shot and shell, with death, and sickness, and want. What a host of foes to beset so weak a fort ! Kiddled by bullet and cannon ball, the great palace of the Residency became unsafe, and many of the garrison were wounded by the collapse of the very buildings they were defending. An English king of the olden days was once called upon to surrender a fort which he held ; for, said the enemy, ‘we will take it though its walls were of iron.’ ‘ And I,’ said he, ‘ would hold it though its walls were made of butter.’ Surely the echo of this old defiance was heard in Lucknow, for to this day the ruins there bear witness that the true ramparts were not stone and earth, but courage, perseverance, and cheerfulness. At last, one September evening, above the roar of firearms, there rose from the hard-pressed garrison a cry of joy. The soldiers in the batteries, the wounded in the hospital, alike joined in that loud and hearty cheer. For a change was taking place. Though the attack on them was still kept up, it was seen that a British force had arrived on the outskirts 01 the town, and was fighting its way towards the besieged. Through the narrow streets they came with flashing arms, but falling in scores beneath the shots that were poured upon them from the windows on either side. General Henry Havelock and Sir James Outram led, and like a resistless tide, the High¬ land Regiment, distinguished for so many deeds of gallantry, swept on their way. By joyous hands the gates of the fort were thrown open, and Lucknow was relieved; relieved, but not yet saved, for, of the brave army commanded by Havelock, too few had survived that awful passage of the streets. Two thousand six hundred had left Cawnpore ; about one thousand seven hundred only passed through the gates into the beleaguered garrison. Thus it was not until Sir Colin Campbell came in November, that the mutineers were finally driven from the town. John Lea. THE ROMAN WALL. The Roman Wall stretched across the north of England from the Solway Firth to the mouth of the river Tyne. .It was seventy-three miles long, and was intended to keep the warlike Piets and Scots from invading Britain. No one piece of the wall is now complete, for it fell into disrepair, and the people used to carry off the stones to build their own houses ; but still we know pretty well what it must have been like. There were three main parts to this great fortification, the stone wall, the earthwork on the southern side, and a great many camps and castles. The stone wall was about twelve feet high ; above that were battlements, which added about four feet more. But the battlements were not as broad as the wall, so that the soldiers could walk on the wall under their shelter. The wall was eight feet thick, and was made of rubble strongly cemented together and covered with an outward casing of huge blocks of stone. On the northern side of the wall was a great ditch. It must have been very difficult to dig it out before the days of gunpowder, for there was no explosive to blow up the hard rocks through which it some¬ times had to pass. On the southern side w£is the earthwork, consisting of three parallel ramparts of earth mixed with stone, the two outer ones being somewhat higher than the inner. There was a ditch, too, to the north of the central one. Then there were the camps, which really were almost small cities. They were placed at a distance of four miles from each other, and there were in all eighteen of them. They covered from three to five acres each, and an immense number of people seem to have lived in them ; indeed, it took ten thousand men to garrison the wall, and there would be many others employed as well ; so that there were perhaps as many as two or three thousand in each. Visitors can still make out where the houses and streets were. In one place, for example, there was a temple ; in another, a court of justice, as is shown by the shapes of the pillars and the altars. There are also remains of the kilns in which the Romans used to dry their corn. Sometimes, even the ruts which were made by the Roman chariots are still visible. Between these stations were generally two castles, called, from their distance from each other. Mile- castles. They were not quite at equal distances from each other, but there was always one to protect the crossing of a stream, or a pass in the hills. There were also sentry-boxes, perhaps three hundred and thirty of them, but they are very difficult to make out now. Lastly, there was a magnificent Roman road connecting the various stations. Indeed, the whole wall may have been regarded ihs a protection to this road, by which troops could quickly move from one side of England to the other. ’ E. C. Matravers. A MISHAP IN THE DESERT. The camel is, perhaps, the most uncomfortable of all beasts to ride. It has been called ‘ the Ship of the Desei*t;’ but few travellers would be willing to exchange the deck of a ship for a camel’s back. In the recent wars in the Soudan, the camel naturally played a large part, for the horse is of little use on the sands of Omdurman or Khartoum. A ‘Camel Corps’ was formed, which did good service. The soldiers who belonged to it, however, did not always enjoy themselves ; the rough, uneven plains presented many an obstacle, even to the camel, and a sudden jerk or lunge forward often caused the rider and his steed to part company ; there are more ‘men overboard’ on these desert ships than on an Atlantic liner. The camel trots with a long, uneven swing, sway¬ ing from side to side, and jerking the rider horribly by reason of its peculiar shape. A long ride often causes a kind of illness very like sea-sickness.

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CHATTERBOX 401 Caught by the Tide.

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402 CHATTERBOX. COAST TALES. XII. E S H from school, ond intent upon enjoying the summer holidays to their fullest extent, George Gal- pin and Percy Fulford started off by train to Carnarvon, for a walking tour along the beautiful Welsh coast. At Carnar¬ von they stayed with a relative of Fulfofd’s for a couple of nights, and then, meet in g with beautiful weather, they worked their way along some of the most wild and least-frequented of the hills over¬ looking the sea-shore. They each carried a small knapsack and a stout walldng-stick ; and as long as rain kept off, they felt that they had not much to fear. When evening began to warn them of its approach, or even before that time, if they felt tired, they looked out for either a farm, cottage, or inn, and having found what they wanted, made themselves as comfortable as they could for the night. The young fellows were just fifteen and sixteen years of age respectively, and the closest of friend-i. Their school-days were practically over now, and the following year was to see each of them launched in the business of life. Fulford was about to enter his father’s house, a tea-merchant’s, whilst Gal})in was to try his fortune with an old uncle who was practising as a solicitor in Brisbane. Both the lads were in the finest physical and mental health, and both were revelling in the freedom and vigorous i exercise of their present life. | After a long day of tramping across lonely and beautiful hills, rich with yellow gorse and purple heather, they gradually worked their way down tow^ards the shore, just above which they made out a group of some half-dozen good-sized cottages, with whitewashed walls, and pretty gardens between them and the sea. 'Shall we see if we can get beds at one of these places, George ? ’ asked his friend. ' My shoulders ache with carrying this knapsack — I should think we must have covered nearly eighteen miles to-day, since breakfast.’ ' Yes,’ replied Galpin, ' I think it is about time that we called a halt for the night. What a glorious day it has been ! Shall we try at this first cottage r” ‘ Yes, and as soon as we have settled the matter of sleeping, let us run down to the shore and have a swim to freshen us up.’ ' Very well,’ was the reply, and, after trudging on I in silence for another quarter of an hour, they arrived at the first white cottage near the beach, and walked up the trimly kept garden-path to the open door. Here they found a woman, who, in answer to Galpin’s question as to whether she could put them up for the night, shook her head and made them understand that she did not understand English. This was rather disconcerting, as the two boys certainly knew no word of the Welsh language. However, the dilemma was soon settled by the arrival of the woman’s husband, a great rough- bearded man, with kindly blue eyes and weather¬ beaten face. He understood English well, and quickly agreed to take the boys in and give them all they wanted. This important point settled, they walked across the shingly beach, stripped, and went into the calm blue sea. After a swim, which they both declared was the best part of the day’s work, they dried themselves, dressed again, and returned to the cottage. At supper that evening, which they took with their hosts, the talk turned upon that particular part of the coast which they proposed walking over next day. They told the bearded fisherman — for such, he told them, he was — that they intended to forsake the hills on the morrow, and walk along the edge of the sea round Gorman’s Point to Armadoc. The fisherman paused in the act of raising his tea to his lips : ' You had better watch the tide, then, young gentlemen ; round Gorman’s Point it rises very fast — or seems to — as there is a big flat piece of sand there, running out to a spit. That spit may be dry land one minute, and yet there will be three foot of water over it in less than a quarter of an hour! So take my advice and be careful. If you did get caught by the tide, you could not possibly climb the face of the cliff— no man has ever done that yet, for it hangs out and towards you, almost from the bottom.’ George made inquiries about the time of the tide rising on the following day ; for they were not fool¬ hardy, though blessed with plenty of native courage, and they did not require a second" warning that ' time and tide wait for no man.’ After a good night’s rest, they paid their very moderate bill, and directly after their breakfast started off along the shore of a beautiful, blue- watered bay. After walking for a couple of miles, slowly on account of the heavy shingle into which they sank deeply at every step, their eyes were cheered by the sight of some firm, hard sand at the water’s edge. ' Gome, this will be better walking,’ exclaimed Fulford gleefully, as he threw himself down upon the beach and began to unfasten his shoes. ' Shall we wade ? ’ asked his friend, following his example as he spoke. ' Why, of course,’ returned Percy dragging off one sock and tucking it into his boot. ' We can walk right along, half in and half out of the water, which will keep us gloriously cool, and we shall be getting along to our journey’s end just as fast as if we were trudging along a hot, dusty road.’ Most delightful they found Percy Fulford’s plan, and for nearly two hours they walked bare-footed partly in and partly out of the lap of the blue wavelets. At the end of that time they sat on the beach to eat their light mid-day meal. This finished, Fulford asked his friend, ' What time is it, George ? We must not forget about being round Gorman’s Point before three o’clock, and it looks quite another two miles off, doesn’t it ? ’ Galpin pulled out his watch : it had stopped.

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CHATTERBOX. 40.^ ^ That is a nuisance/ he said. ^ I wish I were like some of those Bed Indian chaps who can just look up at the sun and say what time it is ; there is no fear of the sun stopping ! ’ ‘Well/ replied Fulford, ‘we seem to have been walking a long time ; but then progress on this beach is slow, and I think we rather wasted time, too, paddling about in the water, and stopping to examine rocks on the way. Perhaps we had better be getting along. We do not want to get caught by the tide.’ So with a slight sigh of regret at having to hurry, when they would gladly have idled away another sunny hour where they sat, the journey was resumed. They tramped steadily on until they reached the corner of rock and cliff called Gorman’s Point. Here they found that they must have occupied a longer time than they had thought in their walk, ■for to their surprise, the water was already be¬ ginning to cover the spit of sand which their host had spoken about. The boys looked at each other dubiously, and George was the first to speak. ‘Well, we can hardly go back again/ he said, rather anxiously; ‘the best thing to do is to push on, as fast as possible, I should think. Come along.’ In silence, they resumed their journey at an increased pace, and for about ten minutes they seemed to gain on the rising tide ; but at the end of that time, the water had began to lazily flow up as far as their feet, and then the next waves over¬ lapped their ankles. Clearly they must run, or they would never get past that rocky headland, and turn the corner into safety again. The water was soon up to their knees, and they were splashing through it with the courage of despair. Neither would admit his own fears to the other, but they did not disguise from themselves the desperate nature of the position. The head¬ land still seemed some distance away ; it was hard work, and slow, too, to run and stumble through the water ; they plodded on at their best speed, but the sea gradually gained upon them, and they could no longer disguise the fact. At last, George, who by this time was almost out of breath, stopped and said : ‘ Percy, I cannot go on much farther — and it does not seem much use to try. I think our best scheme is to go back as far as that big rock there, just below the cliff, and if it is high enough to keep us out of reach of the waves - ’ ‘ What ! till the tide goes down again ’ cried Fulford, his face falling with blank dismay. ‘ We — we should have to stop there all night ! No, let us try if we can climb the cliff and get on to the tableland above.’ Sihntly they abandoned the effort to get round the Point — they both saw now that in ten minutes’ time they would be out of their depth if they persevered — and made for the shore, passing the rock spoken of by Galpin on their way. Then, after a brief survey of the face of the steep cliff, they began slowly and painfully to clamber up. A few moments only of this showed them how impossible the task would prove. The cliff actually overhung the spot on which they had been standing — and with bruised and bleeding fingers they gave up the effort, and stood once more looking blankly at each other. ‘ The rock ! ’ exclaimed George ; ‘ it is our only chance now. I pray the tide has not risen too much already for us to reach it ! ’ They waded into the water in the direction of the big rock, and as they approached it the waves sub¬ merged their knees, and then their waists, and still they were some distance from their destination. At last, when nearly shoulder-deep, Fulford, who was slightly in advance, turned to his friend and said : ‘We shall have to swim for it now, George ; kick off your shoes and strike out, it is only a few yards off.’ They both began swimming — having abandoned their shoes — and in a few moments were alongside the rock. Fulford scrambled up first, and turned to give a hand to Galpin, who quickly followed suit. Then, taking off their wet coats, they spread them in the still hot sun, and took a look round. The rock on which they stood was of no great size, but it had the appearance, on the topmost part, of not being generally reached by the water. ‘ Thank goodness ! it is likely to be a calm night,’ said George. ‘ If we can only get our clothes partly dry before the sun goes down, we shall be able to wrap ourselves up more comfortably. But here we shall have to remain till daybreak to-morrow, that is certain, unless some boat should happen to pass, and that is not at all likely.’ For a time they anxiously watched the rising of the tide ; but although the water gradually en¬ croached so as to drive the boys higher and higher up the rock, they did not think that it would reach the top, and in this they were right. It was only in a rough sea that the waves broke over it, at which times no one could have avoided being washed off into the surrounding water. They undressed and spread their clothes out in the sun to dry, and, there being a good hour and a half of sunshine left, they did not feel cold during the, process. With comparatively dry clothing to put on, they prepared to spend the weary hours till day¬ break — when the tide should have fallen again — \yith the best gi’ace possible. The worst of the situation was — apart from the chance of the sea becoming rough — that they had neither food nor fire. How slowly the darkness fell that evening ! Neither of them is likely to ever forget it, nor the still longer dragging, weary hours of night. The sea rose to within a foot of where they crouched, huddled up together for warmth, but, mercifully, it kept calm, and not a wave broke over them. Just before dawn they were startled by hearing a hearty shout proceeding from somewhere quite close to them. Straining his eyes, Fulford just made out the shadowy outline of a fishing-smack, within fifty yards of him. He shouted, and bis voice sounded cracked and feeble — his jaws seemed frozen ; but an answering ‘Holloa I’ from one of the fishermen cheered them both immeasurably. Two minutes later they were being taken on board. A little hot coffee quickly put new life into them ; an oilskin coat and a tarpaulin were thrown over their frozen

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“ Sweep your door-step, mum? ’* bodies, and within half an hour they were once more ashore. After a good breakfast at the cottage of one of the fishermen, they both declared that they felt none the worse for their adventure ; but, on being taxed, they were both quite ready to admit that it was decidedly ‘ an unpleasant experience,' and that they were not anxious to spend the night below Gorman’s Point again. p. R. BOYS OF THE LONDON STEEETS. THE SNOW-SWEEPERS. HOW very unexpected! Last night there was not a cloud in the sky ; the stars shone with a frosty brightness, and yet, when the curtain was drawn aside this morning, the whole world lay under a covering of spotless snow. Carts and carriages

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The Portuguese Man-of-war. rolled along the street in perfect silence ; people hurried on their way to business, but not a footfall could be heard upon the pavement. There was one sound, however, which echoed all along the street. It was the sound of many shovels, clearing away the snow from the front door-steps. Here was a chance for those who seldom have one, and a knock on the door, followed by the inquiry, * Sweep your door-step, ^ mum ? showed that some were anxious to avail themselves of the chance. The brooms^and the shovels went to work; the numbed hands grew warm, and the hearts which are apt to grow dull when the fingers are numbed with * nothing to do ’ beat now with cheerfulness. Threepence was earned in less than ten minutes, and the work was done very well. Threepence in ten minutes is one and sixpence in an hour; one and sixpence in an hour makes twelve shillings in eight hours; twelve shillings in eight hours amounts to - Oh ! but this will never do, for it is idle dreaming. Some people do not want their door-steps swept at all, and some people have already had it done, for there are plenty more en¬ gaged in the same work. The partners go from street to street, and here and there they get employ- I ment which, though it does not amount to three-

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CHATTERBOX. 406 pence every ten minutes, is a great deal better than nothing. Besides, the snow, which comes when not expected, melts in the same way. Even before you can get your skates out, the wind will go round to the south, the sun will peep from behind the clouds ; and when these great partners set to work, they do not require any help. The snow-sweeper’s occupa¬ tion will be gone, and the best thing he can do is to put away his shovel and his broom, and hurry off to find something else to do. John Lea. HOLIDAYS ON THE OCEAN, AND WHAT WE SAW THERE. XL— THE PORTUGUESE MAN-OF-WAR. The queerest thing we came across after leaving Rio was a Physalia Utriciilus, better known as a Portuguese man-of-war. I had often heard of this gentleman, and as I expect you have also, it is as well that you should have his portrait, though it is not exactly handsome. Above the water Mr. Physalia is a mere bladder, from six to twelve inches long and two or three wide, with an irregular crest running along the top which some people call his sail. Below he has a crowd of suckers or arms of various lengths and very slender, some extending far into the water. They^ serve for all manner of purposes, but all seem to unite in one special object — to sting savagely any unwary thing that comes within their reach. Often in bathing people have accidentally touched one of the creatures below the surface of the water, and in an instant the tentacles have twined round an arm or a shoulder, and caused agonies of pain. The flesh seems quite benumbed where touched, -and even when the long filaments are cut away, the places smart for hours after, as if burnt with a hot iron. The natives of many islands declare that the physalia is poisonous if eaten, and the point is not yet cleared up. One thing is clear, which is that Mr. Physalia is a more attractive animal at a distance than at close quarters. He provides himself with food by entwining his prey with his horrid feelers, and stinging it to death ; and quite a tiny physalia no larpr than a walnut can kill a fish bigger than a herring. In point of fact, the creature is not a single animal at all, but one of the colonies known as Acalephae, to which the Medusidse belong. The colouring of the physalia is most beautiful, the bladder being of richly combined shades of blue, purple, green, and ciimson, the sail-like crest of transparent rose colour, and the long suckers a lovely light blue. The creature is fond of warm water, and the Gulf Stream carries numbers of them along, often taking a stray physalia as far as the south coast of England, although its native home is in tropical waters. Our next stopping-place after Rio was Monte Video, where we left a quantity of timber from Georgetown, and some passengers. After that we had a very long spell of sky and sea, varied by icebergs, sea- elephants, and whales, as we made our way round Cape Horn, en route for Valparaiso, and thence home again to old England ; and that was the end of our Ocean Holiday. Helena Heath. DRIVE THE NAIL. BRIVE the nail aright, boys, Hit it on the head ; Strike with all your might, boys, Ere the time has fled. Lessons you’ve to learn, boys, Study with a will ; They who reach the top, boys^ First must climb the hill. Standing at the foot, boys, Gazing at the sky. How can you get up, boys, If you never try ? Though you stumble oft, boys, Never be downcast ; Try, and try again, boys. You will win at last. Ever persevere, boys. Though your task is hard; Toil and happy trust, boys, Bring their own reward. Never give it up, boys, Always say you’ll try ; You will gain the crown, boys, Surely bv-and-by. PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS. 37. — Geographical Acrostic. A LARGE division of the globe, belonging to, and colonised by the English. It possesses many rivers, but no large ones in proportion to the size of the country ; there are several mountain ranges on or near the coast ; the seasons are at the reverse periods of the year to our own — our summer is at the same time as their winter, and their spring as our autumn. It is doubtful who was the first European discoverer, but it was not known to the English until the seven¬ teenth century. 1. A group of islands in the Indian Ocean. 2. A city in Africa where a great Roman ended his life. 3. The chief town of a northern country in Europe ; it is built upon several islands, and is sometimes called ‘ The Venice of the North.’ 4. A river which flows between England and Scot¬ land. 5. A city in France where the kings were formerly crowned; it contains a beautiful Cathedral, and many Roman remains. 6. A town in Egypt called after a great conqueror who founded it ; it is now much decayed, but still shows some remains of its ancient splendour. 7. The chief town of •a country in the south of Europe ; it was once destroyed by a great natural calamity.

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y. A county in Ireland containing a great natural curiosity. C. C. [Answer at page 410.] .A.3iTS WE E.S. 35.— (A.)-l. Might. (c.) — 1. Least. 2. Night. 2. Feast. 3. Biyht. 3. Beast. 4. Light. 4. Yeast. 5. Eight. (d.) — 1. Pare. 6. Sight. 2. Care. 7. Fight. 3. Tare. 8. Eight. 4. Bare. 9. Tight. 5. Dare. (b.) — 1. Plank. 6. Hare. 2. Blank. 7. Bare. 3. Flank. 8. Fare. 36. — Carthage, 1. Corsica. 2. Adrianople, 3. Eochester. 4. Titus. 5. Harold. 6. Anne. 7. Granada. 8. Ebro. STORIES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. SWISS PEASANTS. LPINE villages, though they add so much to the beauty of the scenery, and though the prettily built houses look so well in pictures, are not alto¬ gether desirable places to live in. The deep shadows cast by the mountains are not healthy, and there are many poor creatures in the sunless valleys of the Alps who suffer from strange diseases, un¬ known to those who dwell where there is abundance of free air and sunshine. Some are idiots; some have enormous swellings of the throat, and hardly look like human beings, but sit beside the cottage doors dull and stupid. Even those Swiss peasants who are well and hearty have many hardships in their lives. The pretty chalets are rough, dirty, and uncomfortable within, and the children who live in them begin to work at a very early age. Little boys of seven and eight years old are employed to tend the goats and cattle upon the mountains, and as the half -wild creatures are fond of straying, and the goat-herd is always blamed when they get lost, the post is not a pleasant one. Two separate passions divide the heart of the goat-herd as he grows older. He loves his native land with an intense affection, but he also longs for the riches which he thinks are only to be gained by those who are willing to go away into foreign lands, and work for strangers. child, leaves home and friends behind him, and comes to France, Germany, or, less frequently, England; hoping in a few years to earn what, to him, will be a small fortune. He is very industrious in the land of his exile, but terribly home-sick. It is told of some of these self- exiled peasants that they have actually pined away and died of the longing to behold their beloved mountains once more. The songs and music of their youth, heard amongst unfamiliar scenes, move them to tears ; if they could choose, they would rather be back in the midst of their poverty than living in luxury in a strange land. But many of them prosper; like Franz Balman, a stalwart youth who gave a sprig of edelweiss to his sweetheart, Annette, with a promise that he would come back to her in seven years; and returned at the appointed time, his pockets full of the coins which he had earned, and his heart over- flowing with joy to find that Annette had waited patiently, while he had been faithfully labouring for her. C. J. Blakb. EGYPTIAN VULTURES. Egypt is said to be the oldest country in the world, that is, the country whose history goes farthest back, so far as we know. It is a land remarkable for a great many things even in our days, and has some singular animals and plants ; one of its noted birds is the Egyptian Vulture. Like most of the birds which feed upon prey, or upon carrion, this vulture has a keen sight, though not capable of those rapid flights upon the wing in which others of the tribe excel. We have a variety of birds of prey in the British islands, but they are much more numerous in hotter countries, and some are of great use in helping to remove what would, if left alone, decay and make the air impure. These are chiefly vultures ; the hawks and falcons seldom touch carrion, but hunt other birds and small animals, which have to keep ever on the watch against them. Another name for the Egyptian vulture is Pharaoh’s chicken. It is the smallest of all the vultures. Its plumage is pure white, but the quill feathers are black, the head and throat being bare and bright yellow, as also are the legs. Y’^oung birds are brown and white. Occasionally, the Sociable Vulture is found about the Egyptian rocks — a very different creature, the expanded wings measuring ten feet across ; by their aid, when once started, the bird can rise to a great height, though if upon the ground it has a difficulty in starting. Hence most of them are noticed to have the tail feathers more or less rubbed off. As the name implies, sociable vultures are often seen in parties upon a ridge or plain. One of the most useful of birds belonging to the Vulture tribe is the Secretar}^, an African species. He hunts for his prey on foot, seeking out snakes, even the very venomous lands. With great skill the bird follows up the reptile, cautiously avoiding its sting, or allowing it to strike amongst the hard wing feathers. J. R. S. 0.

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Egyptian Vultures

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CHATTERBOX. 411 Governor, lie came in and out of the castle whenever he liked. He used to talk with the soldiers of the ffuard, played with them, and gave them presents, so that he had gained over a number of them to his side. This Morrice was an old comrade of Cotterel’s, and he treated Morrice kindly, letting him spend a week at the castle sometimes, which helped on his scheme. The night-guard of the castle was only about a dozen men, with a sergeant and corporal. The rest of the soldiers slept in huts outside the ditch, or in the town. People warned the Governor that Colonel Morrice was trying to betray him, but he laughed at the letters, and could not suspect his friend. The two officers under Colonel Cotterel, besides a good part of the men, had been won over ; Colonel Morrice fixed upon a night for a surprise. The corporal and the sentinel who were to mount at midnight were also in his pay. At the west tower it was proposed to raise a scaling-ladder, which Captain Paulden, a friend of Morrice’s, was to mount first. Those w'ho followed were to seize the guard, and having thus got possession, they meant to enter the Governor’s bedroom, announcing that Pontefract Castle was theirs. A good plan, but it turned out a failure. On the appointed night, the Cavaliers assembled some distance from Pontefract: eighty horsemen, the same number of foot soldiers. Slowly they approached the castle ; fortunately, the night was dark, and the wind blew in a direction to carry else¬ where the sound of their march upon the perilous enterprise. Avoiding all houses, they reached a small wood ; here the horsemen halted ; the others went on in twos and threes to the castle with their ladder. They lay down in the ditch, and anxiously waited for the midnight bell. They heard the sentries changed, and the cry of * All’s well!’ The leader cautiously raised his ladder and began to ascend ; the rest clustered below. But the report of a musket rang in the air — there was a shout and a commotion above ; evidently an alarm had been taken. Those about to mount the ladder hesitated ; a few minutes more, and a volley was fired down. The aim was wild, and no one was hurt, but the leader did not venture up higher, as the others were retreating ; he overthrew the ladder and fled to the plantation. The fact was that, by some change, the men whom Colonel Morrice had won over, did not then come to guard, so that the attempt was a failure. On a search being made the ladder was found, and the marks ot manv feet on the long grass ; still the Governor trusted Colonel Morrice, who now resolved upon another plan. He heard the Governor say that as a precaution in future, a larger number of the garrison should be always on the watch; he had tl^refore no time to lose. From time to time Colonel Cotterel demanded from the neighbouring gentry provisions and stores for the use of the soldiers, which they had to send into the castle by their own carts or waggons. This suggested to the Cavaliers a scheme, which, if unsuccessful, would have probably cost them their lives ; but it was accomplished within two days after the failure. ' . , . , First, however. Colonel Mornce made sure that some soldiers friendly to him were on f^^^^rd at the time chosen, that is, at dawn on June 6th, 1645. Disguised as countrymen, Colonel Morrice and others appeared at the chief entrance, with three waggons, carrying hay, provisions, and articles of bedding. The drawbridge was lowered, and they contrived to make one of the waggons stick fast in the gateway ; they called to the guard, asking them to help unload it. The few men then came out of their room unarmed ; they Avere at once seized by the Cavaliers, who produced pistols and daggers from under their clothes. A signal was given, and fifty or sixty more who had been in ambush outsiae rushed forward, crossed the drawbridge, and Pontefract Castle was won. Some of them hastened to the Governor’s apartment. They found him asleep, with his long sword beside him. He roused up, and fiercely defended himself, but after receiving two wounds, he was obliged to surrender. THE LAPLANDER’S HORSE. SOME people have said that the reindeer of the northern regions is to the inhabitants of those countries what the horse, cow, and sheep to- rrether are to the dwellers in southern lands, and very probably they are right. What would the Lap¬ lander be were he deprived of his favourite? ^ How could he travel without his pair of reindeer harnessed to his sledge? Certainly they could not race a fast trotting-horse, but they can carry persons or luggage at a fair speed securely over frozen lakes or rivers, and the snow-coated ground ; and their driver seldom needs to use a whip. , , . , , . , The reindeer has large black hoofs, behind which are false or secondary hoofs ; the result is that when running they make a clattering sound, which may be heard a good distance away. The remdeer has much endurance, and takes a long journey without seeming tired, though it is only about four and a half feet in height, and not very strong. Its horns are long and slender, with branched, rounded antlers^ but they are not much used in combat, like those oi some other deer. , , xi. The largest reindeer are found where the weather is coldest, and their colour is lighter ; usually it is brown and white, but in the case of old animals the hair is sometimes quite white. From the skm of the reindeer the Laplanders get not only their clothes, but also bedding and tents; the milk i^drunk, and made into cheese, and the flesh is also good fo eat, the tongue and haunches being particularly liked. Pemmican, an important article of food, is made by pouring fat over the pounded meat, and mixing them well together. Large herds of reindeer are kept m ^a.ny dis¬ tricts, and the animal is also rather plentiful in a wild state. Herds are found in America, Upper Canada, and in Asia, in Kamtchatka and biberia; hut Europe has the lai^est show of them, amongst the hills of Sweden and Norway. Their favourite food is a sort of white moss, which grows abundantly under trees or in moist places. During the summer, they seek high ground, to avoid being attacked bv ‘the hosts of gnats and gadflies which then come forth. -V-

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Page 423

SPLENDE) BOOKS FOR GIRLS. By LAURA E» RICHARDS^ Author of ** Captain January/^ Fernley House. predecessors. By Laura E. Richards, The fifth volume of the “ Three Margarets Series,” concluding the accounts of their sayings and doings. This volume, which com- j ^ , pletes the “Three Margarets Series,” is as sure of a warm welcome as its dl Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. .Square i6mo, cloth, handsome cover design. By Laura E. tv* Ldo Richards. The fourth volume in the “Three Margarets Series,” telling about Rita, the Cuban Margaret. Those who have read the preceding volumes in this interesting series'^will look eagerly forward to this the la¬ test one, and we venture to say that they will in no wise be disappointed. The story is told in that charming style of which Mrs. Richards is the mistress. Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. Cloth, hand- ^ ^ ^ — some cover design. 1 ly lyw Y B}’^ Laura E. • Richards. Illus¬ trated with full- page drawings by Etheldred B. Barry. This is the third volume in the Three Margarets Series, and in it we find Peggy, the youngest of the cousins, transported from the w^estern farm to an eastern board¬ ing school. Square i6mo, cloth, handsome $1.25 cover design. THREE JrlgRGRRFT.^ !?L7\URHB RICHARDS Margaret Montfort. By Laura E. Richards. Illus¬ trated with full-page drawings. A new volume in the series of which “ Three Margarets ” was so suc¬ cessful as the initial vol¬ ume. i6mo, cloth, hand- $1.25 some cover design. Three Margarets. By Laura E. Richards. Il¬ lustrated by Etheldred B. Barry. A charming story of three cousins who meet for the first time at the country place of their bachelor uncle, and enjoy themselves to the utmost in the company of their newly found relatives. It is one of the most clever stories for girls that the author has written. i voL, $1.25 square i6mo. Hildegarde’s Holiday. A companion to “ Queen Hildegarde.” By Laura E. Richards. Illustrated with full-page plates by Copeland. $1.25 Square i6mo, cloth. Queen Hildegarde. A story for girls, by Laura E. Richards, author of “ Captain January,” etc. Illustrated from original designs by Gar- ^ ^ ^ rett. (292 pp.) Square $1.25 i6mo, cloth. “ We would like to see the sen¬ sible, heroine-loving girl in her early teens who would not like this book. Not to like it would simply argue a screw loose some¬ where.” — Boston Post. Hildegarde’s Neighbors. f L. J. Bridgman. Square i Hildegarde’s Home. signs by Merrill. Square i6m( Hildegarde’s Harvest. By Laura E. Richards. A companion to “ Queen Hildegarde,” etc. Illus- trated from original designs $1.25 by L. J. Bridgman. Square i6mo, cloth. By Laura E. Richards, author of “ Queen Hilde¬ garde,” “ Captain January,” etc. Illustrated with original de- $1.25 Square i6mo, cloth. By Laura E. Richards. The fifth vohwie of the Hildegarde Series. Illus¬ trated with eight full-page cuts. $1.25 i6mo, cloth. The fifth volume in the “ Hildegarde ” Series, some of the best and most deservedly popular books for girls issued in recent years. This new volume is fully equal to its prede¬ cessors in points of interest, and is sure to renew the popularity of the entire series. For sale by all booksellers^ or sent postpaid upon receipt of price by DANA ESTES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.

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LAURA E. RICHARDS’S BOOKS FOR YOUNG AND OLD. Over 350,000 volumes of the Captain January " Series have already been sold. ‘ Mrs. Richards has made for herself a little niche apart in the literary world from her delicate treatment of New England village life.” — Boston Post. A sequel to “ Melody ” and ‘ Marie.” By Laura E. Richards, author of “ Five Minute Stories,” “Queen Hildegarde,” etc. With half-tone frontispiece by Frank T. Merrill. Handsome cover 50c design, square i6mo, cloth. companion to “Melody” and “ Cap- January.” By Laura E. 50c Richards. Square i6mo, cloth, daintily bound. “Seldom has Mrs.. Richards drawn a more irresistible picture, or framed one with more artistic literary adjust¬ ment.” — Boston Herald. “ A perfect literary gem.” — Boston Transcript. Snow= white ; Or, The House in the Wood. By Laura E. Richards. A new volume in the “ Captain January ” Series. Half-tone frontispiece from drawing by Frank T. Mer¬ rill. Cover design by Julia Ward Richards. 50C Square i6mo. The many thousands who have read and admired that charming idyll of New England coast life. Captain January, will gladly wel¬ come another story from the pen of its gifted author. Rosin the Beau. Marie. A tain Captain January. By Laura E. Rich- ARDS. Square i6mo, 50c cloth, white back. A charming idyl of New Eng¬ land coast life, w-hose success has been very remarkable. Ilhistrated Holiday Edition. With thirty half-tone pictures from drawings by Frank T. $1.25 Merrill. 4to, cloth. CAPTAIN JANUARY BY LAURA E. RICHARDS Melody : JIM OF HELLAS The Story of a Child. By Laura E. Richards, author of “Captain Jan¬ uary,” etc. x6mo, cloth, daintily bound, with appropriate cover 50c design. Illustrated Holiday Pdition. Illustrated with *^^*^^* thirty half-tone pictures from drawings | by Frank T. Merrill. 4to, cloth. ^ ^ Jim of Hellas; Or, In Durance Vile, and a com¬ panion story, Bethesda Pool. By Laura E. Richards. Cflrr Square i6mo, cloth. “ The stories in this volume are just as exquisitely picturesque as the others.” — Minneapolis Journal. Narcissa And a companion story, In Verona, being Uvo delightful short stories of New Eng- Nautilus. By L-A.URA E. Richards, au¬ thor of “ Captain January,” etc. Illustrated from original draw¬ ings by W. L. Taylor. Small 4to, cloth, unique 7 5C cover design. “ ‘ Nautilus ’ is.by far the best product of the author’s powers, and is certain to athieve the wide success it so richly merits. Without exaggeration it is to be pronounced a literary gem.” — Boston Courier. By Laura E. Richards. A 1^151 companion volume to “ Nauti- 1 IClUil. illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. This interesting story, which is written in the author’s usual charming manner, will be eagerly read by all lovers of her former prose idyls, “ Captain January,” j “ Melody,” etc. Small 4to, unique cover design BY LAURA E RICHARDS Five Minute Stories. By Laura E. Richards, au¬ thor of “ Captain J a n u a r y,” “ Melody,” “ Queen Hildegarde,” etc. A charming collection of short stories and clever poems, for children. Square i2mo, cloth. With illustra- tions by E. B. Barry, $1.25 A. R. Whelan, and others. For Tommy. Ifu'E i^NUTE Stories m .ft .N t}» •(. ing collection of short stories, gilt tops. land life*. By Laura E. Richards. i6mo, cloth, uniform in general style wdth “ Melody,” etc. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid upon receipt of price by DANA ESTES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON. By Laura E. Richards, author of “ Captain January.” An entertaining and interest- Tall 1 6m o, cloth, qq