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Title: Little Folks (December 1884) - A Magazine for the Young
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Little Folks (December 1884) - A Magazine for the Young" ***

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    Transcriber's Note:
    Phrases printed in italics in the original version are
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    A list of amendments are given at the end of the book.


_A Magazine for the Young._





[Blank Page]



  Pretty Work for Little Fingers--
    Embroidered Glass-cloth, 13.
  The Children's Own Garden, 43, 100, 179, 239, 290, 360.
  Hints on Canvasine Painting, 75.
  Some more Little Presents, and the way to make them, 139.
  A New Game for Children, 142.
  How to make pretty Picture-Frames, 203.
  A Game for Long Evenings, 275.
  Little Papers for Little Art Workers--
    Ivory Miniature Painting, 330.

  July, 43.
  August, 100.
  September, 179.
  October, 239.
  November, 290.
  December, 360.

  Little Miss Propriety, 11.
  Fighting with a Shadow, 12.
  A Practical Joke, 28.
  How Paulina won back Peter (_A Fairy Story_), 47.
  A Race on the Sands, 77.
  The Kingfisher and the Fishes, 81.
  The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
  A Game of Cricket in Elfland (_A Fairy Story_), 105.
  The Little Flowers' Wish, 116.
  Their Wonderful Ride, 153.
  What came of a Foxglove (_A Fairy Story_), 172.
  A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
  What the Magic Words Meant (_A Fairy Story_), 235.
  The Discontented Boat, 242.
  The Brownies to the Rescue, 256.
  The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
  The Fox and the Frog, 288.
  The Magic Music and its Message (_A Fairy Story_), 293.
  The Rival Mothers, 337.
  A Race for a Cat (_A Fairy Story_), 361.

  Special Notices, 55, 373.
  Lists of Officers and Members, 55, 121, 185, 249, 313, 372.
  True Stories about Pets, Anecdotes, &c., 57, 187, 251, 374.

  279, 335.

  The Printer's Reading-Boy, 30.
  The Fisher-Boy, 151.
  Young Gipsies, 273.

  Three Little Squirrels, 59.
  A Harvest Song, 112.
  "Let's Away to the Woods," 181.
  Dignity and Impudence, 245.
  The Happy Little River, 316.
  A Day in the Snow, 376.

  Stories Told in Westminster Abbey--
    How the Abbey was Built, 14.
    The Coronations in the Abbey, 113.
    Royal Funerals in the Abbey, 176.
    Curious Customs and Remarkable Incidents, 222.
    The Sanctuary, Cloisters, and Chapter-House, 291.
    The Monuments, 366.
  The Home of the Beads, 26.
  Little Toilers of the Night--
    The Printer's Reading-Boy, 30.
    The Fisher-Boy, 151.
    Young Gipsies, 273.
  Some Famous Railway Trains, and their Story--
    The "Flying Dutchman," 39.
    The "Wild Irishman," 86.
    The "Flying Scotchman," 204.
    The Continental and "Tidal" Mails, 346.
  Children's Games in Days of Old, 91.
  A Day on Board H.M.S. Britannia, 142.
  The Water-Carriers of the World, 157.
  The Prince and his Whipping-Boy, 220.
  A Few Words about the Dykes of Holland, 267.
  A Few Words about Tattooing, 359.

  The Natural Bridge, Virginia, 51;
  The Colossus of Rhodes, 51;
  Chinese Palanquins, 51;
  The Flamingo, 51;
  "God's Providence House," 51;
  An Ancient Monster, 51;
  Arabs of the Soudan, 52;
  A Lesson in Charity, 52;
  The Busy Bee, 52;
  The Dwarf Trees of China, 52;
  What is the "Lake School?" 52;
  The Cuckoo's Fag, 52;
  The Greatest Whirlpool in the World, 54;
  The Dog and the Telephone, 54;
  The Wounded Cat and the Doctor, 117;
  A Remarkable Bell, 117;
  About the Mina Bird, 117;
  An Historical Cocoa-Plant, 117;
  The International Health Exhibition, 118;
  Famous Old London Buildings, 118;
  Model Dairies, 118;
  Trades in Operation, 118;
  The Costume Show, 118;
  Street of Furnished Rooms, 119;
  Other Exhibits, 119;
  Young Heroes, 119;
  An Intelligent Mare, 119;
  Who were the Janizaries? 182;
  A Canine Guide, 182;
  The Taming of Bucephalus, 182;
  The Price of a Picture by Landseer, 183;
  "Ignoramus," 183;
  Saved by South Sea Islanders, 183;
  A Strange Vow, 183;
  Honour among Cats, 183;
  Memory in Parrots, 183;
  The Clock-tower in Darmstadt Palace, 183;
  Oiling the Waves, 183;
  Spider Knicknacks, 184;
  An Affectionate Dog, 184;
  A Sagacious Cavalry Horse, 184;
  What is a Nabob? 184;
  A Curious Volcano, 184;
  How a Dog saved its Blind Master, 246;
  Abraham Men, 246;
  Famous Abdicators, 246;
  Memory in Cats, 247;
  Fugitives from Siberia, 247;
  Tame Humming Birds, 247;
  Intelligent Dogs, 247;
  Skating Race in Lapland, 247;
  The Riddle of the Sphinx, 247;
  The Wolf and the Bees, 248;
  About Pages, 248;
  The Union Jack, 248;
  Glendower's Oak, 248;
  A Product of the Soudan, 309;
  The Vallary Crown, 309;
  Supposed Relic of Trafalgar, 309;
  The Founder of Ragged Schools, 309;
  Tallow Trees, 309;
  A Saucy Sparrow, 309;
  "Sansculottes," 310;
  Fresh-water Springs in the Sea, 309;
  Feathered Thieves, 310;
  Carlyle's Birthplace, 310;
  Memory in Dogs, 310;
  Anecdotes of Apelles, 310;
  Drawing the Badger, 311;
  A Gallant Rescue, 311;
  War Elephants, 311;
  About the Mistletoe, 370;
  Badges of the Apostles, 370;
  The Yule Log, 370;
  The Senses of Bees, 370;
  Abolition of Christmas Day, 371;
  The Dancing Bird, 371;
  Americanisms, 371;
  Peacock Pie, 371;
  The "Ironsides," 371;
  Migration of Storks, 371.

  Little Miss Propriety, 11.
  Madge's Dove, 16.
  Nessie's Adventure, 21.
  A Practical Joke, 28.
  A Summer Hour, 44.
  A Queen of the Beach, 54.
  A Race on the Sands, 77.
  The Children's Light Brigade, 85.
  The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
  Harvest Days, 108.
  Waiting for Father, 113.
  Summer Visitors, 140,
  Their Wonderful Ride, 153.
  An Apple Song, 170.
  Daisy and Dolly, 176.
  Legends of the Flowers--
    The Scarlet Pimpernel, 180.
    The Sunflower, 280.
  His First Sketch, 204.
  Contentment, 217.
  The Brownies to the Rescue, 256.
  The Song of a Little Bird, 267.
  Poor Pussy, 313.
  A Morning Visit, 333.
  The Rival Mothers, 337.
  A Helping Hand, 345.
  "Father's Coming," 348.
  The Legend of the Reeds, 358.
  The Birds' Petition, 368.
  Little Doctor May, 375.

  Picture Pages Wanting Words, &c, and Answers, 58, 64, 124, 128, 188,
    192, 252, 320, 379.
  Lists of Honour. 58, 124, 188.
  The LITTLE FOLKS Special Prize Competitions for 1884, 62.
  The LITTLE FOLKS Annual for 1885, 252.
  A New LITTLE FOLKS Painting Book Competition, 319.

PRIZE PUZZLE COMPETITIONS--61, 126, 190, 254, 318, 378.

PUZZLES, OUR LITTLE FOLKS' OWN, AND ANSWERS--58, 60, 125, 128, 188, 189,
  253, 317, 320, 374, 377.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS--63, 127, 191, 255, 319, 379.

  The "Flying Dutchman," 39.
  The "Wild Irishman," 86.
  The "Flying Scotchman," 204.
  The Continental and "Tidal" Mails, 346.

  A LITTLE TOO CLEVER. By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities,"
    "Margaret's Enemy," &c. &c, 1, 65, 129, 193, 257, 321.
    "The Heir of Elmdale," &c, 32, 93, 163, 224, 281, 348.

  Too Young for School, 21.
  How Paulina Won Back Peter (_A Fairy Story_), 47.
  The King and Queen's Quarrel, 78.
  Master Tom's "Rainy Weather," 88.
  Jemmy's and My Adventure, 101.
  A Game of Cricket in Elfland (_A Fairy Story_), 105.
  The Little Flowers' Wish, 116.
  Andy's Brave Deed, 147.
  What Came of a Foxglove (_A Fairy Story_), 172.
  A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
  Little Fé, 218.
  What the Magic Words Meant (_A Fairy Story_), 235.


  A Young Roman's Sacrifice (A True Story), 239.
  The Discontented Boat, 242.
  Harry's Prize Rabbit, 242.
  The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
  "Whistling for It," 271.
  The Magic Music and its Message (_A Fairy Story_), 293.
  Mab, the Wolf, and the Waterfall, 299.
  "Where there's a Will there's a Way," 302.
  "Home, Sweet Home;" or, Lost in London, 302.
  Faithful to Her Trust (A True Story), 332.
  Little Bab and the Story-Book, 341.
  Hedwig's Christmas Presents, 355.
  A Race for a Cat (_A Fairy Story_), 361.
  Ethel's Pink Plant, and what Happened to it, 364.

  Fighting with a Shadow, 12.
  Madge's Dove, 16.
  A Practical Joke, 28.
  Mornings at the Zoo--
    The Stork Family, 41.
    About the Bats, 104.
    In the Fish-house, 170.
    The Kangaroos, 297.
  A Race on the Sands, 77.
  The Kingfisher and the Fishes, 81.
  The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
  About the Frankolin, 121.
  Summer Visitors, 140.
  Buried Alive; or, Love Never Lost on a Dog, 158.
  A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
  All about Snails, 232.
  Harry's Prize Rabbit, 242.
  The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
  The Fox and the Frog, 288.
  Poor Pussy, 313.
  Going to Sea in a Cage, 334.
  The Rival Mothers, 337.
  A Helping Hand, 345.
  The Birds' Petition, 368.

    Solomon's Dream at Gibeon, 18.
    The Dream of the Barley Cake, 82.
    Nebuchadnezzar's Dream of the Huge Tree, 154.
    The Dream of Pilate's Wife, 214.
    A Dream for all Ages, 306.
    Saved by a Dream, 338.
  Bible Exercises, 20, 84, 156, 216, 308, 340.

  How the Abbey was Built, 14.
  The Coronations in the Abbey, 113,
  Royal Funerals in the Abbey, 176.
  Curious Customs and Remarkable Incidents, 222.
  The Sanctuary, Cloisters, and Chapter-House, 291.
  The Monuments, 366.


_By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid
Marjory," &c._



A whole week elapsed, in which Mrs. MacDougall received no tidings of
the children. Every day she trudged to the market-town and back, not
able to bear the suspense without doing something. Every day she
received the same answer, and turned away with a weary sigh. The men who
answered her questions noticed her change from day to day, and shrank
from giving her the same hopeless replies time after time. They were
puzzled and astonished, but still confident that the children would
ultimately be found. In their own minds they believed the children had
fallen in with some wandering gipsies or other vagrants, and were being
closely guarded. They knew well enough that there were plenty of ways of
stealing children, and keeping them out of sight in barges, colliers, or
gipsies' vans, and that the time that had elapsed made the probability
of finding the children much less; but this they kept to themselves.

Mrs. MacDougall, however, was not so easily blinded. She knew the
dangers that were waiting to engulf them. She called to mind having
read, some years ago in the newspapers, of a little fair, delicate boy,
who was stolen away and never found. She remembered distinctly enough
the agonised appeal of his parents that every man and woman would join
in the search for the child by keeping their eyes open wherever they

She had been deeply interested, and wondered how such a thing could
happen. She remembered that, in spite of all, little Charlie (that was
the child's name), had never been discovered, and that his fate had
remained shrouded in mystery, the supposition being that the child had
been stolen by cruel, wicked people, and perhaps died of fright.

Could such a fate have overtaken her children? A hundred times a day
she cried to God that He would save them from a life of sin and
degradation, even if by death, and there is no doubt that the mother's
prayers had the reward of keeping them out of the dangers she feared for

The Sabbath came round. Mrs. MacDougall put on her best clothes, dressed
her mother and Robbie, and went off to the kirk as usual.

"The Lord will not ill-requite me for keeping His day holy," she said
solemnly, when her mother suggested that news might come in her absence.
"The Lord knows I am in His kirk, and He will no seek me in the

Her simple faith was destined to receive its verification. Early the
next morning a messenger arrived, bringing news. He spread out an
official document on the table, and began with much unnecessary and
tiresome questioning.

"If ye're wanting to send me crazy, you may just take your own time, but
if not, will ye tell me right out are they found?" she asked sharply.

"Well, yes, they are," the man replied.

"Then tell me how, and where."

"The boy is in Edinburgh, ill of the fever, but well cared for in a
children's hospital. The girl is in London, in a place she won't be
running away from in a hurry."

"You mean a prison, surely?" Mrs. MacDougall gasped. "Say the right
word, man, and don't put your own gloss on things. It doesn't make them
any the better."

"It isn't a prison exactly," the man replied, "except that she can't get
free from it without the permission of them that put her there. She got
in with some people who are now in custody, and as she will be an
important witness, she will be, perhaps, detained there until the case
comes before the magistrates; but she is safe and sound, according to
our information."

"And can I no rescue her from that place?" Mrs. MacDougall asked.

"That depends upon many things," the officer answered cautiously. "I
could not undertake to say."

In a very short time Mrs. MacDougall was ready for her journey. "Ye will
nae gang outside the gate whiles I'm gone," she said to Robbie, "an'
bless your heart for a good child, I know you will not disobey me." Then
to her mother she added, "I will just ask our good neighbour Jarrett to
look in an' see ye all right, an' that your wants are supplied." Then
she bade them adieu, and departed.

They walked as far as Dunster, calling at the farm on their way, then
hired a vehicle to convey them to Killochrie, the nearest place to which
the trains ran--not by the circuitous route that Elsie and Duncan had
found their way there, but by a direct road.

That night Mrs. MacDougall was in Edinburgh, and was mightily amazed and
confused with the grandeur and bustle of the place, which she had never
seen before. How her children could have found their way here, and still
more, how they could ever have been discovered and identified in such a
teeming, bustling, bewildering city, she could not imagine. She had yet
to see London, to which Edinburgh could not compare for teeming
multitudes, labyrinths of streets, and all the gigantic bustle and
confusion of a vast city.

"Ah! but it's a right wicked place," she exclaimed in horror, as she
passed by some of the foul-smelling closes, or courts, as we call them,
where dishevelled hag-like old women sat on door-steps, and filthy,
squalid children played in the gutter, where ill-favoured young people
of both sexes hung idly about the entrances, chaffing or quarrelling
with each other. "Ye police people must be a poor set out, an' ye can no
do away with such dens as these!" Mrs. MacDougall cried in righteous
indignation. "And the country folk are all for sending their girls into
the towns to get high wages and such gear. I would not have one of mine
come to such a Babylon as this!"

But Mrs. MacDougall had not time for more observations, for they were
soon at the hospital where sick children were received. They were at
once admitted. A kind-looking woman came forward, and asked if it was
necessary to see the child.

"Are ye no aware, ma'am, that he is my ain bairn?" Mrs. MacDougall
began; but her companion interrupted her.

"Our business is to identify the little laddie," he said, with a tone of

"Then I warn you to be careful," the woman replied. "He is just in a
critical condition, and must not be spoken to."

"Ye mean well to say his life is in danger?" Mrs. MacDougall asked

"I cannot deny it," the matron replied; "but you must not despair.
Children make wonderful recoveries," she added, kindly.

She led them to the door of the ward, where a nurse came forward to
conduct them to the proper bed.

"It is my ain little bairnie," Mrs. MacDougall whispered; "but sairly
altered, sairly changed."

"He couldn't have been worse than he's been," the nurse said, drawing
them a little way from the bed. "The delirium was just dreadful to see!
But that's past, and we only want him to rally. He's about exhausted
now, and must be kept quiet. I would not like him to open his eyes and
find you by his side. By my will you would not have been admitted."

"Then I'll go directly," Mrs. MacDougall said, quickly. "I will no beg
you to be kind to my bairn, for I can trust your face; but I will pray
for you to be rewarded for every act o' kindness done to a poor lost
little one. When can I come again?"

"To-morrow's the right day. You can come then," the nurse replied.

"I'll be near at hand, an' they'll let me know if a bad change comes,"
Mrs. MacDougall said hurriedly. "I'll get the nearest lodging to be

When the clothes of the child had been duly identified, the officer and
Mrs. MacDougall departed. "I shall no leave this place to-night," Mrs.
MacDougall said, firmly. "The lass is safe and sound, and Duncan may be
dying. I must be near by."

So a decent lodging was found, in which Mrs. MacDougall took up her
quarters, having first taken her address to the matron, who promised her
that she should be sent for if immediate danger developed itself. The
officer was somewhat puzzled by Mrs. MacDougall's determination; but as
his instructions were to proceed with the identification of both
children, he determined to go on to London at once, armed with the most
minute description Mrs. MacDougall could give him of the missing child.

It is needless to say that the description tallied perfectly. As,
however, the examination of John and Lucy Murdoch, known to us by the
name of Donaldson, was expected to take place in a day or two, the
officer remained in London, waiting to obtain Elsie's full discharge,
which could not be hoped for until after this important event.

Mrs. MacDougall was acquainted with her perfect safety, and as Duncan
remained on the brink of the grave, she did not, for the present,
attempt to leave Edinburgh.


On a certain morning, not long after her first appearance before the
magistrate, Elsie was once more brought into court. She had hailed the
appearance of her old acquaintance with something approaching delight,
for any change was a welcome one from the hard, dreary, monotonous life
she had been leading in the wards of the workhouse.

"Do you know anything about Duncan?" she asked, eagerly. "Did they
really take him to the hospital? she didn't turn him into the streets,
did she? Oh! I have been so frightened about it. They said they didn't
know anything about it in there. You know, don't you?"

"Yes, I know," the man said, gravely.

Elsie looked up in his face questioningly. It was very grave. "Is he--is
he--dead?" she gasped.

"Not as far as I know," the man replied; "and he did go into the
hospital right enough; but he was as near dead as possible when your
mother found him there. I don't think it's certain now whether he'll

"Mother found him!" Elsie cried. "Then--then she knows where we are?"

"Yes, she knows," the man replied.

Elsie involuntarily drew a long sigh of relief. It was only afterwards
that she began to be worried with doubts as to what her mother would say
or do. In that first moment her first instinct was that being found by
her mother was the end of all trouble, and that was, no doubt, a true
and natural instinct.

But the after feeling of fear and doubt soon came to cloud Elsie's joy
at what seemed such good news. How glad she would be once more to be
back in the clean, sweet cottage on her native moor. She had thought
that life hard, and so wanted to be a little lady, but it was a perfect
paradise compared with her present life; and as for care, which is the
greatest enemy to happiness that we can have, she had not known what it
meant before she ran away. Food and clothes, and warm, comfortable
shelter, were all hers without a thought on her part, and yet she had
been so discontented and cross and disagreeable to everybody because she
had not dainty food and nothing to do. But she had found out what it
felt like to be without a home or a friend, with coarse food, and
nothing but harsh words; and she had been continually told that that was
far more than she deserved, and was given to her only out of charity,
for which she ought to be most grateful.

If only Mrs. MacDougall would let her go home and things be the same as
before, she would never be discontented or ungrateful any more, but she
could hardly believe that she would ever get back again to that old
happy life.

And Duncan? He might die! Then it would never be the same again. Dear
little Duncan, who did not want to come away, and had always been
contented, but would not forsake his sister. But for her he would be
well and happy now, whereas everything was dreadful and wretched. It was
quite certain it could never come right. If only she had known
beforehand? It seemed so easy and so nice. Was it her fault that things
had turned out so different? Was she to blame for not knowing?

In this way she tried to find some excuse and consolation where there
was indeed little enough, falling back on the idle excuses people so
frequently make. How many people ask "Was it my fault that I did not
know?" when that was not at all where the fault lay.

At last the court was reached. Elsie was taken into a small room, where
she had to wait some time, and had plenty of time for reflection. She
grew very nervous and frightened, and began to wonder whether they had
sent for her to punish her, whether the white-haired gentleman thought
she had told stories, and was going to send her to prison. Yet the
officer had seemed kind, and they had promised her that by-and-by she
should be allowed to go home. Could she have told a story without
knowing it? She tried to think over all she had said. Suddenly it came
into her head that perhaps this clever, wise gentleman knew that her
name was not MacDougall, but Grosvenor, and would punish her for that.
What ought she to have said? She puzzled and puzzled over it till she
grew quite stupid and bewildered.

By-and-by the officer who had brought her took her hand and led her
forward. As she entered the great room in which she had been once
before, she noticed that it was thronged with people. She was presently
placed in a small, square, box-like place, reminding her a little of the
pews in the kirk. Before her she soon detected the old gentleman who had
questioned her, but there were several others seated near him. Turning
her head slightly, her eyes fell with fright and dismay on the figures
of the "fairy mother" and a man, who was neither Uncle William nor
Grandpapa Donaldson, yet reminded her of both.

They were looking at her, and Elsie saw something in their faces that
made her tremble. Yet she could not turn her eyes away till the "fairy
mother" dropped hers, and with a heavy sigh made a little movement, as
if to hide from herself the sight of her ungrateful child.

Then Elsie caught sight of another face: she recognised the man Andrew.
There were others whose faces she did not know.

The Bible was handed her, and again she had to repeat the words of the
solemn oath. Again the old gentleman leaned forward and asked her if she
knew what an oath was, repeating his solemn warning. Then came the
question, "What is your name?"

"Please, sir, I don't know," Elsie faltered, bursting into tears.

"The child is just dazed, your honour!" cried a voice from the crowd,
which rang strangely in Elsie's ears, but the venturesome individual was
silenced immediately.

"You told us the other day," the old gentleman said kindly. "You have
only to tell the truth, then you need not be frightened."

"I'm afraid it was a story," Elsie exclaimed. And the "fairy mother"
looked round anxiously. "I don't know whether my name is Elsie
MacDougall or Elsie Grosvenor, because I am not sure whether Mrs.
MacDougall was our mother or whether Aunt Nannie was."

Again a voice cried out something from the crowd, but Elsie did not
catch the words. The person was warned that she would be removed if she
interrupted again, and the gentleman continued.

"We will take your name as Elsie MacDougall. Is it true that you ran
away from your home on a certain Wednesday?"

Elsie replied that she had done so, and then she was asked a great many
questions, first about herself, then about the companions she had
travelled with, which it would take far too much room to write down. She
was terrified almost beyond measure at answering such inquiries with the
terrible "fairy mother" standing close by, especially when other
gentlemen began to ask her questions too in a sharp way that confused
and bewildered her. Every particular of her acquaintance with these
people was drawn from her, and a great deal of interest displayed in her
account of how she was separated from Duncan, and the description of
"Uncle William's" sudden change into "Grandpapa Donaldson."

"Now look well at this person. Have you ever seen him before?" the
magistrate asked, pointing to the man standing near Mrs. Donaldson.

Elsie replied that she had not but he seemed to remind her a little of
some one she had seen.

One of the gentlemen then held up a black wig, and whiskers, beard, and

Elsie recognised them at once. "I know what that is like!" she
exclaimed, in great astonishment. "He had hair like that when he was
Uncle William."

Another wig was then held before Elsie's wondering eyes. This time it
was grey, with a small close-cut beard and whiskers, such as the old man
in the railway carriage wore.

They were handed in turn to the man standing by Mrs. Donaldson, with a
request that he would put them on. This, however, he indignantly
refused to do, but Elsie took a steady look, and felt sure that if he
had he would have looked exactly like Uncle William and Grandpapa

The next astonishing thing shown her was a light grey coat, the exact
counterpart of the one worn by the gentleman in the carriage and Uncle
William. It was turned inside out, and behold, it became a completely
new overcoat of a drab colour, like the one worn by Grandpapa Donaldson.

So that was how he had changed himself so completely, by changing his
black hair for grey and turning his coat inside out. He must have done
it very quickly and quietly, while Mrs. Donaldson kept Elsie's eyes
fixed on her. He stoutly denied this, but it was very strange that the
black wig should have been discovered in a mysterious pocket of that
cleverly-made coat, and that Mrs. Donaldson's papa should be so vain as
to go about in a wig, and false whiskers, beard and moustache, because
he had none of his own--very strange indeed; and so the lawyers and
magistrates seemed to think it.

Elsie was very, very tired with the long examination she had to undergo.
All she could make out of it was that these people, whose real names
were John and Lucy Murdoch, were suspected of having stolen a great deal
of money from rich people. At last Elsie was told she might go, and the
officer of whom she had seen so much came forward to lead her away. As
she was passing out, who should she see coming towards her but Meg. She
lifted her eyes, and looked with a frightened glance at Elsie. Her eyes
were red, and she looked altogether most wretched and unhappy.

"I haven't told a word," Elsie couldn't help whispering as she passed
close by her; but Meg did not seem to hear, for she never raised her
head or even smiled.

Elsie wondered what they were going to do with her, and hoped she would
not get into any trouble. But she could not help thinking of her own
miseries. Now, she supposed, she must go back again to that dreadful
workhouse, with its harsh matron and dreadful companions, its misery,
discomfort, and loneliness. She could not help shuddering and gulping
back the sorrowful sobs that seemed to choke her. She was very tired and

The man touched her on the arm. She lifted her eyes, and saw standing
close by, her mother, Mrs. MacDougall. In a moment Elsie flew towards
her with a cry of joy, exclaiming "Oh! take me home, mother; take me
away, please."

"I've got the discharge from the magistrate," Mrs. MacDougall explained.
"I applied for it this morning directly after the court was opened."

[Illustration: "IN A MOMENT ELSIE FLEW TOWARDS HER" (_p. 324_).]

"Quite right, ma'am," the man assented. Then turning to Elsie, he
exclaimed, "Now, my girl, you're free to go home with your mother; and
if you take my advice, you won't try running away again. You're just
fortunate to have got off as you have. If it hadn't been for our
tracking the Murdochs just when we did, there's no telling what would
have become of you. They are not the sort that would hesitate to get rid
of you in any way that came first when they found they didn't want you;
and all I say is you may be thankful you stand where you do at this

"You've just had a narrow escape of being drawn into a den of sin and
iniquity," Mrs. MacDougall added fervently, "and I'm right thankful to
the Almighty for the good care He's taken of you. I'm sure, sir, you're
very kind to this erring lass, and I'm right grateful for all your

"Mother," Elsie faltered, hardly daring to frame the question, "where is

"He's in the hospital yet," Mrs. MacDougall replied. "He lies in a fair
way to recover, if no ill turn befalls him, but I doubt me if he'll ever
be the same laddie again. He's woefully altered, but the Lord has been
good to him too, and put it into the heart of that poor body they call
Meg to take him to the hospital, though they had no intention for her to
do it. May she be rewarded for her charitable deed!"

At this moment the officer came back to say that a cab was ready to take
them to the station.

"And am I going with you now?" Elsie asked.

"Yes; we'll be getting back to Edinburgh to-night," Mrs. MacDougall

They bade the officer good-bye, and drove away. Elsie could hardly
believe that she was once more free and on her way home. The revulsion
of feeling was too much; she lay back in the carriage, and sobbed as if
her heart would break.

"I will no reproach you, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, gently, "for I
ken you're punished enough, but it will do ye no harm to feel
sore-hearted for all the sorrow you've brought on yoursel and others."


Mrs. MacDougall and Elsie had some time to wait before the night train
started. They spent it in the waiting-room, Mrs. MacDougall having first
procured for Elsie as comfortable a tea as her means would allow. To
Elsie it seemed a perfect feast.

While they are waiting I must take the opportunity of telling all that
had been found out about the Murdochs, and how they came to take charge
of the children. Lucy Murdoch had been, as Meg said, quite a poor girl,
living in one of the miserable closes in which the old town of Edinburgh
abounds. She was very pretty and clever, but naturally inclined to
deceit and cunning. When she was about seventeen she went to service,
but could never keep a place, because she was impertinent, and so fond
of dressing herself up in fine clothes that she at last began to steal
things from the ladies she lived with in order to gratify her vanity.

Her friends said she looked like any lady, and this so pleased the vain
creature that she tried to pass for one wherever she could, giving
herself great airs in shops she was sent to and when walking out of
doors. At last it was found that she had been to a shop in Edinburgh and
ordered some things in the name of a young lady, in whose mother's house
she had been a servant. After this she disappeared from Edinburgh, and
her friends saw nothing of her for many years.

When they heard of her again, she was married. She came back dressed as
a smart lady, and looking and speaking very much like one. She had been
in London, and had picked up all sorts of fine ways. Her husband was
just such another as herself: they both disliked honest work, but lived
by their cunning.

One of their tricks was to go to a grand hotel where there were rich
people, make the acquaintance of some wealthy lady or gentleman,
skilfully manage to rob the unsuspicious individuals of any money they
might have with them, and then depart, letting the suspicion fall on
some unfortunate servant.

Just before they had met Elsie and Duncan they had been staying at a
very fashionable resort in the Highlands, where Lucy Murdoch, by her
dashing manner and profuse liberality, made a great many friends and was
much admired. There happened to be among the company an Australian
gentleman just arrived in England, who had brought with him a
pocket-book full of notes, which he perhaps intended to pay into an
English bank. The gentleman, being boastful and proud of his money, gave
broad hints of the wealth he carried with him to Lucy Murdoch and her
husband, whom he thought very nice people, and so much more friendly to
a foreigner than the cold, proud English folk usually are. One morning
the gentleman found his pocket-book gone, notes and all. He came into
luncheon full of it, pouring out his indignant wrath to his genial
friends, the Murdochs, who commiserated him, and were as indignant as
he. One of the waiters was suspected. The wretched man declared that he
had seen the gentleman, Mr. Halliwell (the name under which the Murdochs
were then going), coming out of the Australian gentleman's bedroom, that
he had spoken to him, and that Mr. Halliwell had said that he had made a
mistake and just gone inside, but had seen directly his error. The man
was not believed, for there were the Halliwells still staying in the
hotel, going and coming as freely as could be. The next day they paid
their bill (a good long one) and went away, bidding their acquaintances
good-bye, and hoping they should meet in Edinburgh.

After they had gone some way on their journey, Lucy discovered that she
had lost a letter from one of her bad companions in Edinburgh--no other
than the man Andrew, who was one of their accomplices. Fearing she might
have dropped it in the hotel, they made all haste to get to London, but
their journey was delayed at a certain point by the stupidity of a
driver, who had undertaken to drive them to Killochrie, but could not
find the way, the consequence being that they lost their train, and
would be delayed eight hours.

Now Lucy Murdoch had heard of the missing children, and when she stopped
Elsie and Duncan to ask them the way, she immediately supposed, from
what Elsie said, that these were the very ones. Being very clever and
quick-witted, she saw in a moment she could make use of them to forward
her own escape. Driving to the nearest town, she purchased black
ready-made garments, retired to a lonely spot, and dressed herself as a
widow, smoothing back her curled locks under the close round bonnet.
Then she went to the children, dressed them in the clothes she had
bought, walked back to the station, and went on by train to a little
town some twenty miles off, where she spent the night, her husband
having gone first to secure a lodging. On the next day they went on to
Edinburgh under the new name of Donaldson, John Murdoch passing as her
brother, and the children as her fatherless little ones on their way
home from school.

Duncan's illness interfered with her plans, and necessitated her seeking
the help of the man Andrew, while she and her husband went to a
fashionable hotel. But Lucy Murdoch was not to be daunted. It would do
just as well to travel to London with one child as two, and even serve
still further to destroy her identity. So she would have cast Duncan off
like an old shoe. Elsie's determination made this difficult, but she
soon devised a plan to get Elsie off by cunning, and leave Duncan
behind. Although she promised Elsie that Duncan should go to the
hospital, she had left instructions with Meg that he was to be taken
back to Andrew's house. Meg, however, took him to the hospital, and said
(poor ignorant thing) that she had found him ill in the street. When she
got home she put on her most stupid air, and declared that she didn't
rightly know what Mrs. Murdoch meant her to do, that she was very sorry
if she'd done wrong, and hadn't she better go and fetch him back? Andrew
abused her, but at the hospital the child was left. Poor Meg! she had in
her a kind heart, and might have been a good, happy girl but for bad

The police, however, were on the track of the Murdochs. They had been
watched from place to place, and evidence collected. When they least
thought of danger they found themselves lodged in a prison.

Elsie's account greatly helped to prove their guilt. Meg was examined,
and was found to have known a great deal about their doings; but as she
was not found guilty of any crime, she was allowed to go free, and
advised by the magistrate to forsake her old companions, and endeavour
to live honestly and respectably. A charitable lady afterwards took her
into a home, being much touched by the account she gave of Duncan's
illness, and the way she had done what she could to save his life.

John and Lucy Murdoch were sentenced to be imprisoned for a great many
years. The man Andrew was also severely punished.

What they intended, to do with Elsie was not clear. Duncan they had left
dangerously ill, without nursing or medical advice. The magistrate
pointed out to him that they ought to be grateful to Meg, for if the
child had died they would certainly have been charged with causing his

Probably they would have left Elsie to a similar fate: unless, indeed,
they had succeeded in making her one of themselves, in which case she
would, perhaps, have been tempted to join them in some hideous crime,
and have ended her days in a prison.


Elsie and her mother travelled all night, and reached Edinburgh early
the next morning. This time it was only a third-class carriage, crowded
by very ordinary-looking men and women--a very different journey from
the one with the wicked "fairy mother;" but the unhappy child, tired out
with all she had gone through, leant her head against her mother's
shoulder, and slept through the night with a sweet sense of safety and
protection to which she had long been a stranger.

They found Duncan still slowly mending, but looking a mere shadow of his
former bonnie self. Elsie was so overwhelmed at the sight of his poor
little wasted figure, and cried so bitterly, that the nurse promptly
ordered her out of the ward.

"Tell Elsie I'm quite well now," he said anxiously to Mrs. MacDougall.
"She needn't cry, because we are going home; aren't we, mother? You did
say we might."

"Yes, well all be happy again together soon, little lad," Mrs.
MacDougall replied.

"Perhaps they hurt Elsie," Duncan continued, still anxious for Elsie.
"They were bad people, mother;" and the little fellow shuddered.

They were obliged to calm him and turn his thoughts away. One of the
worst points of his illness had been the fits of terror that came over
him when a recollection of the Fergusons or the Murdochs passed through
his brain. It had been feared that his mind was seriously affected by
the fright he had undergone.

He was not yet fit to be moved, so Mrs. MacDougall decided to take Elsie
home, and come again to fetch Duncan when he was ready to leave, as she
had barely money enough left to take her to Dunster. Duncan was,
however, convalescent, and in a fair way of recovering.

It was only now that Mrs. MacDougall, the more pressing cares of her
mind relieved, had time to remember Elsie's curious statement before the
magistrates. "What did you mean, child, by saying that you didn't
rightly know your own name?" she asked. "Surely you were dazed with the
strange faces all round you. I feared you had lost your reason."

Elsie hung her head sheepishly. Although she had heard nothing from
any one on the subject, she had somehow a conviction in her mind that
she had been very silly. It was easy to talk grandly to Duncan, but
quite a different thing to tell the story to Mrs. MacDougall.

"I don't know. I did think that perhaps me and Duncan were the babies of
Aunt Nannie's what Uncle Grosvenor sent you to take care of," Elsie
stammered, growing very red.

"Good patience, child! What do you know about your aunt Nannie's
babies?" Mrs. MacDougall exclaimed, in amazement. "Who have been
tattling to you about what don't concern them?"

"Then we _are_ those babies!" Elsie cried, with a flash of excitement.

"You!" cried Mrs. MacDougall; "that you are not. What could make you
think such a thing? Whoever told you so much--an' I reckon your foolish
old grannie was the person--might as well have told the whole story,
which, however, it was my great wish should be kept quite a secret.
Robbie was your poor Aunt Nannie's bairn."

"Robbie!" Elsie exclaimed, slowly; "but there were two babies, mother."

"There were twin babies, but one died the next day after it reached me,
poor bairn. It was a girl baby, and the one the father took an interest
in; but it died, and he cared little or nothing about Robbie, so I kept
him my own self, for he was but a poor little lad, and could no bear a
rough life. Often I've been tempted to let the child go back to his own
flesh and blood, but I hadn't the heart, knowing there was none that
would look after him with the care he needed."

"Is Robbie better than we are, mother?" Elsie asked, with the old
jealousy cropping up once more. "Uncle Grosvenor is a grand laird, is he

[Illustration: "ROBBIE WAITED ON HIM" (_p. 329_).]

Mrs. MacDougall laughed. "He's just a well-to-do tradesman, though he
had mighty fine airs when he used to come to Dunster; but I never liked
the looks of him. He broke his poor wife's heart, and never believed it
till she lay dead, and then he was sorry, and tried to make some amends.
He was a bit touched when he saw his motherless bairns, and did a kind
deed when he sent them to me; but he soon grew blithe and gay again, and
troubled his head no more. I've never heard from him from that day to
this, except that he sends me payment for the babies still. He doesn't
even know that the little one died, for he has never written; and I
don't know where he is; but any day he may come, and just take it into
his head to fetch poor Nannie's bairn away from me: but I hope he won't,
for now that he's married again and has many children, as I am told,
poor Robbie will be ill-welcomed among them."

What a different tale this was from the one Elsie had concocted in her
own mind! How utterly foolish and ashamed she was feeling. She would
tell all, and would so ease her mind.

"Mother," she said, speaking quickly, "it was all through a letter I
picked up and read, and because I always thought Robbie was your
favourite more than me and Duncan. I thought he must be your little boy,
and that we were not. You did buy Robbie more things, and never sent him
for the milk."

"Ye're right enough, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, with a sigh. "There's
many a time, when I've been sore pressed, I've been tempted to take the
money that Robbie's father sent to buy the clothes you and Duncan were
in need of; but I've always stood against it, and never spent a penny of
that money for any other purpose than the right one, and I've taken
care of the child more jealously than if he was my own. But the Evil One
himself must have put it in your heart to be jealous of that poor little
lad. With all my care, I doubt that he'll ever see manhood. And as for
the letter, I think I know the one you mean. If you found it, you'd no
call to read it."

"But I read it, and I kept it," Elsie confessed, seeing that her mother
had quite failed to comprehend all that she had tried to tell her. "It
was for that I wanted to run away--to go and find who I thought was our
own father--and I took Duncan with me. I thought it would be easy. I
didn't mean to hurt Duncan."

"I will be no harsh to you, Elsie," Mrs. MacDougall said, sorrowfully.
"It's a sore thing for a mother to think of; but God has taught you His
lesson in His own way. I doubt you'll never do the like again."

It was only by degrees that Mrs. MacDougall heard the whole history of
the children's wanderings, or Elsie fully understood the terrible
dangers to which she had, by her own act, willingly exposed herself and
Duncan. Never had she fully realised what the word "home" meant until
returning to it, after having been homeless, lonely, and outcast, she
was received with the glad welcome that no one else in all the wide
world would have extended to her.

Mrs. MacDougall was, like many of her race, a woman of few words, and
not given to demonstrations of affection, yet with a deeply-rooted,
fervent feeling of attachment to her own flesh and blood that nothing
could destroy, that was only equalled by her strong sense of religious
duty. In that terrible week of suspense, when she received no tidings of
the missing children, her hair had become grey, and her face aged by
many years. In seeking them out, she had spent unhesitatingly the
hardly-scraped savings of years, laid by for the decent burying of her
old mother and herself. These facts spoke more strongly than words. Even
Elsie knew well enough the terrible degradation an honest, respectable
Scottish woman would feel it that any of her birth and kin should fall
upon the charity of strangers.

Elsie had been ever a tiresome child. She was what people call
clever--that is to say, she had from an early age the power of thinking
for herself, and forming her own ideas on many subjects. This very
activity of brain often overwhelmed the better feelings of her heart,
which was not really bad. It was her own supposed cleverness that had
led her into such a grievous error concerning that unfortunate letter
she had found, her restless curiosity that had led her into the
temptation of reading it, whereas Duncan's slower brain would have
allowed his heart time to speak its protest against an action that he
had been trained to regard as mean and dishonourable. Cleverness is a
dangerous gift, apt to lead into very stray paths, unless there is firm
principle to weigh it. Lucy Murdoch was extremely clever. Better for her
to have been without one talent than to have used all ten to her own
utter ruin.

Mrs. MacDougall gave Elsie no bitter reproaches. She explained to her
how grievous a sin she had committed, and what sorrow she had brought on
those who had always shown her the truest kindness. She would allow no
one to speak to Elsie about it, except the good old minister at the
manse, who had known her from her birth. Farmer Jarrett greatly desired
to give her a good talking to, but Mrs. MacDougall said, in her true
Scottish fashion, "Nay, neighbour; the Lord had pointed His own moral,
an' we can no better it. She has the little brother she loves always
before her eyes to warn her." And this was true enough. Duncan had never
recovered the effects of the fever. He seemed to have lost all his old
robustness and vigour, taking little interest in anything, only caring
to sit quiet and undisturbed before the fire. No words could have
affected her more than that most pitiful sight. Mrs. MacDougall often
caught Elsie's eyes fixed on the child with a wistful, sorrowful
expression. She and Robbie waited on him continually, with patient
unfailing tenderness, and both the children vied with each other as to
who could be the more kind and thoughtful for him.

Mrs. MacDougall from that time changed her treatment of Robbie, and
moreover, explained to all three children the circumstances of his
birth. She believed that she had erred in practising even this
well-meant deceit, intended for the good both of Robbie and her own two
children, which had, however, resulted in the very jealousy she had
tried to prevent. Robbie benefited by the change, and was certainly far
happier. He grew less babyish--stronger both in mind and body. The old
jealousy died away, and Elsie liked him far better as a cousin--yet
treated in every way like herself--than she had done as a brother.

For several years no one dared to mention in Duncan's presence the sad
experience he had lived through. His terror and excitement were so
intense at the mere recollection of it, that the utmost care was
necessary. He could never go out alone, for if he met a person who
seemed to his morbid fancy to resemble either of the Fergusons or the
Murdochs, his shuddering fear was shocking to witness. He and Robbie had
quite changed places. It was he now who needed all the anxious,
watchful care that in former days Elsie would have called petting.

If no one reproached her, it is certain she reproached herself, more and
more bitterly as she grew older, and understood how grave a misfortune
she had brought upon Duncan, the one person she was most fond of in this
world. She had turned his very trust in her into the means of
sacrificing him. Sometimes she was so tortured by this thought that she
could hardly bear it. "I will never leave him as long as I live," she
often said to herself, as a sort of reparation for what he had suffered.
"I will take care of him till I die."

But there is a hope that in course of time, after he has passed the
years of boyhood, he may recover his old strength, and in this hope
Elsie lives.




We all know the beautiful miniatures that grandmammas count as some of
their greatest treasures, mementoes of the friends of long ago. Some of
those little bits of ivory are now worth, over and over again, their
weight in gold. The names of Nicholas Hilliard, Isaac and Peter Oliver,
Samuel Cooper, Nathaniel Hone, and Richard Cosway, are well-known in
connection with the art of Miniature Painting. Photography now
supersedes all other modes of taking portraits on a small scale on
account of its rapidity, but no photograph, however carefully coloured,
ever did, or ever will, equal the exquisite little gems left to us by
the men we have reason to honour whose names I have mentioned already. I
should, for my part, be glad to see the art, which has never gone quite
out of fashion, restored to its old popularity.

The choice of a good piece of ivory is important. You can get the pieces
of various sizes from any good artist's colourman, and you must look out
for one that has as little grain as possible in the centre, because the
space the face will occupy should be free from streaks that would be
detrimental to the painting. The remainder of the ivory is not of so
much consequence, as in representing the drapery and background the
grain can generally be hidden. Large sizes can be obtained, but I should
not advise you to begin on one of them; a piece about 3-1/2 in. by 4-3/4
in. does very well for a first attempt. Ivory can be cut with a pair of
scissors, but it is a risky operation, and it is far better to get a
professional worker to cut it for you if you need the shape or size
altered; then, too, if you want an oval shape you will be pretty sure to
get a true oval, which very possibly you could not manage yourself. Red
sable brushes are used, and you should select those that will come to a
good point. You will not require more than three or four, a medium size
for washes, a smaller for stippling, and a very fine one for
finishing-touches. An oval china palette is also needed; the small slabs
sold in ordinary paintboxes are not serviceable for miniature painting,
as many colours and tints are necessary. Use the best water-colours if
you wish to succeed, and you will find those in pans or half pans are
preferable to the dry cakes, as time is not spent in rubbing them down.
These are the most useful colours:--Cobalt, French ultra, Prussian blue,
carmine, or pink madder, Indian red, vermilion, light red, sepia, burnt
umber, burnt sienna, Indian yellow, yellow ochre, ivory black, and
Chinese white. I do not consider more than these requisite for an
ordinary palette. Then you must have a firm drawing-board, and a bottle
of clear strong gum. Some pieces of old linen should be kept at hand for
cleaning the palette; if anything else be used for the purpose fluffy
particles will be left on it that will get mixed up with the colours,
and that we must do all in our power to avoid. I want to impress upon
you the importance of choosing a good light for your work; for one
reason you cannot get the delicate tints which are the great charm of
ivory miniature painting if you sit in a bad position for seeing well;
and for a second reason the work is so fine that there is the danger of
trying your eyes too much if you are not careful in this respect.

You must never continue the work if your eyes feel tired. Some person's
eyesight is so much stronger than that of others that you must judge for
yourselves whether or no it is harmful to you to produce such fine
paintings. It is best to sketch the portrait first correctly on paper;
not many amateurs will be able to do it direct on the ivory without some
guide, and as few alterations as possible must be made on the ivory. If
the sketch be tolerably dark it may be laid beneath the ivory, and so
traced off with a brush filled with light red. It is far easier, of
course, to work from a photograph; if you do this you need only to place
the ivory over it, and thus you have the features, and the principal
folds of the dress, ready to mark off with the brush on the
semi-transparent ground. You must be so very careful not to let the
ivory slip in the faintest degree out of place, or the likeness will
sure to prove a failure.

When you have all the principal points clearly defined, fix it by
gumming it at the top to a square of writing-paper, which must be white.
At the back of this lay three or four more squares of paper, until the
ivory thus mounted looks opaque. Bristol board is used sometimes instead
of paper, but it is liable to warp when exposed to heat. The ivory must
only be gummed at the top, for if gum were allowed to run under the face
the flesh-tints would be darkened; the papers also must be gummed
together at the top, and they should be somewhat larger than the ivory.
It must be placed aside until dry pressed in a book with a piece of
clean paper over it. Lay on the first flesh-tint evenly with a large
brush, leaving the whites of the eyes untouched. Light red, or Venetian
red, to which the slightest touch of yellow has been added, forms a good
tint to work upon; for dark complexion a little more yellow will be

When the right depth of colour in the lights of the face is properly
secured, the shadows may be put in with a good-sized brush. It is a
great mistake ever to use very small brushes when larger ones can be
equally well employed. In every style of painting we should strive to
work as far as possible in a broad manner, and large brushes help us to
do this. So, too, we should whenever practicable lay on our colours in
washes; if we begin with stippling our drawings they will be "niggling,"
and will be sure to look poor and "spotty." The shadows differ in shape
and in colour on all faces, and to render these accurately is by no
means an unimportant part of taking a likeness; the expression depends
greatly upon the shadows, and we need to study nature closely if we
would represent all the delicate gradations faithfully. As a shadow
colour, cobalt, Venetian red, carmine or pink madder, and a suspicion of
yellow, will make a good foundation; but the tint must be varied as
occasion demands. Under the eyes, the shadows are blueish, whilst those
under the eyebrows and nostrils are warm in tint; Indian red serves well
for warming shadows. Beginners will very probably fear to lay in the
shadows too strongly, but when they see the effect produced, they are
likely to go to the opposite extreme and smear in the shadows heavily
for the sake of giving character to the likeness. The happy medium is
what we must strive to secure; we do not want our paintings to be weak,
but neither do we want them "dirty" in tone. The shadows on the throat
should be rather grey, but not so much so as to appear livid and
unnatural; here light red and cobalt will predominate. On the neck they
will be of a soft blue tone. They must all be clearly washed in without
reaching too far into the lights, as lights and shadows must
subsequently be softened into each other with the lovely demi-tints that
afford the pearl-like appearance of the natural clear complexion. These
half tints are formed of cobalt and light red, or of French ultra and
carmine; pink madder may take the place of carmine if preferred, for
though not so brilliant it is more lasting. A fair child's complexion
will require more vermilion and less carmine than that of an adult. To
keep the form of the lips true to nature is another point that demands
our strictest attention. Blue eyes are put in with cobalt, toned with
shadow colour; grey, with a mixture of blue and red. There are many
varieties of shade in brown eyes, and you must find out by experiment
what is best to use for them, as you may have, at one time or another,
to depict hazel, chestnut, and deep brown eyes that are called black.
You will find burnt terra sienna and shadow colour useful, and in the
case of the darkest brown shade, the employment of lake and sepia will
be necessary. The pupil is put in with sepia.

On no account must black be used in painting the eyes. Now we come to
the eyebrows and eyelashes. These are of the same colour as the hair,
but usually darker in tint. Do not try to make out the separate hairs,
or hardness, which is very undesirable, will ensue. Sometimes in
finishing the eyelashes you will improve them with a few fine strokes
after the wash of colour is laid on. The hair must be painted broadly in
large masses, and its natural fall on the forehead, its tendency to curl
or wave, must be truly rendered. For black hair use neutral tint, and a
little indigo for the lights; for the local colour, indigo, lake, and
gamboge. For brown hair, sepia, but should it be very dark add a little
lake. Burnt umber will give a beautiful chestnut brown if mixed with
lake modified with sepia. No part of a miniature should be finished off
until all the rest is close to completion; for one colour affects
another considerably when they are placed side by side, and so it is
impossible to judge of the strength of a tint until all its surroundings
are brought near to an equal state of finish. Select a colour for the
drapery that will suit the complexion and hair; one that will heighten
the effect of each, and produce a pleasing harmony. Nothing is more
charming than white for a young girl, who possesses a fair complexion;
the ivory itself forms a soft creamy white ground that needs only the
shadows and reflections to be thrown in, and a little Chinese white is
employed for the lights. If the dress is coloured you should manage to
introduce some white lace around the throat. Black velvet is also
extremely becoming; the lights are put in with Chinese white.

Brilliant colours for draperies should always be avoided, as there is so
little space in a miniature to be given to the accessories that they
must be kept low in tone if they are to be subordinate to the likeness.
A small quantity of gum is required in the background, and in the
draperies just a drop is mixed in with the colours for finishing off the
dress. The harmony of the whole will depend greatly on the tint chosen
for the background. It may be as dark as you like, only you must not let
it be heavy. A neutral tint of grey or brown is easy for a beginner to
manage, and a warm red-brown is admirable for the purpose. A soft blue
sky with fleecy-white clouds makes the best background for a fair girl
in a white dress. Wash in the background colour to the desired strength,
then stipple it to get it smooth.

With a few general remarks I must end these suggestions. "Stippling" is
the filling in with a small brush, but not too fine, of any spaces left
when the colour is washed in. The polished surface of the ivory will not
take the wash as paper does, and it requires a great deal of working up
before it appears level and smooth. Any touches may be put in with a
trifle of gum added to the colour. You will use sepia for the dark
touches on the eyebrows and eyelashes, carmine and sepia for those about
the mouth and nostrils. The spot of white in the eye must not be
forgotten. The lights are always left, not taken out afterwards. Any
hairs that may be found on the ivory after a tint is washed in must be
removed with a needle or the extreme point of a clean brush. Lay in your
colours with decision, and always try as far as you possibly can to work
in a broad free style.


Far away in the mountains of Westmoreland there is a lonely ravine
called Far Easedale, and here was once a cottage called Blentarn Ghyll,
where a man named Green once lived with his wife and six children.

One day George Green and his wife went to a sale of furniture at
Grasmere. Before starting they spoke kindly to their eldest girl Agnes,
who was then only nine years old, and begged her to take special care of
all her little brothers and sisters.

"We shall be home to-night, dear," said Mrs. Green, "but you'll be a
little mother to them whilst we are away, won't you?"

Agnes promised gaily, thinking it would be rather fun to be left in

All went well till towards evening, when a terrible snow-storm came on.
The white flakes fell so fast that the door was blocked up; worse than
this, the snow made its way through the windows.

Having put the baby to bed, Agnes and the other children sat up till
midnight, hoping that their parents would come, but not a sound was
heard, as the snow fell silently thicker and thicker.

In the morning the snow had stopped falling, but it lay so deep that
Agnes dared not venture out.

The children were miserable, and Agnes, child as she was herself, forgot
her own trouble in trying to cheer and comfort them. Then she boiled
what milk there was in the house, to prevent its turning sour, and made
some porridge for breakfast, eating very little herself, for she feared
the little stock of meal might fail.

After breakfast she asked her two brothers to help her cut a way from
the door to the shed where the peat was kept, and they carried in as
much as they could. Then they closed the door till night came and they
forgot their troubles in sleep.

The next day a strong wind had blown away so much snow that Agnes
determined to try to find her way to Grasmere. It was a difficult task,
for there were brooks to cross; but the brave girl was urged on by the
memory of the little ones she had left behind, and made her way there.

Here she found that her father and mother had started for home on the
first night. As they had not since been heard of, she had little doubt
that they must have fallen into some hole or brook and have perished in
the snow.

Still faithful to her trust, the poor child returned to the cottage,
where she carefully watched over her brothers and sisters, until kind
friends found new homes for the little orphans.

E. M. W.



  Darling mother! not to see her
    For a whole week and a day!
  It was hard; but she is better,
    And at last nurse says I may
  Carry up her morning tea.

  Only one wee, tiny minute
    Must I wait to kiss her cheek,
  And to whisper how I missed her
    Every day this long, long week,
  And to ask if she missed me.

  Often, while they thought me sleeping,
    Did I lie an hour and more,
  Crying--when the house was quiet--
    Softly at her bedroom door,
  Where she could not hear nor see.

  Oh, it was so dull without her!
    Every one was grave and sad;
  But I think, now she is better,
    Even the little birds look glad
  As they hop from tree to tree.




Aye, aye, sir! I've seen a good many queer things in my time, sure
enough; but the queerest thing I ever saw was a bit of work aboard the
old _Mermaid_, when we were homeward bound from Hong Kong and Singapore.
Would you like to hear the story? Well, then, if you'll just come to an
anchor for a minute or two on this coil of rope, I'll tell you all about

The very first day out from Hong Kong I took notice of one young lady,
who was lying on a kind of basket-work sofa, on the sunny side of the
poop-deck. She had the sweetest face I ever saw, but it went to my heart
to see how thin and pale she looked. And well she might, poor thing! for
it seems she had something wrong with her back, so as she couldn't walk
or stand up, or anything; and she was going to England to see some great
doctor or other, and try if _he_ could cure her.

All the passengers were very good to her, I will say _that_ for 'em; and
as for us blue-jackets, every man Jack of us would have jumped overboard
only to please her, when once we knew how it was. But she was too weak
to talk or read much, and the chief thing she had to amuse her was a
little grey Java sparrow, which she had with her in a cage. Whenever she
came on deck, the bird's cage was brought up too, and put close beside
her; and it was Bob Wilkins, the pantry-boy, who always had the carrying
of it.

It was a pretty little thing that bird was, and as sensible as any man;
fact, it was a deal more sensible than many men that _I_'ve met. When
she had a headache (and terrible headaches she used to have, poor lass)
that bird would be as quiet as a mouse. But when she was well enough to
stand it, she'd have the cage brought to her, and open it with her own
hands, and out the little fellow would pop, and flutter on to her
shoulder, and eat out of her hand, just as natural as could be. And then
she used to stroke its feathers with her poor thin fingers and smile
such a strange, sad kind of smile, that many a time I've had to go away
in a hurry for fear I should cry outright; and I can tell you I wasn't
the only one, neither.

But fond as we all were of that bird, there was somebody else that was
fonder still, and that was the captain's big tortoise-shell cat: and to
see the way it kept its eye on that Java sparrow, and watched for a
chance to get hold of it! you never saw the like.

Well, the captain was a kind man, and didn't want to hurt the poor cat,
specially as it was a great pet of his wife's; so he tied it up to keep
it out of mischief. But of course it took and squalled all night, till
nobody could sleep a wink for the noise, and he had to let it loose
again. So then he says to me--

"Thompson," says he, "just keep your eye on that cat, and if it ever
comes on to the poop-deck, drive it off again."

"Aye, aye, sir," says I, and I kept a bright lookout, sure enough. But
one day that cat _was_ too sharp for me, after all.

It was getting towards afternoon, on our second day from Port Said, and
Miss Ashton was lying on her couch on the poop-deck, with her bird's
cage hanging from one of the lashings of the awning, close beside her.
I'd just been down to fetch our third officer's telescope; and as I came
up again, something brushed past me. I saw the cat spring up at the
cage, the cord snapped, and down went bird, cage, cat, and all,
slap-dash into the sea!

The next moment there came a big splash, and there was our pantry-boy,
Bob Wilkins (the one that used always to carry the cage up on deck, you
know), overboard after 'em. And as if that wasn't enough, Bill Harris
the carpenter (who was a special chum of Bob's, and happened to be
standing by at the time) catches hold of a life-buoy, and overboard _he_
goes too. So there they all were, the cat after the bird, Bob after the
cat, and Bill Harris after Bob.

"Man overboard!" sang out half a dozen of us.

"Stop her!" cried the first officer. "Stand by to lower the boat! Cast
off the gripes! let go the davit-tackle!"

You should have seen how quick that boat was lowered, and how the men
made her fly along! When we picked 'em up, (though they were a long way
astern by this time) Bill was clinging to the life-buoy, and Bob had got
hold of it with one hand and the cage with the other. The bird was
fluttering about and looking precious scared, as if he didn't like going
to sea in a cage; and the cat was sitting on Bill's shoulder, and
holding on with every claw he had. The passengers sent round the hat for
Bob Wilkins, and a pretty deal of money they got; but I can promise you
he thought more of the thanks Miss Ashton gave him for the job than of
all the money twice over.

But I was just going to leave out the best part of the whole story. They
say it's "an ill wind that blows nobody good," and so it came out that
time, sure enough. When the young lady saw Bob jump overboard, and
thought he was going to be drowned in trying to save her bird, it gave
her such a fright, that _she_, who couldn't even sit up without help,
jumped right up on her feet and looked over the side after him! Well,
sir, from that day forth, to the end of her voyage, she was always
better able to move than before; and the great London doctor who cured
her afterward (for she was cured at last) said that "nervous shock," as
he called it, had been the saving of her, and that he'd had just such
another case already. Now, that's as true as I sit here; and if you
don't believe it, here comes Bob Wilkins, and you can ask him.



_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls Can Do,"

Many were the consultations which Margaret and Mary held together trying
to decide what was to be made at the last Cookery lesson. The last
lesson! something wonderful must be accomplished; but what was it to
be?--that was the question. Margaret felt as if she should like to take
advice on the subject.

"What should you make if you were going to cook something, and were
allowed to choose for yourself?" she asked her friend, Rosy Williams.

"I should make some toffee," said Rosy.

Toffee! Margaret had never thought of it, but of course it was the very
thing. She had been picturing to herself roasts and broils, and stews
and soups, but toffee was worth everything of the sort put together. If
only Mary would agree.

Mary was like Rosy, however: she decided instantly.

"And, as it must surely be very easy, why should we not try to make it
by ourselves, without mother?" said Margaret. "We might get to know how,
and then do it without any help at all."

"Of course you might," said Rosy. "After all the lessons in cookery you
have had, I should think you could make a little toffee. Toffee is so
easy to do. If you think I could help, I should be very glad to come: if
Mrs. Herbert would let me."

"Thank you!" said Margaret; "you are kind."

"My brother Tom could come too," continued Rosy. "Tom is very clever at
making toffee; he is quite accustomed to it. Whenever cook goes out for
a holiday Tom makes toffee."

So Margaret asked her mother to consent. At first Mrs. Herbert looked
rather doubtful; then she glanced at the eager little faces looking up
at her, and she smiled. The children at once clapped their hands. They
knew what the smile meant.

"Yes, dears, I think you may do as you wish. Only promise that you will
be careful not to burn yourselves. There is one thing in our favour:
toffee is best made over a slow fire, so there will be less danger. You
can make your toffee this afternoon if you wish, and I will tell cook to
put everything ready for you."

Punctually at the time appointed Rosy and her obliging brother Tom
appeared, and all the children went off to the kitchen, Tom taking the
place of master of the ceremonies.

"We shall want a simple brass pan," he said. "Yes, that is just the
kind," he added, as cook handed to him a small saucepan, which was so
bright inside that it shone like gold. "Now we must weigh out a quarter
of a pound of butter, let that melt, then put in half a pound of raw
sugar and half a pound of treacle. We stir this over the fire, and when
it has boiled a little we add two table-spoonfuls of vinegar, and keep
on boiling till it is ready."

"That is very easy," said Mary. "Shall I weigh the butter?"

"Yes," said Tom. "You weigh the butter, I will weigh the sugar, Rosy the
treacle, and Margaret measure the vinegar. It is such an advantage to
have so many helpers; we get the work done so quickly. There is a
proverb which says 'Many hands make light work.' It is quite true."

"How clever your brother is, Rosy!" said Margaret.

"Please, had we better not divide the work, then?" said Mary, "and take
it in turns to stir?"

"Yes, we will stir by the clock: six minutes each."

"Who is to begin?"

"Shall I begin, as I understand how to do it? Then Margaret can follow,
then Mary, then Rosy."

"But how shall we know when it is boiled enough?" said Margaret.

"That is just what I was going to tell you. We cannot say exactly how
long it has to boil, but we must try it. When a little of the toffee
which has been dropped into a cup of cold water makes a crackling
sound, or breaks clean between the teeth without sticking to them, the
toffee is done."

"Which of us is to try whether it is done, though?" said Margaret.

"As we are all going to make the toffee, I should say we had better all
try it. We can have four cups of water and four spoons, can't we,

"Oh, yes!" replied Margaret. "Will you fetch them please, Mary?"

Mary went off as requested, but she was away so long that Tom and
Margaret had finished stirring, and they were ready for her to take the
spoon when she returned, looking hot and excited, but bearing the four
cups of water and four spoons on a tray.

"Aunt Bridget wouldn't let me have four cups at first," she remarked on
entering: "she said it was too many; but I got them at last."

"That's right," said Tom. "Shall we try if the toffee is nearly ready?"

"We had better not try too soon, because if four of us taste very often,
we shall eat so much before it is ready that there will be very little
to divide after it is ready."

"Quite true," said Tom; while Mary stirred enthusiastically until her
six minutes were gone.

"Now for my turn," said Rosy.

"I think we had better try whether it is done enough yet," said Tom.

"Tom, how unkind you are!" said Rosy. "Everybody has stirred but me, and
just as my turn has come you want to try it. Besides, how can I try it
when I am stirring?"

"Very well, we will wait," said Tom good-naturedly. "Don't cry, Rosy;"
and Rosy's face brightened, while all the children watched the spoon as
it went round and round, while the toffee gradually became darker and
darker in colour, and an odour more strong than agreeable filled the

At length the hand of the clock reached the point which marked Rosy's
six minutes. All four cups were brought forward, all four spoons were
dipped into the foaming liquid, and then emptied into the water. The
toffee fell to the bottom in a dark cake, which hardened almost
instantly, and which, when broken between the teeth, snapped without
sticking at all, and tasted--ugh!

At this moment Mrs. Herbert appeared.

"I am afraid you are letting the toffee burn," she said; "we can smell
it all over the house."

"It is rather burnt," said Tom.

"It does not taste so badly, though," said Margaret.

"Very likely we shall not taste the burnt part so much when it is cool,"
said Rosy.

"I am afraid you will have to throw the toffee away, my dears. It is
sadly burnt."

"Oh, no, no!" said all the children at once.

"I thought we should have done better as there were four of us," said

"Perhaps, after all, it is not an advantage to have so many helpers,"
said Tom.

"At any rate," said Mrs. Herbert; "you will have proved the truth of the
proverb, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'--I mean the toffee. And after
all, in cookery, as in other things, nothing teaches like failure which
is made the most of."

"Never mind, Mary," whispered Margaret, as the burnt toffee was carried
off to cool. "We have made a good many excellent dishes when we two were
the only cooks, and mother was the teacher; we will try toffee again
another day, when we are by ourselves."

On that occasion I think we may perhaps venture to predict that the
toffee will be a greater success.


[Illustration: MEASURING THE BABIES. (_See p. 337._)]

  Said Mistress Bear to Mistress Fox,
    "Your girl is very small."
  Quoth Mistress Fox, "It is not so;
    Your boy is not so tall."

  "My boy is tall and sturdy too,"
    Cried Mistress Bear with ire;
  "And he's a handsome little lad,
    The image of his sire."

  "His sire! Ha, ha! why, all the world
    Says, 'Ugly as a bear.'"
  The very trees with laughter shook,
    As thus they wrangled there.

  "Ho, ho! dear ladies, what's the fuss?"
    Two waggish bears stray'd by.
  The gentle mothers told their tale,
    A tear-drop in each eye.

  "Call here the foxes," and they came.
    One was an ancient sage.
  "Now place the young folk back to back,
    And simply state their age."

  The dames obey'd, the infants laugh'd;
    Spoke he, Reynard so wise,
  "'Tis useless; size and beauty lie
    In love's fond, partial eyes."



The sun shone brightly down upon the pretty village of Bethlehem, as,
from the top of the hill on which it stood, it overlooked the smiling
fields below. And how peaceful all looked, carrying one's thoughts back
to the old times, when the loving and gentle Ruth, who had come with her
bereaved mother-in-law, to cast in her lot with the people of God, went
after the gleaners in the fields of Boaz, and humbly picked up the ears
of corn, that were so considerately dropped for her! How greatly she was
afterwards blessed, and what an abundant reward was hers!

There in that very neighbourhood her great-grandson David quietly tended
his sheep, and, in sweetest strains, lifted up his voice, in love and
gratitude, to the Great Shepherd in the heavens. What a peaceful life he
led amongst his beloved flock! And how his careful tending of his sheep
prepared him for that higher care which he was to take of God's chosen
people! And how, ages afterwards, when some other peaceful shepherds
were watching over their flocks by night, a wondrous light shone round
about them, and a bright angel told them the good tidings of great joy
which should be to all people! How to their astonished gaze, there
suddenly appeared a whole host of beauteous beings, praising God for His
love and mercy to mankind, and filling the whole expanse of heaven with
melody sweeter than the sweetest ever before heard upon earth!

How, too, only one mile from where the shepherds lay, a happy mother
gazed long and tenderly on the face of her newly-born child, who was to
be called "The Son of the Highest," who was to take away the sins of the
world, and have given to Him the throne of His father David! And those
Wise Men, too, that had come from the far East--how they rejoiced when
they saw the bright star that had guided them to the land of the Jews
re-appear and twinkle over the lowly place where the heavenly Babe lay!
What praise and thanksgiving went up from their grateful hearts, as they
looked upon the child-face that they had travelled day and night to see!

Truly, it seemed as if, since the days of the fair and virtuous Ruth,
the blessing of God had rested upon that peaceful village, that had come
to be called "the city of David," and as if no sorrow was ever to visit
its soft green fields.

But, as if to draw our thoughts upwards, there is no spot on earth to
which, at some time or other, sorrow does not come; and the hitherto
peaceful Bethlehem was to have its full share.

A wicked king sat on the throne of Judæa, whom nobody loved and many
abhorred. He was an old man, and terribly afflicted; and his temper,
which was always ferocious, had become more dreadful than that of the
wildest lion that had ever rushed up from the swelling of the Jordan.

His father, Antipater, was an Idumæan, and a servitor in the temple of
Apollo at Ascalon, whilst his mother, Cypros, was an Arabian. He,
therefore, belonged to the despised Ishmaelites and the hated Edomites;
and the Jews were by no means inclined to look favourably upon him. To
please them he professed to follow their religion, but he was not a Jew
at heart. He trampled upon their feelings and prejudices, and leaned to
the side of the Romans; and they, therefore, mistrusted him, and longed
for the time when they should be freed from his misrule.

He had rebuilt their temple, and made it the most noble and magnificent
building on the face of the earth; and they gloried in seeing its white
marble pinnacles and golden roof glittering in the sunshine. For nine
years he had constantly employed 18,000 men in its re-erection, and for
upwards of thirty years more he had kept adding to its embellishments,
till for grandeur and costliness it stood unrivalled. But when it was
completed he set up over its chief gate the golden eagle of the Romans,
and at the sight of that abhorred ensign all their gratitude fled,
giving place to bitter resentment.

He married Jewish women, which was a compliment to their race; but his
unjust and cruel treatment of them roused up all their worst feelings,
and made them regard him for ever as an enemy.

The beautiful and virtuous Mariamne, who belonged to the Maccabees, the
noblest of their families, he, in a cruel fit of jealousy, ordered to be
put to death. Her brother, the youthful Aristobulus, who was
High-priest, he caused to be drowned before his eyes in pretended sport.
Her grandfather, the aged Hyrcanus, who had once saved the life of
Herod, when threatened by the Sanhedrin, he sent tottering to his death.
Her mother, Alexandra, fell a victim to his frenzy, and her two
sons,--Alexander and Aristobulus, when they were grown up, and had wives
and children dependent upon them, he ordered to be strangled in prison,
the chief crime of all these being, that they were justly esteemed and
beloved by the Jews.

No wonder that his subjects liked him not, and that he sat uneasily upon
his throne! No wonder that when the Wise Men came from the east to
Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?" he
trembled, for he knew well that should another aspirant to the crown
appear, the Jews would only be too ready to take his part.

Insecure as he felt himself to be, he determined on finding out who this
new king was, and taking immediate steps for ridding himself of him. So
under pretence of desiring to do honour to the young child, he directed
the Wise Men to make diligent search for the infant king, and then tell
him where He was; that he also might go and worship Him. But in his
heart he was anxious to know where the Baby-king was only that he might
send some secret assassin to take His life. He had done darker and more
difficult deeds than that, and had put safely out of his path far more
formidable enemies than a helpless babe. The Wise Men would soon come
back, as they had promised, and then in less than a day the dreaded
Child would have ceased to live, he would be able to breathe freely
again, and unpopular as he was, he would still retain his crown.

But the Magi did not return. Overwhelmed with joy at having at last
found the wondrous Babe, to which the strange star had guided them, they
lay down to rest, intending, in the early morning, to set out again for
Jerusalem. But the great Father above, who knew all the dark secrets of
Herod's heart, warned them in a dream not to go back to him; and they
returned to their own country by another way.

Herod waited and watched in his palace for the return of the Magi; and
his secret executioner was at hand, ready to set out for Bethlehem at
any moment. And when he found that they had discovered his hypocrisy and
wicked intentions, and that his infamous design was thwarted, his rage
knew no bounds; and he vowed to himself that the Child-King should not
escape him, and that he would be fully avenged.

From the information received from the Wise Men, he concluded that it
was within two years that the mysterious guiding star had first
appeared. And a dark and terrible thought came into his wicked heart. If
he could not tell which of the many babes in Bethlehem was the
long-expected Messiah of the Jews, the great King, whose advent had been
revealed in the far east by a bright orb of heaven, then he would kill
all the little ones that were two years old and under; and the One that
he feared would be sure to be slain amongst them.

To do the dark deed he hastily despatched some of his soldiers; and soon
the peaceful pasture lands of Bethlehem, which had so lately resounded
with the glad songs of angels with shining wings, rang with shrieks of
frantic mothers. For the soldiers of the cruel king entered house after
house, and snatching the innocent babes from their mothers' arms, ran
them through with their glittering swords; and the bodies of the pretty
little things that, but a few moments ago, were looking up with happy
smiles into the loving faces that bent tenderly over them, were cruelly
thrown on the ground, their red blood streaming along the floors.

Out of house after house the bereaved mothers, wild with grief, rushed
into the streets, uttering piercing cries, smiting their breasts,
throwing up their arms towards heaven, and calling down upon the
committer of the atrocious crime the just vengeance of Him who hears the

Never before had the quiet village sent up such cries of despair, or
witnessed so cruel a scene! Who could look unmoved upon the poor mothers
running frantically about the narrow streets, with wild tearless eyes,
dishevelled hair, and, on their blanched faces, looks of terror, that
told of the terrible blow that had been struck at their hearts' inmost
core? Oh, it was terrible! Yet the ruthless king cared not. His hands
were so deeply imbued with the noblest blood of Jerusalem, that the
lives of a few tiny babes were nothing in his sight. While the
broken-hearted mothers were wildly shrieking, he was rejoicing; assured
that the one Child, whose life might perhaps have been something to him,
was quieted for ever.

But his wicked design was nevertheless baffled. The great God above, who
had foreseen all, had watched over His own Son, and the Holy Child was
being borne safely along towards Egypt--that land where so many of his
countrymen had found refuge in times of persecution, distress, or

Probably the night before the massacre, whilst Joseph, the husband of
Mary, was sleeping peacefully on his bed, a beautiful bright angel
appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of the danger to which he was
exposed at the hands of the troubled king.

"Arise, and take the young child and His mother," the heavenly visitant
said to him, "and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee
word; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy Him."

The face of the angel was beaming with love, and he had been sent on an
errand of mercy. But how his words thrilled through the just and
tenderhearted Joseph! Destroy his darling babe, that holy child whom God
had given to his good wife to nurse and bring up for Him! Kill the
little One about whom such great things had been said; at whose birth a
whole sky full of angels had sung for joy; and before whom the Wise Men,
who had been guided from the distant east by God Himself, had bowed in
humble adoration. Never. "Man proposes; but God disposes." Man may try
to hinder the great, purpose of God, by attempting to take the life of
the one whom He would raise up to accomplish it. But God can never be
baffled. And not all the plans that a thousand Herods, wicked as the one
that sat on the throne, could form, could bring His word to nought.

Suddenly, Joseph awoke; and starting to his feet, thought over the
dream. That it was sent from heaven he felt sure; and he must
immediately obey it.

He must rouse the mother; and under cover of the darkness, they must set
out at once. By the time that the bright sun lighted up the horizon it
might be too late; for, even then, the dread messengers of the cruel
king might be on their way.

Hastily he awoke Mary, telling her of the dream; and soon the
God-fearing man was on the road to Egypt, with the loving mother and her
precious child safe by his side.

The dark curtain of night had not yet been lifted from the earth; but
they went fearlessly along, trusting to the guidance of Him who had
bidden them set out. And when the agonising shrieks of the mothers of
Bethlehem rent the air and were re-echoed by the astonished hills,
Joseph, with his precious charge, was far away. So, though the swords of
Herod did a terrible work, they did not take that one life, to destroy
which he had commanded the massacre.

Still, Joseph and Mary journeyed along and along, till, at last, the
great Pyramids came in view, and they reached the farthest bank of the
river of Egypt, and were safe.

There, it is said, they remained two years, living at Mataréëh, to the
north-east of Cairo, till the angel of the Lord came again to Joseph, in
a dream, to tell him of Herod's death, and bid him return to his own

Then away they went, back again to the Holy Land, which was to be the
scene of Jesus' ministry, thinking as they went, how "The steps of a
good man are ordered by the Lord," and rejoicing that no plan formed
against His people shall prosper.

For even in their sleep He can warn them, by a dream, of the most secret
machinations of their enemies.

H. D.


61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of Joseph?

62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances of Christ
after His resurrection?

62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites with regard to
their election of a king, on their settling in the land of Canaan?

64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not ashamed to be called
the God of those who have had faith in Him?

65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in his enumeration of
people remarkable for faith?

66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags?

67. Where are we told that those who go into great passions shall suffer

68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the Shepherd of His people?

69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration
afterwards refers to it in his writings?

70. Where do we find it said that every word of God is pure?

71. "Then shall come to pass that saying that is written, 'Death is
swallowed up in victory.'" (1 Cor. xv. 54.) From which of the prophets
does St. Paul quote these words?

72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His shepherd?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (49-60.--_See p. 308_).

49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).

50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.

51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).

52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).

53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).

54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.

55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.

56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.

57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos (Acts xiii. 8-11).

58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).

59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).

60. It is shown in the words, "It is finished" (St. John xix. 30).


_By the Author of "Clare Linton's Friend," "Mr. Burke's Nieces," &c._


Who is this little girl, I wonder, comfortably seated, and with a great
book before her, on which she looks with delight? Her hair is tidily
brushed, and her nice white collar hangs over the edge of her dress. She
is a sweet, pretty little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story
of her day, and what had happened before she got that book, you will see
that she is not so happy after all. Just hear what she was doing two or
three hours before.

She stood at the window with a little white nose flattened against the
glass, and two big sorrowful, indignant eyes staring out at them, as the
merry party left the house. There was Uncle Jem, whom she _did_ love,
and whom she felt might have said a kind word for her; and Aunt
Anastasia, who was that sort of a person that no one since she was born
had ever thought of diminishing the five syllables by the use of any
shorter name given in playfulness or love. No one, till that moment at
least, had ever thought of calling her anything but Anastasia; but at
that moment naughty Bab, with her little flattened nose and big mournful
eyes, broke the spell by calling out, "Anasta-sia, indeed! Aunt Nasty, I

Then there was her Cousin Robert, whom poor Bab honestly believed to be
a much naughtier boy than she was a girl, and yet who generally managed
to keep out of scrapes; and Selina, demure and well-mannered, but whom
Bab's unruly, affectionate little heart had never been able to love; she
was followed by Miss Strictham, the governess. And then there was Mr.
Beresford, the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in the house;
and Bab, just for a minute, felt that she would rather have died than
that he should know she was in disgrace.

She watched them all go off under the bright blue sky, and then she
turned round, and with her back to the window, faced the rather dingy,
dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud roar.

For Bab was only seven years old, and had not yet lost the first
intensity of crying with which power every baby is born. She roared for
two or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the roar, after which
she felt a good deal better.

"I'm such a little thing to be punished," she said to herself. "I don't
think they ought to punish such a little thing as I am. I _must_ be
young when people live to be as old as grandpapa, with wrinkles over
every scrap of his face, till it looks just like no face at all, only

[Illustration: "HOLDING HER DRESS UP" (_p. 344_).]

Then Bab examined her little round, rosy, pleasant face in a mirror over
the fireplace.

"Not a single wrinkle," said she. "I must be _very_ young; but if they
punish me this way, I shall _get_ wrinkles. I'm sure I shall, because
I'm so _miserable_!"

I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be punished. She was idle at her
lessons and extremely saucy, and she was a quaint little thing, so that
sometimes she seemed to be impertinent when she really did not intend
it, though I must own that at other times she _did_ intend it as much as
any other young lady seven years old possibly could. On the present
occasion, when her governess scolded her for her idleness, she said she
had not been idle, but had been making a charade; and then she began
dancing about the schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs, and all
the time shouting loudly, "Selina, guess--this is the charade--guess,
Selina, guess! My first is what nobody should be, my second is what
everybody should eat, and my whole is--oh,--Strict-ham, Strict-ham. Why
don't you guess, Selina? Oh, why don't you?"

Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace. The picnickers would be
absent four hours, and during that time Bab was not to quit the
schoolroom. Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and nurse
would look in on her now and then, but she was not to have the younger
children with her. She was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary
confinement, and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her promise not to
leave the room, and having done so, was content, for, as she said to
Uncle Jem in rather a complaining way, "It is a very odd thing that Bab
never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise. Robert and Selina both do
sometimes, and yet they are so much better children. Isn't it odd?"

Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully refreshed
thereby--for Bab was too proud to have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia's
and Miss Strictham's presence--the poor little thing got hold of her
lesson-books and prepared to learn a French verb, some questions and
answers in English history, and to do a sum in compound addition, and
write a copy.

"As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am whether King John was
a good man or a bad one, or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!" said
she, reproachfully, to her book; "as if it mattered to _any_body,
indeed, when it was such an extremely long time ago! Eleven hundred and
ninety-nine he came to the throne; and who'd care if he had never been
born or never come to the throne? And _we're_ not barons, and _we've_
not got Magna Charta; and it's all nothing at all, but a great pity it
ever happened, for if it hadn't happened, poor little children living
hundreds and hundreds of years afterwards would not be troubled about
it. I call it rubbish!" and with the word rubbish she tossed the little
book up, and down it came with a broken back.

Bab picked it up and held it with one corner. When she saw the
melancholy scrambling way in which the cover and the pages hung, she
went off into irresistible shouts of laughter--for Bab's laugh was as
loud and as hearty as her cry. Then she did her sums and wrote her copy,
and after that Maria brought in her dinner.

Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw what the tray contained, and
then she began her dinner.

But now the lessons were over, the dinner was finished, and what was
poor little Bab to do for the rest of the time?

She went round the room, casting out first her right hand and then her
left, touching thus in turn everything in the apartment, but there was
nothing more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom inkstand, or a
grammar, so she called out "No, no, no" to everything, and then all of a
sudden down came her hand on a big book with scarlet and white binding,
and she gave a loud scream, a pirouet, and then said "Yes!"

Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr. Beresford's fairy book--the
beautiful book he was showing them last night.

Then she seized on the precious book, brought it over with quite a
struggle to the school desk, opened it there, and with elbows on table
and cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect enjoyment. And so it
was that we saw Miss Bab when our story began, sitting before the great
book enjoying herself.

Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every page, with a little
verse set down right in the middle of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously
coloured, all twining together or mixing themselves up with butterflies
till you scarcely knew which was which, and not one bit of white paper
to be seen through or mid the brilliant creatures--actually a wide
border of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the verse in
the middle was also in illuminated letters.

In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read it, Bab happened to lean
on the end of a pen standing up in art inkstand. She was too much
interested to know what it was, but it came spluttering out, and a
little speck of ink splashed on the white paper beyond the border.

"Oh, oh!" cried excited Bab; "is it not like some little bad fairy
running along to hurt them?"

It was very hot, and Bab's eyes shut after she had said that, and when
she opened them again she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to
see the splash of ink on the paper. And then she felt the sun warmer and
warmer, and she shut her eyes once more.

"Look again," said a very little voice, but very sweet, oh, so sweet!

So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful painted fairies and
butterflies had risen up alive from the page, and were dancing and
gliding round and round it, never passing off the border to the outside
or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see, and little Bab laughed and
clapped her hands. Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped out
of the dance, and stationed herself in front, where she could take a
good look at Bab.

"Little girl, why did you do that?" said the fairy, severely.

"Oh, what, please?" Bab was a brave child, but she did feel a little
shaky and nohow just then.

"Brought the bad fairy Blackamè to creep in among us and eat up our

And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy Blackamè over there when
she thought it was only a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of
terror on the bad fairy Blackamè when she thought she had brought her,
and could not send her away.

"Oh, fairy, fairy!" she cried, "do forgive me. But can that wretched
little black splashy thing--for you really _can't_ call it a splash--eat
your butterflies when there are so many of you to fight for them, and
they've got heaps and heaps of wings to fly away with?"

"But how can we manage that?" replied the fairy, sharply, "when we are
too timid to fight and the butterflies are too brave to fly away."

"Well, that _is_ inconvenient," sighed Bab; "but don't you think, since
the butterflies are so brave--how I do like them for being so
brave!--don't you think they might fight a little?"

"Butterflies fight!" screamed the fairy. "Were butterflies ever seen to
fight since the first butterfly? What will you say next? I think you are
a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring down Blackamè, and then
you want to set all our dear pretty butterflies fighting."

"It was you who said they were so brave," murmured Bab, half penitent
and half injured.

"And pray, is there any reason why I should not be permitted to say that
butterflies are brave?" asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly

"And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!" sighed Bab to herself;
"and now I really wish she would go away.

"What are you prepared to do about Blackamè?--tell me," demanded the
fairy, suddenly.

She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that; she was a straightforward
child, and liked to go direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she
faced the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied in a grave,
resolute way, "Anything you wish."

The fairy looked at her. "Why couldn't you say so before?" she said,
very sharply. "It would have saved all this trouble."

Again Bab felt that it was not fair--she thought the fairy was unfairer
even than Selina; _but_ she was a fairy, and besides that, Bab _had_
brought Blackamè down upon them; so she said instantly, not meekly and
humbly; for that was not her way--but in a resolute, hearty manner, that
gave one confidence to see--"Just tell me, and I'll do it."

"_I'll_ tell you," said the fairy quite good-naturedly, "and _you'll_ do
it. That's quite fair. Well now, the thing to do is this: go out in the
evening with a long pole, and knock up high into the branches of the
trees, and glance up and down, holding your dress out, and singing:--

  'I'm the girl that brought him in,
    Blackamè! What a rout!
  Little birds that cannot sin.
    Drive the wretched fellow out,

And then you'll see----" but what she was to see Bab never knew;
something touched her, and then rushed with headlong sound through the
window. The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright beautiful
book, with its butterflies and fairies, was gone too.

She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise, saw Selina standing
at the other end of the table.

"Why are you home so early?"

"Home so early! It's half-past five, if you please. Why, you lazy little
thing, you've been asleep all the time!"

Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw it was a quarter to
six. _How_ quickly the time passes when you are with fairies! She knew
she had not been asleep, because she knew she had had the visit from the
fairy, and she was so anxious to know what would happen next. About
seven o'clock she thought she might go out with a long pole to the tree;
and she supposed the fairies had put the book somewhere, till the birds
should come and drive Blackamè out of it, and she hoped very much Mr.
Beresford would not miss his beautiful book till then, when it would be
clear from the black splotch which she now knew was not Blackamè.

"Where is Robert?" asked Miss Selina. "He dashed out of the carriage and
through here, and he must have gone out by the window. And you _must_
have been asleep, or you would have heard him."

Bab remembered the sound of the rush through the window, and she saw now
a spill of ink just by the place where the book had been. But Robert
could not have been there, because she was talking to the fairy at the
very time, and she must have noticed him, and felt him greatly in the

When it was past seven o'clock, Bab slipped away, and took Mr.
Beresford's alpenstock out of the stand in the hall, and beat about the
branches of the elms and horse-chestnuts, and danced and sang, holding
her dress up, and did everything exactly as the fairy had told her to
do, and as you will see her doing in the picture.

[Illustration: "SHE STOOD BY HIM."]

But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene,
when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before
Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.

It was _much_ pleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with
outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackamè still on
the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace
for it.

Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.

The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at
the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there
were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the
verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackamè, were
five or six Blackamès perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies
and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the
appearance of a thick smudge of ink.

"Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears.

"Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly.

"Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home,"
cried Selina, on impulse.

"Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford.

"Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert,
politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home?
Who could do it but she?"

"Because I _saw_ you do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white
face became scarlet--the mean little fellow as he stood there before
them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a
girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright
smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when
in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink
across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at
your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window
with it."

Robert blubbered at this. "I wanted to take the ink out."

"You have been a very bad boy," said his father. "You deserve a
flogging, and shall have it. I am very much grieved about your book,

Robert almost screamed.

"I think more of his laying the fault on this little girl," replied Mr.
Beresford, his hand among Bab's curls, "than of the book."

Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table looking so kindly at her, and
she stood by him, her elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed
on him. "But it doesn't seem quite as if he did that, does it?" she
asked; "he took the book away to make it well. If he had left it with
me, _everybody_ would have believed I did it, and he knew that quite

"No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment he put the blame on you."

"That was because he is such a coward. Pray, he couldn't help it; he was
too frightened. You were too frightened, weren't you, Robert? You _are_
such a coward!" Bab said plainly.

Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.

"And I am very sorry. I'd quite forgotten; but I did it too."

Mr. Beresford smiled.

"Did what, little Bab?"

"Ah, perhaps you'll be angry, and I shall be so _very_ sorry; but I must
tell. I did it too."

She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently at him.

"Did what too?"

"I spurted a little--leetle ink by a spluttering pen, and it was a bad
fairy called Blackamè; and another fairy was just telling me how to set
it right, when Robert must have rushed in and did it all; but if I
hadn't put the book _on_ the desk _near_ the ink, nothing would have
happened, and Robert would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don't flog

"Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab. Go to bed this moment,
sir; perhaps I may let you off, as your cousin is so kind."

Robert left the room, and his father followed to at least give him a
good scolding. Bab was left alone with Mr. Beresford. She stood near
him, with a wistful expression about both her face and her figure.

"Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened because I was naughty
and couldn't be taken. I think they had better take me next time, Mr.
Beresford, whatever I've done;" and a humorous look sparkled into Bab's

"And the fairies came and talked to you? But do you know it was not
really a fairy, Bab? You were fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you
must have been dreaming."

"Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was just a common dance I had
under the tree. But do you know I'm not quite sorry, for she was not
half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really a Blackamè, was it?
Well, I'm sorry I could call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really
been dancing for birds."

"I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little Bab."

"So do I; but I don't _think_ I shall be next year. Father and mother
are coming home then from the Mauritius, and I shall be an own little
girl again."

Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she said that, but Bab did
not know why he kissed her.


[Illustration: A HELPING HAND. (_p. 345_).]

  Frank's road to school leads over ways
    Where yet no trains approach,
  And past the Yellow Dragon Inn,
    Where stops the Dirleton coach:
  Here the old horses, Duke and Ned,
  Are daily watered, changed, and fed.

  Frank knows them well, and one hot day,
    As whistling home he sped,
  He saw the patched old feeding-bag
    That hung at Neddy's head
  Fell too far down--Ned vainly tried
  To reach the yellow corn inside.

  No one was near--Ned tossed his head,
    And strove, but still in vain,
  Hungry as any horse might be,
    To seize the tempting grain;
  Frank checked his headlong homeward course,
  And then approached the wearied horse.

  With quick light hands he raised the bag,
    And made the strappings tight;
  Ned hid his nose among the corn,
    And softly neighed delight.
  For Frank it was sufficient prize
  To read his thanks in Ned's bright eyes.





We have to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four
hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto,
we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the
pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pass. Now
we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover
without stopping.

We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight
p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning,
but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by
night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and
see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.

What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with
the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall
draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages.
Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as
possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans
full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train!
How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on
the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then
hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various
pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as
the train flies past the various stations.

But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted
sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which
illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a
platform just outside are numerous arms and signals--one arm is lowered;
then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is
thirteen minutes past eight p.m.--no doubt the "official" time for
starting--and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the
darkness of the river.

The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the
piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge
as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London
Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the
weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it
reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look
some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger
at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who
never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front--we are nearly in
darkness now--and we look about us.

We feel warm about the feet and knees--the wind whistles around our
waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a
hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to tell the driver when
the boiler needs replenishing. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up,
and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red
lights on the Brighton Railway rushing at us in the air, and white and
green lights of engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake and pass
a train whose passengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is
flattening his nose against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt
thinks _his_ train a very slow one, and _his_ engine-driver a "muff,"
for being beaten in the "race."

So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago
was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with
accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the
Surrey Canal--the river and the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of
the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late
Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.

Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is
suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the
clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune
which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line!
Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and
smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the
flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly
dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the
fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like
a halo.

From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam,
but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into
the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we
_must_ go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump,
whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big
station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms,
crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in
a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe
again now. It _did_ seem rather alarming just then.

So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze
tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and
faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and
China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the
tunnel through the

  "... Cliff, whose high and bending head
      Looks fearfully on the confined deep"--

known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in
"King Lear."

We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen
Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the

  "Load me well and keep me clean
  And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."

The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags
and muffled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are
extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off
and go to bed.

Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at
Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily,
each way, at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished at or
near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight
hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.

The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive,
but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We
remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.

It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide series of accidents which
disfigured that holiday season was closed by the terrible catastrophe
that happened to the Tidal train on its way from Folkestone to London.
This train is an erratic one. It travels at different hours each week,
and changes daily. On the 9th June in that year (1865), the railway near
Staplehurst was under repair. The men were working, and had taken up two
rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.

The foreman had mistaken the time. There was no chance of avoiding an
accident. The express came dashing into the gap, and eight carriages
were flung over a bridge into a little stream beneath. The engine and
the tender jumped the vacant space of rail, and ran into the hedge, but
the carriages toppled over, leaving only two of them on the line at the
back, and the engine and luggage vans in front. So the eight other
carriages hung down and crushed into each other. Ten persons were killed
and many injured.

In the train was the late Charles Dickens, who was travelling to London.
He had with him the MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon,
and in the preface to the work he mentioned the occurrence. He was most
useful to the injured passengers, and with other gentlemen exerted
himself greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need not dwell upon
the painful scene of the accident, which created quite a sensation, as
it occurred to the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers

We have not mentioned many accidents in the few papers we have put
before you, for there is a sameness in them unfortunately; but we
remember one terrible accident which occurred in consequence of a little
boy playing on an engine, which ran away and caused a bad collision by
dashing into a train which it overtook in its wild race.

Perhaps you little readers of LITTLE FOLKS are not aware that boys begin
at a very early age to learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine.
These lads are "cleaners" first, and have to rub up the bright parts of
the engines, and clear out the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to
the lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep in the
fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted next morning they have been
suffocated. The engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got up
for him when he comes down to the engine-shed, or "stable." You may,
perhaps, have noticed the round houses near the railway--say at York
Road, Battersea--those are the engine-"stables." Every engine is placed
in its "stall," so that its chimney is just under an opening, or flue.
It is also over a "pit," so that the fire can be raked out, or the
working examined from underneath before the engine goes into the station
next day to take the train away to the seaside, or to carry you to
school, or home for the holidays. The engine-driver or the fireman
examines the rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts, and
screws; oiling or "packing," "easing off," or "tightening up" the
various parts, so that the machinery may run easily and without heating.
One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.

But our allotted space is now filled, and will not permit us to tell you
more concerning engine-boys. So we must say "good-bye" to you all.


  Oh, Father is coming!
    Through all the long day
  We thought of him often,
    When he was away;
  We knew he was working
    While we were at play.

  He'll be tired, I think;
    I have set him a chair
  In his own cosy corner--
    He likes to sit there--
    And we'll bring him his slippers,
  His old favourite pair.

  I think it's the nicest
    To watch at the gate;
  And Dolly sits by us
    While thus we all wait.
  He'll be here very soon--
    It's so seldom he's late.

  See, Baby knows too
    Who is coming to-night;
  She is crowing, and clapping
    Her hands with delight!
  There's his footstep at last!
    Oh, hurrah! he's in sight.

[Illustration: 'FATHER'S COMING.' (_See p. 348._)]



_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._


"Tell me everything, Aunt Amy," Bertie said, as soon as he could find a
voice. "When did it happen? Was it an accident? Oh! why didn't you send
for me sooner?"

"It was very sudden, darling," Mrs. Clair replied. "I telegraphed for
you at once, for your uncle wished it, and asked for you as long as he
was conscious. But the doctor said from the first that there was no
hope, and even wondered how he had lived so long. I fancy your uncle
knew from the first that the attack would be fatal whenever it came. Do
you know why he asked for you so often, Bertie?"

"No, aunt, except that he always loved me, and was very, very good to

"Yes, dear, and he trusted you too; almost his last words were, 'Tell
Bertie he must take care of you and Agnes: he must be the "head of the
family" now!' Uncle Harry's death will make a great difference to us,

"I'm so glad he said that, Aunt Amy; and _I will_ take care of you all,"
his glance including even Eddie, who sat silent in a corner. "It was
good of him to trust me!" and then the remembrance of his other uncle's
want of confidence and harshness rushed back on Bertie, and he sobbed
bitterly. Aunt Amy made him sit beside her, and comforted him tenderly
till his sobs ceased, and then listened with patient, loving sympathy
to all his troubles, which Eddie now confided in her.

"Do you think I did very wrong, Aunt Amy? do you think Uncle Gregory
should have been so unkind?" he asked, looking at her wistfully.

"I think, dear, that you behaved very well indeed, under the
circumstances. Of course, if you could have asked permission it might
have been better, but then you would have missed the owner of the bag.
What troubles me most is your having slept on the damp grass. I fear you
have caught cold."

"Not much, auntie; my throat is a little sore, but it'll be all right
again presently. When I wanted to see you so badly yesterday, I did not
dream I should be here to-day, and find you all so sad. I was only
selfishly thinking of my own trouble, and what a poor, pitiful affair it
seems, compared to yours. Oh! auntie, how good and patient you are!"

"No, no, Bertie, I'm very far from good, and not nearly so patient as
you think; but as we grow older, dear, we learn to suffer in silence,
and some griefs are too deep for words or tears. If we had only our own
strength to support us, how could we endure such sudden incurable losses
as mine?"

Bertie was silent for a few moments, then he stood up, and laid both his
hands on his aunt's shoulders and looked earnestly at her.

"I will take care of you; I will remember every word dear Uncle Harry
said. Can I begin now? Can I do anything at all, Aunt Amy, this very

"No, dear, except to lie down and rest, and get rid of your cold. I have
thought of nothing yet, except to telegraph for Nancy to come down and
take the children home, and to Mr. Williams. I have not another friend
in the world now, Bertie. We poor Rivers's are left to ourselves!"

"You forget Mr. Murray," Bertie said. "You can't think how kind and
generous he is; he will help us in every way; and surely Uncle Gregory
will come!"

"I fear not, dear. Uncle Gregory and Uncle Harry were not related, and
never very intimate; but indeed, there is nothing any one can do for us.
Besides, Uncle Harry's wishes are very plain; his will is not a dozen
lines," and Mrs Clair sighed deeply. She knew her husband had died
poor--not worth a couple of hundred pounds, perhaps--but she did not
know of the many small debts contracted through thoughtlessness, and
left unpaid through carelessness, or she would have been still more
anxious about the future. It was the sudden feeling of loneliness and
desolation, the sudden sense of responsibility and helplessness
combined, that seemed almost to stupefy her.

The worst of that first day of her bereavement was that she had nothing
to do: strangers performed all needful offices; but it was a comfort to
pet and nurse Bertie, because they had all been left in his care--a
circumstance Eddie bitterly resented, though he was quite silent on the
subject. Though reluctant to lie down, Bertie had not been many minutes
on the sofa before he was sound asleep, and when he awoke, he found
Nancy, the old housekeeper from Fitzroy Square, had arrived, and was
busy making preparations for their departure. Aunt Amy was with her, and
just at that moment Mr. Murray entered the room, holding a telegram in
his hand, and looking very much excited. As soon as she heard his voice,
Mrs. Clair came in, looking very pale, but quite composed. After a few
inquiries about Bertie, he placed the message in her hand, and as she
read it she smiled sadly.

"Just what I thought, Mr. Murray. Why should Mr. Gregory trouble himself
about us in our affliction? Because his sister married my brother gives
me no claim on him," she said gently.

"Perhaps not; but sorrow, friendlessness, death, give you a claim on
every man who deserves the name. I'm disappointed in Gregory, and I'll
take an early opportunity of telling him so."

"I can scarcely blame him, Mr. Murray, when my husband's oldest and
dearest friend fails me now; but he says if I let him know when the
funeral takes place he will try to attend."

"Very kind and truly considerate of him," Mr. Murray cried, scornfully.
"Will you be so good as to tell me the name of this true old friend?"

"It cannot matter much to you, Mr. Murray; but he's called Arthur
Williams, a well-known sculptor."

"Hum! I'll see if I can't give him a famous order some day, selfish
fellow!" he added, in an undertone. "And now, dear Mrs. Clair, may I ask
what you are going to do?"

"I do not know; I have not thought yet. I am so sorely disappointed."

"Then allow me to think for you," Mr. Murray interrupted; "but first
answer me one or two painful questions. Did your husband leave a will,
or express any wishes?"

Mrs. Clair handed him the half-sheet of note-paper, and he read it twice
carefully, then placed it in his pocket-book. "Simple and complete, Mrs.
Clair, your husband must have had a great capacity for business. Is
there anything else?"

"Nothing, except that he left us all to the care of Bertie. He's to be
'head of the family,' poor child;" and Aunt Amy stroked his hair
tenderly. "My husband had great faith in Bertie."

"Perhaps he was right: we shall see some day. Now I suggest that you go
up to town this evening, and take those two children with you. Bertie
and I will follow by the first train to-morrow morning. We will go
direct to Fitzroy Square, and I'll give all necessary instructions for
the funeral. Mr. Clair was a gentleman and an artist, and must go to his
long rest as such. After that you may tell me as much or as little of
your circumstances as you please; but always remember that I am able and
willing to help you."

And then Mr. Murray hurried away, and Bertie began his duties as "head
of the family" by telegraphing to Fitzroy Square to have fires lighted
in the rooms; but even in that Mr. Murray, who seemed to think of
everything, had been beforehand with him.


"I am so glad you have called, Mr. Murray. I do so want a long chat with
you," Mrs. Clair said one day, about a month after her husband's death.
"You have been such a kind friend, that I feel I may ask your advice."

"And I'll be very glad to give it, if you will only follow it. What's
the matter now?"

"First of all, I'm unhappy about Bertie; he is worked very hard, and I
am afraid his uncle is not very kind to him; I am grieved to see how
thin and pale he has grown. Then Mr. Gregory declares Eddie must do
something for himself, and suggests his entering a timber-merchant's
office, as there is no money to continue his artistic education. Of
course, my husband did everything for Eddie; and if there is any income
from Riversdale after paying the mortgages, he never heard anything of
it. I ventured to ask Mr. Gregory if he would pay for Eddie's classes,
and I'm sorry to say he refused, and declares that the lad must work
like other people. It will break poor Eddie's heart to go into that
timber place."

"Oh no, Mrs. Clair; boys' hearts are tough things. Is that all your

"No, indeed. I am perplexed about myself; this house is far too large
for me, and far too expensive. My husband was always a poor man: that
is, he lived up to his income; and his health was such that he could not
insure his life. A few hundred pounds and the lease and furniture of
this house were all he left; but every day I find bills unpaid, many of
them long-standing accounts, and my stock of money is diminishing
rapidly. I think I should have an auction, dispose of the lease if I
could, and go into cheap lodgings with Agnes and Eddie; but I fear I
shall not be able to pay for his classes and colours. Can you suggest
anything for me to do?"

"No; I think your ideas are very sensible. But would it not be better to
try to let this house furnished? I fancy I can find you a tenant, and
then you will have a certain, even if small, income. Then if both boys
are willing to work they will bring you in something every week."

"But, Mr. Murray, Eddie is to have no salary for three years, and Bertie
must remain with his Uncle Gregory," Mrs. Clair said, sadly. "Oh, how I
wish he could come and live with me! he is a dear boy!"

"Yes, yes; a good straight up-and-down lad, with plenty of backbone,
though his uncle does not quite understand him. However, I think Eddie
should do something at once, though I don't entirely approve of the
timber-yard; still, anything for a beginning. Now, Mrs. Clair, when
would you like to leave here?"

"As soon as possible; every day only lessens our little fund."

"I think I know a person who would take this house, if he could get it
at once. This is Wednesday; could you manage to leave if I found you
suitable lodgings by next Monday?"

"Quite easily, Mr. Murray; but are you sure you can let it? I do not
want the house to remain on your hands."

"Never mind that. In the name of a person I know intimately, I offer you
£180 a year for it: and it's cheap too. Of course there are a great many
things you can take away with you, such as plate, linen, pictures: they
will make your lodgings more comfortable."

"But the person who takes the house?"

"Has a great many things of his own--unconsidered trifles--that he must
find room for. It's a great comfort to give advice to a reasonable
person who is willing to follow it. As for the boys, don't worry about
them. Just as soon as you are settled, I'll have a talk with Eddie, and
then go and see Mr. Gregory."

Mr. Murray was no half-hearted friend; when he undertook to do a thing,
it was done well and promptly, so that before a week from her first
mentioning the matter Mrs. Clair was settled in very pleasant lodgings
not far from Hampstead Heath.

The rooms seemed very small at first, but they soon became used to that,
and the garden, with its prim walks, edged on either side with
old-fashioned autumn flowers, was delightful. Even Eddie looked happier,
and Agnes declared Hampstead was nearly as good as Brighton. When Bertie
came to see them, he could hardly keep from crying, it was all so cosy,
pretty, and homelike, compared with the gloomy grandeur of Gore House;
and, worst of all, his uncle was becoming more exacting and severe every
day. The secret of Mr. Gregory's unkindness to Bertie was the open
interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, who, in spite of many hints,
refused to have anything to do with Dick Gregory, and told his father
plainly that the boy had no taste or capacity for business. Poor Bertie
had to suffer for that disappointment: he was scolded, overworked,
reproved, but he bore it all patiently; never complained, never
answered, but he was plainly unhappy. And Eddie was a worry to him too:
he should be working for himself and Aunt Amy, instead of being a burden
to them. As "head of the family," he said so, and even went so far as to
say he thought Riversdale now a secondary consideration, and his own
savings in future would not go to the bank, but to buy little delicacies
for his aunt and cousin. When he heard about the timber-yard, he said at
once that Eddie should accept the situation. "One office is just like
another, Eddie," he cried; "tea or timber, what does it matter? one has
to go through the same routine to begin with. Besides, we must do
something to help Aunt Amy."

So Eddie agreed to accept Uncle Gregory's proposal.

"Bravo, Eddie, old fellow! I knew when it came to the point that you
would act rightly and generously," Bertie cried earnestly. "And if we're
both very saving, you may still be able to have classes in the evening,
and when I get a little rich you shall return to your painting; but we
must both put our shoulders to the wheel now, old boy, and be as saving
as ever we can."

"I've nothing to save," Eddie replied. "I've no salary for three years.
Still, I'll write to Uncle Gregory to-night: the sooner I begin the

[Illustration: "THEY ARRIVED AT THE HALL DOOR" (_p. 355_).]

No one knew what an effort it cost Eddie to give in; still, in spite of
his pride and vanity, he was a right-hearted, independent lad at heart,
and the idea of being a burden to Aunt Amy was simply intolerable. When
Mr. Murray heard of his resolution, he puckered up his eyebrows, and
talked to himself for fully five minutes, then he patted Eddie on the
shoulder, and said he was glad he had sufficient real pride to enable
him to put his false pride in his pocket, and declared that he would
never lose his self-respect and the respect of others by honest hard
work. "But work for three years you _shall_ not!" he cried, suddenly.
"They must give you a small salary to begin with." So Eddie, the lofty,
the haughty, the often intolerant Eddie, went to the timber-yard with a
tolerably good grace, and when, at the end of the first week, he placed
his earnings in Aunt Amy's hands, he felt positively happy. Very soon
after, owing to the kind intervention of Mr. Murray, Bertie got
permission to live with Aunt Amy, his uncle paying ten shillings a week
extra for his board and lodgings, so that in all he had a pound, and it
seemed quite a large sum of money. Of course he had a long way to go to
the City; but what of that, when loving hands waved him an adieu from
the window? What did any extra amount of labour matter now that the
stiff formal dinners, and the terribly chilling evenings in the library
at Gore House were at an end for ever.

Mr. Murray often paid a visit to the little cottage at Hampstead, and
whenever he came he was always warmly welcomed, both by Agnes and Mrs.

The tenant of the house in Fitzroy Square was behaving very well indeed:
the rent would be ready by quarter-day, and there were several things in
the house that he would be pleased if Mrs. Clair could take away: the
piano, for instance; he would consider it a real kindness if she could
remove that, he had no use whatever for it, and had a case of rare
butterflies that would stand very comfortably in its place. So the
instrument arrived one day at the lodgings, and gave the children more
enjoyment than anything else, for the evenings were drawing in, and it
was too dark for a run on the Heath after the boys returned from the

They all sang and played by instinct, and Aunt Amy gave them a lesson
each every evening, and as the evenings became longer, and winter crept
towards them with "stealthy steps and slow," they settled down to a
regular course of study.

Bertie devoted most of his time to music; Eddie to reading up his French
and German--for he found both those languages would be very useful to
him in the City; while Agnes was busy over her drawing-board, tracing
designs for Christmas and Easter cards. She declared she was not going
to be the only drone in the hive, and bade fair to be successful later
on, for two of her little cards had already been accepted by a great
City publishing firm. When Mr. Murray dropped in of an evening he used
to have a long look from one to the other of their cheerful, contented
faces, and then he would have a little private conversation with himself
in a corner.

"They're too happy," he would mutter, "too content, too well occupied.
Good fortune would only spoil them now. I'll wait and watch a little
longer; and yet, people who bear poverty with such equanimity should
bear the accession of riches with humility; still, I'll wait a little.
My old friend's children are bearing their probation bravely." For to
Mr. Murray Mrs. Clair's income seemed absolute poverty: he paid some of
his own servants nearly as much; and the great City merchant was
learning, for the first time, that it is not the actual amount of income
one has, but the way it's spent, that constitutes poverty and wealth.


Mr. Gregory did not consent to Bertie Rivers leaving Gore House with a
very good grace, and he bitterly resented the interest Mr. Murray took
in both boys. He wished to keep them entirely under his own control--as,
indeed, he had the power to do, being their sole guardian since Mr.
Clair's death; but, on the other hand, he was not in a position to
refuse Mr. Murray a trifling favour, as he had just begged a very heavy
one from him. Things had been going on very badly in Mincing Lane for
some time, and Mr. Gregory had been peculiarly unfortunate in his
business transactions: he kept on losing large sums of money without in
the least retrenching his expenditure, and at length it became painfully
clear, even to himself, that nothing short of a large sum of ready money
could save him from failure and disgrace and ruin, and that there was
only one man in London who could and would assist him--for Mr. Gregory
was more respected than liked by his brother merchants. Mr. Murray was
willing to do all that he wanted, on certain conditions. First of all,
he wished Mr. Gregory to give up the guardianship of Eddie and Bertie
Rivers, and that their uncle willingly consented to, for he feared that
when Eddie came of age there might be some awkward questions to answer
about the management--or rather, mismanagement--of the property, if he
were called to give an account of his stewardship. Then Mr. Gregory, Mr.
Murray said, was too extravagant: he should curtail his expenses, and
live according to his income: cut down his establishment, and put the
boys to some profession or work of some sort, for he declared he had no
intention that his honestly and hard-earned money should be squandered
in unnecessary luxury. Mr. Gregory agreed to all Mr. Murray's
conditions, and at the time meant fully to perform his promises, but the
immediate pressure of his difficulties being removed, he went on in much
the same way, and Mr. Murray, who was observing closely, resolved never
again to advance money to maintain such senseless extravagance.

Though old Mr. Murray had quite made up his mind what he would do for
Eddie and Bertie Rivers, he determined to make sure first that they
deserved his kindness. It was good to see Mrs. Clair's cheerful face,
and hear her pleasant voice, as she recounted many instances of the
children's kindness and consideration: Bertie's hearty resolution not to
be daunted by anything; Eddie's supreme patience at the office and
steady work at home; and the untiring efforts of little Agnes to add
her mite to the general fund, though of course she often failed to
dispose of her cards, some of which, nevertheless, were adapting
themselves to other circumstances, and forming a very handsome screen to
keep the draughts from Aunt Amy's chair.

"We are not only living within our income, but saving something for the
proverbial 'rainy day,'" Mrs. Clair said one evening, when Mr. Murray
dropped in. "We have been here only three months, and have done ever so
much better than I expected, thanks to your good advice; and we are all
ever so much happier than I ever hoped to be again, which shows that
sorrow is but a short-lived suffering if we do not nurse and cherish it.
And then Eddie is so polite and attentive to every one now, and he used
to be so proud and haughty. I really can't understand the change in

"'Sweet are the uses of adversity,'" Mr. Murray quoted, with a peculiar
smile. "There was talent and good sense in Eddie after all, though I
sometimes half doubted it. Some day he will see the wisdom of his
choice, and be glad to feel that he laboured with his hands to do the
thing that is right."

Winter came and went; spring broadened into summer; and still the boys
worked on bravely: Bertie at Mr. Gregory's office, Eddie at the
timber-yard, Agnes working pretty crewel mats and toilet-covers, by way
of change from painting; and Mrs. Clair, loving, guiding, counselling
them all. The fund for the "rainy day" had increased remarkably, so that
when November, "chill and drear," came round again, the boys were able
to have new warm overcoats and thick gloves, and even Agnes was armed
against the sudden changes of weather by a nice soft fur cape, and the
whole winter months passed so pleasantly, that they were all astonished
when Christmas was, so to speak, at the door.

One day, towards the middle of December, Mr. Murray came bustling in,
his whole face full of importance.

"Mrs. Clair, I've called to ask you all to spend Christmas with me at a
country house. I'm a lonely old man, with no near relations and few
friends; but I like young people about me whose hearts are gay and
green, even though circumstances may have aged their heads a little. I
like the boys; I like the demure little maiden; I like you. Will you all
come and cheer up a lonely old man for a week?"

"I shall be delighted indeed, Mr. Murray; and I can answer for each one
of the children, if the boys can only get so long a holiday. It's such a
very, very long time since I've really been in the country."

"Then promise to meet me at twelve o'clock at Paddington Station on
Christmas Eve: promise me, Mrs. Clair; I'll make it all right for the
boys. Just say you will come. I wanted to ask you all last Christmas;
I'm glad I did not now."

"I will come with pleasure and gratitude," Mrs. Clair replied, "if you
can make it right for the boys."

"I'll see to that. Remember, twelve o'clock on Christmas Eve--twelve
sharp, Paddington!" and then Mr. Murray vanished, his face puckered up
out of all recognition.

The probation of Eddie and Bertie Rivers had lasted a whole year, and
Mr. Murray was more than satisfied with them. He meant to keep their
destination a little secret, and so fairly ran away before Mrs. Clair
could ask any questions.

It wanted just two weeks to Christmas when Mr. Murray gave his
instructions, and during most of the waking hours of that time the
children spoke of little else. Bertie endeavoured to explain and
describe the grandeur and magnificence of Mr. Murray's town house, and
of course his country mansion would be still more splendid.

"I hope there will be plenty of frost," he said, with a very grave
glance at the sky, just as if the state of the sky in London ever could
be an index to what the weather might be anywhere else, "for there's
sure to be a pond, or mere, or something to skate on."

Eddie sighed as he thought of the beautiful lake at Riversdale, and then
said he hoped Mr. Murray might have some ponies, as he was longing for a
good canter.

Agnes wanted some pretty places to sketch, and Aunt Amy declared she
would give anything to see a good farm and poultry-yard again, just as
they had at home.

"You may be sure Mr. Murray will have everything," Bertie said,
confidently; "and a Christmas-tree too, with lots of presents: he always
did give us splendid things," remembering the steam-engine. "Oh! I say,
auntie, we're bound to have a glorious time;" and Bertie tossed his hat
in the air, and skilfully caught it coming down--a habit of his when
unusually excited.

At the appointed time Mrs. Clair and the children arrived at Paddington
Station, and there they found Mr. Murray pacing up and down, "just like
a lion in a cage," Bertie whispered irreverently. He paid the cabman
while they got out, and then hurried them across the platform and into a
first-class carriage that he had engaged; the door was shut with a loud
bang, and in another moment the engine whistled shrilly, and the train
went out of the station. Mr. Murray held all their tickets in his hand,
and in such a way that even Bertie's keen eyes could not detect their
destination, but as they got completely into the country the places
seemed strangely familiar. At last Eddie drew nearer Bertie, and took
his hand. "Look, Bert! that's Linkworth Station; the next will be
Riversdale," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "Oh! I do hope
we shall not stop there!" Even as he spoke the train seemed to slacken
speed again. The engine shrieked, and stopped at dear old Riversdale.

Mr. Murray sprang out briskly, and assisted Mrs. Clair; the others
followed; and in a few moments they were all driving along the familiar
road towards the old home of the Rivers's. As the carriage turned in at
the lodge gate, Bertie cried out, unable to restrain himself, "Oh! Aunt
Amy, we're _really_ going home to Riversdale. Hurrah!"

Eddie was perfectly silent: he could not trust himself to speak. Little
Agnes clung to her aunt, whose eyes were full of tears, and Mr. Murray
chatted away briskly about the weather, the beauty of the country in its
winter mantle--everything, in fact, but their destination. They arrived
at the hall door, where several of the old servants were waiting,
amongst them Mittens, the housekeeper, who kissed the children
individually and collectively, and laughed and cried at the same time.

"Come in! come in!" Mr. Murray cried, leading the way to the library;
"it's too cold to stand about. And now, children, how do you like your
old home?" he added, as they all stood silent and confused round the
blazing wood fire. Then he suddenly grew very serious, and turning to
Mrs. Clair, placed his hand on her arm. "This was your father's house;
now, through the variations of fortune, it is mine, Mrs. Clair; but one
day it will belong to one of those boys: I won't say which; but Eddie is
the elder, and I think he will deserve to be heir of Riversdale. Bertie
I know I can trust. Meantime, Mrs. Clair, it is your home, and the
little maiden's, and Eddie's. If he cares to continue his artistic
profession, he can have a master here to conduct his studies. If he is
worthy, he shall have Riversdale on his twenty-first birthday free from
all incumbrance; till then, Mrs. Clair, the home is yours, and I know
how happy Eddie will be with you. As for Bertie, he belongs to me for
the present; he is not to return to Mr. Gregory, and will try how he
likes Murray and Co. instead. Now I wish you all a very merry Christmas
and a glad new year, and welcome back to Riversdale."

It was a long speech for Mr. Murray, especially as they were all
clinging to him, sobbing, laughing, trying in vain to thank him; but he
broke away from them, rushing to the dining-room, where luncheon was
waiting, and laughing heartily at their surprise and pleasure. Then he
installed Mrs. Clair formally as mistress, treated Eddie with a good
deal of consideration as the heir-apparent, and looked at Bertie for

"I think it is better than waiting till I got rich in Mincing Lane,
sir," he replied, his eyes sparkling. "I don't believe Uncle Gregory's
office is the real road to fortune, after all."

"The Road to Fortune, boy, is honesty and industry, not anybody's
office," Mr. Murray said, gently. "However, you will have a try at mine,
and then, like regular City men, we'll come down from Saturday till
Monday, if they will have us. We can't afford to give up work yet, can

"No, sir; and I shouldn't care to."

"That's right, Bertie. Work is worship: that's one of Eddie's favourite
author's sayings."

"I've learned the truth of it, Mr. Murray," Eddie said gravely, "and in
future I shall practise it, and, I hope, prove to you that your great
kindness has not been wasted on us. If I had never left Riversdale and
become acquainted with so many troubles and sorrows, I never could feel
as happy as I am now."

And in that happiness we will leave Eddie and Bertie Rivers, trusting
that all who bear adversity so well may find fortune as kind and friends
as true.



Supposing you had two brothers and two sisters, a father, a mother, and
no money, how would you get Christmas presents for them all? That is
what Hedwig wanted to know. You see, she was the eldest of the family,
and felt it her duty to look after the others; and in this case it so
happened that looking after them meant getting them Christmas presents.

You can't think what a trouble this was to little Hedwig. The worst of
it was, she couldn't ask her mother's advice. It must be kept a dark
secret. At last the twenty-fourth of December arrived, and in the
evening the gifts must all be ready, and Hedwig had not one.

When evening came, however, Hedwig's presents were there, and I will
tell you how she managed it.

Little Hedwig was a German girl. She lived in a small village in the
north of Germany. Her father and mother had not very much money. They
could buy black bread and meat for their children, but there was little
money left for playthings. Though they were not rich, they were a happy
family; and if they had not toys they had one another, and that was
quite enough.

Hedwig was a busy little girl; there were so many things she could do
for mother. The baby always was happy with his big sister, and his big
sister was very fond of him.

On the morning of the day before Christmas, Hedwig got up earlier than
usual. She dressed baby, gave him his breakfast, and then, putting on
her things, asked what she should buy in the town.

"Now, Hedwig, get all the things carefully; take the big basket to carry
everything; and be sure not to forget to take the soup to Aunt Molly."
These were her mother's last words.

"All right, mother, dear; I will be back in good time," said Hedwig,
and, shutting the door, downstairs she ran and out into the street.

"Now, then," she said to herself, as she pushed her way bravely along,
"presents I must have; but how I am to get them I really don't know.
Auntie is sure to give me a groschen (a penny) for bringing the soup,
and that will buy a cake for Karl and a cake for baby. But then there
are mother, father, and the twins. Mother and father might share a
present, but how about the twins?"

The twins certainly were rather a trouble. They were six years old, just
four years younger than Hedwig, and insisted on having everything alike.

It was a very cold day and a long walk from the village to the town; but
Hedwig, trotting along in her warm cloak and hood, was so busy thinking
of her presents that she was not cold. Just as she was entering the town
gates, she met her playmate Anna. Hedwig was very pleased, and
determined to tell her dear friend all her troubles.

"Anna," she began, "I haven't a present for----"

But here she was interrupted, for Anna exclaimed, "Isn't it a shame.
Hedwig? You know our big barn; well, a cat has made her home there, and
has two beautiful kittens. Aunt Ottilia found it out this morning, and
she says the kittens must be drowned."

Hedwig was quite as indignant as her friend.

"I know what I'll do," said Hedwig; "we'll capture the kittens, and then
I will take them home as my present for the twins."

"That will do very well, Hedwig. You go and buy the things for your
mother, and then we will get the kittens, and you can carry them home."

Hedwig set off and bought all the things at the shops, and took the soup
to her aunt. She seemed to be very fortunate that morning, for the old
lady at the grocer's gave her some odds and ends of ribbon. These she
intended to make into a bow for her mother, but she saved two long
pieces to tie round the kittens' necks.

Then, her shopping finished, she made her way back to Anna, who lived at
a farm a little distance out of town. Carefully and slowly they made
their way through the yard. It would not do for any one to see them, for
they might be stopped.

"Come along this way," said Anna; "there they are; now, are not they
sweet little things?"

For a few seconds Hedwig was lost in admiration, but then she remembered
that she must hurry, for it was time for her to be home again.

"Now, then, Anna, you take one, and I'll take the other; hide it under
your apron."

The two children set out with their burdens, but it was not easy work
getting back again into the garden, where Hedwig had left her basket.

As they were leaving the barn, they had forgotten to shut the door, and
a curious old hen had marched in. After some chasing they got the hen
out; but in the hurry to escape from the children, the bird tumbled into
a tub full of water.

Hedwig and Anna both dropped their kittens in order to rescue the
unfortunate hen. Anna screamed at the top of her voice, "Oh, she'll
drown! she'll drown!"

Just then the farmyard gate opened, and Anna, seeing that her old aunt
was coming, called to Hedwig to run and hide.

Hedwig had only just time to get back into the barn before Aunt Ottilia
appeared, and inquired what was the matter. She got the hen out of the
water, scolded Anna, and threatened to send her indoors. After the aunt
had returned to the house, Hedwig came out of her hiding-place. The two
kittens had of course disappeared by this time, and the two girls had a
difficulty in finding them.

After hunting for half an hour they were captured once more, and carried
to the basket. Then there was another hindrance. There was not room for
both kittens. One was placed in, and Hedwig agreed to carry the other in
her arms.

"Now, Hedwig, you had better be off; it is getting quite late," said

"But can't you get me something to eat first; I am so hungry?"

"If I do I shall meet aunt. Haven't you anything with you? Why, there is
aunt coming; I must run." Anna did run, too, without thinking any more
of her friend. Hedwig had to set off without waiting longer, for it was
getting very late. She determined to spend her money in buying some
bread for herself, hoping to find something else for the boys. After
eating her bread she set off for home.

[Illustration: OFF TO THE TOWN. (_See p. 356_).]

It seemed such a long walk now, and the basket and kittens were very
heavy. Twice a kitten escaped, and she had to give chase, so that by the
time she reached home she was tired and hungry, for it was getting late
in the afternoon.

She took the kittens up into the loft and fastened them in, after giving
them a saucerful of milk. Then down she went to tell her mother about
her purchases.

"Why are you so late, Hedwig?" said her mother. "I have been expecting
you a very long time. Baby has been so tiresome, and the twins have made
themselves so untidy. They wanted to be black people, and I found
Gretchen painting Sophie black with ink. Fortunately they had not done
very much, but I am so tired with the worry that I think you must get
the Christmas tree ready."

Hedwig was sorry her mother was tired, but glad to get the tree ready.
She spread a white tablecloth on the little round table in the big room,
placed the tree on it, and then made the other tables ready. When all
was ready, the tree, decorated with candles and sweetmeats, was placed
in the centre of the room. The little gifts were arranged on small
tables. Then Hedwig ran upstairs to fetch the ribbon for her mother, and
the kittens. She found the latter scampering about the loft, and having
fine fun. She placed them in two baskets, and then carried them down.
Now all was ready, and Hedwig felt satisfied. The twins would have the
kittens, mother and father the ribbon, and she had found two small balls
of her own for Karl and baby. Very pleased with her work, she locked the
door and ran away to get tidied.

Half an hour afterwards the doors were thrown open, the candles lighted,
and the whole family entered. But what a state of confusion the room was
in! for everything was upset and disarranged.

"Oh, the kittens! the kittens!" cried Hedwig; "they must have done it."

Of course, immediately there was a cry of "Which kittens?"

This was soon answered by Gretchen suddenly calling out, in a tone of
great astonishment--

"There they are, the darlings, fast asleep on my new frock!"

Hedwig then explained everything. The twins were delighted with their
present; but her mother had to tell Hedwig how naughty it was of her to
take anything without having first asked leave.

"But, mother dear, they were going to be killed, and I could not bear
that," said Hedwig.

"Then you should have asked for them, dearie," said mother; "but never
mind now, to-morrow I will walk over with you, and we will explain
everything, and give them back again."

Hearing this, the twins began to cry bitterly. They did not want their
present to be taken from them, and they were not quiet until their
mother promised to see what she could do.

Then the whole family set to work to tidy up the room. Everything was
quickly in order, and the presents were given away. Everybody got just
what they wanted; and Hedwig's mother was very pleased with her ribbon,
and promised to let father share it. Next day her mother went over to
the farm with Hedwig, who begged Aunt Ottilia's pardon, and received the
kittens as a token of her forgiveness.

So, after all the trouble, Hedwig's presents were a great success.



  What are the river reeds whispering,
    In music so sweet and low?
  Ah, these are the words they murmur,
    "My tale would you like to know?"

  "O reeds by the shining water,
    I'll listen all day, all day,
  If you will tell me your story
    Whilst the river rolls away."

  Spake the reed--"I'm a maid named Syrinx,
    And there once lived a god named Pan;
  He liked me, but I didn't like him,
    So away to the woods I ran.

  "I ran very swiftly, but swifter
    The rough god Pan did pursue,
  Then I cried to the gods, on Olympus,
    'There are none to help me but you!'

  "I came to a shining river,
    And thirsty I stooped to drink,
  And the kindly gods changed me into
    A reed on the river's brink.

  "Then Pan grew quite melancholy,
    And gathered the reeds, and made
  A pipe; and he thought of me ever
    When he on his pan-pipe played."



Some of the readers of these pages, I dare say, saw King Tawhiao, the
Maori chief, who visited England in the summer of 1884. If so, they
could not have failed to notice the curious designs that were traced
upon his face. These scroll-like marks were the result of an operation
which lasted for six weeks, and which was attended with extreme pain.
The process is called tattooing, and a person who has undergone it is
said to be tattooed. It is practised very extensively amongst the
natives of New Zealand and the South Sea Islands generally, women as
well as men, whose bodies are covered with patterns of an elaborate, or
fantastic, or picturesque description, though sometimes the design is of
a comparatively simple sort. Nearly every British sailor has
tattoo-marks on his arm--an anchor, ship, initials, or what not--and
unless I am much mistaken, some of the lads now perusing these sentences
have now and then ornamented (or disfigured) their hands and arms with
similar signs.

In New Zealand the tattoo-marks run in unbroken lines, while in the
South Sea Islands they are in dotted lines. The pain of the process in
both cases is most acute, especially in the former. In New Zealand the
figures are formed by driving little chisels, which have been dipped in
some colouring-matter, through the skin. In the South Sea Islands a
series of punctures are made with a fish-bone, which is, however,
sometimes used as a needle. Every variety of design is employed--trees,
flowers, animals, weapons, and so forth. It is considered a disgrace for
the person being tattooed to give way to any sign of suffering, but as
the pain is so exquisite, cries of torture occasionally rise to the
lips. In order, therefore, to drown such cries, and so preserve the
patient's reputation for bravery, it is usual for a number of his female
friends to sing songs throughout the operation. Some tattooers acquire
great skill in their art, and will form a design which shall be
beautiful, elaborate, or otherwise, according to the fee. But in any
case it is well to deal liberally with the artist, lest he should allow
the chisel to slip "accidentally on purpose," and produce a permanent
disfigurement instead of a fine design. The colouring-matter in which
the tool is dipped is a thick mixture, prepared by rubbing down charcoal
in oil or water. The pattern appears black on a brown skin, and dark
blue on the skin of a white man, and is of course indelible.

Since the process is so painful, why do the Maoris and others submit
themselves to it? They look upon the tattooing as a kind of personal
adornment; and, you know, there is no accounting for tastes. The ways of
savage and civilised races are past finding out. Some wear articles in
their noses, ears, and lips; others flatten the heads of their babies.
Chinese ladies' feet are compressed to such an extent that they wobble
when they walk. The Zulus and other peoples arrange their hair in the
most extraordinary styles. These peculiar fashions are no doubt indulged
in under the impression that they add to the beauty of those who adopt
them. And so we find it in the case of tattooing, though the custom is
also supposed--in the case of men--to mark the transition from youth to
manhood, being performed usually at that period. To a small extent it is
also believed to be employed as a badge of mourning or sign of respect
for a departed friend. The tattoo is regarded as an honour, and is
reserved for free men only, slaves in New Zealand not being permitted to
undergo the operation. Oddly enough, those who are accustomed to see
tattooed people think that natives without it look bare and
"unfinished." Tattooing is said to be on the wane. If it be so, it is
quite possible that Macaulay's famous New Zealander may present none of
those marks which distinguished the features of King Tawhiao.


The present month undoubtedly presents fewer floral attractions than any
other in the whole year. Everything is in a torpid state of existence,
and the combined forces of frost, snow, wind, and rain render December
unpleasant both indoors and out. The only kinds of vegetation which seem
to flourish just now are the insignificant, but wonderfully beautiful,
mosses and lichens which everywhere clothe the rock and tree and hedge
with their diverse forms and hues. Unlike flowering plants, they do not
require culture of any sort, their beauty being wholly of a more or less
microscopic nature, and their nourishment is derived from the atmosphere
rather than by means of roots.

                *       *       *       *       *

It is during such dull and lifeless months as December that our
attention becomes more engrossed with individual floral beauty, than it
does when the display is both extensive and varied. To obtain even a few
flowers at this time of the year much previous care and attention must
have been expended. Where one plant is detected in making more headway
than others its flowering-period may be greatly facilitated by carefully
guarding it from the evil effects of excessive rains and strong winds;
this may be easily done by placing an inverted bell-glass over the
plants, invariably lifting this off on fine and warm days, and whenever
there is no fear of damage from sudden winds or rains. Stifling hardy
plants by keeping them in a confined atmosphere, whether indoors or out,
is the worst possible plan to follow in order to procure early blooms.

                *       *       *       *       *

An important feature in connection with next summer's display must now
be considered, and the preliminary arrangements carried out as far as
possible during the present month; it consists in the formation of new
shapes of beds, and a general reconstruction of design. But, as we have
previously intimated, it is most undesirable to have a small garden
chopped up into a number of beds, as then the greater part of space will
be needlessly taken up by walks. Too much uniformity is just as
undesirable as an excess of irregularities. No change of any sort should
be carried out without well considering whether such would be for the
better, and also whether the garden in its altered state would yield a
correspondingly greater amount of real pleasure, tantamount to the time
and trouble involved in effecting the change. Presupposing that some
change or other is to be done, great care must be taken not to destroy
the roots of various perennials, which may be hidden beneath the
surface, as many a rare and beautiful plant is in this manner often

                *       *       *       *       *

The amount of planting to be done now is by no means extensive, but it
should only be done in dry weather. Narcissus, crocus, hyacinths, and
tulips should be all in the ground by the end of this month at the very
latest, and will produce bloom in very desirable succession to those
planted a month or two previously. A surfacing of cocoanut-fibre refuse,
which may be obtained from most seedsmen or nurserymen, will be found an
excellent protection against frosts, and also against the ravages of
slugs. The curious roots of ranunculus should be at once planted; these
roots consist of small, fleshy, spindle-shaped claws, which are united
at the crown. In planting, the claws should point _downwards_. Few late
spring flowering plants excel the ranunculus in richness of colour; and
to be grown with any degree of success a rich soil is essential, one of
light loam, leaf-mould, and spent hot-bed materials forming the best
compost. A distance of six inches apart each way, and a depth of about
two inches will suffice for these plants, and a warm sunny spot is most
suitable. The roots are very cheap, a dozen of various colours costing
only threepence or fourpence.

                *       *       *       *       *

Anemones constitute a race of very pretty, delicate, and showy spring
flowers, having varieties of nearly every hue, both single and double,
but the former class is much preferable. They thrive best in good loamy
soil, which has been well manured the year previous to planting. Roots
should be obtained and planted--at about 4 in. apart--as soon as
possible, the sooner the better, so that the plants will be sturdy and
well grown before the very severe weather commences. Roots cost about
nine-pence or one shilling per dozen. Unless the charming lily of the
valley be already an inmate of our Children's Own Garden, a few "crowns"
should be now purchased and placed in almost any part of the garden, but
thorough drainage is most essential. Whilst thriving in any ordinary
soil, they produce very fine bloom when in a rich porous compost. The
roots should be taken up, divided, and replanted separately once in
every four years.



"Too small! too small!" so the birds sang, so the roses whispered, so
the bees hummed.

"She will creep in at the window," said the mother, who was kneeling
beside a little child. "Only a small child can do that."

[Illustration: "A CAT WAS LYING ... UPON A CHAIR" (_p. 363_).]

But the window shut down suddenly with a bang, and the house to which it
belonged began to move away, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker,
until it was out of sight altogether. The child began to sob, and said--

"Nan will run after it."

Ah! such a flutter among the roses, and such a twittering amongst the
birds, whilst the bees hummed--

      "Too small, too small!
      She should be tall,
  If she would catch the house at all."

And the birds sang--

      "She must grow,
      We all do know;
  And that's a process very slow."

"It will be years," said the mother, "before she grows tall."

"Pooh! porridge!" said a toy dog that was lying on the ground.

The mother turned round.

The little dog was standing upright, and had pricked up his ears.

"Porridge, porridge!" he said, and he kept saying it over so many times
that at last the mother thought there must be something in it.


So the mother made some porridge, and Nan began to eat it.

At the first plateful she could look over the table; at the second she
reached up to her mother's shoulder; at the third she was taller than
her mother.

"Stop! stop!" said the mother, as Nan began upon the fourth plate;
"you'll be a giantess; and your legs are so thin, I am afraid they will
break in two. You look as if you were on stilts."

"One must have long legs," said Nan, "in order to run fast. It was the
woolly dog that thought of it," she added, and she would have stooped
down to pat the toy dog, with its red morocco collar, but she was so
high up that she found it a difficult matter to bend down. "I am as
stiff as a poker," said she.

The woolly dog, however, understood what she wanted, and he jumped upon
a chair, then upon the table, and finally into Nan's arms.

She would have given him some porridge, but her mother said--

"No; if he should grow as tall as you, we should not know what to do
with him."

Then the little dog laughed.

"Perhaps he will run away with the spoon," said Nan.

But no; he was an honest little dog, and did not think of doing anything
of the kind.


On the opposite side of the house was an old gentleman in a velvet cap.
He had a paper in his hand, and was trying to teach something to a boy
who was on the other side of the trellis. But the boy was not attending
to him, though he kept his eyes fixed upon the paper.

No; he was muttering--

"The little cat was in the house, and the house moved away. It must have
been an enchanted house and an enchanted cat."

"What are you saying?" asked the old gentleman. "That is not on the

Then the boy looked up and said--

"If I'd seven-leagued boots, I'd go after them."

"That is certainly not written down there," answered the old gentleman.
"Of what are you thinking, Ulick?"

"Of the house that stood close by this house. I had a dream last night
that it moved away, and that the little cat with which I played had also
gone, and I want to go after them."

"You talk nonsense, Ulick. How can a house made of bricks and mortar and
heavy beams of wood move away?"

"That I know not; but it is gone. I hear it now rumbling away in the
distance, as if it were on great wheels--I do really," answered Ulick.


The old gentleman, who often came to chat with Ulick, and to try to
teach him various things, felt quite vexed, and he folded up his paper,
and shut up his camp-stool and went away.

When he had gone an old hen turned round and spoke to Ulick.

"You can hear us, for you have the right sort of ears, but the old man
cannot. It is quite true: the house has gone."


The rabbits were listening, with their long ears erect.

"That I cannot tell, but Nan is going after it."

"Nan! but she is so small."

"Is she?" exclaimed the hen. "You should see her now that she has eaten
the porridge: she is much taller than her mother, and her legs are so
long that she can skim over the ground like an ostrich."

"Then she will get the cat."

"Perhaps. One does not know," answered the hen.

"I hope she will," said a young rabbit.

"I hope she won't," said an old rabbit, "for then she will bring her
back here."

There was a groan amongst the rabbits and the poultry. And then the
Virginian creeper, that was twisting and turning and throwing its leaves
about all over the trellis, began to quiver and shake as if it were
trying to say something, and at last a very tiny voice came from one of
the shoots, and said--

  "Should Nan the flying house o'ertake,
  She will with it long journeys make,
  And come back here no more."

The fowls and rabbits were glad to hear this, but Ulick said--

"Nan shall not overtake the house; Nan shall not have the dear little


"Nan will soon be tired," said Ulick; "besides, she does not know where
to go."

"Do you?"

Ulick started, for he could see no one. Still he was not surprised, for
since the rabbits and fowls and Virginian creeper had begun to talk
there was no reason why other things should not also. It must have been
some sensible creature; and he began to consider the point.

No, he did not know where the house had gone; he did not suppose that
even the top of the tallest chimney would be visible, or even the smoke
from it. The house might have gone along the straight road, or have
turned to the right or left, he could not tell. And Ulick sat down upon
a large moss-covered stone, and felt very despondent.

"What's the matter, little man?" asked his big brother Ben, who happened
to come up at the moment. And Ulick told him of his difficulty.

[Illustration: "SHE WAS SO HIGH UP" (_p. 361_).]

"Oh! if that is all," said big Ben, "I will start you on your journey,
for I know which way the house went. I saw it rumbling along the road,
and then it turned off to the right and kept a straight line over the
country; nothing stopped it, hedges, ditches, or anything else."

And he took Ulick's hand, and went out upon the road with him. Ulick
half turned and kissed his hand to his own home.

"What is that for?" asked Ben.

"For 'good-bye,' if I don't come back again. The house might take me
away altogether, you know."

Ben laughed.

"Well, then, boy, start off, for there in the distance over the
corn-fields you can just see the house. There, there--do you see
it--moving along?"

"No--yes--no--yes, yes I do. But what is that?"


"What is that? why, a pole with a flag on the top," said Ben.

"No, no," said Ulick, "that----"

"Why, it's Nan flying along. What long legs she has! She goes so fast
that she seems as if she were in two places at once."

"There are two girls running," said Ulick, "and one seems to be
overtaking the other all the time."

"No, there is but one," answered Ben, "but she is here and there so
quickly that you seem to see her in two places at once--you understand
what I mean. And it looks exactly like two people."

"I don't know," said Ulick; "I am sure there are two Nans. What long

"Yes, porridge has done that. You should have had some porridge. You'll
never overtake her."

But Ulick started off. Ben watched him out of sight, and then went home.

[Illustration: "HE HAD A PAPER IN HIS HAND" (_p. 361_).]


Now, all this time a cat was lying comfortably upon a chair in the house
that was running away.

The chair was covered with red velvet, and there was a bright fire in
the room, that sparkled and glowed and made all the furniture in it

The cat looked up and then she purred, saying--

  "Till there is a place
    Where gamekeepers are not,
  My house shall not stay
    In any spot."

And the house with the cat in it went on and on, until it came to a
far-off place where there were no houses and no gamekeepers, and no fear
of traps. Then it stopped with such a jerk that the front door flew
open, and a woolly dog, with a red morocco collar and very stiff legs,
came in, crying out--

  "She is coming, she is coming,
    She will like a cup of tea.
  She must be quite hot with running,
    She is coming after me."

"Who is _she_?" asked the cat.

Then said the dog--

  "Little Nan, she ate the porridge,
    And she grew quite tall,
  But when she has reached your cottage
    She will be quite small."

"Why?" asked the cat.

"Because the effect of the porridge only lasts whilst she is running."

"Oh!" responded the cat.

Upon which Nan herself came running in, and she was no larger than when
her mother was kneeling beside her in the garden.

"O my dear, dearest, darling, little pussy-cat! I have found you again,
and we will live together always, and you will let me play with you. I
am so glad to see you again."

The cat purred and rubbed her head against Nan, as much as to say "Yes."

And the woolly dog barked for joy.

[Illustration: "'THERE ARE TWO GIRLS RUNNING,' SAID ULICK" (_p. 363_).]

So Nan had won the race.

Nan looked out of the window and nodded to Ulick, who was panting in the
distance. She also held up the cat for him to see.

There was no longer any need for Ulick to run, for everything round him
was shouting--

"Nan has won the race!"

Yes, he knew that she had, and he wept bitterly and went home again.
Perhaps if he had also eaten the porridge he might have outstripped

No one ever saw the house again, though once it returned to the spot
upon which it had stood near Ulick's home. It did not stay long there,
only just long enough for Nan's mother to pack up her clothes and join
her little girl, who was too small to live by herself.

Then the front door shut quite tightly, and the house fled away faster
than ever, and never stopped until it had reached a beautiful island
far, far away in the middle of the sea. There it paused, for no
gamekeepers, or traps, or cruel boys were to be found there. And in the
house on the beautiful island Nan and her mother, and the cat, and the
toy dog lived peacefully and happily for ever and ever.




Ethel was always trying to write poetry, but it was so hard to find
rhymes. When the cat killed the big pink begonia, she did manage to find
a rhyme; and she thought the epitaph looked beautiful printed in violet
ink on a piece of paper--

  "Here my poor begonia lies.
  Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

These were the only verses Ethel ever made. Perhaps we are beginning
near the end of the story. You may want to know what the big pink
begonia was, and how the cat killed it.

The beginning of this sad story was a red ribbon bow with a kitten
behind it: the bow was so big and the cat was so little, that the
ribbon looked much more important than the kitten that wore it. Ethel
called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked of the bow with the cat behind
it; to which Ethel retorted: "The ribbon becomes her very much, Tom.
Boys have no taste."

Early in the summer--about the time that the kitten was a weak little
squeaker in a basket of straw with the cat of the house next door--Ethel
was given a plant as a present. There had never before been a begonia in
her mother's greenhouse; and Ethel knew very little about it, except
that any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia grew very fast. It
became a tall plant, with beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it
was covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.

One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in a hurry and left the door
open; and Kafoozalum--the red bow with the kitten behind it--ran into
the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had the chance before.
Tom, coming home from school, went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to
his geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the kitten nearly on its
head in frantic attempts to roll in the begonia pot.

A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone. The begonia, branch and
leaf, died away. There was nothing left but a dry brown stump.

"It is dead!" cried Ethel. "A knock or a rub kills the young shoots.
Mrs. Smith told me so. Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill
it all."

"Tears! tears for the begonia!" laughed Tom. "Why, Ethel, I thought
nothing but the death of Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears."

"Ah! Tom, but you don't know how fond I was of that plant. It was the
only one I ever had. I feel almost as if it was _really alive_ once, and
dead now! I shall make it a grave and bury it."

Tom seemed very much amused at this idea--because the begonia was buried
already in its own pot--and Ethel could not bear his making fun about
it. So she ran away to her mother's room, with tears in her eyes.

"Mother, how do you spell 'begonia'?"

"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"

"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I
want to write its epitaph."

"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall
get you another next summer."

But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph.
She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with
violet ink.

"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.

Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the

"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write
poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink

"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only
rhyme in the English language," said Tom.

"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand,
and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what
would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out
in sad tones:--

  "Here my poor begonia lies,
  Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out
of his pocket.

  "Here's my knife to bury your roots,
  Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."

Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom
made fun of her poetry.

She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair
of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.

Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in
a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the
pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick
standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.

Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner
of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his
jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with
the kitten behind it.

"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.

"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."

"Why, what have I done? _I_ didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot,
did I, pussy?"

"Oh! boo-hoo--go 'way!"

So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with
a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her
verses. She read:--

  "Here my poor begonia lies,
  Drop a tear and wipe your eyes--
  The door was open--if you had locked it,
  The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."

The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.

"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom,
mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and
Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do
without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse,"
he said; "there's a begonia for you."

"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."

She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed
face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."

"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's

They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot

There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.

"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."

"Yes--it is growing up again for another summer," he said. "I found it
a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."

"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in
your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."

"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"

"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all--I mean----"

"Never mind--here go the verses, though they've served their turn."

So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than
ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.




As we walk round the building once more, I shall not attempt even to
name the greater number of the Monuments, but confine myself to telling
you something about the more remarkable ones. The earliest monuments
were really the tombs of persons buried here; many of the modern ones
simply commemorate illustrious men and women buried elsewhere.

We will first make the round of the chapels, and begin with that of St.
Benedict, where once an indulgence of two years and forty days could be
obtained by hearing mass at the altar. But the altar has gone, and in
its place rises the stately tomb of Frances Howard, Countess of
Hertford, whose effigy lies where once stood the candlesticks and sacred
host. Close by is the tomb of Archbishop Langham, who was buried here in
1376, with his head towards the altar, little dreaming that that altar
would ever be displaced to make room for the tomb of a heretic lady.

Through an ancient oaken screen we enter the adjacent Chapel of St.
Edmund. Here is the once beautiful tomb of William de Valence, Earl of
Pembroke, and half-brother to Henry III. Some of the monuments in this
chapel are of great interest as examples of ancient art, but there is
not much to say about their occupants. Frances Hokes, who died in 1622,
is represented in Greek costume, and Horace Walpole and others have
highly praised this statue. Close by lies Lady Knollys, who attended
Anna Boleyn on the scaffold. In the monument of Elizabeth Russell we
have the earliest of the sitting figures, which have been so strongly
condemned by many who maintain that a recumbent or bowed figure is the
only proper one for a tomb. Her marble finger points to a death's-head
at her feet, and hence arose the story that she died from a prick of a
needle, and some chose to add that it was a judgment upon her for
working on Sunday. But we must leave the men and women "of high degree"
who throng this chapel, and the tiny alabaster babies of Edward III. in
their little cradle, and pass on to the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This
chapel is rich in monuments of the Elizabethan era, and was once bright
with gold and colouring.

Of the royal tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII. I have already spoken,
but there are some others of great interest. One bay, or chapel, is
nearly filled by the monument of James I.'s favourite "Steenie"--George
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who was assassinated by Felton at
Portsmouth, in 1628. In another bay are two beautiful modern monuments,
harmonising well with their surroundings: the one of the Duke of
Montpensier, brother of Louis Philippe, the other of the late Dean
Stanley. The Duke of Richmond and his beautiful Duchess, "La Belle
Stuart," occupy a bay with their colossal canopied tomb. Of the other
tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII., we should specially mention that of
General Monk in the south aisle. He had a splendid funeral. For the
three weeks that he lay in state forty gentlemen of good family stood as
mutes with their backs against the wall, twenty each day alternately.

In the Chapel of St. Paul is the once gilded tomb of Lord Bourchier, the
standard-bearer of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The altar has
given place to the tomb of Frances Sydney, the wife of Ratcliff, Earl of
Sussex, who figures in Scott's story of "Kenilworth." Near at hand is
the tomb of Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor, who presided at the
trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. But the chief feature of this chapel is
the colossal marble effigy of James Watt, the celebrated improver of the
steam-engine--a splendid monument, from the chisel of Sir F. Chantrey.

The adjoining chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, contains the
tomb of one of Cromwell's officers, Colonel Edward Popham. Where the
altar once stood stands the loftiest monument in the Abbey--the tomb of
Queen Elizabeth's Chamberlain, Lord Hundsdon. The old statesman had
waited long for an earldom, which the queen had granted and revoked
three times over. She came at last to see him, and lay the patent and
the robes of a peer on his bed. "Madam," said the old man, "seeing you
counted me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living, I count myself
unworthy of it now that I am dying."

Visitors are not admitted into the beautifully sculptured, but dark,
little chapel of Abbot Islip. Just beyond it we enter what is now called
the eastern aisle of the south transept, formerly the separate chapels.
Here we find the celebrated tomb of Sir Francis Vere. Above the
warrior's effigy, supported by four kneeling knights, is a plain canopy,
upon which lies his helm and breastplate. Looking round, we see many
interesting memorials: Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down in the _Royal
George_; Sir John Franklin, who perished among Polar icebergs: Telford,
the engineer; Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher: all these and many
others are commemorated in this aisle.

Emerging now into the north transept, we find ourselves amongst what has
been termed "the dead Parliament of Britain." Famous statesmen look down
upon us from their marble pedestals, and beneath the central pavement
are the graves of Chatham, Pitt, Fox, Castlereagh, Canning, Wilberforce,
Grattan, and Palmerston. The magnificent monument to the great Earl of
Chatham cost £6,000. Close beside it stands the huge pile of sculpture
by Nollekens, in memory of the three captains who fell in Rodney's
famous victory over the French in April, 1782. Nearly opposite to
Chatham's monument is Chantrey's fine statue of Canning. On each side
the transept, and in the contiguous western aisle, the eye rests upon
sculptured marble bearing honoured names--Warren Hastings, Richard
Cobden, Palmerston, Beaconsfield, and others whose lives are part of our
country's history. As we stand here we may well remember the words of
Macaulay: "In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so
narrow a space. High over these venerable graves towers the stately
monument of Chatham, and from above, his effigy, graven by a cunning
hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England
to be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes."

From the north transept we pass to the nave along the north aisle of the
choir. Here we enter what has been termed a "Musicians' Corner;" amongst
a few other organists and composers lies Henry Purcell, whose epitaph
(written by Dryden) declares that he has gone to "that blessed place
where only his harmonies can be excelled." The sitting figure of the
great philanthropist, William Wilberforce, a little farther on, is not
generally admired.

Passing through the gate into the nave, we see against the choir screen
on our left the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, with a tedious list of his
discoveries. Proceeding along the north aisle we see to the left the new
pulpit for the Sunday evening services, and near it is a brass of
life-size on a slab covering the grave of the eminent engineer, Robert
Stephenson. Another slab close by shows the Victoria Tower and a
ground-plan of the Houses of Parliament. This is the grave of the great
architect, Sir Charles Barry. The famous African explorer, David
Livingstone, lies in the centre of the nave. Turning again to the north
wall we see about the centre of the numerous monuments one to the Right
Hon. Spencer Perceval, First Lord of the Treasury, who was shot in the
House of Commons by Bellingham, in the afternoon of May 11th, 1812. In
this aisle I was going to say lies, but more correctly stands the body
of Ben Jonson, who is buried in an upright position.

At the end of the aisle are the monuments of a few famous statesmen.
Among them are Mackintosh the historian, Tierney the orator, Lord
Holland, Zachary Macaulay, friend of Wilberforce, and father of the
great historian; and Charles James Fox. The great rivals, Fox and Pitt,
as we have seen, are buried near each other in the transept. Their
monuments are also near together--that of Pitt, by Westmacott,
represents the great orator trampling on the French Revolution, in the
attitude well known to the House of Commons at that day.

Passing some immense military memorials of little interest nowadays, and
the busts of Canon Kingsley and the poet Wordsworth, we now turn along
the southern wall of the nave. Here is the monument of the dramatic poet
Congreve, and that of Admiral Tyrrell, who was buried at sea in 1766,
always attracts the notice of visitors. Many allegorical emblems
surround the representation of the Admiral's resurrection from the
depths of the sea. The clouds above are so like pancakes as to have
given the tomb its familiar name of "The Pancake Monument." Farther east
we reach the monument of the unfortunate Major André, executed as a spy
by General Washington in the War of Independence. The monument has been
frequently injured and repaired, as the heads of Washington or André
have been again and again broken off by persons having strong sympathies
for one side or the other.

In the south aisle of the choir we pass on the left the curious monument
of Thomas Thynne, representing in relief the murder of that gentleman in
Pall Mall. In this aisle also is the monument of the well-known Dr.
Watts. It was erected here a century after his death; and still more
recently two other great Dissenters were commemorated close by--John and
Charles Wesley--the former the founder of the religious society that
bears his name, and the latter justly called "the sweet singer of

Passing the remarkable monument which shows us Admiral Shovel dressed as
a dandy of the period, and reclining on cushions under a canopy, we
enter the south transept, or Poets' Corner. Geoffrey Chaucer was the
pioneer of the children of genius in this hallowed spot. He was buried
here in 1400. Nearly two hundred years passed on, then Spenser was laid
near by. As we gaze round us we behold such a crowd of honoured names
that it is difficult to select any for special mention. Just at our feet
is the black marble slab that covers the grave of Charles Dickens. Close
by lie the historians Grote and Lord Macaulay. Other gravestones cover
the mortal remains of the wit Sheridan, the learned Dr. Johnson, Old
Parr (who lived under ten kings and queens, from Edward IV. to Charles
I.), &c. The monument of Cowley recalls his grand funeral, which was
attended by about a hundred coaches full of nobility and eminent
personages. Close by is a noble bust with the simple inscription--"J.
Dryden." The monuments to Milton and Shakespeare were erected here by
admirers long after their death, and are quite unworthy of their fame.
Gray, Thomson, Goldsmith, and many other poets who were not buried here,
are commemorated on the walls and columns. The beautiful bust of the
poet Longfellow is one of the most recent additions to the interesting
features of Poets' Corner. A tablet to Granville Sharp reminds us how
that good man exerted himself on behalf of the slave Somerset, and
procured from twelve English judges the famous decision "that as soon as
any slave sets his foot on English ground he is free." The allegorical
pile in memory of the "Great Duke of Argyll" strikes the eye of every
visitor. The monument to Dr. Busby, the famous Westminster schoolmaster,
is a fine piece of sculpture. Addison represents Sir Roger de Coverley
as standing before it and saying, "Dr. Busby! a great man; he whipped my
grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I
had not been a blockhead--a very great man." If we turn round we see the
statue of Addison himself, by Westmacott, in the farther corner of the
transept. He was very fond of meditating in the old Abbey, and in the
_Spectator_ are many beautiful thoughts suggested by his visits to the
place. I will conclude our survey of the tombs with a few of his
words:--"When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy
dies within me; when I read the epitaph of the beautiful every
inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the
parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we
must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who have deposed
them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
who divided the world by their contests and disputes, I reflect with
sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and
debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some
that died yesterday and some that died six hundred years ago, I consider
that day when we shall all make our appearance together."


      We four little birdies, scarce able to fly,
      Are starv'd with the cold of the frosty sky;
  Through the trees and the hedgerows the white snow is driven,
  And lies around everywhere under the heaven;
      It hangs on the woods, it covers the wold,
      It spreads over city, and hamlet, and hold.

      Happy ye little folk! sheltered at home
      From the blasts that over the white world roam;
  You are merry and gay 'mid your plentiful stores,
  Oh, think of us ready to die out of doors!

      The ground yields no worm, few berries the trees,
      Oh, throw us some crumbs, little folk, if you please!

      So, when the summer-time comes with the flowers
      Decking the meadows, the wild wood, and bowers,
  Every garden and grove shall resound with our song:
  Oh, hear now our cry, for the winter is long!
      The berries are scarce, so deep lies the snow,
      But there's comfort in crumbs for birdies, you know!

[Illustration: BEGGING FOR CRUMBS. _See p. 368._]



About the Mistletoe.

The mistletoe is a shrub which grows or lives upon certain trees, such
as the apple, pear, and hawthorn. It is found also on limes, poplars,
firs, and sycamores, and, more rarely, on oaks--contrary to the popular
belief. The white berries are full of a thick clammy juice by which the
seeds are fastened to the branches where they take root. The mistletoe
has been the object of a very special regard for centuries, and traces
of this high esteem still survive in the well-known Christmas custom.
One variety of this practice has it that each time a kiss is snatched
under the mistletoe, a berry is plucked from the bush, and that when the
berries have all been removed the privilege ceases. The Druids thought
that the mistletoe which grew upon the oak possessed magical virtues,
and they valued it accordingly. One of their priests in a white robe cut
off the precious bush with a golden knife.

Badges of the Apostles.

The painters of the Middle Ages used to represent the Apostles with
special badges which were generally symbolical of some incident in their
lives. Andrew was depicted with a _cross_, because he was crucified;
Bartholomew with a _knife_, because he was flayed; James the Greater
with a _pilgrim's staff_ and _gourd bottle_, because he was the patron
saint of pilgrims; James the Less with a _fuller's pole_, because he was
slain by Simeon the fuller with a blow on the head with his pole; John
with _a cup and a winged serpent flying out of it_, in allusion to the
tradition that the apostle was challenged by a priest of Diana to drink
a cup of poison. John made the sign of the cross on the cup, whereupon
Satan, like a dragon, flew from it, and the apostle drank the cup with
safety. Judas was represented with a _bag_, because he bare the bag and
"what was put therein;" Jude with a _club_, because he was killed by
that weapon; Matthew with a _hatchet_, because he was slain by one;
Matthias with a _battle-axe_, because after having been stoned he was
beheaded; Paul with a _sword_, because his head was cut off with one;
Peter with a _bunch of keys_ and also with a _cock_, in reference to the
familiar episodes; Philip with a _long staff surmounted by a cross_,
because he died by being hung by the neck to a tall pillar; Simon with a
_saw_, because he was sawn to death; Thomas with a _lance_, because his
body was pierced with a lance.

The Yule Log.

Who has not heard of the huge log (or clog) of wood that is laid in the
fireplace on Christmas Eve amid great pomp and ceremony? It is lighted
with the brand of last year's log which is always carefully preserved
for the purpose. During the burning of the log there is much
merry-making and songs and dances and telling of stories. It was the
subject of several superstitions. If it did not burn all night that was
looked upon as a misfortune, and if a barefooted or squinting person
came to the house while it was burning that also was a bad omen. The
name Yule carries us back to the far-off ages when the heathen nations
of the North held their annual winter festival in honour of the sun.

The Senses of Bees.

Experiments conducted by Sir John Lubbock seem to show that bees have a
preference for blue flowers. Besides this curious display of a colour
sense, there is some reason to believe that these "busy" insects may
possibly possess in a very rude state the power of hearing. Some bees
were trained to come for honey placed on a musical box, on the lawn
close to a window of the house. The box was made to play several hours
daily for a fortnight; it was then brought indoors out of sight, but
close to the open window, about seven yards from its former position.
The bees did not, however, find the honey, though when it was once shown
to them they came promptly enough.

Abolition of Christmas Day.

On December the 24th, 1652, there appeared in a small gazette called the
_Flying Eagle_ one of the most curious statements ever published in
connection with Christmas Day. It told how the House of Commons had that
day been considering the business of the Navy, and how, before it
separated, it had been presented with a "terrible remonstrance" against
Christmas Day. "In consequence of this," the _Flying Eagle_ went on to
say, "Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of
Christmas Day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the
following day, which was commonly called Christmas Day."

The Dancing Bird.

The forests of Nicaragua are the home of a dancing bird, variously
called "Toledo" from its whistling note, and "Bailador," or "Dancer,"
from its curious jumping action. A naturalist has described their
remarkable performances. Upon a bare twig about four feet from the
ground, two male Bailadors were seen engaged in a song and dance. They
were about eighteen inches apart, and alternately jumped two feet into
the air, alighting always in the same spot. As soon as one bird alighted
the other bird jumped up, their time being like clockwork in its
regularity, and each "accompanying himself to the tune of
'_to-le-do_'--'_to-le-do_'--'_to-le-do_,' sounding the syllable '_to_'
as he crouched to spring, '_le_' while in the air, and '_do_' as he
alighted." The performance was kept up for more than a minute, when the
birds found they were being watched, and made off.


A few words current in the United States are being gradually adopted in
England. The number of new words coined in America is said to be very
small indeed, as compared with the number of fresh meanings which
certain words have been made to bear. Of the former "caucus"--a
political committee--and "Yankee" are examples. Of the latter "smart"
used for "clever," and "clever" for "amiable," are specimens. But even
among the different States of the Union, verbal peculiarities are found.
When the new Englander "guesses," the Western "calculates," and the
Southern "reckons," but these various terms are all meant in the one
sense--namely of thinking or supposing. In the New England States,
"ugly" is employed for "ill-natured," and "friends" for "relations."
Some of the words in vogue in the Middle States are survivals of the
original Dutch colonists--as "boss," an employer or manager, and
"loafer," a vagabond. As to the Western States, it has been amusingly
observed that "every prominent person has his own private vocabulary."
Like the Emperor Sigismund the Great, who was "above grammar," the
Western States folk are superior to dictionaries.

Peacock Pie.

On the tables of the squires and nobles was sometimes seen at Christmas
and other festive seasons a peacock pie, but so costly was the dish that
it was only the very wealthy who could face such extravagance. At one
end of the pie the peacock's head, in all its plumage and with beak
richly gilt, appeared above the crust, while at the other end the tail
with feathers outspread made a brave show. The dish, however, was
regarded more in the light of a superb ornament to the table, for it was
not very good eating.

The "Ironsides."

This epithet applied to the famous soldiers of Cromwell was at first
used as a nickname of Cromwell himself. Mr. Picton, in his well-known
life of the Lord Protector, quotes a letter from a Northampton
gentleman, written just before the battle of Naseby. The writer speaks
of King Charles's army as being much impressed with the news "that
_Ironsides was coming_ to join with the Parliament's army." And when
"Ironsides" reached them the cavalry "gave a great shout for joy of his
coming to them."

Migration of Storks.

The storks pass the winter in the warmer climes of Africa. When the time
for migration has arrived, they leave in great flocks, flying at a
considerable height. Their wings are large, and have a great sweep, and
consequently, their flight is powerful. The company of pilgrims, when at
rest, afford much amusement to onlookers, and as they have the habit of
constantly clacking their bills together, it will be easily believed
that the uproar thus caused is a terrible nuisance. Colonel Irby likens
the noise to a rattle, and if you will try to imagine the effect of
hundreds of rattles, you may, perhaps, be able to form some notion of
the disturbance that these storks create at the time when they are
enjoying periods of well-earned repose.

The "Little Folks" Humane Society.


_Officers' Names are printed in Small Capital Letters, and the Names of
their Members are printed beneath. Where a short line, thus "----," is
printed, the end of an Officer's List is indicated._

    48966 Emily L. Neul       16
    48967 Martha Hatch        15
    48968 Emily Jenn          17
    48969 Elzbth. Sardeson    18
    48970 Mary Sardeson       16
    48971 Edith A. Capes      12
    48972 Agnes Pike          19
    48973 Emma Warman         13
    48974 C. H. Sardeson      11
    48975 J. E. Sardeson      13
    48976 Kate Probyn         11
    48977 Emily Probyn        15
    48978 Blanche Probyn      13
    48979 F. M. Garrett       12
    48980 A. G. Probyn        17
    48981 Frank Sorrell       20
    48982 Beatrice Sorrell    17
    48983 Emmie Mansell        7
    48984 Albert Mansell       9
    48985 WINNIFRED M.
          HODGSON, Sandgate    9
    48986 Kate Batchelor      13
    48987 Fredk. Wraight      20
    48988 Charles Wraight     18
    48989 Percy Gordon         9
    48990 Kate Gordon         15
    48991 Maud Gordon         12
    48992 Ella Gordon         10
    48993 Violet Gordon        5
    48994 Elizbth. Walkely     6
    48995 Fredk. Walkely       9
    48996 E. E. Walkely       11
    48997 M. A. Walkely        7
    48998 Nellie Pascoe        5
    48999 T. E. Ellen         19
    49000 Clara Turner        15
    49001 Gussie Hills         8
    49002 Charley Hills        8
    49003 Albert Hills        10
    49004 B. Langford         17
    49005 Thos. Langford      14
    49006 A. Langford         12
    49007 James Hannon        10
    49008 Mary Hannon          7
    49009 Michael Hannon       5
    49010 Esther Hannon        9
    49011 Charles Sutton      10
    49012 Fanny Sutton        14
    49013 Mary Sutton         15
    49014 Charles Pope         9
    49015 George Pope         11
    49016 Emma Richmond       10
    49017 Jane Webb           17
    49018 Eva Burville        11
    49019 M. J. Doughty       15
    49020 Richard White       11
    49021 Sarah Garby          6
    49022 Edith Allebone       8
    49023 Annie Allebone      10
    49024 Anne Haynes         17
    49025 Anne Harnden        19
    49026 Nellie Sage         13
    49027 B. Fitheridge        7
    49028 Annie Phillips      18
    49029 Rose Hull           10
    49030 Emily Rogers         9
    49031 George Keeler       12
    49032 M. Cunningham       19
    49033 Rosetta Standing    10
    49034 Lorie Terry         10
    49035 E. Anderson         20
    49036 Ailie M. Tobin       6
          Stoke Newington     15
    49038 M. E. Townsend      12
    49039 W. S. Townsend       7
    49040 A. J. Townsend      14
    49041 Jennie Wright       17
    49042 A. L. Westbeech     18
    49043 B. K. Wright        16
    49044 M. G. Wright        15
    49045 Ethel M. Wright     13
    49046 A. E. Wright        11
    49047 Henry J. Stanley    15
    49048 Annie S. Biss       16
    49049 Robert Blakeney     10
    49050 E. Blakeney         13
    49051 Flory W. Bailey      8
    49052 Norah M. Boyce      10
    49053 Annie Boyce          8
    49054 Mary Davies         10
    49055 Harriet Herbert     18
    49056 J. W. Hayden        15
    49057 Rupert Hailey       11
    49058 George D. Hare      17
    49059 Wm. A. Hare         19
    49060 B. C. Hare          15
    49061 Ada C. Hall          9
    49062 Emily G. Kent       14
    49063 Fredk. Kent          7
    49064 Arthur G. Kent       8
    49065 P. W. Kent          12
    49066 Edwd. S. Kent       10
    49067 Susan King          18
    49068 Jas. I. Langley      8
    49069 A. B. Littlewood    18
    49070 Rosa Maxwell        17
    49071 Annie E. Miles       7
    49072 P. G. Murray        13
    49073 H. V. Oldham        12
    49074 Fredk Palmer         8
    49075 Willie Palmer        7
    49076 A. G. Palmer        12
    49077 Wm. Reason          17
    49078 Emily Reason        19
    49079 Charles Riett       19
    49080 B. Scatchord        17
    49081 Harold Swinhoe      11
    49082 Charles Swinhoe     14
    49083 Ethel Swinhoe        8
    49084 D. M. Stanley       12
    49085 Mabel C. Smith      19
    49086 Alice C. Smith      13
    49087 Blanche C. Smith     9
    49088 L. E. Lithgow       14
    49089 A. M. Gibbons       16
    49090 M. L. Gwyer          6
    49091 F. M. Hooper        13
    49092 E. G. Bamber        10
    49093 F. B. Walton        14
    49094 Adelaide Walton     11
    49095 Henry Blake         12
    49096 EMILY M. NEWCOMEN,
          Warwick             15
    49097 Percy Goodacre      12
    49098 Arthur Goodacre      9
    49099 H. Goodacre         11
    49100 Frank Hirons        14
    49101 Rowland Boyes        8
    49102 T. Barnett          13
    49103 Alice Timns         20
    49104 Herbert Rolls       20
    49105 Ethel Evans          6
    49106 Wm. Boyes           13
    49107 E. Richardson       17
    49108 Nellie M. Fardon    16
    49109 Amy Wackrill        14
    49110 Ethel Lightoller    11
    49111 Annie Widdows       12
    49112 G. J. Wackrill      17
    49113 S. E. Trehearn      20
    49114 Jane Boyes          11
    49115 E. E. Humphries      8
    49116 William Kennett      5
    49117 Thos. Clements.      6
    49118 Elzbth. C. Heath    15
    49119 A. J. N. Kennett     7
    49120 Lilly Long          13
    49121 Alice Griffin       14
    49122 Florce. Fardon      13
    49123 G. Allibone         15
    49124 Emma Hanes          12
    49125 Annie Lees          18
    49126 A. E. Wilkins       18
    49127 Lizzie Randall      15
    49128 A. M. Pankhurst     14
    49129 E. Bradshaw         18
    49130 Annie Bailey        21
    49131 Sarah Noon          20
    49132 Margaret Jacobs     11
    49133 R. Garnham           9
    49134 Annie Evans          9
    49135 F. Bradshaw          9
    49136 M. A. Bradon        11
    49137 Elsie Dutton        14
    49138 Harriette Dutton    11
    49139 Florence Beech      12
    49140 Lizzie Beech         8
    49141 Maud Beech          10
    49142 Frank Beech         11
    49143 Esther Lidgett      18
    49144 Emily Greenfield     9
    49145 Janet Granfield     10
    49146 Geo. Bastock        14
    49147 W. Marshall         21
    49148 W. Jones            20
    49149 ALICE B. R. PAVEY,
          Charmouth           11
    49150 Jane Berry           8
    49151 E. H. Berry         11
    49152 Harold Hunter       12
    49153 Ada Hunter           8
    49154 Willie Hazard        8
    49155 Harry Hazard         9
    49156 Alice Hodder        10
    49157 D. Nicholls         19
    49158 S. T. B. Rudd        8
    49159 Lucy G. Dunn         8
    49160 Mary Cozens         10
    49161 Annie Lockyer       11
    49162 Martha A. Jay       11
    49163 Alice L. Jay         9
    49164 John W. Jay          7
    49165 Fredk. B. Jay        5
    49166 Harry Pryer         13
    49167 Annie Pryer         12
    49168 Emma Pryer          10
    49169 Ellen Pryer          9
    49170 K. Norris           10
    49171 Frances M. Norris    8
    49172 A. B. Kerbey         9
    49173 F. E. Kerbey        12
    49174 G. M. Pavey          9
    49175 Mabel S. Jacob      16
    49176 A. M. Wynne         13
    49177 Mary F. H. Rye      13
    49178 L. A. A. Hatchard   14
    49179 A. M. Simpson       15
    49180 Jennie C. White     13
    49181 F. G. Parker        13
    49182 F. M. Loughain      10
    49183 A. M. Lambert       14
    49184 A. M. Furlonge      12
    49185 Lizzie Cornick      15
    49186 Ida Beatty          17
    49187 Constance S. Bell   14
    49188 Mary A. Reed        16
    49189 Ferry L. Davis      13
    49190 F. T. Davis         16
    49191 Edith M. Millard    10
    49192 C. B. Millard       11
    49193 F. Mainwaring       11
    49194 E. M. Mainwaring     7
    49195 J. M. Venour         8
    49196 Ethel A. Lang       11
    49197 Evelyn Venour       10
    49198 A. M. B. Smith      14
    49199 F. C. B. Smith      17
    49200 N. B. Smith         15
    49201 I. M. Andrews        8
    49202 Florce. Berry        6
    49203 E. J. C. Andrews    11
    49204 Eva M. Clarke       14
    49205 L. M. Breton        13
    49206 Ada M. Breton       16
    49207 K. A. Patchell      11
    49208 Grace Pittock       10
    49209 Rose Pittock         9
    49210 F. G. Pittock       11
    49211 John Gidley         17
    49212 Elizbth. C. Gidley  13
    49213 M. F. Gidley        12
          Hunmanby            11
    49215 George Coultas       8
    49216 Arthur Coultas      10
    49217 Fredk. Dosdill       9
    49218 George Duke          9
    49219 Margt. Thorpe        7
    49220 A. E. Thorpe        10
    49221 Jane Ratcliffe      18
    49222 Gertrude Riddell    14
    49223 Florence Boultby    10
    49224 Wm. Wightman        17
    49225 Nelly Parsons        7
    49226 Samuel Swann        17
    49227 Ada Ratcliffe        8
    49228 Mary Swann          20
    49229 John Swann          15
    49230 Florce. Bullock      6
    49231 Julia Boultby        6
    49232 Joshua Swann         9
    49233 Teresa Thorpe       12
    49234 Anne Cooper          8
    49235 Florence Murdy      13
    49236 Pollie Murdy        20
    49237 George Corner       13
    49238 Sarah Corner        16
    49239 Harry Wesson         8
    49240 Francis Fisk        20
    49241 Emma Brown           7
    49242 Louisa Swann         6
    49243 Clara Richardson     7
    49244 Annie Grundy         8
    49245 Kate Jenkinson      20
    49246 Freddy Crisp         7
    49247 May Flower           6
    49248 Lina Leibrandt       8
    49249 Lena Leibrandt      10
    49250 Lizzie Denman        9
    49251 John Herbert        10
    49252 Walter J. Smith     16
    49253 Henry Felton         8
    49254 Florence Mather      7
    49255 William Thorpe      11
    49256 Gerty Adamson        6
    49257 William Felton      17
    49758 John Joynes          8
    49259 L. Newton           11
    49260 Herbt. Marchant     19
    49261 F. Abbott           16
    49262 Ernest Christian    17
    49263 Samuel Smith        12
    49264 Fredk. Martin       11
    49265 Willie Dickins      10
    49266 Mollie Dickins       8
    49267 EMILY J. RUTTER,
          Chiswick            14
    49268 Lizzie Ravenhill    15
    49269 Freda Sumpter       12
    49270 Therza Sumpter      17
    49271 Janet Armstrong     16
    49272 Ada Cleave          15
    49273 Annie Cleave        14
    49274 Emma Armstrong      18
    49275 A. Churchman        14
    49276 F. Pilkington       16
    49277 Eva Line            17
    49278 Thomas Downs        10
    49279 Ella Harrolt        14
    49280 Louise Line         13
    49281 Ada L. Davey        13
    49282 Kate Green          11
    49283 Lizzie Green        19
    49284 Sarah Smith         17
    49285 Ada Downs           15
    49286 Lily Warner         11
    49287 Mabel Mills          6
    49288 Mabel Seaton        11
    49289 Mary A. Greatree    20
    49290 Augusta Meyer       11
    49291 Albert E. Meyer     17
    49292 Josephine Meyer     20
    49293 Mary Randall        16
    49294 Minnie Purser       15
    49295 E. C. Richardson    13
    49296 Clara E. White      13
    49297 Olive E. Baxter     13
    49298 Harry E. Rutter      8
    49299 B. C. M. Praeger    11
    49300 Maria Elliott       13
    49301 Edith Elliott        2
    49302 Ada Miles           14
    49303 J. Gillingham       14
    49304 Kate Foster         13
    49305 Annie Knight        10
    49306 Alice Lord          15
    49307 Isabella Gabrielle  15
    49308 Jessie Foster       10
    49309 E. P. Richards      15
    49310 F. E. Baker         14
    49311 Annie E. Jolly      15
    49312 Fredk. Meyer        17
    49313 Percy Tilly         16
    49314 Alice Mills         11
    49315 Bertrum Mills        9
    49316 C. Lambert          13
    49317 A. Mudd             10
    49318 E. Mills             8
    49319 Ida Bowker          10
    49320 Edward Eldrid       13
    49321 H. Bobbins          14
    49322 Gabriel Banderet    13
    49323 Anna Vivenot        11
    49324 Betsy Borton        16
    49325 Mary B. Harpin      11
    49326 John H. Harpin       9
    49327 Emma Wilkinson      15
          Manchester          13
    49329 Bernard Evans        8
    49330 Sarah Stott         12
    49331 Mary Brisbane       19
    49332 Samuel Brisbane     13
    49333 J. Wm. Brisbane     15
    49334 Maggie Stott        14
    49335 Alice Howell        14
    49336 Minnie Atkinson     11
    49337 Lizzie Abbott       12
    49338 Maggie Brisbane     10
    49339 F. M. Webster       13
    49340 Minnie Harrison     13
    49341 J. Brooksbank        8
    49342 Mary Rangeley       15
    49343 H. Howell           16
    49344 Maud Rangeley       14
    49345 Maud M. Steele       9
    49346 G. Howell           13
    49347 Lilian Steele       13
    49348 Kate Howell          6
    49349 Christine Lowe      13
    49350 Francess Parry      10
    49351 Kate Mence          13
    49352 Isabella Backwell    9
    49353 A. Williamson       12
    49354 Daisy Steele        11
    49355 Wm. Mather          18
    49356 Hetty Bramall        9
    49357 J. Brisbane          7
    49358 Mary E. Lloyd       12
    49359 Jn. L. Mather        4
    49360 Anne Powell         13
    49361 Annie Mather         8
    49362 Ella Chorlton       10
    49363 Edith Farnell       13
    49364 Edna Rogerson       11
    49365 Mary Ogden          12
    49366 Lillie Kennington   11
    49367 Jessie Mather       10
    49368 Agnes Currie        13
    49369 Edith Rhodes        16
    49370 Clara Emery         12
    49371 Arthur Mather       16
    49372 Jessie Leech        11
    49373 N. Darnborough      12
    49374 Annie Stretch       14
    49375 Lucy Birchal        10
    49376 Emily Mather        12
    49377 Sarah Gilbody       12
    49378 Gertrude Powell      8
    49379 HELEN E. RAY,
          Norwich             11
    49380 Edward Girling      18
    49381 Edith M. Bunnett    14
    49382 Gerty Langham       10
    49383 G. M. Willett        9
    49384 Kate Dinnington     12
    49385 M. A. Donaldson      9
    49386 M. S. Donaldson     10
    49387 Grace E. Bush       11
    49388 Lucy Morter         12
    49389 Mary Green          11
    49390 Dora Goodwyn        10
    49391 K. M. Ireland       10
    49392 C. A. H. Brown       7
    49393 Alice Holmes        14
    49394 Bessie Hubbard      11
    49395 Philip H. Girling   13
    49396 Sidney R. Ireland   12
    49397 Ethel Griffin       13
    49398 Ida J. Smith         9
    49399 M. M. Farmar        12
    49400 Margaret Cook       11
    49401 Helen Cook          12
    49402 Amy Salmon          11
    49403 J. M. Troughton     10
    49404 Lizzie Shepheard    10
    49405 Edith A. Mack       14
    49406 E. J. Williams      13
    49407 Deborah Cook        13
    49408 Emma Bond           12
    49409 Isabel Johnson      15
    49410 M. E. C. Wells      12
    49411 Ellen A. Butler     10
    49412 A. M. Everett        9
    49413 E. K. Chapman       13
    49414 Mabel A. Bush       12
    49415 M. E. E. Gooding    14
    49416 May Saul            10
    49417 Louisa Oldfield     13
    49418 Edith F. Salmon     15
    49419 E. S. Hardingham    12
    49420 A. E. Taylor        16
    49421 Martha Mase         11
    49422 M. H. Smyth         11
    49423 Helen L. Turner      9
    49424 Lily Girling        14
    49425 M. H. Everett        9
    49426 Caroline Garrett     9
    49427 M. B. Burrows       10
    49428 Margaret Girling    11
    49429 M. A. O. Self        9
    49430 Francis H. Duck      4
    49431 BEATRICE  E.
          BLADES, Sutton      15
    49432 Emmie Abbott        13
    49433 Amy Balcombe        15
    49434 I. M. Balcombe      12
    49435 Marian Berry         8
    49436 Bessie Berry         7
    49437 Alice Binks         16
    49438 Agnes Binks          9
    49439 Amy Binks           11
    49440 Emily Bower         19
    49441 Cordelia Bower      17
    49442 Nellie Bower        10
    49443 Ethel Bosworth      11
    49444 Louisa Bracey       12
    49445 Mabel Bracey         7
    49446 Alice C. Colby      17
    49447 Lilian Colyer       16
    49448 Alice Colyer        14
    49449 Percy Colyer        13
    49450 F. E. Colyer        10
    49451 Alice Cork          13
    49452 A. C. Smith         16
    49453 Effie Dresser       15
    49454 Nellie Dresser      13
    49455 E. R. Dresser       11
    49456 Alice Drew          15
    49457 Daisy Fisher        11
    49458 Winnie Fisher        9
    49459 Ethel Gabb          13
    49460 Violet Griffith     15
    49461 Beatrice Hobbs      15
    49462 Constance Home      13
    49463 J. E. Houlston      15
    49464 Pattie Huskisson    13
    49465 Percy Huskisson     15
    49466 Maggie Knight       16
    49467 Jennie Knight       16
    49468 Alice Lancaster     15
    49469 Winnie Lancaster    11
    49470 M. E. Langridge     16
    49471 Edith Larner        12
    49472 Ethel Mileham       11
    49473 Mary Perry          17
    49474 Jessie Miller       14
    49475 Maude Rayner        13
    49476 Maria Rayner        10
    49477 Lizzie Rayner        8
    49478 Richard G. Rolls     8
    49479 Ethel Turner        11
    49480 Mary White          14
    49481 Mary Williamson     16
    49482 Amy S. Coulton      13
    49483 Maude H. Platts     15
    49484 Louisa M. Price     14
    49485 A. B. Vine           8
    49486 GRACE PETTMAN,
          Ramsgate            14
    49487 Grace Holladay      12
    49488 Lillian Nash        11
    49489 Frances Bone         9
    49490 Florrie Bone        13
    49491 Margaret Palmer     16
    49492 Aggie Sutton        12
    49493 Florce. Garwood     11
    49494 Sally Sutton        10
    49495 Anna Wood           18
    49496 Nellie Bowers       11
    49497 Annie Spain         13
    49498 Minnie Spain         6
    49499 Harriett Goodson    14
    49500 Freddy Goodson      10
    49501 Kitty Church        12
    49502 Walter Spain         7
    49503 Florence Jones       9
    49504 Sarah Covern        12
    49505 Minnie Nouel        13
    49506 Mary L. Nouel       11
    49507 Ethelbirt Nouel      9
    49508 Ann M. Nouel         6
    49509 Florence Newby      12
    49510 Mabel Newby         11
    49511 F. I. M. Larkin     12
    49512 Winifred Barnes      9
    49513 James F. Barnes     15
    49514 E. M. D. Barnes     13
    49515 S. P. Martin        11
    49516 Howrd. Musgrove     12
    49517 Edwd. Musgrove      13
    49518 A. M. Musgrove       9
    49519 M. E. Musgrove       8
    49520 R. W. Musgrove       5
    49521 E. H. Musgrove      11
    49522 Percy Makins         9
    49523 Leslie Farrier       8
    49524 F. C. Archer        17
    49525 K. Schwengers        8
    49526 Jane Makins         14
    49527 Harry Makins         5
    49528 Susan Cadman        11
    49529 Walter Cadman        6
    49530 Joseph Cadman       10
    49531 Hilda Cadman         8
    49532 Minnie Sherred       5
    49533 Samuel Sherred       8
    49534 Robert Sherred      11
    49535 Annie Sherred       15
    49536 Jessie S. Sherred   19
          Liskeard            13
    49538 Thos. H. Pascoe     20
    49539 A. E. Morcom        19
    49540 Lucy Rich           19
    49541 Arthur Pooley       18
    49542 S. A. Playne        18
    49543 Ernest Cullen       18
    49544 Chas. Ainge         17
    49545 Ernest J. Snell     16
    49546 Ellen Davey         16
    49547 Alice Stowe         17
    49548 Edward Ainge        15
    49549 Alvena Bradford     15
    49550 Fredk. E. Moon      15
    49551 Wm. Middleton       14
    49552 John Broad          14
    49553 William Daniel      14
    49554 J. Cheynoweth       14
    49555 R. S. Truscott      14
    49556 Thos. Wonnacott     14
    49557 J. E. S. Old        14
    49558 Samuel Raby         14
    49559 Herbert Dyer        13
    49560 John West           13
    49561 Percy Snell         13
    49562 Arthur Sampson      13
    49563 Fredk. Edgcumbe     13
    49564 Thomas Roberts      13
    49565 Joseph Hill         13
    49566 Mark Sampson        12
    49567 Charles Rule        12
    49568 Arthur Hodges       11
    49569 Wm. Stoneman        11
    49570 Edmund Skinner      11
    49571 John A. Little      11
    49572 Joseph H. Pearce    11
    49573 Wm. Dunbar          10
    49574 Arthur Rule         10
    49575 Samuel Sampson      10
    49576 Edward Wright       10
    49577 Rose Lyne            9
    49578 Willmot Wright       8
    49579 Percy Lyne           7
    49580 William Rowe        19
    49581 William Brenton     15
    49582 Edith M. Tinney     15
    49583 Charles Hambly      14
    49584 J. S. Blandford     14
    49585 Thos S. Peters      14
    49586 D. R. F. Wilson     16
    49587 R. G. F. W. Green   15
    49588 Geo. A. Northey     14
    49589 William Pollard     14
    49590 John Martin         13
    49591 H. J. Trethewy      12
    49592 John B. Old         13
    49593 William Grose       12
    49594 John Scantlebury    12
    49595 Arthur E. Pearse    11
    49596 Eardley Vine         6
    49597 Nellie Sykes         8
    49598 A. M. Potter         9
    49599 Edith Jenkins       14
    49600 Nellie Corke        13
    49601 Kate Jenkins        12
    49602 Herbt. Barham        8
    49603 Wm. Worssell         7
    49604 Richd. Worssell     10
    49605 F. J. Williams      10
    49606 A. E. Chapman       12
    49607 Robert J. King      11
    49608 E. W. Mann          12
    49609 C. E. J. Phillips   10
          Ampthill Square,
          London              12
    49611 May Broom           10
    49612 Ernest Stoneham      9
    49613 S. W. Stoneham      12
    49614 Alice Dorington      9
    49615 H. G. Humphries      7
    49616 M. E. Humphries      9
    49617 L. M. Gossling       7
    49618 A. M. Edwards        7
    49619 Richd. H. Bendy      8
    49620 Katie Hill           6
    49621 G. F. Collins        7
    49622 E. H. Bendy          6
    49623 N. A. J. Saunders    9
    49624 M. A. Sanders        8
    49625 John S. Gretton      7
    49626 F. E. Summerfield   10
    49627 E. E. Copping       11
    49628 M. L. Summerfield    8
    49929 A. C. Stoneham      13
    49630 Sarah Neuff         10
    49631 G. A. M. Gillott    14
    49632 Mildred Jones       13
    49633 Louisa Harragan     13
    49634 Rosina Wight        11
    49635 Kate Carter         10
    49636 L. Melvill          10
    49637 Ella Wyand          17
    49638 Edith Pasmore       13
    49639 Amy Carter          12
    49640 Lydia Dansie         7
    49641 May Soper           11
    49642 Alfred Kingsbury     8
    49643 Alice Pigot         10
    49644 Lilian C. Soper     15
    49645 Rosa Soper          13
    49646 Blanche Wyatt       14
    49647 Helen Melvill       10
    49648 Maud Middleton      10
    49649 Christabel Jones     8
    49650 A. A. Langsford     15
    49651 I. Macculloch       14
    49652 Ethel Wyand         15
    49653 Clara Rowley        10
    49654 Gertrude Ellwood    11
    49655 Beatrice Jones      14
    49656 Louie Appleton      12
    49657 H. G. Rowley        15
    49658 Annie Davis         11
    49659 Alice Loomes        12
    49660 Annie Cox           14
    49661 E. Ballefant         8
          Poplar, Lond.       12
    49663 George Gilley       17
    49664 T. H. Shepherd      18
    49665 C. E. Peckham       11
    49666 Katie Fischer       12
    49667 Grace Allen          8
    49668 H. E. Worland       11
    49669 Sophia A. Gilley    11
    49670 Beatrice Merralls   14
    49671 Geo. R. Miller       7
    49672 H. J. Birleson      16
    49673 C. S. Richardson    14
    49674 E. H. Merralls      13
    49675 Clara Bull          11
    49676 John Gilley          9
    49677 M. C. Phillips      11
    49678 A. H. Oughton        6
    49679 Ellen Quantock      13
    49680 Wm. Birleson         9
    49681 M. A. Woodrow       16
    49682 Annie Atkinson       6
    49683 Percy A. Bull        9
    49684 A. Hatterleys       10
    49685 L. E. Abraham        8
    49686 A. M. Peckham       10
    49687 A. E. Birleson       9
    49688 W. T. Merralls      10
    49689 E. M. M. George     15
    49690 Jane Quantock       12
    49691 Sarah E. Evans       9
    49692 Samuel Gilley       15
    49693 Maude Allen          9
    49694 G. C. Peckham        8
    49695 A. M. Scotten       12
    49696 C. Woodrow          12
    49697 Thomas Gilley       13
    49698 Harriet Holgate     18
    49699 Wm. H. Miller       10
    49700 Charlotte Scotten   14
    49701 B. W. Allan         20
    49702 W. C. M. Barrett    15
    49703 Reuben Merralls      8
    49704 M. S. Worland       15
    49705 G. M. Gilley        18
    49706 S. F. Birleson      11
    49707 Sarah A. Stains      7
    49708 Annie C. George     12
    49709 Edith. M. Miller    15
    49710 Geo. E. Girard       9
    49711 H. J. Abraham       10
    49712 A. M. Merralls       7
    49713 Clara Kemmins       14
    49714 Walter Kemmins      10
    49715 Cyril Walton        13
    49716 O. Schofield         8
    49717 Esther Schofield     7
    49718 Rosa M. Davies      12
    49719 M. L. Struthers     20
    49720 A. L. Lowndes       14
    49721 F. Masterson        12
    49722 Amy Atkins          13
    49723 Violet Jackson      15
    49724 KATE M. BOYD,
          Belfast             10
    49725 Frank Ward           7
    49726 Robert J. Stewart    6
    49727 Bessie Lamble       15
    49728 Elias Lamble        12
    49729 George Moore         7
    49730 Ellen P. Weir        5
    49731 Charles Weir         3
    49732 Aggie Nesbit         7
    49733 David T. Ward       10
    49734 John Whiteside      12
    49735 Lizzie Whiteside    19
    49736 Chas. W. McMidd     16
    49737 Alexandra Cosby     11
    49738 Jane Mitchell        6
    49739 May McKinstry       15
    49740 Annie Hamilton      13
    49741 Mary Mitchell        9
    49742 L. Shaw              6
    49743 L. MacDonald        13
    49744 Minnie Rainey        9
    49745 Sam Fitchie          7
    49746 James H. Shaw       11
    49747 John Macnamara      15
    49748 May Purdon           7
    49749 Wm. McDonald         8
    49750 Ida Mitchell        14
    49751 Edward Purdon        4
    49752 James Steward        7
    49753 Ellen T. Shaw        8
    49754 S. C. Ward          17
    49755 Thos. Whiteside      6
    49756 L. Chamberlain       8
    49757 John Shaw           16
    49758 Isabella Frazer     15
    49759 D. Richardson        7
    49760 S. McKinstry        13
    49761 E. J. McMinn        17
    49762 M. Chancellor       17
    49763 Mary E. Frazer      11
    49764 Selina McMinn       10
    49765 Wm. McCann          18
    49766 David Mitchell      12
    49767 Ethel Browne         6
    49768 Agnes Gilbert       15
    49769 H. MacGregor         7
    49770 Hugh Cooper         11
    49771 Frances Moore        6
    49772 F. MacGregor         5
    49773 S. Crawford         14
    49774 Isabella Gilbert    10
    49775 Annie MacGregor      8
    49776 Robert Browne       11
          Kensington          12
    49778 Lottie Wilson        5
    49779 Geo. Middleton      12
    49780 Emma Mugford         9
    49781 Rhoda Taylor        10
    49782 Frank Coombs         7
    49783 Poly Humble          4
    49784 John Martin          3
    49785 Annie Patinson       4
    49786 George Humble        6
    49787 Mary Nash            7
    49788 Florence Wiles      10
    49789 Rosy Hudson          3
    49790 Robert Copeland     10
    49791 Martha Isaac        10
    49792 Annie Turner        10
    49793 Nathaniel James      6
    49794 M. Raulerson        11
    49795 Percy Pollard        4
    49796 Arthur Bennett       3
    49797 Katie Kinton         4
    49798 Lizzie Cannon        6
    49799 L. G. Hudson         6
    49800 Isabella Bennett     9
    49801 Emily Easton        10
    49802 Ada Vogan            6
    49803 Robert Pollard      11
    49804 Frank Galliford      8
    49805 Louisa Floyd         2
    49806 Jane Vogan           8
    49807 Beatrice Mayfield    9
    49808 Albert Coomber      10
    49809 Rose James           3
    49810 Maud Martin          7
    49811 Ada Barnes           5
    49812 Richard Porch        7
    49813 Kate Coomber        12
    49814 Clara Cannon         9
    49815 Sarah Ball          10
    49816 Nellie Dixon        11
    49817 Fanny Barnes         7
    49818 Charles Ball         5
    49819 Ada Ball            13
    49820 Eliza James         12
    49821 Annie Mayfield       7
    49822 Edwd. Pullinger     15
    49823 Julia Hudson         9
    49824 Lizzie Pattinson    10
    49825 Ada Cullingford     11
    49826 Albert James        10
    49827 Arthur James         8
    49828 Amy Baker           11
    49829 Arthur Stone        10
    49830 Arthur Bennett       5
    49831 Louisa Rogers       11
    49832 George Barnard       6
    49833 William Pullinger    9
    49834 Fanny Porch          4
    49835 Ada Pollard         13
    49836 Annie Utling         7
    49837 Rose A. Hudson       3
    49838 Thomas Mitchell     14
    49839 Rose Pullinger      11
    49840 Norah Willison      10
    49841 Robert Pullinger    12
    49842 Adolphus Ball        6
    49843 Alice Allen         13
    49844 Alice Vogan         11
    49845 Harriett Humble     12
    49846 Alice Hall           9
    49847 Thomas Pollard      14
    49848 Henry Hazell        11
    49849 Alice Barnard        4
    49850 Edith Taylor         5
    49851 Maud Mason           7
    49852 Ernest Butter       10
    49853 E. E. Rawlerson     13
    49854 Florence Hatcher     8
    49855 C. Wharton           9
    49856 Alice Humphries      9
    49857 Harry Mugford        5
    49858 George Martin       10
    49859 Mirabel Turner       8
    49860 E. C. M. Wright     11
    49861 Eleanor Wright      13
    49862 Ethel McMaster      12
    49863 Philis England      13
          Stewartstown        14
    49865 Annie Brown         10
    49866 R. J. Stevenson     15
    49867 C. S. Dudgeon       11
    49868 Maggie Simpson       5
    49869 Charles Graham       6
    49870 K. McGahey          10
    49871 John S. McGahey      8
    49872 Ethel McGahey        5
    49873 Alexander Martin     8
    49874 John Megaw          13
    49875 M. E. Shepherd      10
    49876 Alexndr. Shields    11
    49877 H. J. Russell       12
    49878 Thomas Nichol       10
    49879 M. D. McGhee        11
    49880 Emma McGhee          8
    49881 Charlotte Reid      10
    49882 Wm. Hamilton         5
    49883 Robert Hamilton      8
    49884 Mary S. Brown        5
    49885 J. T. Kempton        9
    49886 Hugh Elder           9
    49887 Mary J. Turtle       9
    49888 Robert J. Turtle    12
    49889 Maggie J. Gibson    12
    49890 Mary H. Gibson      10
    49891 Emma B. Gibson       8
    49892 Edith Gibson         5
    49893 Sarah Thompson       5
    49894 H. Thompson          9
    49895 M. J. Thompson      11
    49896 W. J. Thompson      13
    49897 Chas. Abernethy     13
    49898 H. T. Abernethy     10
    49899 L. Abernethy         9
    49900 M. Abernethy         7
    49901 A. Steenson          6
    49902 Thos. Bingham       12
    49903 Samuel Bingham      11
    49904 Sarah J. Bingham     6
    49905 Sarah A. Devlin      5
    49906 Mary M. Devlin       9
    49907 R. J. Devlin         9
    49908 Maude C. Woods      14
    49909 James Clements       8
    49910 John Clements       12
    49911 C. Clements         10
    49912 R. D. Steenson      12
    49913 Minnie Steenson      6
    49914 Meta K. Woods        9
    49915 Robert S. Woods      7
    49916 Sara T. Woods       12
    49917 Hugh Peers           8
    49918 Hugh Brown          10
    49919 Marcus Reid         12
    49920 Hannah Martin        6
    49921 Maud S. Frisby      13
    49922 Ethel L. Smith       7
    49923 Alice Newton        11
    49924 Maud Bullock         9
    49925 William Godfry      10
    49926 Emily Martin         8
    49927 Walter Raine        10
    49928 Annie S. Bond       16
    49929 Edith H. Bond        8
    49930 A. M. Annandale     13
    49931 Agnes A. Rose       17
          Bristol             14
    49933 Agnes Porter        19
    49934 Agnes Place         19
    49935 Augusta Harris      18
    49936 Lizzie Harries      17
    49937 Florence Morgan     17
    49938 Alice Sewell        17
    49939 Katy Rickens        16
    49940 Frances Rebbeck     16
    49941 Mary Dole           16
    49942 Rachel Dole         16
    49943 Constance Wadge     15
    49944 Edith J. Sewell     15
    49945 Mary Verier         15
    49946 Ermy Loxton         15
    49947 Susan J. Rickens    15
    49948 Rosa Major          15
    49949 Anna M. Gibbs       15
    49950 Florence Hicks      15
    49951 Mabel B. Peirce     15
    49952 Marion L. Cundell   15
    49953 Marie Heine         14
    49954 E. M. Gatcombe      14
    49955 Agnes Winstone      14
    49956 Eleanor Durston     14
    49957 Elizabeth Arney     14
    49958 Mabel Major         14
    49959 Gertrude I. Sewel   14
    49960 Nellie Coe          14
    49961 Fanny Gregory       14
    49962 Kathleen Place      14
    49963 Florence Pope       14
    49964 Edith Tyler         14
    49965 Maggie Morgans      14
    49966 Isabel Nicholson    13
    49967 Edith C. Morgan     13
    49968 Jessie Slade        13
    49969 Mary I. Butler      13
    49970 Emily Edis          13
    49971 F. Cullingford      13
    49972 Lillie Basset       13
    49973 Marion K. Bell      13
    49974 Mary A. Hicks       13
    49975 Janie Jones         12
    49976 Florence Hartnell   12
    49977 Emma Bennett        12
    49978 Beatrice Quick      12
    49979 Bessie Hayward      12
    49980 George Peirce       11
    49981 Katie Bowyer        11
    49982 Julia Stuart        11
    49983 Harry J. Eder       13
    49984 Solomon Ososki      13
    49985 C. W. Sax           15
    49986 William Hunter      13
    49987 John Russell        14
    49988 John Parker         14
    49989 William McMunn       9
    49990 William Whisker     13
    49991 Arthur S. Everest    8
    49992 Henry D. Everest    12
    49993 Ellen S. Bull       13
    49994 E. Hetherington      8
    49995 Jane Robinson       12
    49996 D. Monnington        8
    49997 Richard Caldecott    7
    49998 Ann Hetherington    13
    49999 Florence Bodley     10
    50000 G. C. Stephens      15


Fifty thousand Officers and Members--such is the printed muster-roll of
The LITTLE FOLKS Humane Society. As most of the Readers of LITTLE FOLKS
are aware, however, this does not comprise all the names on the Register
of the Society--for since this grand total was reached many hundreds of
Children have enrolled themselves; nor does the fact that in future the
publication of the Lists will be discontinued (as announced on page 55
of this Volume) signify that the work of the Society--which has been so
enthusiastically carried on since it commenced in January, 1882--is
accomplished. On the contrary, the Editor earnestly trusts that his
Readers will not only still come forward in large numbers and become
Members, by sending in their "promises" to him, but will also, in the
future as they have in the past, continue to induce their relatives and
friends to enroll themselves under the Society's banner. For it should
be remembered that the Dumb Creation _always_ stands in need of help and
protection; and it is to a great extent by the aid of such associations
as The LITTLE FOLKS Humane Society--founded for the purpose of
inculcating in the minds of children Kindness towards Animals--that the
claims of the weak and defenceless creatures around us are recognised as
they should be.

The names of all who fill up and sign the "form of promise" (which is
again printed on the next page), and send it to the Editor, will, as
heretofore, be duly inscribed on the Register of the Society; and
Certificates of Membership will be forwarded to any who desire to have
them, if _stamped addressed_ envelopes be enclosed for the purpose.
(The limit of age for enrolment is 21).

Members will also be eligible to become Officers of the Society and
receive Officers' Certificates if they induce Fifty other Children to
join, and send in that number of "promises" to the Editor, _all
together_; but the small book and medal hitherto awarded to Officers
will, in future (as stated on page 55), be given only to those who, in
sending up their Fifty "promises," enclose a certificate from a Parent,
Teacher, or other responsible person, stating that the collection of
such "promises" had been commenced _prior_ to July 1, 1884.

The wonderful progress made by The LITTLE FOLKS Humane Society since its
institution in January, 1882, has, the Editor feels sure, been a source
of much gratification to all who have taken part in its work; and while
tendering thanks to the Officers and Members--comprising representatives
of every rank and station, and living in all parts of the globe--who
have so zealously and heartily co-operated with him, he can only express
the hope that in the accounts of the Society which he proposes to give
in LITTLE FOLKS from time to time, he may be able to record the same
satisfactory progress in its growth during future years as he has in
past ones.

The "form of promise" to be signed (which should be copied on half a
sheet of note-paper and forwarded to the Editor, after being filled up,
and attested by a Parent, Teacher, or other responsible person) is as

  To the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS.

  [Here insert full name]

  I ..................... hereby undertake, as far as it lies in my power,
  to be kind to every living creature that is useful and not harmful to

  [Full name]



  Witness [of signature]


All communications to the Editor in reference to the Society should have
the words, "LITTLE FOLKS Humane Society," on the left-hand top corners
of the envelopes.



Dear MR. EDITOR,--Our river is so shallow that in some parts reeds grow
in it, where wild ducks are very fond of building their nests. Once,
shepherds who were with the cattle, near that river, saw a wild duck,
with eighteen little ones swimming about, and as the little ducks were
so small they thought it would be very easy to catch them. So
accordingly they got into the water, and were trying to catch the young
ones, when they perceived that the old duck, instead of flying away, as
they expected she would do, was turning over in the water as if she were
hurt. The shepherds seeing this, thought it would be very well to catch
her first, as it seemed a very easy thing to do, so they went over to
where she was. Meanwhile the little ducks got safely hidden in the
rushes, and the old one seeing that her children were out of their
enemies' reach, flew into the air and left the shepherds standing with

  (Aged 12-1/2.)

  _8, Place Catharine, Odessa._


Dear MR. EDITOR,--A friend recently told me that when walking in his
garden one day he noticed an ant seemingly examining a dead caterpillar
which lay on the path. Then it returned to its nest, but soon came back
with several others. These, walking round the caterpillar, examined it
carefully, as did the first. Home they all went; soon they returned with
still more of their companions, then they formed a long column, very
like a rope, and dragged him to the edge of the path. The nest being in
the flower-beds they had to pull him over the tiles surrounding the
garden, but once over this difficulty on they toiled until after a
quarter of an hour's hard work they reached their nest.

  (Aged 15.)

  _Elmcroft, Tottenham Lane,
  Hornsey, N._


Dear MR. EDITOR,--The other day, as I was walking along the road, I saw
a horse do another a deed of kindness. One poor horse was out in the
road without anything to eat, and the other in a field with plenty of
grass. The horse that was in the field picked a mouthful of grass and
put his head over the gate; the poor one then took it out of his mouth
and ate it up. This was done five or six times. The horse then neighed,
as much as to say, "thank you," and walked on.

  (Aged 11.)

  _Stickland School, Blandford._


In the place of a "Picture Page Wanting Words," the usual Monthly Prizes
are offered for the best Original Stories on the subject of "A Skating
Adventure," namely---a Guinea Book and an Officer's Medal of the LITTLE
FOLKS Legion of Honour for the best Story; and a smaller book and
Officer's Medal for the best Story (on the same subject) relatively to
the age of the Competitor, so that no reader is too young to try for
this second prize. All Competitors must be under the age of 16. The
Stories, which are not to exceed 500 words in length, must be certified
as _strictly original_ by a Parent, Minister, Teacher, or other person
of responsible position, and must reach the Editor on or before the 10th
of December (the 15th of December for Competitors residing abroad). In
addition to the two Prizes and Officers' Medals some of the most
deserving Competitors will be included in a Special List of Honour, and
will be awarded Members' Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour. It
is particularly requested that each envelope containing a Story should
have the words "December Prize Story Competition" written on the
left-hand top corner of it. (Competitors are referred to a notice
respecting the Silver Medal, which was printed on page 115 of the last



  Little Daisy playing
    'Mid the ripening corn,
  Pierced her plump white finger
    With a cruel thorn.

  Home she flies, eyes clouded
    With a mist of tears;
  Little bosom trembling
    With vague childlike fears.

  Brother Leonard lifts her
    Lightly from the ground;
  May, beside her kneeling,
    Tends the swelling wound.

  Softly takes a needle--
    Knows what she's about--
  Pricks, and lo! the hidden
    Thorn slips safely out.

  Daisy's fears have vanished,
    Tears are passed away--
  Leonard dubs his sister
    Little Doctor May.

[Illustration: Music - A Day in the Snow.]

_Words from_ "LITTLE FOLKS."

_Music by the_ REV. F. PEEL, B.Mus., Oxon

  1. Come along, bairnies, laughing and singing,
  The echoes all ringing around as you go;
  Come, for the fairies with chill little fingers
  Have seiz'd on the raindrops and turn'd them to snow.

  Come along, bairnies, laughing and singing,
  The echoes all ringing around as you go.

  2. Come, watch the white flakes softly descending,
  Still, never-ending, silent, and slow,
  Folding a mantle of beauty around us,
  A mantle of flickering, fluttering snow.

  3. Come, rosy fingers, gather the treasure!
  Bright looks of pleasure I see as you go;
  Laughing and singing, The echoes all ringing--
  Oh, the delight of a day in the snow!




If definitions of the objects and scene shown above be placed one under
the other in the order indicated, the diagonals, left to right, will
form the names of two well-known cities.


An old man is seen in a dungeon, dressed in rags and covered with mud. A
slave enters with a sword, evidently for the purpose of murdering him,
when he stops suddenly, awed and frightened by the prisoner's face and
stern voice, as he demands if he has the presumption to kill him. Then
the slave rushes from the cell, declaring it impossible to despatch such
a man. Who is the prisoner?

  (Aged 15-1/4).

  _Frost Hill House,
  Liversedge, Yorkshire._


The initials read downwards will give the name of a great musician.

  My first is one of England's public schools.
  My second is one of the continents.
  My third is a planet.
  My fourth is one of the largest rivers in Europe.
  My fifth is one of the Christian festivities.
  My sixth is the opposite to rejoice.

  (Aged 12.)



When the missing letters have been supplied, the whole will form a verse
from one of Cowper's poems.


  (Aged 13-1/4)

  _Clevelands, Billingshurst, Sussex._


  1. A volcanic mountain.
  2. A sign of sorrow.
  3. A designation.
  4. An extent of surface.

  1. A sweet-scented herb.
  2. A thought.
  3. Not distant.
  4. An article of pastry.

  1. A range of mountains.
  2. A trial of speed.
  3. A portion of land.
  4. A mocking look.

  (Aged 15-1/4.)

  _11, Woodside Terrace, Glasgow._


The initial letters of the following flowers and trees, if put together,
will form the name of a town in England.

  1. That pot is made of iron.
  2. To and fro several times he went.
  3. You can sit in the porch, Ida.
  4. Mamma, please may I have that book?
  5. That reel may do for the kitten.

  A. K. M. WHITE.
  (Aged 15.)

  _7, Carlton Crescent, Southampton._


The following will form a well-known verse by Wordsworth.

  Nzib szw z orggov ozny,
    Rg'h uovvxv dzh dsrgv zh hmld,
  Zmw vevibdsviv gszg Nzib dvmg,
    Gsv ozny dzh hfiv gl tl.

  (Aged 14)

  Cottingham, near Hull._


  My first is in ache, but not in sore;
  My second is in pippin, but not in core;
  My third is in pie, but not in tart;
  My fourth is in wheel, but not in cart;
  My fifth is in sole, and also in pike;
  My whole is a fruit which all of us like.

  (Aged 11-1/2.)

  _Jessiefield Offerton, near Stockport._


  1. 5 + reri = a piece of water.
  2. 51 + egarf = weak.
  3. 54 + lye = bright.
  4. 56 + e = bad.
  5. 11 + as = an imaginary line.
  6. 506 + azr = a mask.
  7. 104 + li = polite.

  (Aged 14.)

  _Market Place, Swaffham._


  1. A consonant.
  2. A fish.
  3. A fragment.
  4. To comprise.
  5. A celebrated musician.
  6. To roll down.
  7. Not ever.
  8. A large expanse of water.
  9. A consonant.

  H. BELL.
  (Aged 13-3/4.)

  _St. George's Mount, New Brighton, Cheshire._



The Puzzles given in the November and the present number of LITTLE FOLKS
form, as announced, the WINTER COMPETITION.


In the WINTER COMPETITION there will be a First Prize of a Guinea
Volume; a Second Prize of a Half-Guinea Volume; a Third Prize of a
Five-Shilling Volume, awarded in EACH DIVISION, viz., the SENIOR
DIVISION for girls and boys between the ages of 14 and 16 (_inclusive_),
and the JUNIOR DIVISION for those _under_ 14 years of age. There will
also be awards of Bronze Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour to
the three next highest of the Competitors following the Prize-winners in
_each_ Division.


Solutions of the Puzzles published in this number must reach the Editor
not later than December 8th (December 12th for Competitors residing
abroad), addressed as under:--

  _The Editor of "Little Folks,"
  La Belle Sauvage Yard,
  Ludgate Hill,
  London, E.C._
  _Answers to Puzzles._
  _Junior_ [or _Senior_] _Division_.

Solutions to Puzzles must be accompanied by certificates from a Parent,
Teacher, or other responsible person, stating that they are _the sole
and unaided work_ of the competitor. No assistance must be given by any
other person.

Competitors can be credited only under their own name.

The decision of the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS on all matters must be
considered final.

The names and addresses of Prize and Medal winners will be duly
published in LITTLE FOLKS.



Our readers will all recollect the classical story of Scylla and
Charybdis, the former a maiden changed by Circe into a hideous
sea-monster, who threw herself into the sea and became a rock, the
latter changed by Jupiter into a foaming whirlpool. Vessels which
avoided the rock of Scylla were oft-times prone to fall into the
dangerous whirlpool of Charybdis.

On this legend our Puzzle this month is based, though the two classical
dangers will be now only two little children who will try to seize on
the argosies which their brothers and sisters send through the straits.

To begin which, settle a subject on which you will have your
Competition--Botany, History, Geography, Astronomy, Natural History, or
any other you may select--then cut out a number of pieces of cardboard
about this size--


For ordinary subjects you may be able to cut out from the largest type
used in the daily or weekly papers, syllables that will meet your
requirements, but for special subjects, such as Botany, Astronomy, &c.,
you will find it better to write your own pieces of cardboard in a good
bold, clear style.

You will want a considerable quantity of syllables, and the words in all
cases should range from simple ones, easy to be discovered, to more
difficult and puzzling words.

Having got a quantity of syllables, arrange them in three groups: (1)
the simple words, (2) the more difficult, (3) the most difficult. Keep
these groups in separate boxes, and these separate boxes again in one
large box marked with the subject of the play.

Four players now arrange themselves thus: two as mariners, one at either
end of the table, and two as Scylla and Charybdis, one on each side of

The ship will consist of a little Japanese tray, or lid of a cardboard
box, with a piece of string fixed at either end to draw it by. In this
are placed the syllables forming two words, and one of the mariners
draws it slowly across the table. As it passes along, Scylla and
Charybdis try to discover the words it contains, and if they can do so
ere it passes they appropriate the cargo, and the ship reaches the
opposite end of the table from which it started empty! It is again
freighted and sent back, this time perhaps its contents are not
discovered. And thus the game goes on till all the words are exhausted,
when a count is made. Suppose 50 words were sent across the straits, the
record might read:

  The Mariners gained            27 words
  Scylla and Charybdis gained    23 words
  The game won by the Mariners by 4 words.

Now we will proceed to give our Puzzle. The syllables given below will
be found, when correctly sorted out and arranged, to form the names of
the characters indicated in the explanatory notes at the foot.


  | ih  | igna | van  |  so  | pe  |  mor | tius |  ba |
  | nuc | varn |  no  | hah  | no  |  car |  re  | chi |
  | lac | hage | delo |  to  | nn  | tt   | aca  |  ll |
  | nem | nvon | yola | ense | chi | ann  | lla  |  ca |

  1. The "Michael Angelo" of Spain.

  2. A cruel Roman Emperor, assassinated by a soldier.

  3. He is said to have written the lines--

    "When Adam delved and Eve span,
    Where was then the gentleman."

  4. A German physician, whose motto was: "Similia similibus curantur."

  5. A page, soldier, philosopher, and Jesuit.

  6. A Swedish philosopher.

  7. A Florentine painter; he has a celebrated picture in the Louvre,
  called "Charity."

  8. A Prussian statesman, author of various works.

  9. A Spanish navigator who assisted Pizarro.

  10. A Quaker, founder of a colony, author, &c.

  11. A celebrated general in Afghanistan, &c.

  12. An Italian musical composer who wrote several oratorios, operas, and


  | ko  | mar  | new  | yps  | th  | di   | wa   | cam |
  | po  | add  | cia  | bla  | peg | nus  | chr  | ina |
  | nch | gla  | ila  | pe   | ing |  rd  | ist  | gio |
  | dst | gate | one  | om   | nti | ard  | ton  | ch  |

  1. An antiquary who left money to the Oxford University for "a copy of
  English verses."

  2. Emperor of the East, married the widow of Theodosius the Younger.

  3. French historian and member of Legislative Assembly.

  4. A self-taught Ayrshire sculptor.

  5. A hospodar of Moldavia and Wallachia.

  6. A Bishop of Salisbury, astronomer and mathematician.

  7. Author of "Rape of the Lock."

  8. A Speaker of the House of Commons, Premier, and Home Secretary.

  9. A French aeronaut, killed by the explosion of a balloon.

  10. The Papal legate who attended the trial of an English Queen.

  11. A Swedish Queen who, having abdicated, abjured Lutheranism, and was
  pensioned by the Pope.

  12. A Lord of the Treasury, Secretary for Colonies, Master of the Mint,
  President of Board of Trade, Chancellor of Exchequer, Premier, author,

  * *
   *  In order to gain full number of marks Competitors must arrange
  the names in the proper order, placing them as numbered in the lights.


[_The Editor requests that all inquiries and replies intended for
insertion in_ LITTLE FOLKS _should have the words "Questions and
Answers" written on the left-hand top corners of the envelopes
containing them. Only those which the Editor considers suitable and of
general interest to his readers will be printed._]


X Y Z, SWALLOW.--[The names of the winners of the Silver Medals will be
printed in the February Number.--ED.]


A LOVER OF POETRY would like to know where the following line occurs,
and by whom it was written:--

  "The league long roller thund'ring on the reef."

RAGS AND TATTERS wishes to know where the following lines are taken
from, and who is the author:--

  "Till the day break and shadows flee away
  In that far future dawn that knows not death."

ETHEL writes, in answer to LITTLE MAID OF ARCADIE, that the quotation--

  "Evil is wrought by want of thought,
  As well as want of heart"--

is from a poem by Thomas Hood, entitled "The Lady's Dream." Answers also
received from several other readers.


NELLY asks if any one could tell her how to make a pretty and simple
lace collar.


RUBY AND A STRAWBERRY are informed that full directions for making
toffee appear on page 335 of this number.


PANSY and M. E. would be glad if any one would tell her how to press
flowers, as those she has done have gone brown.

GUMMY would be very pleased if any one could give him a few hints on
satin-painting; has the satin to be prepared before it can be painted
on? if so, how?

VERUS would like to know of a very simple way of making an Æolian harp,
if any one could tell her.--[The method was described in the May, 1882,
number of LITTLE FOLKS, Vol. XV., p. 319.--ED.]

THE SHAMROCK OF FREILING would be glad to know if any of the readers of
LITTLE FOLKS could tell them how to bleach grass for making Markart

DAFFODIL asks if any one will tell her how to paint on tiles with


EDITH would like to know what is the best food for rabbits, and how
often they ought to be fed. [They should be fed twice a day, every time
clearing away everything and giving quite fresh food. The staple diet
must be what is called "dry food," varied, such as dry crust of bread,
bread soaked in milk and squeezed dry, barley meal mixed with a very
little hot water, oatmeal same way, dry barley or oats. You need not use
all, but vary now and then. Give beside every day a moderate quantity of
fresh green leaves, kept first long enough to dry off all dew or rain,
and begin slightly to wither.]

PARTHENOPE would be glad to know what would be the best food for a
starling in the winter?--[A sort of stock food is made of the
fine-ground oats called "fig-dust," made into a stiff dough with milk
and water, adding every day a pinch of soaked currants or a little
fine-shredded raw beef. Give a little fruit now and then, and a few odd
worms, insects, or snails. A little sopped bread will be taken as a
change, but there must be a little animal food.]

MARY BRAZIER asks what is the best food for a dormouse. She knows that a
little Indian corn is often given.--[You should vary the diet with
wheat, Indian corn, bits of bread-crust, bread-and-milk squeezed dry,
with any kind of nut occasionally, and a few blades of grass or field



  1. C hâteaubriand. 2. A lfieri. 3. M ilton.
  4. P etraria. 5. B yron. 6. E ulla.
  7. L eopardi. 8. L amartine.


  "Break, break, break,
    On thy cold grey stones, O sea!
  And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me."



  1. I ou G. 2. T arif A.
  3. A nadi R. 4. L ichfiel D.
  5. Y andill A.


Epaminondas, at the battle of Mantinea.


  "O what a tangled web we weave,
    When first we practise to deceive!"

  1. Lear. 2. Train. 3. Drain. 4. Weep. 5. Character.
  6. Brew. 7. Goad. 8. What. 9. Wife. 10. Drove. 11. Wander.
  12. Save. 13. Stew. 14. Sleep. 15. It.


  1. "All are not thieves that dogs bark at."
  2. "A rolling stone gathers no moss."
  3. "Count not your chickens before they are hatched."
  4. "When the cat is away the mice do play."

To My Readers.

"What are you going to give us in the next Volume?" is, I dare say, the
question which is in some of your minds to ask me; so, as usual on
reaching the end of a half-year, I will tell you of a few of the
arrangements made for the New Volume, beginning with the JANUARY Number.
These include:--

A SERIAL STORY by the Author of "A Little Too Clever," "Margaret's
Enemy," "Maid Marjory," &c., to continue from month to month; and a
Second SERIAL STORY, by HENRY FRITH, called "King Charles's Page; or,
Two Children's Adventures in the Time of the Commonwealth," also to run
for six months. The latter is an unusually exciting tale--full of novel
incident and strange adventure. Then there will be

in which you will be told many curious tales and wonderful legends
associated with a few of the most celebrated of the world's Rivers.

"SOME NOTABLE PICTURES AND THEIR STORY"--telling, in a bright and chatty
style, about a few of the masterpieces of Art, how they came to be
produced, and what fortunes, good and bad, some of them experienced;
including interesting anecdotes and facts concerning themselves and
their painters.

"ENGLAND'S FORESTS IN DAYS OF OLD"--a series of papers relating the
story of the stirring incidents of which some of the well-known forests
of this country have been the scene.

"BIRDS AND FLOWERS OF THE MONTH"--consisting of full-page Pictures which
M. GIACOMELLI, the well-known French Artist, has specially drawn for
LITTLE FOLKS. One of these will appear in each number of the New Volume,
accompanied by Verses appropriate to the subject.

"BIBLE STORMS BY LAND AND SEA"--a new series of Scripture Stories for
"Our Sunday Afternoons;" and the usual "Bible Exercises" will appear
every month.

"PAGES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK." In response to repeated requests, I am
glad to announce that this department of LITTLE FOLKS--comprising two
pages of bold pictures and simple stories printed in large type--will be
re-commenced in JANUARY, and continued every month.

MR. PALMER COX, the American Artist, has drawn for LITTLE FOLKS some
more HUMOROUS PICTURES in his well-known style; the Notes and Jottings
by a Practical Writer on the subject of "THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN" will
be given, as well as FAIRY STORIES, with droll and laughable pictures,
every month; and besides STORIES, POEMS, ANECDOTES, and PICTURES of
every kind, all the regular features, such as "THE EDITOR'S
"QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS," &c. &c., will be still maintained.

SEVERAL NEW SPECIAL COMPETITIONS FOR 1885 have been arranged in addition
to the ordinary Monthly Puzzle and "Picture Page" ones. The most
important of these is

briefly announced, a number of PRIZES IN MONEY, BOOKS, and MEDALS will
be offered. It will be open to both Senior and Junior Competitors, and
so arranged that all may have equal opportunities of being successful.
This Competition will be in connection with "THE 'LITTLE FOLKS' PROVERB
PAINTING BOOK," which is now ready; and the full Regulations and the
list of Prizes to be awarded, as well as of those offered in all the
other Special Competitions for 1885, will be printed in the JANUARY
Number. In that number will appear, too, the names of the Prize and
Medal winners in the Competitions for 1884, also those in the Puzzle and
"Picture Page" Competitions announced in the September, October, and
November numbers (including the "Home and Foreign" Competitions).

I am glad to find that the Competitions for the year now closing have
been so popular with you, and I heartily thank you on behalf of the
little ones in the Hospitals--among whom the articles of Needlework,
Dolls, Illuminated Texts, Scrap Albums, Toys of various kinds, and the
hundreds of Illustrated Story-books written by yourselves, which you
have sent to me, will be distributed at Christmas--for all the trouble
and care you have so lovingly bestowed on your work. You are indeed
amply repaid by the rays of gladness which these your gifts will bring
to helpless sufferers!

A COLOURED PICTURE, called "THREE LITTLE KITTENS," will be given with
the JANUARY Number, and the Frontispieces to all the other numbers will
be printed in a bright colour as they have been in the present Volume.
You will also be pleased to hear that it is intended in future to make
all the pages of our Magazine more attractive in appearance, but I need
only just allude to this and leave you to see for yourselves in the
JANUARY Number in what manner it will be effected.

Having thus told you what is to be done for _you_ in the New Volume, I
will only add that I rely on you all to do everything you can for LITTLE
FOLKS by persuading as many of your relatives and friends as possible to
take it in. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,

Your very sincere Friend,


    |                                                              |
    | Transcriber's note:                                          |
    |                                                              |
    |                                                              |
    | page iii: "September. 179" has been changed to "September,   |
    | 179"                                                         |
    |                                                              |
    | page iii: "The Discontented Boat. 242" has been changed to   |
    | "The Discontented Boat, 242"                                 |
    |                                                              |
    | page iii: Little Toilers of the Night section appears twice, |
    | as in the original                                           |
    |                                                              |
    | page iii: "Peacock Pie, 371:" has been changed to "Peacock   |
    | Pie, 371;"                                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | page iv: "King-fisher" has been changed to "Kingfisher"      |
    |                                                              |
    | page iv: "Story of Two Brothers, By the" has been changed to |
    | "Story of Two Brothers. By the"                              |
    |                                                              |
    | page 342: running along to hurt them? has been changed to    |
    | running along to hurt them?" with closing quotation marks    |
    |                                                              |
    | page 343: "spash of ink" has been changed to "splash of ink" |
    |                                                              |
    | page 344: "his head among Bab's curls" has been changed to   |
    | "his hand among Bab's curls"                                 |
    |                                                              |
    | page 347: "engaged upon, And in the preface" has been        |
    | changed to "engaged upon, and in the preface"                |
    |                                                              |
    | page 349: FATHER'S COMING.' has been changed to 'FATHER'S    |
    | COMING.' with an opening quotation mark                      |
    |                                                              |
    | page 351: And if we're has been changed to "And if we're     |
    |                                                              |
    | page 360: "procure early blooms" has been changed to         |
    | "procure early blooms."                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | page 369: "See p. 68" has been changed to "See p. 368"       |
    |                                                              |
    | page 371: "curious jumping action" has been changed to       |
    | "curious jumping action."                                    |
    |                                                              |
    | page 372: "M. J Doughty" has been changed to "M. J. Doughty" |
    |                                                              |
    | page 372: "W Jones" has been changed to "W. Jones"           |
    |                                                              |
    | page 372: "Elizbth. C Gidley" has been changed to "Elizbth.  |
    | C. Gidley"                                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | page 372: "Annie E Jolly" has been changed to "Annie E.      |
    | Jolly"                                                       |
    |                                                              |
    | page 372: the name "G. M. Willett" is unclear                |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: "H. G, Humphries" has been changed to "H. G.       |
    | Humphries"                                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: "G. A M. Gillott" has been changed to "G. A. M.    |
    | Gillott"                                                     |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: "Geo E. Girard" has been changed to "Geo. E.       |
    | Girard"                                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: the name "John Macnamara" is unclear               |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: the age of "George Humble" is unclear              |
    |                                                              |
    | page 373: the age of "Ann Hetherington is unclear            |
    |                                                              |

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