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Title: Little Folks (July 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 (July 1884) - A Magazine for the Young" ***

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_A Magazine for the Young._






[Illustration: A QUEEN OF THE BEACH.]



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



Crimson and gold. As far as one could see across the moor it was one
broad expanse of purply heather, kindled into a glowing crimson by the
blaze of ruddy sunshine, and lighted here and there by bright patches of
the thorny golden rod. Dame Nature had evidently painted out of her
summer paint-box, and had not spared her best and brightest colours.
Crimson-lake, children; you know what a lovely colour it is, and how
fast it goes, for you are very fond of using it, and there is only one
cake in each of your boxes. But here was crimson-lake enough to have
emptied all the paint-boxes in the world, you might suppose, and the
brightest of goldy yellows, and the greenest of soft transparent greens,
such as no paint-box ever did, nor ever will, possess; and over all the
most azure of blues, flecked with floating masses of soft indescribable
white, looking to Elsie like the foamy soapsuds at the top of the tub
when mother had been having a rare wash, but to Duncan like lumps of
something he had once tasted and never forgotten, called cocoa-nut ice.

It seemed a pity when Dame Nature had spent her colours so lavishly that
there should be no one to see her bright handiwork. Yet, sad to tell,
there lay the broad sheet of crimson and gold day after day unnoticed
and unheeded, till, in despair, it at length began to wither and blacken
and die.

For this was a lonely moor, where the heather and gorse bloomed so
bravely, so lonely that even along the road which skirted it the number
of those who passed by in a day could be counted on the fingers of your
hand; and as for the moor itself, it seldom had any visitors but the
cows from the little farm which nestled away in one corner; and do you
suppose such lazy, cupboard-loving creatures cared whether the heather
bloomed or not, so long as they found grass enough to eat?

But the glorious moor had a worse indignity than this to endure, for
there was a cottage here and there whose inhabitants frequently crossed
by the beaten tracks, and never so much as lifted their eyes as they
passed along, to notice the gorgeous dress their moor had put on. They
were so used to it. Had she not worn it every year since they could
remember? and so they sauntered by, thinking about eating or drinking,
or how they would serve their neighbours out, sometimes even quarrelling
loudly, and never giving so much as a passing thought to all the beauty
God had spread around them, and which we who dwell in towns would give
so much to see.

The sun was shining down very hotly, but it had not yet begun to wither
the heather and gorse, on the day when I want you to notice two little
children going across the moor. I told you there were cottages here and
there, and in a pretty little green hollow just beyond a fair-sized
hillock was one where lived the MacDougalls. These two children were
Elsie and Duncan MacDougall. They very often crossed the moor, for the
farm was on the other side of it, and the milk and butter had all to be
fetched from it, the milk twice a day, whether the sun blazed, or the
chilly Scottish drizzle blotted out the hills in a misty haze, or the
north wind swept across it, and shook the gaunt fir-trees to and fro in
its noisy wrath.

"Ain't you coming on, Elsie?" Duncan cried impatiently, for Elsie had
seated herself on a big stone, pushed back her sun-bonnet from her damp
freckled forehead, crossed her brown arms defiantly over her holland
pinafore, and was swinging her bare feet as if she never meant to move
another step to-night.

"No, I ain't coming, Duncan, and that's all about it," Elsie replied,
sulkily, only she said it in a broad Scottish accent which you would
hardly have understood had you heard it, and certainly could make
nothing of if I were to try to write it.

"Then we'll get beaten when we get back," Duncan said, miserably.
"Mother's always scolding, and it's your fault, Elsie."

Elsie looked at him contemptuously. "Go on by yourself," she cried; "I
ain't afraid. It's only Robbie that they're in such a hurry to get the
milk for, and I'm not going to hurry for Robbie. Go on by yourself, do."

But this was more than Duncan dared do, and Elsie knew it, for, in the
first place, it would have seemed as if he sided with Robbie against
Elsie, which would have been quite untrue; and, in the second, it would
have got Elsie into trouble with their mother, and that Duncan would not
have done for anything in the world. If Elsie had been a queen, then
Duncan would have been one of her most willing subjects, and done her
bidding whatever it might cost.

So there stood Duncan, fidgeting to get on, yet bound to the spot where
Elsie stayed by a bond stronger than links of iron. It was in vain that
he fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, or vented his impatience by
flinging his Scottish bonnet high in the air and catching it again.
Elsie was immovable, for Elsie was in one of her very contrariest moods
to-day, and I can hardly describe to you how very contrary she could be.

At last, very slowly and deliberately, she got off the stone, and began
slowly to stretch herself. "Do make haste!" cried Duncan, almost tired

"I can't be hurried," Elsie replied, with a grand air, stooping down to
pick up the milk-can, which she had deposited at the side of the stone.
"It's much too hot and I'm much too tired, and I don't see why I should
be expected to fetch the milk at all. You and Robbie ought to do it.
You're boys, and I'm a girl. It's a shame, and I mean to tell mother

Duncan gazed at her in amazement. He knew Elsie was very daring, but did
she really mean to tell their mother that?

"Me and Robbie?" he gasped. "Robbie never goes nowhere with us, Elsie,
don't you know?"

"Yes, I know, child," Elsie replied, with a lofty toss of her head.
"It's just what I do know. Robbie stops at home while you and me do all
the errands and everything else too, and it isn't fair."

"But you wouldn't like Robbie to come with us: you know you wouldn't,"
Duncan exclaimed, in perplexity.

"With _us!_ No, indeed," Elsie cried, with a little contemptuous laugh.
"I don't want any spoilt little namby-pamby cry-babies along with me;
but that's no reason why I, a girl, should fetch milk for Robbie to
drink while he stays at home. Can't you see that, stupid-head?"

Duncan said "Yes," but he didn't, all the same. He and Elsie went
together, and it never had occurred to him that it ought to be
different. He didn't care for Robbie: Elsie didn't, and so he didn't.
Elsie said he was a spoilt baby, therefore Duncan knew he must be one;
and certainly he couldn't scamper over the moor, and climb the trees,
and fly here, there, and everywhere, like he and Elsie could.

Elsie had begun to move slowly along, carrying the basin, in which was
butter wrapped in wet cloths and a cool cabbage-leaf. Duncan had the
milk-can, and would have been almost home by now, had he not been
obliged to keep on waiting for Elsie to come up with him, his eager
footsteps continually carrying him far on ahead of her sauntering pace.

"I'm just not going over that hill," she said, deliberately, when at
length they reached the purple hillock on the other side of which stood
the cottage. "Come on, Duncan; I'm going round."

"But it's ever so much longer, and we're so late," grumbled Duncan.

"Who cares?" cried Elsie, stolidly. "I'm a girl and I'm not going to
climb up the hill in this heat."

Duncan stared again. He had never heard Elsie complain of the hill
before. Usually they scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest
side--not, truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other times. And
now Elsie was walking along in a languid, mincing fashion, as if she had
no more fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never scampered
bare-foot over the moor six days out of every week, no matter what the
weather might be.

"There's Robbie at the garden gate beckoning us. I expect mother's very
angry," cried Duncan, despairingly.

"Who cares? let him beckon," Elsie replied, with the most provoking
indifference. "Run on by yourself if you're afraid."

Most unkind taunt of all. Did not Elsie well know that Duncan was bound
to her by the chains of a most unswerving, unquestioning loyalty? and
that though he was, so to speak, ready to jump out of his skin with
impatient anxiety, to forsake Elsie would never enter his simple little

When Robbie saw that they did not hurry, he came running towards them,
calling out, "Elsie, Duncan, do make haste! Mother's so cross. You are

"Are we? And are you in a hurry, Robbie? because if you are you'd better
fetch the milk yourself another time. Duncan and I are not your
servants," Elsie replied, loftily.

Robbie stared, as well he might. "I only know mother's very cross," he
reiterated dubiously, as if not quite knowing what to say; "and I don't
think you know how late it is."

"Look here," cried Elsie, standing stock still: "suppose I tip this milk
over on to the heather, what'ud you say to that?" and she lifted up the
lid, and tilted the can, until the foaming white milk was just ready to
pour over the side.

"Oh! Elsie, Elsie, what are you doing?" cried Duncan, in a panic; while
Robbie exclaimed, "Wouldn't mother make you go back and fetch some more,
Elsie, with the pennies out of your box?"

Perhaps Elsie thought it might be so. Any way, she put the can straight,
and moved on again, but as she did so she said to Robbie, "You'd like to
tell mother what I said, wouldn't you, duckie? So you can if you like; I
don't care what you tell mother."

"No, I don't want to tell," Robbie said, almost angrily, with a pink
face and a moist look in the eyes.

As the three children walked along you could hardly help noticing what a
difference there was between the two elder and Robbie. Elsie and Duncan
were big-limbed, ruddy-cheeked children, with high cheek-bones,
fair-skinned, but well freckled and tanned by the sun. Their younger
brother was like them, and yet so different. His skin was fair, but of
milky whiteness, showing too clearly the blue veins underneath it. The
ruddy colour in their faces was in his represented by the palest tinge
of pink. His bare arms were soft and white and thin. Their abundant
straw-coloured hair had in his case become palest gold, of silky
texture, falling in curling locks almost on to his shoulders. He was, in
short, a smaller, weaker, more delicate edition of these two elder ones.
They looked the very embodiment of health and strength, he fragile,
timid, and delicate. No wonder he never scampered across the heath or
rolled down the hillsides. The mists were too chilly for him, the sun
too hot; and so it came about that Elsie and Duncan went together, and
Robbie was left behind, for Elsie was selfish, and hadn't it in her
nature to wait about for the little one, and suit her steps or her play
to his, and Duncan did whatever she did. Perhaps their mother did not
care to trust the little fellow with Elsie, knowing too well that she
was thoughtless, and unable in her own robust strength to understand
the fatigue and listlessness of her little brother. Elsie told him he
would run well enough without shoes and stockings, but their mother had
most particularly charged him that he was never to take them off without
special permission, for he was too delicate to run the risk of damping
his feet. Elsie and Duncan thought it great nonsense, and both pitied
and despised Robbie for being such a miserable molly-coddle.

"Now here's mother herself coming after us," cried Duncan, anxiously
scanning Elsie's face to see how she would act now.

But Elsie was still unflurried. Duncan almost held his breath, for there
were signs of a storm. Mrs. MacDougall's face was red, her mouth
ominously screwed up; she waved her hand angrily towards them--an action
which Elsie pretended not to see.

"Where have you been all this time, madam?" she burst forth, when they
reached her. "I will teach you to hasten your footsteps. Did I not send
Robbie to the gate to beckon you to be quick? You suppose you may do as
you like, but you are mistaken, you lazy, ill-behaved wench. The new
frock I had bought you shall be given to Nannie Cameron, and you shall
wear your old one to the kirk. How will that suit your vanity? And you
may be off to bed now directly, without any supper. There are twigs
enough for a birch rod, my lady, if bed does not bring you to a better
frame of mind. Run in now, and don't let me see your face before six
o'clock to-morrow morning."

What could Elsie be thinking of? She did not run. Robbie looked at her
in piteous distress; Duncan was beside himself. He cast a beseeching
glance at Elsie, a momentary one of resentful anger at his mother, an
impatient one at Robbie, the unfortunate messenger of their mother's

Then a look of great determination settled over their mother's face. "Do
you dare me?" she cried. "Did I ever threaten and not perform? Will you
compel me to whip you? Then if you would not have it so, hasten your
footsteps at once."

Duncan caught hold of Elsie's hand and tried to pull her, but those
sturdy, legs had the very spirit of obstinacy in them. "Be quiet," she
said; "I want to be whipped."

"Mother means it," Duncan cried. "She has never done it before, but she
will now, Elsie."

Elsie had often dared her mother, but never so flagrantly as this; and
Mrs. MacDougall was not a woman to be dared with impunity. Elsie was
going a little too far; every one saw that except herself.

"Stay here," Mrs. MacDougall said sternly to the two boys when they
entered the cottage kitchen. Then she took Elsie by the shoulder, and
marched her up the few stairs. Robbie and Duncan stood stock still,
looking blankly at each other.

[Illustration: "HE CAME RUNNING TOWARDS THEM" (_p. 3_).]

Presently there came from the room overhead a low sobbing sound, and a
minute or two afterwards Mrs. MacDougall appeared, stern and frowning.

It was an unhappy supper they sat down to. Robbie was very wretched, and
as for Duncan, each mouthful threatened to choke him. Mrs. MacDougall
wore a troubled face. After it was ended Duncan crept away to his
sister's room.

"I knew mother would," he said, sympathisingly, "and I know she'll do it
again, if you do it. You wouldn't, would you, Elsie? Mother never
whipped you before, never in all our lives, Elsie, but you didn't care.
What was the matter with you?"

"You little stupid!" Elsie replied patronisingly; "I won't fetch the
milk at all, not if mother whips me every day. I don't care. You don't
know what I know, and you don't know what I'm going to do, but I know
myself; and you little cowardy custard, you don't know what secret I
could tell you if I liked."


Duncan crept away to his own little bedchamber with an uneasy feeling of
trouble. It was next to Elsie's, separated from it only by a little
square bit of landing, and, like hers, was a tiny apartment under the
roof, with a ceiling of the bare rafters which supported the tiles. In
each was a small wooden bedstead, a deal stand, with basin and jug of
coarse white earthenware, and a small deal box, which served both to
keep clothes in and as a chair.

Everything was scrupulously clean, even to the dimity vallance that hung
across the low window. In autumn and winter the bleak wind whistled
through the chimneys and rattled the casements in a way that would have
prevented a town-bred child from sleeping, and up in those bare rooms
there was cold enough to pinch you black and blue; but Elsie and Duncan
had never thought much of that, for they had been accustomed to it from
babyhood, and only threw on their thick homespun garments in greater

Just now the weather was unusually hot, and the little lofts had gone
to the other extreme, and were more like ovens than anything else.
Duncan had scarcely taken off his jacket when he heard Elsie calling. He
ran to see what she wanted. "I s'pose you won't go telling any tales
about what I said just now," she exclaimed shortly.

"Of course I shan't," Duncan replied, indignantly; "but what was it you
said? There wasn't anything to tell tales about except that you said you
weren't going to fetch the milk."

Elsie's mind was so full of her own affairs that it was quite a shock to
her to find that Duncan had taken so little heed of her words. "It's a
good thing I'm not such a silly baby as you are," she said,
contemptuously--a way in which she so often spoke to Duncan that he
quite believed Elsie to be the cleverest, most daring, and bravest
creature in existence.

"This place is like a furnace," she cried, irritably throwing the sheet
which covered her down on to the floor. "Why should I be poked up here
and Robbie sleep downstairs with mother and grandmother, eh, Duncan?"

"I s'pose it's because he always does," Duncan replied dubiously.

"Stupid-head!" cried Elsie. "And why does he always?"

Duncan thought a minute. "P'raps it's because he's the youngest, and was
the baby when you and me was bigger," he answered presently.

Elsie turned over with an angry grunt. "It isn't anything of the sort,"
she cried; "and you might have known I didn't want you to answer me."

"I thought you asked me," Duncan said, in much perplexity.

"You ought to have said you didn't know, and then you'd have told the
truth," Elsie said shortly. "Hush! there's some one coming up. Crawl
under the bed, in case they come in."

A slow dragging footstep came up the steep stairs, and presently a voice
called softly, "Dooncan?"

Duncan began to crawl out from under the bedstead, answering as he did
so, "Yes, grandmother, here I am."

Elsie dangled her foot over the side of the bed, and gave Duncan a
pretty sharp kick as he emerged.

"What's that for?" he stopped to ask.

"Only because you're such a ridiculously silly little softie, that
nobody could put a grain of sense into your head," Elsie replied,
angrily. "Supposing it had been mother. A nice row you'd have got us
into. Why couldn't you keep quiet, and she'd have thought we were both
in bed and asleep."

"But I knew it was grandmother's voice," said Duncan.

"Dooncan," called the voice again, "I want you."

Duncan opened the door this time. His grandmother did not seem to notice
that he was in a forbidden place, but asked, with an anxious quaver in
her voice, "Did mother beat Elsie, Duncan?"

"I think so," Duncan replied indignantly.

"Eh, well, Duncan," she said, consolingly, "mother's often threatened
and never done it before, and Elsie's a wilful child, with a spirit and
temper that must needs be broken. But what was the matter now?"

"It was about fetching the milk," Duncan replied. "Elsie don't like it,
and she wouldn't be quick."

"Eh, well; but it's the place of the young to fetch and carry," said the
old woman, in a much more cheerful tone than she had used before. "But
Duncan, my laddie, have you picked up a wee bit of paper with writing on
it, what grandmother has dropped?"

"No, granny, I haven't never picked up a piece," Duncan replied.

"Nor seen it lying about neither, dearie? Come now, think if you picked
it up and threw it in the fire. I won't be angry if you tell the truth."

"I never saw it at all," said Duncan again.

"Ah, well! I thought perhaps that it was about that mother was angry
with Elsie, but it wasn't, after all; you're sure of that, Duncan?"

"Oh no; it was about the milk," Duncan returned, readily.

"And Elsie's asleep now. Well, well, youth must be chastised sometimes,"
crooned the old woman, softly. "You needn't talk about the paper I've
lost, Duncan. It's safe enough in the fire, no doubt; but if you see a
scrap of paper lying anywhere, bring it to grandmother, and she'll give
you a penny for sharp eyes."

Then the old dame went cautiously downstairs, feeling the way with her
thick stick, and Duncan once more went off to bed.

He woke very early the next morning, wondering whether Elsie would keep
her vaunted threat of refusing to fetch the milk, and if so, what would
happen: for if Elsie were obstinate, their mother was firm as a rock in
doing a duty, and Duncan well knew she would not be overborne by any
one. So it was with a vague uneasiness that he put on his clothes and
went downstairs. To his surprise and relief, Elsie was already in the
kitchen and was busily, though with a sulky-enough expression, rinsing
out the can. Elsie's valour, like that of many an older person, was
greater in words than action, and there is no doubt that the previous
night's punishment had had its effect.

But that Duncan should think so was the last thing that Elsie would
wish. Directly they were outside the door, she said in a careless tone,
"It's nice and cool this morning across the moor: much better out here
than in that little loft."

"And won't you come this afternoon?" asked simple, straightforward

"I don't know," Elsie answered sharply. "It depends upon whether I feel
inclined. Duncan, what was that granny was asking about a piece of

"She only asked me if I'd picked a piece up with writing on it, and said
she'd give me a penny if I found it."

"I dare say she would," laughed Elsie; "but you won't ever get the
penny, Duncan, so don't expect it. She didn't ask if I'd picked it up?"

"No, she didn't; but have you found it, Elsie? because I'll take it to
her, and give you the penny," Duncan remarked.

"A penny indeed!" laughed Elsie contemptuously. "I wonder whether you
really could keep a secret, Duncan?"

Duncan was rather hurt at the implied doubt. "I never told tales of you,
Elsie, never," he said, earnestly.

"Look here," Elsie exclaimed, "I was weeding my bit of garden just under
the kitchen window yesterday, and granny was sitting at the window, yet
never saw me. She was reading some old letters, peering at them ever so
hard through her spectacles, and talking to herself all the time. I
expect she'd taken them out of mother's drawer, for she kept on looking
round to see if any one was coming, and the best of it was I was
watching all the time, and she never knew it. I saw her put one piece of
paper down on the window-sill; she was saying very funny things to
herself. 'Meg shouldn't have done it; she wouldn't take my advice. Ah!
she'll rue it some day, I well believe,' and all on like that. Of course
Meg means mother, and I was just wondering what it was she was talking
about, when the wind blew quite a puff, and blew the piece of paper
right on to my garden. I was just going to peep at it, and see what it
was mother shouldn't have done. Then granny gets up, and goes peering
all round to see where the paper's gone. She pulled all the cushions out
of the chair, and turned up the matting, and looked over her letters
ever so many times, and never noticed that it had blown out of the
window. Presently I put my head through the window, and cried out,
'What's the matter, granny?' 'It's only I've dropped a little bit of
paper, my dear,' she says to me. 'Just come and see if your young eyes
can find it.' I went in and looked all round. Of course I didn't find
it, and I was almost dying of laughing all the time."

"And have you got it now, Elsie?" Duncan asked, with wide eyes.

"Yes, I have," Elsie replied shortly; "and it's much more interesting
than I thought it would be. It's about you and me."

"You and me?" echoed Duncan, who was of a matter-of-fact mind, and was
always content with things just as he found them.

"Yes, stupid," said Elsie, crossly; "I always said mother favoured
Robbie, and so she does. Why he has new things much oftener than you,
and you're older too. Do you and me have boots and stockings for
week-a-days? then why should Robbie? Don't you wonder why mother pets
him so?"

"No," Duncan answered truthfully. "He's ever so much more babyish than

"Well, I say it's a shame," continued Elsie. "Look at this old
sun-bonnet. Do you think I ought to wear such a thing as that? Didn't I
always say I'd love a long feather like the ladies at the manse? and why
shouldn't I have one, and a silk pelisse, and gloves upon my hands, and
sweet little shoes for walking in?"

"Why, you'd be just a lady," Duncan said.

Elsie laughed a pleased soft laugh. "A lady, just a bonny lady," she
said over to herself; "and wouldn't you love to be a little laird,

"I don't know what it's like, Elsie," Duncan said thoughtfully.

"It isn't like fetching milk and sleeping in a loft," Elsie said
sharply. "It isn't like porridge for breakfast and porridge for supper.
It would be like----everything that's nice," she said, after a minute or
two's pause, for she really did not know anything about it, and was
suddenly pulled up in her description by that fact.


The boy walked along, silently thinking over what Elsie had been saying,
in a muddly, confused sort of way. Robbie, and granny's letter, and
Elsie's beating, lairds and ladies, and something secret and mysterious
that Elsie knew, were mingled hazily in his mind, in such chaotic
fashion that he had nothing to say, not knowing how to put his ideas
into the form of a question.

It was not until they were on their road home again that he suddenly
asked, "Whose letter is it, Elsie?"

"What do you mean?" Elsie returned, with more than usual quickness. "I
say it's mine and yours. Mother'd say 'twas hers, most likely; perhaps
granny might say 'twas hers; I say it's ours as much as ever it's
theirs, and the person what wrote it is our father; so there, Duncan."

"Mine too!" Duncan echoed, in greater bewilderment than before. "Then,
if it's mine too, Elsie--

"Well, what?"

"I ought to read it, an' see what's in it."

Elsie laughed. "Of course you ought," she replied encouragingly. "That's
just what I said to myself when I caught sight of it; and when I'd read
it, an' saw that it was all about you and me, an' told a secret too,
what granny an' mother have always kept away from us, d'you think I was
goin' to give it up? no, not if I know it. An' to think they fancy it's
lost--leastways, granny does--an' mother don't know anything about it at
all. What fun it is! D'you know, Duncan, I don't so very much like

Duncan looked at her in alarm. Scottish children of all classes are
brought up in very strict notions of filial duty and affection, and
these were no exceptions to the rule. Duncan looked all round anxiously,
as though he feared a bird might carry the dreadful treason to their
mother's ears.

Elsie looked as if she were enjoying the sensation she had made. "I've
got a good reason," she said, nodding her head knowingly. "You'll see it
when you've read the letter. I always thought I wasn't so very fond of
her, and now I see why it was. It wouldn't have been right if I had; an'
when she beat me, I can't tell you how I felt. I couldn't like any one
who beat me!" Elsie continued, grinding her teeth together with rage at
the memory, "even if it was my own mother."

"You seemed as if you wanted to make mother do it," said Duncan, who was
often much distracted between his allegiance to rebellious Elsie and the
strict sense of duty and obedience in which he had always been trained.

"P'raps I did," Elsie replied. "But I don't care; and mother shan't have
the chance again. I don't think our father'd let her if he knew it."

"Our father?" faltered Duncan. "Why, our father's dead."

"Is he?" asked Elsie, enigmatically. "Robbie's father is."

"And isn't that ours?" Duncan asked contemptuously.

"That's just it," Elsie replied, with some excitement. "That's just what
the letter's about. Now, if you sit down here I'll read it to you."

"We shall be late again," Duncan said, nervously. "Don't let's stop now,
Elsie, and make mother cross. Could we do it after school?"

"P'raps I'd better tear it up, or give it back to granny," Elsie said,
with a taunting air. "It don't matter to you."

"Oh, don't!" pleaded Duncan, divided again between the sense of duty,
his own curiosity, and a fear of offending Elsie. "Do keep it till after

"Yes, I will," Elsie replied. "And mind you bring home an atlas with
you, for, now I think of it, I must have a map of England and Scotland."

"But we mustn't bring home books," Duncan urged.

"Never mind; you must do it by mistake. We must have a map, I tell you;
and if I've had the trouble of getting the letter, you can take the
trouble to get the map. Mind you do, now, or else I shan't tell you
anything about it. You can take it back in the afternoon. 'Tisn't

No, nor disobedience, nor deceit, nor telling a lie, eh, Elsie?
Evidently Elsie did not stop to think of that any more than she had
stopped to consider whether she had any business to read that old letter
of her mother's when it fluttered out of the window.

They reached the cottage in good time. Robbie and their grandmother had
only just come downstairs. Mrs. MacDougall seemed to be in an unusually
pleasant temper this morning. "I'm glad you've hastened, my child," she
said to Elsie. "Sit down to the table, and get slicing that cucumber
I've just cut. It'll be more refreshing with some bread-and-butter and a
cup o' milk than the porridge, and a change too."

Duncan glanced at Elsie with a half shame-faced expression, as much as
to say, "Mother is kind, you see, when you're good. She's sorry you had
to be beaten last night." But Elsie only replied by a look of defiance,
as though to say, "That doesn't make up at all."

"Let's see: what's to-day?" Mrs. MacDougall continued, pleasantly, as
she poured out the milk into the children's cups. "Can it be the

"No, no, Meg; surely not," quavered the old grandmother, who, for
reasons of her own, wished to appear ignorant. Was it not to refresh her
failing memory about what happened just about this time of year, a long
while ago, that she had gone to her daughter's desk, and got out those
old faded letters? Mrs. MacDougall would not have minded her reading
them, but she would mind having them lost, for she was very methodical;
and besides, many of these letters were important ones, written by hands
long since folded in death.

"And to-morrow's Robbie's birthday," Mrs. MacDougall continued, laying
her rough, strong hand very gently on the child's fair curls. "Very well
do I remember this time seven years ago."

"Yes," sighed the old grandmother. "Poor little dears! and Nannie a
bonny lass too."

Mrs. MacDougall glanced at her mother with something like a frown. "I
never think of Robbie's birthday without thinking about poor Aunt
Nannie," she said to the children.

They knew well enough why, for they had heard the tale often enough.
Their Aunt Nannie had been their mother's beautiful young sister, and
the news of her death had come to them when Robbie was a baby of a week
old. They had never even seen her, for Duncan was but a year old, and
Elsie not three, when she died, and she had been living in England with
her English husband at the time.

"Robbie reminds me so of her," Mrs. MacDougall said softly. "She was
fair. He takes after her wonderfully, doesn't he, mother?"

"Very much indeed," the old dame replied.

"Ah well! Robbie must have some fresh cakes to-morrow for his birthday
and a plate of plums, and you can have your tea under the big alder an'
Elsie shall pour it out."

"Oh, thank you, mother, how nice!" the little boys exclaimed. Elsie's
ungracious silence passed unnoticed by all but Duncan.

"P'raps I shan't be here to pour it out," she said, in a careless tone,
when they were outside the door. "Mind you don't forget the atlas,

Then they started off to school. It was a longish walk across the moor
and along a dusty road to the nearest village. Robbie, although seven
years old, was exempted from going on account of the distance and his
delicacy. Elsie bore in mind that Duncan had gone before he was that
age, but Robbie was such a petted baby. He was not nearly so strong as
Duncan had been at his age.

Duncan's was a very placid, slow sort of mind. He went through his tasks
without any excitement or distraction, although occasionally a vague
curiosity as to what Elsie could want the atlas for, and what the letter
said about them, did wander through his brain. When school was ended he
slipped out unobserved with a small atlas, which he had had difficulty
to secure, under his jacket.

Elsie was waiting for him at the edge of the moor. They sat down on some
stones, and Elsie pulled the letter from inside the neck of her dress.

"I shan't say anything; I shall read it to you," she began; "and if you
can't make anything of it I s'pose I must explain it afterwards. It's
from our father to Mrs. MacDougall."

"What, to mother?" Duncan asked.

"H'm, you'll see presently," Elsie said impatiently. "Worst of it is,
there's a piece torn off all along, which makes it difficult to read. It
begins, 'Dear Mrs. MacDougall.' Oh, I forgot. It's put at the top,
'Kensington, London.' That's the capital of England, you know, and it
means that the person what wrote it lived there."

"But father didn't, did he?" began Duncan.

"Hold your tongue till I've read it," Elsie replied. "I can't stop to
explain beforehand. This is it:--

    I have to be
  teller of very bad new
  sister, my poor wife die
  morning. It will not be a
  shock to you than it wa
  me. I had no thought
  it was likely to happen
  a few hours previous
  sent her love to you
  her mother.
    The two little things ar
  but I have been
  what I can do with th
  I have not seen them'"

(here the page turns over and the missing words are from the
commencement of the line)--

                                    "'night and I don't feel
                                  to see them yet. The sound
                                   ir voices is too much for
                                       hat can I, a helpless
                                       wer do for them. They
                                   be better off among their
                                          kinsfolk than left
                                 mercy of strangers. I often
                                         I made a mistake in
                                   nging poor Nannie to this
                                  cat crowded city away from
                                    ive moors.
                                      The children I am told
                                     eak and delicate. There
                                      be a chance for them'"

(here the fresh page begins)--

  "'in their mother's native
  The woman who has charge
  trustworthy. She shall brin
  to you, if you will take
  they live, bring them up with
  your own, and as your own.
  the girl turns out anything
  her mother, she will be we
  enough. I shall not interfe
  the children. All I want to
  is that they are well care
  In a year or two I may
  able to interest myself
  them. For the pres'"

(fresh page)--

                                     "'likely I shall wander
                                            t, Reply at once
                                     Yours truly,
                                        R. GROSVENOR.'"

When Elsie had finished reading she sat looking at Duncan. "It doesn't
seem very plain," he ventured to say, presently; "and there wasn't
anything about you or me in it. You said there was."

[Illustration: "MRS. MACDOUGALL GLANCED AT HER MOTHER" (_p. 8_).]

"Stupid little thing! isn't there some of it torn off? and when you put
the words in it's easy enough to read. I've put them in to myself. First
of all, it's about Aunt Nannie dying, isn't it?"

"I s'pose it is," Duncan agreed; "and it's writ by Uncle Richard, isn't

"If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it's our father what wrote
it--yours and mine, Duncan."

Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. "But Aunt Nannie was our Aunt
Grosvenor, wasn't she?" he asked.

"If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she was our mother. I'm sure she
was," said Elsie.

"Our mother!" Duncan said, under his breath. "What do you mean, Elsie?"

"The letter says something about two little babies," Elsie began.

"Does it?" Duncan asked. "I didn't hear it."

"Well, it says, the 'little things,' and that's the same; and it's all
about sending them to Aunt Nannie's native place. Well, this is Aunt
Nannie's native place; and who were the two little things, eh?"

"I'm sure I dunno," Duncan said slowly.

"Well, they weren't Robbie, were they? Then, who were they? Why, you an'
me, of course. It says 'the girl' somewhere, an' of course that's me. So
now, isn't the letter about us? an' that's why granny was so afraid of
losing it. Do you see now, little silly? It's plain enough."

"But why did they?" murmured Duncan.

"That's the funny part of it. They ought to have told us. Why didn't


"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not
going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what
you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's
different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear
her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."

Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas
very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in
the quick conclusions of cleverer children.

"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with
him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie
was our mother, and not--you know--'she.'"

"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor'
thinks we're dead."

"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.

"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and
delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor
is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and as your own
for a year or two?' That was till we got strong; and she's kept us
always. Of course R. Grosvenor (I'm not going to say uncle), doesn't
know that we're quite well now. I'm sure he thinks we're dead. Who does
'your own' mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan! Can't you see
now why she pets that boy so, and makes such a fuss over him? He's her
own, and we're not; she loves him and doesn't love us. Did she ever beat

"Robbie isn't naughty," Duncan protested; "at least, only a very little

Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. "Does Robbie have to fetch milk,
and go to school, and pick up wood? No; he's treated different. Now you
know why I don't like her."

Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There rose up in his mind a
sort of uncomfortable feeling that everything was going topsy-turvy.
Somehow or another he seemed to see Robbie's mother sitting by the side
of Elsie's bed when she had the fever last winter, and bustling about to
get nice things for her, hushing the others with a strange look in her
eyes that made them quiet at once, for they could see she was troubled.
Or he seemed to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting, crisp
and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to greet them on their
return from afternoon school on a dreary winter day. She had been kind,
though she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan was feeling
something very much like sorrow to think that, after all, she was not
their mother.

"What are you going to do, Elsie?" he asked presently.

"I've just been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Of course
it can't stop like this. Haven't you heard granny say how rich Uncle
Grosvenor was, and what a grand place it was where he lived? Well, then,
he's a grand laird, an' if we lived with him you'd be a little laird,
and me a lady. Does he think we have to fetch milk and butter, and go
after the hens, an' all that? But I'm goin' to let him know all about

"How, Elsie?"

"Well," Elsie replied, "I've been thinking of that, an' it's just a real
difficult matter; for I'd never get time to write all the long
explanation, with that _she_ always prying after me. She'd find it out,
an' stop the letter, even if I could find the paper; an' I dunno' as I
can spell all the long words it 'ud take to explain it. An' more too, I
couldn't wait an' wait for the answer. We ought to go an' see Uncle--R.
Grosvenor. I've almost made up my mind, Duncan, that I'll go to England
an' find him."

"You couldn't do it," Duncan said.

"Couldn't I?" Elsie said scornfully, "It isn't so very far. England's
another country, but it joins on. You only step out o' one into the
other, for I looked most particular; an' there wasn't even mountains to
get over. There's only what folk call the border, an' I'm sure that
isn't much. P'raps it's a line, or a road, or a ditch, or something like
it. You go straight out of Scotland--as straight as ever you can go.
I've looked on the map. Give it me now. If you go from Dunster you've
only to keep in a straight line till you get into England, an' any
one'll tell you the way to London."

"I'm sure it's a dreadful long way," Duncan said disconsolately. "I
should be frightened while you was gone, till you came back."

"Come back," said Elsie. "I shan't never do that, I hope. When I find my
father he'll take care o' me. Now then, will you come with me, Duncan?"

"I don't think I'd go, Elsie. We might get lost," Duncan urged. "I wish
you could write a letter instead."

"I've made up my mind to go if I do anything at all," Elsie said, in a
tone of decision. "You needn't come unless you like."

Duncan looked perplexed again. This was indeed an awkward predicament.
The thought of running away to England didn't seem nice, somehow, but if
Elsie went and he stayed, how frightened he'd be all the time about her;
and when they questioned him, how would he be able to keep her secret,
especially if Robbie's mother had that troubled look in her eyes? and
how lonely it would be going backwards and forwards across the moor all
alone without Elsie.

"I wish you wouldn't go, Elsie," he said to her presently.

"Most likely I shall," Elsie replied. "Mind you tell no tales. We must
be quick home now. Come along; I shall have to think of ever so many
things before we go, so you'll have plenty o' time to know whether
you'll come or stay behind. Oh, I know I shall be a real lady, Duncan,
an' have bonny clothes. Of course I shouldn't like fetching milk an'
things when I'm a little lady born. Isn't it a shame, Duncan?"

"I dunno; _I_ don't mind," Duncan then said.

"Give me the atlas," Elsie said; "I must get away an' have a goodish
look at it when we get in, for you must be quite sure and take it back
this afternoon."

But Elsie was not to "get away," for Mrs. MacDougall was waiting at the
gate with a basket by her side.

"You've been loiterin' again," she cried briskly. "I've been waitin'
this half-hour for you to take these beans down to the shop. Here's a
bit o' bread you can eat along the road, an' you'll have just to make

Elsie cast a defiant glance at the basket as she took it slowly up. She
knew too well its destination. The neatly tied-up bundles of young
well-grown beans lying on the fresh cabbage-leaves would be one of the
attractions of the village shop. A day or two ago all the plums that
were ripe had gone the same way, to the children's disgust. Mrs.
MacDougall was a clever gardener, and had a ready sale for her small
stock of produce. To-day Elsie and Duncan would get no dinner beyond the
bit of bread. That was the result of their loitering. They had lost the
valuable time through their talk over the letter.

But Elsie quite lost sight of the fact that she alone was responsible
for losing it, and was very angry about it.

"I have quite decided," she said to Duncan. "This is what I'll do; to
England I will go!"

(_To be continued._)



  "Dainty little maiden,
    Sitting there in state,
  While the music's calling,
    And the dancers wait.

  "A courtly little beau
    For your hand is waiting:
  What is it, my dear,
    That you are debating?

  "Do the pretty slippers
    Pinch your tiny feet?
  Tell me quickly, dearie,
    Why you keep your seat."

  Little maiden answers,
    Anger in her face,
  "We's not bin intodoost:
    It's twite a disgwase!"




"It is much pleasanter to be by oneself, then there is no one to quarrel
with," said Pussy.

And she stretched herself out on the soft, mossy turf, and half closed
her eyes, purring gently. She was a young cat, and got into much trouble
at home, for she was constantly quarrelling with her brothers and
sisters. She said it was their fault, and they said it was hers. And
Mrs. Grimalkin, the old cat, said that there were faults on both sides.

"I'm _not_ a bad temper," said Pussy; "and I never quarrel with people
unless they quarrel with me." So saying, she opened her eyes wider, and
looked round. She liked the warm sunshine, and the scent of the flowers,
and the soft velvet turf.

How pleasant it was!

"I should like to live here always," she said. "Then Tib, Frisk, and
Kitty would not be able to tease me as they do. It is very annoying to
be tormented all the time, and if one says a word in one's own defence,
one gets blamed for being quarrelsome. The idea of my quarrelling with
any one: it is perfectly absurd."

And Pussy purred and looked round complacently.

Presently she crept down to the water's edge, and peeped over into the
smooth glassy stream; and as she did so she saw a cat's face looking up
at her. She stretched out her paw to give it a pat, and the other cat
did the same. Then she drew away, and raised her back as high as she
could. So did the other cat, only it seemed to Pussy as if she were
upside down.

"So provoking," said Pussy; "just as I fancied I was all alone here, to
find that there is a cat under the water coming up to trouble me.
Probably she has a large family down there, and they will come swarming
up and be as disagreeable as my own sisters and brothers. And how
exceedingly mean of her not to give notice that she was coming. I should
have heard the faintest mew, for everything is so quiet here. It is
evident that her intentions are hostile, or she would not steal up like
a thief. But I will certainly not stand such behaviour."

And again she put out her paw.

So did the other cat.

"Where do you come from?" asked Pussy. But she received no answer.

"Speak!" said she, impatiently waving her tail.

The other cat waved in return, but no answer came. Then Pussy began to
get very angry. So did the other cat.

And they grew fiercer and fiercer, making strange faces at each other,
until at length Pussy became so much enraged that she prepared to spring
upon her enemy, and would the next moment have plunged into the water,
had not some one suddenly seized the tip of her tail.

She turned to avenge herself upon the new offender, when lo! who should
it be but her own mother, Mrs. Grimalkin, who happened to be out on a
foraging expedition, and chanced to pass that way.

"You foolish young creature," said she; "if I had not been here you
would have been drowned. Don't you see that it is but your own image in
the water: there isn't another cat there; it is only your own shadow.
But cats as quarrelsome as you are, when they can find no one else to
fight with, will fight even with a shadow."

J. G.



[Illustration: FIG. 1.--PATTERN SQUARE.]

This is very pretty and easy work, just the thing for any little folk
who are anxious to help a fancy sale for some good cause, or to make a
nice useful present to a friend, but who have not time or skill to
undertake anything long and difficult. It is very quickly done, and can
be used for toilet-covers and mats (these should be edged with narrow
torchon lace), night-dress cases, aprons, comb-bags, and a number of
useful articles; it is much admired, and always sells well at a bazaar.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--BORDER.]

All you have to do is to get some common glass-cloth, tolerably fine,
with cross-bars of red or blue, and some red or navy blue
knitting-cotton, which you can buy either by the pound or the ball.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--WORKED WITH COTTON.]

Two ounces will do a quantity of work, and cost about the same as a
ball. With this, which may be either the same colour as that of the
material or the contrasting one, the pattern is worked upon the squares
formed by the cross-bars, as in Fig. 1, and in this way a number of
pretty devices can be formed. Toilet-covers and large aprons should have
a border as in Fig. 2; for mats a single border will suffice. Bags, &c,
may be worked in checquers, every alternate square, or in large
cross-bars, by carrying on Fig. 2 over the whole surface, but when you
choose a large pattern, always count the squares before you cut off your
piece, or you may find the pattern break off in the middle.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--WORKED WITH WOOL.]

I have seen a very effective-looking bag, all the squares of which were
worked over with dark blue cotton, the bars being blue, and two tiny red
stitches worked as in Fig. 3, wherever a simple cross was formed by the
cotton intersecting the stripe of the material.

Use a darning or crewel needle, and a very long thread, or you will have
to be continually taking fresh. This work is sometimes done with crewel
wool, and in rather a different way, see Fig. 4; but it is not so neat
and pretty, in my opinion, as that done with cotton, and is more
extravagant, since the wool must be used double and every stitch

I once saw a large apron with bib and pocket bordered with squares
worked in this style with bright dark ultramarine crewels, and with
ribbon strings of the same colour; it had a handsome effect. I shall
only say in conclusion that I have no doubt the clever brains and nimble
fingers of some of my young readers will soon be able to improve upon
these simple elementary designs, and to produce some new and more
elaborate ones which will give them all the more pleasure for being of
their own creating.






One day some children came to me, and said, "Oh, do please take us out
somewhere on our half-holiday, and show us some of the great sights of
London." Remembering how it had once been my privilege to be one of a
party invited to go over Westminster Abbey, under the guidance of the
late Dean Stanley, and how, from his graphic descriptions, the Abbey had
ever since had an additional wealth of interest to me, I proposed to
these young people that they should meet me some Saturday afternoon, and
I would take them over the Abbey, and tell them all I could remember or
read up about its history. They were delighted with the proposal, and
so to the Abbey we went.

I should like to take all the readers of LITTLE FOLKS in the same way,
but I remember the story of the British Princess, named St. Ursula, who
undertook to "personally conduct" eleven thousand young maidens to Rome,
and how she came to grief on the return journey, as any one may see who
goes to Cologne, where all their bones are preserved in a church; and as
I should have a great many more followers than she, I think it will be
better if I try in the next six numbers to tell you what I told the
young people who went with me on that Saturday afternoon and on other
afternoons, and as nearly as I can in the same words.

Now, girls and boys, before we enter the portals of Westminster Abbey, I
want you first to come with me and walk round about it, so as to see it
well from the outside; and first of all, we will post ourselves near to
the great hall built by William Rufus as a portion of his intended
palace. It was upon this spot that Edward the Confessor dwelt, and for
fifteen years watched the erection of the Abbey. But you must not
imagine that the beautiful building that rises so grandly before us as
we stand here to-day is the same that the Confessor reared, for of his
famous church only one or two columns and low-browed arches are now in
existence. Of the edifice we now behold, the central portions were built
by Henry III., the nave was added under the Edwards and Henry V., the
gorgeous eastern chapel was raised by Henry VII., and bears his name,
and the western towers rose when George III. was king.

But I shall have more to say to you presently about these various
additions. Let us cross over now to St. Margaret's Churchyard, and as we
stroll round the Abbey, I will tell you how it came to be built at all.
To get at the very beginning, we shall have to go back to a time long
before Edward the Confessor sat watching his workmen--to the days when
London was a Roman city, and when the site of modern Westminster was a
marshy tract of ground, crossed by various streams and channels. At that
time the river Thames and one of these channels enclosed an island about
a quarter of a mile long and somewhat less in breadth. It was a marshy
wilderness, and had the character of being "a terrible place," and
amongst its swamps and thickets the huge red deer, with his immense
antlers, and the wild ox found a refuge. When it received a name, it
became known as Thorn-Ey, that is, Isle of Thorns; in later days people
called it Thorney Island. Tradition says that in the midst of the
wilderness there was erected, in the year 154 A.D., a Temple of Apollo.
We are next told that King Lucius, who was said to have been the founder
of a great many English churches, turned the temple into a Christian
sanctuary. Then we hear that in 616 A.D., Sebert, King of Essex, founded
an Abbey here, and dedicated it to St. Peter, "in order to balance the
compliment he had made to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill." All this is very
doubtful, but from the earliest times in history there has been shown a
grave of Sebert as that of the founder of the Abbey.

Twelve monks of the Benedictine order were placed here by Dunstan, and
suffered a great deal from the Danes, who in these times did much
mischief in England. The last of the Saxon kings who kept up the long
struggle with these pagans was Edward, who by his exile to escape from
their tyranny won the title of Confessor. He was a very strange man, who
seemed never thoroughly happy except when he was sitting in church or
when he was hunting in the woods. He had milk-white hair and beard, rosy
cheeks, "thin white hands, and long transparent fingers." He was
sometimes gentle, sometimes furious; sometimes very grave, going about
with eyes fixed on the ground, sometimes bursting out into wild fits of

Edward returned from his exile accompanied by Norman courtiers and
Norman priests, and full of Norman ideas. He appears to have been very
much delighted with his visits to the great continental cathedrals, so
different from the simple structures of the Saxons. During his troubles
he had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Rome; but the Pope gave him leave
to build an Abbey to St. Peter instead. Edward accordingly resolved to
restore the monastery on the Isle of Thorns, on a very different scale
from anything that had been before attempted in England.

According to a legend told in after years, there was near Worcester a
holy hermit "of great age, living on fruits and roots," who dwelt "far
from men in a wilderness on the slope of a wood, in a cave deep down in
the grey rock." To this holy man St. Peter appeared one night, and bade
him tell the king that he was released from his pilgrimage, and that at
Thorney, near the city, he must build a Benedictine Abbey, which should
be "the gate of heaven, the ladder of prayer, whence those who serve St.
Peter there shall be by him admitted into Paradise." The hermit wrote
out his dream on parchment, and sent it to the king, who compared it
with the message to the same purpose just received from Rome, and at
once set to work on the project.

Another story was told to show that Thorney was specially under the
patronage of St. Peter. It was said that on the evening before Mellitus,
first Bishop of London, was about to consecrate the monastery built here
by King Sebert, a fisherman named Edric was engaged by a venerable
stranger to ferry him across to the island. The stranger entered the
church, and assisted by a host of angels, who descended with sweet
odours and flaming candles, dedicated the church with all the usual
ceremonies. Then returning to the awe-struck fisherman, the mysterious
stranger declared himself to be St. Peter, Keeper of the Keys of Heaven,
and that he had consecrated his own Church of St. Peter, Westminster.
When the king and Bishop Mellitus arrived next day, Edric told his
story, and pointed out the marks of the twelve crosses on the church,
the walls within and without moistened with holy water, the letters of
the Greek alphabet written twice over distinctly on the sand, the traces
of the oil, and even the droppings of the angelic candles. The bishop
could not presume to add any further ceremonial, but retired.

Edward restored the old royal palace close by, and dwelt there fifteen
years, superintending the erection of the Abbey. Dean Stanley says he
spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the kingdom. His end was
approaching when he dedicated the Abbey, on Innocents Day, 1065, and on
the last day of the year he died. I shall tell you about his funeral
later on.

The edifice stood pretty much as Edward the Confessor left it till the
reign of Henry III., who showed his love for the Abbey first by adding
to it, and then by demolishing it almost entirely, and raising in its
place the building that has been called "the most lovely and lovable
thing in Christendom." In this rebuilding St. Peter was almost lost
sight of, and the Shrine and Chapel of Edward the Confessor became, as
it were, the central idea of the whole. Very lavishly did King Henry
spend his money over the restored Abbey: the cost was at least half a
million, as we should reckon it. His work includes the apse and choir,
the two transepts, one arch of the nave, and the chapter-house; Under
the Edwards the nave unfolded itself farther west, and the Abbot's House
and Jerusalem Chamber were built. Richard II. was very fond of the
Abbey, and rebuilt, at great expense, the famous north portal, often
spoken of as "The Beautiful Gate," or "Solomon's Porch." By Henry V. the
nave was prolonged nearly to its present length. It was just completed
in time for the grand procession to sweep along it when the _Te Deum_
was sung for the victory at Agincourt. The architect by whom the work
was carried out was Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.

The next important addition to the Abbey took place in the reign of
Henry VII., when the large eastern chapel which bears that monarch's
name was built. The great wars of York and Lancaster were now over, but
amongst the chief actors in those tragic events there was one who, by
his saintly goodness and sufferings, had left a revered name upon the
lips of Englishmen. Images of Henry VI. were seen in great churches
throughout the country, and stories of his good works and miracles were
everywhere told. Henry VII. promised to build at Westminster a
magnificent chapel, in memory of Henry VI. The Pope promised
"canonisation" (as the making of a new saint is called), and the king
obtained from the Westminster Convent £500 (equal to £5,000 nowadays)
for the transference thither of the holy remains. But they were never
brought from Windsor. Henry dreaded the immense expense, and completed
the chapel as a grand sepulchre for himself and his new dynasty.

There is one feature of the Abbey, as seen from the outside, of which I
have not spoken--the western towers. These were built as far as the roof
by Abbot Islip, who witnessed the erection of Henry VII.'s Chapel. Two
hundred and thirty years afterwards Sir Christopher Wren restored
Islip's work, and designed the upper portions. The edifice is not yet
complete, as the square central tower requires a lofty spire to complete

And so, young people, in the course of centuries, from out "the terrible
place" in the wilderness-island has risen the famous Abbey of
Westminster, the full title of which is the "Collegiate Church, or
Abbey, of St. Peter." We have now got over the dry part of our subject,
so we will enter the Abbey, and as we tread its holy shades together I
shall have more interesting things to tell you about some of the famous
men and women and stormy events that have made it for ever memorable.


  "Now, Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,
    "Just watch this famous shot;
  See that old willow by the brook--
    I'll hit the middle knot."
  Swift flew the arrow through the air,
    Madge watched it eager-eyed;
  But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,
    The wayward dart flew wide.

  Flew wide, and struck his cousin's dove
    As, wheeling round and round,
  It hovered near--the wounded bird
    Fell fluttering to the ground.
  And in a moment o'er her pet
    Dear Madge is bending low.
  Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,
    The cruel, cruel bow!

  The dove, soft folded in her hands,
    She presses to her breast;
  The bird that brought the olive spray
    Was never more caressed.
  Her tears upon its plumage fall,
    They fall like soft warm rain--
  Sure if the bird were dead such love
    Would give it life again.

  Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speak
    His sorrow and regret;
  Madge scarcely hears a word he says
    For pity of her pet.
  But time, the gentle healer, cures
    The wounds of doves and men--
  The days restore to faithful Madge
    Her bonnie bird again.


[Illustration: THE WOUNDED DOVE (_See p._ 16.)]



It had been a great day at Gibeon. A thousand animals had been
slaughtered, and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering; and, as the
successive sacrifices were consumed, the flames had ascended, and the
smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards heaven in token of

A new king had come to the throne, a grand, and great, and mighty king,
Solomon, the most comely of the sons of David. The fierce fightings of
David, the man of war, were over. The glittering crown of Israel had
been placed upon the head of Solomon the Peaceable; and the people hoped
great things, and celebrated his accession with loud and hearty
rejoicings. The dominion of Israel extended, as had been promised to
Abraham, from the Euphrates to the river of Egypt. David and his mighty
men had fought and conquered. And now the people of Israel were entering
into rest, and into the enjoyment of that which his sword had won for

So Solomon, in his gratitude, offered up his thousand burnt-offerings;
and the people, with heart and soul, joined him in praise to God, and
their joyous psalms of thanksgiving went up with the ascending smoke.

Gibeon, which was a priestly city, lay in the tribe of Benjamin, about
six miles and a half from Jerusalem; and there, in the reign of David,
the Tabernacle, which had been at Shiloh, had somehow come to be

So Gibeon had become an important place; and thither Solomon went to
offer up his sacrifice.

The flames that had consumed the last animal had died away, and the
cloud of smoke had ceased to go up. The sun that had lighted up the
world had sunk below the horizon, amid clouds of gold and purple,
seemingly well pleased to have witnessed, on this sin-stained earth, so
grand and noble a scene as that of a young and happy, handsome and rich
king, recognising God's providence, and offering up so worthy a
sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving to Him who had placed him upon the

The shades of night had fallen upon all, and the joyous king himself had
retired to rest. With a clear conscience and a light heart, he had lain
down, and, after the fatigues of the eventful day, had fallen into a
peaceful sleep.

For all his subjects loved and honoured Solomon, and gloried in having
him for their king.

Well might his heart be light and his sleep be sweet. Well might his
face be radiant with joy, even as he lay unconscious upon his bed. But
soon an expression of still greater joy overspread his countenance. A
still brighter light came into his face, and his heart leaped within
him; for, in a dream of the night, God drew near this chosen and
well-beloved son of David, to heap upon him still greater favours.

Pleased with the love and gratitude and devotion, to which the young
king had given expression by his costly sacrifice, God, who loves a
thankful heart, and pours into it still more of His goodness, visited
the sleeping Solomon in the stillness of the night.

"Ask what I shall give thee," He said; and as the voice fell upon
Solomon's ear--

  "The heart of the sleeper beat high in his breast,
        Joy quickened his pulse;"

for that was the voice that he then most loved, and most desired to

And what an exceedingly gracious offer it made! To get whatever he
should desire! Had ever grandest king been so favoured? But what should
he ask for--this youthful king, to whom life was just opening out as a
pleasant paradise, offering him all that seemed worth the coveting? Was
there anything yet wanting to him? How many things he might have

His father is said to have died, at the age of seventy years, feeble and
broken down. Would he, in so short a time, be tired of living? Would he,
so soon, be ready to leave the glory and honour to which he had been
called? Should he ask for length of days? Should he request that, till
he had reached an age exceeding that of Methuselah, the cold hand of
death might not be laid upon him, and the greedy and all-devouring tomb
might not claim him as its victim? Should he ask that he might plant his
feet upon the neck of all his enemies, not one daring to raise up a
finger against him? Or should he desire that the vast riches, that had
been heaped up by his father during his long and victorious wars, and
that had been left to him, might be still further increased, and that he
might be the richest and grandest king on the face of the earth? Or
should he ask that he might become so famous, that so long as the world
should endure, his name might be a household word, not only amongst his
own people, but in distant lands, from east to west, and from north to
south, wherever the foot of man might tread?

[Illustration: VIEW NEAR GIBEON.]

Oh, no! All these things, which many would have desired, were to him but
empty things of earth, trifles that must pass away, vain bubbles that
must burst and disappear, leaving behind them no true and lasting
benefit. His thoughts did not dwell upon them, but upon higher, and
better, and nobler things.

He, the last born of David's sons, had been chosen before all his
brethren, to sit upon the glorious throne of his father. Those over whom
he had been called to rule were the chosen people of God. They had been
taken out of all the nations of the world to be His own peculiar people,
and to witness, amidst the idolatrous nations around them, to the living
and true God. The heart of God was set upon them. His love was freely
poured out upon them, and He had bound them to Himself, closely as a man
bound around him his valued girdle. They were the descendants of
faithful Abraham, of Isaac, and Jacob. They had become great, and mighty,
and powerful, spreading themselves out like the cedars of Lebanon, and
flourishing like the stately palms. All the surrounding nations looked
upon them as the favoured of Heaven, and feared them.

And he was called to rule them--he, so young and so inexperienced! It
was his mission to rule them with justice, to train them in the paths of
righteousness, and to bring them still nearer to Him who had chosen

And how should he accomplish it? How small and insignificant he felt,
and how utterly worthless! How he seemed to dwindle into nothing beside
the great work that he was called to do! And yet how anxious he was to
do it well! How he longed to be like his father David, a true shepherd
to his people! How his heart yearned over his subjects; and how greatly
he desired to govern them aright, and to be the channel through which
the blessings of the great King of Heaven might be poured down upon

Yes, that was the one thing he desired--worthily to perform the great
work which had been given him to do. And young and inexperienced as he
was, he could not do it of himself, and he must ask for the needful

A shade of regret for a moment darkened the face of the sleeper as he
thought of his own inefficiency. But it soon passed away. There was
wisdom for the asking; and his bright red lips moved in humble prayer.

"O Lord," he murmured in deep reverence, "Thou hast showed great mercy
unto David my father, and hast made me to reign in his stead. And Thy
servant is in the midst of Thy people, which thou hast chosen--a great
people that cannot be counted for multitude. I am but a little child. I
know not how to go out, or to come in. Give me now wisdom and knowledge,
for who can judge this Thy people that is so great?"

How pleasing to God were the deep humility expressed in this prayer, the
discernment of the great work that he was called to do; the earnest
desire to be fitted to do it nobly and well, and the utter forgetfulness
of all earthly glory and fame!

There was no word of reproach, no saying that as the son of David he
ought to be well qualified for governing. Only the gracious answer came,
that, because all this was in the heart of the young king, because he
had made the worthy fulfilment of his mission the grand aim of his life,
wisdom and knowledge were granted to him. And because he had desired
these rather than long life, or riches, or honour, or the lives of his
enemies, there should also be given to him riches, and wealth, and
honour, such as no king had ever enjoyed before him or should ever know
after him. And if he served God faithfully, as his father David had
done, length of days, also, should be added unto him.

The young king awoke, "and, behold it was a dream." But it was not one
of those fanciful dreams, that come and go, and mean nothing. It was a
dream from God, a great reality, as he was soon to prove.

From that time Solomon became noted for his wisdom and knowledge. On
the most difficult points he was able to give a just judgment, that
astonished all who heard it. "And the people feared him; for they saw
that the wisdom of God was in him."

His wisdom excelled that of all the wise men of the east, and the
understanding of even the wise men of Egypt sank into the shade when
compared with his.

He gave his people three thousand proverbs. He wrote a thousand and five
songs; one of them which is called the "Song of Songs," or the "Song of
Solomon," and which has a place in the Bible, having a depth of
beautiful meaning, which only the very wise can understand. He knew all
about the trees, from the kingly cedar that reared its proud head on the
famous heights of Lebanon, to the humble hyssop that sprang out of the
wall. He could tell the nature of each, describe its flowers and its
fruit, and point out of what it was symbolic. The beasts of the earth,
the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and even the creeping
things were all to him as an open book. He could tell for what each was
created, and what lesson each was intended to convey. He could answer
the most difficult questions that any one could put to him; and his fame
rapidly spread through all the countries of the then known world.

He became so rich, too, that silver and gold were as common as the
stones that he saw lying in the streets, as he rode through Jerusalem in
his open chariot, clothed in white, threads of glittering gold mixed
with his jet black hair.

He erected the glorious temple, which for grandeur and magnificence
stood unrivalled; and time would fail to tell of the splendour of his
throne, of his palace, and of the palace which he built for his
favourite wife.

In almost all countries, his name has been familiar; and, to this day,
the wild Arabs will tell wondrous stories about him, as they gather at
night round their blazing fires. His grandeur and wisdom have ever since
been proverbial; and even Jesus, when He wished to compare the lilies of
the field with something very magnificent, spoke of "Solomon in all his

The great king, however, did not get length of days, because he
afterwards grievously fell. But, without darkening this story with the
account of his subsequent sins, let us try rather to learn some of the
useful lessons that it is intended to teach. Perhaps you have already
found them out.

Like Solomon, we have all in life a great work to do, and we all lack
wisdom. But we have only, as St. James tells us, to "ask of God," who
giveth to _all_ men liberally, without reproaching them for their
foolishness. And if we seek the wisdom that comes from above--the wisdom
of Jesus Christ, we need have no fear; for, as the great Master Himself
tells us, all other things will be added unto us.

H. D.


1. Which is the only miracle of our Lord that is related by all the four

2. What city, after its destruction, was sown with salt, as a sign of
the barrenness and desolation that its enemies wished to see come upon

3. How many lepers are we told, were cleansed by our Lord?

4. Whence did Solomon procure the pattern according to which he built
the Temple?

5. Where does the psalmist call God the health of the countenance?

6. What is the only occasion on which we read of Jesus sleeping?

7. Where is Mary, the mother of Jesus, last mentioned.

8. Where do we read that, while, in the reign of David, the old
Tabernacle remained at Gibeon, a new tent was pitched at Jerusalem for
the ark of the Lord?

9. In which place, after the pitching of the new Tabernacle, did the
high priest officiate?

10. Where do we find that Solomon, on his accession, recognised the
sanctity of both places?

11. Where is there a prophecy of Jonah concerning Israel, not recorded
in the Bible, alluded to in the history of the kings?

12. From what words of St. Paul do we gather that other Christians;
besides Stephen, were put to death during the persecution at Jerusalem?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (61-72. See Vol. XIX., p. 346).

61. In Lev. xix. 14, and Deut. xxvii. 18.

62. In St. Matt. xxvi. 30, and St. Mark xiv. 26.

63. In Gen. xviii. 14; Jer. xxxii. 17, 27; Job xlii. 2; St. Matt. xix.
26; St. Mark x. 27, xiv. 36; St. Luke i. 37, xviii. 27.

64. In St. Mark xii. 41-44; St. Luke xxi. 1-4; and 2 Cor. viii. 12.

65. Of the mother of Samson, Judges xiii. 2-24, xiv. 2-9; and Hannah,
the mother of Samuel, 1 Sam. i., ii. 1-10, 18-21.

66. In Judges xiv. 12-19; and Ezek. xvii. 1-10.

67. Proverbs xii. 10.

68. In St. Matt. vi. 25-34; and St. Luke xii. 22-30.

69. In St. Matt, xxiii. 5.

70. St. John xvii. 4.

71. In Lev. xix. 13; and Deut. xxiv. 14, 15.

72. In Deut. xxi. 22, 23.



  Nessie was lost--her brothers
    Had sought her high and low:
  Where in the world was Baby?
    Nobody seemed to know.

  "Mother," at last said Harry,
    "Now don't you be afraid;
  We'll make up a grand search party,
    And find our little maid."

  Harry led forth his followers,
    Down by the willowed pond,
  Past the old grey turnstile,
    And into the woods beyond.

  They searched by stream and meadow,
    They searched 'neath hedge and tree;
  "Where," said the puzzled children,
    "Where can the truant be?"

  At last, at last they found her,
    In a meadow far away,
  Under a sheltering haystack,
    Asleep 'mid the fragrant hay.

  They brought her home in triumph,
    A merry sight to see,
  With flags and banners flying,
    And songs of victory.


_By the Author of "Harry Maxwell; or, Schoolboy Honour."_

"Here, I say, old fellow! what's the matter? you look as sulky as a
brown bear. And where's your cap gone? I say now, _do_ wake up! You'll
catch it if old Jacky catches you."

"Let me be. You would look sulky if you had a little chap of a brother
sent to school, miles too young to come at all, and had got to look
after him and keep him out of scrapes, and show him how to get on with
his lessons, and keep the fellows from bullying him."

"Why in the world did he come, Graham?"

"Oh, don't bother, Johnny, old man," and as he spoke, Hubert Graham drew
his arm away from the parapet over which he was leaning with book in
hand, and turning round a frank, honest-looking face towards the boy who
was questioning him, passed his hand over his eyes, and added, "What can
have come to Uncle Charlie to make him send Chris off like this, I can't
think. Middle of term too!"

"Well, how is it?--explain to me--but--I say, old fellow, where's your
cap? you'll be in no end of a row if you lose it, you know."

Up went Hubert Graham's hand to his head, as he answered in a bewildered
way, "Cap! Haven't I got--" and then hastily turning, and looking over
the parapet, he exclaimed, "Oh! I say, Seton, just look there!" and he
burst out into a hearty laugh as he added "One of those barge boys has
just fished it up out of the water, and he's holding it up in triumph to
me. I must have been dreaming. It's out of bounds," he went on, with a
face of dismay.

[Illustration: "LEANING WITH BOOK IN HAND" (_p. 21_).]

"I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me."

"Not he," said Seton.

Dr. Thornley's boys were not allowed to go, without special leave, any
nearer the town on the outskirts of which the school was situated than
the bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The approach of a master
solved the difficulty. Hubert Graham went up to him. "If you please,
sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap fell into the river. A
bargee has picked it up. May I run and get it?"

The master looked over, and laughed. "Perhaps he won't give it up. You
may go and try."

When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge in triumph so far as the
possession of a very wet cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind
at having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling out of his somewhat
scanty store of pocket-money, he found John Seton lingering about for

"I say," he said, "I want to know about your uncle, and the little one.
He's a jolly little man though; I expect he'll make his way."

"But there's a terrible set in the lower school for him to make his way
with, and he a mere baby."

"Well! he's seven--and that seems like a baby to us, to be sure," said
magnificent fourteen years, speaking in the person of John Seton; "and
you're right. They _are_ a set; I wish I was the prefect in his
dormitory, but I'm not. Tell me how he came here in such a hurry?"

"Well, you needn't talk about it to the other fellows. Father and mother
are in India. Father's regiment was ordered abroad four years ago, and
mother went with him. There were three of us, and we were sent to Uncle
Charlie to take care of. I was eight years old then, Nellie was five,
and Chris three years old. Uncle was jolly and kind, and sent me here
when I was ten. Just before the summer holidays were over Uncle Charlie
married, and I'm sure our new aunt does not care for us to be there. But
I never thought they'd send Chris to school. I wonder what they'll do
with Nellie?"

"Can't you write to your father?"

"I will directly, but it's so long before I can hear."

                *       *       *       *       *

A poor little fellow taken from the nursery. A brave, bright little man
enough, but oh! so young, so pitifully young to be sent to a school
where there were fifty or sixty boys in what was called the lower school
only! Poor little Christopher! If his mother could have seen him! He
came--bright--happy--full of life, determined to like it; but before two
days were over his little soul was full of misery. The boys of ten and
eleven years became his dread and torment. On the second day he saw
nothing of Hubert till the evening, and then he said, "Hubert, why
couldn't I go to our grandfather?"

"Nobody even thought of such a thing, Chris. I don't expect our
grandfather would like us."

"How do you know?" said the child.

"Oh! don't bother," returned his brother. "Only by what I've heard nurse
say. She was talking one day to Jane, and she said, 'The children would
have gone to General Graham's, only, you know, he was angry with master
for marrying, and so master never asked him to have them.' I asked nurse
what she meant, and she was vexed that I'd heard it, and said it was
nothing I could understand."

"But I am so miserable here."

"Try to like it. Seton says you can go into his study to-night, and do
your exercises. The fellows in the school don't leave you alone, do
they, Chris?"

"No," said poor little Chris; "they don't." And sitting in Seton's
little study that night the child found comfort for the first time.

And for a few days things seemed better. But it was not to last. Those
boys in the lower school, who had tormented him before, were worse than
ever, now that they thought he was being made a favourite of by one of
the senior boys, and the poor little fellow had no peace. He complained
bitterly to his brother, but it was no good. Hubert said it would only
make the boys ten times worse if he interfered. "And never mind, old
fellow," he said; "it's half-holiday to-morrow, and you'll get some
jolly games."

"Jolly games," thought poor little Christopher; "I know better. They
won't be very jolly to _me_."

And then Christopher made up his mind, and in his brave little heart
determined to tell no one, but to run away, if he only could, to his
grandfather. He knew the way to the station from the school, and he knew
that trains went direct to a station called Kingsdown, where Uncle
Charlie always went when he visited grandfather. "After all, he can't be
worse than the boys," he said to himself. "And Hubert can't help me."

But Hubert did care. His smothered indignation and anxiety knew no
bounds, and the very night that Chris made up his mind to run away, long
after the other boys in his dormitory were asleep, Hubert lay awake
thinking how he could help his little brother. He fancied he heard a
noise in one of the dormitories. It seemed, he thought, to come from the
direction of the one in which Christopher was. He raised himself on his
elbow to listen, and muttered to himself, "They shall only wait till
to-morrow, and then those two fellows, Howard and Peters, shall have a
piece of my mind. They're the ringleaders. It shall be the worse for
them if they've been frightening him to-night."


And he lay there listening till all seemed quiet, and then saying to
himself, "The poor little chap is at peace now, I expect," he turned
round, and dropped off to sleep.

But he had not been listening quite long enough.

Little Christopher waited till all the boys in his room were sound
asleep, pinching himself to keep himself awake; then out of bed he
crept, felt for his clothes, which were close at hand, huddled them on,
put his feet into his felt slippers, as he dared not put on any boots,
and got out in the passage. His bed was near the door, which was
fortunate, for he thought, if he had had to pass many of the boys' beds,
his courage would have failed him. Down the stairs he stole--oh! how
they creaked--and unfastening the shutters of one of the school-room
windows, got out of it into the garden. But ah! he hadn't calculated on
the big dog, whose kennel was hard by, and who was out in a moment.

"Dear, darling Ponto," cried the poor little fellow; "don't bark, my
dear." And up he went, and stroked and patted the great mastiff, who,
already knowing the little fellow, put his paws on his shoulders, and
licked his face with great appreciation. For Christopher was tenderly
kind to animals, and he was rewarded for this now in his day of deep
distress. Ponto did not bark.

Christopher whispered to him. "Ponto, I'm very unhappy. I'm running
away. I wish I could take you with me. I only love you here; excepting
Hubert, and he can't help me;" and away he stole.

As he got into the high road the early dawn of morning gave him a little

All was consternation in the school later, in the morning. A boy
missing! Dr. Thornley summoned the whole school before him. Could any
boy give him any information?

[Illustration: "HUBERT LAY AWAKE" (_p. 23_).]

Hubert came forward. "He said he should run away yesterday, sir; but I
had no notion the poor boy would or could, or I'd never have left him
last night."

"Why?--for what reason?" said Dr. Thornley, his face growing sterner and

John Seton came forward. "I'm afraid, sir, there's very bad bullying in
the lower school."

"So bad as this, that a boy should run away!" said the doctor; "and you
a prefect!"

The colour mounted high in John Seton's fine young face.

"I've not had anything to do with the discipline the three weeks since
Graham minor has been here, sir; but some of us meant to speak. It could
not go on."

"May I go after him, sir?" said Hubert, his voice quivering with

"I have sent to search for him in all directions," said the doctor. "A
poor little child like that might meet with many mishaps. I am
surprised," and his voice shook, "that none of you bigger boys let me
know of any of this base, low, ungentlemanly conduct."

The expression on the countenances of some of the boys of the lower
school, as these words fell from the doctor's lips, may be imagined.

Dr. Thornley was the kindest-hearted of men, but there were certain
offences that moved him greatly; and when moved to wrath, the boys knew
he could be terrible.

"I must find this all out; and if the boys who have been bullying little
Graham have not the bravery to come forward, and confess it of their own
free will, I must take measures to discover who they were. But I warn
them," added the doctor, "that if I find them out before they have come
forward and freely confessed their base conduct, their time at this
school will be short. To-day is a half-holiday. All the lower school
will keep within bounds to-day."

At that instant "Old Jacky," as the boys called him, the school porter,
brought the doctor a telegram. His face wore a look of great relief as
he read it. And he turned to poor Hubert.

"Your brother is safe." Then to the school he said, "I have just had
this telegram, which I will read, 'General Sir Henry Graham, Sefton
Court, to Dr. Thornley, Middleborough. Christopher Graham safe with me.
Shall make full inquiries.'"

[Illustration: "FAST ASLEEP, WITH HIS HEAD ON THE DOG" (_p. 25_).]

At Sefton Court the same morning all was lazy and quiet. The blinds
drawn down the entrance door side of the house to keep out the sun, but
doors and windows thrown wide open. An old gentleman sitting in his
library, reading his paper. Something made the old gentleman restless.
He fidgeted. Something was wrong with his glasses. Then to himself he
said, "I wish Henry was here. Shall write by next mail. Why shouldn't
his wife come home, and bring the children here? I don't half like it
now that Charlie's married. Perhaps she won't like the children. Got a
craze on education too. They overdo it. Dear me! I wonder where that
fellow Thomas is?"

And up got the old gentleman, and walked to the door. He had no sooner
opened it than he gave a great start. "Hullo! What on earth is this?"
What was it he saw?

His own old dog, Bevis, whose favourite sleeping-place was the mat at
his door, lying there as usual, but not asleep. Wide awake, as if on
guard. And marvel of marvels! a dear little fair-haired boy fast, fast
asleep, with his head on the dog, who was lying so as to make himself
into as comfortable a pillow as possible.

The old gentleman stared hard for a minute, then began to shout for
Thomas, which woke the child, and he began to sob.

[Illustration: "THEY WERE ALL THREE ASSEMBLED" (_p. 26_).]

"There, there!" said the old general. "Who are you? You oughtn't to have
come in without leave." By this time poor little Christopher, for it
was he, had collected his scattered faculties, and catching hold of one
of General Graham's hands, cried, "You're grandfather. Do take care of
me. I'm so unhappy at school; I think I'm too little. So I said I'd come
off to you. You wouldn't be as bad as the boys!"

"Who? who?" stammered the poor old general.

"I'm little Christopher Graham. Uncle Charlie sent me to school, and I'm
too little, I expect. I ran away. I know it was naughty, but forgive me,
and don't send me back. I had five shillings in my box, and I ran away
in the night, and came here by the train in the morning; and I asked
where you lived, and I walked here from the station, and I saw the door
wide open, and I thought as it was grandfather's house I might come in;
and I was afraid of the dog, but he didn't hurt me, and I knelt down to
pat him, and I suppose I was very tired, for I can't remember any more."

But he needed to say no more, for he was in his grandfather's arms. And
Thomas was close by, and brought some warm tea very quickly; and a
kind-looking old lady came, who said to Christopher she was his great
Aunt Susan, and that he must be undressed and have a warm bath, and go
to bed to get a sound sleep before they let him tell them anything else.

The very next evening Aunt Susan called Christopher into the library.
There was his very own Nellie sitting on grandfather's knee, and Hubert
standing by!

Dr. Thornley had given Hubert one day's holiday to go and see
Christopher. Later in the evening they were all three assembled in a
pleasant cosy room, looking over funny old picture-books, which kind
Aunt Susan turned out of her treasures.

"'All's well that ends well,'" said Hubert; "but you mustn't run away
from school when you're bigger, old boy. You're only forgiven because
you're a baby, you know."

And his grandfather said to him later on--

"My boy, in the battle-field no soldier worthy to bear the name of
'Englishman' ever turned his back on the enemy. What you had to bear was
hard; but you turned your back on your enemy when you ran away. And you
bear an ancient name, and you come of a noble race. We must do our Duty,
come what will."

And Christopher never forgot these words.


Who would believe it?

You may well open your eyes, and shake your little heads incredulously,
but nevertheless it is a positive fact, that Venice, the fair Queen of
the Adriatic, sends forth every year no less than three thousand tons of
glass beads, for the adornment of your sisters big and little in all the
four quarters of the globe.

[Illustration: GONDOLA.]

The largest buyers of these pretty dainty toys are the Roman peasant
women. America follows closely in their footsteps, Great Britain's turn
comes next, then Germany puts in a modest claim, while the worst
customers of all are the Scandinavians, to whose deep, earnest,
thoughtful nature the glittering baubles appear mere useless trifles.
Among the Russian, Turkish, and Hungarian women, only the richest
classes indulge in these ornaments; they are scarcely ever seen among
the people, which may perhaps be explained by the fact that they would
not at all suit the various national costumes.

All those customers, however, who belong in reality to the civilised
nations (for, as a rule, the higher the cultivation, the less are these
shining ornaments appreciated), only demand the cheaper kinds of glass
beads. The best and dearest, the so-called _perle di luce_, find their
way to India and Africa, to the half-civilised and wholly savage races.
And here, the long strings of gay glistening beads do not merely serve
as finishing-touches to the costume, but form the principal ornament,
and cover the neck, arms, hair, and slender ankles of many a Hindoo or
Malay maiden, while among the Ethiopians they often represent the sole
article of dress. By these people, the glass pearls are indeed looked
upon as treasures, and the pretty string of Roman or Venetian beads
which you, my little maiden, lay aside so carelessly, is among them the
cause of as much heart-burning and anxious hopes and fears as the most
costly diamond necklace would be among English people.

Japan, too, is not a bad market for their sale; whereas China again will
have none of them, and turns her back rudely on fair Venice and its

But come! Here lies a gondola ready to our hand--the boatman seems
intuitively to have read our wishes, and as we glide over the blue
rippling waters in which the stately palaces are mirrored clear and
lifelike, we seem to see a second Venice reflected beneath us. Gradually
we approach the island of Murano, on which is situated the largest of
the seven great bead manufactories of Venice, and here Herr Weberbeck, a
German, employs no less than 500 men and women. Altogether about 6,000
people earn their livelihood (and a poor one it is), by this wonderfully
pretty industry, while the value of the exports amounts yearly to the
sum of £300,000.

The manufacture itself surprises us by the great simplicity which
characterises it. The first stage is getting the liquid mass of glass
about to be operated upon into a thorough state of toughness and
pliability: one should be able to pull it like rosin or sealing-wax. The
colouring of the mass is done while it is still in the furnace, by
adding various chemicals, the principal of which are arsenic, saltpetre,
antimony, and lead.

The next process is drawing out the long glass pipes. This is most
interesting. Let us, therefore, watch the man yonder, one of the
glass-blowers, as, by means of an iron rod, he carefully lifts a ball of
liquid glass, about the size of a small melon, from the open furnace,
and with another simple instrument makes an indentation in the outer
circle, nearly the size of that one sees at the bottom of a wine-bottle.
His colleague, meanwhile, has done exactly the same to another ball of
glass, and as they both press their balls together, the two outer
circles merge into one, and the air inside the hollow spaces is
completely shut off. Now the workmen draw back the iron rods, which are
still attached to the hot mass, and a glass thread is seen connecting
them to the centre ball. Then, keeping the strictest military time, the
glass-blowers march off in opposite directions, to about the distance of
a hundred yards, and the glowing glass thread spins itself off from both
balls, until it is exhausted, or until the cold air hardens it. The
imprisoned air has likewise, however, been spun out, and thus a hollow
pipe, instead of a solid rod, has been formed, and so prepared the hole
for the future beads.

The glass threads vary in thickness, from that of a pencil to that of a
very thin knitting-needle. Those intended for beads of mixed colours are
drawn out just in the same way, the only difference being that in that
case the glass ball, as soon as it is taken from the furnace, is dipped
in various coloured masses of liquid glass, which then form layers, one
over the other, like the layers of an onion.

Sometimes, very tiny lumps of coloured glass are stuck on the glass
balls, which then form parti-coloured stripes on the glass threads. The
separating and sorting of the threads or pipes, which are now broken up
into lengths of about three feet, is a widely-spread home-industry in
Venice, and if we go down to the lower parts of the Lagoon city, where
the people dwell, we shall see numbers of women and children seated
before large baskets, out of which glass pipes protrude like the quills
of a gigantic porcupine. With fingers spread wide apart, they carefully
weigh and feel the contents of the baskets, till they have sorted all
the pipes, according to their sizes. The different bundles are then
carried back to the factory, where they are placed in a machine, not
unlike a chaff-cutter, and cut up into small pieces. It is amusing to
watch the coloured shower as it falls. Do not be afraid, but just place
your hand beneath, to catch the glittering stream, and it will almost
seem as if you had taken hold of a shower of hailstones.

Any pointed or jagged bits having been cut off, the beads are now rolled
in fine sand, which has been carefully heated in earthen jars, until
just warm enough to soften the outside of the glass, so that a gentle
friction would rub off the sharp edges. The sand gets into the holes in
the beads, prevents them from closing up during this process, and ere
we can believe it possible, they come forth round, perfect, and
complete. The larger and smaller ones are now separated and sorted by
simply shaking them in different-sized sieves, and any beads that
require an extra amount of polish are thrown into small bags filled with
marl, and vigorously tossed and shaken.

Much more complicated is the manufacture of the _perle di luce_, or
beads of light, which so delight the natives of India and Africa. The
name is taken from the way in which they are prepared, namely, by means
of a jet of intense flame, and great skill and dexterity is required on
the part of the workman, who can display his talent and originality by
ornamenting them with flowers and arabesques. The combined effects of
light and colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment for
all those eastern and southern nations over whom a halo of fable and
romance is cast.

In the interior of Africa, these _perle di luce_ are frequently used as
payment instead of coin, and the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the
whole of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit the delight
that the innocent negresses exhibit at his gay wares.

But contrary to what one might expect, the black, woolly-headed children
of Nature show a strange distaste for _glossy_ beads; so much so indeed,
that the Venetians find it necessary to deaden the natural brilliancy
which all glass obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and thus
softening the otherwise shining surface.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry of Venice is but a
poorly-paid one; only the most skilful among the hands can manage to
make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the women can earn more than
about 4½d. a day, so that for them all the fast-days decreed by their
Church are quite superfluous; _their_ fasts last from Ash Wednesday to
Ash Wednesday. Even polenta, that very frugal Italian national dish, is
for them only a Sunday's treat; the rest of the week nature provides
them with turnips and other roots, great piles of which, cooked on an
open hearth, greet us in all the streets of Venice, where they are
eagerly devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor people work
hard to give pleasure and delight to both great and little folk.

Truly they exemplify the old proverb, "Some must sow, that others may

M. H.

351._) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2. Vandyke's picture of Charles I. and his
queen: the children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3. The
Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]


  'Twas noon-tide on a summer day,
  And in a hammock Bruin lay,
  Studying the price of pork and veal,
  And wondering how to get a meal,
  And what his little ones would do
  If all the papers said was true.

  The sun was very warm that day,
  And having trudged a weary way
  In search of food, 'twas no surprise
  That Mr. Bruin shut his eyes
  Now and again, and did not see
  Two monkeys o'er him in the tree.

  "Hurrah!" they whispered, "here's a chance
  Of making Mr. Bruin dance!
  Oft has he put us in a fix:
  We'll pay him out now for his tricks,
  And let him know that, though we're small,
  We're not so harmless after all!"



  Then, knife in hand, one monkey passed
  From branch to branch, until at last
  He reached the bough wherefrom was hung
  Old Bruin's hammock, firmly slung;
  And made one sudden vigorous slash
  Through all the ropes: then--crash, crash, crash!

  Upon the ground, with aching bones,
  Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans,
  Compelled to linger there and hear
  The monkeys' frequent taunt and jeer,
  While "What's the price, of bear's grease, please?"
  Went echoing through the forest trees.

G. W.



It is a gusty Friday night just after Easter. A night full of wind which
comes in sudden blasts and drives the sharp shining rain along the
streets so that it seems to pierce through coats and umbrellas, and
makes such a quick pattering sound upon the pavement that people who are
indoors, and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains, look
out at the flickering lights, and feel glad to be at home.

Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the houses in a narrow
court in Fleet Street, London, any one who has eyes can see the gleam of
the moon, and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip of blue
overhead. They can hear the rumble of the late cab, and the tramp of the
policeman outside so plainly that these sounds are quite startling. For
all day long Fleet Street is a busy place, with thousands of people
going up and down, and hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and
carriages, hustling in the roadway, and people who have only seen and
heard it in the day-time are surprised to find how silent and deserted
it is at midnight.

But in the narrow court, and in many other courts and passages close by,
there are other sounds and other lights than the noise of the
policeman's boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one who is standing
there may hear a curious buzzing, and now and then a dull thump, and
looking about may see more than one big building with its windows all
aglow, and the shadows of people moving across them. Now and then a door
will open, and a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket tied
round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as though the place were on
fire and he had been sent to fetch an engine.

If you are standing near the door you will have to get out of the way of
that lad, or he will be likely to run you down, or jam you against the
wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch an engine, for if
you watch him he scampers down the next court, or perhaps across Fleet
Street, and in less time than you can get your breath properly, is back
with a tray piled with steaming mugs, and plates of thick
bread-and-butter; and while you are wondering how he can have got them
so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up that steep flight of
stairs behind the door of the big building, he gives a shout that seems
to make twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.

In those big buildings with the dark doors and the lighted windows the
news of the week is being printed, that people may read it in the
papers. There the printers are at work, and will be at work all night;
the lad who has just gone in is a printer's lad, and because of some
part of the work he has to do he is called a "reading-boy."

Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and telegrams and written
accounts of various things that have taken place in different parts of
the world have been coming in to this building. When they come in the
editor looks at them and sends them up to the chief compositor. The
"compositors," up in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand
before large wooden trays or "cases," each of which is divided into a
number of small squares, like boxes without lids. These boxes hold what
are called the types. The types are little slips of metal, and on the
end of each slip is stamped a letter. One of the boxes in the tray holds
the a's, another the b's, another the c's, and the capital letters and
the stops also have their proper places. When the compositor has the
writing before him on his case, he takes a small metal box open at one
end, and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with his right hand
picks up one by one the metal letters that spell the words which are on
the page. These he places in the box with the letter end upwards,
putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to make a space
between each word. When he has filled his box he lifts all the letters
carefully out without jumbling any of them up together, stands them in a
tray, and keeps them from falling down by placing a flat rule of brass
against the side of them. When he has set up so many of these metal
letters that they are enough, when properly arranged in columns, to make
a whole page of printing, they are all brought close together and then
tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they are quite firm. They
are next sent downstairs and placed on the _press_, or printing-machine.
Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink upon this metal page,
and then the sheet of white paper is brought very firmly against it by a
strong machine, which presses so evenly that the ink is stamped from the
metal page of the types on to the paper. When that paper is removed it
is a printed page, with the same words upon it that the compositor read
upon the letter or written page sent in a little while ago. All night
long these types with the letters upon them are being set up, all night
long patient men pick up the metal letters and form them into pages;
all night long the steam engine is going, and the letters from the inky
metal pages are being stamped upon the clean white paper, which, when it
is printed all over, will contain the week's history of the world, and
will be read by thousands of people.

There are many lads in this printing-office, and all night they are
running up and down with letters and sheets of writing and printing, or
are cleaning the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to fix up
the frames. But why are some of them called "reading-boys?"

Of course when the metal letters are set up mistakes will occur now and
then; so in the first impression printed from the type, before it is
made up into the pages for printing already referred to and fastened
into the metal frame, these mistakes must be put right. To do this one
person takes the writing from which the type was set up, and another the
impression from the type, and the man or boy who has the writing reads
it aloud distinctly, while the other, who has the impression from the
type, reads that to himself at the same time, and compares what he sees
there with what he hears being read. If he comes to a word where there
is a mistake he makes a mark against it, and sets it right. When the
mistakes are all marked, the compositor sets them right by putting in
the proper letters and words, instead of the wrong ones, and then
another impression is printed to see whether all is right this time.
These impressions that are read for mistakes are called "proofs,"
because they prove whether the work has been properly done. Sometimes,
if the reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first writing, but
the writing is very often so bad that even the men who set up the metal
types can hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all night in a
close little hot room, with the gas flaring, and to hear the din, and
feel the rolling of the great machinery, while you have to read all
sorts of things that you don't care much for, and haven't time to think
about; but that is what the "reading-boy" has often to do, though he
sometimes has a good deal of running up and down stairs, and now and
then rushes out to fetch tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things
for the men, or for himself and his companions. It is to get a second
supply of these dainties that the boy whom we saw just now comes out
again head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time. He carries the
tray full of empty mugs, and before he can quite stop himself he comes
suddenly against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who is walking up
the court, and seems to be lurching from side to side of the pavement.
Before the lad can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against this
man's elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs on the stones of the court.

"Now, then, stoopid!" shouts the boy. "Why can't you keep on your right

"Is that the way you speaks to your uncle, Bennie?" says the big man,
laughing. He is a short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and with
a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really
a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth
on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.

"Well, uncle, who _could_ ha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you
been to mother's?"

"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try
and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London
is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be
workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age,

"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all
right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to
the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm
put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a
printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week

"What do you get now, Benny?"

"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in
the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go
to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open
after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and
coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious
faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you,

"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I
can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"

"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the
bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go.
It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the
room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a
draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the
type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows
fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the door open. Why,
uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea,
and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger
Bank to catch codfish, they're nothing to being a boy in a printin'
office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how
many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick
to it, and if they don't give me a rise to ten shillings next week, I'll
leave and go into another place where they'll be proud of my talent, and
admire me for my strength. Though I think I would rather be aboard the
_Saucy Nancy_ with you, after all. I should 'like 'a life on the ocean
wave, uncle, and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes."

"Bless your heart, my boy; there's lads no bigger than you at the
fishing stations that have as much night work as you do. Hard work in
the cold and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work, and a good
deal of danger too. There, get along, and fetch your coat, Benny. I'll
wait here, and then we'll go home together to see mother, and as she
tells me you're to have a holiday, Saturday to Monday night, you shall
come home along o' me, and then we will just see what it's like to be a
Fisher Boy."




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


"How I wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried,
tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother
through the open French window of the study. They were two bright,
handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as
tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather
thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless,
observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with
people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way
to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger,
but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert
himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all
occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very
curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly,
restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy,

"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of
a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.

"I wonder if we shall like _her_?" Eddie replied: "that's of more
importance, I think."

"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time
in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl
cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson
likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I
wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I

"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little
impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come
along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It
won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."

"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we
can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome
for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road,
where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study,
and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his
only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.

"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to
her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask
her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"

The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed,
absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from
every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he
had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged
Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new
relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle
Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his
curiosity, or perhaps concluded that his father's command to ask no
questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes
herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.

"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of
anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this
much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only
brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."

"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was
disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that,
Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own
son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady
shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave
now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is
coming here!"


Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been
before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than
that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined
some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly
what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his
mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his
was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons
concealed in Riversdale.

"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or
other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."

Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother.
"Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's
very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak
about--very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least
expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't
banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy
do, I wonder?"

"She married some one papa did not approve of--an artist, I think:
that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and
I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because
papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and
she has not got any boys or girls."

"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about
them. Who told you?"

"Papa. I asked him one day."

"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and
Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear
the probable reason of that relative's absence.

"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I
suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough--too
often, I believe--when our mother was alive, and then papa and he
disagreed, and he has not come since."

"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you
find out, Eddie?"

"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives;
you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they
have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well
ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I
wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before
deciding. I should like to see a great city--London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can
tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the
famous places in the world--Italy, Greece, Egypt--see pictures, statues,
beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way
off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care
for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here
always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and
football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition,"
Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the
mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly.
"Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough
here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in
a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to
stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys
stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed
in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed
back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one
hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and
said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest
voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite
recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no
more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a
grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a
hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but
such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave
little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie,
who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"

"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than
seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles!
Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading,
though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think
his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and
sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour
with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent
mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed
in Agnes, but in a different way.


"I hope you will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home.
Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and
Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead,
and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and
conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered
by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.

"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?" she asked timidly, as she
clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.

"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do
just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of
tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with
me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments:
indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The
children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will
go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins
drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at
half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies,
but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young
person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any
arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence
Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you
must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You
have been ill, surely."

"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at
night with father."

"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to
let you?"

"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine
regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a
nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on
again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But
either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor,
fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying
man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words
bore the living impress of truth.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back
aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do
wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very
anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years
ago, I had to take care of him."

"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens
cried, holding up both her hands.

"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor
Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my
Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know
it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house--ever so much a
finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or
beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear
father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me
very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle
Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was

"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the
old lady replied briskly.

"And do you think my cousins will love me?"

"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in
the world."

"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.

"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a
great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he
keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman
in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do
just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of
disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If
poor Mr. Frank had only----but there, what is the use of talking?" and
Mrs. Mittens sighed.

"Did you know my father, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."

"Did you love him, please?"

"Love him, Miss Agnes? _that_ I did! Who could help loving his bright
bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of
the house, but he would have his own way--he would have it, and I fear
it led him through a tangled, thorny path."

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously,
yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"

"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he
would have given his heart's best blood for him!"

"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so
friendless, so--so unhappy?"

"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was
proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have
loved him, but Master Frank would not."

"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said
gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not
proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me
my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."

"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding
both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My
master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy,
but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last,
thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all
those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is
to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and
always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She
loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie
down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for
dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."

[Illustration: "AGNES LOOKED UP AT MRS. MITTENS" (_p. 35_).]

So Agnes lay down very contentedly.

"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall
love it!--my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he
lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park,
smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how
happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer
sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her
whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of
the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and
then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and
such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.

After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind
of way she looked round.

"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think
it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If
she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping

"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly,"
another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but
she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us
wake her."

"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full
of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the
window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and
Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in
listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her
ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross
if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself--"I was
only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It
would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard
their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens
came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very
shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys
wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought
her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she
hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before the dinner was over it
was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's
friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak
to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of
all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all
his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was
kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far
handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist,
like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a
little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.


Three months passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in
her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except
with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little
afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie
too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she
always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her
just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and
gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself
sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or
Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most
useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room.
She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie
said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was
enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling
service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had
to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie
very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the
teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented,
as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that
course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a
little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his
turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket
(theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong
like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter--the doctor who kept the
grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should
come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone
during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers
shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and
sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be
dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an
observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods
without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?

"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their
beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What
would the world be if there were not any flowers?"

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought
they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even
animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"

"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied,
"you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor
fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild
things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I
prefer painting flowers to anything."

"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said,
joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand
scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross':
those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to
look at."

"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and
that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.

"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North
American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face
from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint,
I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his
talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face
with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like.
That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in
the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's
carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely--I hope it's not
papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following.
"He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig--what
can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is
the matter? Is papa ill?"

"It's nothing, my dears--that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs.
Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the
dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as
well to send for Doctor Bird."

"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some
ordinary business."

"Has papa asked for us--for me?"

"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the
matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the
paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and
looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said
'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the
door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a
journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but
knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him
look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line
to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came
at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in,
and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse--rather better, I think.'
So _now_, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"

Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes
at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged
relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and
ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away,
and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something
terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants
moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed
whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately
after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy
chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she
fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of
bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers'
apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened,
scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out
timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed
the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange
voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then
she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her
hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was
happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and
forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and
solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven
o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled
face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his
own great sorrow--and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt
things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked
Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started
guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie
began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the
dining-room alone.

"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears;
and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then
brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers
became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent
home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at
once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it
was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious
when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he
never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't
believe papa is dead!"

"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the
promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who
had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to
his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs.
Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an
unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can
hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came
from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would
believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and
restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this
house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish
there was some one here to manage things!"

"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized
the idea gladly.

"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow
morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now
come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you
are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more
than I know!"

(_To be continued._)

About Some Famous Railway Trains.





"Where to, sir?" said the cab-driver, touching his hat.

"Great Western, please, Paddington," we replied, and in a moment the
trap of the hansom was shut, and we were bowling along Piccadilly.

A civil porter received us at Paddington Station, and took our luggage
for Swindon. We are going no farther to-day, because we want to see the
"Flying Dutchman," not only "flying," but at rest. So first we secure a
seat and then walk down the platform. We have some minutes to spare; the
clock points to 11.38; we must start at 11.45 by the Great Western
express, the "Dutchman," as it is familiarly called, after that
mysterious sailor who came and went with such alarming celerity.

Here we are then, the summer holidays before us; and perhaps many of the
readers of LITTLE FOLKS will be travelling by the "Flying (railway)
Dutchman," by the time these lines are before them. Come with me and
look at our big "iron horse," which will pull us to Swindon at the
average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which means at times the
fine rate of sixty miles an hour.

Our "Dutchman's" engine on this occasion is named "Crimea," and a fine
fellow he is. This engine has eight wheels; two immense "driving wheels"
eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet round, so each time that
wheel revolves we travel (say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full
swing we shall go about _thirty yards a second!_ The 11.45 down train
from Paddington, and the corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two
"Flying Dutchmen." There are two other trains which run equally fast, up
and down in the afternoon. These are the "Zulu" trains, for they were
started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial was killed in

The great engine waits at the end of the platform, and as we are good
little people--like the fairies--we will jump up on the foot-plate of
the "Crimea" locomotive, and no one will notice us. Give me your
hand--there. Now you are standing on the foot-plate; the engine-tender,
full of water and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high boiler
with the furnace is in front. That long handle which comes from the
middle of the boiler on a level with your little head is the regulator,
which when pulled out lets the steam into the cylinders, and it then
moves the pistons and rods, and they move the big eight-feet wheels.
Perhaps, when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go underneath an
engine and see the machinery.

"What is that other handle?" you say. That is "the lever." It is at the
side next the engine-driver, you see, and he can pull it back so as to
save his steam, and not use too much; he "expands" it and makes a little
keep the train going after it has once got into its pace. There are the
steam and water "gauges," to tell the "driver" and fireman when the
steam is at proper pressure, and when the water is high enough in the
boiler. The steam gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer, right
before the driver. Those other handles near it are the whistle-handles.
One whistle is small, and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and
to tell people the train is coming. The other is a deep-toned booming
whistle which tells of danger perhaps, and when blown means "Stop the
train, there is obstruction in front."

"Crimea" is now ready. The engine-driver pulls open the regulator, and
we glide back and are attached to the train. We have air-breaks worked
on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can pull us up quickly, and when all
the connections are made the "Flying Dutchman" is ready; he is harnessed
to his eight coaches full of people--the solemn and sorry; the glad and
the cheerful; and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.

"Right!" says the station-superintendent.

The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45 a.m. The fireman, who is
looking on, says "Right, Tom," the guard whistles, then the driver
touches the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream rouses the
many sleeping echoes in the roof, where they had got to be out of the
way perhaps, and the engine-driver opens the regulator valve--"Crimea"
fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!

"Puff-puff," slowly at first, in a solemn and majestic manner. We cannot
expect such big wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge, puffing a
little more quickly, then we rattle through Westbourne Park and by
Wormwood Scrubs. Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite so
loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back and the steam goes up
with less force through the chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our
iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell--across the viaduct over the River
Brent, which runs to Brentford--past the pretty church and the dull
lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is passed in twenty-three
minutes after quitting Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have just
fifty-five miles to do within the hour. "Crimea" rushes across the
Thames below Maidenhead, with a parting roar, but we shall meet the
river again soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne,
Goring, and Moulsford.

Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening for Reading. But we
cannot wait. The "Flying Dutchman" has only done about thirty-six of his
seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two minutes already, and has got
forty-five minutes left to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is
behind us; then the river flashes out between the trees.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury cakes and tumble-down station is
passed. Hurrah for the "Flying Dutchman," running easily and smoothly,
sixty miles an hour, well within himself. He is not tired, he does not
pant or whistle, he goes calmly, swiftly along.... Here is Swindon--what
o'clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past one! "Crimea" is punctual to
the minute. Well done, "Dutchman!"

Good-bye, "Crimea," we are going to see your friends in the shops; we
are going to hear some anecdotes of your powers, and your friends'
speedy runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced to "Lightning,"
"Inkerman," and the "Morning Star," the first engine made for the
railway by George Stephenson.

At the works we are courteously received and conducted to the various
shops devoted to the manufacture of the engines and carriages--the
wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and everything else
connected with the rolling-stock, which brings in money to the
shareholders, and proves that if "a rolling stone gathers no moss,"
rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young gentlemen who are
pupils and apprentices at work learning mechanical engineering, and how
to make the future "Flying Dutchmen" and "Zulus."

We see the old "nine feet" Bristol and Exeter engines, and are told how
one once went off the line with the "Dutchman" long ago; but it was a
trifling accident. Our "Dutchman," though he flies, is pretty safe; and
runs free from accident. We see an engine whose boiler burst the other
day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This engine looks very much
ashamed of itself in the shed, and has had to submit to a severe
operation to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a lesson to it
in future.

Then we go under the engines and see the machinery, which works so
easily; and then we sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures
have happened with the "Flying Dutchman."

"Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story about the railway which
will amuse you. It happened several years ago--but I won't tell you
where exactly, sir."

"Let us hear the tale," we said.

"It was in my father's time, before I was a driver, that it happened. An
aunt of mine--a youngish woman then--was travelling by the G. W. R.
('Great Way Round' they used to call us), when a young man entered the
carriage, where she was sitting alone, and asked where the train stopped
first. This was (say) at Paddington. My aunt said 'Reading' was the
first station, and the train immediately started.

"'Excuse me, ma'am,' said the gentleman; 'but will you oblige me by
cutting my hair a little.'

"My aunt thought the man was mad, but being alarmed by his manner,

"Then the young man changed his coat, his collar, his waistcoat, and
tie. He put on a pair of spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at
him he was for all the world like a clergyman--an elderly gentleman in

"'Now,' said he; 'you must promise to be quiet, and never contradict me.
If you do you will rue it.' So my aunt--she was young then--promised,
and before they reached Reading the train was stopped. A guard and a
constable came up, and looked into every carriage.

"'Have you the tickets, dear?' said the man to my aunt.

"'All right, sir,' said the guard. 'We don't want to disturb you at all.
We are looking for some one else.'

"The train went on, but the 'old' clergyman, as he seemed, left the
train at Reading. He had committed forgery, but by disguising himself,
escaped. 'Clever rogue,' was he not?"

By the time we had heard this tale we were at Swindon Station again
waiting for the "Zulu," for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it
comes just as the other train came, very punctually. We take a farewell
of our friend, and as we pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our
note-book what we have seen, and some of our pleasant experiences of the
"Flying Dutchman."

Mornings at the Zoo.



Whatever they may be in their native countries, the Storks at the
Zoological Gardens, London, are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to
take their pleasure sadly--as was once said of the English folk--but
they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that perhaps
they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their
own experience how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to
lead a hermit's existence. They are treated with severe neglect by the
bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an
occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the
homage of an indifferent multitude.

Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In
many parts of the Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in
chimneys, steeples, and trees near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement
to them to pitch their quarters on the houses, boxes are sometimes
erected on the roofs, and happy is the household which thus secures the
patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom they sojourn during
the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird as a kind of
safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for their
young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless
offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained
heroically by their side and perished with them in the flames.


In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon as
sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very useful service
both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and other reptiles. In most
of the towns a storks' hospital will be found. It consists of an
enclosure to which are sent all birds that have been injured. They are
kept in this infirmary--which is generally supported by voluntary
contributions--until they have regained health and strength. To kill a
stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also the stork is held as
holy, there being a legend in that country to the effect that this bird
flew around the cross of Christ, crying "Styrka!" "Styrka!"
("Strengthen!" "Strengthen!") But, as Dr. Brewer points out, this
tradition clashes with fact, inasmuch as stork's have no voice. For the
valuable offices which they perform in the removal of garbage they are,
in some countries, protected by law. At one time the White Stork was a
pretty common bird in England, where it helped the farmers by clearing
the soil of noxious insects. It disappeared, however, partly because it
was subjected to a good deal of persecution, but mainly because an
improved method of agriculture took away its occupation.

In India the stork's cousin is called the Adjutant, and a very
appropriate name it is. It is a familiar figure in most of the towns and
villages where its scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant
is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should naturally expect such a
serviceable bird to possess. The following notes about an adjutant's
curious ways have been sent to the Editor of LITTLE FOLKS by a lady in
Calcutta, and will be read with interest.

"When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the adjutants are soon seen
resting on one leg on the house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny
places, or stalking very grandly through the wet grass. Sometimes in the
dim lamp-light they look as they stand about on the edge of the flat
roofs like stiff, badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or twelve
settle on some tree, when it seems as if their heavy bodies must weigh
it down.

"They do not often come in numbers into the gardens of houses or the
outskirts of the town, but one was a very faithful visitor for a little
while in the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all central. This
house has a garden or compound, as Indians would say, which is connected
by a gate with a large square containing a large tank. There are many of
these tanks, in appearance like ponds or reservoirs at home, about
Calcutta and the neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink from
all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes. The tank now to be
described is enclosed by a wall with gates to the main road and into the
compounds of houses which come up to it. Round the tank is a broad
gravel-walk, and on either side the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs
abound in this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the ground, and
make a terrible whistling at night. For some time no adjutants appeared
in this tank square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at last
one day an adjutant was seen walking down the grass. With
self-important step and craning his long neck forward, he came slowly
on, hurrying a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a hop out
of his way. At last he reached a gate leading into one of the private
compounds, and there he paused. What he saw inside no one can guess, as
the grass is kept short; and except in one corner far, far away from the
gate, there were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant might
have found on his own side of the gate. Whatever he saw, certainly the
bird longed to get through. He poked his head through the bars as far as
he could on one side, took two steps to the other and tried that, back
again to the first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had
walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off in a huff, and stood on
one leg near the tank till dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his
temper. About the same hour next day back came the adjutant to repeat
his yesterday's performance, except that he walked slowly round the tank
instead of standing on one leg when he found it a failure. Perhaps he
was thinking the thing over. He did not think to much purpose, for day
after day for more than a week back came the adjutant to walk like a
soldier on duty up and down, up and down, poking his head through the
bars each time. Sometimes he did it a score of times, sometimes only two
or three. After ten days he disappeared. Where is he? Has he gone to
find a blacksmith among the adjutants? or have his brother adjutants had
him shut up till he has sense to know the best way for a bird with wings
is, not to try to get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?"

Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather avoids the society of
man, frequenting solitary places and building its nest on the very top
of the very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an unamiable bird,
as was proved by Colonel Montagu in the case of one which he managed to
catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and which lived with him
for upwards of a year. It used to follow its feeder about, and displayed
a most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it was on terms, of
peace, and goodwill, never threatening them with its big, strong bill.
An excellent angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest advantage
when it had to encounter an unusually slippery eel.

Canon Tristram observed black storks among the shallows of the Dead Sea,
to which their prey was brought down by tributary streams. Surely no
picture more suggestive of utter solitude could be imagined than this of
the black storks, lovers of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of
the Dead Sea.


The Children's Own Garden.



July being generally the hottest month of the year, plenty of water is
an important thing in connection with Gardening, and as we have
previously recommended, apply it right and left, to shrubs, grass,
trees, flowers, and walks. It is most important for the leaves and stems
of plants to be perfectly free from dust and dirt, as this is one of the
very first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and vigorous growth. A
writer once described the pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to
a main and sending a stream of water over and on to the tops of the
young trees and shrubs as well worth £100 a year to any lover of Nature.
A great drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated near crowded
thoroughfares, is that the plants there grown are almost invariably
smothered with dust: under such circumstances successful gardening
becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly any plants will
thrive, or even live, under such conditions. A proper site is,
therefore, a matter of primary importance.

                *       *       *       *       *

There is, however, plenty of work, other than watering, to be done this
month. Seed of a great number of plants should now be saved and
carefully placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for sowing
them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials ought now to be secured and
immediately planted: those of such important plants as chrysanthemums,
pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in particular; divisions
of auriculas and polyanthuses may now be made. If a cold frame be
available, utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very hardy sorts
in it until they have thoroughly rooted, and transfer them to the open
border. Less hardy plants will need a protection of some sort through
the winter, and few things are more suitable for such a purpose than a
frost-proof frame, where air can be plentifully given every time the
state of the weather admits.

                *       *       *       *       *

Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and as the first three or
four flowers are usually worthless, cut them off before they fully
expand. Hollyhocks may now be frequently supplied with liquid manure.
Rose-trees will require looking after: give them plenty of rich food,
and, when the "perpetual" flowering section has done blooming, cut back
each shoot to about two or three buds from its base. Small pieces of
grass will periodically need mowing, and this ought to be done with a
proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears invariably causes an
irregular and jagged after-growth. All unsightly vegetation, such as
dead leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be promptly removed;
weeds ought not to be allowed to grow a second pair of leaves--much less
to flower--before being exterminated. Trailing and climbing plants,
especially roses, will need careful attention, and keeping within
bounds: straggly or weakly shoots must be at once cut away.

                *       *       *       *       *

The most important requirement just now in the kitchen-garden is water:
during hot weather completely saturate the ground with it. July is not a
very brisk month in the Children's Kitchen-garden; however, seeds of
such useful salads as lettuce and radish may still be sown; and a few
dwarf French beans can be put in if there is sufficient room. By sowing
a small quantity of the early sorts of peas, it is just possible to
obtain a fair crop, and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.

                *       *       *       *       *

It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as regards gathering fruit,
flowers, and vegetables, as this is a much more important matter than is
usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress or mustard, and fruit
of every sort, an absolute rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such
"telltales" as broken branches, mutilated stems, and salads--cress, for
example--entirely up-rooted, will at once proclaim a slovenly method of
gardening. This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful gardeners,
whether amateur or professional, will sever a flower with so much care
that its parent plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing
the operation. In gathering peas, most people tug and pull at these as
if anxious to see how much strength the pods _can_ possibly bear. In
this instance, as in others where the same carelessness is employed, the
plants get severely disturbed, and a consequent short crop is put down
to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and care are principles of
great moment in Gardening.


[Illustration: "'TIS HERE THE CHILDREN LOVE TO COME" (_p. 45_).]

  A wide expanse of yellow sand,
    A breeze so fresh and free,
  Which, gently rippling, scarcely wakes
    The calm and tranquil sea.

  Beneath the clear and shining wave
    Bright shells and sea-weeds lie,
  Reflecting all the golden light
    Of the sweet summer sky.

  And many a crystal pool is there,
    Where hermits lurk below,
  And restless shrimps in coat of mail
    Flash swiftly to and fro.

  A noon-day hush is over all,
    Unbroken by a sound;
  Till ... sudden peals of baby mirth
    Wake all the echoes round.

  'Tis here the children love to come,
    On the bright sand to lie,
  Or in the gleaming water hold
    Their mimic revelry.

  Oh, happy hearts! those gladsome day
    Upon the golden shore
  Will linger on in memory still,
    A joy for evermore.



_By PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"

"I should like my little pupils to learn to roast meat to-day," said
Mrs. Herbert, as she entered the kitchen where the children were waiting
for her.

"You will let it be beef, though, won't you?" said Margaret. "If we have
to cook meat we might as well cook the best kind of meat there is."

"You consider beef the best kind of meat then, do you?" said Mrs.

"Oh, yes! I should think every one does. Father says there is nothing
like the roast beef of old England."

"English people generally like roast beef, I know," said Mrs. Herbert.
"Indeed, they have been so accustomed to take pains with it, that now it
is often said that English cooks roast well, if they do nothing else

"It seems to me that there is nothing to do in roasting meat," said
Margaret. "The fire does all the work; we put the meat down to the fire,
and in a little time we take it up, and it is done."

"But the right kind of fire for roasting is not always made up in any
kitchen," said Mrs. Herbert. "The first thing which the cook who intends
to roast has to see after is the fire; and she ought to make it ready
quite an hour before she puts the meat down."

"Oh dear, what a trouble!" said Margaret.

"Please, ma'am, I know how to make up a fire for roasting," said Mary.
"I have done it many a time for my aunt."

"Then tell us what you know about it," said Mrs. Herbert.

"The fire must be a good size, larger than the meat which is to be
roasted before it. The cinders and dust must be cleared thoroughly away
from the bottom of the range, the live hot coals must be pushed to the
front, and the space at the back which is made empty must be filled up
with knobbly pieces of coal packed closely together, though not so
closely that the air cannot get through. The hearth must be swept up
tidily, and the cinders, mixed with a little damped coal-dust, must be
put at the back on the knobbly pieces of coal, and that is all."

"Very good indeed, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, "you evidently know all
about this part of the business."

"But I don't see the good," said Margaret. "Why do we not make up the
fire when we are ready for it? It would last all the longer."

"Because we want to have the fire clear and bright, not dull and smoky.
It must be kept bright all the time too, and it must not be allowed to
get hollow in places. Can you tell us, Mary, what you are to do if the
fire needs to be mended before the joint is finished?"

"The live coal must be drawn to the front, ma'am, gently, so as not to
let any cinders go into the dripping-tin," said Mary. "But we ought not
to let the fire need mending; we must watch it and keep putting cinders
and pieces of coal on to keep it up."

"You see now, Margaret, how important it is to have the right kind of
fire," said Mrs. Herbert. "Have you heard that red meat which is to be
roasted should hang for a while before being cooked?"

"At any rate I have heard people say 'This meat is not tender; it has
not been hung long enough.'"

"Just so. It is very important that red meats which are to be roasted
should be left to hang till tender. When we have a cool airy larder, we
can hang meat for ourselves, when there is no such larder the butcher
will hang it for us. The time which the meat must hang depends upon the
weather. In dry cold weather it may hang a long time--two or three
weeks--but in hot weather it must be quickly cooked, or it will not
keep. In frosty weather, too, it should be put in a warm kitchen for
some hours before being roasted, or it will not be tender."

"What do you mean by red meats, ma'am?"

"I mean, Mary, meats red in colour when cut, such as beef, mutton, and
game. What are called white meats, such as veal, lamb, and pork, will
not keep, and they therefore have to be cooked when fresh. Can either of
you tell me what is the first thing to be done when you are going to
roast meat?"

The little girls thought for a minute, then Mary said, "When we were
going to boil the leg of mutton we weighed it, that we might know how
long we were to let it simmer."

"Quite right, Mary. So you must do with this piece of beef. Weigh it and
then allow for roasting a quarter of an hour for every pound, and a
quarter of an hour over. If the joint is thick and solid we allow twenty
minutes to the pound. In fact, we should always have a little
consultation with ourselves before we begin to roast, and say to
ourselves, 'Is this meat solid and thick with little bone, or is it thin
and small?'"

"How long must we give the sirloin of beef?"

"A quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over. Cook
is now going to put down the dripping-tin and screen for us. I should
like you to watch her and then try to remember what is necessary. Do you
notice that she puts a large slice of dripping into the pan first

"What is that for?" said Margaret. "I thought the dripping dropped from
the fat."

"So it will in a little time, but we want some hot fat to baste the meat
with immediately. If we put a slice in the tin a few minutes before the
meat is hung on the hook, the fat will melt and be ready for our
purpose. Never wash the meat before roasting it. If you do, it will not
brown properly, and the juices will be drawn out. Some cooks are very
particular to wash meat, and they say that it is dirty not to do so, for
we never know by whom meat has been handled. For my part I never feel
uneasy about meat which has been bought of a good butcher. If I had any
doubt on the subject I should wipe it well, but not wash it."

"The dripping is quite melted now, mother. Shall we hang the meat on the
hook, and wind up the jack?" said Margaret.

"Yes, dear; wind the jack before you put the meat up. In hanging the
meat recollect to put the thickest part downwards, because the heat of
the fire will be greatest at the bottom. Be careful, too, to pass the
hook through a secure place where there is little juice, for the flesh
will give way with cooking, and if you do not provide for this your
joint may fall into the pan. Do you recollect that when we were boiling
meat we first plunged the meat into boiling water to harden the albumen
on the outside so as to make a case to keep in the juices."

"We cannot do that now, though," said Mary.

"We can do something of the same sort. If we put the meat close to the
fire and baste it with hot fat for a few minutes at the beginning we
shall harden the outside. Then we may draw it back and roast it more
slowly till done. Above all things, however, we must be careful to baste
it well. Stand at one side of the fire, take the fat up carefully with
the basting-spoon, and pour it over the lean part of the meat. The
basting-spoon will not become too hot if you put it in a plate by the
side, not in the tin. If you baste the meat well, it will not shrink or
become dry and hard, it will be juicy and savoury, and it will be a good
rich brown colour."

"How quickly the fat melts!" said Mary. "There is plenty of dripping in
the pan now."

"We will pour a little of the dripping away shortly, for we want to have
it a good colour," said Mrs. Herbert. "If we let it remain too long
before the fire it will be burnt and discoloured."

Very patiently and for a long time the little girls basted the roasting
joint, and at last they were rewarded by seeing it take a rich brown

"In another quarter of an hour the beef will be roasted enough, ma'am,"
at length said Mary, looking at the clock.

"It smells as if it would taste all right, does it not?" said Margaret.

"Now we must prepare for the gravy. Cook has put the dish for the meat
and the plates where they will get hot, for little girls cannot see
after everything. In this small saucepan is a little stock made by
stewing two or three bones and scraps (with no fat whatever), a sprig of
parsley, a few rings of onion, which have been fried till brown, an inch
of celery, and five or six peppercorns in water. I do not know whether
you noticed that this stock has been stewing by the side of the fire
ever since we came into the kitchen; I have skimmed it every now and
then, and covered it closely again."

"I noticed it," said Margaret. "I thought it would turn out to be for
something which we wanted."

"It is for gravy. You see it is a rich deep brown colour, gained from
the browned onion. We must strain this gravy, put a little salt with it,
let it boil, then unhook the joint, pour a couple of table-spoonfuls of
this gravy into the dish, put the rest into a gravy tureen, and serve at
once. There will be plenty of gravy altogether, if we use that which is
in the tureen and the dish as well. Besides, our joint has been well
basted, and is not dry, so gravy will run from the meat into the dish."

"Can't we make gravy from the dripping-tin?"

"We should have had to do so if there had been no stock," said Mrs.
Herbert. "In that case we should pour out the fat from the tin very
gently and carefully till we come to the brown sediment at the bottom.
We should mix with the sediment a breakfast-cupful of boiling water, and
scrape, with the spoon, any little brown dried specks of gravy there
might be. When we had obtained as much gravy as possible we should
strain it into a saucepan and keep it hot till the meat was quite

"I am sure father will enjoy this roast beef," said Margaret.

"I hope and think he will," said Mrs. Herbert. "Beef roasted in this way
before the fire is most excellent. It is, however, not nearly so common
as it once was, for with the stoves and kitcheners now in use, it is
easier to bake, or, as it is called, to roast meat in the oven. I
therefore wanted you to understand the best way of roasting meat, and
you shall next learn how to roast it in the oven."

(_To be continued._)



"Bravo! bravo! bravo!"

It was a tiny voice that spoke, sweet and clear as a nightingale's; but
it was not a nightingale. It was a large brown and scarlet butterfly,
with a dash of purple in its wings.

The mannikins paused in their gambols, and one made a bow, whilst
another skipped up the scarlet runner that had suddenly shot up out of
the ground, and twined in and out in fantastic knots, and brought
himself to a level with the butterfly.

"If you had but wings!" added the butterfly.

[Illustration: "PETER WAS SITTING UP IN BED."]

  "Wings, ah yes! how we should like them!
  Then we'd fly so high, so high,
  Turning somersaults, and fluttering
  Like----a graceful butterfly."

"Now," continued the mannikin, "as you are an emperor, I really think
that you might order some wings for us. What do you say?"

"A Red Emperor," observed the butterfly; "but after all there's not much
in it. It is, you see, all in the name. And I haven't really any power
whatever to give wings or anything else. For you must know that I am
under orders myself."

The mannikin looked at the Red Emperor in surprise.

"And you an Emperor?" said he. "Hasn't this scarlet runner sprung up so
that we might run up it to speak to you?"

"That may or may not be," began the Emperor. "But----"


"But what?"

No, the Red Emperor was not speaking now. Somehow the butterfly and the
mannikins had got into the book that Paulina was reading to Peter.

Peter was sitting up in bed; he had also a book in his hand, and he
threw it down and sprang out of bed, crying out--

"But what a splendid butterfly!"

"Oh, your sprained ankle, Peter!" cried Paulina.

But Peter was at the window, in fact, half out of it; and his left
ankle, which was bound up with bandages, suddenly appeared to be quite
as free from pain as his right ankle, which had nothing whatever the
matter with it, and he leaned over the window-sill, murmuring--

  "Dancing, prancing.
  Flitting, glancing,
  Now retreating, now advancing,
  Wait, and I will come to you,
  Through the window, through, through, through."

"Oh, Peter! how can you?" said Paulina.

But Peter was gone, and when Paulina looked out of the window, she could
see neither him, nor the mannikins, nor the scarlet runner.

Of course she could not, for they were not there. Where had they gone?
oh where? oh where?

[Illustration: "PAULINA HAD A STICK ... IN HER HAND."]


"Never mind, Paulina; it is a warm summer day."

Was it the great butterfly who spoke? No one else was near, and he was
sunning himself among the elder blossoms.

  "Ho, ho, ho! away they go,
  High and low, swift and slow,
  Over and over, heels over head,
  Peter and all the mannikins red."

Paulina now listened breathlessly.

"That is to say, the mannikins have red jackets and caps, and they are
rolling along so fast, with Peter in the midst of them, that you will
find it quite impossible to overtake them."

"Are you speaking to me?" said Paulina.

"Of course I am. Can't you hear what I am saying? I am the Red Emperor."

"Then please, good Mr. Red Emperor, fly away, and tell Peter to come
home again."

"I am an Emperor," replied the butterfly, "and I cannot be ordered by a
little girl. You must get back Peter yourself."

"But I can't see Peter. Where is he?"

  "He's out of sight, oh quite! oh quite!
  And up in cloudland such a height!
  He's in a state of much delight,
  But you must get him home ere night."

"But I can't get to cloudland."

"Of course not, you're much too heavy."

Paulina began to cry.

"If you make such a dreadful noise I shall fly away. Otherwise I shall
stay, and tell you what to do in order to get Peter back."

"I will do anything in the world," said Paulina; "whatever you tell me
to do I will at once do."

"There is but one thing to do--you must become an artist."

"That is impossible," sobbed Paulina. "What shall I do? What shall I

"Take off that prim little cap. Tie up your hair with black ribbon, and
put on a blouse. Then you will be an artist."

"But I've never learned to draw."

"Pooh!" said the Red Emperor.


Paulina did not know where she was or how she came there, but she found
herself before a wall on which hung a scroll with a face roughly
sketched upon it. Paulina had a stick with a bit of chalk at the end of
it in her hand, and she did not know whether she had drawn the face or

"Perhaps I did," said she. "I think it is a likeness of the moon."

"Pooh!" answered a voice.

Paulina knew that it was not the Red Emperor, for he had flown away. She
looked round, but there was no one to be seen. Still the voice went on

  "It's the sun but just begun;
  When it's done there will be fun.
  Mannikins in red and blue,
  Will bring something good for you."

"Who are you? where are you?" asked Paulina. "And do you know anything
of Peter? He went with the mannikins."


"Yes, up in the clouds with them. I saw him. The clouds were drifting
hither and thither, and he could not keep steady upon them, so he
tumbled down to the earth again."

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What a fall he must have had!"

Paulina heard a curious whistling, crackling laugh that seemed to go off
in gusts: puff, puff! blow, blow, blow! phew, phew! And then it subsided
into a gentle whistle.

"It's nothing to laugh at," said Paulina. "He'll catch cold, and he must
be very much hurt."

"No he isn't; he has hurt some one else instead. I saw him standing over
the boy that he had knocked down."

"He was always fighting," murmured Paulina.

"And he had on a full suit of blue clothes," said the voice, "and
striped stockings and a white collar."

"Blue! That's his best suit. How did he get it?"

"I don't know everything," replied the Wind, for it was the Wind who was
speaking to Paulina; "but

  I boxed his ears, and ruffled his hair,
  And left him standing astonished there."

"Oh!" ejaculated Paulina. "How can I get him home again?"

The Wind whistled for a short time, and then answered--

"By getting a palette, and brushes, and paint, and canvas, and becoming
an artist. What is the use of wearing a blouse and long stockings, and
having your hair tied with black ribbon, if you are not going to be an


The Wind had gone away, the scroll with the sun's face drawn upon it
had vanished, and Paulina was not where she had been a few moments
before. She did not know where she was, and everything seemed to be
going the wrong way; but she saw the Red Emperor resting upon a
rosebush, so she felt that she was not without a friend.

"I've been waiting for hours," said the Red Emperor testily, "and so has
the easel, also the paints and palette; and the canvas is stretched and
the sketch made. You have nothing to do but to mount up to your seat,
and fill in with colours. Shade away, beginning at the left corner, and
make haste."

Paulina looked at the canvas, upon which was the outline of a figure
reclining upon a rock. She was going to say she could not shade it, when
the Red Emperor said sternly--

"No nonsense! Mount to the seat and paint as fast as you can, for if the
painting is not finished before the stars come out, Peter will never
come home again."

Paulina scrambled up; she took the palette in one hand, the brush in the
other, and began to put on the colour as fast as she could. She did not
take any pains, but dabbed away, beginning in the left-hand corner. She
scarcely looked at what she was doing; but somehow or other it answered,
and the picture progressed rapidly. Paulina herself was surprised, but
she knew that she must lose no time, for the stars were only waiting for
the twilight.

"The evening star, oh! don't let it come," said a very tiny little
voice, that sounded like Peter's, a long way off; and it went on

  "Oh, Paulina! I have been a
    Naughty boy, I know.
  Don't look up and don't look down, dear,
    On with the painting go."

[Illustration: "STANDING OVER THE BOY" (_p. 49_).]

"I should be dizzy if I looked down: I'm so very high up," answered
Paulina; "but I should like to know where you are, Peter."

"Never mind where he is," said the Red Emperor, "so that he is
somewhere; that is enough for you. He is not far off. You will descend
as the picture draws near completion, and at the last stroke of your
brush you will see him. Obey me, or Peter will vanish away, and you will
never see him again."

Again Peter's voice was heard--

"Yes, I'm near you, but I've grown very small; the Wind shook me about
till I was only half the size I ought to be, just for knocking down a
boy who came in my way. Go on, Paulina; paint away, make no delay, or I
shall have to go away."

And the Red Emperor also said, "Go on."


And Paulina went on with her work. Her palette was almost clean, so
thoroughly had she used up all the colours upon it, and the painting
only wanted a few more touches, which she added carefully. Then she drew
a little backward to take a view of her picture. She closed her eyes for
a moment, the better to consider the subject, and when she opened them,
the picture, the easel, the palette, and brushes had disappeared, and
she was standing in a garden where roses and lilies and red carnations
were growing, and fountains were sending up cool white spray. The Red
Emperor was there also.

And beside Paulina there stood Peter himself.

"I am my proper size again," said he. "It's been all a very wonderful
journey, and I've seen wonderful sights."

Paulina kissed him, saying--

  "Peter, let us happy be
    With one another;
  Henceforth be content with me,
    Little brother."

"Of course he must be content," said the Red Emperor severely.

"Of course he must," echoed the Wind, "if not, I shall whirl him away to
the top of a mountain."


"Of course he must," said two mannikins who suddenly appeared in sight,
rolling and pushing along what seemed to Paulina to be the half of a
large orange.

Not that it was anything of the sort.

      "It's a casket of gold
      From the caverns old,
  Where the dwarfs are working for ever.
      All that it doth hold,
      If you should be told,
  Oh! would you believe it? no, never!"

And one of the mannikins tumbled over it, and turned somersaults, and
rolled it up to Paulina.

And then the Wind whispered very softly to her--

  "Little maid, I told you true,
  Mannikins in red and blue
  Would bring something good for you
  If the painting well were done
  Ere the setting of the sun."

"Yes, yes," said Paulina; "it's all true; but the painting's gone, and
it all seems like a dream; and I've got Peter back, and his ankle's
well. But how did he get his blue suit?"

But that neither the Red Emperor nor the Wind told her; neither did
Peter, for when she asked him the question he only said--

"I don't know!"




The Natural Bridge, Virginia.

The two greatest natural curiosities--if one may use the phrase in this
connection--in North America are the Falls of Niagara and the Natural
Bridge in Virginia. A picture of the latter will be seen in our new
heading. It is an arch cut, so to speak, out of the rock, and stands
upwards of two hundred feet above the ground below. How it originated
has been a kind of puzzle, some urging that the rock was hollowed by an
earthquake, others that the bridge is the result of the action of water.
Unfortunately for these conjectures no ruins are to be seen beneath. The
bridge has formed the scene of several hair-breadth escapes.

The Colossus of Rhodes.

The city of Rhodes is situated on the island of that name, which lies
some twelve miles from the coast of Asia Minor. It was founded four
hundred years before the birth of Christ, and, among other things, was
noted for its Colossus--pictured in our heading--which was reckoned to
be one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. The Colossus was a
gigantic statue in brass of Helios, or the Sun, and stood at the
entrance of one of the ports. It was 105 feet high. According to one
belief--which, however, is now abandoned--the Colossus bestrode the
harbour, one foot resting upon a pier at one side, the other upon a pier
at the other, while the figure itself was so lofty that ships in full
sail could pass underneath the outstretched legs. Sixty years after it
was built it was thrown down by an earthquake.

Chinese Palanquins.

A favourite mode of travelling in China and other countries of the East
is by palanquin, which is a kind of wooden box, about twice as long as
it is high, with shutters and other appliances to make it comfortable.
The palanquin is carried by porters--just as in the drawing given above.
The vehicle is furnished inside with a mattress--on which the traveller
reclines--and cushions, and is also fitted with shelves and drawers.
Travelling is continued day and night. There are different kinds of
palanquins, some resembling the sedan chairs that used to be fashionable
in England.

The Flamingo.

This queer bird--also shown in the heading above--is found in the
tropical and temperate regions of the globe, and frequents marshes and
shallow lakes. In deep water flamingoes swim, but they prefer to wade,
for then they can bend down their necks and rake the bottom with their
peculiar-shaped bill in search of food. Flocks of these birds, with
their red plumage, when seen from a distance, have been likened by
observers to troops of soldiers.

"God's Providence House."

The house represented in the new heading, and bearing the above quaint
name, is situated in Chester, a city famed for its picturesque old
buildings. It is built of timber and brick, and upon the beam supporting
the second floor is carved "God's Providence is mine Inheritance, 1652."
It is supposed that Chester was visited with plague in that year, and
that this house was the only one which escaped the pestilence. Hence
arose the pious inscription of the grateful tenant.

An Ancient Monster.

Once upon a time, so long ago that I cannot tell when, strange creatures
lived on land and sea. They have all died out now, but their bones are
sometimes found in a fossil state, and by means of them scientific men
have been able to construct, or piece together, as it were, these
old-world monsters. You will see the picture of one of them in the new
Pocket-book heading. It is called by the long name "Ichthyosaurus"--a
Greek term meaning "fish-reptile." This animal was a huge creature
something like a crocodile, with four paddles and a tail, and its native
element was water. It had a large head with big eyes, and its jaws were
well filled with terrible teeth. It possessed features in common with
fishes as well as with reptiles, and hence its compound name.

Arabs of the Soudan.

Little folk who read their newspapers know something of the dauntless
courage of the Soudanese Arabs. The Soudan is a desert of vast extent,
partly bordering upon the boundaries of Upper Egypt. It is inhabited by
wandering Arabs and some other peoples. They are, most of them, quite
fearless, and even when opposed to British forces have shown a courage
worthy of their foes. Armed--like the one drawn in our heading--with
spear and shield--for but a few of them owned rifles and fired them
unskilfully--they rushed again and again right up to the serried ranks
of the British soldiers. These Arabs have several vices, but no one has
denied them the highest degree of bravery.

A Lesson in Charity.

It is related of the late Mr. Peter Cooper, an American benefactor, that
he was one day watching the pupils in the portrait class connected with
the Women's Art School of Cooper Institute. About thirty pupils were
engaged in drawing likenesses of the same model from various points of
view--some in profile, some full face, some nearer and others farther
from the light, and so forth. After studying the scene for a while Mr.
Cooper said, "Such a sight as this should be a lesson in charity, when
we perceive how the same person may be so different, according to the
way he is looked at by various people."

The Busy Bee.

Few little folk have any idea of the labour that bees have to expend in
the gathering of honey. Here is a calculation, which will show how
industrious the "busy" bee really is. Let us suppose the insects confine
their attentions to clover-fields. Each head of clover contains about
sixty separate flower-tubes, in each of which is a portion of sugar not
exceeding the five-hundredth part of a grain. Therefore, before one
grain of sugar can be got, the bee must insert its proboscis into 500
clover-tubes. Now there are 7,000 grains in a pound, so that it follows
that 3,500,000 clover-tubes must be sucked in order to obtain but one
pound of honey.

The Dwarf Trees of China.

In China, that land of curiosities, may be seen oaks, chestnuts, pines,
and cedars growing in flowerpots, and fifty years old, but not twelve
inches high! They take the young plant, cut off its tap-root, and place
it in a basin of good soil kept well watered. Should it grow too
rapidly, they dig down and shorten in several roots. Year by year the
leaves grow smaller, and in course of time the trees become little
dwarfs, and are made pets of like canaries and dogs.

What is the "Lake School"?

In reading about poets and poetry, you will sometimes find an allusion
to the "Lake School." This was the term applied by a writer in the
_Edinburgh Review_ to Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge, because they
resided in the lake district of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and
because--though their works differed in many respects from each
other--they sought for inspiration in the simplicity of Nature rather
than in the study of other poets, or of the prevailing fashion.

The Cuckoo's Fag.

Tom Brown, as readers will remember, was in deep trouble at Rugby about
the fagging system in vogue during his "school-days." Many things have
happened since then, and amongst others a marked improvement in fagging.
The cruelty and insolence and selfishness of it have disappeared, and
the system itself will one day die out. As regards boys, so far so good.
Among some feathered folk, however, fagging flourishes in full vigour;
and so long as there are cuckoos so long will there be fags. Many birds
are imposed upon, one of the commonest victims being the hedge-sparrow.
For days a sparrow has been watched while it fed a hungry complaining
intruder. It used to fly on the cuckoo's back and then, standing on its
head and leaning downwards, give it a caterpillar. The tit-bit having
been greedily snatched and devoured, the cuckoo would peck fiercely at
its tiny attendant--bidding it, as it were, fetch more food and not be
long about it. Wordsworth tells us in a famous line that "the child is
father of the man," and no apter illustration of this truth could be
found than the cuckoo. Let us trace his early life history, and to begin
with, peep into, say, a wagtail's nest. It contains a few eggs all
seemingly alike. In due time they are hatched, and you at once notice
that one of the baby birds is quite different from the rest. It is
blind, naked, yellowish, and ugly, and ere long will prove itself a
monster. How did it come to be born there? Well, you must know that it
is a young cuckoo.

[Illustration: THE CUCKOO'S FAG. (_See p. 52_.)]

Now, its mother has several bad habits. For instance, she does not make
a nest, but lays her egg on the ground, and then places it in a nest
where there are others like the one she has laid. She is cunning, you
see, as well as lazy and cruel; for she has, like a thief in the night,
introduced into an innocent home a real tyrant. The young cuckoo soon
reveals its true character. It begins by edging the wee wagtails to the
side of the nest and then turning them out one by one. Of course the
little things thus thrown over fall to the ground and die, but even if
some kind person were to restore them to their home, they would be again
bundled out in the same brutal fashion. Having got rid of the children
of the rightful owners of the nest the ruthless sneak speedily cries for
food; and the parents of the ejected birds actually tend this glutton
with the greatest diligence. The young cuckoo is ever gaping for food,
and for weeks the poor foster-parents are kept hard at work to supply
its hunger. Why do they do so? Probably because they regard it as one of
their own offspring, though they may have a sort of instinctive notion
that there's something wrong; and so the weary round of fagging goes on
until the cuckoo takes itself off to start life on its own account. So
greedy, lazy, and thoroughly selfish, however, is this bird that after
it has outgrown its nest, and is quite able to provide for itself, it
will still look to its industrious comrades for its meals.

The Greatest Whirlpool in the World.

Off the coast of Norway, close to the Lofoden Islands, the current runs
so strong north and south for six hours and then in the opposite
direction for a similar period, that the water is thrown into tremendous
whirls. This is the far-famed Maelström, or whirling-stream. The
whirlpool is most active at high and low tide, and when the winds are
contrary the disturbance of the sea is so great that few boats can live
in it. In ordinary circumstances, however, ships can sail right across
the Maelström without much danger, and the tales about the vessels and
whales which have been engulfed in the stream are more or less pure

The Dog and the Telephone.

An intelligent dog was recently discovered wandering about the streets
of an American city, by a gentleman who knew it. He at once asked its
master by means of the telephone whether he had lost his dog. The reply
came "Yes; have you seen it?" To which the further instruction was sent,
"Suppose you call him through the telephone." Accordingly the dog was
lifted up and the ear-piece placed at its ear. "Jack! Jack!" shouted its
owner, whereupon Jack, recognising the voice, began at once to yelp most
vigorously, and licked the telephone in a friendly way, evidently
thinking that its master was inside the machine.


(_See Coloured Frontispiece._)

  We played together on the sands,
    We roamed the moors for heather,
  We climbed the cliffs with clasping hands
    In the wild and windy weather;
  And sweet were my little queen's commands
    As we merrily played together.

  Her eyes were blue as the limpid sea
    When the morning sun is on it,
  Her locks were bright as the corn might be
    With the blaze of noon upon it,
  And her scarlet cap was a charm to me,
    But her laughing lips outshone it.

  So fearless was the little maid,
    Not a danger could astound her,
  With her bucket and her busy spade,
    On the sea-bound shore I found her,
  Of the winds and the waves all unafraid
    While the sea-gulls floated round her.

  And many a house of sand we reared,
    The walls with shells adorning,
  While boats our happy playground neared,
    And breakers gave us warning
  That though we neither paused nor feared,
    All would be gone next morning.

A. M.


The "Little Folks" Humane Society.


The Editor desires to inform his Readers that the names of Officers and
Members of The LITTLE FOLKS Humane Society will be printed in the
Magazine as usual during the next six months, but that after the present
Volume is completed, and when Fifty Thousand Names have appeared, the
publication of the Lists will be discontinued. As, however, the
operations of the Society will still be carried on, and some accounts of
its progress will from time to time be given in LITTLE FOLKS, the Editor
hopes to receive, as hitherto, the "promises" of all Children who are
willing to join; and, on receipt of these, their names will be inscribed
on the Register of the Society, and Certificates of Officership and
Membership also forwarded to them if stamped addressed envelopes be
enclosed. (The number of Officers and Members now on the Register is
about 49,500). The Editor is aware that in certain instances intending
Officers find that it takes many months to complete the list of fifty
names, which it is necessary to collect in order to become an Officer,
and he thinks it probable that the total of Fifty Thousand referred to
above will be reached before some of his Readers have been able to
obtain this number of "promises" from other children. To meet this
difficulty, and in order that the efforts on behalf of the Society of
such children may be rewarded just as they would have been had the
publication of names in LITTLE FOLKS been longer continued, the small
book and medal hitherto given to Officers will still be awarded; though
in all cases it will be necessary, in sending up the fifty "promises,"
to enclose a Certificate from a Parent, Teacher, or other responsible
person, stating that the list had been commenced previous to the
appearance of this notice in LITTLE FOLKS. The book and medal will not
in future be awarded to any readers other than those just referred
to--that is, those whose lists of fifty names are in actual progress at
the present time (July 1st, 1884).


_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._

    41266 Herbert Buxton                     14
    41267 C. M. Balfour                      10
    41268 J. L. Balfour                       7
    41269 C. W. Balfour                      18
    41270 R. H. Pimm                         13
    41271 P. H. Marquand                      9
    41272 Chas. H. Mitchell                   9
    41273 Thomas Halsall                     11
    41274 J. M. Marquand                     13
    41275 Joseph Reeves                      12
    41276 A. B. Marquand                     11
    41277 W. Hodgkinson                      13
    41278 Arthur Handley                     11
    41279 F. T. Freeland                     10
    41280 T. L. Allkins                      14
    41281 H. Felthouse                       12
    41282 F. Nugent                          13
    41283 Edgar B. Hulland                   15
    41284 Kate Hodgkinson                    16
    41285 George C. Britton                   7
    41286 Winnie Grayston                     6
    41287 Eddie C. Britton                    4
    41288 Mary Gillman                       13
    41289 Mathor Gilman                       9
    41290 Fanny Darlington                   20
    41291 Elsie Sanders                      13
    41292 Mary A. Boonham                    11
    41293 Elizbth. A. Benson                 11
    41294 H. L. Franklin                     12
    41295 Eliz. A. Wright                     9
    41296 L. F. Wileman                      12
    41297 Mary S. Harris                      8
    41298 Harry Smith                        11
    41299 Wm. A. Franklin                    10
    41300 K. A. Minton                        9
    41301 A. Henderson                       16
    41302 Mary Henderson                     15
    41303 Cecil Henderson                    11
    41304 Ethel Norton                        6
    41305 Mabel Norton                        5
    41306 Matilda Norton                      4
    41307 Herbert Hare                       12
    41308 Clara Norton                       13
    41309 EDITH E. MORRISON, Wakefield
    41310 Kate Milsom                        11
    41311 Harriet Hardman                    11
    41312 Fredk. C. Brown                     8
    41313 Mary A. Dean                       13
    41314 Sarah Hirst                        20
    41315 Louisa Brunton                     12
    41316 Eliza Blackburn                    17
    41317 Cissy Scholes                      17
    41318 Annie Goodridge                    18
    41319 Polly Scholes                       9
    41320 Flornc. A. Scholey                 15
    41321 Charles Scholey                    11
    41322 John Scholey                       19
    41323 Charltt. Cartridge                 15
    41324 Annie Allcock                      11
    41325 Bertha Tingle                      15
    41326 Dora Brown                         12
    41327 Annie Poppleton                    16
    41328 Lizzie Poppleton                   14
    41329 H. Poppleton                        7
    41330 William Garnett                    17
    41331 Annie Garnett                      14
    41332 Eliza Garnett                      12
    41333 Thos. H. Garnett                   10
    41334 Florence Garnett                    7
    41335 Lizzie Priestley                   17
    41336 Annie Jaques                       17
    41337 Mary H. Copley                     10
    41338 E. Worthington                     14
    41339 Kate Bancroft                      12
    41340 Maud Gosnay                        11
    41341 Bennie Harris                       9
    41342 Ada Richardson                     12
    41343 Ada Mellor                         19
    41344 Amy Sadler                         14
    41345 Kate Sadler                         8
    41346 Beatrice Sadler                    12
    41347 Alice Sadler                       13
    41348 Mary W. Hein                        8
    41349 Lucy M. Hein                       10
    41350 Ellen L. Hein                      12
    41351 Victor Hartley                      9
    41352 Eleanor Brown                      20
    41353 Mabel Walton                       12
    41354 Mary Bostock                       11
    41355 Margaret Salkeld                   16
    41356 E. M. Morrison                      8
    41357 R. P. Morrison                     11
    41358 Gertrude E. Prest                   9
    41359 Archbld. W. Prest                   7
    41360 JAS. W. RILEY, Derby               16
    41361 Wm. Wibberley                      11
    41362 Joseph Wibberley                   13
    41363 William Smee                        8
    41364 William Yeomans                    11
    41365 Harry Wibberley                     9
    41366 Albert E. Riley                    10
    41367 Arthur Copestick                   10
    41368 John Lovel                          9
    41369 John Warde                         14
    41370 Henry Castledine                   13
    41371 William Hatton                      9
    41372 W. H. Haynes                       12
    41373 William Matthews                   10
    41374 William Smith                       9
    41375 Christopher Shaw                   12
    41376 Walter Green                       11
    41377 William Garratt                     8
    41378 Arthur Wibberley                   11
    41379 Charles M. Smee                    12
    41380 Arthur Smee                         9
    41381 A. Carmicheal                      12
    41382 Alfred Bunting                     12
    41383 Harry Bunting                      16
    41384 Frank Bunting                      14
    41385 H. Wibberley                       16
    41386 Clara Wibberley                    14
    41387 Lizzie Wibberley                   18
    41388 Walter Lester                      13
    41389 Arthur Pearson                     12
    41390 Mary Wadkinson                     14
    41391 Albert Lester                      11
    41392 Walter Pearson                     10
    41393 Nelly Carmicheal                    7
    41394 Annie Green                        12
    41395 Lotty Green                         7
    41396 Edith Wagstaff                      8
    41397 Henry Mellor                       11
    41398 Frank Oliver                       10
    41399 Charles Yeomans                    11
    41400 Maria Street                       12
    41401 Thomas Bennett                     11
    41402 Elizabeth Hunt                     14
    41403 Annie Brailsford                   12
    41404 Edwd. Armytage                     10
    41405 John Wagstaff                       9
    41406 William Tarrey                      9
    41407 Bernard Riley                      12
    41408 William Foster                     11
    41409 James Dunmow                        9
    41410 Joseph Moorcroft                   11
    41411 G. M. Buchanan                     13
    41412 Effie D. Ward                       9
    41413 Eleanor L. Ward                    19
    41414 Minnie Griffin                     10
    41415 MAGGIE GOMME, Peckham Rye          14
    41416 Nellie Salmon                      12
    41417 Edwin Westall                      15
    41418 Alice Watts                        12
    41419 Mary Smith                         11
    41420 Mabel Cane                         16
    41421 Percy K. Lucke                      9
    41422 Lucy Gomme                         18
    41423 Annie Gomme                        14
    41424 Edith Perks                         5
    41425 Vivian W. Russell                   9
    41426 Fredk. G. Perks                     7
    41427 Frederick Cripps                   13
    41428 M. O. Bigg-Wither                  14
    41429 Louie Rogers                       18
    41430 Amy King                           12
    41431 M. F. Lankester                    11
    41432 Daniel Bott                        12
    41433 Edith Bott                         14
    41434 Arthur Hughes                      11
    41435 G. E. Hughes                        4
    41436 Keturah Hughes                      7
    41437 Mabel Hicks                        14
    41438 Emily M. Noad                      15
    41439 Annie Jewell                        9
    41440 John St. A. Jewell                  8
    41441 Richd. H. Vernon                   12
    41442 Alice Shrimpton                    14
    41443 Clara Shrimpton                    16
    41444 Ethel Davis                         8
    41445 Edgar S. Oakes                     12
    41446 Mary Cheetham                      10
    41447 Blanche Vernon                     14
    41448 Amy Ormston                        19
    41449 Kezia Saunders                     17
    41450 Clara Clements                     17
    41451 Rose F. Kempe                      15
    41452 Violet Jewell                       6
    41453 Alfred Harris                      12
    41454 Madeliene Oakes                    10
    41455 William Lane                        8
    41456 Nellie Lane                         8
    41457 Charlotte Westall                  12
    41458 Henry Johnson                      10
    41459 Robert R. Jewell                   11
    41460 Margt. M. Fane                     13
    41461 Elizabeth Westall                  14
    41462 Annie Cheetham                      8
    41463 Florrie Holford                    10
    41464 Arthur P. Kempe                    12
    41465 Queenie Keene                       8
    41466 John L. Perman                     16
    41467 Jessie Bott                        10
    41468 Annie Westall                      18
    41469 Frederick Clark                    16
    41470 Reginald Vernon                    12
    41471 Morris S. Kempe                    17
    41472 Ada B. Clements                     7
    41473 Jane Clements                      19
    41474 Emily Clements                     18
    41475 Fredk. B. Kempe                    13
    41476 V. H. C. Russell                    7
    41477 Mabel H. Tate                      15
    41478 Florence K. Oakes                  14
    41479 Florrie Rogers                     17
    41480 Herbert Elshib                     14
    41481 Mabel Vernon                       16
    41482 R. J. Paterson                     13
    41483 Nellie M. Beare                    11
    41484 H. W. Fortesquieu                   7
    41485 Beatrice Oakes                     16
    41486 K. Fortesquieu                      9
    41487 Castle Cane                        14
    41488 Edgar T. Tuck                       7
    41489 Lucy M. Burd                       11
    41490 Miriam A. Graves                   14
    41491 Edith M. Lamb                      10
    41492 K. P. Gourley                      14
    41493 Sarah A. Burr                      18
    41494 W. E. Barker                       14
    41495 H. M. Jones                        16
    41496 Mary G. Crane                      12
    41497 Leina C. Leake                     15
    41498 Peter Hope                         16
    41499 George Whillians                    8
    41500 A. P. Whillians                    11
    41501 John Michie                        16
    41502 William Tinlin                     12
    41503 Frances Turner                     11
    41504 George Hall                        14
    41505 Robert Tinlin                      15
    41506 Maggie Tinlin                      13
    41507 Maggie Laing                       14
    41508 Lucy E. Fife                       16
    41509 Eleanor May                        17
    41510 Harriette Oliver                   14
    41511 George Phillips                    12
    41512 Gertrd. Deighton                   14
    41513 Edith Barrett                      18
    41514 Louie Man                          14
    41515 Jessie Rogers                      14
    41516 Ellen Jeffery                      12
    41517 Edith E. Phillips                  14
    41518 Edith E. Sole                       5
    41519 Ruth Burch                         10
    41520 Annie Gambrell                     10
    41521 Rose J. Burch                       6
    41522 Alice Burch                         8
    41523 Liddia Burch                        5
    41524 Charltte. Attwood                   8
    41525 William Sole                       11
    41526 Alfred Sole                         8
    41527 Edward J. Sole                      8
    41528 Thomas Griggs                       9
    41529 Ellen Gambrill                     10
    41530 Arthur Taylor                       9
    41531 Kate Sole                           3
    41532 Harry Hooker                       10
    41533 Sarah J. Sole                       6
    41534 Elizabeth Hooker                    4
    41535 Ella R. Sole                        9
    41536 ARTHUR CAMPBELL, Wigan             10
    41537 Margaret Newell                    15
    41538 Amy H. Gerrard                     17
    41539 Laura Hill                         10
    41540 Minnie Woods                       16
    41541 Flora M. Dewar                     17
    41542 M. Henderson                       13
    41543 Mary R. Dewar                      15
    41544 Jennie Dewar                       11
    41545 Mary Polding                       14
    41546 Annie Hurst                         8
    41547 Lizzie Holmes                      10
    41548 M. A. Holmes                       14
    41549 Annie Aspinall                     13
    41550 M. A. F. Gerrard                   14
    41551 Annie Holmes                       12
    41552 W. L. Brown                         7
    41553 F. J. Simm                          8
    41554 I. D. P. Smith                      7
    41555 Egbert Green                       14
    41556 Robert Morris                      13
    41557 Wm. H. Ashton                      10
    41558 O. H. Platt                        11
    41559 Jas. H. T. Evans                   11
    41560 W H. Litherland                    13
    41561 Brice Dean                         14
    41562 T. H. Winstanley                   12
    41563 John A. Dewar                       9
    41564 Richard J. Owen                     9
    41565 Herbert Hill                       16
    41566 Pryce A. Owen                       6
    41567 Sydney Hill                        12
    41568 Kenyon Pierson                     11
    41569 Alice Swift                        14
    41570 Emma Ward                          10
    41571 Jemima Povey                       10
    41572 Eva Skepper                        11
    41573 Ada Skepper                         6
    41574 Annie Barton                        9
    41575 Mary Bycroft                       10
    41576 Henrietta Wray                     10
    41577 John Porters                        9
    41578 Geo. Richardson                     9
    41579 Wm. Middleton                       9
    41580 Mary Humberson                      9
    41581 Charles Gunnis                      8
    41582 Edith Smith                        10
    41583 Fanny Hudson                        8
    41584 Eliza Castledine                   16
    41585 Edith Campbell                     10
    41586 Fred Campbell                       8
    41587 S. D. Collingwood                  13
    41588 ANNIE B. FARMER, Nottingham        14
    41589 Percy Smith                         7
    41590 Emily Goodson                      16
    41591 Gerty Stevenson                     8
    41592 Sarah A. Goodson                   14
    41593 B. E. Baggaley                     10
    41594 Percy Creswell                      7
    41595 George Creswell                    20
    41596 Alick Pye                          15
    41597 Addison Pearson                    16
    41598 Louisa Wilson                      17
    41599 Maggie Creswell                    16
    41600 H. Hazzledine                       7
    41601 Gertrude Moore                     12
    41602 Percy Freeman                       5
    41603 Emily Brittle                       9
    41604 L. Waldegrave                      16
    41605 William Hunt                        9
    41606 Sydney Freeman                      7
    41607 William Tillson                    16
    41608 Hugh Smith                          6
    41609 Grace Packer                        8
    41610 Thos. A. Cooper                    16
    41611 John Sheavyn                       13
    41612 Essie Lawson                       12
    41613 A. Creswell                        17
    41614 Geo. H. B. Hay                     15
    41615 L. L. Bright                       19
    41616 William Pye                        13
    41617 Rosa W. Jones                      20
    41618 F. G. Bourne                       10
    41619 Isabella R. Brady                   8
    41620 Mary H. Brady                      13
    41621 Edith Creswell                     12
    41622 Alfred H. Brady                    14
    41623 John A. Pearson                    18
    41624 Stanley Bourne                      7
    41625 Alice Felkin                       11
    41626 Connie Smith                        9
    41627 Albert Dobson                      17
    41628 Lina M. Bourne                      9
    41629 Ada M. Lea                         14
    41630 Herbert Lea                         6
    41631 Edith M. Sellars                    9
    41632 Sarah L. Lea                       14
    41633 Mary Willby                        17
    41634 Bertha A. Goold                    11
    41635 Morton B. Paton                    11
    41636 Blanche Sellars                     9
    41637 Alfred P. Williams                  9
    41638 Lottie Lawson                      11
    41639 Amy Lawson                          9
    41640 Joseph Gregory                     11
    41641 GEORGINA M. CALLUM, Tadcaster      10
    41642 Frances E. Callum                   9
    41643 Percy Thornton                     12
    41644 B. M. Hullay                       12
    41645 Annie M. Horn                      17
    41646 Edith R. Horn                      11
    41647 Nellie Carter                      15
    41648 William Howell                     12
    41649 Mary Howell                         9
    41650 S. A. Howell                        3
    41651 Annie Newlove                      11
    41652 Lucy Newlove                        7
    41653 I. Newlove                         14
    41654 Minnie Otterburn                    9
    41655 Gertrd. Otterburn                  12
    41656 Esther Wright                       8
    41657 Sabina Brook                        8
    41658 John Townsley                      12
    41659 Sarah J. Dodd                      10
    41660 Mary A. Morson                      7
    41661 Carrie Arch                         8
    41662 Emmeline Arch                       9
    41663 Nellie Halliday                     7
    41664 Unis Coates                         7
    41665 Alice Smith                         8
    41666 Emily Muff                          7
    41667 Harvie Hirst                       13
    41668 G. Hirst                           15
    41669 William Southey                    15
    41670 R. Haliday                          5
    41671 Emily Glover                       13
    41672 Florrie Bramham                     8
    41673 Fanny Nutter                        7
    41674 Elizabeth Lam                      11
    41675 Etty Atkinson                      15
    41676 Alice Colie                         9
    41677 M. A. Colie                         7
    41678 Mary A. Poulter                     8
    41679 M. A. Wilsh                        11
    41680 Louisa Clark                        9
    41681 Mary FitzPatrick                   11
    41682 M. J. Clark                        10
    41683 Albert Marrow                      10
    41684 T. Clarkson                        12
    41685 R. Brigges                         11
    41686 F. Stevenson                        9
    41687 Cundal Stevenson                   12
    41688 P. N. Hirst                         9
    41689 Lilian Harrison                    10
    41690 S. Harrison                         7
    41691 Herbert Cobb                       14
    41692 Louis Green                         7
    41693 Arthur Braine                       8
    41694 Edith H. Cobb                       9
    41695 Evaline H. Burkitt                  7
    41696 Ida L. Burkitt                     11
    41697 Laura C. Burkitt                    8
    41698 C. A. L. Burkitt                   10
    41699 Percy V. Haynes                    12
    41700 H. L. Osborne                      11
    41701 Claudine L. West                   16
    41702 Ellie Trimble                      13
    41703 Emily West                         13
    41704 William West                       14
    41705 Lucy Ardern                        13
    41706 Jessie Trimble                     12
    41707 George Upjohns                      8
    41708 Maryann Harris                      8
    41709 Frank Thornton                     16
    41710 ALBERT ABBOTT, Adlington (Lanc.)   12
    41711 H. Hargreaves                      12
    41712 R. Halliwell                        7
    41713 E. V. Flitcroft                     7
    41714 Mary Loman                          8
    41715 M. Hargreaves                       4
    41716 M. A. Hargreaves                   10
    41717 James Thorne                       13
    41718 John H. Thorne                      6
    41719 Ada Thorne                          5
    41720 M. A. Atherton                      8
    41721 Harold Birch                        6
    41722 Betsy Aspinall                      7
    41723 Elizbth. Aspinall                  11
    41724 Maria Haign                         9
    41725 Mary Eddisford                     10
    41726 Walter Adamson                     11
    41727 Walter Jolly                       11
    41728 John Jolly                          9
    41729 Thos. Crawshaw                     13
    41730 Geo. Derbyshire                     7
    41731 Joseph H. Smith                    10
    41732 George Smith                        9
    41733 Jas. Nightingale                    8
    41734 W. Billington                      12
    41735 Chas. Billington                    6
    41736 Youth Crook                        10
    41737 Robert Brown                       16
    41738 Richard S. Bury                    10
    41739 Alice Marsh                         8
    41740 G. H. Nightingale                  11
    41741 William Pearson                    10
    42742 M. A. Makinson                     12
    41743 Mary Reynolds                      12
    41744 E. A. Kenyon                        9
    41745 John Kenyon                         5
    41746 Alice Sharples                     10
    41747 E. A. Harwood                      11
    41748 Joseph Taylor                      13
    41749 Violet Roberts                     12
    41750 James Yates                         8
    41751 Thomas Bridge                      14
    41752 E. A. Cowell                        8
    41753 M. E. Harrison                      9
    41754 W. Ormiston                        11
    41755 Emily Hardman                       9
    41756 Jane Forshaw                        9
    41757 Henry Parker                        8
    41758 Edward Ward                        10
    41759 Thomas Fielding                    12
    41760 Chas. Halliwell                    10
    41761 James Stewart                      10
    41762 Emma Stewart                        7
    41763 JAS. D. HAWORTH, Bolton            11
    41764 William Dell                        9
    41765 Jas. Hodgkinson                    11
    41766 Annie Pearce                       11
    41767 Arthur Crompton                     5
    41768 Geo. Warburton                     10
    41769 Jane A. Lipkott                    12
    41770 Peter H. Lipkott                   13
    41771 M. A. Warburton                    20
    41772 H. Warburton                       18
    41773 M. H. Windsor                      17
    41774 E. Hodgkinson                      16
    41775 J. Entrohistle                     11
    41776 George Scholes                     11
    41777 John P. Brierly                     9
    41778 Frank S. Lomax                      7
    41779 James Lomax                         6
    41780 Emily Taylor                       12
    41781 William Taylor                     10
    41782 J. Greenhalgh                       9
    41783 R. Pendlebury                      11
    41784 J. Norris                          10
    41785 W. Wood                            10
    41786 T. Mather                           6
    41787 A. Pendlebury                       7
    41788 John Wood                          11
    41789 R. Pendlebury                       9
    41790 E. Bennett                         16
    41791 Arthur Walsh                       13
    41792 Arthur Gregory                     12
    41793 Harold Jackson                     10
    41794 Joseph Sutton                      10
    41795 Samuel Rostron                     10
    41796 George Blagg                       12
    41797 M. F. Graveson                     11
    41798 A. W. Mardsley                      8
    41799 James Pearson                      10
    41800 Fred Duxbury                       11
    41801 James Hurst                         8
    41802 John Kingley                       14
    41803 James Fairhurst                    12
    41804 Joseph Flitcraft                   10
    41805 Frederick Dell                      5
    41806 Bertie Scott                        7
    41807 F. Harper                           8
    41808 Albert Whittaker                   12
    41809 Bertha Murphy                      13
    41810 F. A. Murphy                       12
    41811 W. Whittaker                       10
    41812 Thos. H. Pilling                   14
    41813 A. H. Horrobin                     10
    41814 Edith Hammett                      11
    41815 R. C. N. Bodily                    14
    41816 T. R. E. Kendall                   14
    41817 H. A. Ayton                        12
    41818 F. M. Stokes                       13
    41819 Edith Welsh                        14
    41820 Herbt. C. Welsh                    11
    41821 Percy E. Welsh                      9
    41822 Cecil A. Welsh                      7
    41823 Lilian M. Welsh                     5
    41824 Pierre David                       10
    41825 Alice M. A. Grum                    9
    41826 Violet Dumergue                     8
    41827 E. M. Dumergue                     12
    41828 Edith Hinchliffe                   11
    41829 JAS. C. CLEMENTS, Arnold (Notts)   10
    41830 A. W. Clements                      7
    41831 H. M. Clements                      4
    41832 Samuel Surgey                      10
    41833 Arthur Pearson                     14
    41834 Arthur Greaves                     10
    41835 William Gretton                    11
    41836 John H. Casterton                  10
    41837 Sarah E. Lee                        6
    41838 A. Hopkinson                       11
    41839 Hedley Spray                        8
    41840 William Moore                       9
    41841 Annie E. Smith                      7
    41842 James Lee                          11
    41843 Ernest Spray                       14
    41844 Arthur Spray                       12
    41845 Herbert Spray                      10
    41846 Mary E. Spray                       6
    41847 William Baguley                     8
    41848 Samuel Castleton                    9
    41849 William Castleton                   7
    41850 Walter Swift                       10
    41851 Albert Greaves                      8
    41852 Edwd. Parkinson                     3
    41853 Arthur Smith                        5
    41854 Florence Beckett                    8
    41855 Sarah A. Wayte                      7
    41856 George Beckett                     13
    41857 Mary E. Kirk                        5
    41858 Emma Woodcock                      17
    41859 Elizbth. Durrant                   13
    41860 George A. Wayte                    10
    41861 Annie Parkinson                    16
    41862 John Parkinson                      5
    41863 Ada Gretton                         9
    41864 Parker Peck                         9
    41865 Arthur Peck                        10
    41866 Arthur Ward                        12
    41867 Edith Ward                         11
    41868 Isaac Morris                       10
    41869 Gertrude Ward                      10
    41870 B. Skellington                     10
    41871 John Skellington                    8
    41872 Geo. Skellington                    5
    41873 Arthr. Skellington                 12
    41874 Stephen Pinder                      9
    41875 Arthur Baguley                      9
    41876 Walter Wood                        11
    41877 Ellen Parkinson                    14
    41878 Elizab. Parkinson                   7
    41879 W. H. Ward                         14
    41880 GERTRUDE E. BALES, Norwich         12
    41881 Wm. M. Wright                      10
    41882 Rose E. Bishop                     13
    41883 Percy W. Mitchell                   7
    41884 Laura G. Nudd                       8
    41885 A. S. Newhouse                      9
    41886 Charles Bishop                      7
    41887 Donald Shields                      5
    41888 Eleanor Bush                        8
    41889 Herbert G. Smith                   10
    41890 Henry Thompson                      9
    41891 James Sherly                        7
    41892 Edith M. Nudd                      10
    41893 Horace Browne                       8
    41894 Frederick Daines                   10
    41895 Sydney Betts                       16
    41896 Maud H. Sluman                      7
    41897 Frank Hines                        10
    41898 Gertrude S. Betts                   8
    41899 Ernest T. Hook                      8
    41900 May E. Hawes                        8
    41901 Edith M. Ayers                      6
    41902 Harry J. Parker                     7
    41903 Ellen Barber                       13
    41904 Maria Farrow                       11
    41905 Harriett Mildred                   13
    41906 Lenard J. Mobbs                     6
    41907 Anna Kidd                           8
    41908 Edith M. Betts                     15
    41909 E. C. Winearls                     18
    41910 L. A. Winearls                     16
    41911 Blanche Betts                      13
    41912 O. C. Hayward                       8
    41913 M. E. Waller                       10
    41914 Edith J. Downes                     8
    41915 A. M. McGowan                      11
    41916 Ellen Cartwright                   15
    41917 Maggie Porter                      14
    41918 Nellie Lewis                       13
    41919 Jessie Porter                      16
    41920 Eva M. Ward                        12
    41921 Julia Hunt                         15
    41922 Rosa M. Ward                       14
    41923 A. W. Loveless                     11
    41924 Alice M. Loveless                  12
    41925 F. A. Loveless                      6
    41926 Ellen H. Loveless                   9
    41927 Clara P. Dunnett                    9
    41928 Arthur F. Dunnett                  10
    41929 Annie G. Sayer                     10
    41930 Susanna A. Beech                   20
    41931 May G. Roy                         15
    41932 Harry R. Pearson                   16
    41933 Alfred E. Roy                      10
    41934 Catherine A. Roy                   15
    41935 C. A. M. Gregory                    9
    41936 F. G. Gregory                       7
    41937 L. M. Osborne                       8
    41938 Nellie Dawson                       7
    41939 Gertrude Dawson                     9
    41940 Harry L. Curl                      10
    41941 Percy Curl                          8
    41942 Kate Beatley                       10
    41943 Charles Beatley                     8
    41944 Annie H. Bone                      11
    41945 Laura Bone                         13
    41946 Mary A. Bales                      15
    41947 Mary Noverre                        6
    41948 Katie E. Cork                      12
    41949 Amelior G. Ayers                    9
    41950 R. H. Tunbridge                    14
    41951 Hugh C. Jagger                     11
    41952 F. F. C. Jagger                     8
    41953 F. J. Markham                      13
    41954 Arthur Corfield                     8
    41955 Arthur Corbett                     10
    41956 E. B. Hutton                       11
    41957 EDITH M. ELLIS, Shooter's Hill     14
    41958 C. Dempsey                         11
    41959 Fredk. C. Ellis                     6
    41960 Charlie Tutt                       11
    41961 Eily Bedford                        5
    41962 Emmie Barnes                       10
    41963 Lizzie Tutt                        17
    41964 George King                        15
    41965 Nellie King                        15
    41966 Georgina Dixon                     11
    41967 Isabella Purvis                    11
    41968 Mary Martin                         9
    41969 Edith Tucker                       11
    41970 Mary A. Fish                       20
    41971 Alice Hendley                      12
    41972 Kathln. G. Latter                  13
    41973 Kathleen Turtle                     7
    41974 Lilly Tutt                         14
    41975 James Tutt                          9
    41976 Clara E. Fisk                      17
    41977 Madoline Latter                    12
    41978 Martha Fisk                        13
    41979 Tulip Tutt                         12
    41980 Marion Turtle                       9
    41981 Thomas Fisk                         6
    41982 Herbert Martin                      8
    41983 Harriett Clark                     13
    41984 Rose Clark                         10
    41985 Ada Barrett                        13
    41986 Ada E. Ellis                       13
    41987 Ada Fisk                            9
    41988 Emily Fisk                          7
    41989 Frederick Fisk                     14
    41990 Jane Davies                        14
    41991 Isabella Purvis                    11
    41992 Janie Monument                      9
    41993 Edith Groves                       14
    41994 Annie Stace                        15
    41995 Louisa Monument                    14
    41996 Florrie Groves                     17
    41997 Jessie Purvis                       7
    41998 Alice Furlong                       9
    41999 Hilda M. Ellis                     12
    42000 E. Whittingham                      9
    42001 Maud Godfrey                       12
    42002 Mary Tricker                       12
    42003 Kathleen M. Ellis                  12
    42004 Henrietta Clark                     8
    42005 Freddy Imors                        7
    42006 Ada Jessop                          9
    42007 Amy Norgrove                       14
    42008 Harriet Selby                      15
    42009 Clara Lumley                       14
    42010 Emily Selby                        15
    42011 Margt. A. Keary                    12
    42012 Pauline Keary                      18
    42013 Ann R. Dawson                      11
    42014 Maud B. Deacon                     13
    42015 Edith I. Deacon                     8
    42016 Fredk. Deacon                      10
    42017 Edith K. Deacon                    11
    42018 Annie B. Colman                     8
    42019 Chas. Boardman                     14
    42020 Kate Boardman                      12
    42021 Florence Wood                      14
    42022 NELLIE BURDOCK, Wisbech            17
    42023 Lottie Dann                        10
    42024 Florence Holland                   15
    42025 E. Farrow                          11
    42026 Alice Nichols                      15
    42027 F. A. Humphrey                     15
    42028 Ethel Ferguson                      8
    42029 Rose Dann                          12
    42030 Annie Burdock                      19
    42031 Alice Clarke                       10
    42032 A. Walpole                         14
    42033 May Stanley                        15
    42034 Alfred J. Dann                     17
    42035 S. Osborn                          17
    42036 Charlotte Kemp                     16
    42037 Carrie Peatling                    11
    42038 F. Stockdale                       14
    42039 Cissie Mantegani                   10
    42040 Emmie Atkins                       13
    42041 E. Winters                         10
    42042 Nellie Grant                       12
    42043 E. Budge                           10
    42044 Emma Cobb                          11
    42045 Walter F. Gamble                   17
    42046 J. Budge                            9
    42047 Agnes Holland                      12
    42048 M. Oldfield                        17
    42049 F. Shipley                         11
    42050 J. Slanford                        10
    42051 A. Way                             10
    42052 Hattie Cox                         11
    42053 L. Tumacliffe                      13
    42054 Grace Tansley                      12
    42055 Maud Oldfield                      12
    42056 H. Candler                         19
    42057 J. Donaldson                       12
    42058 Charles W. Dann                     9
    42059 E. Way                              9
    42060 Annie Smith                        12
    42061 Lizzie Bray                        13
    42062 H. Winters                         14
    42063 J. Shipley                         14
    42064 Bell Woods                         15
    42065 Katie Burdock                       5
    42066 Alice Johnson                      18
    42067 R. Shipley                          9
    42068 Clara Barker                       13
    42069 Cissie Cross                        8
    42070 J. Plumb                            7
    42071 Alice F. E. Rainey                 11
    42072 Evelyn Barker                      13
    42073 Agnes Primrose                     14
    42074 EDITH LAWSON, Kensington, L.       14
    42075 Kate E. Ridgeon                    11
    42076 Ada M. Bond                        14
    42077 Eva M. Bond                        15
    42078 Edith Lavender                     11
    42079 I. A. Kinninmont                   18
    42080 Ethel M. Bond                      12
    42081 Bessie Lowson                      13
    42082 Maggie Lowson                      11
    42083 Kate E. Chiles                     10
    42084 Jeanie P. Dunlop                   10
    42085 F. L. Kinninmont                   13
    42086 George Beale                        7
    42087 Kate M. Hooker                     18
    42088 Edith Rayner                       15
    42089 Emily Clark                         9
    42090 George E. Clark                    16
    42091 Alice Scott                        14
    42092 Eva Scott                           8
    42093 Harriett L. Block                  16
    42094 Alice Watson                       10
    42095 Amy N. Smith                       12
    42096 Emily Weatherley                   20
    42097 M. A. Weatherley                   17
    42098 Margt. P. Watson                    8
    42099 Caroline Roper                     20
    42100 Marian Rayner                      18
    42101 Charlotte Bird                      8
    42102 J. Holmes                          13
    42103 Rose Brown                          8
    42104 Florry Waters                       7
    42105 H. Collingwood                      7
    42106 M. Hamlyn                          11
    42107 Laura Hamlyn                       10
    42108 Herbt. E. Adams                    13
    42109 Percy Adams                        11
    42110 Daisy Adams                        15
    42111 Milly H. Smith                     15
    42112 Janie Watson                       14
    42113 Lilian M. Orchard                  13
    42114 Bessie Webster                     11
    42115 Beatrice Webster                    8
    42116 Rachel Webster                     15
    42117 K. Bennett                         13
    42118 Edith Watson                        7
    42119 Maggie Scott                       17
    42120 Agnes H. Jeffrey                   14
    42121 Maggie Beattie                     12
    42122 Bella Cable                        14
    42123 Ethel I. Boldéro                   11
    42124 M. M. Boldéro                      14
    42125 M. P. Lawson                       12
    42126 Mena G. Lawson                     11
    42127 ALICE M. A. GREEN, Hounslow         7
    42128 Maude A. Green                      9
    42129 M. A. Williams                     18
    42130 R. M. Green                         5
    42131 W. C. Green                         4
    42132 Rose Ayres                          8
    42133 H. Ayers                            6
    42134 Sarah Smith                        15
    42135 C. Smith                           12
    42136 Emily Smith                         4
    42137 Annie Ayers                         9
    42138 Mary H. Davis                      11
    42139 L. Smith                            7
    42140 Thomas Smith                        8
    42141 Anny Hulsy                          8
    42142 Harriett Harvy                     11
    42143 Mary Caunin                         5
    42144 Wm. J. Plunkett                     7
    42145 Annie Plunkett                      9
    42146 Elizbth. Plunkett                   6
    42147 Ellen Binnfy                        5
    42148 J. H. Jennings                      6
    42149 A. Jones                            9
    42150 B. Jones                            6
    42151 J. Jones                            9
    42152 A. Martin                           9
    42153 E. Martin                          11
    42154 W. Martin                          14
    42155 Emily Harvy                         6
    42156 William Harvy                       9
    42157 Florence Vickery                    7
    42158 Lizzie Azle                         4
    42159 Thomas May                         13
    42160 Stephen May                         7
    42161 Fanny May                          16
    42162 Eliza Azle                          4
    42163 Fredk. Azle                         7
    42164 Emily Benham                        9
    42165 Emily Ayres                         8
    42166 Mary A. Ansell                     10
    42167 Rose R. Lenton                     11
    42168 E. Paynter                          7
    42169 W. Ansell                           6
    42170 Hannah White                       11
    42171 Thomas White                        7
    42172 T. Fairchild                       11
    42173 W. Turner                           8
    42174 Rose H. Turner                      6
    42175 C. Turner                          14
    42176 M. Turner                          11
    42177 Annie Hutchings                     8
    42178 H. Hutchings                       10
    42179 E. Hutchings                        6
    42180 A. Hutchings                        4
    42181 A. E. McCready                      9
    42182 H. McCready                         6
    42183 Wm. McCready                        4
    42184 Bessie Dawe                        14
    42185 Alice L. Loney                      8
    42186 Ralph E. Loney                     10
    42187 Annie L. Carver                    13
    42188 Edith M. Jones                     13
    42189 EMMA MAYNARD, Shepherd's Bh.       15
    42190 M. A. Maynard                      17
    42191 Edith Sanders                      19
    42192 Bertha Sanders                     18
    42193 Evelyn Goode                       15
    42194 Eliza Joslin                       16
    42195 Florence Bailey                     8
    42196 Alice Bailey                       16
    42197 Mary Bailey                        13
    42198 Mary Jackson                       17
    42199 Lillian R. Taviner                 13
    42200 Ada H. Leeming                     14
    42201 Wm. W. Stoney                      13
    42202 Geo. H. Stoney                     15
    42203 Emily Hird                         14
    42204 Isaac Hird                         12
    42205 Eliza Hird                         10
    42206 Mary Hird                          11
    42207 Mary Dormain                       11
    42208 James White                        14
    42209 Alice White                         9
    42210 R. H. Wright                       16
    42211 M. A. Farrington                   14
    42212 Ada Shepherd                       15
    42213 Lydia Canacott                     20
    42214 Edgar R. Dunman                     9
    42215 G. M. E. Clarke                     9
    42216 Ada James                          15
    42217 Clara James                        14
    42218 Marianne Singer                    15
    42219 Millicent Holden                   12
    42220 Alice M. Fruin                     14
    42221 M. Carpenter                       13
    42222 Annie E. Fruin                     16
    42223 Edith A. Fruin                     10
    42224 H. Fruin                           12
    42225 F. E. Fordham                      16
    42226 Kate Fordham                       14
    42227 Kate Fordham                       10
    42228 Alice M. Smith                     16
    42229 Jeanie Johnstone                   13
    42230 Nellie Beeson                      14
    42231 Lavinia Richards                   15
    42232 Florence Levey                     14
    42233 Agatha Cock                        13
    42234 K. Buckus                          13
    42235 Sarah A. Clifton                   16
    42236 Annie C. Fairy                      6
    42237 Earl Pettit                        11
    42238 Emily Pettit                       16
    42239 John W. Pettit                     14
    42240 Susan M. Pettit                     9
    42241 Emma Gaunt                         13
    42242 William Reeve                      14
    42243 Fanny E. Hopkins                   14
    42244 Lottie Taviner                      7
    42245 R. E. Anderson                     13
    42246 Caroline Hobden                     7
    42247 Edith Dawson                       11
    42248 Blanche Dawson                      9
    42249 Samuel Pinder                      10
    42250 P. E. Gee                          14
    42251 Ellen Stace                        12
    42252 Alice E. Hallett                   15
    42253 Edwd. Willshere                     8
    42254 T. A. Minoprio                     12
    42255 RACHEL R. KINLOCH, Rothesay        12
    42256 Joseph A. Murray                   18
    42257 Elizabeth Murray                   11
    42258 Chas. R. Kinloch                   16
    42259 Robt. S McKim                      13
    42260 Jessie B. McKim                    10
    42261 Agnes B. Cook                      11
    42262 L. K. Thomson                      13
    42263 M. A. J. Stribling                 17
    42264 Maggie Smith                       14
    42265 Rebecca Smith                      12
    42266 Bessie Ronald                      12
    42267 Agnes Ronald                       13
    42268 Annie Kerr                         15
    42269 S. McKellar                        15
    42270 C. M. Kinnon                       19
    32271 Jessie R. Wright                    9
    42272 Margaret Warren                    20
    42273 Jane S. Brown                      14
    42274 Agnes S. Brown                     12
    42275 John Brown                          9
    42276 Janet S. Black                     12
    42277 Jane Black                          9
    42278 Maggie Ferrier                     13
    42279 Susie Bell                         14
    42280 H. Montgomerie                     13
    42281 Maggie J. Duncan                   13
    42282 Isabella McIntyre                  12
    42283 Annie Wilson                       13
    42284 Janet Wilson                       11
    42285 Annie Duncan                       12
    42286 Lizzie Clunas                       7
    42287 Kate Sharp                         12
    42288 B. S. S. Morrison                  11
    42289 Christina Waugh                    12
    42290 Bella Mitchell                     12
    42291 Agnes A. Black                     11
    42292 Alexander Black                    10
    42293 K. D. Macdougall                   11
    42294 I. D. Macdougall                    8
    42295 Maggie E. Philip                    8
    42296 Gracie Gray                        10
    42297 Elizab. J. Heron                   14
    42298 Helen Heron                        13
    42299 Elizabth. L. Smith                 10
    42300 Lily McMillan                      13
    42301 Mary McKinnon                      12
    42302 Maggie Hunter                      12
    42303 Flora Hunter                       14
    42304 Louisa Donald                      13
    42305 M. Paterson                        10
    42306 Jane Clark                         11
    42307 Frank H. Barber                    14
    42308 K. Bennett                         13
    42309 GEO. A. GRAVESON, Bolton           12
    42310 Ada A. Fletcher                     9
    42311 Jane Fenton                         7
    42312 Nellie Evans                       13
    42313 Lizzie Hall                        12
    42314 Annie Rosbottom                    12
    42315 Arabella Taylor                    10
    42316 Arthur M. Evans                     7
    42317 Robert Evans                        6
    42318 S. J. Graveson                     16
    42319 F. M. Fletcher                      4
    42320 Elizabeth F. Mee                   10
    42321 Mary Mee                            8
    42322 Jessie Harper                      11
    42323 Mabel Tibsey                        7
    42324 Albert Orrell                       7
    42325 Nancy Schooles                      7
    42326 George Rostron                      6
    43327 Bertha Schools                      9
    42328 E. Birtinshaw                      14
    42329 Chas. Birtinshaw                    9
    42330 Beatrice Rostron                   11
    42331 Edith Rostron                      15
    42332 Harry Rostron                      14
    42333 B. Birtinshaw                       7
    42334 F. M. Greenhalgh                    6
    42335 A. F. Greenhalgh                    7
    42336 C. E. Greenhalgh                   11
    42337 Ellen Colinson                     15
    42338 Jane Colinson                      17
    42339 Prudence Corner                    12
    42340 Lily Corner                        11
    42341 Tily Orrell                        12
    42342 Fred Orrell                        12
    42343 Willie Orrell                      13
    42344 Fred Davis                         13
    42345 Lenard Hesketh                     13
    42346 Harry Moors                        13
    42347 William Tomison                    13
    42348 Edwin Almond                       13
    42349 Harry Haworth                      12
    42350 Fredk. Wilcock                     12
    42351 James Horrocks                     13
    42352 Samuel Rigby                       13
    42353 William Batter                     13
    42354 George Moors                       13
    42355 Samuel Lomax                       13
    42356 Harry Gastle                       13
    42357 James Shaw                         13
    42358 Fred Shaw                          14
    42359 John Amer                          13
    42360 John Morden                        13
    42361 K. L. Mackenzie                    11
    42362 W. F. Mackenzie                     9
    42363 H. D. Mackenzie                     7
    42364 E. V. Hensley                      10
    42365 Percy W. Smith                      7
    42366 James H. Smith                      7
    42367 B. E. Harris                        9
    42368 Beryl Montague                     17
    42369 Coral Montague                     14
    42370 Bessie J. Ellis                    11
    42371 Ethel Freund                       12
    42372 George J. Freund                    9
    42373 H. M. Vaughan                      11
    42374 Bryan W. Bulman                    13
    42375 C. E. Bulman                       10
    42376 E. M. Mackenzie                    10
    42377 G. P. Bulman                        6
    42378 Arthur G. Foxon                     9
    42379 Annie L. Foxon                     14
    42380 John H. Foxon                      17
    42381 Wm. E. Foxon                       12
    42382 James Watson                        6
    42383 E. M. C. Standen                   10
    42384 CYRIL H. TODD, Skipton              9
    42385 Margt. Bradley                     14
    42386 Edith W. Fox                       11
    42387 H. W. Hargrove                     12
    42388 Sissy Haycroft                     10
    42389 Charles E. Hirst                   20
    42390 Ben W. Clayton                     17
    42391 Thomas Pickles                     20
    42302 Daniel Verity                      19
    42393 Jany Hirst                         19
    42394 Geo. Thornton                       7
    42395 T. Whiteoak                         9
    42396 Sarah Lobley                       13
    42397 Hannah Swire                       17
    42398 Agnes Whiteoak                      7
    42399 Caroline Butter                     8
    42400 Syrenna Oldfield                   16
    42401 Ellen M. Wynn                      12
    42402 M. A. Thornton                     14
    42403 C. E. Whiteoak                     11
    42404 Ethel E. Williams                   9
    42405 Geo. R. Williams                   13
    42406 V. E. Wynn                         14
    42407 Ethel G. Wynn                      10
    42408 Cyril E. Wynn                      16
    42409 Julia Williams                     19
    42410 Mabel B. Wynn                       8
    42411 Smith Brown                         7
    42412 Adina Garnett                       8
    42413 Sarah E. Bradley                    7
    42414 D. Coulthard                       13
    42415 Thos. Mawson                       15
    42416 Eliza Fountain                     12
    42417 Arthur Garnett                     10
    42418 A. A. Hargrave                     15
    42419 Sarah J. Geldard                    8
    42420 Mary E. Maud                       14
    42421 Reena A. Hirst                     12
    42422 Sykes Hirst                        17
    42423 Fanny Haycroft                     14
    42424 Mary H. Fox                        14
    42425 Alice Shaw                         10
    42426 George Simpson                      8
    42427 Eva Bradley                         6
    42428 Willie Craven                      12
    42429 Edith Windle                        7
    42430 Lucy Fox                            9
    42431 Oscar Craven                        7
    42432 John E. Bradley                     8
    42433 Ainée Hargrave                     10
    42434 James Whiteoak                     11
    42435 Geo. Mainprize                     12
    42436 Mabel H. Plant                     10
    42437 Lucy J. Clarke                     12
    42438 Laura M. Lloyd                     12
    42439 ERNEST BREARLEY, Bedford           14
    42440 George Gowing                      15
    42441 Arthur Swinton                     15
    42442 Sidney Mence                       14
    42443 Bertie Mannell                     13
    42444 A. Leadbeater                      14
    42445 Percy Talbot                       13
    42446 Hettie Henville                    14
    42447 Fred Ellis                         15
    42448 Edwd. G. Neame                     14
    42449 Alfred J. Mant                     11
    42450 Herbert Droive                     12
    42451 C. F. Waterman                     15
    42452 James Platts                       12
    42453 William Droive                     13
    42454 Edith Platts                       10
    42455 Charles Purcell                    13
    42456 John Wilson                        13
    42457 Hilda Bentham                      15
    42458 Willie Whitlock                    10
    42459 John Cawley                        16
    42460 Henry Heap                         12
    42461 William Dotchin                    15
    42462 Godfrey Droive                      8
    42463 Wm. H. Hare                        11
    42464 Annie Kelley                       13
    42465 Fred Rainsford                     17
    42466 Fanny Sheldon                       7
    42467 George Sheffield                   15
    42468 R. Locke                           15
    42469 J. Crook                           17
    42470 Herbert Russell                    17
    42471 L. Short                           15
    42472 Violet Sheffield                   14
    42473 William Mitchell                   13
    42474 J. Lloyd                           16
    42475 Cecil Mitchell                     10
    42476 W. Brien                           11
    42477 Thomas Sheffield                   13
    42478 John Everard                       15
    42479 Hugh Watson                        11
    42480 Willie Homes                        9
    42481 Hedley Brasier                     14
    42482 Ralph Sheldon                      10
    42483 Osborne Parr                       13
    42484 R. Matthews                         9
    42485 A. S. Soung                        16
    42486 George C. Brand                    16
    42487 Emma Bell                          12
    42488 Graham Gosling                     13
    42489 ELIZ. HARKER, Chesterfield         18
    42490 C. M. Parker                       18
    42491 John Hawken                        12
    42492 Wm. H. Parker                      14
    42493 M. Z. Tomlinson                    13
    42494 Helena Hayman                      14
    42495 Edith Platt                        14
    42496 Joseph M. Benson                    6
    42497 Arthur J. Benson                    7
    42498 Edith A. King                      13
    42499 Serena Burdon                      13
    42500 Alfred J. Harker                    8
    42501 Frank Sampson                      12
    42502 B. Sampson                         11
    42503 Annie Stray                        13
    42504 J. M. Sampson                       6
    42505 M. J. Caparn                       16
    42506 Harold Caparn                      18
    42507 E. R. Caparn                       11
    42508 A. S. Caparn                       13
    42509 Annie B. Whiles                    14
    42510 Mabel A. Whiles                     5
    42511 Florrie A. Whiles                  13
    42512 Kate M. Whiles                     15
    42513 A. O. Harrison                      8
    42514 Rowland Smith                      11
    42515 Ethel Bright                       12
    42516 Arthur A. Smith                    14
    42517 Dora Greaves                       14
    42518 M. Hollingworth                    18
    42519 Amy Deeley                         10
    42520 D. R. Handley                      12
    42521 E. B. Brown                        11
    42522 C. E. Stevenson                    13
    42523 Elizabeth Oliver                   13
    42524 Sarah Ward                         17
    42525 Mary Smith                         17
    42526 C. E. Drabble                      18
    42527 E. Hollingworth                    15
    42528 Edith Walker                       11
    42529 E. P. Huggins                      16
    42530 F. J. Wheatcroft                   13
    42531 Ernest A. King                      9
    42532 Lizzie Davenport                   18
    42533 G. M. Drabble                      15
    42534 Edgar C. Benson                    11
    42535 Annie E. Fox                       16
    42536 E. M. Knowles                      19
    42537 L. Woodward                        16
    42538 A. M. Webster                       6
    42539 Mary Harker                        16
    42540 HERBT. R. HEYHOE, Swaffham         12
    42541 Grace E. Heyh                      14
    42542 H. Heyhoe                          12
    42543 Harry Ward                          8
    42544 Sarah J. Wilson                    13
    42545 H. E. Warnes                        7
    42546 Gertrude Warnes                    10
    42547 H. Thurgood                        11
    42548 Bathsheba Scarf                    15
    42549 E. Spencer                          9
    42550 Horace Smith                       10
    42551 Stanley Smith                       8
    42552 Sydney Smith                        9
    42553 Robert Smith                       13
    42554 Ernest Rolfe                       10
    42555 William Rolfe                      13
    42556 John Rose                          10
    42557 Amy Pheasant                       16
    42558 Ethel Pheasant                     14
    42559 Ernest Pheasant                    11
    42560 Ernest Powley                      14
    42561 Ada Payne                          12
    42562 Guy Matthews                        9
    42563 Lilian Nuthall                      9
    42564 Ernest Nuthall                     13
    42565 Fredk. Johnson                     13
    42566 Edgar C. Johnson                   11
    42567 Willie Johnson                      7
    42568 Frances Kew                        14
    42569 Charles Kew                        12
    42570 Posseen Hill                       16
    42571 Edmund Green                       12
    42572 Chas. Durrant                      10
    42573 John Cross                         13
    42574 Herbert Cross                      11
    42575 Walter Clark                       16
    42576 Ernest Copland                     13
    42577 Emily Cooke                        14
    42578 Ernest Carter                      12
    42579 Edgar Carter                       12
    42580 Emma Burton                        18
    42581 T. Bunting                          8
    42582 Olive Blomfield                    16
    42583 G. Blomfield                       13
    42584 Fredk. Alpe                        11
    42585 R. E. Alpe                         13
    42586 Ernest Alpe                         9
    42587 Horace Alpe                         6
    42588 Harry Alpe                         12
    42589 Alice M. Alpe                      13
    42590 Alice Grieve                       10
    42591 Janet Bell                         10
    42592 Cath. Redshaw                      11
    42593 Elizabeth Cook                      9
    42594 H. W. Turner                        9
    42595 Robert Ainslie                     13
    42596 Agnes Ainslie                      17
    42597 John Shiel                         12
    42598 Clara Peden                        10
    42599 John Elliot                         9
    42600 Janet Renwick                      12
    42601 Mary Renwick                       10
    42602 Agnes Elliot                       11
    42603 James Ridshaw                       9
    42604 Jane Wilson                        12
    42605 Jessie Hall                         9
    42606 A. M. MacLeod                      19
    42607 Elsie F. Boulton                   12
    42608 Henrietta L. May                   14
    42609 Marion Hill                        13
    42610 Ada Fish                           14
    42611 M. E. van Gelder                   13
    42612 Annie I. Boydell                   10
    42613 Isabel Hill                        14
    42614 Mary L. Jones                      14
    42615 A. E. B. Jones                     13
    42616 W. L. Darbyshire                    7
    42617 C. A. Darbyshire                   13
    42618 L. M. Darbyshire                   12
    42619 Henry C. Harris                     6
    42620 A. M. Twining                       7
    42621 EDITH SEALY, Weybridge             13
    42622 Rachel E. Spyers                   14
    42623 Annie Wilson                       13
    42624 Tiny Garvice                        8
    42625 Edith Sherwood                     19
    42626 Wm. Gammon                         12
    42627 Nellie Atherstone                  14
    42628 Percy Rose                         18
    42629 Florie Armstrong                   10
    42630 G. Waters                          13
    42631 Alice Castle                       14
    42632 Montie Castle                       9
    42633 Maud Castle                        11
    42634 Bessie Era                         16
    42635 E. Thomas                          16
    42636 Henry Laity                         4
    42637 John Beckerleg                      7
    42638 E. A. Boase                        16
    42639 John Angove                        10
    42640 Abigail Jago                        8
    42641 H. Short                            8
    42642 Elizabeth Beare                     9
    42643 Bessie Botterill                   17
    42644 Adela Sealy                        10
    42645 Minnie Groves                      20
    42646 Janie Jeffery                      13
    42647 Amy Castle                         17
    42648 Susan Light                        10
    42649 Joseph Light                       11
    42650 George Smith                       10
    42651 W. H. Spyers                       13
    42652 Ellie Marks                         9
    42653 Maude Sealy                        16



DEAR MR. EDITOR,--I am writing to tell you of a hen who had a good
memory. She had some ducks' eggs put under her, which she sat on and
hatched; she was very proud of her brood, and accordingly she took them
out into the yard. In the yard was a pond, which the young ducks
immediately ran to, and in they went. She was in a great fright, and
flew from the shore to an island there was in the middle of the pond
incessantly, and ran round and round, and called them, but in vain.
After a time they came out of the pond, and she brought them up quite


Again she was set on duck's eggs, and again they went into the pond and
put her in a terrible fright. These she reared as before. After this she
was set upon hen's eggs, and she hatched them all. Then she took the
chickens into the yard, expecting them to go into the pond as the
ducklings had; but they would not go near. So she called to them, and
flew backwards and forwards from the island; and when they would not go
in she actually took each one and tipped it over into the water! Thus
she drowned all her brood--a very queer thing for a hen to do.

(Aged 12¾.)

_Hill Vicarage, Falfield, R. S. O., Gloucestershire_.


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--A friend of mine many years ago was walking with her
brothers and sisters, when she found a young rabbit which had been
slightly hurt. She picked it up and resolved to take it home and keep
it. But now the question arose, How was she to feed it? Suddenly a
bright idea seized her. The cat at home had lately had kittens, and some
of them being drowned, she (the girl) determined to put the rabbit with
the survivors. She did so, and to her delight the cat brought it up as
one of her own.

(Aged 13¾.)

_Locksley, Southborne-on-Sea, near Christchurch, Hants._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--My mother had a horse which she used to drive called
"Jacky," who disliked being groomed. The stable-men kept their brushes
in a little cupboard near his stall; but sometimes when they came to
groom him they could not find them. So one day they watched him, and saw
him slip his halter and go to the cupboard and knock with his nose until
he got it open. Then he took out the brushes and hid them under his

(Aged 11.)

_Froyle House, Alton, Hants._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--Last year, when we were staying at Amiens, I was very
much struck by a great friendship between a duck and a heron, both of
which were in the hotel garden. The heron looked very ill and weak, and
used to remain in the same spot for a long time, standing first on one
leg and then the other, the duck lying a little distance off. When the
heron wished to walk about it gave a feeble croak, and the duck would
immediately join it, and the two commenced walking round the garden.
When the heron was tired, it gave another croak, and the two companions
stopped their walk. The only time that the duck left the heron entirely
was for its meals, as the two birds were fed at different times. The
heron had a great aversion to rain, and at the least drop would shiver,
and shake its feathers. So, when it began to rain, the duck hurried its
companion on until they reached the little shed where they slept.
Sometimes the heron would begin walking without giving its croak for the
duck to accompany it. This annoyed the duck dreadfully, and it used to
waddle after the heron, quacking very angrily. If the heron appeared
more unwell than usual, the duck redoubled its attention. It was most
curious and interesting to watch them.

(Aged 14¼.)

_Tudor House, Belvedere Road, Upper Norwood, S. E._

NOTE.--Each Story, Anecdote, &c., when sent to the Editor, must be
certified by a Parent, Teacher, or other responsible person, as being
both _True and Original_.




Little Freddie Mayton's father lived in America, but Freddie did not
live with him, for he was very delicate, and his father's home was among
the rice plantations, and it was not at all healthy; so Freddie went
away and lived with his mother, about seven miles from his father.

Not being very strong he was allowed to run about as he liked, and he
got fond of the negro servants who worked about his home, but one
especially, whom he called "Uncle Sam."

Uncle Sam was a powerful-looking old man, but he was now getting past
work, and he could not get his liberty, so he was obliged to work on.

He was as fond of Freddie as Freddie was of him, and he was always ready
to do anything for the little boy, from carrying him on his back (for
Freddie was only six years old) to picking oranges for him to eat as he
sat on the grass beneath the cool shade of a tree. Freddie's seventh
birthday had come round, and his father had sent him a kind little
letter saying that if he wanted almost anything he could get him he
should have it.

Freddie was delighted, and began to think what he should ask for. He had
everything a reasonable boy could wish for. At last he thought of
something. It was this he would ask for--Uncle Sam's freedom.

He sat down at once and wrote a note to his father saying the thing he
most wished for was Uncle Sam's freedom, and he should be very pleased
if his father would grant it to him. Then he sealed it up, and running
out told a servant to ride with it to his father.

He did not tell Uncle Sam anything about it, for fear his father would
not grant his request.

When his birthday came, he had a present from his mother and some little
things from nearly all the servants of the household (for they all liked
him), but there was no letter.

After breakfast, he wandered out into the garden, and walked towards
some high ground to see whether he could see anything of a messenger.
Yes! there sure enough was a horseman riding towards the house, and by
the time Freddie had got to the door the man had reached it. He handed
Freddie a letter, which he eagerly tore open.

When he had read it, he ran quickly to Uncle Sam's hut, for his father
had said that though it was rather a surprising request he would grant
it, for Uncle Sam had served him for more than forty years.

When Freddie reached the hut Uncle Sam was sitting on a stone outside
the cottage door, smoking his pipe. Freddie leaned against his knee and
read him the letter, and when Uncle Sam heard it he thanked his little
benefactor so much that Freddie declared he had never enjoyed a birthday
present so much.

(Aged 12.)

_Thornleigh, 50, Woodstock Road, Oxford._

Certified by ALICE LUCY (Mother).


_First Prize (Divided):--Half-Guinea Book, with Officer's Medal of the
"Little Folks" Legion of Honour, to_ C. MAUDE BATTERSBY (15), Cromlyn,
Rathowen, Co. West Meath, Ireland; _and Half-Guinea Book with Officer's
Medal to_ MARY JOHNSON (15¾), Boldmere Road, Chester Road, near
Birmingham. _Second Prize (Seven-Shilling-and-Sixpenny Book), with
Officer's Medal_:--EDITH E. LUCY (12), Thornleigh, 50, Woodstock Road,
Oxford. _Honourable Mention, with Member's Medal_:--KATE S. WILLIAMS
(15), 96, Oakfield Road, Penge; GERTRUDE E. BUTLER (12½), 34, Lorne
Street, Fairfield, Liverpool; LOUIE W. SMITH (15), 11, Woodstock
Terrace, Glasgow; MARGARET SIMPSON (12), Elmhurst, near Garstang, N.
Lancashire; MARY WELSH (14), 1, Barton Terrace, Dawlish; Winifred L.
Coventry (11¾), Severn Stoke Rectory, near Worcester; KATE CHANDLER
(14), 1, The Terrace, Champion Hill; WILLIAM R. BURNETT (15), Scotby
Vicarage, Carlisle.



1. Pin. Tin. Gin. Fin. Bin. Sin.

2. Red. Bed. Wed. Fed. Led.


Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, King of Argos, in Greece.


1. L ion. 2. I ron. 3. N oon. 4. C hin. 5. O wen. 6. L ean. 7. N oun.


"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
'Life is but an empty dream!'
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem."

LONGFELLOW, _A Psalm of Life_.


1. C ogna C. 2. O mag H. 3. T ripol I. 4. S unda L. 5. W illemstad T. 6.
O us E. 7. L eiceste R. 8. D evo N.


"The least said, the soonest mended."


1. L. 2. T I n. 3. Da V id. 4. App E ars. 5. LIVERPOOL. 6. Tem P lar. 7.
Sc O ne. 8. D O g. 9. L.


1. Book, boot, blot, plot, plat. 2. Fire, fare, care, cart, cast. 3.
Tub, tun, tan, pan. 4. Fare, fame, lame, lamp. 5. Bad, bid, bin, fin. 6.
Soap, soar, sour, four, foul, foal.


Head of a Rook.

Our Music Page.

_Three Little Squirrels._

_Humorously_. quarter note = 100. _Words and Music by_ CHARLES BASSETT.

1. Oh! three little squirrels lived in a big wood--Three naughty
young fellows, who called themselves good, And thought it not wrong to
play all day long, Instead of hunting for food. Their father and
mother worked hard ev'ry day, Providing for winter--while they were
at play--With care adding more each day to the store Of acorns and
nuts hid away.

2. One day they were merry as merry could be, No time then for work
had these idle young three; So, wanting a meal, they thought they
would steal The nuts stored up in the tree. When laden and weary at
setting of sun, Their father came home and saw what they had done, He
scolded them roundly, and whipp'd them all soundly, And soon put an end
to their fun.

3. The winter came quickly, and made them feel sad, For sometimes
there scarce was a meal to be had; Then vowed they no more to steal from
the store, But hard to work would be glad. So let me this piece of
advice give to you, "Don't steal from the cupboard or that you'll soon
rue; Waste not, for 'tis wrong, and want brings ere long: You can't
_eat_ and _have_ your cake too!"




My first is in vase, but not in glass.
My second is in iron, but not in brass.
My third is in goodness, but not in sin.
My fourth is in coal, but not in tin.
My fifth is in sleet, but not in snow.
My sixth is in hit, but not in blow.
My whole is a flower that most people know.

(Aged 13.)

_164, Dereham Road, Norwich._


The initials form the name of a man or boy.

1. A girl's name.
2. A lair.
3. That which fishes live in.
4. Part of the body.
5. A contest.
6. A water bird.

(Aged 9¾.)

_Ampney Park, Cirencester._

[Illustration: POETICAL REBUS.

The Answer is a verse from a well-known Poem.]


Place these letters aright, and you will see three proverbs come to

1. Aadegghiillllnoorssttttt.

2. Aaadeefhiillllprvw.

3. Aaadddeeehhhimmnnooosssstt.

(Aged 12¾.)

_Crefeld Villa, Withington, near Manchester._


I have lost every one of my shells.
That cloud prophesies a storm.
He has just received your note.
George, let us go for a walk.
James has given me a silver pencil.
I have torn the lining of my coat.

(Aged 10½)

_Price Street, York._


57 + EGNOSNT = an explorer.

150 + 50 + PAEA = a mathematician.

    1051 + ONT = a poet.

    1101 + AREA = a continent.

    1100 + NAUNHUS = a composer.

550 + NOON = a city.

(Aged 13.)

_Daisy Hilly Bradford, Yorks._


The second letter of each word, and the last letter but one of each
word, read downwards form the names of two fishes.

1. Asserts.

2. An exclamation.

3. A vehicle.

4. Oxen.

5. Something that points.

6. To stick.

7. To handle.

8. One of the parts of speech.

(Aged 10¼.)

_202, Evering Road, U. Clapton._


A verse by Coleridge.

I × e × r × h × e × n × i × n × m × r × n × r!

× f × a × t × y × k × n × y × a × d!

× n × t × o × a × t × o × g × n × l × n × a × d × r × w ×,

a × i × t × e × i × b × d × e × s × n ×.

(Aged 12¼).

_10, Worcester Terrace, Clifton._


1. A girl's name.

2. An open space.

3. The back part.

4. Spun wool.

(Aged 13½.)

_James Road, Stornoway, N.B._


During the next six months we propose to make a variation in our Prize
Competitions which will, we think, prove an additional attraction to our
readers both at home and abroad. In the place of Two Quarterly
Competitions there will be Three Competitions, each extending over two
months, as below:--

     I. THE SUMMER COMPETITION, consisting of Puzzles appearing in the
     present (July) and the August Numbers.

     II. THE HOME AND FOREIGN COMPETITION, specially introduced for the
     purpose of giving readers residing abroad an opportunity of
     competing on favourable terms. Particulars of this will appear in
     the September Number.

     III. THE WINTER COMPETITION, consisting of Puzzles appearing in the
     November and December Parts.


     I. In the SUMMER 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.

     II. In the HOME AND FOREIGN COMPETITION Special and Additional
     Prizes will be offered, of which full particulars will be given in
     the September Number.

     III. A List of Prizes in the WINTER COMPETITION will appear in the
     November and December Numbers.


Solutions of the Puzzles published in this number must reach the Editor
not later than July 8th (July 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 Game Puzzle for this month will be in the form of a little story.
Four children were one bright summer afternoon standing together in an
old-fashioned garden. There was Millicent, aged fourteen, upon whom sat
a weight of care, for it was her task to look after and amuse the other
three, viz., her two brothers Harry and Arthur, aged ten and eight
respectively, and little Beatrice, aged five. The children seemed
altogether out of sorts, they were cross, petulant, teasing, and would
settle to nothing. At last Milly thought of the toys indoors, and said,
"Now we will go and have a good game in the nursery."

"No," said Bee, stoutly, "me don't want to do and play wiz dolly to-day.
I 'ike ze darden best."

In this fashion answered the others.

Then, said Milly, an idea dawning on her, "shall we try a new game out
of doors?"

"A new game out of doors--just the thing," the boys chimed in.

"Let us all stand," said Milly, "together by this bower, and in turn
think of some flower. I will begin, and so show you the way. I think of
a polyanthus, and I say, 'Who will first touch a poly?' Then I count
three, and if any of you can guess the word during that time we shall
all start together for the nearest polyanthus, and when we reach it
call 'polyanthus.' Who reaches the flower first scores a mark. Do you

Yes, they all thought that would do, and so they tried it quite
successfully. Such shouts of "Fuchsia," "Dahlia," "Geranium,"
"Snapdragon," &c. &c.; but when it came to Beatrice's turn they thought
she wasn't old enough to think of a flower on her own account, and so
suggested all kinds of words.

"No, me tell one myself," she said, and then grandly pronounced "Wo."

"What's that?" they all exclaimed, and whilst Bee counted three they all
puzzled to find it out.

Then little Bee ran a few yards and stopped at the nearest Rose-bush.
"Why, that's a _Rose_," said Harry.

"Tourse it is, silly boy, didn't I say 'Wo?' and isn't it a 'Wosy

And so they all played on, and their little faces brightened into
smiles, and fretfulness was forgotten in a good game as it always is;
and by tea-time they were all thoroughly tired, and ready to go indoors
when mamma called them.

There's the game, now for the Puzzle. You will find below a quantity of
syllables in squares. Those syllables, if sorted out correctly, will
make a certain number of wild and garden flowers, briefly described
below, and all you have to do is to pick them out and place them in
their proper order.


| tau  |  e  |  ach  | clem |  a   | ber |
| mim  |  be |  y    |  im  |  a   | ris |
|eschs | ant |  cen  |  u   |  ge  | tis |
|  i   | val |  ir   |  an  | rhi  | pol |
| zi   | ra  | cholt |  ri  | thus | num |
| nes  | tum |  an   |  a   | lus  | ry  |

The following flowers can be made from the above syllables:--1. A small
pink wild flower, bitter to taste, found in dry pastures--June to
September. 2. Many flowers on one stem. 3. Its name is derived from a
Latin word meaning mimic or ape. 4. A small but important order,
including the poppy and many poisonous plants. 5. With open mouth behold
this favourite flower. 6. Erect flowering-stems, found in damp
hedgerows, moist woods, edges of streams--June to August. 7. Its name is
derived from a word meaning sensitive to cold. 8. A beautiful purple or
white flower, seen on the walls of many homes. 9. "A plant ever young."
10. Touch the stamens with the point of a pin, and they all spring
forward and touch the pistil.


| cel |  o  | cor | pim  |  e   | beg  |
|  a  | sue | an  |  di  | nem  | el   |
| di  | cam | op  | dine | an   |  y   |
| ag  | sis | per | pan  |  o   | cory |
| jas | ne  | ri  | thus |  u   | mo   |
|nel  | nia | tra |  la  | ny   | mine |

The following flowers can be made from the above syllables:--1. A pretty
yellow flower, found in damp fields, meadows, and brooks. 2. A white or
yellow flower found on houses. 3. A pretty little yellow flower, on high
flowering-stems, sweet in scent. 4. A "divine" flower. 5.
Bell-shaped--blue, purple, or white. 6. Purple, red, and yellow,
sometimes white. The fruit is a pod containing many seeds. 7. Sometimes
eaten as salads, the leaves and stems being flavoured with oxalic acid.
8. Named from the resemblance of its seed to a small beetle. 9. A
beautiful little crimson flower, covering the fields in summer. 10. A
beautiful white spring flower, found in copses and hedgerows. 11. A
beautiful pale blue flower, found especially on sand or chalk.

The flowers must be named in the order given in the two lists.



1. Christopher Sly. 2. Carolina Skeggs, Wilhemina. 3. Shallow, 4. René
5. Prester John. 6. Nahum Tate. 7. St. Loy. 8. Petronel Flash.

     CLASS I.--Consisting of those who have gained eight marks:--F. G.

     CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained seven marks or
     less:--M. Bradbury, N. Besley, C. Burne, H. Blunt, A. Bradbury, G.
     Clayton, J. Cooper, M. Cooper, H. Coombes, Ellen Corke, A.
     Chappell, G. Dundas, E. B. Forman. C. Gilbert, E. Griffiths, H.
     Gill, A. Garnham, M. Heddle, C. Hart, D. von Hacht, E. Hobson, H.
     Leake, B. Law, E. Lloyd, A. M. Lynch, H. Leah, J. Lewenz, C. Morin,
     M. More, C. Mather, E. Maynard, E. McCaul, E. Prate, M.
     Addison-Scott, K. Stanton, A. Solomon, M. Somerville. M. Trollope,
     Una Tracy, B. Tomlinson, Harold Watson, W. Wilson, E. Woolf, E.
     Wedgewood, K. Williams, A. Wilson.


1. Sir Torre. 2. Pip. 3. Humphrey Clinker. 4. Zem. 5. Bore. 6. Cæsar. 7.
Troilus. 8. Duergar.

     CLASS I.--Eight marks:--D. Blunt, M. McCalman Turpie.

     CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained seven marks or
     less:--A. Allsebrook, R. G. Bell, E. E. Borchard, L. Besley, C.
     Burne, E. Blackbourne, E. Burdett, F. Boreham, E. Brake, F. Burne,
     L. Biddle, F. Cooper, M. Cooper, A. Coombs, C. Crawford, E.
     Coombes, M. Callcott, E. Carrington, F. Clayton, H. Chappell, J.
     Chapman, S. Coventry, V. Coombes, C. D'Almeida, R. Dutton, E.
     Elston, E. Evans, C. Fullford, M. Foreman, M. Frisby, L. Forrest,
     A. Gilbert, L. Gill, G. Griffith, E. Gruning, A. Howard, F. Howard,
     P. Hale, E. Hanlon, K. Hawkins, W. Hobson, W. Johnson, A. Kino, A.
     King, A. McKelly, A. Leah, K. Lynch, J. Laneum, W. Lewenz, E.
     Morgan, H. Mayer, J. Moore, M. Meredith, G. Morris, C. Moody, N.
     Maxwell, F. Medlycott, E. Nicholson, G. Neame, E. Neame, F. Newman,
     E. Quilter, S. Rolfe, M. Crompton-Roberts, E. Stanton, K. Simson,
     L. Stibbs, E. Stanley, G. Stallybrass, H. M. Smith, M. Wood-Smith,
     F. Todd, M. Wiper, K. Wedgwood, F. Woolf, L. Walpole, W. Wigram, J.

     _Note._--The following Competitors were credited in our Register
     with Solutions to Puzzle No. 16, but by an oversight their names
     were omitted from the list published in the May Number:--SENIORS.
     W. Besley, H. Cornfield, G. H. Dundas, E. M. G. Gill, C. G. Hill,
     H. Leah, C. J. Mather, C. G. Rees, H. R. Stanton, M. C. Welland, B.
     Wright, E. L. Wilkinson, E. H. Wilkinson. JUNIORS. E. Elston, L. L.
     Gill, W. Goligher, M. A. Howard, F. S. Howard, M. Jenkins, A. Leah,
     F. J. Medleycott, E. L. Metcalf, H. J. Nix, E. A. Neame, G. Price,
     C. Roberts, E. Stanton, M. W. Smith, M. C. Tonge, M. Turpie (K.
     Lynch should have been in Class I. instead of Class II.)

The "Little Folks" Special Prize Competitions for 1884.

The following is a Complete List of the SEVEN SPECIAL COMPETITIONS for
the present year in which--with the view of giving younger readers the
same opportunities of success as older ones--there are Senior Divisions
for those of the age of _Fourteen_ and _under Seventeen_, and Junior
Divisions for those _under Fourteen_:--

     No. I.--PLAIN NEEDLEWORK, as shown in Night-dresses and Cotton and
     Print Frocks for Children and Infants in Hospitals.

     [N. B.--In this Competition machine sewing is not allowed, and no
     article is to be washed.]

     No. II.--ILLUMINATED TEXTS, suitable for hanging in the wards of
     Children's Hospitals and kindred Institutions.

     [N. B.--The Texts are to be limited to from three to nine words.
     The _designs_ are not to be _necessarily_ original, but _printed
     outlines_ will not be allowable.]

     No. III.--SINGLE DOLLS IN COSTUME.--Historical, Military, Naval,
     representing Nationalities, &c.

     [N. B.--The clothes should be made to take off and put on.]


     [In this Competition the Albums may include not only ordinary
     Scraps and Coloured and Plain Pictures, but also Pressed Flowers,
     Ferns, Seaweed, Christmas, New Year, Easter, and Birthday Cards,
     &c. &c. The Albums themselves may either be bought or made by the

     No. V.--SINGLE DOLLS (including BABY DOLLS), in Ordinary Clothes.

     [N. B.--The clothes should be made to take off and put on.]

     in Wool Balls, Knitted and Crocheted Reins, &c. &c.

In _each_ of these Six Competitions (I. to VI.) Two Prizes in Books of
the respective values of TWO GUINEAS and ONE GUINEA will be awarded in
the Senior Division, and Two Prizes of the respective values of ONE
GUINEA and HALF A GUINEA will also be awarded in the Junior Division;
making in all Four Prizes in _each_ Competition of the value of FOUR AND

     FOR 1884.

     [In this Competition (No. VII.) Prizes in Books and Medals of
     _exactly the same value and number_ are offered _in each Division_
     to those who shall send in the BEST ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATED STORIES,
     account being also taken of the neatness of the writing and the
     arrangement of the Pictures. The following is the list (_in each
     Division_):--A FIRST PRIZE OF ONE GUINEA AND A HALF in Books for
     the BEST STORY; a SECOND PRIZE OF ONE GUINEA in Books for the
     TWELVE BEST of the Competitors following the winner of the Third
     Prize; thus making in all, in the Two Divisions, THIRTY PRIZES.
     Further particulars and the Regulations were given in the January,
     1884, Number of LITTLE FOLKS.]

All Prize-winners in the SEVEN COMPETITIONS will receive Bronze Medals
constituting them Officers of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour; and in
addition to the Prizes and Medals offered, some of the most deserving
Competitors will be included in a Special List of Honour, and will be
awarded Members' Medals of the Legion. All readers of LITTLE FOLKS (if
within the stipulated ages), whether Girls or Boys, may compete in _any
or all_ of the above Competitions, and the Regulations (which were given
in full in the January Number) are, briefly, as follow:--

     All work of every kind (including, of course, the Stories) to be
     certified by a Parent, Magistrate, Minister of Religion, Teacher,
     or other person in a responsible position, as the sender's _own
     unaided_ work. In the case of the Stories (for Competition VII.) a
     Certificate must be given that they are _original_; and the printed
     conditions must be strictly observed. The age of _every_ Competitor
     must also be attested.--All work to be carefully marked with the
     Competitor's name, age, and full address, and to be sent,
     accompanied by the Certificate, carefully packed and _carriage
     paid_, addressed to "The Editor of LITTLE FOLKS, La Belle Sauvage
     Yard, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C."--All the Competitions will
     _finally close_ on SATURDAY, THE 30TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1884.

The whole of the work of every kind in the SEVEN COMPETITIONS will be
distributed among the little inmates of the principal CHILDREN'S
HOSPITALS and KINDRED INSTITUTIONS throughout the United Kingdom.

The foregoing are in addition to the regular "Picture Page" and Puzzle
Competitions, &c. (see pages 61 and 64).



[_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._]


A FOREIGN COMPETITOR.--[An announcement of a Prize Puzzle Competition,
in addition to a "Picture Page Wanting Words" Competition, in both of
which Extra Prizes will be given, and much longer time than usual
allowed for sending in Answers, will appear in the September number of
LITTLE FOLKS. These two Competitions have been arranged, in response to
repeated requests, in order that Competitors residing on the Continent,
and in the United States, Canada, &c., (in addition to those living in
Great Britain), may take part in them in much greater numbers than they
are generally able to do.--ED.]


A CROCODILE writes in answer to MARY HODGE, that the line--

"When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war,"

was written by Nathaniel Lee, and is to be found in his tragedy of
_Alexander the Great_, act iv., scene 2. Answers also received from

FLURUMPUS FLUMP asks in what poem

"A boy's will is the wind's will"

is to be found, and what is the first verse.


ARIEL writes, in reply to PRINCESS IDA, that the way to make jumbles is
to rasp on some good sugar the rinds of two lemons; dry, reduce it to
powder, and sift it with as much more as will make up a pound in weight;
mix with it one pound of flour, four well-beaten eggs, and six ounces of
warm butter; drop the mixture on buttered tins, and bake the jumbles in
a very slow oven from twenty to thirty minutes. They should be pale, but
perfectly crisp. Answer also received from NORA F.

MAID OF ATHENS wishes to have a recipe for oat-cakes.

PEPPER AND BLOSSOM would like to know how to make cocoa-nut ice.


WHITE ANEMONE writes, in answer to BLUEBELL, who wishes to know when and
by whom organs were invented: "Jubal is mentioned in Gen. iv. 21, as
'the father of all such as handle the harp and organ;' but neither the
century of its invention nor the name of the inventor can be given. Hero
and Vitruvius speak of a water-organ, invented or made by Ctesibius, of
Alexandria, about 180 or 200 B.C., so that it may be inferred that other
kinds of organs were then in existence. Aldhelm, an Anglo-Saxon writer,
mentions that organs were used in England at the end of the seventh and
the beginning of the eighth century. The Byzantine emperor, Constantine
VI., sent an organ to Pepin, the father of Charlemagne, about the year
757. In 812, Charlemagne had another one built in the same way. This is
related by Eginhard, who was Charlemagne's secretary. In 880, Pope John
VIII. had an organ from Germany, and an expert player was sent with it.
It is supposed that this organ was the first ever used in Rome. Of the
quality of these early organs little is known."--Answers also received

THE DUKE OF OMNIUM writes, in answer to SISTER SNOUT, that a window-box
may be very prettily arranged with nasturtiums (climbing ones) at each
corner, and _Lobelia speciosa_. Mignonette would make a border, or
violets and sweet alyssum placed alternately. Red geraniums should be
placed behind the smaller plants, and thus a very pretty box may be made
with good, hardy plants.--Answers also received from IOLANTHE, CHERUB,

THE BLACK PRINCE wishes to have directions for making a cardboard model.
[An article on this subject appeared in LITTLE FOLKS, Vol. XVII., page

M. H. S. would be glad to know if maidenhair ferns need much water, and
how often they ought to be watered.

THE DUKE OF OMNIUM writes, in answer to QUEEN MAB, that if her myrtle
suffers from scale, the following is an excellent cure for it:--"Make
some size or jelly glue water of moderate thickness. Dip the head of the
plant in such water, or syringe it well all over. After this, the plant
should be placed in a shady place for about two days, and then, after
rubbing the dry head of the plant through your fingers so as to cause
the insects and glue to fall off, syringe heavily with clear water at

ELAINE.--[The meaning of "A E I" was given in LITTLE FOLKS, Vol. XVIII.,
page 63.--ED.]


A GENTLEMAN OF COLOUR would be glad to know if Indian meal is good for
rabbits. [It can be used in turn with other dry food, but is too
fattening to suit any animals kept in confinement for a permanency,
unless they are to be fattened up.]

SNOUT and M. S. R. wish to know what is the best food for goldfinches,
and whether hemp-seed is injurious to them.--[A very little hemp-seed
occasionally is good, and much is very bad, for nearly all birds. The
best food is a mixture of canary, millet, oat-grits, and rape or
maw-seed, putting about a dozen grains of hemp-seed on the top every
day. The bird soon learns the plan, and leaves off scattering the other
seed to get at the hemp, as he will otherwise do.]

QUEEN MAB wants to know how to tame her goldfinch. It is a last year's
bird, and she has not had it long. It is fed on canary-seed and a little
hemp.--[For food, see above, a little more variety being well. As to
taming, it will soon get tame if you spend time often by it and _keep
still_, and always feed it yourself. Some children are too impatient--to
be _quiet_ near birds and animals is the main thing.]

Picture Story Wanting Words.


A GUINEA BOOK and an Officer's Medal of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of
Honour will be given for the best Story having special reference to the
Picture below. A smaller Book and an Officer's Medal will be given, in
addition, for the best Story (on the same subject) _relatively to the
age of the Competitor_; so that no Competitor is too young to try for
this second Prize. The Story must not exceed 500 words in length, and
must be certified as the unaided work of the Competitor by a Minister,
Teacher, Parent, or some other responsible person. All the Competitors
must be under the age of Sixteen years. Stories from Competitors
residing in Great Britain and Ireland must reach the Editor on or before
the 10th of July next; in the case of Stories sent from the English
Colonies or from Foreign Countries an extension of time to the 15th of
July will be allowed. 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. The Editor particularly requests that
each envelope which contains a Story having reference to this Picture
should have the words "Picture Story Wanting Words" plainly 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

| Transcriber's Note:                                          |
|                                                              |
| Page 1: "would give so much to see" has been changed to      |
| "would give so much to see."                                 |
|                                                              |
| Page 7: Quotation marks before: I don't think our father'd   |
| have been removed                                            |
|                                                              |
| Page 18: "his subjects loved and honoured Solohim" has been  |
| changed to "his subjects loved and honoured Solomon"         |
|                                                              |
| Page 31: closing quotation mark has been removed--leaving    |
| the door open.                                               |
|                                                              |
| Page 32: closing quotation mark has been removed--admire me  |
| for my strength.                                             |
|                                                              |
| Page 55: "The number of Officers" has been changed to        |
| "(The number of Officers"                                    |
|                                                              |
| Page 57: The name Florence J. Meddlycot is spelled F. J.     |
| Medleycott on p. 62.                                         |
|                                                              |
| Page 58: "he should have it" has been changed to "he should  |
| have it."                                                    |
|                                                              |
| Page 61: opening quotation mark changed from single quote to |
| double quote--shall we try a new game out of doors?          |
|                                                              |
| Page 62: the name M Turpie has been changed to M. Turpie     |
|                                                              |
| Page 62: "January, 1884, Number of LITTLE FOLKS." has been   |
| changed to "January, 1884, Number of LITTLE FOLKS.]"         |
|                                                              |
| Page 63: "Canada, &c.), in addition to those" has been       |
| changed to "Canada, &c., (in addition to those"              |
|                                                              |

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