By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

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

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

    Transcriber's Note:
    Phrases printed in italics in the original version are
    indicated in this electronic version by _ (underscore).
    A list of amendments are given at the end of the book.


_A Magazine for the Young._







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



"What is the meaning of this--this gross outrage?" stammered
Grandpapa Donaldson, growing very red and angry. "By what right do
you molest peaceful travellers? Go on, my dear," he added, addressing
Mrs. Donaldson. "You and Effie go on; I will join you directly."

"We will wait for you, father," Mrs. Donaldson said, in a sweet,
pensive voice. "What do these gentlemen want?"

"You cannot leave the carriage, madam," one of the men said, placing
himself firmly against the door, and drawing a paper from his pocket.
"I hold here a warrant for the apprehension of John and Lucy Murdoch,
who put up last night at the 'Royal Hotel' at Edinburgh, and engaged
a first-class compartment by the Scotch morning express."

"You are making a mistake," Mrs. Donaldson said quietly. "Our name is
not Murdoch."

"A mistake you will have to pay dearly for!" the old gentleman cried
irascibly. "It is preposterous, perfectly preposterous!"

Elsie stood by, listening with all her ears, quite unable to
understand the meaning of this strange scene, any more than that old
Mr. Donaldson was evidently very annoyed and angry about it. When the
words "John and Lucy Murdoch" fell on her ear, she gave a little
start, for Meg's remarks came back to her mind, filling her with
curiosity. Fortunately, no one was observing her, and her momentary
confusion passed unobserved in the gloom of the carriage. Not for
worlds would she have betrayed Meg.

"Effie dear," Mrs. Donaldson said sweetly, "have you the book
grandpapa gave you, and my umbrella?"

"Yes, mamma; here they are," Elsie returned, as readily as she could.
Never before had it seemed so difficult to bring out the word
"mamma" naturally.

It was the answer that Mrs. Donaldson wanted.

"Then we are quite ready," she returned. "Please do not detain us any
longer than you are obliged," she said haughtily to the man who held
the carriage door; "my little girl is very tired."

"Sorry for that," the stranger said, eyeing Elsie curiously. The
officer had been examining the various items of luggage, peering
under the seats, taking stock of everything. They seemed a trifle
undecided about something, Elsie thought.

When the man had completed his search, he turned to Elsie. "What is
your name, my little girl?" he asked kindly, but with his eyes fixed
upon her face.

"Effie Donaldson," Elsie replied, not daring for Duncan's sake to
speak the truth.

"How long have you known this lady?" he asked.

"It is mamma," Elsie answered, slowly and timidly, "and my Grandpapa

The man said a few words in a low tone to the other, and then turned
again to the old gentleman.

"I am sorry to be obliged to detain you," he said, more respectfully
than he had hitherto spoken. "My directions are to take into custody
a lady and gentleman travelling from Edinburgh in a specially-engaged
compartment. The little girl is not mentioned in my warrant, but I
regret that she must be included. No doubt you will be able to set it
straight. I advise you to come quietly, and then no force will be

"Come quietly, indeed! I refuse to come at all!" the old gentleman
exclaimed. "You are exceeding your authority, and will get yourself
into trouble. Read me your warrant."

Elsie listened silently while the officer read out something about a
lady dressed as a widow passing under the name of Thwaites, and a
gentleman, calling himself her brother, who had left the "Royal
Hotel" that morning, and travelled to London in a specially-engaged
carriage. This perplexed Elsie very much, for she remembered what Meg
had said of the gentleman she had been told to call Uncle William,
"then he passes himself off as her brother, and he's her husband all
the time," which seemed strangely like what the man had just read,
except for the name Thwaites, which Elsie had never heard.

"Why, it's most absurd!" the old gentleman cried. "The only point of
similarity is that of my daughter being a widow. You have not the
slightest ground for identifying us with the description you hold."

"Nevertheless, I am compelled to take you before a magistrate, where
you can explain to his satisfaction," the officer replied firmly,
drawing from his pocket some strange instruments, looking like clumsy
bracelets, with heavy chains linking them together.

Mrs. Donaldson uttered a faint scream, and sank back on the carriage
seat. The man, without a word, proceeded to clasp them on Mr.
Donaldson's wrists, while the old gentleman fumed and stamped about
the carriage.

A signal brought up several porters and the guard of the train, who
crowded round the door, eager to see the exciting scene.

"Take this child in your arms and keep before me," one of the
officials said in peremptory tones to a porter, who lifted Elsie up,
and stood in readiness, while the "fairy mother" and Grandpapa
Donaldson were assisted to alight.

"That's a queer go!" said the guard, eyeing the old gentleman with a
broad stare of astonishment. "It was a gentleman looking quite
different that got in the train at Edinburgh."

"Are you quite certain of that?" the officer asked him.

"I'm pretty certain. They, as near as possible, missed the train. I
was just starting her when they came flying across the platform. I
caught sight of them with the little one between, being jumped almost
off her feet. They couldn't have more than got in when we began to

"You didn't look into this compartment at any of the places you
stopped at, then?" the officer asked.

"I caught sight of the lady and the little girl once as I passed
along the train at Carlisle," the man replied. "I don't remember
noticing the gentleman, but I fancy he was asleep, with a large silk
handkerchief over his head."

"Name and address, please?" the officer said, drawing out a
pocket-book, in which he wrote quickly a few lines.

The lady and gentleman were then conducted across the station, one of
the officers, who were both dressed quite plainly, walking on either
side of them. They attracted very little attention as they passed
quickly on, only the people close at hand turning to stare. In less
than two minutes they were inside a cab, one officer accompanying
them inside, another taking his seat on the box.

After a jolting, uncomfortable drive of some distance, they passed
through some gates into a great courtyard, which seemed to be
surrounded by a huge dark mass of buildings. Here the officer sprang
out and helped them to alight.

Some other men in uniforms came out of a doorway and crowded round
the prisoners. The officer who accompanied them gave some directions
concerning Elsie, to which she was listening, and trying in vain to
understand, when Mrs. Donaldson burst out sobbing, exclaiming wildly,
"Will you part me from my child? Anything but that! Do what you will
with me, only let my child be with me. She will perish with fright.
Father, I implore you, do not let them be so cruel! Effie, my
darling, do not leave me!"

Elsie tried to move towards her, but was held firmly by the hands of
one of the policemen. She was dreadfully frightened and bewildered,
and would have clung to Mrs. Donaldson, had she been allowed, in her
dread of facing new and unknown terrors.

But not a chance was given to her. She was quite helpless in the
strong grasp that held her firmly, though not harshly. Mrs. Donaldson
began to catch her breath quickly, as two men caught hold of her arms
and began to lead her along, while the one who had charge of Elsie
led her away in another direction. The next moment Elsie heard a
piercing scream, and turning her head, saw what, as far as she could
make out, appeared to be the resisting, struggling form of the
unfortunate "fairy mother" being carried into the hall by two men.


Elsie was presently delivered into the hands of a woman, who asked
her, not unkindly, whether she wanted food. Elsie was much too
fatigued and perturbed to think of eating, so the woman told her she
must undress herself and go to bed. She was taken to a large bare
room where there were other children asleep in small hard beds. One
was apportioned to her, and the woman stood by while she undressed.

Elsie wondered very much what sort of place this could be, and why
Mrs. Donaldson had not been allowed to take her with her. She puzzled
her head over it in vain. Only one thing was clear: that both her
companions had been brought here against their will, and were very
angry about it.

Perhaps Elsie would have thought more about her own discomfort and
loneliness if her mind had been less exercised about Duncan. She
wondered what had happened to him after she had been parted from him
by that shameful trick of the wicked "fairy mother." How angry and
indignant she felt when she thought of it! Had Duncan wanted her?
She seemed to see him lying up in that dark, stifling garret,
perfectly still, on the dirty, unwholesome bed. She crept up and
touched him. He was cold and dead. Then her mother came in, with
grannie and Robbie following in slow procession behind. They were
dressed in beautiful white robes like angels, and as they passed to
the bedside they each in turn looked at her with stern, reproachful
eyes. Then her mother lifted Duncan in her arms and carried him away,
closing the door after them, and leaving her quite alone. They had
seen her, but would have nothing to do with her.

She started up and rubbed her eyes, scarcely able to believe she had
not seen those faces. Then she peered timidly round the room, and
gradually recollecting all that had taken place, knew that it was a

After an uninviting breakfast of dry bread and water gruel, she was
placed in a cab by one of the men who had accompanied them from the
station on the previous night.

To Elsie he looked like a gentleman, and not unkind. After some time
she ventured to ask timidly where they were going.

"Well," the man said, looking rather perplexed, "it's rather hard to
explain; but you're going to see a gentleman who wants to ask you a
few questions; and if you don't tell the truth, all I can say is I
shouldn't like to stand in your shoes."

At this Elsie was very frightened, for if the gentleman happened to
ask her about Mrs. Donaldson, and such things, she dared not tell the

She was anxious to know whether the "fairy mother" would be there;
but she was afraid to ask, for if she called her "mamma," perhaps
this man might know she was saying something untrue, and if she
called her anything else she might get to know it, and send word for
Duncan to be turned into the streets. Elsie was terrified beyond
measure. She was too frightened to say a word, so she kept quite

At last they arrived at a building where many people and some
policemen were standing round the open doors. They passed this
entrance, however, and went round to another. Her companion then
conducted Elsie through some passages into a great bare,
close-smelling hall, where there were a good many people waiting
about, and some policemen with their hats off, which made them look
much less terrible than they did in the streets, Elsie thought. She
was too bewildered and frightened to look about her, and see what the
place was like. The gentleman at her side took her hand, and led her
forward. She heard some one say, "Bring a chair or a stool, and let
her stand on it;" and, looking up, she saw an old gentleman with
white hair sitting at a table, at the end of which was another
younger gentleman, writing.

The gentleman with the white hair bent over, and spoke to her. "What
is your name?" he asked.

Elsie hesitated, looking up with an appealing glance at the officer
standing by her side. Then when the question was repeated, she
stammered, "Effie Donaldson, please."

"Ha!" said the old gentleman. "Effie Donaldson, is it? Do you know
what an oath is?"

"Yes, sir," Elsie timidly replied.

"Now you must take your oath," he went on, "that you will answer me
truly whatever I ask you; and I hope you understand that if you tell
a falsehood after that, you will not only be doing a most wicked
thing, but that you can be kept in prison for it."

Elsie began to tremble violently at this dreadful warning. She took a
swift glance round, to see if Mrs. Donaldson or the old gentleman
were anywhere near, but could see nothing of either.

The officer who had accompanied her, and stood by all the time,
seemed to understand.

"They are not in court," he said, in a low tone. "Just you speak the
truth, and you'll be all right."

He then handed her a Bible, which she was told to kiss; and he said
some words which he bade her repeat.

"That is the Bible," the old gentleman at the table said solemnly,
"and you have sworn by that sacred Book that you will speak only the
truth. Bear in mind what an awful thing it would be to tell a
falsehood after that--ten times as wicked as any other falsehood. Now
tell me who the lady and gentleman are who were in the train with

Elsie trembled violently. She tried to think what to say, but could
find no answer. There was Duncan on one side, that terrible warning
the gentleman had given her on the other. She tried to say "I do not
know," but was so afraid that that too was a falsehood, that the
sentence died on her lips.

"Speak up," the gentleman said.

It seemed to Elsie as if ages elapsed while they stood waiting for
her answer. She was conscious of nothing but the man standing by her
side, and great silence everywhere, which let her hear the rushing
sound in her ears and the beating of her heart. At last the
magistrate spoke again.

"Tell me, is the lady your own mother?"

Another question--worse than the first.

"You must answer," the magistrate said, sharply; "and quickly too!"

"Oh, I dare not!" burst from poor Elsie's frightened lips. "They will
kill Duncan if I do!"

Then in a moment she knew she had said too much. In her fright she
had not seen the meaning of her own words.

"Who is Duncan?" the white-haired gentleman asked kindly.

"My brother," Elsie answered, with a big sob.

"Where is he?"

"In Edinburgh; and he's dreadfully ill," Elsie answered, forgetting
every other thought in her anxiety for Duncan, and the generally
bewildered state of her mind.

"Is he with his mother?"

"Oh, no! he's all alone, unless he's in the hospital. I don't know
quite where he is, only they promised he should go to the hospital."

"Who promised?"

Again Elsie was silent; she could find no answer to that question.
The gentleman did not seem angry, but asked another.

"Where is your mother?"

"Which one do you mean, please, sir?" Elsie asked, in a moment of
utter bewilderment.

"Then the lady who was with you yesterday is not really your mother?"

"No," Elsie faintly admitted. She could hold out no longer against
the questioning, but was feeling very much like you all do when you
are playing at "old soldier," and, try as you will, at last the "Yes"
or "No" pops out unawares. She, too, was very frightened and
confused, which you would not be.

"Come, we are getting on now," the old gentleman said, kindly. "Do
not be frightened. Did this lady tell you to call her mamma?"

"Yes, sir, but--I must not tell you anything."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS PLACED IN A CAB" (_p. 259_).]

"And she is not your mamma, then, after all?"


"Are you frightened of her?"

"Yes," Elsie exclaimed, with a quick, fearful glance round.

"Now, I promise you that she shall do you no harm, if you tell me the
truth. How did you come to be with her? Just tell me how it was."

The old gentleman spoke with great assurance and kindliness, but
still Elsie could not cast off the spell of fear Mrs. Donaldson still
held over her. She had an almost superstitious belief that the "fairy
mother" would find a way to work out her threats. For all she knew,
she might even now have sent that message to Edinburgh which was to
seal Duncan's fate.

After the very mysterious incident that had happened in the train,
for her to know that Elsie had disobeyed without hearing the words
she had spoken seemed not only quite possible, but very likely

The gentleman saw Elsie's hesitation, and spoke sharply again. "If
you are obstinate, we shall have to use other methods to make you
speak. Have you ever been in prison?"

Elsie's eyes dilated with horror. "Oh, no!" she replied.

"But you are very likely to find yourself there, unless you answer my
questions better. Tell me at once where you met this lady?"

"She was in a carriage; we were on the road to Killochrie."

"Stop; how did you come there?"

"We ran away from Sandy Ferguson's cottage."

"Why did you do that? Now, tell me why."

"He was very bad to us, and robbed us of our money and our clothes.
Duncan thought he wanted to kill us, so we ran away."

"What business had you in Sandy Ferguson's cottage?"

"He took us in when we hadn't any place to go to. I thought he was
kind at first, but he wasn't."

"Then you had run away from somewhere else?"

"Yes," Elsie admitted, with a flushed face and look of shame. "We ran
away from home."

"What made you do that?"

Elsie hung her head. How could she tell this gentleman all her
suspicions? They seemed all so stupid now.

"We were jealous because mother favoured Robbie so," she faltered,
very much ashamed, and conscious that it was one of the most
foolish-sounding reasons that could be.

"Well," said the gentleman sharply, "you ran away, and you fell in
with Sandy Ferguson, who wanted to kill you, and afterwards with this
lady, who taught you to call her 'mamma.' Was she kind to you?"

"At first she was. When she first saw us on the road we were very
hungry and tired. She asked us the way, and said she was a fairy, and
would come back again. She did come back, and brought beautiful
clothes with her, which she gave to us, and she took us in a train to
a house where we had beautiful and nice warm beds. Then she told us
we were to call her 'mamma' always, and that she was our 'fairy

"This is very interesting," said the old gentleman, approvingly. "But
what of the gentleman? Was he there?"

"Uncle William? oh yes! He did not say much to us; but we did not
like him. He called the driver an idiot, and I was afraid of him."

Here the magistrate asked some questions of the officer standing near
Elsie. "Then he did not come in the train with you from Edinburgh?"
he presently inquired, turning again to Elsie.

"Oh yes, he did," Elsie replied; "but he somehow changed. Mrs.
Donaldson was talking to me, and the one we called 'Uncle William'
was sitting right in the other corner. When I looked again he had
gone, and there was another one quite old. Mrs. Donaldson said he was
my Grandpapa Donaldson."

"Then you thought, I suppose, that you had 'a fairy grandfather' as
well as a 'fairy mother'? Tell me, did she undergo any wonderful

"Oh no!" Elsie began; but she suddenly recollected the change from
the smiling, gaily-dressed, grand lady in the carriage to the
sad-looking widow who had brought them the clothes. "Yes, I had
forgotten. She did change," Elsie stammered, growing red and confused
with fear. "I didn't mean it for a story."

"Go on; tell us what she was like when you first saw her."

"She was dressed gaily, and her bonnet had feathers and flowers. She
had bracelets and sparkling earrings, and her hair was frizzed out
over her forehead."

"And you mean to say that when next you saw her, that is, when she
came back as she promised she would, she was dressed in black, like a


"Did you not think that strange?"

"Yes, it was all strange; she brought us clothes, the frock and hat
that I have on now, and a coat for Duncan."

"How did you know it was the same person?"

"At first I thought it wasn't, but when I looked at her well, I could
tell it was, by a funny look she had in her eyes. I am sure it was
the same."

"You are sure? very well. Now tell me where she took you? Try to
remember the whole journey, from the time you met her on the country
road to the time you reached London last night."

"We walked to Killochrie," Elsie replied, "but we did not stay there.
We got in a train and went to another place. Then we went in a
carriage to a house, where we had some supper and stayed all night.
The next morning, after breakfast, we went in another carriage to the
train, and we were in that nearly all day. When we got out it was

"Yes; that is all very nicely told," the old gentleman said
approvingly. "Now tell me where you went in Edinburgh."

Elsie could not repress a shudder as she recollected that night in
the dreary garret, but in spite of her nervous fear, it seemed a
relief to be able to tell all her adventures to some one. In any
case, she could not help doing so. She only hoped they would not ask
her about Meg.

"Duncan had been very poorly all day," Elsie continued. "It poured
with rain the first day we ran away, and he got wet through. We had
to lie on the floor of the loft, with a sack under us, in all our wet
things. Mrs. Ferguson took away my frock and jacket, and Duncan's
coat, to dry, but she never gave them back, so I think Duncan got
cold, and he was very frightened and hungry, so it seemed to make him
ill. The lady was very angry about it, but she said afterwards that
it didn't matter much, and it would do just as well if she were to
leave him behind in Edinburgh."

"You are not answering my question," the magistrate reminded her.
"Where did you go that night?"

"They took us to a shop--a newspaper shop. It was a very high house,
and there were lodgers. We were taken into an attic up at the top,
and left by ourselves. In the night Duncan was very bad in his head,
and screamed and jumped about, and in the morning I told Mrs.
Donaldson that we must go to the hospital, for I was afraid Duncan
would die. No one attended to him at all. She said we should, and we
got into a carriage; but when I got out, and thought we were going to
ask the people to take Duncan in, the other one came up and pushed me
into the train before I knew anything about it."

"That is a strange story," the old gentleman remarked, looking
searchingly into Elsie's face. He then asked her a great many
questions about it, as if he hardly believed what she had told him,
but Elsie persisted in her statements.

"Did you hear the name of the man who kept the shop?" he asked.

Elsie thought a moment. "Mrs. Donaldson told Meg to tell Andrew to
write, and let us know how Duncan was. I don't know if she meant

"Ah! and who was Meg?"

Elsie felt ready to cry with vexation. "She came in the carriage to
carry Duncan," she replied quickly. "I think she was a servant."

"Now, can you describe this house into which you were taken?"

Elsie drew quite a breath of relief to think she had escaped so well.
"We had to go down a lot of steps before we got to it," she replied,
"and I remember there was a flesher next door."

"You mean a butcher, and the house was a very high one, and the man's
name, you think, was Andrew. Well, that is very good as far as it
goes. Did you pass the Tolbooth in driving to the station?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't have known it if I had."

"Well, well, it seems you cannot tell us much about this house. The
servant's name you say was Meg, and she had your brother when you
last saw him. Where do you think he is now?"

Elsie explained Mrs. Donaldson's promise, and her threat that he
should be turned into the streets to die if she displeased her. There
was an audible murmur in the court, which made Elsie conscious for
the first time that there were people listening to her. "I know she
will do it," Elsie went on, catching her breath rapidly. "She may
have done it now."

"You may rest easy about that," the magistrate said, kindly. "She is
in a place where she can do nothing of the kind."

But Elsie was only half re-assured. The next moment, however, she had
a new alarm in the question, "Did you ever hear the name of Lucy

"Yes," Elsie faltered, very unwillingly.

The old gentleman looked at her suspiciously.

"Where did you hear it?" he inquired.

"In the house at Edinburgh."

"Well now, who did you hear speak of Lucy Murdoch?"

"Meg begged me not to tell, and I said I wouldn't," Elsie replied, in
much distress. "Meg was very kind to Duncan."

"Ah well! you need not answer that question," the old gentleman said,
with a smile. "Tell me your own proper name, and where your own
mother lives?"

"Elsie McDougall. We lived on Dunster Moor," Elsie replied, with a
conscious blush. "She made me call myself Effie Donaldson."

"A lovely place, too," the old gentleman said. "And you ran away? I
hope you like it. Do you know that children who have run away have
before now disappeared, and never been heard of again?"

Elsie only cast down her eyes in frightened silence.

"And what became of them, do you suppose?" he went on sternly.
"Perhaps they were killed, perhaps they died of fright, and hunger,
and misery. I should not like to say; only I know they never returned
any more to their homes."

The stern words were too much for Elsie. The sense of her own
loneliness and danger, her separation from Duncan, and the
misfortunes she had led him into, came over her with overwhelming
force, and she wept bitterly.

"It is fortunate for you that you have fallen into the hands of the
law," the old gentleman added, more kindly. "You will be safe, and
will by-and-by be allowed to go back to your mother. That will do."

She was then conducted out of the court by the officer who had
brought her there, put into a cab, and driven back to the great
court-yard, where she was once more delivered over to the charge of
the woman. She spent the rest of the day in a dismal, ugly room, with
a number of girls, who were rough and disagreeable and ill-tempered,
and could not possibly have been more wretched. Her experience had
made her distrustful of every one, so that she was dreadfully afraid
of what might happen as the consequence of all she had betrayed. She
was distracted, too, about Duncan, and altogether could find but
meagre comfort in the promise that by-and-by she should be allowed to
go back home again.


"Ye seem to be doing right well to-day, judging by your face,"
exclaimed the hearty voice of Farmer Jarrett, as he encountered Mrs.
McDougall in the market-place.

"Yes, I'm thankful to say it," Mrs. McDougall replied. "I was just
about to go and buy a thing or two. Ye're no waiting for me, are

"No, not that," the farmer returned. "I've a bit of business myself
to be looking after. But we'd best be on our road before long. The
sky doesna look so very well."

Mrs. McDougall packed up her baskets one in the other, and stowed
them away in the cart. She had sold everything but a few bundles of
beans, and was well content. So she trudged off to buy some yarn and
some homespun tweed where she could get the most for her money.

When she returned, she found the horse harnessed, and Farmer Jarrett
seated in his cart. She jumped up with a word or two of apology, and
they started on their homeward way.

"I've been a bit extravagant," she said presently. "I've bought a
book for Elsie's birthday next month, and a pretty silk tie."

"The wee bit lassie'll be just wild with delight," the farmer said,

"She's getting a big lassie, and she's over-proud of her appearance,"
Mrs. McDougall said, not without a touch of pride. "It does no good
to encourage vanity, but I wouldn't have her always longing for
pretty things, so she shall just wear this tie to the kirk on the
Sabbath Day. Her grannie would just give in to the bairn, and let her
gang her own way altogether."

"The old are apt to be foolish with their grandchildren," the farmer
replied. "Yet your mother was a strict woman, and a good mother."

"That's a true word," Mrs. McDougall replied.

"And the poor old wifie must be just contented and happy, spending
her last days with you and the bairns. With Nannie dead, and Dugald
in a far land, she might have come to want. You've had your troubles,
but you're not without a recompense. The brave and industrious find
many a blessing."

For to a Scottish woman few things would seem more dreadful than for
her mother to come to want--the tie of relationship is so strong and

Talking in this sober fashion, the farmer and his neighbour jogged on
until they reached the skirts of the moor, soon after six o'clock.

"We've escaped the rain," said the farmer; "but to all appearance, it
won't hold off much longer."

Presently Mrs. McDougall alighted, and with a few words of thanks,
turned up the pathway leading to her own cottage. To her surprise,
she found grannie and Robbie standing at the gate, peering along the

"Am I late?" she exclaimed. "You weren't thinking I was lost, were

"It's the bairns we were looking for," quavered the old woman.
"They're not home from school yet, an' there's no milk for your
supper, for I would no trust Robbie alone."

"Of course not," Mrs. McDougall said, hastily; "but they should ha'
been home long ago. They would not loiter on the way all this time,

"That's what I've been thinking," the old woman returned. "Could any
harm come to them?"

"Of course it could. Ye need not doubt that," said Mrs. McDougall. "I
must go right away, and see after them; but I am just tired, and
that's the truth."

"You'll sit down, Meg, and have a bit o' something first," the old
woman said anxiously, hovering round in speechless sympathy.

"No, no; I'll just go at once," Mrs. McDougall returned, setting down
her baskets.

She tramped off quickly along the dusty road in the direction of
Dunster. Presently some great drops of rain began to fall, and in a
few minutes it came down in a perfect torrent. Still she trudged on,
her heart filled with dim foreboding fears. Such a thing had never
happened before. It would soon be getting dark. Could it be possible
they had kept the children at school as a punishment? If so, it was
shameful to leave them to come along that lonely road at such an
hour, and she would not use mild words in telling them so.

At last she arrived at the school-house. It was closed and dark. She
knocked at the mistress's cottage, and then learnt, to her horror and
dismay, that the children had never been to school at all that day.

The poor creature stood for a moment in utter bewilderment.

What was the next thing to be done? Ah! that was a difficulty indeed.

It was not far to the village. She would go there, and inquire of her
few acquaintances if they could help her. So she turned away and
started off again in the rain, quite forgetting now that she was
tired, and hungry, and wet.

It was dark by the time she reached the village shop. Her friend who
kept it had not seen the children since yesterday, when she gave them
a piece of pudding. There was nothing for it but to tramp home, in
the hope that they had returned.

But only disappointment awaited her. They were not there. Then she
went up into their little rooms, and found that they had worn their
best clothes, and had taken all their pennies out of their
money-boxes. For the first time then the dreadful suspicion entered
her head that they had run away.

But for what purpose? That was what she could not make out. The only
thing that occurred to her was that they might have wanted to go and
see the market, and spend their money--that they had walked there,
and perhaps--who could tell?--lost their way.

The more she thought of it, the more she felt sure that this could be
the only solution to the mystery.

It was a certain amount of comfort to have some definite idea to go
to work upon, but even then there were so many possibilities of
danger that the poor woman shuddered as she thought of it.

Well, there was nothing to be done but to start off again. It was now
quite dark, and pouring with rain. Mrs. McDougall was already very
wet, but she never gave it a thought. She walked briskly along the
road leading in the opposite direction from the one to Dunster. Every
now and then she stopped and listened intently, peering among the
trees that skirted the road or across the expanse of moor. She only
met one person, an old woman, trudging along in the rain, and at last
she had arrived at the town she had left only a few hours before,
which lay ten miles distant from her own cottage.

Only to find fresh disappointment. No one could give her the least
information. They had not been seen in the place, so far as she could
learn, and so there was nothing to be done but to tramp back again
all that weary ten miles.

Yes, one thing. It seemed a dreadful step, but it must be done. She
was face to face with the fact that the children were lost, and the
chance of finding them that night was now small indeed. With a few
inquiries she found her way to the police-station, and there she told
her story--told it with a grim soberness on her face that might have
passed for unconcern with those stupid people, who think that what
they cannot read has no existence.

"They'll be found, never fear," said a kindly policeman. "To-morrow
morning the description will be telegraphed to every town in the
country. There'll be posters out everywhere, and they can't fail to
be found by some one."

"To-morrow morning! And what about to-night?" Mrs. McDougall asked.

"Nothing can be done to-night! it's nearly eleven now," the man
replied. "You just go home, and don't worry. They're safe somewhere,
I'll be bound--perhaps nearer at hand than you have any idea of."

It was true enough: there was nothing further to be done--nothing but
to tramp back with that heavy load of care and the dread of terrors
too great to put into words.

So she took her way home again. It was long past midnight when she
reached the cottage. Grannie was waiting up, crooning to herself over
the fire. On the table lay the book and the tie bought for Elsie's

Mrs. McDougall took them up hastily, and put them out of sight. "Go
to bed, mother," she said; "they'll be home to-morrow."

"I'm glad o' that; it's all well, then," she said, quite
unsuspiciously. "You're upset, Meg. It's been a shock to you."

"I'm tired. I'll get a bit of supper and rest a bit," Mrs. McDougall
returned. Her eyes were red and ringed, and had a look in them worse
than the look of tears.

The old woman went off to bed, and Mrs. McDougall sat down by the
fire, though not to eat. All night she sat listening, and many a time
she got up and walked out to the gate, peering through the darkness,
in the fancy that she had caught some sound.

Still the rain poured down, the night dragged on, and the children
were, as we know, far enough away.


When Robbie awoke next morning at his usual early hour, and saw no
sign of his mother in the room, he thought he must have overslept
himself, so he jumped up quickly, and dressed.

He ran downstairs into the kitchen, and found Mrs. McDougall seated
before the empty grate.

She turned her head quickly as Robbie entered. In a moment the child
saw that something dreadful was the matter. Never in all his life had
he seen his mother look like that.

The child glanced at her wonderingly, then came close to her, with
the quick sympathy which is so sweet.

"Mother," he said, "is it Elsie and Duncan? Haven't you found them

"No, Robbie," Mrs. McDougall replied. "They're just lost, and that's
all about it."

Robbie could not understand how it could be, but he saw that his
mother was in great trouble, and he did not like to ask any

"This will not do," Mrs. McDougall said, with a heavy sigh, as she
rose resolutely from her chair, and began bustling about. "You
shouldn't ha' got up yet, Robbie. It's over early for you."

"I thought it was late," Robbie said. "Mother," he added eagerly,
"might I--oh! might I run and fetch the milk for you? Oh, do just let
me go!"

[Illustration: "THE CHILD GLANCED AT HER WONDERINGLY" (_p. 264._)]

"Dear me! no, child," Mrs. McDougall replied. "You'd be lost too."

"Should I?" Robbie said, very crestfallen. "Can't I do nothing,

"Yes; you shall feed the hens. You know how to do that, don't you,
Robbie? I'll just get the food ready for them."

Robbie was delighted. He longed to be useful.

Mrs. McDougall bustled about, and got the breakfast--porridge without
milk--set everything in order, then went up to see to her mother,
just as if nothing had happened. She was not the woman to sit idly
nursing her troubles.

As soon as she had partaken of a little food, she prepared to depart
once more on her anxious errand, with many an injunction to Robbie
not to go outside the gate, and to keep a watch, in case Elsie and
Duncan might return, but be afraid to enter.

At the police-station there was no news. Bills were being printed,
she was informed, and would be widely distributed before the day was
out. Any information they received should be sent to her.

She waited for more than an hour in order to see the bill. It was
some sort of consolation to her to see the great black letters, and
read the description of the children in black and white.

"This cannot fail to find them," the officer told her. "Every police
office in the country will be furnished with this description. The
children can't have got very far away. Some of our men must come
across them."

"Far enough away to have got beyond our reach," Mrs. McDougall said,
dubiously. "And who knows but they may have fallen into bad hands, or
got stuck in some bog in the blackness of the night?" she added, with
a shudder.

"They'd keep fast enough to the road," the man said, re-assuringly.

"I'd rather ten times over that they should be lying dead in the
woods or on a mountain side than that they should fall into the hands
of wicked men and women!" Mrs. McDougall said fervently. "The mercies
of God are a deal more tender than those of men. I could thank God
with all my heart to know that He had them safe."

"There are bad enough folk about," the policeman assented, "but your
children are over young to get led astray."

"I pray the Almighty that He'll grant them a merciful death rather
than they should fall into bad hands," Mrs. McDougall said, wearily,
as she rose to go. "Better for them to die of cold than to be
murdered by violence, or made to lie and steal."

"You're taking an over gloomy view of the matter, good wife," the man
said, cheerfully; "and perhaps you'll be getting them back safe and
sound before nightfall."

But that was not to be. The description of the children was, truly
enough, sent to every town or village that could boast a
police-station, and was eagerly discussed that very nightfall in many
a remote cottage. Had the children wandered farther, to even the
first village on their road, they must have been found, but they were
safely hidden from the outer world in the least suspected place of
any--the miserable hovel of one of those wretched tillers of the
land, too poor to deserve the name of farmer, with which some parts
of Scotland abound. The man was listless, and apathetic with hunger
and poverty, a miserable, degraded creature, who would have
sacrificed anything or anybody for the sake of the few pounds that
would pay his rent or sow his tiny bit of unproductive land.

He was the very last sort of person to hear rumours of the lost
children. On that day when he and his wretched beast had toiled the
distance of twenty miles to fetch a load of fish refuse from the
nearest fishing village in order to enrich his bit of barren land,
the bills about the children were not yet distributed. Even had they
been, he was little likely to have heard about them, for he was too
dull and dejected to talk with his neighbours. When he met them on
the road, the idea of giving them a lift would not have penetrated
his mind had not Elsie herself requested it. Yet the man was no worse
than his fellows, and had an element of unselfish kindness in him,
which was shown by his giving them the old sack to sit upon. Under
happier auspices he would probably have been a very decent sort of
person, but the hopeless hardship of his existence had gradually
wiped out every ambition and hope, till at last he had sunk into
something scarcely better than an animal.

And, children, let me tell you that there are plenty of us, now
bright and gentle and happy, who in Sandy Ferguson's place would have
been no better than he; and I wonder whether we always remember that
God judges every one, even His little ones, according to the
opportunities they have had?

Sandy had no thought of injuring the children any more than of
assisting them; but his wife, who was cleverer, and had therefore
become cunning and shrewish under the sordid cares of her life, saw
directly that she might gain something by keeping them.

She had taken away their clothes, partly because it angered her to
see these ungrateful runaway children warmly clothed while her own
were shivering in their rags, but far more with the idea of
preventing their escape. Their friends would come after them, and it
would be her own fault if she didn't see some of their money, she
told herself. Five of her children had died from illness, caused by
want and cold and misery; it was little wonder that she had grown
grasping and cruel.

Yet she, too, meant them no harm. She was anxious enough to get rid
of them, for the miserable food that she gave them had to be stolen
from their own portions. She looked out eagerly for passers-by, in
the hope that the children's friends would overtake them, yet
jealously kept her secret, for fear that others might outwit her and
reap the reward.

On that day when she had been occupied in listening to a long account
of a neighbour's affairs, and had, as she supposed, got the children
doubly safe, by virtue of the watch she had set over them as well as
the safe custody of their clothes, she had been startled by hearing
from this very neighbour an account of how two children had been lost
off the moor, and a reward offered for them. She kept her countenance
admirably, and pretended to be most astonished and interested, but
she sat on thorns, fearing Sandy would betray her. The neighbours
stayed long, having much to talk of, and when at last they departed,
Mrs. Ferguson went on cleaning, satisfied that the children were
safe, since they were all together, and Sandy with them.

[Illustration: THE SONG OF A LITTLE BIRD (_p. 267._)]

By-and-by Sandy came in, and stood staring hopelessly. Then he began
to scratch his head, and looked altogether so stupid that Mrs.
Ferguson administered him a good shaking, and demanded of him what he
meant by it.

"Where be the bairns?" Sandy asked, in his rough Gaelic.

Then Mrs. Ferguson flew out, and when she could see none of them her
wrath knew no bounds. Young Sandy and Jamie, her two boys, were
discovered under the cart, and when dragged out and cuffed, declared
that Elsie and Duncan had beaten them, and then run as fast as they
could down the road; that they had called as loudly as they could,
but were unable to make any one hear; and plenty more tales, that
their mother knew were made up to shield themselves.

Having called them every bad name she could think of, and dealt them
some stinging blows, she flew along the road to seek them. The road
wound about pretty much, and as they were nowhere in sight, she
concluded they must have gone by it. She came back furiously angry
and disappointed, and continued her search till nightfall in the
immediate neighbourhood of the croft, but without success. Sandy and
Jamie were not to be envied that night.

Thus it happened that the police were quite baffled in their
endeavours to find the children, and after they had fallen into Mrs.
Donaldson's hands the description given was not accurate.

(_To be continued._)


  Though I'm but a small bird,
    I may often be heard
  These evenings in dreary November,
    And my sisters and cousins
    Come listening by dozens,
  To songs they can learn and remember.

    No nightingale I,
    Yet when light's in the sky
  It seems to go through me and through me
    Till I'm overflowing
    With music, scarce knowing
  What wonder is happening to me.

    Oh, Spring-time is sweet,
    When loving birds meet,
  But Autumn's the season for singing,
    When all the dear swallows
    Come out from the hollows,
  And over the ocean are winging.

    We stay where we are,
    While they voyage afar,
  But the parting leaves _us_ tender-hearted,
    And we sing the more clearly
    Of those we love dearly
  When scores of our friends have departed.

A. M.


Of all the wonderful countries in the world, and there are many, I do
not think there is any one half so wonderful as Holland. We have a
saying here that "God made the country, but man made the town," but
in Holland it is said "God made the world, but man made Holland," and
"God made the sea, but man made the shore."

Ages ago Holland was a wild desolate place in the midst of seas and
lakes, with here and there a forest of trees. The first people to
settle here were some German tribes, and a hard time they had of it.
First of all they had to build strong dykes or embankments round the
place in which they were going to encamp, so as to keep out the sea
and the waters of the rivers, which wandered where they would,
without proper channels; and after that they built rude huts and
hovels for themselves. Sometimes they would be able to hold their own
for a long time, but it often happened that there would be storms and
high tides, and then their settlements would be swept away. Then they
moved off somewhere else, living in the meantime as best they could
on fish and game and sea-birds' eggs.

At length many of these tribes joined together to see if they could
not find some place where they would be more protected, and where
they might unite in building great dykes which should be able to
resist the seas and the wandering rivers. So they first entrenched
themselves; then they spread out farther afield and enclosed larger
tracts of land; then they built dykes big enough to protect whole
provinces, and at last they made a great sea-wall or embankment round
the whole land.

But why was all this labour necessary? you will ask. Well, it was
because the country lies so low that the waters could sweep over it;
and even to-day, although there are beautiful towns and cities in
Holland, with hundreds and thousands of people, and thousands upon
thousands of cattle, the land is lower than the sea; the cities are
built upon piles driven into the sand; the river-beds are higher than
the tops of the houses, and at any moment, if the dykes were to
burst, or the rivers to overflow, the whole country with all its
inhabitants might be swept away. It has been well said that "Holland
is a conquest made by man over the sea. It is an artificial country.
The Hollanders made it. It exists because the Hollanders preserve it.
It will vanish whenever the Hollanders shall abandon it."

The dykes or embankments have been made in this way: first of all
secure and massive foundations had to be laid, the ground being
compressed to make it very solid. Then walls, or dykes, were reared
of earth, sand, and mud, so tightly compressed as to be quite
impervious to water. The whole was bound with twigs of willows
interwoven with wonderful care, and the spaces filled with clay so as
to make them almost as hard as stone.


Then the dykes were planted with trees, which throw out a network of
roots, and help to hold the whole structure firmly together. On the
dykes there are over 9,000 windmills always at work, pumping up water
to keep the land dry; and there are in the whole country nearly 1,150
miles of canals, for diverting the waters, a good many of their
bottoms being higher than the land they drain.

Every dyke in the land is under constant inspection, and every three
years the network of willow-twigs is renewed. It is one of the
strangest sensations in the world to stand at the foot of one of
these outer dykes at high tide and hear the angry breakers of the sea
dashing against the other side of the wall, at a height of 16 ft. or
18 ft. above your head.

From the beginning of their history until the present time the
Hollanders have had to fight the waters, and they will have to do so
as long as their country exists. There are two great sources of
danger--the sea and the rivers; and either left neglected would very
soon lead to hopeless ruin. There is therefore a great institution,
or society, in the country, called the Waterstaat, for watching and
controlling the water. Everybody in the land is obliged to obey its
commands. If any one see the water threatening to pour in, he must at
once give the alarm, and all the people of the district, and of all
the districts round about, must be summoned by the ringing of the
alarm-bells, and by the booming of cannon, and then old and young,
rich and poor, soldiers and public servants, must all set to work
together and fight the common foe.

Notwithstanding all the constant vigilance there are terrible stories
told in Holland of inundations. It is recorded that during thirteen
centuries there has been one great inundation, besides smaller
ones, every seven years. When that great flood came, in the end of
the thirteenth century, which formed the Zuyder Zee, 80,000 persons
were drowned; in 1421, in one night 72 villages and 100,000 persons
were swept away, and even so recently as the year 1855, there was a
great inundation which invaded the provinces of Gueldres and Utrecht,
and covered a great part of North Brabant.


Most of these catastrophes occurred from the sudden rising of the
waters and the bursting of the dams; but it is not from these causes
only that the safety of the country is threatened. If you go into the
Museum at Leyden you will see some pieces of wood full of little tiny
holes. These once formed part of piles and sluice-gates, and they are
very memorable to the Dutch people, for they call to mind a terrible
danger which befell them once, and might do so again at any time. A
ship returning from the tropics brought with it, it is supposed,
some tiny little shell-fish, the _Teredo navalis_. These increased
and multiplied with marvellous rapidity, and swarmed the waters. One
day every inhabitant of the land was seized with terror, for it was
found that these little creatures had nearly eaten away the
sluice-gates of the dykes, and had it not been that night and day an
immense body of men worked with the energy of those who were trying
to save the lives of themselves and their wives and their little
ones, the sea, their great enemy, would have been let loose upon
them. "A worm," says the historian, "had made Holland tremble."

Once the dykes were cut and the country flooded purposely. It was
when Leyden was holding out against the Spaniards, led by Valdez. For
four months the people had been besieged, and at last provisions had
failed. But when Valdez summoned them to surrender, Vanderdoes, the
burgomaster, replied "that when provisions utterly failed, then they
would devour their left hands, reserving their right hands to defend
their liberty." One day, when the people were reduced almost to their
last extremity, a carrier pigeon was seen flying into the beleaguered
city, and it brought the joyful news that the Prince of Orange was
coming to their deliverance, having cut the dykes and flooded the
country in order that his flotilla of 200 boats laden with provision
might reach them. But the water did not rise high enough, the
flotilla got stranded, and the poor starving people could see the
supplies in the distance, but could not get at them, and it seemed so
hard to die of starvation with plenty of food in sight. At last
relief came in an unexpected way: the wind arose and a violent storm
drove in the flood through the broken dykes, and onward it poured
with increasing volume and power, sweeping away the cruel Spaniards,
and bearing the flotilla to the very gates of the city. It is no
wonder that in commemoration of this almost miraculous deliverance on
the 3rd October, 1574, the citizens hold an annual festival.

There is a story told all over Holland--and it has been retold in
almost all languages--of a boy, the son of a dykeman, who once saved
the country, but whose name, strange to say, has not been preserved.
He was only a little fellow eight years old, but like every child in
that country, he knew of the danger in which he lived, and how at any
time if he should see any sign of water coming in through an
embankment, or a sluice-gate, where it ought not, it was his bounden
duty immediately to give the alarm. One day he asked his father's
permission to go to a village not far off to carry a little present
to a blind man who lived there, and who had often talked very kindly
to him. He did not stay long at the village, for his father had
bidden him to hurry home, but being only a very little boy he walked
on and on, thinking of the words the blind man had spoken to him, and
of a hundred other things, and paying very little heed to the way in
which he was going. After a long time he found that he had taken a
wrong road, and was in a desolate part of the country close up by the
dykes. It was in the month of October, and night was just coming on,
so he climbed up the embankment to try and see the nearest way he
could take to reach his home. As he was descending he passed by one
of the great flood-gates of the dyke. Pausing for just a moment
before making a scamper off towards home, he heard a sound which
filled him with dismay--it was the sound of water falling and
trickling over stones. He knew it was his duty to find out where it
was, and very soon he saw a hole in the wood-work through which the
water was coming pretty freely. Examining it more carefully he saw
that the pressure was threatening to open up a wide crack in the
gate; and, child as he was, he knew that if it were not stopped that
little stream would soon become a cascade, a great sheet of water, a
torrent, and then a terrible inundation which would end in desolation
and death. So the little fellow did not hesitate. He determined to
try and prevent the mischief. Reaching up to the hole he placed his
finger in it, but soon he found that the wood was rotten, and that
the small hole would soon become larger. So he took off his jacket
and, tearing off a sleeve, he inserted part of this in the hole, and
for a time it resisted the water. But not for long. He found that the
pressure was not strong and even enough, and that there was nothing
for it but to tear away the edges of the decaying wood and then to
put his arm, encased in the other sleeve of the jacket, into the
hole. To his delight he found that it exactly fitted and effectually
stayed the water. Meanwhile the night was growing darker and he was
far from home. But the brave little man would not leave his post. He
called at the top of his voice, but there was no one to answer, and
his only hope was that some of the dykemen going their rounds might
hear his voice and come to his relief. But no one came. Hours passed
away and still he was alone, and still the water was resisted. He was
in terrible pain, however, for in that chill October night the water
was very cold, and his hand and arm and shoulder were so benumbed
that he knew not how he could endure it. Then he thought that if he
did not persevere the waters would come in and drown perhaps his
father and his mother and the neighbours, and he knew not how many
others besides, and so he determined, however great the pain might
be, to bear it, God helping him. Very long and very terrible were
those dark hours of the night, and the poor child cried bitterly with
the pain and the terror, but he did not remove his arm!

At last, in the early morning, he heard what seemed to be the sound
of footsteps, and raising his voice to its highest pitch he soon had
the joy of seeing that some one was approaching. It was a clergyman
who had been spending the night by the bedside of a dying man, and
was returning home with the first gleams of the morning. He was
horrified to see a little child, pale, jacketless, shivering, with
eyes swollen with tears, and a face contorted with pain.

"Why are you here, my boy? What are you doing?" he asked anxiously.

"I am holding back the sea!" said the little hero.

And it was literally true--that child's arm had held back the enemy
that would have come in with a flood, carrying death and terrible


The "it" was his supper. Dinner had been a movable feast that day,
tea indefinitely postponed, and Patch was beginning to fear that
supper also was fading away beyond his grasp.

"And I may go on whistling till that flute bursts itself before I get
a halfpenny," he remarked to himself in a tone of intense injury,
eyeing the "flute" (which was really a penny whistle) anxiously as he
rubbed it on his wet sleeve with a view to improving the notes. "All
this day and not a----"

"I say, Patch," broke in a mournful voice from behind, "couldn't you
lend me twopence just till to-morrow? It's to get some supper; I
haven't sold a single box since morning."

"Supper!" echoed Patch, turning sharply on his supplicant. "Do you
think I'd be blowing away here if I didn't want a supper myself?
You'd better go on to the bank and ask them."

"I've asked everybody, and it's no use," was the weary answer.

"Well it's no use here either, Mike; if I get any I'll want it

Mike listlessly wandered on a few steps farther up the dingy road,
and then collapsed, a mere bundle of rags, under the shadow of a

"You'll not get much of a supper sitting there," commented Patch,
setting off himself in quest of a more appreciative audience.

At the corner of the next street was a big hospital, and Patch betook
himself thither. He had received stray coppers occasionally from the
visitors who came and went through the ponderous iron gates, and what
had been once might be again. Fortune was going to favour him at
last, he thought, for coming down the steps was a gentle-faced old
lady in a curiously-shaped bonnet and grey gown. Patch realised that
it was a case of "whistling for it" now, and no mistake; so he put on
his most dejected expression and piped out "The Last Rose of Summer"
with truly startling emphasis.

Unhappily there chanced to be a shaggy-haired dog waiting outside the
gate whose taste for music had evidently not been cultivated. At the
very first notes he raised his head with a long howl of disgust that
spoilt the effect entirely. It _was_ trying, for Patch saw his
prospects vanishing into thin air unless his rival could be promptly
silenced; so slipping cautiously behind, he dealt the animal as
vigorous a kick as the dilapidated state of his shoe would permit.

"Oh, thee should not have done that! the poor creature meant no
harm," cried the lady reproachfully, hastening down the steps to
console the sufferer; and Patch discovered, with confusion, that the
dog belonged to her. Truly it had been an unfortunate day.

"He looked like a poor dog; I didn't know it was yours," he stammered
out. "It's the first chance I've had to-day, and he was spoiling the

The old lady looked gravely down at his pinched face and ragged

"Thee looks ill."

"It's enough to make a fellow ill--hungry like this all day long."

He looked as if he were speaking sorrowful truth. The old lady opened
her bag--"There is sixpence for thee to get some food with," she said
kindly, "and try and remember another time, friend, that if thee art
poor thyself there is the greater reason why thee should'st feel for
others who are poor likewise."

Patch looked from the coin to her face, almost too much astonished to
be grateful. Donations to him usually consisted of pence or halfpence
flung into the gutter, or carelessly dropped on the roadway. That a
lady--and a very beautiful old lady she seemed to him, in spite of
the old-fashioned dress and speech--should stand to talk to him in a
civil, pleasant voice was something new indeed, especially after that
unfortunate blunder about her dog.

"We are none of us so poor that we cannot help each other in some
little way," she went on gently, perhaps mistaking the cause of his

"There ain't anybody poorer than me," Patch answered; and his
appearance certainly justified the statement. "Much I could help
other folk!"

"Try and find out; it only needs a word sometimes. Good-night,
friend, do not stay here longer than thee can help in thy wet

Patch received all the injunctions respectfully for the sake of the
sixpence, and proceeded to carry out the first of them straightway.
As quickly as his battered shoes would allow he was out of sight on
his way to a certain well-known cook-shop. There, in all the
assurance of conscious wealth, he planted his elbows on the
window-ledge and critically surveyed the contents. Great joints of
meat, slabs of suet pudding, dotted here and there with currants,
one--but that was a very superior compound--with raisins, cakes and
pies in abundance.

A mingled odour of coffee and tea floated through the open door; and
Patch, sniffing up the delightful fragrance, went through a rapid
mental calculation of the glorious possibilities within his reach.

[Illustration: WHISTLING FOR IT. (_See p. 271._)]

"Coffee twopence, a fine big cup too, bread and sausage twopence, and
a lump of the currant pudding to wind up; something like a supper

Poor hungry Patch! as he lifted his arms from the ledge a sudden
recollection of Mike under the dark archway came back to his mind. He
wished it had not obtruded itself just then; he had quite enough
trouble to get food for himself without looking after other people,
and yet something made him hesitate on the threshold and presently go
back to his old position, elbows on the window-ledge, while he
solemnly debated the matter in his own mind.

It was a subject he had never considered before in all his solitary
selfish life; kindly words or deeds had not been his portion, and the
gentle-faced woman who had given him a sixpence instead of a scolding
was a new feature in his experience.

The debate ended in his walking soberly away from the bright visions
in the window to the humbler shop he usually favoured with his
custom, and there laying out the precious sixpence in bread and cold
meat. He took his purchase, the bread under his arm, the meat in a
piece of newspaper, and carried the feast to the doorway where Mike
still sat crouching in the chilly darkness.

"Wake up, Mike; see here what I've got. There's some for you as well;
sit up and begin."

Mike lifted his head from his arm in utter amazement. "You ain't
joking about it?" and then--he was but a little fellow, and hunger
is hard to bear--at the sight of the provisions Patch was laying out
on the newspaper wrapper, he began to cry for very gladness.

"Stop that!" ordered his host, peremptorily. "It's damp enough
without you beginning. Eat away, there's plenty of it."

"Did they trust you at the shop?" queried Mike when the banquet was
well in progress. "You said you'd no money."

"Did they ever trust you at the shop when you'd no money?" demanded
Patch, scornfully. "I paid for it, that's all you need bother
yourself about."

"It isn't that," explained his guest, hastily; "you never had
anything to spare before, and I was wondering how you afforded to
give me such a lot now."

Patch wondered too; then he crumpled up the paper table-cloth, and
flung it into the gutter. "I never wanted to give anything away
before," he remarked; "but perhaps--if you couldn't get it anywhere
else--I might give you a bit another time."

And presently in the dark a dirty hand stretched out and timidly
stroked his sleeve.

Patch went home down the wet streets with his flute. He looked poor
and ragged as ever, but he had at least taken the first step upward
that night in finding out the possibility even for him of helping




"Do we work at night! yes, I b'lieve yer; and afore daylight too,
leastways, as soon as ever there's light enough to see by. Not always
we don't, but when the old man comes back, an' says we must do a
spell of peggin' there ain't no time hardly to get our vittles,
except perhaps a tater, or a bit o' bread and bacon; but that's ever
so much better than it used to be when poor mother was alive, and she
and me and Aunt Ann and Ben used to work the dolls and windmills, an'
the fly-ketchers, an' the flyin' birds."

She was a tall thin girl, with a flat dirty face, that would have
been pale, if it had not been burnt to a yellowish brown with the
sun, till it was only a shade lighter than the old battered straw hat
that had let a wisp or two of yellow hair through a great slit in
the back just above the brim. She wore a tattered cotton frock that
had nearly all the pattern washed out, which must have been a long
time before, because it was so stained and worn, so thin that it
would bear no more washing.

The girl was trudging along in a pair of broken boots, two sizes too
large for her, and trying to keep pace with a dark-haired sharp-eyed
little woman, wrapped in a frayed shawl, and with a bonnet that
looked as though it had been picked up from a dust-bin, as perhaps it
had, and while the woman carried half a dozen long sticks, such as
are used to prop up the lines upon which clothes are hung to dry, the
girl held in one hand a bundle of the wooden pegs with which
laundresses fastened the clothes to the lines, and in the other hand
a coil of the line itself.

All these things together could not have been worth much, but it
would be a hard day's work to cut the pegs, and a still harder day's
work to the girl and the woman to sell them all. A good many miles
of streets would have to be walked over, a good many area doors
knocked at, a number of cross people, or people who were afraid of
having something stolen, would shut those doors in their faces, and
perhaps when they had trudged back again to Stratford, a long, long
way on the other side of Whitechapel, they would only have earned a
shilling or two, and would have eaten nothing but a bit of bread,
unless somebody were kind enough to give them some food on purpose to
get rid of them, when they stood whining and saying, "Buy a
clothes-line, buy clothes-pegs, please to buy a clothes-prop," over
and over again.

"They takes us for thieves, I s'pose," said the woman, "and I don't
know that it's to be wondered at, for they reckon us all one with
gipsies, and though our people ain't really gipsies, you know,
they're not unlike 'em, and often we live much the same, and it can't
be denied that there's them amongst us as would lay their hands on
anything they see about; but none of my people would take what don't
belong to 'em either from a passage or behind a door or a street
stall--no, not if we was ever so badly off we wouldn't, would we,

"I should think not, aunt," said the ragged girl. "Neither you nor
poor mother nor father ever taught us that. It was hard enough,
sometimes, as hard as it was yesterday, and is likely to be to-day,
and there wasn't nothing to look forward to, except when I went out
once or twice with father, or when he came home after a pretty good
day, and we had something for supper, and then we often had to sit up
at night to look over all the old clothes and the rags and bottles
that he'd got in change for the dolls or the win'mills, and now we
get more of the country in summer-time, and I ain't left off goin' to
the Sunday-school, have I aunt?"

"No," said the woman, looking down and speaking in a low voice; "I
shouldn't leave that off if I was you, and I often wish you could get
to be in some place of service with a family, or do something better
than live in this rough sort of a way. I a'most wish I'd never took
you away after your mother died; but your father went away and little
Ben was gone to sea, and I couldn't leave a little one like you to
work night after night and day after day at the match-box-making
along with other children, but with nobody to look after you." Here
the poor woman held down her face, and I thought I saw a tear drop on
to the back of the brown grimy hand that leaned upon the bundle of
clothes-props. "But it's no good now," she said, rising from the
bench where we were sitting. "What must be done to-day is to sell
these props and pegs, and to-morrow, if Uncle Dick comes back, and
has been pretty fortunate with the cart, we shall get our eggs and
bacon, and our beef stew again, 'Liza, and most likely shall have a
week or two in Epping Forest, with enough to eat, at all events."

"Stop a minute," said I; "perhaps I might find you a customer for
your props and pegs, and I want to hear about the doll-making and the

The woman and the girl sat down again. It was on a bench upon an open
space of ground known as Hackney Downs (a few miles out of London), a
great bare-looking waste, where nearly all the grass has been worn
off, and there's not much to look at; but where a fine air blows, and
where there are a few benches for people to sit upon.

"Well, you see, sir, 'Liza had better tell you about the
doll-making," said the woman, "becos she begun to speak of it: not
that they was what _you'd_ call dolls, but only a sort of rough flat
shape, of a head an' body cut out of match-wood, with eyes and mouth
painted for a face, and bits of cotton print, or more often
wall-paper, pasted on for a dress, and another bit for a cap; they
was for poor people's children, don't you see, as could only afford a
ha'penny or a farthing."

"And what about the windmills and the birds?"

"Well, don't you see, sir," says 'Liza--"the windmills was made of
just the same bits of flat match-wood, that father brought home and
cut into thin strips like. The windmills was like the spokes of a
wheel joined together, with folded bits o' wall-paper, and fastened
with a round French nail to the end of a stick, so as when the wind
took 'em, they used to go round and round. The flying birds was this
way--the wheel was a little sort of a hoop, with two wooden spokes to
fasten it to the stick, and all the other spokes was made of strings
with bits of feathers tied on to 'em, so that when the wind took it
they looked like birds flying; as to the fly-ketchers, they was round
and square bits o' coloured wall-papers and tissue--put together in
strings till they looked like a sort of big Chinese lantern, to
entice the flies to settle on 'em. You must have seen such things,
sir; but then ours was common ones, of course, to sell for a penny,
or a bottle or two, or some old rags."

"Oh, that was it, eh?"

"Yes. You see father'd bring home the wood, and Aunt Ann would cut it
out to the shape--wouldn't you, aunt?--and poor mother'd cut out the
paper or the cotton print for the dolls clothes, or the windmills,
and I'd stick 'em on, or nail 'em on, and any of us 'ud paint the
eyes an' mouth, even little Ben could do that. We used to live over
beyond Bethnal Green, in a place called Twig Folly, and there was
plenty of us children that used to work at lucifer match-box making
about that part. When father took to the dolls and mills he bought
his own wood and bits of wall-paper and that; but we worked night and
day very often, so as to get a lot ready for him, when he used to go
out with a barrow and all the dolls stuck up, and the mills going
round, and the birds fluttering, and take 'em through the streets,
for miles, selling them for ha'pennies, or givin' one for an old
wine-bottle or a bundle o' rags, or old metal and such like. When he
had money to spare, he'd buy old clothes, and then when he came home,
we used to look through 'em to see which was to go with the rags, and
which we could sell to the second-hand dealer. I don't work no harder
now than I did then."

"What do you do now, then?"

"Well, you see, when poor mother died, and Ben was put aboard a ship
to be taught the sea, father--he--he--went away and aunt went back
where she'd been once before, to her brother-in-law's--which belongs
to the gipsies,--not the real gipsies, that lives in tents, and goes
about all over the country, but the London gipsies like, that lives
down Stratford and Plaistow way. It's at Stratford that we lives, and
there we cut these pegs out of the wood that Uncle Dick brings home;
and he brings the props too, and buys the line. There's four of us
gals, and when we ain't cuttin' the wood for the pegs we're
basket-makin' or straw-plaitin'; but there's times when we go out a
good bit, one or the other of us, I mean me and aunt and Uncle
Dick's children, because he's got a share in a cart--one o' them big
sort of carawans that's all hung round with baskets and mats, and
cane-work and brooms and brushes and cradles--and it's a rare change
too, to go along with it, though the walkin' makes your feet sore.
But it's more change still when we go nearer to Epping Forest in
summer-time, and live out there in the country in a covered wan and a
tent or two, and learn to plait baskets out of osiers, and to cane
chairs, and to make straw plait and all manner o' things, and only
cut clothes-pegs at odd times. We don't work much at night then, but
we're often up pretty early in the morning, I can tell you; but at
Stratford--it's a close bad-smellin' sort of a little place is our
lane, and we're pretty often hard at it by candle-light, or else
lamplight, making up baskets and clothes-pegs and things ready for
the trade in the summer. One thing is that when Uncle Dick makes a
good week he don't stint us in food, and, as poor mother used to say,
beggars mustn't be choosers, and I haven't got nobody to be good to
me but Aunt Ann."

"There, don't take on that way," says the woman, rather roughly,
though I can see another tear in her eye. "We've all got somebody to
look after, and you was left to me, so up you get, 'Liza, and let's
thank you kindly, sir, for--I don't like to take money for nothink,
sir, and--perhaps, if you was livin' near here and had the washin'
done at home, you'd like me to take home a prop or two, and
half-a-dozen pegs, sir."



Those who learn drawing will find the game of "Positions" a
particularly pleasant pastime for the long evenings. Any number can
play the game--the more the merrier. All the players seat themselves
round the table, and each one must be supplied with small pieces of
white paper, about two inches square, and a pencil--or, better still,
a pen and ink. All the players, except one, then silently resolve on
some position in life which it is possible for them to fill, and each
makes some sign of their "Position" by sketching a little picture of
some article connected with their proposed trade or business on one
of the blank pieces of paper. The name of each sketcher should be
written on his paper. Five minutes are allowed for the sketching, the
time being kept by the player who has not selected a "Position." All
the illustrated papers are then passed in order round the table, so
that each may view the others' pictures; but no one is supposed to
criticise them aloud. Lastly they are handed to the "Guesser" (who,
up to this point, has taken no active part in the game, except to
time the five minutes), and he ranges them in order before him
according to the order in which the players are seated at the table.
He looks at them attentively and then proceeds to guess from the
pictures what are the intended "Positions" of each person. Supposing
that there were three players, and each one drew a sketch, say of a
house, a pear, and a crown respectively. The Guesser looking at them
would have no difficulty in pronouncing (1) landlord, (2)
greengrocer, (3) king. If she fail to guess any of the "Positions,"
the first person at whom he or she stopped is chosen Guesser for the
next time; if there has been no failure, the player on the right hand
of the Guesser takes the privilege. The principal object of this game
is for each player to try who can make the best sketch in five
minutes, and the next object is to puzzle the Guesser.




"I have only one ambition in this world," said King Albus, addressing
the feathered members of his household, "only _one_ ambition."

"And what is that?" said the oldest and the fattest hen, sidling up
to him.

"My ambition is," replied the king, strutting about the yard, and
looking as haughty and as full of fight as only a Spanish cock can,
"to see my detested rival over the fence yonder humbled in the dust."

"You've often said that," remarked the old hen.

"Yes," continued the king, "I mean to do it, too; and his lifeless
body shall float down the mill-stream as helpless as a ball of
worsted. I have said, and I will do."

"Well, dear," the hen said; "don't forget that King Crèvecœur is a
powerful big bird."

"King Crèvecœur! Crève _cur_ I call him. Deprive him of his
diphthong, when speaking of him to me, madam, please."

"Well, diphthong, or not diphthong," sang the old hen, picking up a
small pebble, and swallowing it, "he is big, and he wears a pair of
frightfully long spurs."

"And what a charming plume he has on his head!" cried a young hen;
"he looks quite soldierly. Belongs to the dragoons, I suppose."

"Hold your tongue," exclaimed the king; "and go about your business.
Plume, indeed! spurs forsooth! The plume, madam, is an airy nothing;
the spurs have neither strength nor substance. Now, look at me," this
proud king went on, as he flew up on top of an old hurdle, "behold
me well. Am I not as white as the driven snow? Is not my comb as red
and rosy as crimson daisies, or the sunset's glow at dewy eve?"
"Cock-a-doodle--doodle--do--o! Did ever you hear such a crow as that

"Never," said the old hen.

"Except----" said the young one.

The king looked at her, and she was silent. But just at that moment
came a voice from the other side of the old fence, that fairly
startled every hen in King Albus's household. Shrill, defiant,

"Cock-a-doodle--roaro--ro--o!" went the voice.

"That is he!" cried the king. "That is more of his audacity! It is
unbearable. I will stand it no longer. I will instantly give him
battle. Farewell, and if for ever--still for ever, fare-ye-well."

"Stay with us, stay with us, stay--stay--stay," cried all the hens in
cackling chorus.

"Never," cried the king; "while Crève _cur_ lives! Cock-a-doodle--do!
Death or victory!"

He sprang over the fence as he spoke.



The king had crossed the Rubicon. There was no going back with honour
now. He was fairly over the fence, and in the domains of the rival

King Albus bent his wattles to the ground, and gazed at his rival
with one eye. His rival's back was turned towards him, and he took
not the slightest notice of the king.

"I wonder if he'll fight!" said the king to himself. "For my part I
hope he won't, for I don't feel half so full of courage on this side
of the fence as I did on the other. I daren't go back, though. How
the young hens would giggle if I did, and how the old ones would
cackle! No!"

All this time King Albus never moved; he still held his wattles close
to the ground, and still looked at his rival with one eye, only
sometimes he turned his head and looked with the other.

"He is pretending not to see me," he continued.

"He is afraid. I'll wager my wattles he's afraid. But--what?--do my
eyes deceive me? No, he really has two lovely pure--white hens lying
beside him. That seals his fate. If any one in the world ought to
have white hens as companions, it is myself, because I am pure white.
So he must die."

Now, although King Crèvecœur's back was turned to his rival, he could
see him with the side of his eye, and besides, his two hens told him
what the silly old Spaniard was doing.

"He's afraid to come on, I think," said one.

"Don't be too hard on him," said the other.

"A deal depends," replied Crèvecœur, shaking his head. "I have never
insulted him; I can't help being bigger and handsomer and richer than
he is; he has no right to go on envying me as he does. He deserves to
be punished. He is mean, that is what he is. Stop, I'll give him a
little encouragement--Cock-a-doodle-do-o!"

"It needed but that," cried King Albus.

He advanced speedily as he spoke, along by the side of the mill lead.

"Run away, my dears," said the Crève to his two hens, "the battle is
about to commence."

One hen went; the other declared she would stand by him as long as
she lived.

Now, it was a very remarkable thing, but no sooner had King Albus got
close up behind King Crève, and was just about to strike the blow,
that might or might not have both begun and ended the fight, than
all his courage at once oozed out at his toes, and he really didn't
feel he had pluck enough to raise his foot to strike, or even to keep
his tail erect.

"I feel very faint," he said to himself, "I think I'll just take a
run home and have a few crumbs of food, and then come back again."

He turned as he spoke and began to move off.

"Cock-a-doodle-do-o-o!" roared the cock with the plumes.

[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO MOVE OFF" (_p. 277_).]


Now, this was more than the meanest-spirited cock that ever crowed
could stand.

He raised his tail again, wheeled suddenly round and faced his foe.
The other cock or king also wheeled round, and so with ruffles raised
and wings half spread, and with fire flashing from their eyes, the
two confronted each other.

But courage now deserted the heart of the white hen, and she fled.

"Cray--cray--cray," she screamed; "there'll be bloodshed,

"Have you made your will?" cried the white king, fiercely. "Are you
prepared for a watery grave?"

"As to my will," replied the dark king, "there'll be plenty of time
to think about that when you're dead. As to the watery grave, I'm
quite ready for it, as soon as I meet any one who has the strength
and courage to send me there. It won't be you."

"You may imagine yourself dead already," roared the white king. "Your
body will go floating down the mill-stream, and there won't be a
feather of you left together an hour after this--the frogs and fish
will eat you."

[Illustration: "COME ON AND FIGHT IF YOU DARE."]

"Fish and frogs!" cried King Crève, "fiddlesticks! Come on and fight
if you dare. I'll give you leave to strike the first blow."

Then the white cock grew very sentimental.

"I don't really want to kill you," he said; "it seems a pity."

  "Can nought but blood our feud atone,
  Are there no means?"
      "No, stranger, none!"

"Now just look here," said the dark king. "What _are_ you talking
about? If you mean to fight--fight. If you don't mean to fight--go
over the fence again."

"But I want to have something to say to you," cried King Albus.

"Well then, out with it. I'm not going to stand here palavering all
day, with my feathers up like a ruffed grouse. I'm catching cold, I
am. I'll go to work to warm myself presently, and it will be a bad
thing for you when I do."

"What d'ye mean by being bigger than me, then?" said the white cock.

"Oh! that's your grievance, is it?"

"Yes, and what d'ye mean by crowing louder every morning, and wearing
that silly old plume on top o' your poll, and those stupid long spurs
on your heels, eh?"

"Anything else?"

"Ye-s--What d'ye mean by having more oats to eat than me? And more
hens to walk about and sing to ye, eh?"

"Oh! You envious silly old thing, you," cried King Crève. "Go home at
once, and learn to live a better life, do."

"Not till I've killed King Cur."


Whack! Whack! Whack!

They were at it now spur and bill. The sound of the blows went
echoing all over the farmyards where they lived. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Dear me, how the feathers flew!

"My brave!" cried the fat old hen, "I never thought there was so much
courage in him before!"

"Wait a bit," cried the saucy young one. "Plumes will give him a
lesson presently."

"Plumes won't," shrieked the other.

"Plumes _will_" roared the young one. And lo! and behold those two
hens got fighting behind the fence--so foolish of them--and thus
there were two battles raging at one and the same time.

Now sometimes, right is might, but in this case right and might were
both on the same side. For King Albus had no business to be so
envious and jealous of his neighbour, simply because he was better
than he; and he was certainly very wrong to invade his territory. If
he had only stayed at home, and been content with his own
surroundings, he might have lived and been happy for many a long day.

To do the white king justice, however, he fought well. Though a
coward at heart, now that he found himself really engaged, he knew
that to give in would mean being trodden to death under the feet of
his foe. So he fought on and on.

Both shortly paused for breath, and the white king began turning over
the gravel with his bill, as if looking for a grub or two. This was
merely a pretence, in order to gain time, and the dark king knew that
well enough.

"Don't be silly," he said, tantalisingly, "grubs don't grow in the
gravel. I don't believe you could swallow a grub if you had one. Go
home now, and come back again when your poor old head is healed."

"I'll heal you!" roared King Albus, "I'll grub you!"

Then the battle re-commenced with re-doubled fury.

But it did not last much longer. The dark king watched his chance,
and bringing all his strength to bear on one blow, sent his adversary
sprawling and roaring for mercy right into the mill-stream.

Then he jumped nimbly on top of him and crowed.

[Illustration: "ROARING FOR MERCY."]

His weight sank his foe, he gave a gasp or two, then away he floated
still and quiet enough, while the dark king jumped on shore, and
coolly began to re-arrange his ruffled plumage, his two hens soon
returning to admire him.

"I told you," cried the young hen, "that Plumes would kill him."

"Ah! well," said the fat old hen, "such things will happen, you know.
It can't be helped. It's a pity, of course. But he was always rather
haughty and overbearing, and envious too; and if there is one feeling
more distasteful to me than another it is _Envy_."



_By_ Phillis Browne, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can
Do," &c._

"How clear and bright the fire is, Mary," said Margaret, when she
came into the kitchen, and found Mary already busy setting plates and
dishes to warm, rubbing the gridiron, and placing everything in
readiness for the lesson in Cookery.

"Yes, Miss Margaret, it _is_ bright, and I made it so," said Mary,
with pride in her voice. "Mistress said we were to learn to broil
to-day, so I came here in good time, cleared away the dust, put on
some coal, and swept up the hearth; and now how hot and clear the
fire is; exactly the fire for broiling, I know."

"You seem to know all about it before you are taught, Mary."

"I am not so clever as that comes to, miss. But I know that for
broiling you need a bright hot fire without blaze, and that you need
to have everything quite ready before you begin to cook at all,
because when you have once made a start you cannot leave the broil to
attend to anything; so I thought it was as well to be prepared

"Why are you rubbing the gridiron so hard then? Was it not cleaned
the last time it was used?"

"Of course it was cleaned; but aunt says that no matter how clean a
gridiron looks, we should always give it an extra rub before using
it, 'for safety,' and that then we should make it hot over the fire,
and afterwards rub the bars with mutton-fat to grease them, and keep
the meat from sticking to the bars. But here comes mistress."

"You appear to be cooking without my help to-day," said Mrs. Herbert,
smiling, as she looked round and saw what had been done.

"No, ma'am. I have finished all I know," said Mary.

"Then let me tell you a little more. Broiling is a very convenient
way of cooking meat, because it is very quick, and it makes meat very
tasty and very wholesome. I should like you to understand it,
therefore. It is only suitable, however, for small things, such as
chops, and steaks, and kidneys, and fish. To-day we will broil a

"The gridiron is greased ready, ma'am," interrupted Mary.

"Quite right. I am glad to see it, Mary. This should always be done.
But now notice. This steak, though I call it small, is still cut
fairly thick--it is nearly an inch thick. If it were cut in a thin
slice, to broil it would make it hard and dry, and we wish it to be
brown and well cooked on the outside, and tender and juicy inside. I
wonder if you recollect what I said when we first began these lessons
in Cookery about making a case on the outside of the meat to keep the
goodness inside?"

"I recollect it quite well," said Mary.

"So do I," said Margaret. "We put the leg of mutton into boiling
water for five minutes to cook the albumen on the outside of the
meat, which is like white of egg, to form a sort of case; and when
the case was formed we drew the meat back and let it simmer till it
was gently cooked all through."

"Excellent, Margaret. I think my small pupils do me great credit. As
in boiling meat we put the meat into boiling water, to harden the
albumen, so in broiling meat we put the meat near a fierce heat to
harden the albumen; and we turn the meat quickly so that the albumen
may be hardened on one side as well as the other. Now you know what
we have to do. Shall we begin?"

"Yes, please," answered the little girls, both together.

"You are quite ready? Because when once we have begun to broil we
must not try to attend to anything else till we have finished."

"We are quite ready," replied the children.

"Then, Mary, as you have done so much in preparing for us, you begin.
Put the steak on the hot greased gridiron--never mind the flare which
comes almost at once; it will not hurt us at this stage. If later it
gets unmanageable we will sprinkle a little salt on the fire, and
that will keep it down.

"May I turn it, mother?" said Margaret.

"Yes, dear. Stop, stop, though; what are you about, child? Surely you
are not going to put a fork into the lean part of the steak."

"I was, though, mother. How shall I take hold of it if I do not?"

"With the steak-tongs. Or if they are not at hand, use a spoon and
the flat side of a knife. But on no account stick a fork into the
lean. We are taking ever so much care to keep the juices in, and if
you stick a fork in you let them out most abundantly. It would not be
so mischievous to stick the fork into the fat, but to stick it into
the lean! Oh, Margaret!"

"I am very sorry, mother, I will never do it again."

"Never do it, dear, no matter how you are cooking the meat, that is,
of course, unless you wish to get the goodness out; that will alter
the state of the case altogether."

"Is it time to turn the steak again, mother?"

"Yes, dear. Turn it quickly, because by so doing you make both sides
brown, and that keeps in the juice. It is very curious how people who
are clever in Cookery differ about whether or not meat which is being
broiled should be turned. I say most decidedly, turn it frequently.
First make one side brown as quickly as you can, then the other, and
after that turn it every two minutes."

"You have to keep on watching it, though," said Margaret.

"Of course you have. I told you so at the beginning."

"It begins to smell very deliciously," said Mary.

"So it does, Mary. I think broiling is one of the most perfect ways
of cooking, though it is so simple and easily managed, and so quick

"Is it quick, mother? How long does it take? A quarter of an hour to
the pound?"

"No, dear, you cannot count the time in that way, it is not safe. You
must learn to know by the look and the touch of the meat whether it
is done or not. This steak takes about twelve minutes you will find,
but then Mary had taken care to have the fire clear and fierce, and
the steak was cut evenly. Press the meat with the flat blade of a
knife to find whether it is done. You will, after trying once or
twice, know how it feels when it is sufficiently cooked. It should be
nearly black outside and the inside should be red all the way
through. There should not be a blue line of raw meat in the
middle--that is quite wrong.

"I don't like red underdone meat," said Margaret. "I cannot eat it."

"A broiled steak is not red because it is under-dressed; it is red
because it is full of gravy. Now our steak is done, I think. Press it
with the knife that you may know how it feels."

The little girls pressed it, and looked very wise.

"The plates have been warming for such a long time, that I cannot
take hold of them," said Mary.

"That is as they should be. They ought to be very hot indeed for a

"Mother, how many more lessons in Cookery have we?"

"Only one, dear. Your holidays are almost over."

"May we choose what we will make next time, mother?"

"I am rather afraid to promise for fear you should choose something
unlikely--a wedding-cake for instance."

"We were going to choose a wedding-cake, mother."

"I would rather you dismissed it from your thoughts, my little
daughter. A wedding-cake costs a good deal to begin with; it is not
particularly wholesome food. I could not let you eat more than an
inch or two, for fear you should be ill. Think of something else."

"Very well, mother. We will think it thoroughly over; and if we
choose something reasonable, and not unwholesome, may we make what we
wish, just to finish up well?"

"Yes, that I will readily agree to," said Mrs. Herbert, and the
children went away contented.

(_To be continued._)



  Where hollyhocks lift their blossoms gay,
    And dahlias show their velvet dyes,
  The Sunflower in its flaming pride
    With them in gorgeous beauty vies.

  Proudly it turns towards the sun,
    And lifts aloft its golden shield,
  As in the day when first its bloom
    To wondering Spaniards was revealed.

  For, when the Spaniards found Peru,
    A marvel there they did behold,
  The fields with Sunflowers covered o'er
    Seemed like a living sheet of gold.

  No wonder that Peruvian priests,
    Who worshipped the Sun-god, should take
  The Sunflower for their chosen flower,
    And hold it sacred for his sake.

  Each holy priestess of the Sun
    A glittering golden breast-plate wore,
  Fashioned to semblance of the flower,
    That also in her hand she bore.

  And though in lands far from Peru
    A home the Sunflower bright hath found,
  It worships still the sun, as when
    The Spaniards trod Peruvian ground.



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


"What do you generally have for your luncheon?" Mr. Murray said, as
he led the way to the dining-room. "Something good, I've no doubt.
Now, just you tell me what it is."

"Well, sir, a Bath bun and a glass of milk," Bertie replied, looking
vainly round the enormous table in search of his favourite dainty.

"Then I'm afraid you must manage with a cutlet to-day," Mr. Murray
said, with one of his peculiar smiles, "or some cold roast beef, or
ham and chicken," glancing from one to another of the dishes that
adorned the table. "Really, boy, I'm afraid we have not such a thing
as a Bath bun in the house, or within a quarter of a mile of us; but
a glass of milk I dare say James can find you, unless you would
prefer some claret and water."

"No, thank you, sir; but plain water will do very well," Bertie
replied, feeling a little confused.

"Do you never drink wine of any kind at your Uncle Gregory's?"

[Illustration: "HE TURNED HIS BULL'S-EYE ON BERTIE" (_p. 285_).]

"No, sir; papa made Eddie and I promise we would never even taste it
till we grew to be men, and we never have. He said that then we would
like it so little that we would not care if we never tasted it a
second time."

"He was quite right, boy. And now tell me why you refused my
invitation. Were you afraid of offending your uncle?"

"No, sir."

"What, then?" Mr. Murray said, looking stern. "Tell me just the

"I don't think my cousins wanted us to go; I felt that they wouldn't
have been kind to us; and I am sure Aunt Gregory would have been
displeased. I did not think we should have been happy, sir, I'm sure
Eddie would have been miserable after what he said."

"What did Eddie say?" Mr. Murray asked.

"If you please, sir, I'd rather not tell you: he wouldn't like it,"
Bertie replied, looking quite troubled at the turn the conversation
was taking.

"But I want to know, and I must know; tell me this moment what Eddie
said. Am I not your father's old friend? Go on, boy."

Mr. Murray looked so angry, and his eyes flashed so under his shaggy
knitted brows, that Bertie was quite frightened.

"Eddie said he did not like being poor or seeing people who knew him
when he was rich; and he's so clever and so proud; and he would be so
miserable if the boys treated him as they do me. So I thought if I
came back to town they wouldn't go without me," Bertie said
hurriedly. "And now, sir, please may I go back? Uncle will be so
angry; he says all office time belongs to him, and any one who wastes
a moment of it, or is late, or leaves before the clock strikes, is a
thief!" Bertie's voice fell to an awed whisper, and his ruddy cheeks
grew quite pale at the bare idea of being thought dishonest, and yet
he knew that Mr. Gregory would not spare him a bit more than any one
else; and it was half-past two, and Bertie was due back at one

"Do you think your time belongs to your uncle?" Mr. Murray asked

"Yes, sir, of course; he pays me," Bertie replied. "Please may I go

"One moment. Tell me what reward you expect for having brought that
bag here to-day."

"Reward!" Bertie stammered, looking the very picture of confusion. "I
don't know what you mean. The bag was not mine, and I managed to give
it back to the person it belonged to: that's all, sir. Why should I
be rewarded? But the cabman was so grateful, he said, 'Heaven bless
the gentleman! he's done a better turn than he knew to-day;' and he
kissed the sovereign, sir; and I'm sure there were tears in his eyes,
because he said----" Bertie stopped suddenly; perhaps he had no right
to repeat the cabby's words, spoken under the influence of sudden and
joyful excitement; but Mr. Murray commanded him to go on. "Because he
said, 'My poor wife is dyin', and this 'ere precious sov will let me
go right 'ome, and spend the rest of the day with her. Heaven bless
the gentleman!' Oh, he did look so happy!" and Bertie's own eyes
filled with sympathetic tears, though his lips smiled. "I don't think
I shall mind Uncle Gregory's scolding a bit when I think of the poor
cabby's happiness," he added.

"Bertie, a truly good and honest action is like a pebble thrown in a
pool of water: at first it makes a little splash that is not of much
account, but the tiny circle widens and widens, till the whole
surface is influenced. Life is a limitless pool. Do you know where
the circle you started to-day may end? No; neither do I; no human
being knows, but God does. Already it has benefited me a little, that
unhappy clerk who lost the bag a great deal, that poor cabby with his
dying wife a great deal more. Who knows how many more innocent and
perfectly unconscious people may have been influenced by the
accident, if, indeed, there is such a thing as accident in this world
of ours. Just think for one moment what would have been the result if
you had carried that bag to your office, put it in your desk, and
never said a word about it till to-morrow morning, when there would
perhaps have been an advertisement in _The Times_, offering fifty
pounds reward. You might have got the money and been happy, and five
thousand people might have been miserable for life. Such was the
importance of those papers. Now, my carriage is at the door, and I'll
set you down in the City. Tell your uncle the exact truth, and always
act, Bertie Rivers, as you did to-day, honestly and _promptly_: not
because it may benefit yourself, but because it's sure to have a
beneficial influence on every one else. Remember the pebble and the

Mr. Murray did not speak another word till they reached the top of
Mincing Lane; there the carriage stopped and Bertie got out, but in
spite of all the kind things the old gentleman had said, in spite of
the consciousness of having done quite right from one point of view,
in spite of his real pleasure on the clerk's and the cabby's account,
he felt positively nervous about entering the presence of his uncle,
and actually loitered outside for fully five minutes before venturing
to push back the swing doors, and enter the outer office of Gregory
and Co. He fancied all the clerks were looking at him in surprised
compassion, though in reality not one of them had noticed him, and if
they had, they would only think he had been sent on an errand by his
uncle. With a loudly-beating heart he entered his uncle's room fairly
trembling in every limb, the ominous silence of every one having
completely terrified him.

Mr. Gregory was writing, and only raised his eyes for one moment as
Bertie took his seat, but he looked very stern, and without doubt
there would be a storm in a few moments, for Bertie was not a
stranger to the rigid rules of the office. At the end of ten minutes
the busy pen was laid aside, a heap of letters pushed into the
basket, and by a motion of his hand Mr. Gregory summoned his nephew
to stand before him.

"You are just two hours and a quarter late," he said, glancing at his
watch. "Will you kindly explain to me where you have been and what
you have been doing?"

"Yes, Uncle Gregory;" and in a very quavering voice Bertie recounted
every incident that occurred from the moment he left the office for
luncheon till he returned, dwelling least on his interview with Mr.
Murray and most on the necessity of overtaking the gentleman who had
lost the bag. He then explained what he had heard in the train in the
morning, and how important it was that the papers should be signed at
once. But Mr. Gregory's face grew graver and sterner as he listened,
and instead of praising Bertie, he looked as if he could have
cheerfully given him a good thrashing.

"You should have brought that bag to me, sir; you should have
remembered that during office hours your time is mine. I am very
angry with you, Herbert Rivers, and, what is still worse, very much
disappointed. I imagined that you were a steady, straightforward boy,
who meant to profit by the exceptional opportunities given you. I
fancied you were worthy of the kindness I have bestowed upon you, and
I find you a clever, artful, designing creature. Why did you say you
preferred to come back to business instead of going with your
cousins? why did you come, boy? To cross, thwart, annoy me? In my
opinion, you came simply to ingratiate yourself with Mr. Murray, and
your conduct to-day has proved it. Why should you find his papers?
Why should you take them to him instead of to me--your uncle and
guardian, as well as your master? I tell you again that it's my
opinion you are a bad, artful designing boy, and I'm very sorry I
ever set your foot on the high road to fortune, for I'm sadly afraid
you will turn out a disgrace to me some day!"

"Not so bad as that, Gregory, I hope," Mr. Murray said, entering the
room; he had been standing in the doorway unnoticed for some minutes,
and overheard a good deal of the conversation. "Your nephew is not
going to disgrace you, because he did what was clearly his duty in a
very clever way. Cheer up, Bertie; your uncle will have a better
opinion of you presently."

For answer, Bertie hid his face amongst the circulars on his desk,
and burst into a passionate fit of crying, none the less bitter
because his uncle sternly commanded him to be quiet, and carry a note
to a gentleman in Threadneedle Street, and wait for an answer.
Meanwhile Mr. Murray sat down, as if he meant to have a long
conversation with Mr. Gregory, who looked as if he most cordially
wished his visitor sixty miles away, as he thought him in reality to
be, before he had heard Bertie's curious story.


When he left the office on his uncle's errand, Bertie Rivers felt
very miserable. For a minute he seemed almost stunned by his uncle's
words, "A disgrace!" Was it possible that merely doing right ever
could bring disgrace to anybody? if so, what was the good of doing
right at all? But then, Mr. Murray had commended him, had said right
always helped the largest number of people, though one might
sometimes suffer; but even in a good cause to be called artful,
designing, to be suspected of trying to make friends with Mr. Murray,
and leading his uncle to suppose that he did not want to even accept
his invitation, was too bitterly hard, and for the first time in his
life Bertie felt as if he must throw himself down by the wayside, and
sob his sorrow out to some one.

"Oh, if I could only see Aunt Amy!" he said aloud as he toiled up the
stairs to the address on the note in his hand. "If I could only tell
her all!" and then, as the gentleman was out and he was desired to
wait, he sat on a form on the landing, and while seeming to watch the
never-ending crowd of passers-by in Threadneedle Street, he was
really thinking, "I must see my Aunt Amy. I must, _I must, I must_!"

The passing cabs attuned themselves to the words, the newspaper-boys,
crying "Evening Paper, fourth edition," the flower-sellers, the
sellers of mechanical toys, revolving purses, performing mice, and
other living and dead monstrosities that haunt the vicinity of the
Stock Exchange and Bank, all seemed to "cry" the same thing to
Bertie, "I must see Aunt Amy. _I must, I must, I must!_"

Till four o'clock Bertie sat patiently waiting for an answer to his
note, then the _commissionaire_ came and told him that there was no
chance of the gentleman he wanted being there that day; so he went
back to Mincing Lane, only to find the office shut up, and then, for
the first time, he glanced at a clock, and saw that it was a quarter
after four. He had no very definite idea of how the time had gone,
but the one uppermost idea still in his mind was to get to Aunt Amy,
and tell her all his troubles, and ask her if she thought he had been
so very much to blame.

[Illustration: "BERTIE WAS IN HER ARMS IN A MOMENT" (_p. 288_).]

At length Bertie started to walk home; he had no ticket, for he had
gone to the office with his uncle before his holiday; and he had no
money: his last penny had been spent at Brighton, and Mr. Gregory had
not remembered to give him his usual weekly allowance; but there was
the savings' bank: he could get some of his own money and go to see
Aunt Amy at once. But the "book" was at Kensington, he remembered,
and he called to mind, too, that the people at the Post Office wanted
notice before paying any deposits, so that would not do. In his sore
trouble and impatience he wanted to rush off to the station that
moment, and even an express train would be far too slow for his
wishes. As he walked towards Kensington he kept thinking all the time
how he was to get the money. Whom could he ask to help him? But he
did not ask any one, and at last, weary with his walk and his
troubled thoughts, hot and dusty, he turned into the Park, and threw
himself on the grass in the quietest spot he could find. He was close
to Kensington Gardens, and a few minutes would bring him home; but
Bertie felt as if he must have a rest before the duties of the
evening commenced. For the first time in his life his work seemed
distasteful to him, and the idea of being shut up alone with his
uncle in the library after what had taken place was almost
unbearable. If he only could get away to Aunt Amy and tell her all,
it would be such a comfort. Once he pulled out his watch, and for a
moment thought of selling it, then with a start he remembered that it
was his dear father's last present. Above all things, he could not
part with that. It really seemed as if there were no resource but to
wait till he got his money from the savings' bank, and by that time
Aunt Amy would be just about returning to Fitzroy Square.

"I suppose I may as well wait, and be as patient as I can," he mused;
"besides, Uncle Gregory may think differently after what Mr. Murray
said to him to-day;" and then he turned over lazily on the grass,
pulled his hat over his eyes, and in a very few minutes was sound
asleep. He was very tired, and fairly worn out with the excitement as
well as the fatigue of the long summer's day, and he slept heavily.
How long he did not know, when he started to his feet suddenly, to
find himself quite damp from a heavy dew, chilled, stiff, sore, and,
worst of all, hungry. The park was quite deserted and very dark,
still he knew his way tolerably well, and hurried towards the gate,
shivering partly with cold, partly with nervousness, at finding
himself quite alone in the dark--everything was so gloomy and weird.
When he reached the gates he was really frightened to find them
locked, and to see by the lamplight that it was just eleven o'clock.
What would Uncle Gregory say when he got home? How was he to get home
unless some one came and let him out? for though a tolerably skilful
climber, Bertie felt that great swing gate was beyond him; he did not
like to venture over the sharp spikes at the top, even if he could
get so high. For a few minutes he called loudly, but no one took the
least notice, and he was becoming more and more frightened when he
saw the friendly gleam of a policeman's lantern. It was some time
before he could attract his attention, and when he did the man spoke
quite gruffly, and threatened him with all sorts of pains and
penalties for being in the park after hours.

"I couldn't help it, indeed!" Bertie cried, earnestly. "I was so
tired that I fell asleep, and uncle will be dreadfully anxious about
me. Oh, do please find some one to let me out!"

"Who's your uncle? and where does he live?" the policeman said, a
little less gruffly, for as he turned his bull's-eye on Bertie he saw
he was not a common offender, but a handsome young gentleman, who
looked in real, not sham, trouble.

"My uncle is Mr. Gregory, and he lives in Gore House, just close by.
Oh, do please, get me out! he will be so anxious!"

The policeman hesitated for a moment, and then directed Bertie to a
part of the railing tolerably easy to climb, from which he assisted
him carefully to get down, and walked with him to Gore House. There
was light in the library and dining-room, but there did not seem to
be any fuss or confusion, and it just struck Bertie that perhaps he
had not been missed at all. His uncle had seemed very preoccupied
all day; perhaps he had forgotten all about him since the time he had
sent him to Threadneedle Street. As it happened, that was just the
case. Mr. Gregory did not come home till late, when he was
accompanied by Mr. Murray; and immediately after dinner both
gentlemen went into the library, and had remained there ever since.
It was as James the footman opened the door, and the policeman and
Bertie entered the hall, that Mr. Gregory and Mr. Murray entered it
too from the library.

"I wish you would let me order the carriage," Mr. Gregory was saying,
when he stopped suddenly and hurried forward. "What's all this?
Bertie Rivers and a policeman! What has he been doing?" he asked, in
a tone that made the hearers think he was almost glad to see his
nephew in difficulties.

"There's not much amiss, sir," the policeman answered respectfully.
"This young gentleman says he was tired, and fell asleep in the park.
Of course he got locked in, and I helped him out. That's all, sir;
unless he has got cold from sleeping on the grass."

"Why were you in the park? why did not you come straight home? Give
an account of yourself," Mr. Gregory said sternly.

"I went to Threadneedle Street, sir, and waited for an answer, as you
told me, but the gentleman did not come in; then I went back to
Mincing Lane, but the office was shut, and I walked home."

"Why did you walk?" Mr. Gregory interrupted.

"I had no money, sir," Bertie replied defiantly; "and I thought I was
to return with you, but you were gone."

"Well, why didn't you come straight home? Why did you loiter in the
park? I don't believe a word you have said!"

"He was in the park right enough, sir. I seed him there and helped
him out; and any one as walked from the City might fall asleep
without much blame on an afternoon like the one to-day," the
policeman said, feeling a little indignant at Bertie's reception, and
perhaps disappointed at the poor prospect of reward for himself.

"Get about your business!" Mr. Gregory said shortly, and the man
turned aside with a muttered exclamation, but Bertie seized his hand
and thanked him warmly, and Mr. Murray just then contrived to slip a
more tangible reward into his other hand. Then the old gentleman
turned to Bertie, and patted him kindly on the shoulder. "Why, dear
me, boy! you are quite wet," he cried, starting back, "and you are as
white as anything. Had you any dinner? of course not; nor any tea?
how very tiresome of you! But then you had no money, and you came up
from Brighton this morning, and had a tiresome, exciting day. Better
you went in the yacht, boy, far better and pleasanter; and your uncle
could have done very well without you;" and Mr. Murray frowned and
chuckled in the most extraordinary way as he pushed Bertie before him
into the dining-room, and rang the bell just as if the whole place
belonged to him, while Mr. Gregory immediately followed, looking very
dark and stern.

"James, get this boy a cup of hot cocoa and some cold meat directly,
and tell some one to prepare a warm bath for him; and you must give
him a holiday to-morrow, Mr. Gregory. He should stay in bed all the
day if he's to escape a violent cold. Now I must be off. Good night;
good night, boy; take great care of yourself, you are very fortunate
that you didn't have to sleep in the park all night."

And with another friendly pat on the shoulder, Mr. Murray departed,
leaving Bertie drinking his cocoa with evident enjoyment, and Mr.
Gregory frowning with annoyance.

In more ways, and more seriously than he knew, Bertie had caused his
uncle loss and disappointment that day, and Mr. Gregory was not
inclined to forgive him very easily; least of all was he disposed to
overlook the sudden interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, and the
conversation that afternoon at the office, and in the evening at Gore
House, had been chiefly about the two boys whom fortune had thrown on
the world so young, and so little able to help themselves. Mr. Murray
asked persistently if something better could not be done for them.
Mr. Gregory maintained that they were both well and generously
treated, but Bertie's white woe-begone face and evident fear of his
uncle spoke little for the happiness of his life in Gore House; and
as he walked home in the quiet, sultry August night, Mr. Murray
sketched out a plan which he thought would please the boys, and make
life more pleasant for the sons of his dead friend, but it would take
some time and trouble to mature, and then both boys would have to be
fully tried and tested before the idea was made known to them. "I
have no fear about Bertie: he's a brave, bright, truthful lad; even
the vague suspicion of being false cuts him like a knife. No man
should say he doesn't believe a boy like that without positive proof.
As for his brother--well, I'm afraid he's a difficult youngster to
manage, but he's all right at the bottom. I have no doubt he will
stand the test too; and the sooner we get poor Bertie out of his
difficulties the better it will be for him."


When Mr. Murray left the dining-room at Gore House, Mr. Gregory
followed him as far as the hall door, then he returned for a moment,
and looked at Bertie angrily. It seemed as if he were going to say
something of importance, but suddenly checked himself with a hasty
stamp of his foot; then he said, more quietly, "Get to bed as soon as
possible, and be down in good time in the morning, and see that you
don't fall asleep out of doors again," and left the dining-room.

Bertie was not very long after him, and though he felt much better
for his supper, he was still so stiff and chilled that the warm bath
was a real luxury. His head was scarcely on the pillow before he was
sound asleep, but he was troubled and restless, and awoke in the
morning feeling dull and unrefreshed, and with the uncomfortable
sense of something having happened that he vainly tried to recall.
However, he got up and was downstairs before his uncle.

Mr. Gregory spoke to him coldly, without looking up from his pile of
letters, and Bertie ate his breakfast in silence: that is, he drank
his coffee, but food seemed to hurt his throat strangely, and in
spite of the brilliant sunshine, he shivered nervously once or twice.
Just as breakfast was finished there came a telegram for Mr. Gregory,
which, when he had read it, he handed over to Bertie.

The message was from Aunt Amy, saying that Uncle Clair was ill, and
wished to see Bertie, if his Uncle Gregory would permit him to go.
The paper fell from his trembling fingers as he looked at the
unconcerned features of his uncle, and he gasped, rather than asked,
"May I go, sir?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," was the cold reply, "though I fail to
see what possible good you can do. You can come into the City with
me, and go down by the noon express; telegraph to that effect when
you reach the office."

"Thank you, Uncle Gregory; and if you please, will you let me have
some money?" Bertie faltered, blushing, and looking very much
confused. "I'm afraid it would take me too long to get my own out of
the savings' bank."

Mr. Gregory took a sovereign from his pocket. "That will be
sufficient for your expenses. Watts shall get your ticket;" and Mr.
Gregory rose from the table, and rang for his hat and gloves. The
dog-cart was already at the door, and presently Bertie was beside his
uncle driving City-wards.

Mr. Gregory looked very stern and angry, and once or twice seemed on
the point of asking Bertie some questions, but always checked
himself. The fact was, Mr. Gregory felt very curious as to what Mr.
Murray had said to Bertie, whether he had made him any fine promises,
or, in short, shown the lad himself the keen interest that he took in
him, and how resolved he was to do something to alter his condition.
Mr. Gregory had very confidently hoped that one of his own sons would
have been the old gentleman's favourite, and but for the unfortunate
encounter with the Rivers' lads, he felt quite confident that such
would have been the case. Then the finding of the papers and the
immediate return of them annoyed Mr. Gregory very much. If he could
have kept them back for one day it would have been considerably to
his interest; and though he liked and fully appreciated a boy who was
quick to think and prompt to act, he liked the quickness and
promptitude to be for, not against, himself. In fact, though he would
not acknowledge it, even to himself, Mr. Gregory's business affairs
just then were in a very critical condition: during the summer many
of his ventures had failed; many large firms with which he did
business had also failed; and though the credit of his house was as
yet above suspicion, trade was very dull, and matters generally
looked threatening. It was that that caused Mr. Gregory to court an
alliance in any shape with the firm of Murray and Co., that enjoyed a
reputation second only to the Bank of England. With one of his sons
in the office, and treated as the adopted child of the head of the
firm, Mr. Gregory felt as if he could face a financial earthquake;
therefore he did not care to see Bertie rendering important services,
did not care to hear him praised for exceptional business capacity,
least of all did he like to hear his old friend Mr. Murray almost
reproach himself for the lad's dependent position, and say sadly that
in a great measure he was the cause of their father's ruin. Such a
statement from an enormously wealthy, Quixotically generous man meant
possible reparation; there was really no telling what he might not do
for Bertie and Eddie Rivers; so Mr. Gregory determined very
prudently, as he thought, to keep the boys as much as possible out of
the old gentleman's way. Therefore he allowed Bertie to go to
Brighton, with permission to remain as long as his uncle and aunt
required him, and telegraphed to his wife to send his second son Dick
up to town without delay.

"Harry must go to Oxford and get into Parliament," he said to
himself, "and I must sacrifice Dick to his interest and advancement."
It was a singular thing Mr. Gregory never thought it the least
sacrifice to place Bertie Rivers in his office, even when he was
younger and worse educated than his own son. "Bertie is a smart,
industrious lad, with better business capacity than Dick," he
reflected, as he watched Bertie go through his morning's work,
apparently oblivious to everything outside, forgetful of his stiff
limbs, sore throat, hard words, and, worst of all, the terrible
telegram from Brighton; he simply crushed the thoughts down and did
his work steadily, till his uncle told him it was time to go to the

"Good-bye. I hope you will find Mr. Clair better," he said,
ungraciously enough. "Watts, get a hansom, and be quick."

Bertie needed no second bidding to go, and as he left the office it
was with an earnest wish that he might never have to enter it again.
He little knew that his uncle's thoughts at the same moment were, "I
hope he may never come back; or if he does, I hope Dick will be with
Mr. Murray."

That gentleman meantime had driven round to Gore House about eleven
o'clock, with the intention of taking Bertie out for a couple of
hours, and so studying his manners and temper, but to his
astonishment, he learned the boy had driven into town with his uncle,
and was going down to Brighton to see his other uncle, who was
dangerously ill. James had consulted the telegram he found on the
breakfast-table, and from it and the fragments of conversation he
picked up, knew pretty accurately what Master Bertie's movements were
going to be. "He's going down by the twelve train, sir, but he looks
more fit to be in his bed," James continued. "I believe he's caught a
violent cold: he was that hoarse to-day, and his face as white as
milk; and he had no breakfast."

Mr. Murray listened in silence, only nodding his head gravely every
few seconds, then he told his coachman to drive him at once to London
Bridge Station; there he would find out the truth as to whether
Bertie was ill or going to Brighton, and act accordingly. But the
City was very crowded, his carriage frequently got blocked, and he
only reached the station in time to jump into a carriage, where he
fancied he caught a glimpse of Bertie's head in a corner. He had not
even time to get a ticket or give his servants any instructions; but
then, Mr. Murray was known to be eccentric, and he always paid most
liberally for his whims.

Bertie, who was alone in the carriage, looked first surprised, and
then very pleased. He was terribly low-spirited, his head ached, his
throat was sore, worst of all, he was cold, and would probably have
sobbed the whole way to Brighton had he been alone, and so made
himself very ill. But Mr. Murray cheered him up wonderfully, chatted
briskly all the way about everything a boy could be expected to take
an interest in, and in fact made the time pass so pleasantly that
they were at Brighton long before Bertie thought they were half-way.
When they reached the house (for Mr. Murray went too), the blinds
were all down, and that gave Bertie a sudden chill; and as he knocked
at the door he glanced with terrified, appealing eyes at Mr. Murray,
who drew a step nearer, and took Bertie by the hand. It was a firm,
reassuring clasp, and the boy glanced at him gratefully, and when the
door was opened, thus hand in-hand they went upstairs, and were met
just at the drawing-room door by Mrs. Clair. One glance at her face
was sufficient to tell them something dreadful had happened. Bertie
was in her arms in a moment, while Eddie and Agnes--white, wild-eyed,
terror-stricken--clung on either side. It was a heartrending picture
of sorrow and despair, and Mr. Murray could not witness it unmoved.
He just shook hands with Mrs. Clair, whispered a few words that he
would telegraph at once to Mr. Gregory, and would call again in a few
hours, to ask if he could be of any service.

"Remember, my dear Mrs. Clair, you are not alone here. I will see to
everything for you: Rely on me, command me, and remember I was your
brother's dearest friend. I will call as soon as I get Gregory's
answer. By the way, that boy Bertie is very ill; he has a violent
cold, he has eaten nothing to-day, he is very unhappy; if you can,
forget' your own sorrow for an hour in comforting him;" and then Mr.
Murray hurried away, having left a ray of sunshine in a very shady
place, and cheered and comforted Mrs. Clair, who was alone, helpless,
bewildered, in her terrible and sudden affliction. Surely Heaven had
sent her a friend in her direst distress, and she was truly grateful.

(_To be continued._)


A Frog had made himself a home in what he considered a very desirable
situation. It was beside a river far away from any human habitations,
so that he had no occasion to fear the incursions of rude boys, of
whom, owing to their stone-throwing propensities, he had a natural

It was also a very pleasant spot, where reeds and bulrushes and
water-plants protected him from the glare of the sun, whilst before
him the water-lilies spread their broad leaves upon the water. Food
was plentiful in the vicinity, and he congratulated himself upon
having found a place where he could dwell without being subject to
constant alarms.

A fox had on very much the same principle taken up his residence in a
wood near. There were plump young pigeons and hares and rabbits to be
had, and very often he came in for waterfowl by the river.

"And no fear of traps here," said he, "or of boys and men with guns.
It is far too wild a place for them."

So he made himself as comfortable as possible in his den, and enjoyed
himself to his heart's content; never finding it necessary, excepting
in winter-time, to make an expedition to more populated parts, though
at such seasons he was obliged through hunger to journey to the
remote villages for poultry, through scarcity of provisions in his
own parts.

One fine day, as he was sauntering along, he happened to observe a
movement among the rushes, and to hear a strange cry that he had not
heard before.

He paused to listen, and still the sound went on, and still the reeds
swayed to and fro.

"Doubtless a bird," said he. And he cautiously advanced to where the
noise proceeded from.

Now it happened that the frog was splashing about and performing
rotatory movements that caused the swaying of the rushes, and that he
was making a curious singing noise on which he prided himself as
showing his fine voice. Looking up he perceived the great sharp face
of the fox peering down upon him. Not that the fox was looking at
him, for he had not perceived him, his thoughts being occupied with
the fine young waterfowl he hoped to find there.

The frog, however, made up his mind at once that the fox had come
after him.

"Such a fine young frog as I am," he exclaimed, "is never safe for a
moment," and with a loud croak of terror he plunged into the water
and swam away, determined to put a safe distance between himself and
his pursuer.

The fox looked over the rushes, and seeing the frog swimming as for
life, laughed quietly to himself.

"How people magnify their own importance!" said he; "as if I were
troubling myself to come after him! I was hoping to find prey of a
very superior description."

J. G.

[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE FROG. (_See p. 288._)]


November is a month of very great dulness in Gardening matters, from
a practical point of view, and will probably fully justify the
epithet of "gloomy" so often applied to it. Familiar floral faces
which have been for the past several months brightening us with their
cheerful looks have now vanished, and we once more witness Nature in
her winter aspect. "A garden," says Douglas Jerrold, "is a beautiful
book, writ by the finger of God; every flower and leaf is a letter.
You have only to learn them--and he is a poor dunce that cannot, if
he will, do that--to learn them, and join them, and go on reading and
reading, and you will find yourself carried away from the earth by
the beautiful story you are going through."

                *       *       *       *       *

One of the best occupations which we can recommend to our young
readers during winter evenings is the perusal of various elementary
books on gardening, and a few of the best seed catalogues which are
issued every spring. Those containing plenty of illustrations should
be preferred, as a figure, even if badly executed, will convey a far
better idea of a plant than the most elaborate of descriptions. We
would, however, remark that mere reading, no matter how wide and
varied, will by no means constitute any one a good or even
indifferent gardener where experience and knowledge are not acquired
by practice. It is probably true that a poet must be _born_ such; but
the case is just the reverse with a gardener, who must in fact be
made one.

                *       *       *       *       *

The present month is one of the best for making additions to our
little folk's gardens in the matter of nearly all sorts of hardy
perennials, and dwarf-growing shrubs. We would especially name the
Christmas rose; if planted now in a light loamy soil close to an east
wall, plenty of flowers will be produced in succession from the
latter part of December until February, and in order to secure pure
white blooms, the plant, when just commencing to flower, should be
covered over with a bell-glass. If grown exposed to winds and rain
the flowers will be of a very dirty white. The roots of the winter
aconite, or, as it is sometimes called, "The New Year's Gift," should
now be planted in, if possible, a rather damp and shady situation;
its bright yellow flowers will be most welcome throughout the dull
months of December and January. It may be grown successfully under
the shelter of trees and shrubs.

                *       *       *       *       *

Secure nice specimens of the forget-me-not, and plant in any damp,
shaded situation. A plentiful supply of flowers from early spring
onwards will amply repay any small amount of trouble entailed in
their cultivation. As the true forget-me-not (_Myosotis palustris_)
grows in most damp, boggy meadows throughout England it will cost
nothing to obtain it--except, perhaps, a pair of wet feet. The winter
aconite is likewise a native plant, but is rarely seen in a wild
state. Such spring-flowering perennials as the white arabis,
herbaceous candytufts, aubretias, primulas, and polyanthuses, should
now be placed in situations where it is desired for them to flower.
The majority of those just named thrive very well in almost any
moderately good garden soil, and under ordinary treatment.

                *       *       *       *       *

The hardy annuals required for spring flowering which were omitted to
be sown during the previous months should now be done so with all
speed; the most suitable position will be in a box of light soil, and
the young seedlings may be protected from the severity of winter by
the box containing them being placed in a cold frame, which should be
covered by straw or other litter during very hard frosts. Although
the majority of annuals are of a very ephemeral character, few things
are more showy or more floriferous. Among many others we may
particularise the fragrant white-flowered alyssum, the blue, dark
purple, spotted, and white varieties of nemophila, white and pink
virginian stock, and the large yellow buttercup-like flowered
limnanthes. Batches of the annuals sown in August and September can
now be placed in warm spots in the open border, where, in all
probability, they will withstand the winter and flower duly in

                *       *       *       *       *

The planting of flower-roots may be still carried on with vigour. As
regards the general work to be done now in the garden, we may mention
that in dry weather all walks and pathways should be swept and
rolled, which latter operation, like that of digging, ought to be
done by a labourer, although dragging a garden-roller has been
described as an excellent gymnastic exercise. Grass should be mowed
on every favourable opportunity; and where turf has been much worn
away, or where it is uneven, the objectionable portions must be
removed and replaced by better.




The Westminster Hospital and National Schools occupy the site of an
important portion of the precincts of Westminster Abbey as it was in
the olden times. This was the Sanctuary to which certain classes of
wrong-doers could flee for safety and escape the arm of the law. The
privilege of sanctuary had its uses in those troublous times; for it
enabled the innocent to take refuge where the tyrant dared not molest
them; but it also gave shelter to crowds of the lawless and depraved.

The Westminster Sanctuary was one out of about thirty attached to the
great English monasteries; in form it was a strong Norman fortress,
whose privileges were considered to be guaranteed by King Lucius,
King Sebert, and the apostle Peter himself. The Danes cared nothing
for sanctuaries, but Edward the Confessor re-organised the
institution with the Pope's aid.

There was great excitement and even consternation in London and
Westminster when in 1378 the privileges of the Abbey were tragically
violated. John of Gaunt had imprisoned in the Tower two knights who
had offended him. They escaped and rushed into sanctuary at
Westminster, but were soon pursued thither by the Constable of the
Tower and a company of armed men. The two knights were in the choir
of the Abbey attending high mass, and the deacon was just reading the
words "If the good man of the house had known what time the thief
would appear"--when the service was interrupted by the clash of arms.
One of the knights escaped, the other was chased twice round the
choir till he fell dead, pierced with twelve wounds. His servant and
one of the monks were killed at the same time. In consequence of this
desecration, the Abbey was shut up for four months; the chief
assailants were heavily fined and excommunicated.

In the fifteenth century, Edward the Fourth's Queen, Elizabeth
Woodville, was twice an inmate of the Sanctuary. On the first
occasion Edward V. was born here; on the second in 1483 her second
son the little Duke of York was torn away from her to share the
captivity and dark fate of his brother Edward V. in the Tower. Among
other noted persons who sought shelter here were Owen Tudor (uncle of
Henry VII.) and Skelton, the first Poet Laureate. The latter from his
safe retreat in the sanctuary sent forth against Cardinal Wolsey
invectives so bitter and so forcible that his death would have been
certain had he ventured outside the Abbey precincts. The rights of
the sanctuary were in full force till the time of Elizabeth, who
restricted the inmates to debtors; but under James I. all the English
sanctuaries were suppressed.

Near the Sanctuary was the Almonry, with its chapels and charitable
endowments, but deriving its chief interest to us as being the scene
of the early labours of Caxton. Margaret Richmond, the mother of
Henry VII., the gifted woman who founded St. John's and Christ's
Colleges, and who saw the signs of the coming changes, specially
protected in the Almonry, which she had re-endowed, the great pioneer
printer and his presses. Here the infant art grew up and flourished,
and still in the word "chapel," which is used to signify a meeting of
the compositors of a printing establishment, preserves a memento of
its early connection with the chapel of St. Anne in Margaret
Richmond's Almonry.

We will pass on, now to the Cloisters, begun by Edward the Confessor,
but rebuilt in the fourteenth century. Looking back four or five
hundred years we see the monks pacing to and fro, gossiping or
transacting the petty details of their daily life, and, as the time
came, digging graves for one another in the central grassplat. Here
the monks shaved each other's heads--an art in which they were
expected to be very skilful, and here the novices carried on their
studies. Rough mats took off the chill of the stone benches in some
degree, and the floor was littered over with hay and straw in summer,
and with rushes in winter. But in cold or stormy weather it must have
been a desolate place at the best, for the lower parts of the windows
opening on the central court were never closed.

Along the South Cloister lay the magnificent refectory, an upper hall
of the time of Edward II., with arcades of the time of the Confessor
beneath it. Very strict were the rules of behaviour in this great
dining-room. No monk might speak, and guests might only whisper.
There were particular rules against leaning on the elbows, sitting
with the hand on the chin, or cracking nuts with the teeth. The
beautiful and commodious hall of the refectory was occasionally used
for various secular gatherings. In 1244, Henry III. held a great
Council of State in it. Here Edward I. met a large gathering of
clergy and laity, and demanded half their possessions. The Dean of
St. Paul's, in his consternation, fell dead at Edward's feet. The
King took slight heed of this occurrence, and persisted in his
demands, till he obtained all he wanted. Several of the early
assemblies of the Commons of England took place in this hall.

The dormitory of the monks was over the East Cloister; there is a
gallery still remaining, opening into the south transept of the
Abbey, by which they came to their midnight services.

In the Eastern Cloister you see an ancient door, leading to what is
now called the chapel of the Pyx. In it is the Box or Pyx, containing
specimen standard-pieces of all the gold and silver coins of the
realm. Once in five years this strong room is opened, and coins newly
issued from the Mint are compared with the standards, to make sure
that the coinage is not degenerating. But in ancient days this
chamber was the treasury of England. Here the sovereigns kept their
money in hard coin, as well as the regalia, and many priceless
relics, such as the Holy Cross of Holyrood, the sceptre or rod of
Moses, and the dagger that wounded Edward I. at Acre. In 1303, whilst
Edward I. was invading Scotland, news was brought him that his
treasury had been broken into, and his vast hoards carried away. The
abbot and forty-eight monks were sent to the Tower, and after a long
trial, two of their number were proved to have been concerned in the
robbery. Amongst the iron-work of the door there are fragments of
human skin, which in all probability once pertained to these robbers,
and ever after remained as terrible warnings to the monks, as they
walked along the Cloisters. The king's money was henceforward kept
elsewhere, the regalia after a time sent to the Tower, and the relics
disappeared at the Reformation.

From the Cloisters we can readily reach the Chapter-House, the
octagonal building so conspicuous on the left hand before entering
the Abbey at Poets' Corner. It was founded by Edward the Confessor,
and rebuilt by Henry III. This beautiful building was at first the
meeting-place of the convent, in which all difficulties were adjusted
and satisfaction made for faults. The abbot, with his three priors
and sub-prior, occupied five richly-decorated stalls at the eastern
end. Above them rose a great crucifix to which the monks bowed on
entering. Then followed complaints, confessions, judgments,
punishments--such monks as were thought to need it were stripped to
the waist, and publicly scourged at the central pillar.

When the Commons began to meet apart from the Lords they met a few
times in the refectory, as I told you just now, but they soon settled
down in this Chapter-House. It would be too long and tedious a story
for me to attempt to recount the important acts that were passed in
this memorable edifice. The Commons sat here till the last day of
Henry VIII's life; their next meeting was in St. Stephen's Chapel in
the adjacent Palace.

From 1547 to 1863, the Chapter-House was used as a storehouse for the
public records. A special building for these has since been erected
in Chancery Lane, and by a grant from Parliament this beautiful and
time-honoured building has been redeemed from the miserable condition
resulting from centuries of neglect.

A little way from the Chapter-House stands a small square tower known
as the Parliament Office. It is thought that this tower was once the
convent prison, but however that may be, it was sold by the Abbey to
Edward III., and was for many years the royal jewel-house. Its
present name arose from the fact of all acts of Parliament being
deposited here, till they were moved to the Victoria Tower in 1864.
From the jewel-house, in the days of the abbots, there used to be a
path leading to a stream that ran down to the Thames. Hereabouts
lived the hermit of Westminster, in what was called "The Anchorite's
House." From age to age, a succession of hermits dwelt here, how
chosen for the post we do not know, but we hear of Richard II.
visiting the hermit in 1381, and of Henry V. doing the same at the
time of his father's death in 1413. It is said that one of these
"holy men" had been buried in a leaden coffin, in a small chapel
adjoining his cell. The keeper of the palace, William Ushborne, paid
a plumber to dig up this coffin and bring it to his office, after
throwing the bones down the cloister well. Tradition says that the
plumber fainted and died in Ushborne's house. Ushborne was guilty of
other crimes; he managed to steal a piece of the convent land and
made it into a garden with a fish-pond in the middle. He was supping
with his neighbours one evening on fish from this pond, and had taken
two or three mouthfuls of a large pike, when he shouted "Look! look!
here is come a fellow who is going to choke me." He died on the spot,
killed by the fish he had reared on the scene of his sacrilege.
Adjoining the land stolen by Ushborne was the Infirmary, (now
College) Garden, where sick brothers took exercise. Of the infirmary,
only a few fragments of arches remain--but these undoubtedly date
from the time of the Confessor. Here the sick monks dwelt, visited at
times by the long procession of the healthy brethren. Here also lived
the "playfellows"--the monks over fifty years of age--who were told
nothing unpleasant, were freed from the ordinary rules, and were
permitted to enjoy the privilege of censuring anything they heard or

The Infirmary Chapel (in which, by the way, the young monks were
privately whipped to spare them from the more public floggings in the
Chapter-House) was dedicated to St. Catherine. Many bishops were
consecrated and many church councils held in this building, of which
only a few arcades and pillars forming part of modern buildings now
mark the site. A curious scene was enacted here, at a church
assembly, in 1124, when the Archbishops of York and Canterbury
quarrelled about precedence. Richard of Canterbury took his seat on
the right-hand side of the Pope's Legate, whereupon, Roger of York,
who claimed that place, went and sat down in Canterbury's lap. He was
speedily pulled off by Canterbury's servants, and much knocked about.
Severely bruised, and with his cope torn, York rushed into the Abbey,
where he found the king, and told his wrongs. The king bound over
both the archbishops to keep the peace for five years, and the Pope
issued an edict that Canterbury should be Primate of all England,
and York Primate of England.

In the next century, St. Catherine's Chapel witnessed a stirring
scene, when Henry III., holding in one hand a Gospel, in the other a
lighted taper, swore to uphold Magna Charta. The king and all the
great dignitaries present threw their candles on the ground, then
holding their noses and shutting their eyes, they exclaimed "So go
out in smoke and stench the accursed souls of those who break or
pervert this charter." No voice was louder than that of the king's in
shouting "Amen and Amen!" and yet somehow, in future years, he did
not seem to bear in mind his solemn covenant. It was quite as well
for England that he did not, for out of the resistance to his
perfidious folly sprang the English Parliament.

Having mentioned now the most important of the convent buildings, I
shall conclude my stories by telling about the monuments to be seen
in the Abbey.



"It was the nightingale singing to the rose," said the girl, bending
over the flowers. "I heard it all through the night, when the moon
was shining into my room."

"No, it was not."


And the brook danced by--such a tiny little silver streak, winding
through the ferns and mosses, that the girl could scarcely see it.
But she certainly heard it, for no other voice could be so sweet.

"Did you see the lilies in the moonlight?" continued the voice; "they
looked like pearl and ivory."

"Then, does the nightingale like the lilies best?" asked the girl.

"I do not know. But what has the nightingale to do with it?"

The girl looked down at the lilies, and one of them seemed to nod to
her, and its perfumed breath rose up, until a delicate cloud, like
incense, spread around her.

And suddenly the same sweet strain of music that she had heard in the
night sounded from afar off. Yes, it was the same tune: she was sure
it was; she knew it quite well; she had been humming it over and
over as she stood beside the flowers.

As if moved by a sudden thought, she stretched out her hand, and
gathered the lily that had nodded to her. And as she did so the music
grew louder and louder, and instead of the tiny brook dancing through
the ferns and mosses, she saw a great sea, that shone like glittering
gold in the sunlight. And in the distance was a shadowy purple
island, all indistinct in the golden haze around it. She could not
clearly make out its outlines, but she fancied she could trace the
towers and turrets of a stately castle. And as the music grew clearer
and clearer the island appeared to move towards her, and the waves of
the golden sea came dashing up towards her feet. The waters already
covered part of the garden in which she was wandering, and some of
the roses were beginning to disappear, and the girl felt afraid lest
she should be drowned.

She threw down the lily, and as she did so she heard a sudden cry,
and the music died away in a low wail, the purple island and the
glittering sea vanished, and the little brook again danced along.

She wondered whatever it could mean.

The girl fancied it was saying--

"Alas! alas!"

Then she fled home, without stopping to pick up the lily.


The girl lay sleeping in her little bedroom; she had left the window
open, because the night was warm. The moon was shining in, but it did
not wake her; neither did the little wood-elves, who had climbed up
the great vine, and had swarmed in at the window. Such numbers of
them! Some were sitting on the pillow stroking her hair, and
whispering into her ears, "Sleep, sleep, sleep," and others were
holding her eyelids fast closed, so that she could not open them to
see what was going on.

Some of them were dancing round in rings upon the soft white
coverlet, and others playing all sorts of pranks about the room.

The girl neither saw them nor heard them: she was too fast asleep for

She did not even dream of them, but was dreaming of something very
different from wood-elves, or mountain-elves, or any other sort of
fay or fairy.

No; she dreamed that she heard some one singing--


  "Up the stairs, if you will go,
    You'll hear a tapping, tapping
  At a door, for there you know
    A little child is rapping,
  Rapping, tapping, all the time,
    Tapping, rapping, tapping."

"No, I don't know anything of the kind," said the girl, moving so
suddenly in her sleep that a score of wood-elves fell, heels over
head, from the bed to the floor.

  "If you don't, if you'll go up
    The staircase, you will find her;
  She won't look round: she never does,
    So you can get behind her,"

went on the song.

"And what will be the use of that?" murmured the girl in her dream.

  "Why, you will help her, I suppose,
    To reach up to the knocker.
  You must not startle her, for that
    Most certainly would shock her."

"It was the sea and the castle in the sunlight," said the girl, "and
now it is something quite as ridiculous: a little child standing at a
door knocking. That comes in the moonlight. And the music is going on
all the time."

She was speaking quite loudly now, and she suddenly opened her eyes,
in spite of the wood-elves, who crept down from the bed and hid
themselves in the folds of the curtains, for they did not want the
girl to know that they were there.

"It's the music that has waked me," said the girl, getting up in bed
and listening; "it's the same song over and over again, only I can't
make out the words, excepting, 'Come, come, come,' and then something
about the sea. But that is very absurd, for there is no sea near
here. The moon knows that as well as I do, for the moon looks down,
and sees that there are only fields and woods and orchards, and
beautiful gardens full of flowers. I wish I were not dreaming all the
time. The music is a dream too; I thought it was the nightingale: and
I dare say it is, and that if I looked out of the window I should see
about a dozen nightingales sitting in a row, for it would take a
dozen quite to make such loud music as I hear in the moonlight."

And the girl shook back her long hair, and jumped out of bed and went
to the window; but she could see nothing, for pressed tightly against
the window was a great white lily, just like the one she had thrown
down, only instead of being of the ordinary size, it was so large
that it covered all the panes of glass and also the open part of the
window, so that it was quite impossible to look out. The stalk was
towards her.

  "I'm like an umbrella white,
    Keeping off the sun or rain;
  Keeping out the bright moonlight,
    Keeping in the wood-elves' train,

said the lily. Then it continued--

  "Yes, you threw me down in fright,
  But I've come to you to-night.
  Take me in your hand, and see
  What will then my purpose be."

The girl was silent for a moment; everything was so strange: the
beautiful music, the talking brook, and now the talking flower.

"I will not have anything to do with any of you," she said, giving
the flower a push to send it away from the window.

But no sooner had she touched it than the flower shrank to its
natural size, and remained in her hand, which was so tightly closed
that she could not open it again.

  "Away, away,
  Each elf and fay!"

murmured the lily; and there was a soft rush as of many tiny wings,
and the girl felt herself carried through the air.

This was the work of the wood-elves, who were there to help the lily.
But the girl scarcely knew what was happening; she was listening to
the music, which was so grand and beautiful that she forgot
everything else.

[Illustration: "SHE HELD THE LILY IN HER HAND."]


Was the girl the fairy queen? She began to think that she must be, as
she sat on some marble steps in the wood. She was dressed in white,
and had long silk stockings; and a veil of shining gossamer was
fastened on her head with a gold band, and it fell down to her feet,
and wrapped her round like a glittering cloud, and she held the lily
in her hand. And the music pealed on like a grand triumphal march,
and made the girl feel very proud and joyful.

Not very far off there was a carved chair, with some velvet cushions
upon it.

"Perhaps for me to be crowned in," said the girl, tossing her head.
"I wonder where my crown is?"

And as she said this she heard a burst of laughter, as if a thousand
grasshoppers were chirping. And an owl seated not far off said--

"Only queens are crowned, little girl."

"How do you know I am not a queen?" asked the girl, angrily. "Look at
my dress and my veil."

But the owl only said--

"Tu-whit, tu-whoo! tu-whit, tu-whoo!" and laughed so loudly that all
the wood-elves began to laugh also; so did the birds and the frogs,
and even the flowers. And the echoes answered back again.

There was so much noise that a troop of little sailors came running
up from the shore to see what was the matter.

"Are you ready?" said they to the girl; "the boat is waiting

  With its silken sails,
    The moon shines clear and bright;
  There is no fear of stormy gales
    Upon the sea to-night."

"I don't know what you are talking about," answered the girl. "There
is no sea near here, and if there is I am not going upon it."

But the sailors had wheeled the carved chair close to the marble
steps, and they went on speaking--

  "To-night upon the sea we go,
    And you with us must sail.
  Step in; the tide is up, and we
    Must start off without fail."

And the girl found herself in the chair, which the sailors pushed
down to the beach.

On the sea was a fine boat, with silken sails and a crimson flag.

The boat had a gilt figure-head, and its sides were painted blue and
gold. A red velvet carpet was spread upon the deck, and the sailors,
having hoisted the girl in the chair up the side of the vessel,
placed her upon the velvet carpet, and she found herself sailing fast
away from the land before she had time to think of how she had got

The sailors were all standing at one end of the deck playing upon
various musical instruments, and the tune they played seemed to
answer back the beautiful music that she had heard for so many days
floating in the air. Also the sailors sang--

  "Away it sails, the music-ship,
    Over the moonlit sea,
  And the trumpet that the captain blows
  Is the only rudder the vessel knows,
    As we sail so merrily,
  The fiddles, and fifes, and drums, and horns
    All carry the ship along,
  It shapes its course by the cymbal clash
    To the land of music and song."


The girl did not quite understand what the sailors meant by their
strange song. It did not seem to be altogether sense to her, but she
supposed that they knew where they were going. Still she asked--

"Whither are we sailing?"

"Don't you hear the music calling to us from the castle?" said the
captain: "the castle on the purple island in the golden sea. We are
sailing there; the music has spoken to us many times, but we did not
attend to it until now."

"Has it called me?" asked the girl.

And she thought of the beautiful tune that had seemed to say "Come,
come." And now, as they sailed beneath the castle walls, the tune
issued forth very clear, sweet, and strong from an open window.

"It is the master of the castle: he plays night and day, and is
always inviting those who love music to come and dwell with him."

The girl looked up at the stately castle.

"If I had known that I should have come here before."

"No, you would not."


"Because no one would have brought you. You can only come at the
right time. Hush!"


"Hush!" said the captain; "we must not make any noise. Do not speak

  Go like a mouse
  Into the house.
  Up the stairs creep
  Though they are steep.

  There you will find,
  If you're not blind,
  A little child who's softly tapping,
  Tapping, rapping, rapping, tapping,
  Rapping, tapping at the door.
  Though the knocker is so high,
  Yet she still doth try and try;
  You must knock, and it will fly
  Open--little girl, good bye."

"Why, that was in the dream; and if you please, captain, tell me
where I am, and who is the child, and----"

But the captain had gone, so had the sailors, so had the ship.

The girl went slowly up the steps to the castle door, which being
open, she entered in, and found herself in a great hall, from which a
staircase wound up and up through a great many storeys.

"I must go," she said; for the music that sounded through the castle
seemed to speak to her, and bid her come.

And on and on she went, and on the seventh storey she paused; for at
a door she saw a child tapping and rapping, and trying to reach the

Softly the girl went behind the little one, who never turned round,
but clutched in her hand a lily similar to the one the girl herself
held. She reached above the child's head, and knocked loudly. And
lo! a bugle-blast answered, and the door flew open, and the girl and
the child entered in together. They wandered through beautiful rooms,
listening ever to the music, and at last they came to one where on a
couch lay the master of the castle playing upon a lute.

If the music had sounded sweet in the distance, it sounded far
sweeter now, and the two paused on the threshold.

But the master said--

"Welcome to the Castle of Song, for none but true musicians find
their way here."

And then the child knelt down beside him, and said to him--

"I tried to come, but I could not knock loudly enough."

And the girl said--

"I do not think I tried to come, though the music was so beautiful.
Did you send for me?"

The master of the castle smiled, and answered--

"The music brought you."

Then the girl remembered that the boat sailed by music, and as she
looked through the open window and saw it sailing away in the
distance, she asked--

"Will it bring others, too?"

And the master of the castle replied--

"In time, in time."





The famous navigator, Captain Cook, was the means of introducing
Kangaroos for the first time to the notice of Europeans. In 1770,
during his great voyage of discovery, his ship lay off the coast of
New South Wales undergoing repair. One day some of the crew were sent
ashore to procure food for several sick sailors. The men saw a number
of animals with small fore legs, big hind ones, long and stout tails,
which bounded away with incredible speed, clearing the ground by a
series of extraordinary leaps. You may be sure that on their return
to the vessel the amazed seamen did not fail to talk of the curious
creatures, and their description induced the captain and Mr.
(afterwards Sir Joseph) Banks--the naturalist of the expedition--to
start next day for a sight of the strange animals. They, too, were
fortunate enough to witness the antics of the kangaroos; and so one
of the most important of the natives of Australia became known to the
civilised world.

Since Captain Cook's discovery (June 22nd, 1770) these creatures have
been imported alive into this and other countries. They thrive in
captivity, though the variable climate of England tries them at
times. At the London Zoological Gardens they seem to enjoy life in a
moderate way, though probably they miss the freedom of the immense
plains of Australia. They are not much run after by the visitors,
though the "sheds" in the Regent's Park collection are always quite
accessible. Why this should be so it is difficult to explain, for the
kangaroos have many points of remarkable interest. Their keeper tells
me that he does not agree with the opinion that they are
unintelligent creatures. Though not so docile and smart as other
inmates of the Gardens, he has succeeded in training the great
kangaroo to perform several tricks. They all recognise him readily,
and do what he tells them. He entered the shed for the purpose of
fetching the female kangaroo out of the house, so that I might see
the baby kangaroo in its mother's pouch. But it so happened that the
father was standing against the door-grating, and he had to be
reasoned with before he would retire to allow the gate to be opened.
But he ultimately obeyed his keeper's instructions. Then he was
bidden to seat himself upright upon his huge tail; and this he did,
remaining quite motionless till he was released by word of command.
The keeper then affected to bestow upon him a gentle cuff on the
head, but each time the hand approached, the head was smartly ducked
under, and the blow thus avoided. On his part, he attempted to give
the keeper a kick, quite in a playful way, but the latter held
himself at arms' length, and so the kangaroo's legs merely brushed
the keeper's coat. On going into the house at the back of the shed,
the mother kangaroo--addressed familiarly "Now, old lady"--was
ordered to come out into the open, and in a few moments the big
animal in two or three graceful bounds appeared in front of the shed,
her little one popping its head out of the pouch, and looking
supremely indifferent about its mother's hops. The kangaroos are not
costly animals to support, and, though their food consists of grain
and some kinds of green stuff, they are rather partial to the bits of
biscuit and bun which visitors offer indiscriminately to every animal
in the Zoo--under the notion that this is the staple food of the
various inmates, of flesh-eaters and grain-eaters alike.

Sydney Smith hit off the distinguishing features of this creature in
his own peculiar style. By a sort of happy exaggeration he described
it as "a monstrous animal, as tall as a grenadier, with the head of a
rabbit, a tail as big as a bed-post, hopping along at the rate of
five hops to the mile, with three or four young kangaroos looking out
of the pouch to see what is passing." Though not an aggressive
animal, the kangaroo when at bay is one of the most formidable of
opponents. This element of danger it is, probably, which lends so
much zest to a kangaroo hunt.

Mounted on horses and accompanied by a number of trained dogs, the
huntsmen chase their prey for miles ere a capture is effected. Before
the kangaroo takes to its heels, it usually raises itself up and
makes a hurried survey of the country--to see its enemies and the
quarter to which it could with greatest ease escape. After this hasty
look round it runs off at a marvellous pace, very soon leaving the
dogs far behind. It maintains its great speed unimpaired for at
least three or four miles, after which it begins to go more slowly,
and an attack at close quarters may soon be looked for. A single dog
has no chance at all. With a stroke of its powerful hind leg, the
kangaroo attacks, and lays it dead at its feet, or, seizing it with
its fore limbs, it hugs the dog, and leaps off with it to the nearest
water-hole, where it plunges it underneath, holding it down until the
dog is drowned. A man is just as completely at its mercy. The
kangaroo is a capital swimmer, and has been known to swim for a mile
against a strong head wind, but under favourable conditions as to
weather it can cover a much longer distance; consequently when
pursued it always makes straight for a river or other water, should
it be within reach. Both hind feet are armed with a singularly
dangerous weapon. The fourth toe is prolonged in some cases to an
enormous size, forming a claw, which is used either for stabbing or
striking an antagonist. When a kangaroo has been brought to bay,
therefore, great care has to be observed in approaching it. The plan
adopted is to set several dogs on it, and while one makes a show of
assailing it, and so engages its attention, the rest rush in upon the
gallant animal and kill it. The natives employ another mode of
warfare. Surrounding gradually a herd of kangaroos, they close in
upon them with yells and shouts, and generally succeed in spearing
several of them. But the rifle places the animal at a manifest
disadvantage, and by the use of this weapon the kangaroos have been
entirely driven off the settlements. No doubt it had become necessary
to resort to some effectual method of dislodging them, for many of
the pastoral districts had been stripped of every blade of grass by
their ravages.

The kangaroo, however, serves a useful-enough purpose in its native
country. Its flesh is considered by those who have partaken of it to
be very good eating; and it is quite within the range of possibility
that kangaroo venison may become as popular as Australian mutton.
Kangaroo-tail soup is said to be a renowned delicacy, decidedly
superior to ox-tail. Some species of the tribe are hardier than
others, and stand the English climate well; indeed, we have the
authority of Dr. Sclater for the opinion that Bennett's kangaroo,
"with very little attention, would rapidly increase in any of the
midland or southern counties, where the soil is dry, and the
character of the ground affords shelter from the north and east." It
goes without saying that these active creatures would not be at all
out of place in some of our English parks, and, along with the
elegant deer, would lend them an additional attractiveness and charm.



"Now, Mab, here's father's tea piping hot; take it and run along. You
know the way: go along by the river, and round by Jerry Smith's
cottage; then turn to the right, and the sound of father's axe will
guide you." So spoke Mrs. Lester while Mab, her little daughter,
donned her hat and cloak, with all a child's eagerness at the
prospect of a long sunny walk through the woods.

"Mind old Jerry's ghost doesn't catch hold of you," cried her waggish
brother Jack, as she crossed the threshold, tea-can in hand.

"There are no ghosts. Mother says they don't live in our days," quoth
Mab, disdainfully.

"Wolves do," said Ben, who was just nine, a year older than Mab.
"Take care you're not another Red Riding Hood."

"I shan't take care, because Red Riding Hood isn't true, any more
than fables are true: so father says; and we know fables are not
true," dissented matter-of-fact Mab, out of her eight years'

"Oh, more things are true than you and father know of," observed
Jack, with a wink at Ben.

But the little maiden was now out of hearing; once, twice she waved
her hand to them as they watched her from the doorway--how and when
would they meet again? Then she went trip-tripping along by the
brook. The brook ran into the wood; here it joined another stream,
wildly turbulent, although narrow, then together rushed on like two
prankish schoolboys out for a frolic; not long after joining hands,
as it were, they leaped down an embankment, laughing, as one could
fancy, listening to the babble the waters made, watching the
sparkling of the flying spray. Ah! many a rainbow shimmered about the
waterfall; right dangerous was the whirlpool above and below the
fall. Deep down in the ravine the waters meandered, calmly tranquil:
very like mature thoughtful manhood, after the prankish follies of
youth are past.

Well, along by the side of the brook trudged Mab, saying aloud, as if
to re-assure herself, "There are no ghosts and no wolves," for only
her parents' words could render the imaginative child brave, strong,
handsome girl of eight though she was. But ah! ah! what was that?

She was nearing Smith's cottage now, and surely something was
stirring among the bushes and undergrowth. Ah! yes, and a formidable
something was to be seen; her eyes scarce took it in ere it had quite
vanished. She met a little old woman a minute after, carrying a
bundle of sticks.

"Please; ma'am, did you see anything like a dog or a wolf as you came
along?" she asked, half ashamed of her question.

"La! child, no; and I hope I shan't, for I likes no such creatures;"
so saying, the old woman took to her heels and ran, sticks and all.

Poor little Mab wished she had not scared the old soul with her
fancies, for of course they were fancies, when oh, horror! the
child's heart seemed to leap into her throat; there, almost close to
her, was a hideous creature, which her startled imagination conjured
up into something terrible to behold, snorting, growling, and bearing
down upon her. Poor, impulsive, silly Mab: before she well knew what
she was doing she had sprung aside, anywhere to be out of the way of
the beast--a wolf she thought it was--and that anywhere was into the
brook, the prankish brook, just where it joined hands with its wild
companion. The very trees seemed to rustle with consternation as her
shriek rang around; ay, she may shriek, but who would hear her? Not
her father, chopping at and felling the giant trees some distance

Now two lads rush up to the edge of the brook: they are Jack and Ben.
Jack drops a something very like a skin, and leaps in after poor,
screaming, struggling Mab, borne away, borne on to be hugged and
embraced in the arms of both streams, and hurried forward to the

Alas! alas! will Jack save her? He has reached her; she is clinging
to him; but those two frolicsome watery playfellows are tossing them
hither and thither as in rude sport. Ben takes it all in with his
quick boyish eyes, and rushes away, like a very hare for swiftness,
to where his father is chopping in the calm afternoon glory, little
dreaming of what is happening not a mile away. How sweetly pitiful is
the calm wondering sky, watching overhead, as one may fancy, the
struggle for dear life going on in those wild gurgling waters. Ah!
the two streams in one have them in their embrace; they will not let
them go. Mab lies a senseless weight in Jack's arms as they are borne
on towards the whirlpool; once there, their fate will be sealed.

Jack's senses are leaving him; if Mab was not clinging to him as with
the grasp of death, he would let her go; his strong young arms are
waxing weak; and oh! a black terrible monster is upon him. Is it a
wolf? The river clamours and laughs--ha-ha! Jack, Mab, and the
terrible monster are mingling together; then Jack's senses are quite
gone, and he remembers no more.

Meanwhile, Ben sweeps on like the wind, hearkening even in his haste
for the welcome "thwack, thwack" of his father's axe. It is a sweetly
tranquil scene he bursts upon at last--a knot of toiling men lopping
off the limbs of a huge tree but newly laid low--the lad heard the
crash of its fall as he ran. The warm afternoon glow was about them,
the little birds hopping and peering among the wide-spreading
branches of the trees around, half startled, half curious, as if to
see all. A terrible shock to John Lester was the tale the panting boy
had to tell, and then he too ran like the wind; his companions in
full cry behind.

Only the exultant river, all flecked with lights and with afternoon
colouring, met the eyes of the eager men when they reached the spot;
the struggle was over. Two lives had gone out or had been saved; the
father wrung his hands as he rushed madly here and there, and peered
over at the plashing waterfall, Ben at his side, and both seeing
nothing of the dear ones they sought.

"And it all came of Jack's putting on old Shag's skin and playing
wolf to frighten Mab; and she saw him, and jumped in before he had
time to speak," wailed Ben, as the river swept on and the waterfall
clamoured. John Lester groaned.

"Well, Master Lester; I have 'em safe enough--I and old Jowler. 'Twas
a miracle of savin', but 'tis done; they're both in bed and asleep
like two tops already." So spoke Jerry Smith, the owner of the
cottage in the woods, and of a ghost to boot, if the lads of the
neighbourhood could be believed, coming up behind the distracted
father, and speaking over his shoulder.

"Then Heaven be praised!" returned he out of the depth of his heart,
turning and grasping the old man's hand.

"Ay! I have 'em all safe--ha-ha!" laughed the old man, glancing up at
his chamber window, which looked westward, where stood a wooden
figure of a miniature North American Indian all in his war paint, and
brandishing his knives like a very brave, as the wind caught him and
whirled him round.

"And see, Master Lester, I've mounted my savage to amuse them when
they wake--my ghost the youngsters about here call it, and keep clear
of my house. Ghost, indeed! there are no ghosts."

"No; the world is getting too wise to believe such nonsense in our
days, Jerry. But I'd like to take a look at my youngsters," quoth
John Lester.

The old man led him in--Ben following on tip-toe--and up to his
quaint chamber--ah! yes, it was very quaint and pretty, full of
wonderful surprises, what with curious stones arranged here, a
stuffed squirrel there, and a dormouse elsewhere. Then in one corner
was a fleet of tiny ships--ah! Jerry had been a sailor in his
youthful days--which sailed round and round a centre one and
stationary by using an apparatus not unlike small bellows. And there
in the west window stood the warrior Indian, chopping and cutting at
imaginary foes among the sunbeams. But the father's eyes sought his
children. Ah! yes, he was thankful to see, there they were, both
sweetly sleeping, Mab in the old man's bed, a stray sunbeam flitting
over her face, like a smile from somewhere, Jack wrapped in blankets
on the floor.

The sweet after-glow was about the house ere they awoke, and then
peals of laughter from both children brought old Jerry up his
creaking stairs. Nay, Jack was out on the landing, hurrying out of
his blankets and into the dry clothes Ben had brought him from home.

When the two children had dressed and descended the stairs, there, in
the cosy little kitchen, stood tea ready for them--bread-and-butter
and blackberry jam, and such old-fashioned china cups and saucers for
the three young ones to drink from. What is more, there was a pair of
curiously-worked bead slippers for Mab, and a bow and arrow for each
of the boys.

"Ingins' work," the old man told them when they thanked him.

"You _are_ a clever man, Jerry, if you made that dancing old
thing--did you?" cried Jack.

"What, made my Ingin? In course I did."

"Phew! why, all the fellows said 'twas a ghost you kept in your
window," said admiring Jack, now outside the house, and looking up at
the window--"why, I half said so myself."

"Well, lad, ghosts are but whims and fancies, and this _individual_
is good solid wood, you see," replied Jerry, looking up, and
chuckling at his own handiwork.

Mab soon stood beside Jack, and Ben came out ready to depart.

"Children," said the old man, as they thanked him and bade him
"good-bye," patting Jowler on the head as he stood by his master,
"children, keep to the good, right, honest truth from this day, even
in fun; the wolves and things ye have conjured up to-day out of
nothing have gone nigh to costing ye dearly, lads. And you little
maiden, take an old man's warning, and look before you leap, as
mayhap I and Jowler may not be anigh next time. And there's a many
leaps to be taken in life, and a many waterfalls and things about

"Wow, wow, wow!" said Jowler to this, springing up, and licking his
master's hand, and so ends my story of Mab, the wolf, and the

[Illustration: MAB ON HER JOURNEY. (_See p. 299._)]



This is a very old proverb, and a very true one. Sometimes we forget
it, though, and say "I can't," before we have really tried at all.
Now I should like to tell you the true story of two little Irish
sweeps who had the will to learn to read, and found the way, although
it was a very difficult one.

Some years ago a few kind people made up their minds to try to get
hold of all the chimney-sweeps in Dublin and give them an education.

One day a little fellow came who was asked if he knew his letters.

"Oh, yes," he answered.

"Can you spell?"

"Oh, yes."

"Can you read?"

"Oh, yes."

"What books did you learn from?"

"Please, sir, I never had a book."

"Then who was your schoolmaster?"

"I never went to school at all."

The gentleman stared, for it seemed very strange that a boy should be
able to read and spell, and yet never had a master.

"Then however did you learn?" he asked.

The little boy smiled, and linked his arm in that of a sweep somewhat
older than himself.

"Please, sir, Jim taught me the letters over the shop doors, as we
went to our work, but now I know all the words by heart, and if you'd
kindly let us have some books to read and teach us to do sums and
writing, we'd be very thankful."

Can't you fancy what good pupils those two boys became, and how they
delighted in reading in books instead of making their necks ache by
peering up at the shops?

E. M. W.



Miles and miles away in the country, where not even a train ever
came, lived a family of children, of whom the eldest was a big lad of
eighteen, the youngest a little thing of five. They led a peaceful,
happy life among the fields and lanes and wild flowers, yet, like
many others, they took but little heed of the beauties around, and
some of them at least spent a great deal of time in sighing for
things they had not got.

Jennie, the eldest girl, had a great deal to do with that. She had a
habit of fancying every one more fortunate and happier than herself.
She was always wishing for some impossible thing. If by any chance
one of her wishes were gratified, she was always disappointed, and
began to want something else.

The children had often heard and read about a wonderful place called
London. Jennie, who was a very kind sister, was always talking to
them about it, and the wonderful stories she told them made them long
to see this enchanted city. That, indeed, was one of Jennie's
unfulfilled longings. She had read a great deal, and imagined a great
deal more, till she set all the children longing too.

Their big brother Donald heard Phyllis and Effie talking together one
day, and he burst in upon them with a laugh, and told them that all
the houses were palaces and the streets paved with gold, that marble
fountains played in them, and that golden carriages drawn by
milk-white steeds rolled incessantly along; that trains rushed in
every direction, and that if you just stepped inside one it would
take you anywhere, like a flash of lightning; that there was a church
so high that you could not see the roof, and a needle so big that
twenty men could not lift it. Then Donald went away laughing, and the
children held their breath with wonder, and agreed that they should
never be happy till they had seen this fairyland.

Not very long after their mother came down to breakfast with red
eyes, and their father looked grave. They knew something was the
matter, and sat waiting in sorrowful dread.

"Children," said their mother, with a shaky voice, "you will have to
leave this beautiful, peaceful home. You must say 'good-bye' to all
your pets, for soon, very soon, we must leave them all. You must be
good children and not fret; but oh! it is very sad. Father is obliged
to go and live in London."

How strange! A ray of sunshine seemed to have passed round the table,
changing apprehension into eager excitement. Phyllis clapped her
hands. "London, mamma? Oh, how lovely!"

Their mother sighed, and said, "Well, darlings, I am glad you take it
so well; but I am afraid it will be a long time before you feel as
happy as we are in this dear old home."

At last came the morning when they were to start. They were wild with
delight, and thought it splendid fun at first. But when the train
with a shrill scream flew into a dark tunnel, several hearts beat
very wildly, and several little faces would have looked white enough,
could they have been seen.

At last several heads began to ache, and a good many legs seemed to
want stretching; but the several hearts could not for worlds have
owned that they were not enjoying themselves immensely.

And when the enchanted city was reached, it was dark, and they saw
nothing but a confused medley of lights and figures, and walls with
big letters all over them.

Then they were jolted through some noisy, busy street, and were at
length deposited safely in the house where they were to lodge until
their new home was ready.

There was so much noise outside while they were at tea, that Phyllis
and Effie wondered what could be the matter, until they saw that
their father and mother did not seem to be in the least alarmed at

When they went to bed, it was a long time before they could go to
sleep. But being very tired, they did manage it, though they dreamed
very queer things about a great many people, and horses and carts
tumbling on the top of each other, with a noise like thunder.

The next morning, when they were having breakfast in a dark little
parlour, their father said to their mother, "You and I must go and
look about to day;" and to Donald he said, "You may take your two
sisters for a walk on the Embankment, and show them the river, and
the Temple, and Cleopatra's Needle, but be very careful of crossings,
and ask a policeman when you don't know the way. Phyllis and Effie
must stay at home, and amuse themselves with their dollies till our

At this Phyllis felt greatly injured, but she said nothing, for she
knew she must obey.

Their mother went and fetched them some toys and books, and before
she went out charged Martha, their little attendant, to do her best
to amuse them; but Phyllis was not in a mood to be amused.

"Martha," she said, "it's horrid in here! Let's go in the garden."

"Lor, miss! there isn't such a thing."

Then Phyllis went and looked out of the window, but the air was so
thick that she could see nothing but a few chimney-pots, and people
moving like shadows in the street below.

Phyllis soon grew tired of the window. She wondered very much what
Donald and her sisters were seeing, and how far off London was.

"Martha," she said presently, "we must go for a walk; of course we
must. We always do at home."

"Oh, dear dear!" cried Martha, with something like a sniff, "I
wouldn't do it for worlds. I'd lose my way for certain, and be run
over in this dirty, foggy place."

"Why, you've only got to be careful of the crossings, and ask a
policeman the way," Phyllis replied, crossly; "and it is so dull

The morning dragged on. At last Martha went downstairs to the kitchen
to see about something, but when it was seen about she could not
refrain from having a gossip with the landlady's servant, never
dreaming that the children could get into mischief; but they did.

Directly she had gone, Phyllis thought she would take just a peep out
of doors. The enchanted city, with its streets of gold and untold
marvels, could not be far off. She would try to get just one glimpse.

In a moment she had fetched their hats and jackets, popped them on,
and was leading her little sister downstairs. It happened that the
outer door was open, so they slipped into the street unobserved.

Phyllis ran quickly along, and soon came to a turning. Just at this
moment a gleam of sunshine shone out, dispersing the murky haze.

"Ah!" thought Phyllis, "this is the right way. I know we shall see
some of the beautiful sights presently."

So she dragged Effie along as quickly as she could. Sometimes people
bumped against them, and frightened them very much; but Phyllis soon
saw they meant no harm, so she kept on.

Presently they turned into a broad street, where there were, oh! such
numbers of people, walking so fast, and the road was full of
carriages and horses and waggons, and the noise was just deafening.

Phyllis pulled Effie into a doorway, and thought she would wait till
the people had passed, but she waited and waited, and still they kept
on coming backwards and forwards, just for all the world like a
number of busy ants swarming about an ant-hill. There was no end to
them. They hustled and jostled, and ran and pushed, and talked till
Phyllis was utterly bewildered, and said to herself she had better go
back again.

But where was the turning? It had gone. She could not see it. She
peered out of her retreat.

The street, the people, everything was hidden, except just close at
hand. They were enveloped in a thick, dark, steamy cloud, which
covered all, except the noise. Phyllis ran first this way, then that,
trying in vain to find the turning. Effie grew frightened, and began
to cry, which attracted the notice of a policeman. Phyllis remembered
what her father had said to Donald, so she asked, "Please will you
show us the way home?"


"Where do you live?" he asked.

"I don't know the name," Phyllis faltered; "it's in a street full of
houses, joined on to each other all in a row, and no garden."

"Well, that isn't much help," he replied, kindly; "where might you be
going to?"

"We were trying to find London," Phyllis said.

"Trying to find it; this is London."

"Oh, no!" Phyllis cried, eagerly; "I mean the golden streets, and the
fountains, and the palaces, and the trains, and the church you can't
see the roof of, and the needle twenty men can't lift, and the golden
carriages, and----"

The man burst into such a laugh that Phyllis stopped short, and
stared at him angrily.

"My big brothers and sisters have gone to look at it. They are doing
it now," Phyllis added.

The policeman paused a moment, and then he said, "Well, look here.
That needle ain't so far off; I'll just take you to see it, and you
may see your brothers and sisters too. Call out directly if you do."

So he took them each by a hand, and trotted them along through the
fog. It was an alarming journey, although the policeman was kind, and
Phyllis felt sure there was no other way of getting home.

When he took them across those dreadful streets, Effie in one arm,
Phyllis hanging on to his other hand, Phyllis shut her eyes in

But presently they got away from this confusion into a broad paved
place, with trees to be seen here and there. That was much nicer.
Their kind companion told Phyllis to look out for her friends.

"There's the needle," he said, all of a sudden. Phyllis looked up,
and saw a great stone column before them.

"But it's a needle I mean," Phyllis exclaimed, uncomprehendingly,
"something you work with. That isn't a needle."

"Well, I don't know whether a giant ever worked with it," the
policeman said, with a comical smile; "anyhow, that's what they call
the needle. It's come a long way to England, and belonged to a lady
called Mrs. Cleopatra. What she did with it isn't exactly known; but
I reckon she didn't make her gowns with it."

Phyllis looked at it with a very great feeling of disappointment. She
didn't think it looked nice at all.

"Them other things you talked of, too," said the policeman, "there's
most everything to be found in London; but not quite that neither.
The church comes the nighest----"

Phyllis uttered a cry of joy, and darted away: opposite her stood
Donald, Jennie, and Grace.

"Phyllis, you naughty, naughty child! what is the matter? and Effie
too! Why, what does it mean?" Jennie cried.

"They were pretty nigh to being lost, miss," the policeman said,
gravely. "'Tis a good thing you happened to come this way."

Donald thanked the man very heartily, and took charge of the
children. He had not the heart to scold them yet.

Phyllis walked home with a heart full of tumult. Directly she was
safely indoors she burst out crying, and said, "I do not like London:
it is a horrid, dreadful, ugly place, and no beautiful things at all;
and, oh, I do want to go home!"

"Be quiet, little stupid!" Jennie said, shortly, giving her a push
and a shake.

"It's horrible," persisted Phyllis. "We can't live here. We must go

Jennie threw herself down on a chair by the bedside, and began to cry
too. "It isn't half as bad for you, Phyllis, as it is for me," she
cried, crossly; "and we can't go back. We must live in one of these
pokey, dingy houses for ever and ever. If only I'd known what it was

By-and-by their mother came home, and was amazed to see the change
that had come over the children. Still, she was able to console them
a little by telling them that London would look very different when
the fog was gone, and that they would have by-and-by a nice quiet
house, with a little garden; but their old home was out of the
question. That was gone for ever. They must learn to be cheerful and

What a hard lesson it was at first! but dear me, after a while the
children grew quite happy, although they never found the enchanted

But they found something better, after a short time, and that was a
kind, bright, happy, cheerful _home_, and that is what can make any
spot in the world beautiful, while without it, even an enchanted city
would be but drear and lonely. No wonder Phyllis and Jennie felt
miserable during those first days in London. Their parents were
feeling it much more keenly, though they said nothing.

Dear children, can you see what I mean by this little story? If you
have a good, kind home, try to be very happy in it, for the time may
come when you would give everything you possessed to be back in
it--"Home, Sweet Home."




The sun was fast sinking in the west; and the shades of night were
spreading a deep gloom overall, as a poor, lone traveller, foot-sore
and weary, looked around him for some place of rest. His face wore
its saddest expression, for his heart was nearly bursting with grief;
and, as he rolled along a big stone for his pillow, and laid his
weary head upon it, it was watered with his tears. But only the fair
moon and the twinkling stars seemed to see his grief; and, as he
thought of his loneliness, he heaved a deep sigh, and wept afresh.

Far behind him, in the lovely and peaceful Beersheba, he had left the
home of his youth, the mother whom he loved so dearly, the old sheep
that he had so fondly tended, and the little pet lambs that had
nestled in his bosom and gambolled by his side. There was his aged
father, too, who lay stretched on his death-bed, and whom he might
never hope to see again. And still fresh in his memory were all the
old familiar scenes to which he might never again return: the soft
green pastures, where, morning and evening, he had rested with his
sheep, the great rock behind which he had led them to hide them from
the noonday heat, and the quiet waters to which he had taken them
that they might slake their thirst.

From one loved spot to another his thoughts would wander; and he
shivered, as from cold, while he thought of the land all unknown to
him to which he was journeying, of the strange faces that he would
have to meet, and the strange voices that would fall upon his ear.

But saddest of all came the remembrance of the cause that had led to
his banishment, the deep sin that he had committed, the cruel deceit
that he had practised upon his father, the great wrong that he had
inflicted upon his brother, the grief of the dying Isaac, the wrath
of Esau, and the consequent necessary parting with all he held dear.

If he could only undo the past; if he could only be as he was a short
time ago, clear of this guilt, how thankful he would be! But there it
was, staring him in the face, and he could not blot out the memory of
it. He fancied himself again getting a kid from amongst his flock;
giving it to his mother to dress, so that his father would not know
it from venison; stooping down, while she put on the back of his
neck small pieces of the kid's skin, that it might feel, to the blind
Isaac, like the hairy skin of his brother Esau; carrying in the
smoking-hot dish; telling, one after another, gross falsehoods, in
reply to the questions put by his puzzled father; repeating oft his
assurances that he was indeed Isaac's very son Esau; and bowing his
head to receive the blessing intended for his elder brother. Once
more, in imagination, he was hurrying out of his father's apartment;
and the loud and bitter cry of his wronged brother was ringing
through the tent, never to die away or be forgotten. He saw again his
brother white with rage, and heard him take the solemn oath, that, as
soon as the mourning for his father was over, he would be avenged. He
heard his frightened mother plead with Isaac, that he might be sent
away to her brother in Padan Aram. He heard his father's consent, and
saw his mother packing up the few things that he needed, and sending
him away with her blessing and with floods of tears. He remembered
how, when he had turned round to take a last look at his home; she
was still standing in the door of the tent, watching, as far as she
could see him, the son of her love, and wiping her streaming eyes.

And now he was lying on the bare ground, with only a cold, hard stone
for his pillow: all that he loved left far behind; an unknown future
before him; and wild beasts prowling about in the distance, in hungry
search of prey. How heavily on his conscience lay his deep sin! And
how the pure, bright moon and the peaceful stars seemed to be
reproaching him!

He thought upon his father's God, and his grandfather's trusting
obedience, that had gained for him the title of the friend of the
great Ruler of the universe. And, as he contrasted with Abraham's
faith his own wicked conduct, he felt miserably unworthy to bear his
name. Gladly would he have closed his eyes in repose, and thankfully
would he have forgotten, for a time at least, his heavy sorrows;

    "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,"

flies from the guilty conscience; and there was no rest for Jacob.

Oh! Why had he so easily and so weakly yielded to that strong
temptation to obtain by fraud the coveted blessing? Why had he
not, like Abraham, patiently waited for the fulfilment of the
sure promise made on his behalf? Why had he not waited till God
Himself had brought it about--that the elder should serve the
younger--instead of faithlessly and sinfully hurrying it on himself,
and bringing down upon himself and his home all this misery?

There was no book of sweet Psalms to comfort him and assure him of
forgiveness; but, as he turned uneasily on his hard bed, and looked
up to the quiet heavens, something of their peace stole into his
heart. He thought of the great God who dwells above; of the kindness
which He had shown to Abraham and Isaac; of the gentle, loving way in
which He had drawn near to them; and of the gracious promises which
He had made to them.

And he felt sure that such a God must be merciful and compassionate
to a poor erring wanderer like himself; and that, enthroned in glory
as He was, He would listen to his cry, as He had listened to the
outcast Ishmael's before him; and forgive. He would tell Him how
sorry he was for what he had done, and ask Him to take away the load
that was weighing him down.

So the restless young man arose; and, kneeling upon the bare ground,
and raising his beseeching eyes to the star-lit heavens, he poured
out to Him who reigns above them the tale of his griefs, and asked
Him, in mercy, to forgive the sins that he had committed against Him.

And there, as he knelt, his prayer was heard; the weight of guilt was
lifted from his oppressed spirit; and he breathed more freely than he
had done since he committed that dark sin. He could not now go back
to his old home. Early on the morrow he must go forward on his long
journey, and endure all that he had brought upon himself; but his
mind was at ease; his heart was at rest. The God of his fathers had
heard him, and with His forgiveness and blessing he could be happy.

So he lay down again, not to toss uneasily about as before, but to
sleep the sleep of those who are at peace with Heaven.

And the pitying Father above, who, as the Bible assures us, does not
deal with us after our sins, nor reward us according to our
iniquities, not only put away Jacob's transgression, but drew near to
the poor, erring, but repentant wanderer, lying out there in the lone
desert, to comfort him.

A peaceful smile now rested on the face of the sleeper, reflecting
the deep happiness which filled his breast; and soon over his
countenance was spread an expression of joy that it had never worn

He saw in his sleep a great ladder of light, the one end of which
rested on the earth, while the other reached right up to heaven.
Beautiful, bright-winged angels, with faces shining like the sun,
were going up and coming down it. And the Lord of Glory Himself, to
whom he had just prayed, stood above it. No words of anger or stern
rebuke were on His lips. No ominous frown darkened His face. Only a
look of tenderness and love lighted it up; and the pardoned Jacob,
unworthy as he knew himself to be, did not shrink from looking up to
Him, who in His gracious compassion had deigned to appear to him.

"I am the Lord God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac," He
said; "and I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither
thou goest."

Oh, how glad and thankful Jacob was thus to be assured that, though
he had so sinned, yet God had not left him, but was still with him!
How deeply thankful he was that he would not now have to go on his
journey alone, as he had feared, but that the God of his fathers
would go with him, to take care of him, wherever he went! His bosom
swelled with joy, and his face grew still brighter; for this was the
happiest moment in all his life.

There, lying on that cold stone, he felt nothing but joy. With the
good and Holy One so near, with His peace and gladness in his heart,
he could smile at all outward miseries.

But the gracious and gentle voice did not cease yet. "I will not
leave thee," it went on to say, "until I have done that which I have
spoken to thee of. The land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give
it, and to thy seed. And thy seed shall be as the dust of the earth;
and thou shalt spread abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the
north, and to the south; and in thee, and in thy seed, shall all the
families of the earth be blessed."

So he, who was all alone, was to become the father of innumerable
people; and the one who had deserved only cursing was not only to be
blessed himself, but to be made a blessing to all the earth!

The vision passed away, and Jacob awoke, astounded at God's goodness
and mercy. For he knew that the dream was no idle thing, but that it
told of present and future realities. And as he meditated on it his
joy increased. He took the big, hard stone, that had afforded him so
sweet a resting-place, and setting it up for a pillar, in grateful
remembrance of his happy dream, poured oil on the top of it. The
sweet perfume of the precious oil filled all the air, and rose up
like an offering of glad thanksgiving, well-pleasing to Him who
looked down upon it.

"Surely God is in this place, and I knew it not," Jacob said. For he
could never have imagined, as, with tearful eyes, he first lay down
on that lone spot, that God would have revealed Himself there; and
this was the first great lesson of love and mercy that he had ever
spelled over. "I knew it not; but now I know, and will go on my way
with gladness, fearing nothing."

So sacred had the spot become to him, that he called it Bethel, _the
House of God_. And he vowed a vow, that if God would indeed be with
him, as He had promised, and prosper him, and bring him back again to
his father's house, then he would serve Him faithfully all his life,
and would give Him a tenth of all that was bestowed upon him.

He went on his journey no longer lonely and sad; for the God of his
fathers was with him; and His presence brightened up the dreary
wilderness, and made the solitary place glad.

In the new land to which he went Jacob had much to endure; but the
vision of the bright ladder that he had seen in his dream rose up
again and again to comfort him; and his heart grew stronger and
braver as he thought of the abiding presence of God.

Years afterwards, when he came back to the land of Canaan, he visited
the spot where, on that memorable night, he had lain down in such
sorrow, and risen up in such joy. He had then rosy children, and
numerous possessions. And as he thought of all the unmerited goodness
and mercy which had followed him in the strange land, and of the
faithfulness which had brought him back, he built another altar, and
praised God anew.

But, though Jacob was so comforted by his dream, it is scarcely
likely that he could see, as we can, the full meaning of it; for the
vision of the bright ladder was intended to comfort God's people in
all ages, and to grow brighter and brighter as it came to be

So, we, who know how the glorious ladder is Jesus Christ, through
whom all blessings come down from heaven to us, and through whom,
also, we may mount up to the very throne of "our Father," in the
highest heavens; we, too, will raise up our altar of thanksgiving,
and go on our way, rejoicing in the God of Bethel, who is still with
His people, and who, from the top of the ladder, holds sweet
communion with them, cheering them on their way, till He brings them
into the goodly land.

  "Oh! touch mine eyes, that I may see
    The vision of the Ladder bright;
  Reveal Thy glory, Lord, to me,
    And cheer the darkness of the night.

  A stone is all my pillow here:
    No other rest I seek below;
  'A stranger and a sojourner,'
    Like all my fathers, I would go.

  But be Thou with me, and the night
    More glad shall be than high noon-day,
  And the lone desert shall be bright
    With glories that ne'er pass away."

H. D.


49. Who were the first to apply to Jesus the title of King of the

50. Where is wisdom set forth as better than strength or the weapons
of war?

51. Which of the four Evangelists has preserved to us an account of
our Lord's being sent by Pilate to Herod for trial?

52. Who tells us in the Old Testament that death and life are in the
power of the tongue?

53. Which of the New Testament writers speaks of the tongue as "a
little member," and tells us that the one who keeps it in order is a
perfect man?

54. Which of the Epistles tells us that he who is a friend of the
world is an enemy of God?

55. Where in the Book of the Revelation do we see the redeemed and
glorified saints ascribing praise to Jesus, as having made them kings
and priests unto God?

56. Where are we told that to be guarded in our speech saves us from

57. On what occasion is Saul of Tarsus first called Paul?

58. Where, after the Ark of the Covenant was removed to the new
Tabernacle at Jerusalem, did the original brazen altar remain?

59. Of what colour was the lace to be upon which was placed the
golden plate worn on the forehead of the High Priest?

60. Show that the last cry of Jesus on the Cross was one of triumph.

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (37-48. _See p. 216_).

37. The woman who had touched His garment (St. Matt. ix. 22; St. Mark
v. 34; St. Luke viii. 48).

38. In Rev. xxi. 8, 27, xxii. 15.

39. Isaiah (Isaiah lxi. 6).

40. In Rev. v. 6, 9, 12, xiii. 8.

41. Prov. xx. 11.

42. In Prov. xxix. 25.

43. Herod Antipas (St. Luke xiii. 31, 32).

44. The ants, the conies, the locusts, and the spider (Prov. xxx. 24,

45. In Deut. xxi. 6-8; Ps. xxvi. 6.

46. Solomon (Eccles. ix. 8); St. James (James i. 27).

47. Nebuchadnezzar (Dan. ii. 47).

48. In Ps. cxii. 4.

The Editor's Pocket-Book

[Illustration: The Editor's Pocket-Book--JOTTINGS AND PENCILLINGS,

A Product of the Soudan.

It is said that the Mahdi, of whom so much has been printed in the
papers for months past, has been the means of increasing the price of
gum arabic. This material, which is obtained from the Soudan, is
largely used in the making of sweet-meats, while the Government
envelope factory in the United States uses one ton every week. Owing
to the war in the Soudan, the supply, amounting to ten millions of
pounds yearly, has been stopped for more than a twelvemonth. The
price has been gradually rising, and it will be not a little odd if
we have to blame the Mahdi, among other things, for dear jujubes.

The Vallary Crown.

The old Romans were before all things a military people.
Consequently, they took care to confer rewards upon soldiers for
bravery and other forms of service, so as to preserve proper spirit
among the men. One of these rewards of valour was called the Vallary
Crown, and was bestowed upon the soldier who was the first to mount
the enemy's rampart (_vallum_). It consisted of a circle of gold,
with palisades attached to it. One can imagine with what zeal an
attack would be made, and how hotly the foremost place would be
struggled for, so that the crown might be won.

Supposed Relic of Trafalgar.

While a diver was engaged off the coast near Gibraltar in the search
for the whereabouts of a recent wreck, he discovered at the bottom
from eighty to one hundred large guns, mostly 24- and 32-pounders,
and two big anchors. As no appliance for raising them was at hand,
they were not brought up, and their nationality has not been
ascertained. It is supposed that they belonged to a line-of-battle
ship, which sank in the Peninsular war, possibly after the battle of

The Founder of Ragged Schools.

John Pounds, a poor shoemaker of Portsmouth, was the originator of
this well-known method of educating city arabs and other very poor
children. For twenty years before his death in 1839, he used to
collect around him the ragged children of the district in which he
lived, and teach them while he worked at his cobbling. He taught them
for nothing, and his class was well attended. His success at length
attracted general notice, and systematic effort was in due course
made for the establishment of such schools in other towns and cities
throughout the kingdom.

Tallow Trees.

In different parts of the globe are found various sorts of trees that
yield a thick oil or resin, that, like tallow, is used for making
candles, and hence the trees are popularly styled tallow trees. The
substance is commonly extracted by making a cut in the bark, from
which the oily matter exudes. In other cases the seeds are boiled,
from which a fine white tallow is obtained. The candles and soap so
made are beautifully white.

A Saucy Sparrow.

One day a boy picked up a young sparrow, which he brought home. His
father put it in a big cage, and in course of time it became
thoroughly domesticated. It used to fly about the garden and perch
upon the heads and hands of the family. After a while it would
venture upon an oak and carry on a very voluble conversation with its
fellows who also patronised the tree. It soon grew as impudent and
pugnacious and ravenous as most sparrows. It was always hungry and
talkative. Though it had the freedom of the neighbourhood, it came
down daily before sunset and roosted on a perch in its cage, the door
of which was left open for its convenience. It was let out the first
thing in the morning, but returned about six times a day for food,
usually taking care to attend all the family meals, and often
breakfasting with the master of the house, with whom it struck up a
firm friendship. Sometimes it brought home a friend or two, but as
they lacked its faith they invariably remained outside while it
feasted indoors. It generally watched the boy's father as he left
home every morning, chirping "good-bye" from a gutter-pipe. Its
appetite continued healthy and its taste accommodating. Latterly it
started a home of its own, but did not give up its old friends,
looking in upon the household almost as often as ever.


This term--in allusion to their poor and mean attire--was applied,
during the earlier stages of the great French Revolution, by the
Court party to those democrats of Paris who were foremost in urging
the demand for reform. The epithet given in scorn was accepted with
pleasure by the people, and it soon came in their eyes to indicate a
patriot, and some even affected a ruder mode of dress as if to show
they gloried in the title. However, after the lapse of a very few
years, the name fell into disuse, as it had been connected with so
many scenes of bloodshed and revolting cruelty.

Fresh-water Springs in the Sea.

There is a hot region on the Persian Gulf where little or no rain
falls. At Babrin, though the dry shore has no fresh water, the people
obtain a supply from springs which burst forth copiously from the
bottom of the sea. The fresh water is got by diving. The diver winds
a large goatskin bag round his left arm, his hand grasping the bag's
mouth. He next takes a heavy stone to which a stout line is fastened,
and then plunges in. As soon as he reaches the bottom, he opens the
bag over the strong jet of fresh water, ascends with the upward
current, shutting the bag the while, and is helped on board. The
stone having been pulled up and the driver refreshed, he plunges in
again. These submarine springs are believed to take their source in
the hills of Osman, some 500 or 600 miles distant.

Feathered Thieves.

It is very well known that jackdaws are accomplished thieves, and
their evil fame in this respect has been humorously pictured in the
story of "The Jackdaw of Rheims," in the "Ingoldsby Legends." It
seems, however, that other birds besides jackdaws may be occasional
robbers, and may cause much mischief. Not long ago, a gentleman on
going to his letter-box discovered that a letter containing a cheque
for £10 had been tampered with, and that the cheque was missing. He
immediately came to the conclusion that human thieves had been at
work, and gave information to the police at the nearest station. On
his return home, however, he examined his letter-box more closely,
and then found several tomtits in it; and on further search, he
discovered the missing cheque lying twenty-six yards away on the
turnpike road, whither it was evident it had been carried by a
tomtit, since it bore abundant marks of the bird's beak.

Carlyle's Birthplace.

The house in Ecclefechan, in Dumfriesshire, where Carlyle was born,
and which was purchased by a niece, has been restored and has had
some interesting relics placed in it. It will no doubt be the scene
of many pilgrimages. In carrying out the alterations, the old doors
and the like have been scrupulously preserved. The room where the
young Carlyle lived contains the philosopher's easy-chair, a mahogany
table well stained with ink, an old-fashioned bookcase consisting of
a series of shelves supported by pillars at the side and hung upon
the wall, besides appropriate photographs and other articles.

Memory in Dogs.

Several years ago a gentleman was presented with a black-and-tan
terrier. One evening he went to St. John's Wood, London, to fetch it
to his own home, some five miles on the south of the Thames. For the
greater part of the way the dog and his new owner travelled (in the
dark of course) outside an omnibus. The terrier was confined for a
week and then set at liberty. Next day it disappeared, and it was
afterwards learnt that it arrived at its old home--ragged and
starved--six or seven days after effecting its escape. As the dog had
been taken on a vehicle right across London, over the river, and in
the dark, to a strange district nine miles from its home, its finding
its way back to St. John's Wood must be regarded as a remarkable
instance of canine intelligence.

Anecdotes of Apelles.

Some interesting anecdotes have been preserved about Apelles, who
flourished during the latter half of the fourth century before
Christ, and who was considered to be the most famous painter of the
ancient world. Alexander the Great once visited his studio, and
exhibited so much ignorance of art that Apelles desired him to be
silent, as the boys who were grinding his colours were laughing at
him. He painted an ideal portrait of this celebrated king, of which
Alexander said, "There are only two Alexanders--the invincible son of
Philip, and the inimitable Alexander of Apelles." The painter's
disposition was so generous that he purchased a picture of an artist
whose talents were not recognised as they deserved, and spread a
report that he would sell it again as one of his own. His industry
was such that he never allowed a day to pass without painting one
line--a habit which has become proverbial in the Latin phrase, _nulla
dies sine linea_ ("No day without a line"). Apelles was not above
criticism. When his paintings were exposed to the public view, it is
said that he used to conceal himself near them so that he might hear
the comments of onlookers. A cobbler finding fault with the shoe of
one of his figures, Apelles at once corrected it. But next day when
the cobbler ventured to criticise the legs, the painter came forth
from his hiding-place and recommended the cobbler to stick to the
shoes--advice which in the words of the Latin version of the story
also has been adopted as a proverb, _Ne sutor ultra crepidam_ ("Let
not the shoemaker overstep his last").

Drawing the Badger.

Badger-baiting was a brutal sport at one time in vogue in this
country as a kind of "attraction" in public-houses of the lowest
class. The animal was kept in a tub or barrel and was attacked by
dogs. Yielding at last to superior numbers, it was dragged or drawn
out. The badger was then set free and permitted to return to its tub
until it recovered from the effects of the struggle, after which it
was again baited. It had to submit to this barbarous treatment
several times a day. The verb "to badger," now often applied to
persons, was originally used in direct reference to this cruel

A Gallant Rescue.

Not many months since some boys were sitting on the banks of the
River Devon, near Tillicoultry (Scotland), when one of them, aged
ten, waded into the stream in search of an article. He had hardly
entered the water when he walked into a deep pool, in which he was
whirled about quite helplessly, like a cork. Fortunately, a lad named
James Henderson happened to be passing at the time, and observing the
imminent peril of the poor boy, plunged into the river at the risk of
his life, and brought him to the bank, where, after treatment, he
recovered. The painful screams of the boy created great excitement in
the neighbourhood, and there seems no doubt that but for the gallant
rescue here recorded he would have been drowned. It would be a great
advantage if the teaching of boys and girls how to swim were made a
necessary part of their education.

[Illustration: A MODERN WAR ELEPHANT.]

War Elephants.

From time immemorial elephants have been employed in war in the East
and in Africa, though the Indian kind is more familiar to us in this
respect. At first they were equipped with a huge tower, in which
fighting-men were carried--a practice of which we are reminded in the
sign of the "Elephant and Castle" still in vogue in some inns--and
were even trained to use swords with their trunks. In the present
day, however, the creatures are found more useful in assisting the
transport of artillery in hilly or marshy districts. The "castle" has
been replaced by a howdah, from which the soldiers use the modern
weapons of war. Military service may, therefore, be regarded as being
a good deal easier than it once was--so far, at least, as elephants
are concerned.

[Illustration: IN SAFE HANDS. (_See p. 313._)]


  It was early morning, near eight of the clock,
  And all might hear the milkman's knock,
  When a wandering stranger strolled the street,
  Well clad in fur, but with nothing to eat.
                                  Poor Pussy!

  She had passed by the houses of ladies in silk,
  But no response to her quest for milk,
  And while beginning to feel "dead beat,"
  The passers by she would entreat.
                                  Poor Pussy!

  No food whate'er could Pussy buy,
  And travellers passed her.  I'll tell you why:
  They thought, of course, "It's only a cat,
  And nothing much to be marvelled at."
                                  Poor Pussy!

  In vain, dear Puss, was thy appeal,
  No hammer could reach those hearts of steel,
  And in this world, so full of strife,
  A plaintive mew won't save a life.
                                  Poor Pussy!

  Ill did it seem thy tabby grace,
  The woes of London streets to face,
  Cold glances, or a kick for thy fur,
  And none to list to thy murmuring purr.
                                  Poor Pussy!

  But pussy, strolling down the street,
  Chanced a child's kind glance to meet,
  And soon her troubles all were passed,
  And love and plenty came at last
                                  To Pussy.

The "Little Folks" Humane Society.


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


    47276 Louisa Davies               12
    47277 Fanny Pugh                  17
    47278 Ada Davies                  16
    47279 Florence Lewis              14
    47280 Louisa Lewis                12
    47281 Mary Watson                 11
    47282 Gertrude Gaskell            17
                       Leeds          15
    47284 C. W. Killick               15
    47285 Walter Smith                13
    47286 Annie Moore                 14
    47287 Mary J. Lester              18
    47288 Pattie Brooke               17
    47289 Ada Bradley                 20
    47290 Maggie Brooke               13
    47291 Fanny Brooke                12
    47292 Florence Neal               15
    47293 Alice Blackburn             20
    47294 John Blackburn              10
    47295 Eliza A. Lupton             20
    47296 George Blackburn            13
    47297 Mathew Tilford               7
    47298 Alice Liddiard              12
    47299 Ellen Liddiard              11
    47300 Louisa Child                11
    47301 Annie Batty                  9
    47302 Eva Bateson                 13
    47303 Harry Bateson               11
    47304 Charles Neal                 6
    47305 Louisa Wright               16
    47306 Geo. Richmond               11
    47307 Ellenor Child               11
    47308 Louisa Emmett               12
    47309 Tom Tilford                 10
    47310 Annie Wilton                10
    47311 Lucy Neal                   10
    47312 Kate Scott                   9
    47313 John W. Kay                 10
    47314 Mary J. Weatley             11
    47315 Elizbth. Hawkins            12
    47316 Hellen Harrison             11
    47317 Wm. Agar                     8
    47318 Louisa Hawkins               8
    47319 Fanny Webster               20
    47320 W. Whitehead                 8
    47321 Cressy Brooke                8
    47322 Fredk. Wist                  7
    47323 Harry West                  12
    47324 Wm. Liddiard                18
    47325 Henry Neal                  12
    47326 Charles Lister              11
    47327 Wm. D. Harrison             13
    47328 John Brooksbank             10
    47329 James Wilkinson             13
    47330 Walter Kendall              14
    47331 L. Wilkinson                12
    47332 John Bradley                16
    47333 Harry Lupton                18
    47334 Eliza Robinson              12
    47335 A. Cullingworth             12
    47336 Albert Kendall              12
    47337 Fredk. Scott                11
    47338 Fredk. Broughton            10
    47339 John Ranson                  7
    47340 Sam Hirst                    9
    47341 James Richmond               9
    47342 Mary Ranson                  8
    47343 Arthur Bateson              17
    47344 Edith Scott                  6
                     Glasgow          10
    47346 William Chalmers             9
    47347 David Govan                 11
    47348 James Thomson               11
    47349 Robert Galloway              9
    47350 Florence Faill               8
    47351 Alice Faill                  9
    47352 Maggie Stirrat              10
    47353 William Orr                  9
    47354 Lars Sundt                  21
    47355 J. W. Silcox                11
    47356 Isabel Taylor               14
    47357 J. A. M. Adams              12
    47358 Hugh Findlay                13
    47359 John McDougall              11
    47360 A. Gibson                   11
    47361 S. McLennan                 20
    47362 David Millar                14
    47363 John Burns                  13
    47364 Mary Cown                    7
    47365 Charles Black                9
    47366 George Moultrie             13
    47367 H. Thornton                 11
    47368 Robert Thomson              14
    47369 Arthur Wardrop              12
    47370 M. Macallam                 12
    47371 Geo. Hamilton               10
    47372 George Silcox                8
    47373 Wm. McDougall               13
    47374 W. McDonald                 13
    47375 J. A. Duncan                12
    47376 Wm. Stewart                 13
    47377 E. Hamilton                 12
    47378 Wm. N. Simpson              10
    47379 William Smellie             13
    47380 James Keith                 13
    47381 William Cowan                6
    47382 Agnes Faill                 12
    47383 M. McLennan                 16
    47384 Wm. McLennan                18
    47385 Robert Black                11
    47386 Harold Black                10
    47387 James Thomson               15
    47388 A. McFarlane                13
    47389 A. F. McEwen                11
    47390 Tom Moody                    9
    47391 John G. Miller              12
    47392 Andrew Miller               11
    47393 Isabella Cowan               9
    47394 Willie Henry                11
    47395 John Thomson                12
    47396 Harriet E. Ross             13
    47397 E. G. Bennett               12
    47398 Harold Cobb                 12
    47399 Ida G. Bennett               7
    47400 C. M. Hunt                  11
    47401 Henry W. Hunt                9
    47402 Kate A. Mortlock            19
    47403 Edith C. Terry              12
    47404 Florence Stiles             12
    47405 Sarah Ball                  12
    47406 Jane Skudder                 9
    47407 Lily Richards                8
    47408 Rosanna Ditch               19
    47409 Laura Campbell              11
    47410 Bertha Campbell             13
    47411 Jessie Bradford             13
    47412 Kate Bradford               15
    47413 Margrt. Leigton              6
    47414 Willie Norman                8
    47415 Sarah Lund                   9
    47416 Albert J. Buck              13
    47417 Rosa Engley                 14
    47418 Amy Milledge                17
    47419 Charles Reynolds            12
    47420 Clara Milledge               7
    47421 Nellie Newling              15
    47422 Maud Jones                   6
    47423 Reggie Brattle               6
    47424 L. A. Flemming              13
    47425 Daisy Cox                    5
    47426 Annie Stevens               16
    47427 Wm. Stevens                 12
    47428 George Stevens              10
    47429 Rosa Milledge               12
    47430 Agnes Parry                 13
    47431 Florce. Milledge             9
    47432 Jessie McLay                11
    47433 Annie Leigton               13
    47434 Alfred Mady                 14
    47435 Bella Axford                12
    47436 M. Robinson                 13
    47437 F. Pervanoglu               20
    47438 Emily Barnden               14
    47439 Lura Brattle                13
    47440 Nellie Pervanoglu           17
    47441 E. M. Reynolds              13
    47442 Gertrude Cousins             9
    47443 Lilly Marshall              11
    47444 Eva Connor                  12
    47445 Nellie Johnson               8
    47446 Carrie Cawlane              12
    47447 Bessie Ellison              10
    47448 Bertha Cousins              14
    47449 Louisa Rignall              17
    47450 Mary Brodie                 13
    47451 Harry Porter                 8
    47452 Arthur Oakenfull             7
    47453 Emily Jones                  6
    47454 Maud Brattle                 8
    47455 Lizzie Riches                7
    47456 Wrenny Grant                 6
    47457 J. N. Campbell               8
    47458 Clara Cousins               12
    47459 Isabel J. Moxon             12
    47460 SUSAN JACKSON,
                    Hackney,          13
    47461 W. W. Weigley                6
    47462 Edith Jackson               16
    47463 Rosetta Walker               7
    47464 Winifred Clarke             16
    47465 A. Wedgwood                 13
    47466 Jane Reynolds               14
    47467 Florence Pearce             11
    47468 Annie Dyster                12
    47469 Emma Steil                  11
    47470 Cecilia Lotcho              12
    47471 Florce. Wasdall             10
    47472 Jessie Wasdall              12
    47473 A. M. H. Solomon            15
    47474 Maud Freeman                15
    47475 Julia G. Wheeler            16
    47476 Alice Reynolds              18
    47477 F. G. Solomon               12
    47478 S. L. Solomon                7
    47479 Katie L. Solomon            10
    47480 Edith Holt                   7
    47481 Leslie Clarke                9
    47482 Irene Clarke                 7
    47483 Theresa Cockett             14
    47484 Florrie Leggett             11
    47485 Fredk. Reynolds             10
    47486 Lily Kirton                  7
    47487 Effie L. Bailey             11
    47488 Daisy I. Bailey              9
    47489 Fredk. W. Feast              5
    47490 Rosie Entwistle             15
    47491 Hannah Hall                 16
    47492 John W. Allan               14
    47493 F. Bartholomew              12
    47494 Lily Smee                   10
    47495 L. Bartholomew               9
    47496 Agnes Blyton                11
    47497 Nellie Cooper                8
    47498 Maude Bell                  11
    47499 A. Bartholomew              10
    47500 G. Bartholomew              12
    47501 F. Bartholomew               8
    47502 M. Bartholomew               6
    47503 K. MacArthur                 9
    47504 May Smee                     9
    47505 Kate Milner                 16
    47506 Alfred Milner               14
    47507 Louise Milner                9
    47508 Beatrice Milner             11
    47509 Katie Hay                   14
    47510 Aphie Hickson               10
    47511 B. M. Beverley              12
    47512 M. K. Beverley              16
    47513 William Miller              14
    47514 C. Prideaux                 10
    47515 W. T. Prideaux               9
    47516 Nellie de Castro            13
    47517 G. P. Morris                14
    47518 F. M. Morris                12
    47519 Hilda C. Morris              9
    47520 Lilian Paull                13
    47521 Sarah B. Owen               15
    47522 E. G. Walker                11
    47523 M. E. A. HILLSWORTH,
                          Clapton     11
    47524 John L. Allen                6
    47525 E. S. Bodger                 9
    47526 Kate Bodger                  7
    47527 Ellen Boxall                13
    47528 Ada E. Boys                 16
    47529 Chas. H. Boys               13
    47530 Edith M. Boys               13
    47531 Alice M. Brazil              8
    47532 Edward Bunten                8
    47533 Kate E. Bunten               7
    47534 Ernest C. Butler            11
    47535 Fredk. Callow                8
    47536 Alice Chilvers               8
    47537 William Chilvers             8
    47538 H. E. Daniel                 9
    47539 E. A. Francis               11
    47540 J. T. Francis                8
    47541 J. A. Francis                9
    47542 Ada Frost                   10
    47543 Clara A. Gilbert             9
    47544 H. G. Gilbert                7
    47545 E. J. Hepper                10
    47546 A. W. Hillsworth            17
    47547 E. L. Howard                17
    47548 Alice Hinchley              19
    47549 Charles J. King             12
    47550 Geo. W. King                10
    47551 Edith Macey                 12
    47552 F. A. Marquis               10
    47553 E. T. J. Mepstead           14
    47554 L. H. Moore                 12
    47555 V. O. Morris                 9
    47556 E. Muirhead                  9
    47557 M. H. Muirhead              11
    47558 E. E. E. Orchard             9
    47559 Ada F. Palmer               13
    47560 L. B. Palmer                16
    47561 Rose M. Palmer              11
    47562 Florence Peachy             11
    47563 Joseph Pedgrift              6
    47564 Alfred Pope                  7
    47565 Rachel Roderick             10
    47566 Robt. Roderick               9
    47567 Henry Sayer                 11
    47568 A. S. Taylor                 9
    47569 F. E. Taylor                 7
    47570 K. A. Taylor                11
    47571 Eliza Watkins               10
    47572 Mary G. Watkins              7
    47573 Lucy M. Wellum              12
    47574 C. D. Wheeler               16
    47575 H. W. Windett                7
    47576 H. R. BLUNT,
              Wallingford              9
    47577 H. L. Smith                 14
    47578 Mabel Ross                  10
    47572 H. Eckersley                13
    47580 M. M. Meldrum               16
    47581 G. M. Molloy                10
    47582 Ada Clanfield               12
    47583 Louisa Roberts              12
    47584 James Kent                  12
    47585 Amy Cobb                     7
    47586 M. A. D. Field               6
    47587 Thos. Jennings               7
    47588 John Toovey                  8
    47589 J. T. Fenton                 5
    47590 Matilda Cobb                15
    47591 Ada Ring                    11
    47592 F. L. Anderson              14
    47593 Edith Roberts               12
    47594 Constance Lyde              11
    47595 Edith Lyde                   8
    47596 Mary Anderson               11
    47597 E. Wilkinson                12
    47598 Ada Kent                     9
    47599 Emily Crook                 14
    47600 Edgar H. Bird                9
    47601 E. Richardson               10
    47602 Henry Crook                 10
    47603 M. F. Barber                14
    47604 Fanny Morrell               13
    47605 E. F. Barber                10
    47606 M. Whitworth                16
    47607 Monica Coulton              10
    47608 M. E. Hare                  15
    47609 Thomas Wells                11
    47610 V. A. Alexander             11
    47611 Albert Roberts              10
    77612 Hugh Waddox                  6
    47613 Thomas Crook                11
    47614 Benjmn. Bowden              11
    47615 L. G. Molyneux              14
    47616 Edith Matthews              14
    47617 Gertie Andrew               16
    47618 E. M. Roberts               11
    47619 E. G. Molyneux              15
    47620 G. Leigh                    12
    47621 B. E. D. Field               7
    47622 Ada Troll                    9
    47623 Emily Gardner               11
    47624 Edith Townsend               6
    47625 Fanny Rowe                  13
    47626 Agnes Watt                  14
    47627 Alice M. White              12
    47628 A. K. Moorman               12
    47629 M. E. Broderick             13
    47630 Ernest Knight               11
    47631 Mary Carter                 15
    47632 Walter J. Law               13
    47633 Leonard Law                 10
    47634 Nellie Hawes                15
    47635 Jessie R. Ramsay            17
    47636 Ruth E. Tinker              11
    47637 Annie Harpin                13
    47638 Ibbie Milner                15
    47639 AMY STAMP,
             Sunderland                9
    47640 George Parker                7
    47641 F. W. Stamp                  7
    47642 Lillie Stamp                16
    47643 Alfred Stamp                12
    47644 L. Greenwell                14
    47645 H. Greenwell                12
    47646 E. Greenwell                11
    47647 Maud Greenwell              10
    47648 Mabel Greenwell              8
    47649 Arthur Greenwell             6
    47650 L. Westgarth                18
    47651 Eliza Girling               19
    47652 E. Dora Pringle             20
    47653 M. L. White                 14
    47654 Mary Wilson                 12
    47655 C. M. Stevenson             11
    47656 Mary A. Clark                8
    47657 W. S. Rinner                 8
    47658 H. Wrightson                 8
    47659 Nellie Potter               21
    47660 M. Liptrot                  20
    47661 Gertie Liptrot              16
    47662 Lilla Greive                17
    47663 Maud Hampson                18
    47664 Sallie Justice              16
    47665 Cathie Camm                 14
    47666 Susie Houlden               15
    47667 Floss Hall                  15
    47668 Cissy Mangles               13
    47669 M. B. Addingley             15
    47670 Lizzie Taylor               15
    47671 F. Richardson               13
    47672 Janet King                  13
    47673 Sallie Bennett              13
    47674 Albert Bennett              10
    47675 Norman Potter                9
    47676 Pollie Bell                 18
    47677 M. A. Morley                11
    47678 Willie Robinson              9
    47679 F. Robinson                  9
    47680 Lucy Robinson               11
    47681 Clara Robinson              12
    47682 Ann Robinson                13
    47683 Annie Robinson              14
    47684 Ellen Robinson              15
    47685 Ruth Lodge                  12
    47686 Samuel Lodge                14
    47687 Eliza A. Lodge              20
    47688 E. Lockwood                 15
    47689 Amy Lockwood                13
    47690 Lilian Heap                 14
    47691 Lucy Green                  15
    47692 L. E. Schofield             12
    47693 Clara Jones                 14
    47694 Hannah Addy                 16
    47695 Jane E. Dyson               13
    47696 Milinda Dodgson             12
    47697 Helene Coith                21
    47698 Nellie Ellis                17
    47699 Lucy M. Dickson             17
    47700 Annie Yeats                 15
    47701 M. Bradley                  14
    47702 Sallie Richmond             13
    47703 Ella Jepsew                 13
    47704 Maggie Bland                13
    47705 Emily Lawley                12
    47706 Beatrice Wright              6
    47707 Jeanie Wilson                9
    47708 Edward Parker                5
    47709 Ethel L. Turner             12
    47710 Rose A. Hart                15
    47711 Lily A. Cousins             14
    47712 Florence Hawes              13
    47713 Carrie Hornby               20
    47714 P. E Twamley                 5
    47715 Betsey Collins              17
    47716 K. S. Twamley                7
    47717 Janie G. Twamley             9
    47718 R. Twamley                   8
    47719 V. M. A. WEBB,
                      Hythe            9
    47720 Arthur Shutler              10
    47721 Ada Church                  10
    47722 Lucy Daish                  10
    47723 Elizabeth Church             9
    47724 Agnes Bull                  11
    47725 Fanny Warne                 10
    47726 Elizabeth Bull              10
    47727 Fanny Woolgar               13
    47728 Ada Gull                    11
    47729 Emma Blackwell              10
    47730 L. Chamberlain              10
    47731 Ellen Mouland               11
    47732 Ellen Ash                   14
    47733 Lizzie Shutler               8
    47734 Ellen Bull                   9
    47735 Emily Larkham               11
    47736 Wm. Newnham                 11
    47737 Wm. Hackett                 11
    47738 Jane Cooper                  9
    47739 Agnes Plumley               12
    47740 Clara Bull                   9
    47741 Alice Hamilton               9
    47742 Ada Neat                     9
    47743 Annie Brown                 10
    47744 Elizabeth Urry              13
    47745 Harry Williams              10
    47746 Thomas Piper                13
    47747 Fredk. Salter               11
    47748 Percy Spencer               10
    47749 Thomas Morris               11
    47750 Charles Henning             10
    47751 Elizabeth Brown              8
    47752 Emily Woodford              11
    47753 Charles Coster              10
    47754 Arthur Mathews              11
    47755 Harry Hackett               12
    47756 May Spencer                 12
    47757 Edith Small                 13
    47758 Ellen Parnell               10
    47759 Harry Smith                 11
    47760 Albert Seal                 10
    47761 Albert Salter               10
    47762 Nellia Snow                 10
    47763 Hannah Way                  11
    47764 F. Westmore                  8
    47765 Ellen Cass                  10
    47766 A. Wiltshire                13
    47767 Marria Chessell             11
    47768 Frances Gelf                 9
    47769 John Duffey                 13
    47770 Louisa Smith                11
    47771 Mabel Davies                12
    47772 Millie Walker               10
    47773 Hannah Dogdson              16
    47774 E. McCracken                17
    47775 Ada Whittington              8
    47776 S. A. Whittington            9
    47777 Nellie Temple               11
    47778 Lila Temple                 13
    47779 Blanche Price               13
    47780 Edith Price                 14
    47781 Minnie Price                16
    47782 Louisa M. Leake              5
    47783 Leonard C. Leake             6
    47784 Annie Hill                   6
    47785 William Hill                 8
    47786 Alice Harding                8
    47787 Edward Harding              10
    47788 Louisa Harding              12
    47789 Sisie Davison                5
    47790 Edward Davison               6
    47791 Georgina Davison             8
    47792 Violet G. Davies             4
    47793 F. E. Davies                 6
    47794 John Davies                  7
    47795 Fredk. Cox                   6
    47796 Emma Cox                     8
    47797 Annie Cox                   11
    47798 H. C. Cramford               8
    47799 Abel Britnell               10
    47800 William Britnell            13
    47801 Rosey Ansley                 9
    47802 Henry Ansley                15
    47803 Edith Lowe                  10
    47804 Minnie Lowe                 14
    47805 CLARA M. LEGGE,
                     Bilston          12
    47806 Emily Cole                  11
    47807 Alice Hill                  13
    47808 Clara G. Bailey             13
    47809 Jessie Price                 7
    47810 Alice Sutton                14
    47811 Arthur Price                10
    47812 Jessie M. Jenks             13
    47813 Clara Bubee                 13
    47814 N. Elkington                 9
    47815 Nellie Lockley              10
    47816 May Kelly                    9
    47817 Wm Harper                   13
    47818 Janet Adams                 11
    47819 Mable Smith                 10
    47820 Maud Beaman                 10
    47821 Harrie Allan                10
    47822 Claribel Roberts            10
    47823 Kate A. Webster             10
    47824 F. Longmore                  9
    47825 Willie Tart                 10
    47826 Blanche Tart                12
    47827 Allan Instone                8
    47828 Ernest Instone              10
    47829 Maude Adderley              10
    47830 Connie Adderley             12
    47831 Agnes Harper                15
    47832 Annie Harper                15
    47833 Amy Harper                   6
    47834 Lucy Harper                  8
    47835 Edith Harper                11
    47836 Jessie Wright               12
    47837 Daisy Wright                15
    47838 Alice Jones                 13
    47839 Harriette Jones             18
    47840 F. Elkington                11
    47841 L. Elkington                12
    47842 Jenny Elkington             15
    47843 Lilian Lawley                7
    47844 Edith Lawley                 9
    47845 Annie Lawley                11
    47846 Rose Lawley                 13
    47847 Lillian Adams                9
    47848 Ethel Adams                 12
    47849 M. Adams                    14
    47850 Bertha Adams                16
    47851 Annie Harper                 8
    47852 Thomas Harper               12
    47853 Sarah Harper                10
    47854 Emily Smith                 13
    47855 Lizzie Harper               15
    47856 C. Anderson                 11
    47857 G. W. H. PAULL,
             Stoke Newington          12
    47858 Ellen K. Paull               8
    47859 F. E. Martin                12
    47860 K. P. Banister               7
    47861 H. H. Smith                  7
    47862 Percy M. Smith               9
    47863 Thomas Cook                 13
    47864 Helen L. Hiller             14
    47865 W. N. Hough                 10
    47866 George E. Korn              11
    47867 Chas. R. Morling            10
    47868 A. Robinson                  9
    47869 A. S. Robinson              12
    47870 Arthur C. Warren            12
    47871 Thos. H. Clark              11
    47872 G. Waymark                  12
    47873 E. W. Wesson                10
    47874 Arthur E. Rous              12
    47875 Richd. J. Evans             12
    47876 F. A. Williams               8
    47877 Harry S. Ayres              13
    47878 Alfred J. Mills              9
    47879 James Wright                 6
    47880 George Wright                8
    47881 P. J. G. Fordham            12
    47882 A. C. S. Roberts             7
    47883 M. A. Marquis                8
    47884 Horatio Bartlett            13
    47885 Wm. C. H. Long              10
    47886 John M. White.              12
    47887 Wm. C. Riding               10
    47888 Geo. Riding                  7
    47889 George Reeves                9
    47890 Ernest Reeves               10
    47891 Geo. W. Morris               8
    47892 Jessie M. Rich               9
    47893 Eleanor Boxall              10
    47894 Wm. F. Rayner               10
    47895 Rhoda Payne                 13
    47896 Rose Mortimore               7
    47897 Eliza King                  10
    47898 A. H. Mortimore             11
    47899 F. L. J. Meyer               9
    47900 F. J. Lowe                  11
    47901 Jas. T. Jennings            10
    47902 Alice E. Jennings           12
    47903 Eliza C. French              9
    47904 Rosa Burch                  12
    47905 Frank A. Boys                9
    47906 Alfred E. Boys               9
    47907 Arthur L. Baker             12
    47908 E. E. Matthews              10
    47909 C. Creighton                 7
    47910 L. Creighton                 9
    47911 B. Creighton                11
    47912 Isabel Eacott               10
    47913 Ellen A. Mellersh           10
    47914 Maud Mellersh                8
    47915 Violet Yaldwyn              11
    47916 BERTIE BELL,
    Swaffham                           7
    47917 Caroline Pullan             20
    47918 Nina Todd                    7
    47919 Jeannie Wheen                4
    47920 Ella Abell                   2
    47921 Maria Todd                   5
    47922 William Sellers              8
    47923 Sidney Hemshall              7
    47924 Winifred Abell              15
    47925 Tom Brazier                  6
    47926 Jennie Anderson              6
    47927 A. Hebblethwaite             6
    47928 Harry Wheen                  6
    47929 H. K. Stanton               10
    47930 E. M. Stanton                9
    47931 Winifred Stanton             8
    47932 G. Hamant                   17
    47933 A. W. F. Pollard             8
    47934 Horace T. Pollard            6
    47935 Edward Pollard               4
    47936 Georg Rix                    6
    47937 R. R. Sillitoe              15
    47938 Oliver M. Parker            14
    47939 G. R. Read                  15
    47940 S. Hungerford               20
    47941 Maud London                 15
    47942 May Hungerford              13
    47943 J. E. Devenport             19
    47944 Minnie Maggi                11
    47945 Ada Sykes                   12
    47946 Mabel Spray                  6
    47947 Edith Verity                 9
    47948 Josephine Boyle             10
    47949 Fannie Marshall             14
    47950 Maud Jones                  14
    47951 Jenny Lawson                12
    47952 Amy Jones                   11
    47953 Annie Jowett                12
    47954 Ethel Hill                  10
    47955 Gertrude Sykes              14
    47956 Ada Hill                     8
    47957 A. Chamberlain              13
    47958 L. Chamberlain               7
    47959 W. Chamberlain               5
    47960 B. Chamberlain               7
    47961 Rosa Bell                   15
    47962 F. Chamberlain              11
    47963 C. Chamberlain               4
    47964 Geo. A. Petch               16
    47965 E. Chamberlain              15
    47966 Lizzie Carr                 14
    47967 Wm. J. Smith                11
    47968 A. L. Ralston                8
    47969 Janet Whitty                12
    47970 Kate Parkes                 15
    47971 M. Caddick                  17
    47972 Walter Benington            11
    47973 Julius E. Woods             11
    47974 A. G. NICKOLSON,
               Oxford St., L.         13
    47975 Bertha Wilson               13
    47976 Florence Kirby              12
    47977 Edith Thomson                8
    47978 Alice Pritchett             12
    47979 Louisa Wyatt                 9
    47980 Charlotte Overett            9
    47981 E. L. Houghton              12
    47982 Kate Tolman                  9
    47983 A. M. Bundock               10
    47984 Ethel Hibbert               14
    47985 Harriet Perry               13
    47986 Lucy Wheeler                11
    47987 Ada Frost                    9
    47988 Jessie Gotts                10
    47989 L. J. Allaway               12
    47990 Helena Smell                 8
    47991 Julia Davis                 10
    47992 Ada Davis                   13
    47993 Agnes Luckett                8
    47994 F. Warwick                   8
    47995 Louisa Dickens              11
    47996 Alice Green                 10
    47997 Ada Blakey                  11
    47998 G. Barnard                  13
    47999 Anne Pooles                  9
    48000 J. Hawksworth               11
    48001 Rebecca Payne                8
    48002 Mary A. Soall               10
    48003 Emma Martin                  9
    48004 Mary Horton                  8
    48005 F. Mackelew                 10
    48006 Mary Jones                  10
    48007 Hannah Dalby                10
    48008 Harriet Davies               8
    48009 Emily Jones                 13
    48010 Mary A. Dean                11
    48011 Fanny Wood                  11
    48012 Eleanor Ben                 14
    48013 Emma Smith                  12
    48014 Ada Lowe                    11
    48015 A. Bowerman                 11
    48016 Gertrude Lowe               15
    48017 Alice Arger                  9
    48018 Florrie Donovan             13
    48019 Elizbth. Erwood             10
    48020 Alice Pett                  10
    48021 Nellie Houching              8
    48022 Mary Goots                  10
    48023 Clara Evenett                8
    48024 Mary A. Prior               14
    48025 Mary McLaren                13
    48026 M. McLaren                   9
    48027 Edwd J. Pascoe               9
    48028 CHAS. WHITMAN,
                 Kensington           14
    48029 S. H. Whitman               11
    48030 Annie Rolfe                  7
    48031 A. M. Whitman               18
    48032 A. E. Whitman               15
    48033 William Harris              16
    48034 Rhoda White                 12
    48035 Jennie Harris               18
    48036 Hettie Harris                9
    48037 Edith Rolfe                  9
    48038 Emily Griffiths             18
    48039 John Graham                 15
    48040 Florce. Graham              16
    48041 Minnie Graham               12
    48042 Emily Barnes                17
    48043 Harry Barnes                10
    48044 Amy Smith                   13
    48045 A. Hatton                   12
    48046 E. Hatton                   10
    48047 E. Blowers                  11
    48048 Rose Blowers                18
    48049 Lily Blowers                15
    48050 Carlisle King               13
    48051 Willie Nichols              12
    48052 Lizzie Nichols              16
    48053 Thomas Nichols              18
    48054 Emily Nichols               14
    48055 F. Faulkner                 10
    48056 Edith Faulkner              12
    48057 William Davis               17
    48058 E. A. Briggs                18
    48059 W. York                     16
    48060 E. Bell                     10
    48061 Chas. Hoddson               13
    48062 Wm. Killick                 19
    48063 Herbert Lees                12
    48064 J. G. Davis                 19
    48065 Kate Barnes                 19
    48966 Anne Barnes                 17
    48067 William Barnes              15
    48068 Edith Benham                11
    48069 J. Wade                     16
    48070 A. Brooks                   17
    48071 R. Pelman                   15
    48072 Amy Dey                     19
    48073 Laura Biddle                18
    48074 Beatrice Mason              14
    48075 Edith Good                  12
    48076 Edith Lowe                  13
    48077 Lottie Lane                 13
    48078 A. Smith                     9
    48079 A. Pichersgill              13
    48080 E. SINCLAIR,
                 Worthing             13
    48081 W. W. Sinclair              15
    48082 A. M. McHardy               11
    48083 J. K. McHardy               14
    48084 C. McHardy                  12
    48085 Wm. S. Moir                 17
    48086 J. K. Edmunds               10
    48087 M. B. Moir                  14
    48088 M. I. Moir                  11
    48089 David R. Moir               10
    48090 V. M. Sinclair              12
    48091 Isabel Sinclair             15
    48092 K. E. Sinclair               7
    48093 Edmund Sinclair             12
    48094 Geo. W. Sinclair            11
    48095 Ann W. Sinclair              9
    48096 Katie Sinclair               7
    48097 Lizzie J. Milne              9
    48098 B. M. Greenlaw              14
    48099 Harry Smith                 18
    48100 M. D. Thomson               10
    48101 G. F. Thomson                9
    48102 P. M. Thomson                7
    48103 Lucy L. Taylor               9
    48104 John Spark                  12
    48105 Lizzie Johnston             13
    48106 Bella Milne                 11
    48107 Wm. Johnston                 9
    48108 F. W. Webster               12
    48109 Jeannie Willox              14
    48110 S. T. Gillespie             10
    48111 Wm. C. Edwards               7
    48112 J. E. Taylor                10
    48113 Annie Gillespie             12
    48114 Flora Walker                14
    48115 Jeannie Middleton           11
    48116 M. E. Beverly               13
    48117 C. H. Milne                 13
    48118 F. J. Milne                 11
    48119 L. Milne                    10
    48120 M. de Alcazar               13
    48121 F. S. Mitchell              10
    48122 Maggie Robb                 11
    48123 George Rae                  13
    48124 A. J. Mathieson             12
    48125 F. A. Mathieson             14
    48126 Bella Gillan                10
    48127 E. M. Mathieson             13
    48128 M. E. Green                 12
    48129 Lizzie Rae                  15
    48130 H. L. Forbes                10
    48131 A. McLeod                   12
    48132 Juliet Sutherland           12
    48133 Jane Keith                  12
    48134 J. Sutherland                8
    48135 L. M. Sutherland            11
    48136 Robina May                  13
                      H'smith         12
    48138 Charles Harper              20
    48139 Julia Grover                20
    48140 Harriet Cuthbert            19
    48141 Annie Thompson              19
    48142 F. Thompson                 19
    48143 K. L. Thompson              18
    48144 B. E. Denham                18
    48145 E. G. Strickland            18
    48146 H. J. Wood                  19
    48147 Antony Hewes                19
    48148 P. Tettenborn               18
    48149 E. A. Smith                 18
    48150 F. W. Jones                 17
    48151 F. D. Thompson              17
    48152 A. W. Thompson              17
    48153 A. Hollingsworth            16
    48154 M. Thompson                 16
    48155 James Byass                 15
    48156 J. C. Hoffmann              15
    48157 A. Hutchison                15
    48158 G. Thompson                 15
    48159 F. Tettenborn               15
    48160 N. Baldwin                  15
    48161 Sarah Pitt                  15
    48162 Florce. Sparkes             14
    48163 Ada Taylor                  14
    48164 F. Philbey                  14
    48165 Winnie Curtis               14
    48166 Alice Roberts               13
    48167 M. Cordingley               13
    48168 H. Stradling                13
    48169 F. Hoffmann                 13
    48170 Esther Brown                12
    48171 Florce. Cullis              12
    48172 Edith Philbey               11
    48173 Annie Hoffmann              11
    48174 Marian Dixon                11
    48175 Geo. Carpenter              11
    48176 F. Sheffield                10
    48177 Emily Ratcliffe             10
    48178 Blanche Bennett             10
    48179 J. W. Thompson               9
    48180 Florence Dixon               9
    48181 Charles Baldwin              8
    48182 Harry Thompson               8
    48183 C. A. Sheffield              8
    48184 Amy Cordingley               7
    48185 Gertrude Ryle                6
    48186 Maggie Dixon                 6
    48187 K. L. JOHNSON,
                   Lewisham           12
    48188 Ellen A. Watts              12
    48189 H. Papps                    17
    48190 Thos. J. Dixon              15
    48191 A. S. Kenneford             19
    48192 Florence Watts               8
    48193 Frank Lewry                 18
    48194 Louie Watts                 10
    48195 Ernest Watts                14
    48196 A. Wright                    8
    48197 Herbert Wright              10
    48198 Winifred Wright             12
    48199 M. J. Funnell               20
    48200 Edward Wright               14
    48201 A. Spalding                 16
    48202 Arthur Watts                17
    48203 Elizabeth Watts             19
    48204 M. C. Fountain              11
    48205 E. Underwood                11
    48206 Louie Smith                 11
    48207 M. A. Graham                12
    48208 Lizzie Fawsett              12
    48209 Mabel Wilson                10
    48210 Edith M. Reed               12
    48211 Augusta Holland             11
    48212 Johanna Hacker              13
    48213 Mary Whileway               11
    48214 Beatrice Palmer             12
    48215 F. M. Gamble                14
    48216 Isabella Axford             11
    48217 Alice Wilson                19
    48218 Theresa Holland             14
    48219 William Witts               14
    48220 Rhoda Mady                  12
    48221 Amy Wilson                  17
    48222 Annie Glover                15
    48223 Lauie Risch                 11
    48224 Gertrude Cox                 9
    48225 Edith Cox                   11
    48226 M. Matthewson               13
    48227 Emily Taylor                12
    48228 L. Fishenden                11
    48229 Lauie Guyer                 14
    48230 T. Friedrick                14
    48231 Jas. F. Shelton              9
    48232 H. Botham                   15
    48233 Miriam Shelton               6
    48234 Alfred Shelton               8
    48235 Edith Shelton                5
    48236 Arthur Gill                  6
    48237 Lavinia Parks               13
    48238 Lina Draper                 14
    48239 Rosa Tipper                 15
    48240 Emily Cordwell              15
    48241 A. Hambrook                 13
    48242 Fanny Connor                14
    48243 Nellie Park                  8
    48244 Jessie Lambert              10
    48245 E. Fairbarns                15
    48246 Elizbth. Bignell            13
    48247 Harriet Barnett             14
    48248 M. E. Jennings              13
    48249 N. Emmerson                 11
    48250 A. G. M. Roberts            11
    48251 F. A. Hefford               11
    48252 Emma Langley                13
    48253 Emily Williams              13
    48254 R. G. F. Roberts            13
    48255 Alice Trafford              17
    48256 N. E. Trafford               8
    48257 Annie Trafford              15
    48258 F. H. Emmerson              13
    48259 Herbert Helm                 6
    48260 Lucy C. Helm                 9
    48261 May E. Smith                 9
    48262 Alice G. Smith               7
    48263 Herbert H. Smith             6
    48264 Wm. R. Tyers                 8
    48265 G. J. E. Mollett            11
    48266 Amelia Barber               12
    48267 Florence Gibbs              15
    48268 K. FORDHAM,
              Huntingdon              14
    48269 A. W. Matthews              12
    48270 Gertrude Moore              15
    48271 M. A. Warrington            16
    48272 Grace Mooney                15
    48273 Emma Turner                 16
    48274 Florence Cross              13
    48275 Emma Holley                 13
    48276 Claud Hunter                 9
    48277 Maria L. Pooley             15
    48278 Frederick Cox               12
    48279 James W. Cox                13
    48280 Mary L. Cox                 15
    48281 Nellie Fisher                7
    48282 Mary Lancaster              17
    48283 Elizabeth Angus             13
    48284 Maud Johns                  17
    48285 Emma A. Bitten              16
    48286 G. McGennis                 13
    48287 M. Warrington               10
    48288 F. Warrington               14
    48289 Minnie Lee                  16
    48290 Fredk. Mathews               8
    48291 Louise Madder               14
    48292 Florence Hall               16
    48293 F. C. Pooley                14
    48294 Florrie Dear                12
    48295 Annie Hitchcock             16
    48296 Minnie Spanton              10
    48297 Florrie Geeson               8
    48298 S. E. Fordham                8
    48299 Lizzie Cox                  15
    48300 Katie Dear                  13
    48301 E. J. Norton                 8
    48302 Ada Richardson              17
    48303 M. Richardson               19
    48304 Maud Matthews                7
    48305 Frank Matthews              10
    48306 Annie Clark                  9
    48307 Sidney Smith                13
    48308 Harold Browning              8
    48309 E. J. Browning              10
    48310 N. F. Browning              13
    48311 Wm. Beresford                7
    48312 A. H. Beresford              8
    48313 Blanche Spanton              6
    48314 A. B. Hendley               20
    48315 Jack Browning                6
    48316 W. M. Browning              12
    48317 Chas. Beresford             10
    48318 Sarah Clarke                16
    48319 Ellen Peacock               17
    48320 Fredk. H. Ware              12
    48321 E. HILLSWORTHY
                     Clapton          16
    48322 W. A. Allen                 11
    48323 E. Bartholomew              11
    48324 Alexander Bolton            11
    48325 Fredk. Brooks               10
    48326 Fredk. J. Bunten             9
    48327 Henry Bunten                11
    48328 H. W. Bunten                13
    48329 S. Connelly                 12
    48330 Thomas Death                12
    48331 Wm. Fairbairn                9
    48332 Ellen Goddard               10
    48333 Joseph Hockley              11
    48334 R. R. Hockley                9
    48335 Geo. R. Horn                11
    48336 John M. Horn                 9
    48337 G. Hutchingson              18
    48338 Florence Inward              6
    48339 Edith Inward                 8
    48340 Robert C. James             15
    48341 Eleanor Jones               15
    48342 E. Kingswell                 6
    48343 W. C. Ludlow                10
    48344 Henry Mallett               15
    48345 J. A. Matthews              18
    48346 Alfred E. Moon              16
    48347 Leonard A. Moss             12
    48348 C. J. Nicholson             14
    48349 F. J. Orchard               10
    48350 Edward Peachy                9
    48351 Robt. C. Peattie            17
    48352 Annie M. Perrin             11
    48353 Lucy E. Perrin               6
    48354 Robt. J. Perrin              8
    48355 Wm. B. F. Pope               9
    48356 Myra Price                  14
    48357 A. C. Rayner                13
    48358 Frank C. Rich               16
    48359 F. F. Richardson            11
    48360 Edith E. Riding              6
    48361 Kate Roderick               11
    48362 Wm. C. Saunders             10
    48363 John Shaw                   12
    48364 Eleanor L. Smith             9
    48365 Wm. H. Smith                11
    48366 Wm. Templeman               19
    48367 F. H. H. Thomas              9
    48368 Henry Wall                  10
    48369 Edward Ward                 11
    48370 Walter H Ware               17
    48371 Alfred E. Watson            16
    48372 A. W. Watson                13
    48373 F. A. B. Rice               12
    48374 Edwd. Wharmby               12
    48375 Helen Miller                10
    48376 F. H. Ware                  12
    48377 Amy Merson                  14
    48378 L. Truman                   16
    48379 Ada Dixon                   16
    48380 B. Huthwaite                15
    48381 Carrie Cropper               8
    48382 Mildred Cropper              9
    48383 Clara Dixon                 20
    48384 Annie Harrison              14
    48385 E. G. Mather                14
    48386 Rosa G. Jessop              14
    48387 G. M. Hole                  15
    48388 Margaret Hall               18
    48389 E. M. Clarke                12
    48390 ALPHA HANSEN,
                   Penarth            12
    48391 G. Johnson                   7
    48392 Nellie Farrell               9
    48393 Ernest Hurley               13
    48394 May Tapson                   7
    48395 E. M. Tapson                10
    48396 Daisy John                  10
    48397 John J. Gutherie            11
    48398 J. H. Hughes                13
    48399 Arthur Heald                12
    48400 Edith Cross                  7
    48401 Harry Jotham                 8
    48402 M. A. Powenland             18
    48403 N. E. Stokes                11
    48404 Florry Stokes                9
    48405 Florrie Hurman              10
    48406 Maud Cooper                 12
    48407 Miriam Webb                 13
    48408 Ellen Stokes                12
    48409 Gertrude Smith              15
    48410 Lilian Smith                13
    48411 Jessie Mason                12
    48412 Annie Sweet                 17
    48413 Fredk. Jennings              8
    48414 Ada Greenhill                8
    48415 Chrissie Nancy               7
    48416 N. M. Davis                 15
    48417 Emily Tape                  13
    48418 Edith Davis                 12
    48419 Nellie Tucker               10
    48420 Louie Heald                  9
    48421 H. Schroeter                10
    48422 W. Cross                    10
    48423 F. Schroeter                 9
    48424 W. Corfield                 13
    48425 Claus Hansen                 6
    48426 W. Hansen                   14
    48427 W. Pyman                     8
    48428 Edith Heald                 10
    48429 G. P. Nanoe                 10
    48430 S. Davis                    11
    48431 Thomas Morrell              10
    48432 B. Nance                    10
    48433 H. Leyshon                  11
    48434 Anna Leyshon                 7
    48435 F. de Candia                14
    48436 A. Ellery                   14
    48437 J. L. Madland               14
    48438 W. de Candia                17
    48439 W. Stockdale                14
    48440 W. Black                    13
    48441 Sven W. Hansen               8
    48442 Ida M. Pimom                19
    48443 H. W. Hansen                 9
    48444 MAUD M. BERRY,
                  Greenwich           14
    48445 B. Weller                   11
    48446 Jane Wells                  12
    48447 Ada Vincent                  9
    48448 A. Wetheral                  7
    48449 Frank Mowbray                7
    48450 F. Bason                    10
    48451 Benzeville Byles             8
    48452 Arthur Canter                7
    48453 A. Stevenson                 8
    48454 Arthur Mason                 6
    48455 Sydney Mowbray               8
    48456 Leonard Wood                 8
    48457 Emma Field                   9
    48458 Jane Bartlett               13
    48459 Sarah Morsley               11
    48460 Mary Morsley                 8
    48461 Lizzard Kellard             15
    48462 Edith Kellard               11
    48463 Alice Griffith              12
    48464 Emily Bartlett              11
    48465 Alice Vincent                7
    48466 L. Cuthbertson              12
    48467 Mary Canter                  8
    48468 Eleanor Hall                10
    48469 F. Vincent                  12
    48470 M. Trenery                  11
    48471 Lizzie Livett               14
    48472 Bessie Hall                  7
    48473 J. M. Tadhunter             10
    48474 L. M. Newsham               11
    48475 Maud C. Reeves              11
    48476 Rosina Hore                 10
    48477 F. Hefford                  13
    48478 Marie Bapty                 12
    48479 Ann. E. Douglas             11
    48480 Nellie Moore                11
    48481 Edith Stevenson             11
    48482 Emma Douglass                7
    48483 A. J. Field                  7
    48484 R. R. Vokins                 9
    48485 C. J. Chandler              11
    48486 F. H. Weller                13
    48487 Ada Bates                   12
    48488 Jessie Lawrence             12
    48489 G. A. Woollard              10
    48490 Bertha Weller               11
    48491 H. Trenery                   9
    48492 Ada Beaver                  11
    48493 Eliza Miles                  9
    48494 Selina Griffiths             9
    48495 Fanny Spinks                10
    48496 L. C. Chandler               9
    48497 Ellen Abbot                 11
    48498 Nellie Darvall              10
               Islington              13
    48500 Edith Ghostt                 7
    48501 John Thompson               11
    48502 Arthur Shum                 12
    48503 Lucy Parker                 11
    48504 Alice Davis                 12
    48505 Nellie Parks                13
    48506 Hetty Drew                   7
    48507 Beatie Whigham               8
    48508 Annie G. Bull               13
    48509 Minnie Jocoby               14
    48510 Kate Mitchell               12
    48511 Mabel Astell                13
    48512 Gertrude Fisher             12
    48513 Lizzie Gurney                9
    48514 Hetty Payne                 13
    48515 Emily Knox                  14
    48516 G. Anderson                 10
    48517 Elzbth. Groome              15
    48518 Louisa Higgins              14
    48519 W. Brightman                 9
    48520 Louisa Willis               13
    48521 Katie Whigham               11
    48522 Mary Hartley                13
    48523 Violet Shelsey              14
    48524 L. Anderson                 16
    48525 E. McKenna                  12
    48526 Annie Hartley                8
    48527 Mary Watson                 12
    48528 Augusta Godley              11
    48529 Rosina Ede                  13
    48530 K. Waterman                 12
    48531 H. Thompson                 12
    48532 Emily Lucas                 13
    48533 Henry Bailey                 6
    48534 Kate Hawes                  11
    48535 Chas. A. Hawes              18
    48536 Lizzie Sharp                12
    48537 Emily Pocock                 8
    48538 Gracie Godley               13
    48539 Kate Marchant               12
    48540 Beatrice Pocock             10
    48541 Jane Lawther                12
    48542 Jane Godley                 18
    48543 Cicely Jenner               13
    48544 G. Willoughby               14
    48545 Elizabth. Parrock           12
    48546 M. Jenkinson                12
    48547 T. Harding                  12
    48548 Mary Stanley                14
    48549 B. Tregoning                10
    48550 C. Hawes                    14
    48551 IRENE SMITH,
                Hampstead             16
    48552 Ralph H. Smith              13
    48553 Edith E. Clodd              10
    48554 Ada Gait                    10
    48555 Flora Maas                  11
    48556 Rose Maas                   14
    48557 Arthur Maas                  8
    48558 Charles Maas                 4
    48559 May Maas                    13
    48560 E. J. Cooper                 6
    48561 Lulu McElroy                11
    48562 Bessie Davis                18
    48563 Jane M. Davis               16
    48564 W. E. Davis                 14
    48565 H. H. Davis                  9
    48566 Fredk. M. Davis             12
    48567 Janet Balmer                19
    48568 A. D. McKinlay              14
    48569 Wm. Jackson                 14
    48570 Alfred E. Lee               13
    48571 R. J. Brown                 14
    48572 G. A. Wallace               12
    48573 Harris Reid                 14
    48574 A. D. Arthur                13
    48575 E. S. C. Barfield           11
    48576 W. A. Ashbery               12
    48577 E. J. Sissons               13
    48578 A. G. Deighton              14
    48579 H. E. Brierley              10
    48580 Archie Williams             13
    48581 Wm. Brownjohn               14
    48582 Henry T. Jones              13
    48583 Cecil W. Harry              12
    48584 Jas. H. Burgess             12
    48585 E. E. Mackenzie             15
    48586 Margt. E. Green             13
    48587 Margt. L. Green             13
    48588 Samuel Green                10
    48589 Edith B. Cook                8
    48590 Willoughby Cook             10
    48591 Sidney M. Young             12
    48592 Miriam G. Young              6
    48593 Anne Bridge                 15
    48594 Ethel Mathieson             10
    48595 D. H. Asbury                 9
    48596 A. R. Edwards                9
    48597 Sophy Edwards               13
    48598 A. M. Edwards               11
    48599 M. E. Patterson             11
    48600 M. C. Hamkens                9
    48601 Alfred Hamkens               8
    48602 H. P. Hamkens                4
    48603 F. L. Hamkens                6
    48604 Ellen Gittens               10
    48605 E. G. Concanon               9
    48606 R. C. Marchant              11
    48607 Amelia Meadows              13
    48608 Ella Robinson               14
    48609 W. L. Coventry              11
    48610 MAGGIE BOOTY,
                   Norwich            11
    48611 James Pratt                 13
    48612 Michael Hartley             10
    48613 Herbert Moore               11
    48614 Henry Cheesman              12
    48615 Charles Moore               11
    48616 R. J. Kerrison              11
    48617 Fredk. Tuck                 10
    48618 Herbert Hagg                11
    48619 C. L. Payne                 10
    48620 Richard Seaman              11
    48621 Wm. Perowne                 13
    48622 Chas. Goldsmith             12
    48623 James Waller                12
    48624 Godfrey Goward              11
    48625 John Fisher                 13
    48626 Fred. Arthurton             10
    48627 George Goff                 12
    48628 Henry Culyer                12
    48629 Arthur Edwards              11
    48630 William Brown               10
    48631 Herbert Bannock             12
    48632 Harry Robertson             11
    48633 Alfred Pank                 12
    48634 George Bone                 13
    48635 Ernest Laws                 13
    48636 Archie Watson               12
    48637 Harry Hendry                12
    48638 Edward Burton               11
    48639 Fredk. Muskett              11
    48640 F. W. Barker                12
    48641 J. H. Browne                12
    48642 Ernest Barrett              12
    48643 George Dye                  11
    48644 Fredk. Gifford               1
    48645 George Kirkham              13
    48646 Arthur Pleasants            13
    48647 William Ellis               12
    48648 Wm. Phillips                12
    48649 John Morley                 12
    48650 Albert Balls                12
    48651 Hrbt. Lockwood              10
    48652 W. Stannard                 12
    48653 A. C. Roper                 12
    48654 Walter Carey                10
    48655 Charles Gallant             11
    48656 John Hayden                 12
    48657 Albert Pollard              11
    48658 Walter Waller               10
    48659 Fredk. White                12
    48660 William Cornish             11
    48661 H. M. Wright                11
    48662 Maria R. Horne              15
    48663 J. Sutcliffe                15
    48664 Mary L. Sutcliffe           13
    48665 Alice L. Heaps              14
    48666 Arthur T. Pink              13
    48667 Grace Pettman               14
    48668 Alice M. Squire             12
    48669 Mary J. Land                16
    48670 Rebecca Land                15
    48671 ELLEN RITA,
                Holloway              14
    48672 Ralph Gosset                 5
    48673 Ellen Gosset                 9
    48674 Florce. Gosset              14
    48675 H. E. Kimbell               12
    48676 May E. Kimbell               7
    48677 J. J. Gerhardt              15
    48678 Alfred T. Payne             20
    48679 Madeline Leed               13
    48680 William Wood                13
    48681 Caroline Coad               17
    48682 K. L. Eaton                 11
    48683 Corelli Barnett             13
    48684 Alice Barnett                8
    48685 Annie Barnett                6
    48686 Susan J. Miller             17
    48687 Alice S. Eaton              18
    48688 Anne Miles                  16
    48689 A. Winterbourne             16
    48690 Sidney Wood                  6
    48691 Sarah Lamb                  15
    48692 Susan H. Miles              12
    48693 Hugh Brydges                 9
    48694 Emily Holbard               19
    48695 F. Matthews                 12
    48696 E. F. Gillott               15
    48697 Millett A. Wood             19
    48698 Mary Shepherd               16
    48699 T. B. Rice                  20
    48700 Maud Eaton                  13
    48701 Ellen W. Wood               21
    48702 Rose J. Brown               18
    48703 Flce. Binckes               15
    48704 Kate Wood                   10
    48705 E. Robertson                14
    48706 Florence Barnett            10
    48707 Ernest Brown                20
    48708 Emmeline Wood               11
    48709 S. H. E. Speller            12
    48710 F. J. Speller                8
    48711 Thomas Speller              11
    48712 Fredk. Edwards              11
    48713 Lucy A. Coates              16
    48714 Sarah Cooper                15
    48715 Annie B. Coates             13
    48716 Martha Hortin               17
    48717 G. Horton                   16
    48718 Geo. W. Powell              14
    48719 Marian Henwood              16
    48720 E. J. Henwood               12
    48721 E. F. A. Cook               21
    48722 Sarah A. Money              18
    48723 Prissy Coates               12
    48724 Alice M. Coates             14
    48725 J. H. Twamley               15
    48726 Agnes Roberts               12
    48727 Trixy Roberts               10
    48728 Arthur Scott                 8
    48729 Katie Scott                 11
    48730 Edith Shaw                  10
    48731 Charles F. Shaw              9
    48732 M. J. Basnett               13
    48733 PHŒBE ALLAN,
               Hackney                13
    48734 Florence Hind               15
    48735 Amy Kirton                   6
    48736 A. Lahaye                   12
    48737 Beatrice Cooper              7
    48738 Louise Bathus               12
    48739 Henrietta Laby              10
    48740 Ethel Hind                   8
    48741 Aleck Sampson               14
    48742 Alice Turner                10
    48743 D. McAlister                 9
    48744 M. McAlister                 6
    48745 Chas. McAlister              8
    48746 E. Statham                  13
    48747 Ada Pennells                 9
    48748 Rosa Cooke                  11
    48749 Pernon Rorve                12
    48750 G. Y. McArthur               7
    48751 Ethel M. Beck               16
    48752 Helene Bayille               9
    48753 L. Antheaume                 8
    48754 L. Gaulupean                11
    48755 H. B. Lewis                 12
    48756 E. Hennequin                 7
    48757 A. Messager                 10
    48758 M. Lahaye                   10
    48759 Jeanne Allain                8
    48760 Julette Gorgibus            13
    48761 M. J. Duval                  9
    48762 Edmie Zaillon                6
    48763 G. H. A. Perechon           10
    48764 J. M. L. Crucket            11
    48765 Edith Beale                  7
    48766 Claire Masle                 9
    48767 Agatha Rutty                14
    48768 Jessie L. Keeble            17
    48769 Ethel Boyce                  7
    48770 Mary Hoyle                  12
    48771 Rose Solomons               12
    48772 Ellen Evans                 11
    48773 Emma Tournoft               12
    48774 Florce. Radford             12
    48775 W. McAlister                 5
    48776 Alice Haley                 10
    48777 W. O. MacArthur             12
    48778 Sarah Codling               13
    48779 M. A. Courneur              11
    48780 H. L. Macié                 13
    48781 Marie G. Loisel              7
    48782 Margrt. Ducuing              7
    48783 Josephine Poron             11
    48784 Alice Lewis                  6
    48785 Maria L. Allaine            11
    48786 Marthe M. Laby              11
    48787 L. Gaulupeau                10
    48788 Eliza Tarrola               10
    48789 Alice B. Zung               11
    48790 Blanche R. Berols           10
    48791 E. D. Giverne                7
    48792 C. E. Draper                13
    48793 E. M. M'Neight              12
    48794 S. D. Maconchy              16
    48795 A. A. Brunker                9
    48796 Arabella Thorn              16
    48797 M. Nicholson                15
    48798 Lillian Robinson            19
    48799 Ralph Manning               15
    48800 K. Manning                  14
    48801 George Hanlon               14
    48802 Agnes E. Barbor             11
    48803 Frances Brunker             11
    48804 E. G. Brunker               13
    48805 E. G. Flewry                16
    48806 May E. Greene               13
    48807 Mabel Gick                  10
    48808 Louisa Gick                 12
    48809 G. H. Brunker               10
    48810 Jessie L. Aimers            10
    48811 Lilias J. Aimers            12
    48812 Blanche Mayston             17
    48813 Louisa Leash                14
    48814 M. C. Hayes                 14
    48815 Eleanor Hanlon              13
    48816 Chas. H. Gick               17
    48817 E. M. Armstrong             10
    48818 Maud Davies                 12
    48819 Mirian Jackson              13
    48820 Thos. J. B. Cross           11
    48821 MARY H. WELSH,
                    Dawlish           14
    48822 Maud Harvest                12
    48823 Lucy Harvest                19
    48824 P. H Skipton                15
    48825 H. L. Norton                14
    48826 F. J. H. F. Cann            13
    48827 Ethel Tozer                 11
    48828 Grace Olliver               12
    48829 Anne Fortescue              16
    48830 Winifred Watson             14
    48831 M. Rolleston                15
    48832 Florence Danger             18
    48833 Amy Cann                    16
    48834 Harriet Crabbe              18
    48835 Emma Partridge              19
    48836 Tom Radford                  9
    48837 Alice Radford                8
    48338 Arnold Radford              18
    48839 Mary Lloyd                  13
    48840 Mary Abbott                 16
    48841 Leslie Webb                  8
    48842 Robin Webb                   9
    48843 Violet Collins              16
    48844 Leila Gray                   9
    48845 Ellen Smith                 20
    48846 M. F. Wheeler               16
    48847 Clare Harrison              18
    48848 Lillian Holt                14
    48849 Frances Harvest              6
    48850 Katie Pinkett                6
    48851 Lizzie Langford             15
    48852 Ellen McFerran              17
    48853 Maggie Raynes               15
    48854 Eva McFerran                15
    48855 Maggie Stephens             12
    48856 Anne Curtis                 15
    48857 H. J. Thackeray             12
    48858 H. Henderson                12
    48859 Ada E. Fiske                13
    48860 Lallah Roe                  14
    48861 Caroline Pinketts           14
    48862 Nellie Welsh                10
    48863 Alice Webb                  11
    48864 Amy Radford                 15
    48865 S. J. Adams                 13
    48866 Elsie Hale                  11
    48867 Beatrice Hirtzel            14
    48868 Hector Harvest              16
    48869 Sarah Fursdon               18
    48870 Flossie Raynes              17
    48871 Mabel Badcock               15
    48872 E. L. Allhusen               9
    48873 M. E. Allhusen              10
                   Place, London      13
    48875 Annie Allen                 12
    48876 Philadelphia Ades           17
    48877 Elizabeth Smith             11
    48878 Sarah Turner                12
    48879 Hannah Sharp                11
    48880 Blanche Rowland              9
    48881 Florce. Blundell            14
    48882 Nettie Johnson              16
    48883 Elsie Barrow                16
    48884 Ethel Hopson                14
    48885 Anna E. Piper                8
    48886 Emily Kear                  13
    48887 Jessie Rowland              11
    48888 Annie Watkins               10
    48889 Flora Freeman               14
    48890 H. Godfrey                  18
    48891 Mary Meredith               12
    48892 Elizabeth Ades              15
    48893 Elizabeth Gaston            13
    48894 Rose Weaver                  9
    48895 Mabel Bowen                 10
    48896 Clara Parks                 12
    48897 Ada Dawes                   10
    48898 Edith Perks                  9
    48899 Alice Perks                  7
    48900 Clara Wilks                 18
    48901 W. E. Morris                10
    48902 Frances Turner              14
    48903 Annie Weaver                13
    48904 Millicent Dawes              8
    48905 Hannah Gorring              12
    48906 E. Cunninghame              10
    48907 G. M. E. Jones               7
    48908 A. Woodland                 15
    48909 Ellen Russell               11
    48910 Rhoda Kear                  10
    48911 George Turner                9
    48912 Mabel Stevenson              7
    48913 Florence Cooper             11
    48914 M. D. Franks                11
    48915 C. E. Adis                  13
    48916 Lillie Simmons              16
    48917 Lucy Vickers                15
    48918 Mary B. Bufton               9
    48919 E. A. Millest               13
    48920 Emily Pugh                  16
    48921 Sarah J. Perks              11
    48922 Lily J. Veale               17
    48923 M. Mylu                     18
    48924 Marion Reynolds             16
    48925 Mary J. Hawis               17
    48926 Annie Venon                 20
    48927 Minnie M. Leage             11
    48928 C. F. Trenerry              11
    48929 Elsie Bayley                15
    48930 L. M. Littlewood            15
    48931 F. E. Wurburton              6
    48932 Emma T. Cooper               9
    48933 A. S Harrison               12
    48934 ROSE CRANE,
          Falkland Road,
            N.W. London               15
    48935 Violet Crane                 8
    48936 S. Prendergast              19
    48937 E. Hazlewood                16
    48938 G. Butcher                  16
    48939 Olive Crane                  6
    48940 W. G. Crane                 13
    48941 May Crane                   13
    48942 L. Reynolds                 16
    48943 Florence Mays               14
    48944 Ada L. J. Lane              17
    48945 A. E. D. Willmott           19
    48946 Violet Wrightson            17
    48947 Annie Body                  18
    48948 May Back                    12
    48949 Mabel Kennett               15
    48950 Mary Coveney                17
    48951 Emma Sutton                 18
    48952 Rosa Sutton                 12
    48953 Minnie Sutton               14
    48954 Wm. O. Jones                15
    48955 Annie M. Bowen              14
    48956 Alice Riddall               15
    48957 Helen Everitt               15
    48958 B. Holmes                   17
    48959 Clara Warman                14
    48960 F. Holmes                   15
    48961 A. B. Garrett               11
    48962 Emma Capes                  17
    48963 Agnes Rae                   15
    48964 Anne Chandler               19
    48965 Ellen Higginson             16

[_Officers and Members are referred to a Special Notice on page 55._]

The Happy Little River.

_Words from_ "LITTLE FOLKS."


(_For one or two Voices._) _With simplicity._



[Illustration: Music]

1. A* tiny river ripples onward, Babbles over moss and
stone, Flowing, flowing, ever flowing, Singing in a joyous

2. Gladly smile the little daisies, Which that river grow beside;
Gladly sing the happy song-birds, While 'mid sedgy haunts
they hide

3. Gladly nod the dewy grasses On its bonny banks and green; Gladly
grow the river mosses, Peeping little stones between.

4. Gladly stoop the pensive willows Those bright river-ripples o'er,
Thanking for its cooling water, Telling how they thirst no more.

5. Gladly talk the little children, As they look upon the stream;
Gladly smiles the dancing sunlight, While the brook reflects its

6. Flow, thou happy little river, Bear thy message night and day,
Telling how the sunny-hearted Carry sunshine on their way.

* This note required for first verse only.



  1. My first is a French poet.
  2. My second is a celebrated Italian tragic poet.
  3. My third is a blind English poet.
  4. My fourth is an Italian poet born at Arezzo.
  5. My fifth is an English poet who died in Greece.
  6. My sixth is a Spanish poet.
  7. My seventh is another Italian poet.
  8. My eighth is another French poet.
  9. My whole is a celebrated British poet.

  (Aged 14.)

  _Collegio Dame Inglesi,
  Lodi, Italy._


Outside the walls of an ancient town a furious battle is being fought
between two great states. Early in the day one of the generals, a
brave and just man, is pierced in the breast with a javelin. He is
carried to a little hill, where his first question is whether his
shield is safe; and when he sees it he allows his wound to be
examined. The weapon remains in the wound, and the weeping attendants
fear to draw it out; but he, only waiting to hear that the victory is
won, with a steady hand draws out the javelin, and expires in a

  (Aged 12.)

  _The Firs,
  West Mersea._

[Illustration: FOUR PICTORIAL PROVERBS. What are they?]


From the following all the vowels have been omitted, and the
remaining consonants joined together. When put in their proper places
they will form a verse by Tennyson.

  B r k b r k b r k
    n t h y c l d g r y s t n s s,
  n d w l d t h t m y t n g c l d t t r
  T h t h g h t s t h t r s n m.

  S. R. SPOOR.
  (Aged 11)
  _Heatherview, Aldershot._


  My initials form a country in Europe, and my finals one of its lakes.

  1. A river in Russia. 2. A town in Spain. 3. A gulf of
  Asia. 4. A town in England. 5. A town in Australia.

  (Aged 14.)

  _153, Carlton Road, Kilburn, N.W._


My whole consists of fifty-one letters, and is a very well-known
quotation from "Marmion."

  1. My 11, 34, 4, 30 = character of Shakespeare.
  2. My 5, 36, 6, 29, 27 = means of conveyance.
  3. My 45, 36, 6, 29, 9 = draw off water.
  4. My 14, 26, 34, 35 = to cry.
  5. My 38, 25, 8, 36, 37, 47, 32, 12, 36 = reputation.
  6. My 16, 30, 15, 33 = to make beer.
  7. My 10, 1, 21, 13 = to incite.
  8. My 17, 3, 21, 7 = an interrogative pronoun.
  9. My 19, 49, 28, 48 = a married woman.
  10. My 45, 30, 44, 22, 18 = a herd of cattle.
  11. My 2, 21, 27, 45, 20, 36 = to rove.
  12. My 41, 21, 50, 46 = to rescue.
  13. My 31, 39, 42, 24 = to seethe in water.
  14. My 41, 11, 42, 31, 35 = to repose.
  15. My 40, 43 = a pronoun.

  (Aged 14¾)
  _Heatherbank, Weybridge,_



The Puzzles given in the present and the December numbers of LITTLE
FOLKS will, as announced, form the WINTER COMPETITION.


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


Solutions of the Puzzles published in this number must reach the
Editor not later than November 8th (November 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.


Rhyming couplets, working in first lines of nursery rhymes.

Few children are aware, until they actually try it, how easy it is to
make Rhyming Couplets; but now, any who may not have had exercise in
this amusement will have an opportunity of making a very interesting
game by carrying out the instructions given below.

First of all, Mamma or one of the elders will perhaps start the game
thus: Send one (or two, if preferred) out of the room, and then give
each player left in the room a word or words which they will have to
work into their rhyme. We will suppose the lines selected are--

  "Old Mother Hubbard
  Went to the cupboard."

In arranging the game, the easy words, such as _old_, _went_, _to_,
and _the_, should be given to the little ones, the other words to the

Now the Guesser (or Guessers) may return to the room and the game

  "The old and young together go,"

says player No. 1. Now No. 2 has to make a line rhyming with "go,"
and bringing in "mother."

  "My mother thinks me very slow,"

would do. No. 3 can make a fresh rhyme, and has a knotty word to
bring in, so will probably need a longer line.

  "Messrs. Stebbings and Hubbard two stockbrokers were."

The fourth player has to compose a line, not necessarily containing
the same number of syllables as No. 3, but it must rhyme.

  "We went to the orchard and found a large pear."

We will now finish the rhyme as each player might perform his part.

  "I came to the city on Wednesday night."
  "The dog was returned in a terrible plight."
  "In the store-room or cupboard you're sure to find mice."

The guesser would probably find out this at once by the introduction
of the word "Hubbard," but you can, of course, select more difficult
lines (viz., those which give less clue to the nursery rhyme)
according to requirement.


In these Puzzles the idea we have propounded will be found carried
out with slight modification. In each four lines will be found hidden
the first two lines of various Nursery Rhymes. Thus, supposing the
lines already given were those we wished to conceal, the four-line
verse might run thus--

  Messrs. Hutton and _Hubbard_ once _went to_ reside
    In a house that was _old_, on _the_ hill;
  In each room was a _cupboard_, a sight very rare,
    And my _mother_ was constantly ill.

With this explanation our Competitors will, we think, have little
difficulty in finding out the following Puzzles. In sending in
Solutions it will only be necessary to write out the two first lines
of the Nursery Rhymes hidden in each four lines given below.



  If you ever go to Spain
  It will rain, and rain again;
  And you never will come back,
  If you're left upon the rack.


  I sat upon a hod,
  In my hand there was a clod,
  And I threw it at a crow--
  An old one I trow.


  I stand on the bridge, and the waters dance by,
    For my lady I look o'er the lee;
  I gaze down the stream, for by London at length
    Is the solitude broken for me.


  There lived a fair young woman
   Whom an old man sought in vain,
  It was under rocks by vale and hill
   That she wandered on amain.


  How short the days are
    Now October is here!
  If you long for a song,
    I'll sing one to cheer.



  Jingle, jingle, Little Jack
  Had a key put down his back;
  Single, single, I declare,
  He used to live for many a year.


  'Twas night, the moon shone bright,
    The rats came down in scores,
  Munching, squeaking, each man shrieking,
    Tumbling down indoors.


  We went out four and twenty strong,
  Sailors and tailors in a throng;
  We heard a tale, we saw a sail,
  And then returned to kill a snail.


  Here Harry and Richard,
  Here Robin and John!
  If there were but two men
  You would pretty soon come!


  Five, four, three, two, one,
  Won't we have some fun,
  A cat has caught a hare
  Alive, I do declare.


[_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._]


H. FORTESCUE.--[Several important announcements as to new
Competitions, &c., will be made in the January Number of LITTLE

A VERY LITTLE READER.--[I am glad to tell you that I have arranged to
again give every month the "Pages for Very Little Folk," with large
type and bold pictures, commencing with the January Number.--ED.]


SANTA CLAUS writes, in reply to LITTLE BO-PEEP'S question, that the

  "There is a reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
  He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between"

are by Longfellow, and are to be found in a poem called "The Reaper
and the Flowers." Answers also received from twenty-two other

CELIA OAKLEY writes that the line--

  "Music hath charms to sooth the savage breast"

is to be found in the tragedy of _The Mourning Bride_, by William
Congreve (1670-1729). Thirty-six answers to the same effect also

T. C. would like to know if any one could tell her the author of the
following verse, and where it is to be found--

  "Rain, rain, for ever falling,
    Trembling, pouring slow or fast,
  Through the mist a voice is calling
    From the unforgotten past."


LILIAN BOWYER writes, in answer to GEORGINA DEXTER'S inquiry how to
make a pair of bedroom slippers, that one way is to crochet the tops
with double Berlin wool and procure a pair of cork soles wool lined.
Answers also received from BUMPKIN, TOBY, and A. J.

MINNIE WALSHAM writes, in answer to FLORENCE WATERS' question, that
to clean crewel-work it should be washed in soap-suds, then rinsed
out in salt and water, and, after drying it quickly, it should be
smoothed out on the wrong side of the work. Answers also received
from T. X. Z., MARY WILTSHIRE, and A. J.


MATTY would like to know the way to make Madeira cake.

LADY OF THE LAKE asks how to make pine-apple cushions.


A TABBY KITTEN will be glad if any reader could tell her of a good,
inexpensive varnish for a picture-screen, as the one she is now using
colours the pictures, and makes the printing on the backs of thin
ones shine through.

ETHEL wants to know a new kind of dip, or bran-pie.

J. F. H. writes to inform HERBERT MASTERS, in reply to his inquiry,
that a small carpenter's bench would cost about twenty shillings or a
little more.

question, that walnut, oak, and sandal are among the best woods for
fretwork purposes. The fret-saws may be bought in packets at an
ironmonger's. Answers also received from J. A. WACE, A YOUNG


P. F wishes to know if anything can be done for her little kitten? In
the last few weeks her head has become quite bare, and she has lost a
lot of hair from her shoulders; she is very lively, but does not
drink her milk properly?--[She is probably kept indoors too much. Put
a little sulphur in her milk about twice a week, and rub the places
with vaseline. Let her run out where she can bite grass or plants if
she wants to, and give her a little meat.]

HELEN wishes to know if she ought to give her canary a bath in
winter, and if so ought it to be cold or warm.--[Offer the bath, and
let it do as it likes. The water should be about 60°.]

LADY CARA will be very glad to know what can be given to her parrot
when it pulls its feathers off. The bird in question is now quite
bare, and has been so for some time past, although well in
health.--[We fear you have been giving him meat, or too much of
_rich_ nuts and biscuits. Parrots should have no meat, and plain
food. Get him some scraped cuttle-fish bone, if he will eat it, and
rub on a little vaseline, and on a bright day get him to bathe. Give
him now and then a fig, and some ripe fruit, only begin very



The Editor has much pleasure in informing his Readers that, in
response to repeated requests, there is now in preparation a new
"LITTLE FOLKS Painting Book," and that he is arranging for a Special
Competition in connection with it, open to Children of all Ages, in
which a large number of Prizes in Money, Books, and Medals will be
offered for the best Coloured copies of it. This book, which will be
called "The LITTLE FOLKS Proverb Painting Book," and contain 96 pages
of outline Illustrations and Verses, will be ready on the 25th of
November; and the full Regulations of the Competition, with the list
of the Prizes offered, will be printed in the January, 1885, Number

Picture Wanting Words.


A Guinea Book and an Officer's Medal of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of
Honour will be given for the best Poem having special reference to
the Picture below. A smaller Book and an Officer's Medal will be
given, in addition, for the best Poem (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 Poems must not exceed 24
lines in length, and must be certified as _strictly original_ by a
Minister, Teacher, Parent, or some other responsible person. All the
Competitors must be under the age of Sixteen years. The Poems must
reach the Editor by the 10th of November (the 15th of November in the
case of Competitors residing abroad). In addition to the Two Prizes
and Officers' Medals, some of the most deserving Competitors will be
included in a special List of Honour, and will be awarded Members'
Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour. The Editor requests that
each envelope containing a Poem having reference to this Picture
should have the words "Picture Wanting Words" on the left-hand top
corner. (Competitors are referred to a notice respecting the Silver
Medal on page 115 of the last Volume.)



  1. Z urich.
  2. E bro.
  3. A rno.
  4. L isbon.
  5. A lps.
  6. N ile.
  7. D anube.


  "'Twas in the prime of summer-time,
    An evening calm and cool,
  And four-and-twenty happy boys
    Came bounding out of school:
  There were some that ran and some that leapt,
    Like troutlets in a pool."


  1. SCAR.
  2. CAKE.
  3. AKIN.
  4. RENT.

  1. CART. 2. ALOE. 3. RODE. 4. TEES.
  1. MATE. 2. ALUM. 3. TUNE. 4. EMEU.


  1. Iser. 2. Weser. 3. Indus. 4. Aar. 5. Amstel.




  "People who live in glass houses must not throw stones."



  1. Acrid. 2. Sip. 3. Fogs. 4. Bey. 5. Diet.

    |                                                              |
    | Transcriber's Note:                                          |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 257 The o in "of" from "By the Author of" was originally  |
    | an o with a circumflex. It has been changed to a normal o    |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 265 The caption THE CHILD GLANCED AT HER WONDERINGLY (p.  |
    | 264. has been changed to THE CHILD GLANCED AT HER            |
    | WONDERINGLY (p. 264).                                        |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 266 "rumours of the lost children" has been changed to    |
    | "rumours of the lost children." with a period                |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 270 I am holding back the sea!" has been changed to "I am |
    | holding back the sea!" with opening quotation marks          |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 271 was the weary answer." has been changed to was the    |
    | weary answer. without quotation marks                        |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 274 "entice the flies to settle on' em." has been changed |
    | to "entice the flies to settle on 'em."                      |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 277 "cried the white king, fiercely," has been changed to |
    | "cried the white king, fiercely." with a period              |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 282 a better turn than he knew to-day;" has been changed  |
    |     to a better turn than he knew to-day;' with a single     |
    | quotation mark                                               |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 291 "Skelton, the first Poet Laureate" has been changed   |
    | to "Skelton, the first Poet Laureate." with a period         |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 292 "conspicious" has been changed to "conspicuous"       |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 294 "glitering" has been changed to "glittering"          |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 294 So you can get behind her,' has been changed to So    |
    | you can get behind her," with double quotes                  |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 295 "Was the girl the fairy queen? has been changed to    |
    | Was the girl the fairy queen? without quotation marks        |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 300 "and a dormouse elsewhere" has been changed to "and a |
    | dormouse elsewhere." with a period                           |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 305 "Home, Sweet Home.' has been changed to "Home, Sweet  |
    | Home." with double quotes                                    |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 306 "He remembered how. when he" has been changed to "He  |
    | remembered how, when he" with a comma                        |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 306 "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, has been |
    | changed to "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,"     |
    | with closing quotation marks                                 |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 313  has    |
    | been changed to  with closing quotation marks                       |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 313 the name Rosie Entwistle is unclear                   |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 314 the name Sallie Justice is unclear                    |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 314 the name Edith Price is unclear                       |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 314 "7801 Rosey Ansley" has been changed to "47801        |
    | Rosey Ansley"                                                |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 314 the age 9 of L. Creighton is unclear                  |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 314 the name Chas. Hoddson is unclear                     |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 E. J, Norton has been changed to E. J. Norton         |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 48570 was originally printed with an a with a         |
    | circumflex instead of the digit 8; it was changed to 48570.  |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 Fredk, Muskett has been changed to Fredk. Muskett     |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 the number 48680 William Wood is unclear              |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 the number 48804 E. G. Brunker is unclear             |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 315 the number 48810 Jessie L. Aimers is unclear          |
    |                                                              |
    | p. 318 "will, as announced, from the Winter Competition" has |
    | been changed to "will, as announced, form the Winter         |
    | Competition"                                                 |
    |                                                              |

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

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.