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

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


_A Magazine for the Young._







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



For the first time since she had left home, Elsie felt thoroughly
frightened and miserable. Even when she had stayed in the crofter's
cottage she had not felt worse. For this little attic, right at the top
of a tall house full of people, seemed even more dreadful than the bare
wretched loft in Sandy Ferguson's hovel. The height of the house, the
noises of loud angry voices, banging doors, hurrying footsteps coming
and going on the stairs, the continual roar of traffic in the street
below, were all things strange and terrifying to the moor-bred Scottish
lassie. Besides this, she had begun to realise to the full extent how
greatly she had been mistaken in all her ideas when she formed the plan
of running away. She had thought it would be a fine adventure, with some
little difficulties to encounter, such as would quickly come right, as
they did in the books of running-away stories, which she had always
believed to be quite true. How could she have known it would happen so
differently to them? And above all, who could suppose that Duncan, who
was so strong and hearty, should fall ill just at such a time as this?

That was the worst thing about it, and the one that frightened Elsie
most. She didn't like the look of Duncan at all. He had been getting
worse all day while they were in the train, and now he did not seem to
notice anything or anybody. His eyes were closed, and he never spoke a
word, but only gave a sort of little moan now and then. He was burning
hot too, and he moved his head and his limbs about restlessly, as if
they were in pain. Elsie wondered whether he was really very ill, and
what ought to be done for him. No one seemed to take any notice or think
that he required any attention; and what could she do?

I do think that when children run away from a good kind home and
watchful loving guardians, God must be very angry with the hardness of
heart and wilful ingratitude that can lead them to do such a wicked
thing, and I have no doubt that He purposely let all these difficulties
and terrors fall in Elsie's path in order to punish her. Children, even
big ones, have little idea of the dreadful dangers there are waiting for
them to fall into, or how soon some shocking disaster would happen to
them if they had not such careful, kind protectors. I am afraid, too,
that people who write books often hide such things, and only tell of the
wonderful escapes and marvellous adventures that runaway children
encounter, although they know that really and truly the most dreadful
things have happened to children who have run away from their
homes--things too dreadful for me to tell of. We know that the Gentle
Shepherd has a special care for little lambs of His flock, but we can
never expect God to take care of us when we have wilfully turned away
from Him to follow our own wrongdoing, and refused to turn back. If the
lambs will not listen to the voice of the Shepherd, but will stray far
away from Him, they are likely to be lost.

Now, He had already spoken to Elsie many times since she had left home.
Her conscience, which is really His voice, had told her frequently that
she was doing wrong, and that it would end badly; but she had refused to
hear. Even now, when she had really begun to wish she were back again,
it was because of the discomfort she was suffering, much more than on
account of any belief that she had done a very wicked thing. But God is
never content with such a grudging, half repentance as that, and so it
was that Elsie fell into worse trouble still.

I wish I could describe to you how utterly forlorn and miserable Elsie
felt, standing there by poor Duncan's bed, watching him toss about, and
not able to do anything for him, or even to call any one to his
assistance. I am afraid the little children who are in their own happy
homes cannot imagine what it would be like, and I only hope they never
may experience anything so dreadful.

Elsie could not tell any one how she felt, for there was no one to
listen. She was not a child who had ever cried much; but do what she
would, she could not help shedding some very bitter, angry tears now.

Presently Duncan lifted his heavy eyelids, and asked for some water.
Elsie jumped up and began searching in the room; but there was neither
basin nor jug, and such a simple thing as a drop of water was not to be

She told Duncan there wasn't any; but he did not seem to understand, and
kept on asking for it. Elsie, in her indignant anger, beat furiously at
the door to attract some one's attention, but in vain. No one came near.

It drove her almost mad to hear the child moaning and groaning, and
calling out incessantly for water in a peevish, whining voice. Where was
Mrs. Donaldson? and why had she left them in this cruel way, without
food or even a drop of water, although she knew that Duncan was ill?

After a long time, Elsie heard some one coming up to the attic; the door
opened, and the girl who had brought them upstairs put her unkempt head
in at the door.

"Just to have a look at you," she said, with a broad grin upon her face,
which was a very stupid-looking one, and frightfully begrimed. "I sleep
up here, just next to you."

"Will you get us a little water?" Elsie cried.

"Why, yes!" said the girl, good-naturedly. "There's a pitcher full out
here. I'll bring it in."

She came in, bringing it with her, and then went up to the bedside,
where Duncan lay tossing and moaning. "Is it for him to drink?" she
asked. "I'll go fetch a mug." And she sped away, bringing back an old
gallipot, which she filled, and held to the child's lips.

"But he is just bad," she said, looking at him. "Ain't he hot? He's got
the fever! Is that the reason you was brought here?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Elsie replied, wondering how much she dared say
to this girl, and with a recollection of the "fairy mother's" threats.

"Do you know where mamma is?" she asked, cautiously.

The girl burst out laughing. "You needn't come that here," she said. "We
know her and him well enough, both of them. They wasn't always such
grand folk, I can tell you. Why, Lucy Murdoch is as well known down
Stony Close as ever I am. Her mother lived next to mine, and does to
this day, and holds her head so high, on account of her daughter, that
she'd like to pass mother in the street if she dared. If you belong to
her, it's news to me, and I've known her all my life." All this was said
with the quaint expressions and broad northern dialect that Elsie very
well understood, although none but a Scottish lassie would do so.

"I don't think you like her much," Elsie said.

The girl made a wry grimace. "I like any one so long as they don't do me
no harm," she replied evasively. "She wouldn't stand at that, either, if
she had the mind. How did you get with her?"

Elsie pondered a moment, and then decided she would tell this girl
everything, and trust to her being a friend.

"She found us on a road by the mountains, oh! ever so far away from
here; and she seemed so kind, and brought us clothes, and took us to a
nice house to sleep, and brought us in the train all this way," Elsie

"H'm," the girl said, looking rather puzzled. "Well, she'd got her
reasons," she added presently. "I don't know what they might be, but it
wasn't done for any good to you. What did they bring you here for?"

"I don't know," Elsie replied.

"You see, master's in all their secrets. He's one with them, and does a
lot of business with them. To tell you the truth--which you needn't let
out, unless you want to have your head smashed--he's master's brother,
only he goes under another name. Now, what did he tell you his name

"I was told to call him Uncle 'William,'" Elsie replied, "and the lady

The girl laughed to herself heartily--a sort of suppressed chuckle,
which could scarcely have been heard outside the door. "Well, that's a
queer dodge! I suppose she made out that she was his sister; and she was
dressed like a widow, and he's her husband all the time, which I know
very well. She passes, then, as a widow with two children, does she?"

"I suppose so," Elsie replied, scarcely understanding what the girl was
talking about.

"She's deep, she is," the girl continued; "and lots of money always,
hasn't she? rings too, and bracelets, and all sorts of things."

"She had at first all those things, and I've seen a lot of money in her

"Well, would you think she once lived in Stony Close along of us, and
was only a poor girl like me, though always a dashing one, with a
handsome face of her own?" the girl asked. "They think I'm so stupid,
but I ain't quite so stupid as I look. I don't forget. I wasn't as old
as you are when Lucy Murdoch was married, but I remember it. What were
you doing on that road when she found you?" she asked suddenly.

"We had run away from home," Elsie replied falteringly, for at the
thought of home she felt ready to cry.

"My goodness! you can't be the two children what was lost off a moor
somewhere up Deeside."

"How did you know it?" Elsie cried eagerly. "Has mother been here?"

"Oh, no! It's posted up at the police station," the girl replied. "They
always have all such things up there: a description of you, and
everything. Your mother goes and tells the police, and they has it
printed, and sends it about everywhere. Lucy Murdoch is after the
reward, I'll be bound!"

All this was quite unintelligible to Elsie, who knew nothing of rewards
or police regulations. Only one thing she learnt, and that was that they
were being sought for, and she hoped some one would find them. A slight
misgiving crossed her mind as to whether the police could take her to
prison for having run away; but this did not trouble her very much, for
she felt sure that Mrs. MacDougall would never let any bad thing befall
them, and no one else could have told the police to search.

"I suppose I should just get it if I was found in here," the girl said
presently. "You won't go telling, I suppose; for if they thought I knew
too much, they'd----" the sentence ended with a grimace and expressive
shrug of the shoulders.

Again the girl held the jar to Duncan's parched lips. "I dursn't stay,"
she said, kindly; "but if you knock at this wall I shall hear, and I'll
come if you want me. We're up at the top, so there's no one to pry down
the stairs. He do seem real bad, poor little chap! but maybe he'll be
better in the morning."

With these words she departed, locking the door after her; and Elsie
somehow felt that, in spite of her rough looks and miserable appearance,
she had found a friend.


The pangs of hunger which Elsie was feeling pretty sharply were nothing
compared to the pain of mind she was enduring; for although she was the
child of poor people, and had lived all her life in a cottage, with
plain fare and plenty to do, she had been accustomed to perfect
cleanliness, and a good deal of simple comfort.

After a while she undressed herself, and crept into the not too clean
bed with a feeling of disgust. It was so different from the coarse
cotton sheets--bleached white as snow, and smelling sweet of the fresh,
pure air--that covered her own little bed. The room, too, was hot,
close, and stifling.

Still this was nothing to the fear she felt for Duncan, lying so ill and
wretched in this miserable attic, without mother, or granny, or any one
to see after him.

The candle burnt out, and they were left alone in the dark. There was no
chance of sleeping, for Duncan tossed and plunged about, trying to find
some cool resting-place for his fevered limbs. The moments dragged
slowly away--so slowly that poor Elsie thought the dreadful night would
never go.

About the middle of the night Duncan began to mutter rapidly to himself.
He spoke so quickly and incoherently that Elsie could not make out what
he was saying. She jumped out of bed, and felt about for the water,
thinking he was asking for it. He drank some eagerly, and then went on
chattering again.

Suddenly he raised himself up in the bed, and caught hold of Elsie,
clinging to her with a grasp that made her utter a cry of pain. "He's
killing me! he's got a knife! Mother, he's got me!" he shrieked out;
then with a dreadful cry he fell back on the bed, catching his breath in
great spasmodic sobs that shook the bed.

"It's all right, darling!" Elsie cried, her teeth chattering with fear,
so that she could hardly speak. "There's no one but me--Elsie."

Presently he went on talking to himself again.

Elsie put her head close to listen, but could only catch a word here and
there. "So cold--so tired--do let us go home, Elsie--can't walk--hurts
me, it hurts me!" he kept on repeating over and over again, his voice
rising almost to a scream of terror sometimes, then sinking into a moan
of pain.

Suddenly he jumped up again and screamed, "They are lions, Elsie! they
are not sheep. Lions and tigers and wolves! Run, Elsie, run, faster!
Come, come, come!" He caught hold of her, and bounded off the bed,
dragging her with him on to the bare hard boards, where he pulled and
tore at her with such a strength that Elsie could not free herself from
him for many minutes. When she did, he flew across the room, coming with
a terrible crash against the wall, and sinking in a heap on the floor.

Elsie groped her way after him to pick him up, but she could not move
him. He lay there like a weight of lead. She knocked furiously at the

Presently the door opened, and the girl came in. "I can't think what's
the matter with Duncan," Elsie cried, in an agonised voice. "He's been
going on dreadfully. I think he keeps on having nightmares. He says
there are lions and tigers, and men with knives, and now he's jumped out
of bed and hurt himself. Oh! whatever shall I do with him?"

The girl struck a match and bent over the child; then she went and
fetched a scrap of candle from her own garret. She lifted him up
carefully, and put him back on the bed, then took water, and poured it
on his face. Elsie stood by quite helpless, watching her. After a long
time he began to make a little moaning noise, but his eyes did not open,
and he lay perfectly still.

"Has he hurt himself much?" Elsie asked.

"I don't know, but I think it's more the fever than the hurt," the girl
replied. "Poor little lad! he ought to be with his mother. He wants a
lot o' care and nursing."

"Is he very ill?" Elsie asked.

"I should just say he was. I had the fever when I was a bit bigger than
you, and my head wandered. They said I chattered and screamed, and had
to be held down in the bed. I should have died for certain if I hadn't
been taken to the hospital, for I was awful bad; and so's he. Can't you
see he is?"

Elsie began to cry and to tremble. "They must take him to the hospital,"
she cried. "They shall! I'll make them! If only Duncan was back home
now, I wouldn't mind anything."

"You was a stupid to run away if you'd got a good home," the girl said.
"Catch Meg running away from any one who was good to her! They think her
an idiot, but she's not quite so stupid as _that_."

Elsie was beginning to think very much the same thing. Her trouble had
completely driven from her mind the high hopes of future grandeur with
which she had started. They scarcely even came into her head, and when
they did for a moment pass through her brain, everything seemed so
altered, that there was little comfort or attraction in the thought.

If she had known, she told herself again and again, she never would have
done it. To-night she could not help admitting to herself that she would
give anything to be back in her old home, with Duncan hearty and well,
and all the old grievances about Robbie, and the fetching and carrying,
and what not, into the bargain. How trifling and insignificant they
seemed in comparison with her present troubles!

Suppose he should die for want of attention and comfort! That dreadful
"fairy mother," as she called herself, would do very little for him. She
did not care. She had pretended to be kind, and sweet, and good when any
one was near at hand to see her, but when they had been alone in the
train she had taken no notice of Duncan, except to scold him, and tell
him he was shamming. This new mother was a poor substitute for the old
one, who had nursed any of them day and night when they had been ill,
with gentle, untiring care, although she was strict, and would, have
them do all sorts of things that Elsie did not like when they were
strong and well.

The girl Meg stayed with them for some time longer; but Duncan seemed to
lie so quietly, that after a while she said she would go back, if Elsie
didn't feel so timid now. The little fellow seemed better, and she did
not think he would make any more disturbance that night. The poor
creature was tired out with a hard day's work, and could ill spare her
rest. She was ignorant, too, and did not know that this quiet that had
fallen upon the child was not the healthful peace leading to recovery,
but only the exhaustion after the terrible frenzy the poor little
disordered brain had passed through.

Still it was a merciful peace, for Elsie's fears grew fainter as he lay
there so quietly, and at last she fell asleep, thinking that he too was

She was awakened by Meg's presence. There was a glimmering of light in
the room, but so little of it that she was astonished to find how late
it was--past seven o'clock.

"I don't so very well like the look o' the bairn," she said, surveying
him carefully. "It strikes me you won't find it an easy matter to get
him dressed. Here, Duncan, are you ready for something to eat now?" she
cried, bending over him, and raising her voice.

But the child did not answer. He lay there as motionless as though he
had been carved out of stone, scarcely moving an eyelid at the sound of
Meg's words.

Elsie jumped up, and began dressing herself quickly.

"I'll go myself and tell them how ill he is," she said, "and ask them to
send him to the hospital where they cured you, and I'll go with him."

Meg said nothing, but she knew very well that this last, at any rate,
was quite out of the question.

"You'd better go straight down into the shop if you want to speak to the
master," she said, as she left the room.

Elsie found her way down the long flights of dark stairs as soon as she
was dressed. She pushed open the door leading into the shop, and went in
boldly. The man who had received them the night before was busily
sorting over heaps of papers, but no one else was near. Elsie went up to

"Donald's ill; he's got the fever, and he must go to the hospital," she
said, in a voice of decision.

"Ha!" said the man, not looking up from his work. "I thought he didn't
seem quite the thing. Your mother'll be round by-and-by, and then you
can tell her about it."

It was not said unkindly, but the complete indifference angered Elsie,
who was burning with impatience for something to be done very quickly.

"She's not my mother," Elsie said, sharply, "and she is not kind to
Duncan. We can't wait; we must go to the hospital directly. Meg'll show
me the way, and then I'll tell the people how bad he is."

"What does Meg know about it?" the man asked, looking into Elsie's face
with a searching glance.

Elsie was sharp enough. "He was very bad in the night, thinking there
were bad men and beasts in the room after him, and he jumped out of bed
and hurt himself. When I banged the wall, Meg came, and picked him up
and put him into bed. She said he'd got the fever like she had when she
went to the hospital."

The man called out, "Meg, come you here!"



The girl came shuffling along with a look of mingled stupidity and
terror on her face. It was scarcely the same one that had bent over the
fevered child.

"This girl called you in the night. What did she want you for? Now tell
me at once," he said, in a stern voice.

Meg looked all round her in a blank, stupid sort of way, letting her
eyes travel over Elsie's face in their wandering.

"What did she say?" the man asked, sharply.

Elsie was in dreadful fear. She had not dared to look at Meg, and let
her know that she had said nothing that could harm her.

And so she waited, with a rapidly-beating heart.

"She called me to pick up the boy. He'd fallen on the floor, and he was
wandering in his head like. She asked me who'd look after him, and I
said he'd have to go to a hospital--leastways, that was where they took
me when I was bad. She asked me a lot o' questions, she did: what sort
of a place this was, and where her mother had gone. I did say there was
lodgers in the house," she said, beginning to whimper like a terrified

"Stop that, you dolt!" the man cried. "Her mother'll be round presently,
and you'd better not let her know you've been interfering. You were told
to keep the door locked until the morning, and yet you walk in in the

"She made such a noise banging and kicking, I thought she'd wake up the
other people," Meg said, casting a scowling glance at Elsie, which Elsie
quite believed was put on to deceive her master, just in the same way as
Meg had, she supposed, put on an appearance of terror, under which she
had hidden all that was really important most cleverly.

Meg was then allowed to make good her retreat, and Elsie was taken by
the man into a little room, where a tin coffee-pot and a loaf and butter
were put ready.

She was glad to eat heartily, for she was famishing with hunger. She
devoured as hastily as she could several thick slices of
bread-and-butter, and then asked what she had better take to Duncan,
since no one seemed to be troubling their heads about him.

"A drop of hot coffee," the man said, unconcernedly. "If he can't eat
bread-and-butter he don't want anything."

"He didn't have a bit scarcely all yesterday, and he'd had next to
nothing for three days before that," Elsie said indignantly. "Perhaps
he'd eat some bread and milk if I could get it for him. I'd soon do it
if I might go in the kitchen."

At this moment a customer began to rap on the counter, and the master of
the shop hastily jumped up and went away. Elsie stood waiting
impatiently, but as he did not return, she took up the milk-jug, and
emptied its contents, about a table-spoonful of bluey-white milk, into
the cup she had used.

Duncan was still lying motionless, with closed eyes, when she re-entered
the attic. He took no notice when she spoke, so she lifted his head up,
and put the cup to his lips. With great difficulty she succeeded in
making him swallow a few drops at a time. The raging thirst that had
consumed him in the night had passed away. He had got beyond that. While
she was still holding his head on her arm, the door opened, and Mrs.
Donaldson, as she had told Elsie to call her, put her head inside.

"They tell me Donald is very ill this morning," she said, in her
sweetest tones. "Poor little fellow! what is the matter with him?"

"Meg says it's the fever, like she had when she was little," Elsie

"Fever!" Mrs. Donaldson echoed in alarm. "Tell me quickly, is he red all

"Oh no! he's quite white, except just a patch on his cheeks," Elsie

"How dare that stupid idiot frighten me like that?" Mrs. Donaldson
cried, angrily. "He's got no fever, only a feverish cold through being
out on that moor too long."

"He was wet through, and had to sleep in his wet things. He hadn't
anything dry except that canvas jacket Mrs. Ferguson gave him," Elsie
cried, remorsefully. "I was wet too, but my things seemed to dry
quicker. Do you think that's what made him ill?"

"Of course it is," Mrs. Donaldson replied. "And there's no one here to
see to him, poor child! He wants a good hot bath, and wrapping up in
blankets, but we can't get it here, nor at an hotel."

"Meg says they'd take care of him at the hospital," Elsie eagerly
interposed. "Please let us go there."

"You can't go," Mrs. Donaldson began; but Elsie interrupted her. "I must
go," she said, promptly. "I can't leave Duncan. I wouldn't do that for
anybody. It's through me that he's ill, and I won't go away from him."

"Then you wouldn't like to come to London with me?" Mrs. Donaldson said,
in her most fascinating manner.

"Not without Donald, thank you, ma'am," Elsie replied at once.

"I thought you wanted to find your father," Mrs. Donaldson said, kindly;
"and Donald should come as soon as he is well. For the matter of that, I
would come myself, or send Uncle William to fetch him."

"I couldn't go without him," Elsie doggedly persisted.

Then Mrs. Donaldson grew impatient; her voice was no longer sweet and
persuasive. "I will do nothing more for you," she said, angrily. "You
can give me back the things I brought you, and I will leave you to die
of hunger and cold, as you would have done before this but for me. Get
that child's things on, and you shall go at once to the hospital, and
see what they will do for you."

Elsie did not mind at all about the ungraciousness of the consent, so
long as she had won her purpose.

The prospect of getting to London even was nothing in comparison to the
hope of seeing Duncan nursed and tended back to health. She would
cheerfully have given up the frock and hat that had so pleased her; but
this, it seemed, was only a threat, for Mrs. Donaldson said no more
about it, but went away, and sent Meg to help put on Duncan's things.

"He ain't fit to be dressed, and that's the truth," Meg said
compassionately, as she used her utmost exertions to put the poor
child's clothes on without hurting him. "They'd better have rolled him
in a shawl."

"He'll be all right when we get there," Elsie said, with a sigh of
relief. "I hope it won't be far. Do you think they're sure to cure him,

"If it's to be done, they'll do it," Meg returned, confidently.

At last the poor little fellow was dressed, and Meg, taking him up in
her strong arms, carried him downstairs, Elsie following. They found
Mrs. Donaldson talking rapidly to the man in the shop. Both stopped
short when Meg and Elsie entered, and Mrs. Donaldson beckoned Meg to
follow her into the room behind, where she talked for some minutes in
low tones to the girl, who presently propped Duncan up in a chair, and
called Elsie to hold him there while she went and fetched her hat and
tidied herself up.

Soon after a fly drove up to the door, into which, by Mrs. Donaldson's
directions, Meg carried Duncan, Mrs. Donaldson and Elsie following. The
next minute they drove off, but slowly, on Duncan's account.

As they went along Mrs. Donaldson gave Meg many directions. "You must
say the child is homeless," she said kindly, "and wait till you have
heard what the doctor says. I dare not take him in myself; I cannot
spare the time. If they will not let Effie stay, take her back with you,
and let her go every day to see him. Be sure to tell Andrew to write and
let me know how he gets on."

All these things Meg promised, and Elsie began to think that, after all,
she had thought too badly of the "fairy mother." Perhaps Meg had herself
made up the tale she had told about Lucy Murdoch, and was not to be
trusted. When once they were in the hospital, Elsie had made up her mind
that she would tell the people there the whole truth, and beg them to
write to Mrs. MacDougall. Perhaps she would come to Edinburgh and fetch
them home. That would be the end of all their troubles. How glad she
would be to come to the end of them, even though it meant going back to
the old quiet hum-drum life. After all, Duncan had been really the wiser
when he wanted her to write to their father instead of going to find
him. She wished now she had done it.

While she was thinking of all this the carriage stopped in a busy
street. "Effie and I will go first," Mrs. Donaldson said to Meg. "I will
just speak to the man, and when Effie comes to you, get out and carry
Donald into the hospital."

"You will ask them to let me in, won't you?" Elsie asked, earnestly.

"I will ask, but I don't know whether they will," Mrs. Donaldson
replied, kindly. "Follow me, Effie."

Mrs. Donaldson went quickly down a narrow covered way, which Elsie,
supposed led to the hospital. She had no idea what sort of a place it
was, and everything here was bewilderingly new and strange to her. Meg
had told her that there was a great bare room, where people waited their
turn. Into such a room they seemed to have passed. There were several
people running about, the friends, Elsie supposed, of those who were
ill. "They are just going to shut the doors. Look how every one is
running!" Mrs. Donaldson hurriedly exclaimed. "We shall be too late.
Come, Effie."

She took Elsie's hand, and ran hastily across the great room. In a
moment, before Elsie knew what was being done, a gentleman had seized
her other hand, dragged her across a short space among a heap of people,
thrust her into a carriage just as a whistle sounded, the door was
banged to, and the train--for Elsie knew directly that she was in
one--began to move off. She flew to the door directly they released
their hold of her, but immediately two strong arms forced her back and a
soft gloved hand was held over her mouth.

"That was a near shave," the gentleman said when they had passed out of
the station.

"And would have been worse than useless if I had not engaged a carriage
to ourselves," Mrs. Donaldson replied, setting herself back comfortably.
"Now, my dear, you may scream or knock at the door as much as you like,"
she said smilingly; "not a soul will hear you. To-night you will be in


Elsie was beside herself with rage. She had not naturally a very even
temper, but never in her life had she felt in such a passion. Directly
her two companions loosed their hold upon her she jumped up, and struck
the door of the carriage, screaming loudly, "Let me out! let me out!"
She caught hold of the wooden framework, and shook it till it rattled
again, while Mrs. Donaldson, well knowing it was locked, sat calmly
smiling at her impotent wrath.

Then the child turned furiously upon her tormentors. Her passion knew no
bounds; she felt as if she could have torn that wicked "fairy mother"
to pieces. It was such a fit of passionate rage as blinds reason and
takes away the power of thinking--such a mad, ungovernable fury as would
have led an older stronger person to some desperate deed.

[Illustration: "SHE ... STRUCK THE DOOR OF THE CARRIAGE" (_p. 199_).]

Elsie caught hold of Mrs. Donaldson's arm, and screamed at her. "You
bad, wicked thing! let me out! I'll kick you! I'll bite you if you
don't! Let me go to Duncan, I tell you, you wicked creature! I'll get
out of the window!" and Elsie flew at it, and began tugging away at the

The gentleman took her up in his arms and flung her down on the seat,
where Elsie lay screaming and sobbing, and beating the cushions with her
hands, grinding her teeth, and flinging herself about like a mad thing.

They let her go on as she would for a time. After a while the gentleman
bent over her, and, catching hold of her wrists with the firm grasp of
his powerful hands, made her sit upright. "Listen," he said, putting his
head close to her face, and looking so ugly and evil that Elsie felt as
if she could have struck him; "we have had enough of this. If you are
wise you will behave properly, then no harm will come to you. If you
make a disturbance, you will bring down upon yourself a fate that you
will not like."

It was not so much the words themselves as the menacing way they were
hissed in the child's ear that made them so terrible.

But Elsie was not then thinking of herself, and no threat against her
took any hold upon her mind. She returned him a sulky glance of
defiance, which made him scowl.

Then Mrs. Donaldson came and sat on the other side of Elsie, and began

"So long as you do what we bid you, your brother is safe," she said, in
a voice of quiet decision. "He is quite at our mercy, and will be well
cared for, if you are good. Any naughtiness on your part will only
injure him. The moment you misbehave he will be turned into the streets,
to find his way home as best he can. He will be brought to you in a week
if you have not been the cause of his being lost in the meantime."

"I don't believe you," Elsie said sulkily; "you are too far from Duncan
to hurt him."

Mrs. Donaldson smiled. "You can do just as you like," she said. "I only
warn you. Duncan is in the hands of my people. I can send them a
message all the way from London in five minutes, and before you know
anything about it they will have done with Duncan whatever I tell them.
You forget that I am the 'fairy mother.'"

Then flashed through Elsie's mind something she had heard her mother and
granny talking about, which granny would not believe. It was about a
wire which took messages all over the world as quickly as you could
write them. Her mother had tried to explain it, but granny declared it
sounded like some wicked thing done by evil spirits, and she wasn't
going to believe it. Elsie was inclined to feel very much like poor old
granny, who thought the world was turning topsy-turvy since her young
days. But although she could not understand it, Elsie had a dim uneasy
feeling that there was too much likelihood of Mrs. Donaldson's words
being true ones for her to disregard them.

She could think of nothing else now but Duncan. If any one hurt him,
whatever should she do? If only they gave her Duncan back again it
seemed as if no trouble would be great.

Mrs. Donaldson's words had brought Elsie to a more reasoning frame of
mind. "I will do everything, if you promise me you will fetch Duncan or
take me back to him," she said eagerly. "You will take care of him,
won't you?" she cried entreatingly. "Promise me nothing bad shall happen
to him. You will send a message about what they are to do to him, won't
you? but oh! I do wish you would let me go back to him before a week. He
will be so frightened and lonely, and perhaps he will call me like he
did in the night when he was frightened; and he's never been with
strange folk before. He's real timid, too, when people are bad to him,
and dursn't say a word, only he's scared like all the time." Elsie could
not help crying at the thought of poor Duncan's terror in Sandy
Ferguson's cottage, and the way he had hidden it till they were away out
of hearing.

Mrs. Donaldson turned away her head uneasily. Something in Elsie's love
for her brother had touched a tender chord. It reminded her of a little
brother she had loved, and who had died. She had been a different
creature in those days, and perhaps for a moment she wished that she
were a child again, with the innocent love for her little brother to
draw her away from a bad, wicked life. Perhaps the recollection of him
made her think for a moment of the life beyond the grave, in which he
was peacefully living, but which could only be a terror for her.

But an angry glance from her companion dispelled the passing softness.
"You shall both be safe so long as you obey me," she said. "Duncan, I
will tell you now, is safe in the hospital. At a word from me Meg will
fetch him away. At present he is well tended, with kind doctors and
nurses to give him everything he wants, and he will soon be well, for it
is only a bad cold he has taken."

Elsie sank back with a sigh of relief. She pictured poor little Duncan
lying on a soft white bed, with kind people bending over him, as Mrs.
MacDougall had done when she was sick. It brought a great feeling of
peace to her mind. She would do anything they wished her, to be sure
that Duncan was safe. The only thing that troubled her now was whether
Mrs. Donaldson had spoken truly; for children are quick to find out who
may be trusted, and Elsie had no faith in either of these two people.

Elsie believed herself that Meg would take Duncan if it depended at all
upon her, for although her behaviour had been strange, Elsie could not
forget her kindness in the night, when there had been no one near.
Nothing would ever make Elsie think that it was not true and genuine. It
was, indeed, her faith in Meg's goodness that was her one consolation.
She clung to that much more than to all Mrs. Donaldson's statements.

Presently the train stopped. "Uncle William" came, and sat very close to
Elsie on one side, Mrs. Donaldson on the other, and each took one of her
hands with an appearance of great affection. Elsie sat perfectly still.
She had no intention of making any more disturbance. If Duncan's safety
depended on her being quiet, no mouse should be more quiet than she was.

Mrs. Donaldson seemed pleased. "I see you are a sensible little girl,"
she said. "Now, you must mind what I tell you. Remember, I shall not
tell you when I send the message, but directly you are troublesome it
will go. I may not tell you till the week is gone; but you may feel
quite sure that it will not be sent unless you disobey or are naughty.
Do you quite understand?"

Elsie replied that she did, and Mrs. Donaldson continued--

"Do not mention Duncan again, not even to me when I am quite alone. He
is always Donald."

"I will not forget," Elsie replied.

"And you will have no Uncle William when you get to London. This
gentleman is your Grandpapa Donaldson. Now, I have seen that you are
clever enough when you choose. Do not forget."

The train had again started on its way, and was rushing along at a
tremendous rate, being an express. Mrs. Donaldson had got Elsie's hand
in hers, and had kept the child's attention fixed upon herself. The
gentleman was now seated in another corner. When Elsie next turned her
head towards him, he had utterly changed. In the place of a dark-looking
man with a small moustache was an elderly gentleman, with a face quite
bare, except for some small grey whiskers and a bald head. He was
lounging back most unconcernedly in the carriage, looking through his
spectacles at the objects so swiftly flying past them.

Elsie uttered an exclamation of wonder. "A real fairy has been at work,
you see, Effie," Mrs. Donaldson said laughingly.

"Hey, what, my dear?" the old gentleman said, bending over as if a
little deaf. "Did you speak?"

"Effie wants to know where her uncle William has gone," Mrs. Donaldson

"Uncle William? what, has she got an uncle William, Mary? Who is he?
Here Effie, my dear, will you have a bun?"

Elsie went over to him in a state of the most complete bewilderment, and
took from him the tempting bun that he held out to her. As she did so
she had a good look at him. Certainly it was not the same person who had
called himself Uncle William.

His face was quite changed. In place of the black hair was a small
fringe of iron grey locks. This man was years older. His very coat was a
different colour.

"Won't you give grandpapa a kiss for that nice bun?" the old gentleman
said in a quavering old voice. Elsie went timidly, and gave him a small
hasty kiss on the cheek.

He caught hold of her, and made her do it over again. "What, you puss!"
he cried, "are you frightened of grandpapa, who gives you all the nice
things? Dip your hand in my bag, and take out what you like."

He opened a small black valise, and disclosed delicious fruits and cake.
Elsie drew forth a large mellow pear. "If Duncan could have it," she
thought as she bit a juicy mouthful.

"Do you like grandpapa better than Uncle William?" Mrs. Donaldson
whispered in her ear.

"I do not know," Elsie answered; "but I couldn't dislike him any more,"
she added, with a little shudder.

Mrs. Donaldson laughed most good-humouredly. "Then you must like him
better," she said, "and that is a good thing. Grandpapas are always
kind, you know. Go and talk to yours, but you must speak loud, because
he is getting a little deaf."

Elsie obeyed. The old gentleman looked round, and smiled. It was a very
gracious smile, but somehow not one that Elsie liked. "That's right,
come and talk to grandpapa," he said. "Can you read nicely? Here is a
pretty book with pictures, out of a fairy pocket grandpapa keeps for his
children." As he spoke he drew out a book in most brilliant binding of
scarlet and gold. It was full of pictures, and altogether charming.
Elsie grew more and more bewildered.

What had become of that dreadful man who had hissed his threats in her
ear? He had quite vanished; there was no doubt about that. No one could
be more different than this mild old man, who kept on saying kind things
in his cracked voice. Elsie, watching him very narrowly, thought she saw
something that reminded her of the Uncle William who had so mysteriously
disappeared, and wondered whether this might be really his father. Yet
that did not make his presence there any the less mysterious.

One effect this incident had on Elsie's mind was to make her stand more
than ever in awe of her strange companions. She could not get rid of a
half belief that they could do really whatever they liked with both her
and Duncan. Although she had not any real faith in their goodness, she
had certainly a great dread of their strange power.

The journey was a long one, with few stoppages. The train flew on at a
frightful pace through the hill country, where from the windows could be
seen the bare bleak peaks of Cumberland, varied with nearer slopes of
soft green grass and verdant valleys. On, on through the great grimy
towns of the manufacturing counties; on and on through dark tunnels,
swinging round curves, over rivers, skirting woods, still rushing on,
with an occasional shriek and scream, as of relentless fury; still on
and on, long after the day had closed and the stars had begun to twinkle
in the sky, till at last the great goal of London was reached.

There is now a gathering together of parcels and packages. The old
gentleman, Grandpapa Donaldson, sets them down on the seat, and fumbles
at the door. "Why doesn't that idiot unlock it?" he mutters, in a tone
that brings strangely to mind the adventure on the lonely road where she
first saw the "fairy mother."

"Don't be impatient, father," Mrs. Donaldson exclaims in a wavering
voice; and Elsie, looking up at her, sees that her face is pale and her
lips tightly set.

She draws a long black veil over her face as she stands waiting.
Presently a porter comes. The door is opened. Two men spring into the
carriage, and close the door after them.

"The game is up! you are my prisoners!" falls in dreadful tones on poor
Elsie's frightened ears.

(_To be continued._)


"Your room looks so pretty, Nellie," sighed my cousin Bella; "you should
just see mine at home; it's as bare as a barrack."

"Why don't you improve it, then?" was my practical rejoinder.

"Why, it costs such a lot," answered Bella.

"My decorations are very inexpensive, I assure you," said I. "Now these
frames, for instance----"

"Oh, they are sweet! they are really," interrupted my cousin.

"Cost next to nothing," I continued. "Shall we make a pair for you to
take home? That would be something to start with, at any rate."

Bella was delighted at the idea, which we forthwith carried out; and now
for the benefit of little folk, who may like to know how to make
something pretty for their rooms, at a small cost, I will proceed to
relate what these said frames were made of, and how we made them.

First of all, we got a good stock of materials, such as small fir-cones,
oak-balls, tiny pieces of bark, beech-nuts, bits of silvery lichen
stolen from the trunks of trees, the little crinkly black cones of the
alder, in fact everything of the kind that we could pick up in our
rambles about the lanes and woods.

Bella called our gleanings, "the harvest of a roving eye;" and children
who live in the country will have no difficulty in gathering in such a
harvest, as will suffice for the making of dozens of frames. Of course,
autumn is the best time to get them.

The next thing was to decide upon the pictures, for it is always better
to make your frame to fit your picture, than to be obliged to hunt for a
picture the right size for your frame. Christmas-cards do very nicely;
those with a light ground look the best, as the frames are dark. I
happened to have two of those fancy heads that are seen in picture-shop
windows nowadays (cabinet size).

For these, I first cut out a paper pattern of the frame, an oval about
8½ inches long, and 6¾ inches broad; then I drew a line inside the oval,
about 1¾ inches from the edge, and cut the middle out. When I had
succeeded to my satisfaction in making a correct pattern, I laid it on a
sheet of thin millboard, traced the outline inside and outside the oval
with a pencil, and cut it out. Of course, when once you have the pattern
in cardboard, it is very easy to cut any number of frames, but it is
always a little difficult to get a perfect oval just the exact size for
your picture.

My cousin and I then bound both edges with strips of old black stuff,
about an inch wide, cut on the cross. I then rushed for the glue-pot,
and let me here remark that _very strong_ glue is an absolute necessity,
or the cones will continually drop off.

We began to stick on the cones, &c., as fast as we could, while the glue
was hot, and for this part of the work I can give no special directions.

All that is wanted is a little taste and dexterity, for of course you
must try to avoid making your frames look stiff. Begin at the top of the
frame, and make it higher and more imposing than the sides; put first a
fir-cone, and then a couple of beech-nuts, and then an oak-ball, or a
piece of lichen, and so on.

Cones which are too large and heavy for these small frames are very
useful to pull to pieces, to stop gaps with, for no bare places should
be left; and the black alder-cones are capital little fellows to stick
in here and there, for you will nearly always pick them up two or three
together on a tiny sort of black branch, which will fit in nicely
between the other cones. With anything round like oak-apples, it is a
good plan to slice off a piece and to glue the flat side to the

When we had finished sticking on the cones, we left the frames to get
dry and firm, and the following day we finished them; and this is the
way it should be done.

Put the frame on an old cushion, or something soft, cone side downwards.
If you decide to have a glass over your picture, you must get a piece
beforehand at a glazier's, about the same size as the picture. Rub if
bright with a leather, put a small dab of glue in each corner, and place
it in the frame.

But before you do this, you should slip a narrow strip of ribbon through
a small ring--like those which umbrellas are fastened with--and glue the
ends on to the millboard, in the centre.

This is, of course, to hang your picture up by.

Now put your picture face downwards on to the glass, and be careful to
see that you have it straight. Then glue a small strip of paper across
each corner to keep it in position.

The last thing to be done is to gum a piece of paper all over the back;
and this makes a neat finish to your frame. You must leave it for a few
hours to get thoroughly well stuck, and then it is quite ready to be
hung up.



  Beneath a cottage window,
    Upon a summer day,
  Two little ones are whiling
    The sunny hours away.

  A portrait of his sister
    The boy draws on the wall;
  The little maid remonstrates,
    She likes it not at all.

  At first she sits there pouting--
    A tear is in her eye;
  But peals of merry laughter
    Burst from her by-and-by.

  What cares the budding artist?
    He plies his brush with zest;
  He is in downright earnest,
    Though she is but in jest.

  Art-fire is in his spirit,
    For Nature lit the flame;
  The first step he has taken
    Upon the road to fame.

  In childhood's early morning,
    Ere opened yet the flower,
  Within his soul is dawning
    The future artist's power!



_By_ Henry Frith.


"One minute, sir; just let my mate brush up the dust a bit, and sprinkle
a drop o' water on the foot-plate, and we'll be all right and

So said an engine-driver on one occasion to the writer, and we are
reminded of it when we step up to the "eight-foot" engine which is to
carry us from King's Cross Station to York. To pull the fastest train in
Great Britain, or indeed in the world, for one hundred and eighty-eight
miles, at more than forty-eight miles an hour, is first-rate running.
"Scotchmen" run also from the Midland Station at St. Pancras, and from
Euston, but the quickest one is that on the Great Northern, and it is
also the most punctual.

Now, what do you say to a journey of one hundred and five miles, to
Grantham? We will leave King's Cross, if you please, at ten in the
morning--a nice comfortable time. We have had our breakfast, and the
engine has had its meal of coal and plenty of water. It will want
something, for it will travel fast.

Here we are puffing up the incline, between the walls, and through the
little tunnels which abound near London, on our way to Barnet. We could
tell tales of Barnet, had we time. We could give you a long--perhaps
much too long--description of the place near which the Yorkists and
Lancastrians contended on that fatal fifth of April, when the Great
Warwick was slain and Edward made king.

But our engine-driver does not care for history much. He would rather
tell us of his terrible winter journey a few years ago (in 1880), when
he had to keep time, and _did_ keep time, through snow and wind, the
bitter blast making icicles on the engine out of steam, and hanging
inches long from the carriage roofs.

Now our "Flying Scotchman" runs through Peterborough--the Proud, as it
was once called, when its monastery flourished, and where is now the
splendid cathedral on which the Ironsides of Cromwell laid such hard
hands. Shame upon them who destroyed the beautiful chapter-house and
cloisters! Perhaps you do not associate your history at your school with
the actual places you see, young readers, but a little time bestowed
upon the history of the places you pass in a holiday trip will very
greatly assist you in gaining a good knowledge of the past.

Look at Peterborough. Here lies Queen Katherine, and here lay Mary,
Queen of Scots, for a while, till James buried her in Westminster; and
Scarlett, the sexton, who buried both queens, lies in the nave. But we
cannot pause at Peterborough, though we should like to do so, for our
iron steed is steaming along, and our driver is thinking of the ice and
snow which he had to contend against. The Midland line runs overhead
near here, and after a rapid run we pull up at Grantham.

[Illustration: "HIS FIRST SKETCH." (_See p. 204._)]

During our stay we hear a little tale from our "fireman," who remembers
on one of his trips an engine getting loose in front of the up express,
and how he and another man got on a fresh engine, and ran after it on
the other line. Oh, what a chase they had after the runaway! and at last
they caught it in time to prevent a serious accident. It was a brave,
but rash act, to set off after a "mad" engine, which had run away, no
one knew how, out of the siding on to the main line.

From Grantham to Doncaster the railway opens up so many memories. We
pass Newark, near which the ruins of the old castle may be seen. King
John died here; Cardinal Wolsey lodged here, and James I. also stayed
within its walls; the whole place teems with memories of Charles and his
Parliamentary foes. We pass on near Sherwood Forest, where Robin Hood
and his merry men lived, and fought, and stole the king's deer; and then
past Doncaster, where the engines and carriages of the Great Northern
Railway, which ends near here, are made and repaired.

Doncaster was a very important place in olden times, and a whole volume
of adventures might be written concerning the personages who visited it.

While we are talking, the "Flying Scotchman," the quickest of all the
Scotch trains, goes tearing along to York. We have heard of Dick
Turpin's celebrated ride to York on his bonnie "Black Bess," but we have
a finer horse--a green-painted steed--to ride on. In the "good old
times" which we read about so much it took four days to get to York,
sleeping on the road; now our trains run the distance in less than four
hours! Coaching is very pleasant as an amusement, but for business we
must have our Iron Horse.

We can lunch at York. Our train waits for no one, but if we like we can
eat our sandwich on the platform, and look over old York city, with its
dear old Minster, its river, its red-roofed houses; and if we close our
eyes for a few minutes, our mental vision will show us many stirring
scenes here.

We can imagine the Scots hovering around old York, assisted by the
Britons, attacking the gouty Emperor Severus, who afterwards built one
of the great walls across Britain to supplement Hadrian's rampart from
the Solway to the "Wall's End"--a name now "familiar in our mouths as
household" coals. Do you remember what the old worn-out Roman Emperor
said at York when he was dying? He looked at the urn of gold in which
his ashes were to be carried to Rome, and remarked, "Thou shalt soon
hold what the world could scarcely contain!" Then we can see the end of
the great Roses' Wars, the heads on the grim spikes of the city gates,
while a long procession of kings and queens files out from the cathedral
doors, on whose site a church has stood ever since Easter, 627 A.D.

If we had only time to sit and recall all the grand events which have
happened in York Minster, we should have to wait for the next "Flying
Scotchman," and perhaps for the next after that.

"Any more going on?" "Yes, we are." "Quick, please; all right." The
train can't wait while we dream about the past; and have we not
Darlington in front of us? Ah! there we must stop a little. Here are the
cradles of all the "Flying Scotchmen," "Wild Irishmen," "Dutchmen,"
"Zulus"; of the four hundred expresses of England, and the thousands of
other trains, fast and slow, which traverse the United Kingdom and the
world. Yes, Darlington was the nursery of the locomotive railway-engine,
and Mr. Pease the head nurse who taught it to run on the Stockton and
Darlington line in 1825. To the Darlington Quaker family Stephenson's
success was due, and the success of Stephenson's locomotive was owing to
Hadley--William Hadley--who has been rightly called the "Father of the
Modern Locomotive."

We are now on the North-Eastern line, which ends at
Berwick-on-Tweed--for the true Great Northern, though its carriages run
over the whole route, does not work the traffic all the way. The
North-Eastern hurries us along towards Newcastle-on-Tyne, over Robert
Stephenson's high-level bridge, and then over the North British line at

What do we see from this breezy elevation? "Oh, earth, what changes hast
thou seen!" What does a writer say of this? "The mountain stream beneath
us, once a broad shallow, now affords depth for the heaviest ships. Away
on the northern bank the Roman wall lies hid, its arrowy route just
marked by a burial heave of the turf. Before us stands the massive keep,
with sturdy Norman walls--the trains of the North-Eastern are scrunching
on the curve within a yard of it. Stephenson's engine looks down on
Elizabethan gables;" and so on. Near Newcastle--at Wylam and
Killingworth--the first locomotive engines were born which changed the
country and revolutionised travelling.

The warders at Berwick no longer look out from the castle walls to
descry the glitter of Southern spears. The bell-tower from which the
alarm was sounded is now silent--the only bell heard within the
precincts of the castle being that of the railway porter, announcing the
arrival and departure of trains. The Scotch express passes along the
bridge, and speeds southward on the wings of steam. But no alarm spreads
across the Border now.

We shall cross the Tweed presently, and pass through the country of the
Moss-troopers and the territories of the Lords Marchers, the scene of so
many conflicts and fatal raids. We first cross the Coquet, "the stream
of streams," the poet calls it:--

  "There's mony a sawmon lies in Tweed,
    An' mony a trout in Till;
  But Coquet--Coquet aye for me,
    If I may have my will!"

We get a view of the Cheviots; and Tweed-mouth passed, we cross the
"Royal Border Bridge," and run into Berwick.

What a record of battle has Berwick! In these peaceful times at home we
can hardly picture the old walls on which we walk manned with armoured
soldiery, and King John within his house, a burning torch in his hand,
setting fire to the town, or hanging up the people by the feet till they
told where their money-bags were hidden. In those days and in Edward's
time, the "Flying Scotchmen" were Highlanders who were dispersed by the
English king. Wallace avenged the slaughter, and seized Berwick; Robert
Bruce and Douglas climbed into the town with their trusty men. Half
Wallace's body was sent here as a trophy, and the Countess of Buchan was
hung out from the walls in a cage!

Beacons again burn in the bell-tower, and Edward and Bruce again engage,
and Berwick was only finally deprived of its warlike appearance when
James the First united England and Scotland. These are some of the tales
the old stones tell us as we pause in Berwick, which within our own
memory was so specially mentioned in all forms of national prayer and
thanksgiving, as being a kind of neutral ground upon the Border.

Now puffing through Dunbar, past the Field of Preston-pans, and through
a district ever memorable in the history of Scotland, we reach the
modern Athens "Auld Reekie"--Edinburgh the Beautiful--where the "Flying
Scotchman" folds his wings and "flies" no more. His work is done this


_By the Author of "How the Owls of the Pampas treated their Friends,"

On the branch of a gigantic tree in one of the South American forests a
young ant was reposing; he had been working hard all day, being a brisk,
spirited fellow, and so he was rather tired, and he lazily watched an
old relation of his own, who was slowly climbing the trunk towards him,
his fine white polished head glancing against the bark.

"Well, Long-legs," cried the young cousin, as his elder approached,
"where are you going at this late hour? I should have fancied that you
would have been asleep after all the trouble you had in marching

[Illustration: "HE ... EXECUTED A LITTLE WAR-DANCE."]

"My dear Shiny-pate," said the old warrior, as he settled in a little
crevice and stretched out his tired limbs, while he rolled up a tiny,
tiny blade of grass for a would-be cigar, "I am the bearer of news."

"Why, what is the matter?" cried Shiny-pate anxiously, jumping up so
suddenly that he hit his poor little head sharply against a projecting

"Silly goose! nothing is the matter," answered his friend, "only you are
a little grander than you thought you were: you are promoted to be an
officer--a lieutenant, in fact; so now you can assist me on our

"Oh! Long-legs, is it really true?" exclaimed the young ant. "Am I to be
an officer, to march the men about, to lead them to glory?" and he tried
to shout "hurrah," but did not know how, so he only executed a little
war-dance on the branch of the tree, while his old friend looked on,
smiling grimly.

"Now I hope you will distinguish yourself, my child," said he
paternally, when Shiny-pate was tired of skipping about. "You will very
soon have an opportunity of showing your valour, for to-morrow we are
to undertake a dangerous expedition to a distant country, and your
courage will be tried."

So saying, he began creeping down the tree, disregarding the entreaties
of his young companion, to stay a little longer and tell him where they
were going. "No, no," he muttered; "that will be time enough to-morrow;
go to sleep and be strong."

Very good advice, certainly; but when children are put to bed before the
sun has set in the long summer evening, while the birds are still
singing, and the bats have not begun to come out, and they feel
desperately inclined to play a little longer, I am afraid they don't
relish it much.

However, Shiny-pate was a good, sensible little creature, and he went
off very meekly, but he awoke early in the morning, ready for the fray.

"Breakfast first," said he to himself; but no: the older officers said
they had to fight first, and eat afterwards; so they soon began to
arrange their marching order.

A column of ants, at least a hundred yards in length, but not very wide,
was soon formed; each leader had charge of twenty workers. The officers
were not expected to march in the main line, but to walk outside their
company, and keep it in order; and great was our hero's pride and
delight when he surveyed his own particular men, and thought what an
example of bravery he would set them.

At last all were ready, and the army moved off in beautiful order. The
officers ran up and down the ranks, inspecting everything, their white
helmets glistening in the sun, and as Shiny-pate's position was well to
the front, he had great opportunities.

[Illustration: "THE ARMY MOVED OFF."]

After they had proceeded for some time with great gravity and care, they
came to a tree from which hung a couple of nests belonging to the large
wasps of the country, and after a moment's discussion it was decided
that the ants should mount and rifle them as a first move, so the
obedient soldiers hastened on, and Shiny-pate, who knew nothing of the
enterprise, joyfully waved his sword at the head of his troops. How
astonished, how disgusted he was, when he felt the first wasp-sting he
had ever experienced!

He almost fell from the nest with amazement, but he would not give
in--"No, never, die first!" he thought, so he rushed on, and was among
the foremost to enter the cells where the young pupæ were carefully
walled in, and tearing them from their cosy cradles, the ants proceeded
to devour them.

[Illustration: "SALUTING HIS COMMANDER" (_p. 209_).]

However, though the nests were large, and the grubs many in number,
there were not half or quarter enough for the army. More and more ants
came trooping up the tree, trying to squeeze into the places where there
was no room for them, and mournfully calling out that they also were
very hungry. So as soon as the pasteboard domicile was empty, the little
creatures descended from their elevation, and again pursued their line
of march, this time without any incident occurring until they saw in the
distance the figure of a man.

Now most of the ants had never seen a human being before, but what did
that matter? Their ardour rose, their eyes sparkled, their long slender
limbs raced over the ground, and soon the person who had been silly
enough to stand and watch the advancing host was covered with the nimble
insects, who quickly ran up into his coat-pockets, down his neck, and,
in fact, wherever there was any aperture, inserting their sharp fangs,
and injecting their poison, until he yelled with fear and pain. He had
not been very long in the country, and did not understand the habits of
the creatures, so at first he remained in his absurd position, capering
about, and trying to brush off the ants. But as he found that their
numbers so increased every moment, he began to get really alarmed, lest
he should soon be "eaten up alive," and so he ran away very
ignominiously, being pursued for some distance by the host of insects;
but as soon as he had outrun them, the difficult task of trying to
detach those already fastened to his person began. The fierce little
insects preferred being pulled to pieces to letting go their hold, and
their hooked mandibles remained securely fixed in poor John Lester's
skin long after their bodies had been torn off.

Fortunately for himself, Shiny-pate was not included in the number who
lost their lives. When the onslaught began, Long-legs commanded him to
keep his detachment quiet, as their services were not required; so the
steady little ant obeyed orders, and though he stood on tip-toe with
impatience, and trembled with excitement, he kept out of the fray.

"Now it is all over--march!" cried Long-legs authoritatively, as John's
flying coat-tails disappeared round a tree.

"Shall we not wait for the others?" inquired a young officer very
politely, saluting his commander with the back of his tiny foot in true
military style.

[Illustration: "AN ARMY OF ANTS" (_p. 210_)]

"None of them will ever return," replied the colonel sternly. "Do your
duty, and obey orders."

So the army again started off, and after a long and dusty march the
pioneers came in sight of a pretty little cottage; but I must relate who
the inhabitants were before I go any farther.

The house belonged to an Irish gentleman of the name of Wolfe, who,
after emigrating to South America, and building a house for his family,
a few months before this story opens, brought out his wife, four
children, and their old and faithful servant, called John Lester, to
keep him company, and help him in the new life he had chosen for

Mrs. Wolfe was rather an inexperienced young lady, and the manners and
customs of the place and people, particularly those of the coloured
servant, Chunga, astonished her immensely. The white lady had a great
horror of creeping things of all kinds; she could hardly bear to get
into her bath, for she sometimes found a centipede, as long as her hand,
drowned in it.

At night, when the lamp was lighted, cockchafers and insects of all
kinds buzzed and flew round it, until their wings were singed; then they
danced hornpipes on the table over Mrs. Wolfe's work or writing, falling
most likely into the ink-bottle first, and then spinning about with
their long legs, smearing everything with which they came in contact,
till she used to run away and implore her husband to "kill them all and
have done with it." The children thought it was rather fun, except when
a scorpion stung them. They had a play about the lizards, which were
pretty and harmless, and they used to count how many different kinds of
beetles were killed each night.

Sometimes the baby screamed when a particularly large spider walked
across its face; but these little trials had to be borne.

On the morning of this memorable day, as Mrs. Wolfe was employed in some
household duties, Chunga rushed into the verandah, joyfully crying--

"Oh, missie! oh, missie! de birds are come!"

"What birds?" inquired her mistress in amazement, wondering what new
object was going to be exhibited to her, but almost expecting to see a
creature with three legs, or two heads.

"De pittas, missie; de ant-thrushes, you call them," said the black
woman, gleefully. "Now missie's house will be clean; massa is away, all
de tings will be turned out," and as she spoke, she seized her
mistress's dress, and, gently drawing her to the open door, directed her
attention to several dark-coloured, short-tailed birds which were
hopping from tree to tree in the neighbourhood.

"I don't see anything extraordinary about them," said Mrs. Wolfe, in a
disappointed tone; "they are only small ugly birds."

"But look dere, missie," persisted Chunga, pointing towards the forest,
from the dark shades of which Shiny-pate and his battalions were

"Why, it is an army of ants!" cried the Irish lady. "How curious! how

"Dey is coming here," remarked Chunga carelessly, as she watched the

[Illustration: "THE WARRIORS DASHED IN."]

"Here!" echoed Mrs. Wolf in horror; "what for? What shall we do? They
will eat all the things in my store-room, they will bite my children!"
and she flew to the nursery as she spoke.

But the advancing host moved steadily along, the officers gave orders to
enter the house, and our young hero, though quite a novice in the work,
was one of the first to creep through a slit in the walls.

"Now," cried Long-legs, "first kill the cockroaches and other small
game. Come on; don't be afraid."

So the warriors dashed into the principal room, mounted the rafters, and
began a fierce battle. The sleepy cockroaches, fat and heavy from good
living, sprawled about, but made a very poor fight. Shiny-pate and two
or three of his men would seize one of the kicking old fellows, and
either push him or pull him to the edge of the rafters, whence he would
fall with a dull thud on the floor, when he was generally too much
stunned to make any more resistance, but even if he did he was soon
overpowered, bitten, and dragged out of the house.

When the rafters were cleared, our hero was running swiftly across the
floor, when a choky voice called him, and he saw his old friend's head
protruding from an aperture in a large wooden chest.

"Come here! come here!" cried Long-legs. "There are loads of them
inside, and I want help."

"Loads of what?" inquired Shiny-pate, rather incredulously.

"Of all kinds of food," replied the colonel; "but unfortunately it is
very hard to get at them; they are hidden among the folds of some white
stuff that almost suffocates me."

Shiny-pate at once proceeded to crawl into the chest, but fortunately
Chunga, who knew the habits of the little insects, had been going
round the house opening every press and box, and now she flung aside the
cover of the great linen-chest, and in darted the little marauders, and
speedily drew forth hundreds of the hideous cockroaches.

But soon all the small game was cleared off, and yet the attacking party
cried for more, and cast hungry eyes at Mrs. Wolfe and the children, who
had been skipping about on the floor, trying not to stand on anything,
for foraging ants are not to be trifled with; and Chunga said,

"If missie kills any ants, they kill her."

So the fear of touching any of them had greatly impeded the lady's
movements; she had to step gently on the points of her toes whenever she
saw a clear space. She had to rescue her baby from the cradle, and her
other children from different parts of the house; and then each child,
as it was carried away, began to cry for some particular toy that had
been left behind, so that getting them safe and sound into the garden
was a work of time. However, at last they were all seated round their
mother, only dreadfully hungry, and longing for their breakfast, while
the house remained in undisturbed possession of the ants.

At last, even Chunga thought it wise to beat a retreat, so she came
gliding gently out, bringing the welcome news that she had seen several
ants carrying off an immense scorpion, which "must have been de one dat
stung massa, and made him so ill a few days before;" and that the ants
were now attacking the rats and mice.

"Rats and mice!" screamed all the children in delight. "Will they kill
the horrible things?"

[Illustration: "THE CAT ... STOOD WITH GLARING EYES."]

"The rats that fought poor Kitty," pursued George, for this had been a
sore trouble to the children. Mrs. Wolfe had brought a fine handsome
tortoise-shell cat from Ireland with her, thinking how delightful it
would be to have her house quite free from vermin, only, unfortunately,
they were so very numerous that poor "Lady Catherine," as the children
named their pussy, though she did her best at first, could not by any
possibility keep their numbers in check, and she now lived a miserable
life, being afraid of moving from her master's protection, and growing
daily thinner and weaker from the combined influences of fear, and being
unable to perform her usual duties; and as the children loved her
dearly, and treated her like one of themselves, they all set up a howl
of dismay when their darling's name was mentioned to them.

It was answered by a fearful burst of caterwauling from the interior of
the house. The shrieks and yells were really terrific, and the whole
party, regardless of their enemies inside, rushed back again to the
door, and peeping in, beheld a sight which was almost ludicrous.

There was a shelf near one of the children's beds at a great height from
the floor, and to this Lady Catherine (the cat) had mounted, but now she
was surrounded, and her retreat completely cut off. There were ants to
right of her, ants to left of her, and ants in front of her; and as the
little creatures, led on by Shiny-pate the valorous, attacked her with
determined precision, the cat, with every hair bristling up on her body,
stood with glaring eyes, lifting first one foot and then another to
escape her tormentors. Sometimes she stood on her hind legs and
frantically tore the insects from her coat, but she wanted courage
enough to make the very high jump from the shelf to the floor.

Mrs. Wolfe and the children were so distressed at the sight, that
kind-hearted Chunga offered to try and save their favourite, and she
crept cautiously into the house, trying to avoid standing on the ants
with her bare feet. Lady Catherine's screams redoubled when she saw a
friend approaching, but she did not treat the black woman very kindly,
for as soon as she stood under the shelf the cat made one frantic leap
to her shoulders, and inserting her sharp claws, held on tenaciously.

It was now Chunga's turn to scream, which she did in good earnest; and
as she found she could not detach the cat, she fled from the house with
her burden clinging tightly to her copper-coloured shoulders, and ran
almost into the arms of John Lester, who was returning home. He was
quick enough to see what had happened, so, snatching up an old broom
with one hand he seized Lady Catherine with the other, and gave her such
a sweeping as she had never experienced before, and which, indeed, she
strongly objected to; but her cries were disregarded, and she was soon
free from the insects, and the children joyfully clutched hold of her.

[Illustration: "THE LIVING CHAIN OF INSECTS" (_p. 213_).]

But meantime Shiny-pate had been carried off in a coil of Chunga's hair,
whence he had crept from the cat's fur, and very uncomfortable he felt.
He knew that his single arm could never overcome the Indian woman; he
was deserted by his troops, and he had no one to direct him. He thought
he had better try to alight from his precarious position, and endeavour
to rejoin his men; but when he moved, Chunga--whose nerves were a little
upset--cried, "Oh! Massa John, brush me too, brush me;" and began
tearing her hair down to make ready for the performance. But just at
that moment another insect dropped from the tree above her down on her
arm, and administered such an electric shock that a thrill ran up to her
shoulder, her hands fell, and Shiny-pate, seizing his opportunity, ran
swiftly down her back and rushed towards the house, where the scene of
confusion was but little abated.

The ants had by this time slain every living thing which had occupied
the dwelling, and dragged them into the long grass outside; and the
soldiers, after their hard fighting, were endeavouring to satisfy their
hunger. This, however, the officers objected to, for they knew by
experience what would happen; the pittas had not accompanied them on
their march for nothing. The ugly black birds had their eyes wide open,
and knew what they were about; they had been waiting and watching all
this time, hopping about on the neighbouring trees, and now at last
their turn came. The ants gorged with their prey could not escape: down
pounced the pittas, and they certainly made the most of their
opportunity. The hardened veterans, the most agile warriors, were
gobbled up in a moment, and the officers in despair ran here and there,
seeing the carnage, but being quite unable to prevent it.

At last, by the time Mrs. Wolfe and her family ventured back to their
clean and well-swept house, Shiny-pate by frantic exertions had managed
to collect his own troop--he had only lost two of his twenty soldiers.

So our little insects again set out. They were dreadfully tired, and
they lagged behind, though their leader longed to overtake some of the
advance-guard, which had already gone on. Poor little fellow! his first
day's fighting had certainly been an arduous one, and it was not over
yet; his exertions to keep his men in order were wonderful. But after
marching some distance the ants saw before them a little stream of
water, running merrily along, but presenting a serious barrier to their

Shiny-pate at first thought the water might not extend far, and led his
company along the bank; but as he found to his dismay that the stream
grew wider instead of narrower, his fertile little brain began to devise
a plan, and soon he had hit upon a very ingenious one. He selected a
shrub with a long branch, which extended across part of the stream, and
having marched his men to the very extremity of this bough he caught
hold of it with his fore-legs and hung down, ordering one of the
soldiers to creep down his body and hang on to the end of it; another
followed and clung to the second ant, and so on. By this means the
living chain of insects, when long enough, was wafted by the wind to the
other bank of the stream, where the foremost ant caught a firm hold, and
the brave Shiny-pate then swung off his bough, and followed by all the
others crept carefully across their companions' bodies, until the
foremost ant, who had been holding on all this time by his hind legs,
being relieved from the weight of his comrades, was able to twirl round
and obtain a safer footing.

The danger was surmounted, and the officer now inspected his little
troop with triumph; indeed, he spoke a few encouraging words which
actually caused his soldiers to salute in a body, as they could not
cheer, and cry with one voice that they were not afraid to go anywhere
with him.

This was, of course, very gratifying to such a young officer, and our
hero was beginning to thank his enthusiastic followers when a slight
noise attracted his attention, and he suddenly remembered that the time
for vigilance was not over: for in the tree above them he beheld a
little ant-eater slowly uncoiling itself before beginning its nightly

Shiny-pate saw its long slimy tongue being uncoiled like a piece of
ribbon when the animal yawned; and well he knew that any ant who was
unfortunate enough to touch that sticky object would never return to
tell the tale; he therefore instantly determined on flight.

So our hero ordered a stampede, but he kept last of all the party, ready
to sacrifice himself for the general good if need be; and after a little
time his exertions were rewarded, for he happily overtook the main body
of ants under the guidance of old Long-legs, and the worthy veteran was
so pleased at seeing his young companion safe that he actually fell on
his neck and hugged him; and there is no saying what might have happened
next if two twinkling lights had not appeared in the distance. They were
only fire-flies that an Indian had tied to his feet in order to illumine
his path, but the sight made the friends restrain their transports until
they reached home.

Then, after all their labours and adventures, they gave themselves up to
enjoyment. Long-legs, Shiny-pate, and other distinguished officers who
had done their duty for their home and relations, were chaired by their
admiring soldiers and carried round the nest, while the fire-flies lit
up the triumphal march, and the beetles sang in chorus.

We leave Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe enjoying for the first time a house cleared
of both reptiles and insects, and Lady Catherine purring her delight at
being relieved from her enemies. No doubt, if she could have given us
the benefit of her thoughts, she would have joined the bipeds in

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."





It was early morning, not yet seven o'clock. Yet Pontius Pilate, the
Roman Governor of Judæa, was astir. For the Paschal Feast of the Jews
was fast approaching, and having heard rumours of strange things going
on amongst them, he anticipated some serious disturbance. He was,
therefore, in no pleasant humour, and his dark brow was contracted, his
teeth were firmly set, and in his stern and somewhat fierce eyes was a
look of mingled anger, scorn, and disgust.

How weary he was of these perpetual riots! How he despised the conquered
Jews and their pretensions of religion, while their actions were mean
and vile. They professed a sanctity superior to that of any nation upon
earth. And yet he knew that every day they indulged in flagrant sins,
and were influenced by motives that others would scorn to yield to. Oh!
if he dared but show them what he thought of them and their hollow
professions. But he must restrain his feelings. Several times already,
in his impatience of their ways, he had given vent to his wrath in
actions that, he knew too well, would not bear the examination of his
master, the emperor of Rome.

The Roman emperors, bad as some of them were, liked to know that all
their provinces were well governed, that the people had no just cause of
complaint; and that their customs, religions, and prejudices were
respected. And they would punish severely any governor who, by misrule,
brought dishonour on the name of Rome.

Pilate knew that he had wilfully trampled upon the religious prejudices
of the Jews, and that when they had risen up against him he had
massacred them by the thousand. He remembered how he had once brought
some Roman eagles from Cæsarea to Jerusalem, where no heathen ensign
could be suffered; how he had also placed there some gilt votive
shields, dedicated to the Emperor Tiberius; and how, to bring water from
the pools of Solomon into the city, he had taken money from the sacred
treasury. He remembered, too, how, when the Jews had rebelled against
these proceedings, he had sent disguised soldiers amongst them, to stab
them with daggers concealed beneath their garments; how he had once
massacred 3,000 of them, and how at another festal season, 20,000 dead
bodies had strewed the courts of the Temple. And up before his mind
there came also the recollection of how, at one of their feasts, he had
killed some Galilæans, and mingled their blood with that of their
sacrifices upon the altar; and how he had also attacked the Samaritans,
as they worshipped upon Mount Gerizim.

Yes, he had given the Jews just cause of complaint; and if he vexed them
further, they might report him to Rome, and have him banished or put to
death. So he would have to be careful how he treated them for the

The knowledge of this in nowise calmed his perturbed spirit. And as he
wondered how, in case of another riot, he should manage to curb his
wrathful and impatient disgust, he paced uneasily the Hall of Judgment.

This was an apartment in a splendid edifice--which was known as the
fortress of Antonia--in which he resided when at Jerusalem, an old
palace of Herod the Great. Its floors were of agate and lazuli. The
ceilings of its gilded roofs were of cedar painted with vermilion. The
bema, on which he sat to administer justice, was probably the golden
throne of Archelaus. In front of the Hall of Judgment was a costly
pavement of variously coloured marble, called by the Jews Gabbatha. Yet
amid all this splendour he was but ill at ease.

And now suddenly the Roman procurator stopped and listened. Hooting and
yelling, there were the wild cries of a dreaded mob, as he had
anticipated. Yes, it was even so. They had begun early enough, those
Jews. What could it be all about?

Nearer and nearer came the ominous sounds. He went to the door of his
apartment, and looked out. There, coming across the bridge that spanned
the Tyropeon Valley, was an infuriated crowd, venting their spleen
upon some poor victim, whom they were evidently bringing to him. His
arms were fast bound to His side. A rope was round His neck. And they
were dragging Him along, as if He were some wild beast that they had
caught in the act of making ravages amongst them.

After Him came the chief men of Jerusalem, the Sanhedrists, with,
perhaps, the High Priest at their head, followed by the chief priests
and scribes, and a great crowd of people.

Now they reached the Hall of Judgment; and the foremost of them were
dragging the poor Man up the noble flight of stairs.

The Roman knight scowled as they approached, and darted at them a look
of bitterest resentment.

What faces they had! Did ever any one see features so distorted by
wicked passions? How he would have liked to drive them all away! But he
must not. They were evidently in a fury; and what might they not do, if
he opposed them?

He turned to look at their prisoner, expecting to see some
murderous-looking fellow, who had been taken in some act of wicked
outrage. But what a different sight met his view!

Instead of a defiant thief or murderer, a pale and weary Man stood
before him. A world of suffering was in His sorrowful eyes; but there
was no trace of violence there. He had the purest, noblest, most open
countenance that Pilate had ever beheld; and the governor's attention
was arrested. In the face of that poor, worn-out sufferer were expressed
the meekness and gentleness of a lamb, the deepest tenderness and pity,
the most ineffable sweetness and perfect calmness, the majesty of a
king, the perfection of a god. Who could He be? Was He really only
human? Or had the spirit of some of the Roman gods come down and taken
up its abode in Him? Pilate could not tell; but he was amazed and
confounded; and in his contemplation of that wondrous countenance he
forgot for a while his trouble and vexation.

All too soon, however, he was recalled to the business before him. The
Jews were clamouring outside the Hall to have sentence of death passed
upon their Victim.

But it was not so easy to gain their point as they had expected. The
Roman knight, who had not hesitated to order his soldiers to fall upon
the ignoble Jews, could not condemn, without trial, that Man who was
undoubtedly the one perfect type of the human race. And he sternly
demanded, "What accusation bring ye against this Man?"

Then came a storm of bitter invective and false accusations. He had been
stirring up the people against the Roman government, they said. He had
been forbidding them to pay tribute to Cæsar; and proclaiming Himself a

As Pilate looked upon Jesus, he felt that there was no sedition in Him.
_They_ were rioters, he knew too well; but as for that Man--well, there
might be some truth in His kingship, there was something so noble, so
majestic about Him. And entering the hall, into which Jesus had been
led, he asked, "Art _Thou_ the King of the Jews?"

"I am a king," Jesus, acknowledged, as He thought of the myriads of
bright-winged angels who in the Better Land had flown to do His bidding,
and of the thousands upon thousands of faithful followers, not yet born,
who would some day share His throne. "I am a King, but not of this
world." And at His simple words Pilate's heart misgave him still more.

Who _could_ this strange man be, who was so far above all other men?
Where had He come from? And where was His kingdom? Was He in some
mysterious way connected with the heavens?

Oh, how he wished that those Jews had settled the matter amongst
themselves, and that he could avoid having anything to do with it! They
were resolved, he could see, on having His blood; and he dared not go
altogether against them. Yet how could he condemn _a Man like that_?

But, suddenly, his face brightened. Some one in the crowd said that
Jesus belonged to Galilee. Then he could send Jesus to Herod, the
tetrarch of Galilee, who was then in Jerusalem, having come up to the
feast. By doing so he should throw the responsibility on to Herod, and
should then not be compelled either to vex the Jews, on the one hand,
and thus bring about his own punishment, or to crucify this Man, who was
so great a mystery to him, and, perhaps, bring down upon himself the
anger of the gods.

Pilate heaved a great sigh of relief, as Jesus was led away to Herod.
Now he was free, he thought, and, if that more than innocent Man were
put to death, as He would be, he, at least, would be guiltless of his
blood, and very cleverly he had managed it, without stirring up against
himself the wrath of the Jews.

But it was not to be so.

Before long the dreaded mob returned. Herod had sent Jesus away, finding
no fault in Him. And the Jews brought him again to Pilate.

Heavily as lead the hooting and the yelling fell upon the governor's
ears. What should he do? What _could_ he do? Oh, if only he had not
acted so wrongly in the past, he might have dared to do right now! If
only he had not violated the Roman law he might now have vindicated its
majesty! He might have told the Jews that he, a Roman governor, could
not think of so gross an injustice as condemning such a Man, and that
they were only actuated by envy and hatred. Oh, if he could only wipe
out his past offences, and stand clear concerning the Jews, he might,
also, stand clear concerning this Jesus, who was called the Christ!

But his hands were stained with crime; and, like a child who tells a
second falsehood to get out of the trouble of having told a first, he
must make the guilt of a still deeper dye.

But could he not in some way conciliate the Jews, and save Jesus as
well? he wondered. Yes; he would pretend to look upon Him as guilty; but
would remind them of the custom of releasing some prisoner at the
Passover; and try to persuade them to have Jesus set free. But they
preferred Barabbas; and Pilate tried another plan. He would inflict upon
Jesus the painful and humiliating punishment of scourging and let Him

But what right had he to do that to an innocent Man? How fast he was
yielding! And what a coward a guilty conscience had made of him!

But much as he was to blame, there was sent to him a warning that could
not be despised.

That morning, a troublous dream had come to Claudia Procula, Pilate's
wife, who was a Jewish proselyte. And now, messengers from her came
running out of breath, and standing before the golden bema, delivered
the message she had sent; "Have thou nothing to do with that just Man;
for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of Him."

This troubled Pilate more and more; and his face paled, and his strong
limbs trembled. He remembered how, not very long before, when Cæsar's
enemies were plotting against his life, a dream had come to his wife,
Calpurnia, who had sent to warn him not to go to the meeting of the
senate, on the Ides of March. But he went in spite of the dream, and was
murdered! And now, a similar warning was sent to him to strengthen him
to do right. Should he heed it, and let the innocent Jesus go free? It
was still in his power to refuse to crucify Him; and what remorse he
would save himself? and what bitter anguish! But notwithstanding the
warning dream, he took the last fatal step.

"_Ibis ad crucem_," "Thou must go to the cross," he said to Jesus, and
to the attendant, "_I miles, expedi crucem_," "Soldier, go prepare the

Unable to shake off that ominous dream, he called for water, and washed
his hands, saying, "I am innocent of the blood of this just person." But
he could not wash away his responsibility, or that last greatest crime
of giving up to the fiendish malice of a cruel mob the Innocent One
about whom he had had such misgivings and such a warning.

From that day all peace of mind fled from him; and before long he was
pining away in bitter exile and poverty; the very punishment having come
upon him that he had tried to avert.



37. Who was the only woman to whom it is recorded that Jesus used the
tender word "Daughter"?

38. Where does St. John tell us that those who are untruthful shall have
no part with the people of God in the holy city?

39. Which of the greater prophets prophesied that God's people should be
"named the Priests of the Lord?"

40. Where, in the book of the Revelation, are we shown that Jesus still
appears in heaven as the Lamb once slain?

41. Where are we told that children, as well as grown-up people, are
known by their works?

42. Where are we assured that if, in difficult circumstances, we are
influenced by the fear of man, we shall bring trouble upon ourselves,
while, if we trust in God, we shall be safely kept?

43. About whom did Jesus use the only word of unmixed contempt that He
is recorded to have spoken?

44. What four things does Solomon speak of as being "little upon the
earth, but they are exceeding wise"?

45. Where is the custom, followed by Pilate, of washing the hands as a
sign of innocence of crime, spoken of in the Old Testament?

46. What wise man exhorts us to keep our garments always white; and who
tells us that a part of pure religion consists in keeping ourselves
unspotted from the world?

47. What great heathen king called God "a revealer of secrets"?

48. Where are we assured that, to the upright, light arises in the

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (25-36.--_See p. 156_).

25. Twice. In St. Matt. vi. 9-13 and St. Luke xi. 2-4.

26. In Job xxviii. 28.

27. From the words, "I went into Arabia" (Gal. i. 17), coupled with his
speaking of Sinai in iv. 24, 25.

28. In Prov. xvi. 32.

29. In Ps. lvi. 8.

30. Only in the New Testament (Acts vii. 60; 1 Cor. xv. 6, 18; 1 Thess.
iv. 13-15; 2 Pet. iii. 4).

31. As giving up the ghost, and being gathered to their people (Gen.
xxv. 8, xxxv. 29, xlix. 29, 33; Numb. xx. 24, 26, xxvii. 13, &c).

32. St. Matthew and St. Mark (St. Matt. xxvi. 36--45; St. Mark xiv.

33. In the genealogy of our Lord, given by St. Matthew (St. Matt. 1. 6).

34. Seven (Gen. vii. 7-10). God himself (Gen. vii. 16).

35. Ten (2 Sam. xviii. 15).

36. It was first placed in David's tent, and afterwards in the
Tabernacle at Nob, whence it was given again to David (1 Samuel xvii.
54, xxi. 1, 9).



  Sweet Summer-time dawns with a flush o'er the skies,
    The bees and the butterflies come in her train,
  While the dear little children, with joy in their eyes,
  Stand watching the lark as he mounts to the skies,
    While singing his joyous refrain.

  The meadow is sprinkled with beautiful flowers,
    The hedge with its sweet-scented blossoms of snow.
  How bright is the sunshine! how fresh are the showers!
  How happy the children, these holiday hours,
    As shouting and singing they go!

  But Summer (who stole on the footsteps of Spring)
    Is driven in turn far out of our view,
  When ruddy-hued Autumn her mantle must fling
  O'er meadow and orchard, till each growing thing
    Is transformed to a beautiful hue.

  Then the little ones, laughing, must hie them away
    To the blackberry wood and the nut-growing ground;
  But in the home-garden our dear little May
  Sits calmly at rest, on this beautiful day,
    Contented with what she has found.



So he was left an heir at the age of ten years--heir to all the fortune
of his dead aunt, which consisted of two shillings and fourpence, a
flower-basket, a pebble with a hole drilled through it, and a dying
woman's blessing. "Truly," you will say, "he was rich."

He was small and thin, this little heir, and one poor leg was drawn up
three inches higher than the other, which obliged him to walk with those
wooden things called crutches. He was called Fé; but his name was of
very little use to him, as he could neither read nor write it.

An old woman had promised "to see after him for a bit" at his aunt's
death. She lived in a room in the same wretched lodging-house which had
sheltered Fé and his aunt for the past six years.

I have not told you yet that my heir did not live in London, but in a
large busy town in the south of England.

Fé's temporary guardian, Mrs. Crump, was short and cross, and not very
young; her nose was slightly hooked, her eyes were black, and rather
sharp. She wore a jet black frizzled wig, which contrasted well with the
primrose-tinted skin; her voice showed her bad temper, for it was sharp
and harsh, like the creaking of a door.

After having settled and arranged everything, she bade Fé follow her
into her black little room, and that was the last he ever saw of his
poor little old home, where for ten long grown-up years he had lived, to
go to rest weak, hungry, and ill, and to rise more weak, hungry, and
miserable still. Yet in that little home there had also lived a thin,
worn-out woman, who had never spoken a harsh word to him, but had often
tried to stay his tears with her kisses. And Fé knew now--and the
knowledge was agony--that he would never rest his eyes upon that sweet
mother-face again.

Mrs. Crump earned what she could get by selling flowers in the streets.
She thought she could not turn poor Fé to better account than by making
him sell them too, so she arranged half her bunches in Fé's basket, and
tied it round his neck. Then she took him with her, and while she went
round to the houses Fé stood in the principal streets, and offered his
flowers to the passers-by.

Old Mrs. Crump soon made the discovery that "the heir" sold many more
than she did during the day, but such was her vanity that she could not
at first bring herself to believe that people preferred to buy of the
pale-faced cripple boy than of her, with her jet black wig and creaking
voice. When she found it was really the case, she was very angry. But
besides being a very jealous old woman, she was naturally avaricious in
the extreme, and she kept all Fé's earnings, and only gave him very
scanty food in return.

She did not care to give up "seeing after him for a bit," yet she
allowed a strong dislike to grow up against the boy in her own old cross

One day, as Fé stood by the side of the street, with his basket hanging
from his neck, and a bit of sunlight shining straight into his eyes, he
felt some one touch his arm, and when he turned his head, he saw a young
lady leaning towards him. She had long shining hair and blue eyes, there
were dimples and bright pink on her cheeks; she slipped sixpence into
his hand, whispering something about keeping it quite for himself, and
then passed on, walking very quickly.

When Fé looked up to thank her, he saw only the flowing shining hair
under a round black hat in the distance. Fé thought about the money for
a long time: it was the first gift he had ever received, and he wondered
if he might really keep it for himself. He thought how often, when he
was so hot and thirsty, he might buy a little milk, and it seemed
refreshing only to think of it. Then he remembered that Mrs. Crump took
all the pence he earned, and he felt sure that she disliked him very
much, and would take away his sixpence the moment she saw it. So at last
he twisted it in a leaf out of his basket, and pushed it through a hole
into the lining of his cap, for safety.

When he went back with Mrs. Crump in the evening, and she asked him for
his earnings, that little sixpence in his cap felt like a stone, seeming
to weigh him down to the ground; and when he went to the corner where he
slept, he lay down on his little ragged bed, cold and miserable; and
though he was tired out, he could not sleep for thinking of his great
wickedness in concealing the sixpence.

Then he looked round the room, and thought how much whiter and sweeter
his old home was; he remembered, too, how his kind aunt used to kiss him
if he cried, and he held up his little pale wet face, almost hoping he
should feel that kiss once more; he longed so intensely for a little
love, poor little "heir!"

Mrs. Crump's room was, like herself, dirty and ugly: perhaps it may be
silly to say so, but I do think that rooms generally resemble their

The ceiling of this one was brown and peeled, the walls were covered
with old newspapers, with here and there a scrap of brown
wrapping-paper, making unsightly and hideous patterns; the whole was
splashed with dirt and mildew; the floor was rotten at places, and
black, and quite slippery with grease and dirt; the window had four
panes, two of which were stuffed with rags.

As little Fé's tired eyes wandered round this dirty room, they fell upon
the figure of Mrs. Crump sleeping in a bed in the opposite corner of the
room. She was breathing heavily, and after Fé had listened for some time
to her short snores, he felt so miserable and lonely and wicked, that he
formed the brave resolution of arousing her, and confessing to her the
history of the sixpence.

It was strange that what Fé would have trembled to confess in the broad
daylight he felt strong and brave enough to acknowledge by the light of
the pale moon. He crawled up, after a few minutes' thought, and after
diving about his ragged bed, he found his cap, and took from the leaf
his precious sixpence; then he crept to the side of Mrs. Crump's bed,
shivering, but determined. But suddenly he halted, and gave a scream of
fright; a band of moonlight fell across the bed, and certainly there lay
Mrs. Crump, but her nightcap had slipped off, and her black wig lay on a
chair by her bedside. Poor Fé, in his childish ignorance, had never had
a doubt about the wig; in fact, he had never understood that people wore
such things. When he saw Mrs. Crump without hair, and the moonlight
making her still more awful-looking, he was quite overwhelmed with fear.

The old woman rose up hastily at the scream, and she saw only little Fé
quite motionless, with a wild, strained look of fright in his eyes. When
she made out in a half-asleep way that it was the child she detested who
had dared to disturb her, wigless and asleep, her wrath boiled up, and
when the same moonbeam showed her the shining silver clasped in the
little hand, it fell hissing and spluttering and burning hot on the poor
child's head, as he knelt speechless and trembling with fright.

She made up her mind in one instant that it must be some money he had
taken for the flowers, and had kept back from her. "You wicked, thievish
boy!" she shrieked. "I'll teach you to thieve, and then pry about arter
people be a-bed; so good as I've been to ye, too. Ye jest leave my door
for good to-night."

And in a fit of passion she rolled out of bed, scolding and shaking poor
Fé the while. She pulled him down the three creaking steps and out into
the cold wet street--and there, with one more cruel push, she left him,
friendless and alone.

With a sob and a gasp he saw her shut the door, but the fright and
shaking had been too much for his weakened frame. He seemed for a few
moments to feel again all the dreadful pain and anguish he remembered
having felt when he was very ill once long ago. His aching, weary little
head seemed too heavy for him to bear, and with a moan of pain he fell
forward, and lay where he fell insensible.

The moon looked down on the child's small form, and sorrowed for the
little heir, and for her own unkindness in throwing the beams of her
light just across old Mrs. Crump in her bed, and she stooped and kissed
the poor boy as he lay on the hard cold stones, and tried in vain to
warm him with her silvery light.

Bad old Mrs. Crump slept late on into the next morning, and this was the
reason that she knew nothing more of what happened to the poor
friendless little heir.

A doctor set out very early next morning to see a poor invalid woman who
lived in the same street as little Fé's cruel guardian.

He was a short, plain little man, but his beaming smile hid the
ugliness, and made the face tell that he was true and kind and good, and
the eyes seemed to think it best to tell their own tale, in case the
smile alone might not be trusted, and they glistened and shone, and told
of every kindly thought and feeling of which the little man carried a
big heart-full.

He was a clever doctor, and this woman he knew was poor. He did not
expect payment from her, neither did he from the white-faced, crippled
boy lying in the street, with mud on his face and clothes, and clinging
to his brown hair. But he lifted him into his carriage tenderly and
lovingly, and ordered his servant to drive quickly to the hospital.

As he raised Fé's helpless little form, something fell with a chink on
the stones; but he did not wait to see what it was then.

There in the hospital lay little Fé, and he was for many days
unconscious, and they whispered that his life must be very short, and
that he would never be strong again.

The kind little doctor, who attended him most regularly, was speaking to
a young lady one day of the poor little heir. He said, "The boy has
consumption, and the cold of the streets added to his weakness, and some
sudden shock, has so increased the disease, that I fear his days on
earth will be few."

The young lady begged the doctor to take her to see the boy as soon as
he was able. And one day, when Fé was better and well enough to sit up
in bed, to his great joy he saw once more the pretty face with the pink
and dimples, and shining curling hair; and the sight seemed to refresh
him, and make him stronger and happier.

Before she went away she told him that he should go away soon, and be
made quite well again in some beautiful country place.

This girl with the shining hair spoke in a low sweet voice to the doctor
about him; she said, "Move him to my home, doctor; don't let him die in
this hot town, where there is no air." And the doctor said, "We will try
it, but he cannot last long."

So after a few weeks my little heir was tenderly borne away from this
hot, noisy town, where he had lived but to suffer; and on the day he
left a poor starving woman found his sixpence on the muddy pavement, and
she cried for joy, and prayed over it, and bought with it bread which
helped to save the life of her poor half-famished child. So even little
Fé's sixpence brought a blessing with it.

And now Fé, who had never heard the song of the birds, or smelt the
sweet country air before, was well nursed and cared for at the home of
this girl with the shining hair. He faded gradually day by day, but he
felt at rest and happy, though his weakness was very great. At last, one
day he begged for more air, as he was faint; and they carried him out
into a hay-field, and there, with his head pillowed on the hay, with the
soft blue sky above him, and the scent of flowers in the air, with the
low of cows and hum of bees in the distance, and the sweet scythe music
sounding near him, and the touch of the girl's fair soft hand on his
brow, my little heir passed away without even a moan, only a little sigh
of relief, of happiness, and rest.

Then a grand sweet smile fell upon his face, which there had never been
room for during his life.

Over his little grave (the heir's grave) the beautiful girl placed a
small grey stone cross, and the only inscription upon it--

In loving memory of Fé.


Whether or not it is a bad thing to get punished will largely depend
upon the punishment, but when you deserve to be punished, and some one
else is at hand to receive it in your stead, then punishment is apt to
become a farce. Just consider this: _I_ deserve the whipping, but _you_
are hired to take it for me. Perhaps you think this is a joke, but I am
really in earnest. I am alluding to a practice which was actually once
in vogue--though never to a great extent--in this and other countries.
By whipping one boy instead of another it was hoped that the feelings of
the offender would be so worked upon, that he would refrain from doing
wrong rather than have an innocent lad punished.

Well, the long retinue of servants in the households of kings usually
included a whipping-boy, kept to be whipped when a prince needed
chastisement. What a funny occupation! D'Ossat and Du Perron, who
ultimately rose to the dignity of cardinals in the Roman Catholic
Church, were whipped by Pope Clement VIII. in the place of Henri IV. And
there stood for Charles I. a lad called Mungo Murray, whose name would
seem to show that he was of Scottish birth. The most familiar example of
whipping-boy is mentioned by Fuller in his "Church History." His name
was Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and the prince whose punishments he bore was
Edward, son of bluff King Hal, who was afterwards Edward VI., the
boy-king of England.

The scene which the picture on the next page brings vividly before us
represents one aspect of the use of whipping-boys. It tells its story
well. The young prince would seem to have incurred his tutor's
displeasure, and the birch is about to be employed upon the person of
the unfortunate Fitzpatrick. But Prince Edward cannot bear to see poor
Barnaby flogged instead, and is interceding with his grave guardian on
behalf of the lad. By all accounts which we have the boy-king was a
clever and amiable youth, and his untimely death in his sixteenth year
would appear to show that he stood much more in need of the tenderest
care than of the birch. It need hardly be added that as soon as he
mounted the throne the services of Fitzpatrick could no longer be in
request. You may whip a prince, but when that prince becomes king, even
while still a boy, the rod must be banished forthwith. Shakespeare says
"uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," and this must be especially
true in such a case as that of the hapless young Edward, who had to
discharge all the kingly duties without being old enough to feel much,
if any, interest in them. His courtiers spoke of him as if he were a boy
Solomon, and he cannot have needed much castigation, even through the
medium of Barnaby Fitzpatrick.

[Illustration: PRINCE EDWARD'S WHIPPING-BOY. (_See p. 220._)]




In my recent talks about the Coronations and the Royal Funerals, the
scenes that passed before us were intimately connected with the history
of England. The matters upon which I shall touch to-day are to a large
extent more particularly connected with the Abbey itself. No mean
personages were the abbots of the "West Monastery," or Westminster, in
early times. They were independent of any English bishop, and therefore
once in two years had to present themselves at Rome. Some of the abbots
were old, and some very fat, and were perhaps tempted to think their
independence dearly purchased by a journey so long and toilsome. The
monastery was exceedingly rich--it had possessions in ninety-seven towns
and villages, seventeen hamlets, and 216 manors. William I. gave the
Abbey some lands in Essex, in exchange for one of its manors, to which
he took a fancy, and upon which "Royal Windsor" has since risen.

The Abbots of Westminster claimed a tithe of all the fish caught in the
river between Gravesend and Staines. When St. Peter (according to the
legend I have already told you) consecrated his own church on Thorney,
he said, on parting with Edric the fisherman, "Go out into the river;
you will catch a plentiful supply of fish, whereof the larger part shall
be salmon. This have I granted on two conditions: first, that you never
fish again on Sundays; secondly, that you pay a tithe of them to the
Abbey of Westminster." And as long as it was possible the monastery kept
its grasp on the Thames fisheries. In 1282, the abbot, in defence of his
claim, defeated the Rector of Rotherhithe in the law courts, and the
original grant by St. Peter was put forward as authority for the rights
of the convent in the matter. Almost to the end of the fourteenth
century it was the custom for a fisherman once a year to take his place
beside the prior, bringing a salmon for St. Peter. The fish was carried
in state through the refectory, the prior and all the brethren rising as
it passed.

The Abbey and its precincts for a long period comprised a vast group of
buildings, quite cut off by pleasant meadows and gardens from the
neighbouring city. From King Street the approach was under two grand
arches and past the Clock Tower, where once hung and swung Great Tom of
Westminster, now in St. Paul's Cathedral. The entrance to Tothill Street
marks the site of the gatehouse or prison of the monastery, in which
many illustrious prisoners were confined before its demolition, in 1777.
Amongst them may be named Sir Walter Raleigh, John Hampden, and Lilly
the astrologer.

There is so much that is interesting connected with the sanctuary, the
cloisters, and the chapter-house, that I shall devote my next talk
specially to those buildings. The abbot's house, now the deanery, saw
many notable scenes in the Middle Ages. Especially was it so with the
Jerusalem Chamber, of which the low rough wall runs off from the south
side of the western portal of the Abbey. There is an entrance to it from
the nave. It was in this chamber that Henry IV. died. He was purposing a
journey to the Holy Land, when, in 1412, fearfully afflicted with
leprosy, he came up to London for his last Parliament. Soon after
Christmas, he was praying at St. Edward's Shrine, when he was taken so
ill that his death before the shrine seemed probable. He was, however,
carried to the Jerusalem Chamber, and on learning its name, praised God
that the prophecy that he should die in Jerusalem would be fulfilled.
His son, the gay and dissolute Prince Harry, attended his father in his
last moments, and then retired to an oratory, and spent a long day on
his knees. Henceforth the latter was a changed character, and every one
was astonished at the way in which he shook off the past, and devoted
himself to his new duties as an English king.

Round the shrine of St. Edward are several small chapels, but of their
dedication or the special devotions originally carried on in them very
little seems to be known. We know that there were altars with perpetual
lamps burning, and venerated crucifixes, and an abundance of relics.
Those placed here by Henry III. I have already spoken of; besides these,
there was a "Girdle of the Virgin" and other fragments of holy dresses,
given by Edward the Confessor. Good Queen Maud gave a large portion of
the hair of Mary Magdalene; and amongst other relics deposited here at
various times were "a phial of the Holy Blood" and the vestments of St.
Peter. At the porch of the Chapel of St. Nicholas was buried, in 1072,
a Bishop Egelric, who had been imprisoned for two years at Westminster,
but who by his "fastings and tears had so purged away his former crimes
as to acquire a reputation" for sanctity. His fetters were buried with
him, and his grave was a place of great resort for pilgrims in the time
of the early Norman kings.

[Illustration: LITTLE FÉ'S FRIEND. "_LITTLE FÉ_" (_p. 218_).]

But it was the shrine of Edward the Confessor, with its beautiful
surroundings, its grand musical services, and its abundant holy relics,
that formed the chief attraction to pilgrims, and yet only the barest
hints and allusions have come down to us as to what was going on for
centuries in the great centre of English religious life.

Of one event that took place at the beginning of the sixteenth century
we have full particulars. Islip (under whom Henry the Seventh's Chapel
was completed) was abbot when the red hat of a cardinal was sent from
Rome to adorn the head of Wolsey. The Pope's messenger rode through
London with the hat in his hand, and with the Bishop of Lincoln riding
on one side of him and the Earl of Essex on the other. A grand escort of
nobles and prelates accompanied. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen on
horseback and the City guilds were ranged along Cheapside. The hat was
carried triumphantly at the head of the procession to Westminster, and
received at the Abbey door by Abbot Islip and several other abbots, all
in their robes of state. For three days the hat reposed on the high
altar, and then came Wolsey with a grand retinue from his palace at
Charing Cross to the Abbey, and a goodly company of archbishops,
bishops, and abbots, performed a solemn service. Wolsey knelt on the
altar steps, and the Archbishop of Canterbury put the hat on the new
cardinal's head. "Te Deum" was sung, and then the assembled nobles and
prelates rode back in state to a grand banquet at Wolsey's palace.

In 1539 the monastery was dissolved, and as the Reformation advanced,
various changes took place in the Abbey services. Instead of an abbot, a
dean now bore sway. Much of the property of the Abbey was transferred to
the great city cathedral, which gave rise to the proverb of "robbing
Peter to pay Paul." The hallowed relics disappeared, as well as
Llewellyn's crown and other historic mementoes; monuments were damaged,
and Edward's bones ejected from their ancient shrine. For a time the
Abbey was in real danger, and some of the outlying property was given up
to Protector Somerset to induce him to spare the sacred edifice. We read
in the convent books of twenty tons of Caen stone being given him from
some of the ruined buildings. A few years afterwards it seemed as if the
old order of things were going to be restored, and the Spanish husband
of Queen Mary attended a grand mass of reconciliation in the Abbey, to
signalise the return of England to her ancient faith. Six hundred
Spanish courtiers, in robes of white velvet striped with red, attended
the king from Whitehall, and the Knights of the Garter joined the
procession. The queen was absent, from indisposition. After the long
mass, which lasted till two in the afternoon, the king and courtiers
adjourned to Westminster Hall, where Cardinal Pole presided over a
solemn reconciliation of the English Church with Rome. Soon afterwards
King Edward's Shrine was restored and his body replaced therein, several
altars were re-erected, and masses and processions went on as of old.
But Abbot Feckenham--the last mitred abbot in England--had only ruled
for a year when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, sent Feckenham to
prison, threw down the stone altars and transformed the Abbey into the
"Collegiate Church of St. Peter, Westminster," which is still the lawful
name of the edifice.

Henceforth the Abbey was academic as well as ecclesiastical, and
Elizabeth was very proud of her Westminster College.

The old Abbey witnessed some strange scenes in the times of the
Puritans. The ecclesiastical vestments had been already sold, the
tapestries removed to the Houses of Parliament, the college plate melted
down, and Henry VII.'s Chapel despoiled of its brass and iron, when, in
1643, the Abbey was subjected to actual desecration. The Royalist
stories of soldiers smoking and singing round the communion table, and
playing boisterous games about the church and chapels, have not been
proved. But Sir Robert Harley, who had taken down the Eleanor crosses at
Cheapside and Charing Cross, destroyed the richly-ornamented altar
erected in memory of Edward VI. The crown, sceptre, and coronation robes
were brought out of the treasury, and Wither, the poet, was arrayed in
them for the amusement of the party engaged in the affair. Soon
afterwards these historic national treasures were sold.

For nearly six years the celebrated Westminster Assembly of Divines sat
in the Chapel of Henry VII. and the Jerusalem Chamber, compiling
catechisms and confessions of faith, which are still of authority
amongst the Presbyterians. Whilst the assembly was sitting, Bradshaw
(who sentenced Charles I. to death) was living at the deanery. He used
to be fond of climbing up into a solitary chamber in the south-western
tower, which was long reputed to be haunted by his ghost.

At the Restoration the Protestant services, of course, replaced the
Presbyterian ones, and we catch a glimpse of Charles II. conducted round
the Dean's Yard by the famous Westminster schoolmaster, Dr. Busby. On
this occasion, as the story goes, the doctor kept his hat on his head
for fear his boys should think there was a greater man than himself in
the world. The Stuarts had learned nothing from adversity, and on May
20th, 1688, an occurrence in the Abbey shows us what was the feeling of
the nation. On that day Dean Sprat began to read King James's
Declaration of Indulgence. Immediately, there was such a tumultuous
noise in the church that nobody could hear him speak. Before he had
finished, the congregation had disappeared, and only the officials and
Westminster scholars remained gazing at the dean, who could scarcely
hold the proclamation for trembling.

I want now to call your attention once more to the Chapel of Henry VII.,
in which the banners of the Knights of the Bath form a conspicuous
feature. We first heard of these knights in connection with the
coronation of Richard II. They rode in the coronation processions till
the end of the seventeenth century. It was originally the custom at each
coronation for a number of knights to be created before the royal
procession started from the Tower. For a long time they were not
connected with any special order, but as the bath formed a conspicuous
feature in the ceremonies of their creation, they gradually assumed in
consequence the name of Knights of the Bath. The king used to bathe with
them, all being placed in large baths and then wrapped up in blankets.
In 1725 the order was reconstructed; membership in it was henceforth to
be the reward of merit. William, Duke of Cumberland, afterwards known as
the "Butcher of Culloden," was the first knight under the new rules. He
was only four years of age, and was accordingly excused from the bath,
but presented his little sword at the altar. To suit the number of
stalls in the chapel the number of knights was limited to thirty-six.
After the installation ceremonies the royal cook stood by the Abbey door
with a cleaver, and threatened to strike off the spurs of any unworthy
member of the order. Extensive alterations were made in the order in
1839, and no banners have since been added to those hanging in the
chapel. The banner of Earl Dundonald was taken down in 1814, and kicked
down the chapel steps in consequence of charges of fraud brought against
him. In after years these charges were disproved, and on the day of his
funeral in 1860, the banner, by command of the Queen, was again placed
in its ancient position.



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


Mr. Clair was very much surprised the next morning by a visit from Mr.
Murray. Bertie had quite forgotten to mention anything about his meeting
with him till he heard the visitor announced, and then it was too late
for explanations. It was quite enough for Uncle Clair and Aunt Amy to
know that he was a friend of the boys' to ensure a kindly and cordial
welcome, but Eddie looked rather black at the visitor, and greeted him

As the children were on the point of going out, Mr. Murray said they
ought to be off, and not lose another moment of the morning sunshine.
"The sun and fresh air you get before noon, and the sleep before
midnight, are what make strong, healthy, wealthy men and women of you,"
he said; "so be off, and perhaps I shall find you on the beach later

Rather reluctantly Eddie followed Bertie, who was already half-way down
the stairs. "I wonder what he wanted?" he grumbled, when they reached
their favourite haunt beside an old boat just above high water mark,
where Agnes almost directly afterwards joined them. "To see how badly
off we are, I suppose. I don't like meeting any one who ever knew us at

"Why, Eddie?" Bertie asked, in open-mouthed wonder. "I thought you would
be delighted to see an old friend. I was, I can tell you, when I met him

"Oh! you saw him before? I suppose you asked him to come and see us,"
Eddie cried angrily.

"No, I didn't; he said he would come himself, and asked for Uncle
Clair's address; and he was always very good to us, Eddie: he gave me a
steam-engine, don't you remember? and you a box of paints. He used to
call you a little genius when he came to Riversdale. He's a dear old
man, Agnes," Bertie added, turning in search of sympathy from his
brother's gloomy face.

"I don't like any one who knew us when we were rich to see us now,"
Eddie cried suddenly. "They must despise us!"

"Eddie," Agnes cried, a world of reproach in her voice, and sudden tears
in her soft eyes, on hearing what he had said, "Eddie dear, how can you
say so? how can you ever think such dreadful things? as if it matters a
bit whether people are rich or poor, so long as they do right!"

[Illustration: "AGNES ... AFTERWARDS JOINED THEM" (_p. 224_).]

"But we're not poor," Bertie cried exultantly: "that's the fun of it!
Why, we have everything we want, haven't we? Everything," he repeated,
with a comprehensive glance all round, and an eloquent wave of his
somewhat tarry hands. "Why, we're never cold or hungry, or anything.
Eddie should come to the City for a while, if he wants to see poor
people. Why, I know a fellow in a warehouse near us--Watts his name
is--who has only one arm, and gets eighteen shillings a week. He has a
wife and a number of children, and he has to walk four miles every
morning to work, and four home again, because he can't afford fourpence
for a 'bus.' Oh, yes!" he continued; "if Eddie wants to know what it is
to be poor, let him come to the City!"

"I thought people in the City were rich," Eddie said, looking interested
for a moment. "Uncle Gregory said you were to make your fortune."

"Yes," Bertie replied, slowly and thoughtfully, "there's a lot of rich
people; but it seems as if there were twenty thousand times more people
very poor. I don't understand it at all."

"Nor I," said Agnes, in a very low voice; "but I agree with you, Bertie:
we're not poor a bit; but oh dear! _I_ was poor before poor papa died;
we often had nothing to eat but bread for days, and such a little mite
of fire. But why didn't you tell us, Bertie, that you met the gentleman

"Just at first I forgot. You remember when I went up for that
fishing-line and hooks, and Teddy said we might fish from the chain
pier; I found you all gone there, and I ran after you as fast as ever I
could. While we were fishing I forgot everything, though I caught
nothing, and then, when I did think of it, I thought perhaps you
wouldn't care to know that our cousins are here."

Bertie spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, averted eyes, and a good deal
of confusion.

"Our Cousins Dick and Harry Gregory?" Eddie said quietly.

"Yes; they and aunt were with Mr. Murray; and he asked me ever such a
lot of questions and said the funniest things. Of course he never had
heard a word of poor papa's death, and how we had to leave Riversdale;
and how he did pucker his eyebrows over it! And when I said I was in
Uncle Gregory's office, and you were with Uncle Clair learning to be an
artist, you should see how he wrinkled his forehead and scowled! Then he
asked me how I came to be here, and I told him, and how near I came to
missing you all, and I wondered whatever I should have done if I had. He
said I might have had a very happy time with my cousins: gone in a yacht
to the Isle of Wight and round the Land's End; and I couldn't help
looking surprised. It showed how little _he_ knew of Aunt Gregory,
though he was with her; and then he said he'd call and see Uncle Clair,
and I forgot to tell him, and that's all. Let us go and have a swim,
Eddie, and perhaps Agnes will like to rest here for a while."

For answer, Eddie threw himself on the smooth pebbly beach, and hiding
his face on his folded arms, sobbed bitterly, wildly almost. Bertie
looked and listened in dumb, helpless amazement. Eddie crying! it seemed
absurd, impossible! The rough, hardy, resolute boy would not have cried
in such a place for anything, "not," he said afterwards, in confidence,
to Agnes, "not if he had a tooth pulled out!" and that, in Bertie's
idea, was the climax of human misery, the height of human endurance. But
Eddie's sobs continued for a long time without either Agnes or Bertie
attempting to offer any consolation, for the simple reason that they did
not know in the least what was the matter with him. Once, indeed, Agnes
ventured to ask timidly if he were ill, and the answer was such a rough
"No, leave me alone!" that she sat and looked at Bertie for what seemed
two hours, and was in reality about nine or ten minutes.

The pains and passions, as well as the pleasures of childhood are very
fleeting, after all, and Eddie Rivers, in spite of his fifteen years,
was a very child, so that he recovered himself quickly, and looked round
with an expression of shameful defiance; but on Bertie's puzzled and
Agnes' sorrowful face he saw neither contempt nor amusement, and he
stammered out a sort of apology.

"I'm very sorry, Bertie, but I could not help it."

"Poor Eddie!" Agnes whispered sympathetically.

"I'm glad you are all right, Ted," Bertie cried, with an uncomfortable
feeling in his throat. "I thought you were going to be really bad."

"So I was, 'really bad,' Bert," Eddie answered, with a very unusual
accession of gentleness and humility. "I didn't like anybody or anything
a moment ago; I thought you were very selfish. I quite disliked those
unkind Gregory boys; I thought Mr. Murray came to see us just to make
fun of us. I was as wicked and miserable as ever I could be, and I do
wish we had our dear ponies, and could ride every day like other boys,
instead of moping down here on the beach."

"I thought you liked it, Eddie. I do, over anything," Bertie replied,
looking quite serious; "and I'm sure if Uncle Clair knew you wanted a
pony badly, he would let you have one. Why didn't you tell him?"

Eddie flushed angrily, and turned aside a little impatiently. "Uncle
Clair is far too good to me already. You don't understand me a bit,
Bertie: you never did; or you either, Agnes--no, you don't. You are both
quite happy and contented, but I'm not."

"Why?" Bertie asked. "Do, tell us, Eddie! Oh, I know! it's because you
have an enemy, and I believe he makes you think all kinds of absurd
things. Just tell me who he is, Ted, and I'll thrash him," Bertie
whispered eagerly.

"Thrash whom? I don't understand you, Bert." Eddie looked up with a
sudden appearance of interest, and Agnes drew a little away: she did not
quite understand the turn matters were taking; but Bertie meant to talk
the "enemy" question over thoroughly, and pulled Agnes back to add her
persuasions to his.

But Eddie looked so thoroughly amazed, that Bertie was quite at a loss
how to go on. If his brother had an enemy, he did not seem to know
anything about it; still, there were Uncle Clair's words: they must mean
something; and at last he repeated them, and said he was determined not
to have poor Eddie worried by any one in the world.

"Do you know what it means, Agnes? I don't. Do you know what Uncle Clair

"I think I can guess," she replied, without looking at either of her
cousins. "I believe uncle meant that Eddie's enemy was _himself_,
because you know, dear, very often you won't let yourself be happy, and
make yourself quite miserable about nothing at all."

"Oh!" Eddie said, after a long silence, "do you think Uncle Clair meant

"Here he is, and Mr. Murray too," Bertie said, jumping up, and springing
forward, forgetting that poor Eddie's face still bore traces of his
recent distress, and that Agnes too looked very sad, and not a bit
inclined for company. They had not Bertie's happy knack of shaking off
unpleasant sensations and being cheerful in a moment. However, Uncle
Clair and Mr. Murray were standing beside them, and there was nothing
for it but to make the best of the situation, though Eddie, at least,
would have gladly been alone, to think over Agnes' words, and ask
himself if he really was his own enemy.


Mr. Murray's conversation with Mr. Clair had been a long and interesting
one, as far as the boys were concerned. Mr. Murray heard every
particular of Mr. Rivers' losses which Mr. Clair knew, and also gained a
good insight into the character and temper of the lads. What he heard of
Bertie pleased him greatly, especially as it agreed exactly with what
Mr. Gregory said; about Eddie he looked a little grave, and puckered up
his forehead for full five minutes, as Mr. Clair described his
restlessness, discontent, and want of application, and, worst of all,
the foolish idea that he was really very clever, and very much
misunderstood and unappreciated by his relatives.

"The boy is fairly clever, but he's not a genius," Mr. Clair said. "If
he would only work, he might get on; but Eddie prefers to dream noble
things rather than do them; he will spend hours looking at beautiful
pictures, and then nearly break his childish heart because he can't do
something equally good. His ideas, his ambitions, are excellent, but he
will not work."

"Is there no other profession he might get on better at? Would he make a
lawyer, or a doctor, do you think?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I'm afraid not; he really wants to be an artist; besides, he's so proud
and sensitive, that he never would make his way in the world if he had
to mix with people, and fight for a place. Poor Eddie, I am sorry for
him," Mr. Clair said, kindly. "He has such an unhappy disposition."

"And the little girl?" Mr. Murray said. "How is she provided for? She is
Frank Rivers' child, I think you said?"

"Yes; and she's the worst off of them all. Being a girl, and so
delicate, I really do not see what's to become of her if anything should
happen to us. It's a great pity she is not stronger," Mr. Clair
remarked; "she has a wonderful talent for drawing, and is the most
patient, painstaking, intelligent pupil I ever met. If Eddie had only
half her diligence, he would get on much better."

Then he heard of the peculiarly solitary life Bertie led at Kensington,
and listened in wonder, while Mr. Clair said Eddie was never asked to
his uncle's, had never seen his cousins, and that he did not even know
the Gregorys were in Brighton.

"You see, we are very different sort of people, Mr. Murray: our tastes,
habits, and manner of life are so widely apart, that it is perhaps all
for the best that we should not meet frequently. Still, he is Eddie's
uncle: the boys are his first cousins; it seems a little odd that they
should be complete strangers."

"Odd! why, it's very strange. I can't comprehend it!" Mr. Murray cried,
looking quite fierce. "I must make them better acquainted. Ah! I've hit
on the very thing. I'm going to take the Gregory boys for a trip in my
yacht along the south coast; the Rivers lads shall come too. You must
all come: there's nothing to make people acquainted and set them at
their ease like a few days at sea in a small craft. Promise me you will
join us. We start on Monday morning, and will land you anywhere, and at
any time you like. A week's cruise would do you all good."

"I'm afraid you must excuse us, Mr. Murray. We should not be a very
welcome addition to your party," Uncle Clair said, coldly. "I have no
desire to force my acquaintance on Mr. Gregory."

"He's not coming with us, in the first place, and even if he were, I
suppose I am at liberty to choose what guests I please to accompany me
on my trip?" Mr. Murray cried, almost fiercely; "but"--turning to Mrs.
Clair--"we need not discuss that point: it's the children we were
talking about. It would be a first-rate opportunity for both lads to
make friends with their cousins."

"Yes," Aunt Amy answered, thoughtfully. "They have so few friends in the
world, poor children, that it would be a sad pity to miss a chance of
increasing them. I feel half inclined to accept your kind invitation for
the children's sake, but we have arranged to return home a week from
Monday, and I almost fear my husband's engagements will not permit him
to remain another day."

"Very well, Mrs. Clair; a week will, I think, be sufficient for our
purpose. I'll find out in that time what the lads are really made of.
I've had so many boys grow up under my eye, that I can read them pretty
accurately now, and what's more, study them when they least imagine I'm
thinking of them. As for your husband, he wants three months' complete
rest, and a cruise to the Mediterranean in my yacht; and he _shall_ have
it, later on!" and Mr. Murray seeming as if he were in a fearful passion
with some one, frowned quite terribly, and shook his head fiercely,
whereas he was only making a very kind and generous proposal to a poor
artist, who could never afford more than a brief holiday, and always
had, so to speak, to carry his profession along with him. Mr. Clair,
however, did not seem very pleased with the suggestion, however much he
might like it--and in his own mind he felt that he really needed just
such a complete rest and change of scene, soft climate, and freedom from
all care and anxiety, to enable him to shake himself free from a strange
feeling of dulness and languor that had been stealing over him lately,
and a sort of mental depression that was harder to bear than actual
illness. But three months away from his pupils and work seemed
absolutely out of the question to Mr. Clair, therefore he did not let
his mind dwell on it, but returned to the question of the children.

[Illustration: "THEY CAME TO THE LITTLE GROUP" (_p. 229_).]

"While I thank you for your very kind proposal, Mr. Murray, I'll make no
promises; let the boys choose for themselves. Bertie, of course, must
obtain his Uncle Gregory's permission, as he promised, without fail, to
be back at the office on Monday morning. I will not ever stand in the
way of the boys' pleasure or profit, but I think it is truer kindness to
have them go along quietly on the paths they have chosen. Bertie is
happy and contented enough now, but he's a high-spirited lad, fond of
the sea almost passionately; a voyage, be it ever so short, may unsettle
his mind for the office. Eddie is discontented enough already; I don't
really see what good can come of it. Of course, I don't really think
that either of the boys is going to make his fortune, recover
Riversdale, and live there in peace and plenty, ease and indolence, ever
after. That's a pretty poetical little romance, and serves to cheer the
children, and make their sudden change of circumstance more bearable,
but I know they will have to fight the battle of life each by himself,
and quite unaided. Neither possesses a magic wand to conjure up a

"And why not, pray? Has not many a London 'prentice lad found that magic
wand in honest hard work and strict integrity? Why not Bertie Rivers as
well as another? But let it be as you say: leave it to the boys' own
choice. Suppose we go out and find them."

Mr. Clair went very willingly, and seemed as if he would be glad to have
the whole matter settled. Aunt Amy smiled encouragingly; she was really
anxious that the young cousins should know and love each other, and felt
almost sure that Eddie would be much happier if he had some friends of
his own age, especially if they were clever boys, who would make him
feel anxious to shine in their eyes, and excel at least in his beloved
painting, and that he talked so much of and performed so little.

Mr. Murray and Mr. Clair had not joined the children on the beach many
minutes before Uncle Gregory came along with his two sons, one walking
demurely on either side. When they came to the little group sitting and
lounging in somewhat undignified fashion under the lee of the old tarry
boat, they paused, Mr. Gregory looking somewhat astonished and
scandalised at seeing his old friend Mr. Murray--Murray and Co., one of
the most respected "houses" in the City of London--sprawling
full-length, with his hat over his eyes, while Mr. Clair made an
accurate two-inch sketch of him; but no matter what Mr. Murray did or
said, he was in a sense privileged, and Mr. Gregory greeted him
cordially, shook hands with Mr. Clair a little more stiffly, and
introduced his sons. Bertie, at the first approach of his uncle Gregory,
had edged to the other side of the boat, and watched the proceedings
with an amused twinkle in his eyes, that peered about half an inch over
the keel. Eddie was gravely polite, Agnes painfully shy, and Uncle Clair
seemed to have become quite a grand gentleman too in a moment; but Mr.
Murray never moved, and actually asked Mr. Gregory to sit down,
pointing to a vacant scrap of pebbly beach, and indicating the tarry
boat as something to lean against. At the proposition Bertie disappeared
altogether: it was too absurd to see Uncle Gregory's expression of
wonder, and he had to stuff his cap into his mouth to avoid laughing
aloud, but Mr. Murray did not seem to mind a bit.

"Rather stand, eh? Yes, of course; I dare say you do get sitting down
enough. I was just wanting to see you, to ask a favour. Can you give
this lad--where is he, Bertie"--Bertie emerged solemn-faced, and rather
scared, from the other side of the boat, and bowed to his uncle--"can
you give this youngster another week's holiday? I want him and his
brother, and this lassie here, to come for a sail with your boys. Mr.
and Mrs. Clair have also kindly promised to join us for a week, so that
we shall be quite a pleasant party, eh, lads? You would like it."

Dick and Harry Gregory instinctively drew nearer to their father, and
their faces expressed anything but lively satisfaction at the proposal.
On the other side, Eddie and Agnes had glanced at each other, and edged
behind Uncle Clair, who had resumed his sketching; only Eddie and Mr.
Gregory looked straight at each other, and old Mr. Murray from under his
shaggy eyebrows watched them both.

"Well, Bertie, would you like to go on this excursion very much?" Uncle
Gregory asked, in his hardest voice, and with his most chilling smile.

"No, thank you, uncle. I would rather go back to the office on Monday

"Thank you, Bert," Eddie whispered, giving his brother's hand a hearty
squeeze. "Of course we can't go without you."

Indeed, Bertie's words seemed to have brought a sort of relief to the
whole party. Mr. Gregory's smile was quite pleasant as he laid his hand
on the boy's head.

"You're quite right," he said, genially. "You and I are business people,
and can't afford taking holidays at random. We will go up to town
together, Bertie, on Monday morning, and I hope the others will enjoy
their trip."

"I'm sure Eddie will not care to go without Bertie," Uncle Clair said,
rising. "We must only wait for some more favourable opportunity for
becoming better acquainted with your lads, Mr. Gregory. Now, children,
it's dinner-time, and your Aunt Amy will be waiting. If you will join
us"--turning to Uncle Gregory--"it will give us much pleasure."

"Not to-day, thank you, as I have an engagement; but Mrs. Gregory will
take an early opportunity of waiting on Mrs. Clair;" and after a great
many ceremonious bows and smiles, they separated; Mr. Gregory, his sons,
and Mr. Murray (frowning, shaking his head, clenching his hands in the
most ridiculous manner) going one way, Uncle Clair, with Agnes clinging
to his arm, and Eddie and Bertie behind, hurrying away in the opposite
direction; but not a single word was spoken till they reached the house,
and then Aunt Amy saw by their faces that the old gentleman's
good-natured plan had failed, for that time, at least; but if she
thought for a moment that Mr. Murray gave up an idea so easily after
once forming it, it showed that she knew nothing whatever either of his
goodness of heart or force of character.


Though Bertie looked cheerful enough as he walked with Uncle Clair and
Eddie to the railway station on Monday morning, he could not help
feeling very sorry at having to leave Brighton. The weather was so
glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in the morning sunshine, the
streets so full of merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the office
in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They Were very sorry to lose him, too:
there could be no mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly
declined for them all Mr. Murray's invitation, they felt a sort of
respectful admiration for him, though from very different reasons. Uncle
Clair thought it was very sensible to return to town when his Uncle
Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and Agnes thought it was quite
splendid of him to have saved them from becoming more intimately
acquainted with their cousins; while the latter, in their lofty,
patronising way, considered Bertie was not such a bad sort of fellow,
and they would be kinder to him when they got back home, but they
certainly did not want to have to introduce him to their Eton friends,
Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom Mr. Murray had given them leave to
invite. They would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went to school,
and so, of course, hear all about the office; besides, Eddie looked so
proud and reserved, he would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor
was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr. Murray was more annoyed by
the failure of his plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way that
Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory would not easily have
forgiven him had he acted differently.

Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they arrived, but just as the
train was starting he came up, and after one quick glance up and down
the platform, entered a carriage without having recognised Uncle Clair
or Eddie, and Bertie found himself in a compartment with several strange
gentlemen, who each had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and
Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though
I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe.
Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they
were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would
be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they
purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back
with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the
corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which
he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small
bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.

"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then
leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of
papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here
on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or
tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find
him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."

"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.

"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I
can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other
matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they
reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in
his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was
the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as
if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be
addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient,
spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his
brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for
though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its
way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing
Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head
ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his
throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time
is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had
gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision
with a gentleman running down the steps of another office, who, without
pausing even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was waiting, without
observing that he had dropped a small leather bag he held in his hand.
Bertie, whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter, stooped to pick
it up, picked up the bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom
fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others. It was no use to shout,
much less to run, but having begun to learn to think, he acted with a
good deal of decision. Hailing another cab that chanced to be near, he
bade the driver follow the one that had just started, as the gentleman
had dropped something, and the cabby, who had witnessed the whole
transaction, nodded and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost; the
first vehicle was a private one, with a good horse, Bertie's was a
worn-out old creature, that ought not to have been in harness at all, so
that it was just as much as the driver could do to keep it in sight. In
the City, owing to several blocks, they almost lost it; and when they
got into more fashionable regions amongst the less-frequented streets
and quiet squares of the West End, matters were still worse, but at
length, turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical cab
standing before a large, gloomy-looking house, and its occupant speaking
hurriedly to another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang out and ran
up, flushed, breathless, and excited.

"If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing Lane," he said, "and I
followed you as quickly as ever I could."

One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of dismay, and almost
staggered against the railing for support. In his hurry and confusion,
his eagerness to deliver a pressing message, and get the documents back
to the City, he had not discovered their loss at all. The other
gentleman caught the boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation of
still greater astonishment. "Oh! Bertie Rivers, I see. So you found my
clerk's bag?"

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied, very much surprised to discover in the same
moment that one speaker was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had
come up in the train with him that morning, the bag the very one that
had excited his curiosity on two previous occasions, and caused him to
be disturbed from his pleasant dream.

"How did you know the person it belonged to? Why did you come here with
it?" Mr. Murray asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie's face.
He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman, who had been deceived many
times in his life, much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of
whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers' face was truthful and frank
enough to satisfy anybody as he replied that he did not know in the
least to whom the bag belonged; "but I was going to my luncheon, sir,
and I ran against this gentleman; my hat got knocked off, and when I
stooped to pick it up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman dropped
it, and I called; but he had driven off, so I just hailed another
hansom, and told the driver to follow the one just started. He said, 'I
saw it all,' and drove as quick as he could, and--that's all, sir."

"No, no, there's something more; you must tell me all about it
presently," and Mr. Murray pushed Bertie before him into a magnificent
library. "You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to this business,"
and he turned to the clerk, who had followed him. "Give me the papers,
and while I sign them thank that lad. He has done you a good turn

The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length Mr. Murray stood up,
thrust the papers into the bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed
to say plainly, "I'll see you later on about this," dismissed the man by
a wave of his hand, then he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at
the clock with much uneasiness.

"Now then, boy, you have done me a very great service to-day; what can I
do for you in return?"

Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked up resolutely. "If you
would be so kind as to pay the cabman," he stammered. "I forgot when I
engaged him that I had spent nearly all my pocket-money, and it takes
three days to get any from the savings' bank, and I--I couldn't ask
Uncle Gregory."

"Of course not; besides, the cab came here on _my_ business: it's _my_
duty to pay him, else I would not do it. Here, run out and give him
this," and Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; "then come back to me."

"Please, sir, will you excuse me?" Bertie said earnestly. "I am so
afraid to be late."

"It can't be helped this time, Bertie. You must have something to eat,
and I'm going into the City presently, and will call and explain matters
to your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your own story, because
I don't want to deprive you of his praise when he hears what a shrewd,
honest boy you've been. Come on, and have luncheon with me, and tell me
why you said you preferred returning to the office to going for a week's
cruise in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie Rivers, to know
what good reason you could have had for that very strange decision of
yours. Were you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?"

(_To be continued._)



German country children have a quaint little rhyme to ask the snail to
put out his horns. Translated, its meaning is like this:--

  "Snail, snail, your four horns show,
  Show me the four, and don't say 'No,'
  Or I shall pitch you into the ditch,
  And the crows that come to the ditch to sup,
  Will gobble you up, gobble you up!"

In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out
still less politely. They chant over and over:--

  "Snail, snail, come out of your hole,
  Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal!"

This sounds very cruel, but they can't mean it, can they? Near Exeter
the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:--

  "Snail, snail, shove out your horns,
    Father and mother are dead,
  Brother and sister are in the back-yard,
    Begging for barley-bread."

The snail's parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds
us of what the little brown Italian children say in Naples; they sing to
the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma is laughing
at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts
of the south of Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and
it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:--

        "Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy,
            Put out your horns,
  For the king's daughter is coming to town,
  In a red petticoat and a green gown!"

The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them
often enough, the horns will be put out at last. They have picked up the
snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile, when his
first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see
where he is, or to look if the big live thing that startled him has gone

The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of
the moon; they like to go out on fine dry nights, because when the
weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of a lane or
garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always
carrying their little shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a
moment's notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One notices the
two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as
well. In winter they sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden
wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with moss and leaves.

We often hear of "fattening-up" geese and turkeys, but how funny it
sounds to talk of fattening up a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept
snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and boiled wine, and
ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places
on the Continent, but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England,
as late as James the First's time, they were made into a favourite dish
with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a
great treat; and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of
the common little "shell-a-muddies." A larger kind are sold still at
Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are


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

"Apple fritters to-day," said Margaret.

"Yes, apple fritters to-day," replied Mary. "Won't it be delightful,

"Let me see," said Mrs. Herbert, coming into the room at the moment, "we
are going to make something special to-day. Whatever is it?"

"Apple fritters!" said both the children in one breath.

"Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You would not like to broil a
mutton chop instead, would you, Margaret?"

"Certainly not, mother!"

"Then we must take broiling for our next lesson. It will be all the
better, for I see cook has put the apples and the materials for the
batter ready for us. So let us set to work."

"But, mother, what do you think?" said Margaret, as she came up to the
table and looked round, "cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted
to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?"

"Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told her to do so. Batter is
best when mixed some time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs,
however, are not put in until a few minutes before the batter is used;
so that part of making the batter has been left for you."

"It does not signify very much," said Mary; "we learnt how to make
batter when we made pancakes."

"This batter is not made in the same way, though, as pancake-batter,"
said Mrs. Herbert. "This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently.
I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to remember."

"We will write it down," said Margaret. "I have written down all the
recipes you have given us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to
keep them as long as I live."

"A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter of a pound of flour, with
a pinch of salt, into a bowl, pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil,
stir a little of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a quarter
of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat the batter till it is quite
smooth and no lumps remain. Thus much cook has done for us."

"Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to burn, is it not, ma'am?"
said Mary, inquiringly.

"That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I should say, tepid water
is made by mixing two parts of cold with one part boiling water."

"Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the eggs, mother?" said
Margaret; "I can do that, you know."

"Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs, and they must be
beaten till very stiff. When they are ready you mix them lightly into
the batter. Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the skin off very
thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core with the little instrument called
the apple-corer. You see, it does the business very quickly. If we had
no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop out the core with the
point of a knife, when we should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or
we should have to take it from the slices separately. These apples must
be cut in slices across the core, you understand, before we can make the

"How thick must the slices be, please, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you can cut them to keep them
whole. You will do very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a
shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the apple inside, as well as
the batter outside it, and the thinner it is the more quickly it will

Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had beaten her egg-whites, and
stirred them in, long before she had finished.

"May I help Mary, mother?" then said Margaret, who did not enjoy

"Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like. Before doing so,
however, put the fat on the fire. It was strained into a fresh saucepan
to be ready for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we must use
it the moment it boils. Remember that every minute, I might say every
second, that fat remains on the fire after it boils, and without being
used, it is spoiling."

"You will have to be quick, mother, if you are going to use the fat as
soon as it boils;" said Margaret after a minute or two. "It is boiling
already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I do? Shall I take it
off the fire?"

"It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils."

"But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh, no, it is not; it is
quieting down. How very strange! and I had not lifted it from the fire."

"This is exactly what I wanted you to find out. Water, when it boils,
bubbles and spirts; fat is still when it boils. If you watch this fat,
it will become quite still."

"How shall we know, then, when it boils?"

"By watching it carefully. When you see a thin blue fume rising from it,
it is hot enough. That is the sign. If you do not look closely it may
escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you want, not a thick
smoke. If we were to let the fat remain till it smoked it would be

"Oh dear, how careful we have to be!" said Margaret.

"The slices of apple are quite ready, ma'am," said Mary.

"And the batter is quite ready," said Margaret.

"I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen paper on it for us to
put the fritters on as they are fried. And there is the fume. Do you see
it, children?"

"No, I see nothing," said Margaret.

"And I see nothing," said Mary.

"Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper behind, that will help
you. Be quick, we must not let the fat burn."

"Oh yes, I think I see something," said Margaret, who seemed rather
bewildered. "But I thought----"

"Think and work together, dear; we have no time to lose. Take a slice of
apple on a skewer, dip it in the batter, and when it is completely
covered, lift it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to another,
and another. You can fry two or three at once if only you are careful
that the fritters do not touch. As the batter blows out and forms
fritters, turn them over that they may be equally coloured on both
sides. They must be very pale brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no
account let them get very brown."

"How shall we get them out?" said Margaret.

"Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight away on the paper to
drain. You should put everything on kitchen paper after frying before
you dish it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or they will
be spoilt."

"There, all the first ones are out," said Mary. "Shall we put some more
slices of apple in?"

"Wait a moment. You see there are two or three little specks of batter
which have got away all by themselves in the fat. We must take them out
at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and spoil the colour of our
fat. Also we must let the fat get hot again, watching for the fume
between each relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple will make
our fat a little cool. It will heat in a moment or two, but we must have
it properly hot, or the fritters will be greasy."

"I should have thought they would have been greasy with being put into
such a quantity of fat," said Margaret.

"No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough. If the fat is not hot,
they will be most unpleasant; but if the fat is hot the heat will cook
the outside so quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that which
is on the surface will dry instantly."

"How quickly the fritters are cooked!" said Mary. "I never saw anything
like it."

"I thing frying fritters is even more interesting than frying pancakes,"
said Margaret.

"How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they feel when we take them
out!" said Mary.

"They will not remain crisp very long, though, not more than five
minutes," said Mrs. Herbert. "We must send them in to grandmamma as
quickly as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection. That is
why we make so much haste in frying, for fritters have lost their
excellence when they have lost their crispness."

"I suppose when we have dried them on the kitchen paper we had better
dish them and put them in the oven to keep hot, ma'am."

"No, put them in the screen; they will keep crisper than in the oven. We
shall not need to put them anywhere for more than a minute, however, for
they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift a little white sugar on,
and they are ready."

"I have enjoyed making apple fritters very much," said Margaret.

"That is well. The best of it is that when you have learnt to make apple
fritters you can make fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit
fritters are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped in sugar
before being put in the batter, and it needs practice to keep the batter
over them. Sometimes fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried
before being dipped in the batter."

"I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter, would it?" said Mary.

"Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like, one day."

"I should like, very much."

"Very well. Never do anything of this sort unless I am with you though,
dear, for fear you should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot, and a
little spilt on your hand would pain you very much, but hot fat would
pain you much more, and when it is used, a little carelessness might end
in a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks like you ought not
to practise frying unless an older person is present to see that
everything is safe."

Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said, and the remark
evidently met with her approval.

(_To be continued._)



"It wasn't here last night? and how did it get here? and who nailed it
up? and what does it mean?" said Lilla.


"I didn't nail it up," answered a Magpie, who hopped about from morning
till night in Lilla's garden, and never left off chattering.

"Of course not," returned Lilla; "I did not suppose that you did. But I
should like to understand the meaning of it."

And she gazed up at a great white board that had been fastened to the
garden wall. There were several words upon the board, and Lilla softly
repeated them.

"Air, all, and, and, earth, go, if, know, me, of, sea, so, through,
will, you, you."

"What nonsense! No sense in it at all," said Lilla; "yet they are
arranged alphabetically, air, all, two _and's_, and two _you's_ to
finish with."

"Oh, don't begin to calculate the words, or do it quicker," said the
Magpie impatiently. "Four fours sixteen. There are just sixteen of them:
that is multiplication."

"But not four of each sort," replied Lilla; "only one of most of them. I
wish I knew the exact meaning of it all. The only bit of sense I can
make out is 'Through will you,' but then there are two _you's_."

"That is one _you_ for you, and one _you_ for me," answered the Magpie.
"What you have got to do is to put all the words into a box, and shake
them well up, and we'll go through together."

"Oh!--where?--why--?" exclaimed Lilla, as her foot struck against a
silver box with the lid open; and on the ground lay a heap of cards with
the words she had read printed upon them. She looked up at the board.
There were no longer any words there, so of course they had fallen down.

  "Pick them up, and put them in,
  And you will then the game begin,"

said the Magpie, who thought he was wonderfully clever as he said this
to Lilla.

"Is it like making words from letters?" asked Lilla.

"Not at all. There you have to think and find out. Here you have nothing
to do but to shake, and when you have shaken long enough, the result
will come."

"How shall I know how many times to shake?"

"You won't know," returned the Magpie; "no one will know but the box
itself, and the box can tell to a quarter of a shake the right time.

"Through what?"

"Through the board, of course," replied the Magpie. "What else is it
meant for?"

"But the thick wall is behind the board, and then the houses! This is
not country; it is the town."

"Pooh!" said the Magpie. "Have I learned human speech for nothing?

And he flew at the board, giving it a gentle peck; and as he did so the
board split in two, and the crack widened, until it made an opening
large enough for Lilla, with the Magpie on her shoulder, to pass



Ah! that cannot be told until one has heard about the little boy who
lived far away in a country that Lilla had never heard of, for she knew
nothing about geography. She only knew about the town in which she
lived, and that there was a long street in it, and a great cathedral,
where she heard music issuing forth as she stood outside it; but she had
never been inside, nor had she ever been in any of the grand toy-shops
in the street. She had stood gazing in at the windows, and wishing for
the dolls, and the dolls'-houses, and the boxes of lambs, and the
work-baskets with silver thimbles in them; but there was no one to give
her any of these fine things. She lived with an old woman, who was
always scolding her, and who was especially angry if she tore her frock
or soiled her paletot.


Now, with Rollo, the little boy, it was quite different; he had a mother
who was very kind to him, and gave him as many playthings as he wanted.
He had also a good old grandfather and a little sister who used to pull
his long curls and kiss his rosy cheeks. And Rollo was very happy.

But one day these three died, and Rollo was left alone. Of course Rollo
sat down and cried very bitterly: there was nothing else for him to do,
as he was but a small boy then. He cried for a long time, and then the
sun looked in upon him, and pitied him, and also dried the tears upon
his cheeks. Then the sea rolled up on to the shore, and sang "Lullaby,
lullaby," so sweetly, that Rollo fell fast asleep. And when he was
asleep, the Wind came, and took him in his arms, and carried him away
over the hills and valleys, and the great shining lakes and rivers,
away, away.

And when Rollo awoke from his sleep, he found himself in a beautiful
country, where fruit was ever to be found upon the trees, and the
flowers were always in bloom. The sun, the wind, the earth, and the sea
had said, "He shall be our child."

So Rollo was well taken care of, and nothing harmed him.

And it was in this very same beautiful country to which Rollo had been
carried by the Wind that Lilla suddenly found herself when she stepped
through the board with the Magpie on her shoulder.


"It isn't the town, you see," said the Magpie; "there's not a house
near, and there's nothing but country, country everywhere."

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Lilla, clasping her hands; and then suddenly
remembering the silver box, she said--

"Shall I shake it?"

The Magpie nodded, and repeated these words--

  "Ay, shake away; ay, shake away;
  You p'r'aps must shake for many a day,
  Before the end comes to our play.
  But shake away, 'twill make us gay,
  And help to cheer us on our way."

"The box?" exclaimed Lilla.

"No, what's in it. It's a magic spell, and when you can spell it out the
spell will be accomplished." As "accomplished" was a long word for the
Magpie to say, he said it twice or thrice, whilst Lilla kept shaking the
box, for she was very impatient to know what the end would be.

The Magpie fluttered his wings, and put his head on one side,

"Not yet, not yet."


There came a burst of low sweet music, as if the south wind were
murmuring through the strings of many Æolian harps. And chiming in with
the music came the far-off roar of the ocean. Then a flood of sunshine
fell over the earth, and the roses burst into bloom, so did the
eglantine, that had been hiding away till the sun gave the signal.

"Rollo passes by," said the Magpie.


"The child beloved by earth and sea and wind," said the Magpie. "Give
the box a shake, and look up."

Lilla did as she was desired.

"I only see a purple cloud," she said. "Does Rollo come from the

  "Rollo lives here, so do not fear,
  The Multiphobus his course can steer,"

answered the Magpie, looking straight at Lilla.


"Multi----" and here Lilla stopped. She had never heard the word before.

"The Multiphobus," said the Magpie; and he spelt it over for her.

"Yes, the Multiphobus. What is a Multiphobus?"

"A creature that can do many things. He can live on the earth or in the
sea or in the air. He can run, swim, or fly, just as Rollo wishes. Rollo
is riding on the Multiphobus now. If you look up into the air you will
see him."

Lilla looked up, and perceived that what she had taken for a great
purple cloud sailing through the sky was in reality an extraordinary
animal, partly like a panther, partly like a hippopotamus, partly like a
bat and an eagle, for it had wings, claws, and feathers. And seated on
its breast, with one arm round its neck, and nestling close to it, was a
boy with a deerskin bound round him, and a crown of gay feathers on his

Though the Multiphobus had an ugly face, yet he was evidently amiable,
and he and Rollo appeared to be talking together.

The Magpie nodded approvingly, but Lilla felt a little alarmed at so
enormous and nondescript an animal; and she trembled so much that the
box shook, and the words rattled violently inside.

"They want to get out," she said; "shall I open the lid?"

"Certainly not," replied the Magpie; "they will come out of themselves
when it is time. Stand still, and watch the Multiphobus descending."

It was easy to say "stand still," but not so easy for Lilla to do so;
she shook and shivered, and could only keep herself steady by supporting
herself against the trunk of a tall pine-tree.

Suddenly the Multiphobus ceased to work his wings, but he stretched them
out to their full extent, and then dropped quietly to the ground. When
he touched the earth, his wings fell off, and he looked like an ordinary

"He has only to say 'Wings,' and they come to him at once," explained
the Magpie.

But Lilla scarcely heard him; she was in a greater fright than ever. Not
only did the Multiphobus look more huge, but at that moment a
sharp-nosed Wolf appeared in sight, and Lilla's box rattled so loudly
that she was afraid he would hear it, and look round at her.

[Illustration: "ROLLO ... ADVANCED TO MEET HIM."]

She could not keep it still.

  "No matter, no matter,
  If it does make a clatter,"

said the Magpie.

"Will the Wolf hurt Rollo?" asked Lilla.

But the Magpie only whistled.


And the Wolf, who walked slowly along, drew nearer and nearer to Rollo.
And Rollo, having taken off his feather crown, advanced to meet him.

"What tidings, friend Wolf?" said Rollo; "what have you come to tell

"There are strangers in the land," answered the Wolf, "and I come to
warn you."

The Multiphobus sprang up with a growl, and Lilla almost shrieked, while
the box rattled and rattled till it nearly jumped out of her hand.

"It will go, it will go!" said she.

"Hold it fast!" whispered the Magpie; "hold it fast!

  "'On it will depend
  What may be the end.
  Come with me to the tree,
  And then we shall see.'"

"To the tree where Rollo and the Multiphobus are standing?" asked Lilla.

"Where else?" asked the Magpie.

Lilla became nervous, and spoke in disjointed sentences.

"Oh no, no, no! I cannot go. I quake, I shake; I will not take a single
step. The box will break. Oh, how I quake!"

But the Magpie perched on her shoulder again, saying, "Do not be
foolish. Rollo will not let them hurt us;" and he gave Lilla a gentle
peck, which made her start forward, and when once she had made a move
she found that she could not stop herself: her feet carried her along
until she paused in front of Rollo.

And as she paused the lid of the box flew open, and the words jumped
out, and arranged themselves on the ground in the following order.

  "Earth, air, and sea
  All know of me,
  And so will you
  If you go through."

"Why, it's quite easy to read!" exclaimed Lilla in surprise. "I wonder I
never thought of it all this time."

"And it's just as I told you: four four's sixteen, four in each line and
four lines. However you count it, you will find it all fours," said the

"And it's about me," said Rollo, "for earth, air, and sea all know of
me; and brought me here and gave me the Multiphobus. And it's about you
also, for you have come through the board to come and see me. The
Multiphobus was talking about it when we were flying through the air."

"Was he?" said Lilla; "and he wasn't angry?"

"Angry! No, he is very glad for me to have a playfellow, for I am rather
lonely sometimes. And now we can play in the woods all day, and gather
strawberries and cherries and plums; and there's a little stove in one
of the caves, and I dare say you can make cakes?"

"Of course I can," answered Lilla, "and tea and coffee."

"Ah! that will be nice. And I will be king and you shall be queen, and
we will have a merry time, and the Multiphobus will carry us wherever we
want to go."

"I am afraid of him," returned Lilla.

"Oh, you need not be. I am quite sure you'll give a paw to Lilla; won't
you, Multiphobus?"

"I will give two," said the Multiphobus, standing on his hind legs and
stretching out his fore paws to Lilla.

She shook them, and felt at ease with him at once.

The Magpie fluttered about.

"I am not going home by myself," said he. "I shall stay here if Lilla

"That you shall," replied Rollo; "we will all live in this beautiful
land together."


Ah! what a beautiful land it was! The two children wandered through it
hand in hand, and revelled in all its glories--now underneath the
stately forest trees, or breaking through the tangled brushwood all
radiant with green and gold, and crimson leaves and lovely flowers, or
now sitting on the river-bank listening to the stories the river told
them of the lands through which it had passed; whilst the Wind sang so
many wonderful songs that Lilla begged to hear them over again.

And after the Wind had lulled them to sleep among the soft clover and
wild thyme, the moon and stars peeped out and sent them beautiful
dreams, whilst two nightingales sat among the roses and sang "Lullaby,
lullaby" as sweetly as the southern wind.

So that whether waking or sleeping the children were happy.

Sometimes Lilla would say--

"Ah! if it had not been for the words on the board, I should still have
been living with the cross old woman in the town with the long street
and the cathedral. And she would have gone on scolding me for ever and
ever; and whatever should I have done, I wonder."

"You may thank me," said the Magpie, "for having brought you away;
that's very certain."

"You may thank me also," said the Multiphobus, "and I am sure you ought
to do so, for it was I who nailed up the board with the magic words upon
the garden wall."

And of course, as I need not tell you, Lilla did thank them.




Once upon a time, many hundred years ago, when Rome was mistress of the
world, and the Romans were braver and stronger than any one else, there
lived a boy of thirteen whose name is still remembered. Lucius Valerius
was fond of his lessons, but most of all did he love poetry; so,
although he was only thirteen years old, he made up his mind that he
would try to win the gold medal and ivory lyre which were given every
five years to the boy who should write the best poem.

Lucius not only tried, but he succeeded, and one day, before all the
school and a number of visitors, the prizes were presented to him. Now
besides the medal and lyre which every one who gained them valued very
much, there was something else which they thought far grander. A statue
of the prize-winner was placed in the school and crowned with laurel.

You may imagine how the boy's heart beat with joy as he saw the judge
step forward to crown his statue, but just at that moment Lucius caught
sight of a young man who had also tried for the prize, and who looked
most downcast and miserable.

Lucius sprang forward, seized the laurel crown, and put it on the head
of the poor fellow who had been unsuccessful.

"You are more deserving of it than I am," he said; "I obtained it more
on account of my youth than my merit, and rather as an encouragement
than as a reward."

Then the people set up a great shout of joy, for they knew that a noble
heart was worth more than all the poems in the world, and they gave a
new name to Lucius Valerius in memory of that day.

So Lucius was always called Pudens, which means Modest, and you may be
sure he valued his new title as much as he deserved it, for "Kind hearts
are more than coronets."

E. M. W.


The Flower Garden will now be fast losing its beauty, and the cold winds
and frosty nights will be everywhere heralding the coming of winter,
when, more through force of circumstances than choice, our Gardening
proclivities become considerably abated. Throughout the present month,
however, the remaining floral vestiges of summer are often numerous, but
especially so when the weather of early autumnal months happens to be of
a mild and congenial nature. By this season the greater number of plants
will have performed those functions, and have passed through the various
stages, which each and every year exacts. In the case of plants known as
annuals, an entire life is projected and perfected within the short
space of a few months. Various trees and shrubs will now be assuming
the rich autumnal tints, and the leaves rapidly drop at the approach of
winter, and vital energy is being stored up until the following spring,
when new leaves are produced.

                *       *       *       *       *

The month of October is, notwithstanding its lack of floral ornaments,
one in which the amount of work to be done is by no means
inconsiderable, and the pretty little girl, with her hoe and water-can,
drawn on p. 241, evidently thinks as much. We must plant now in order to
secure a spring display of flowers, and for this purpose nothing can be
more satisfactory than bulbous subjects, such as hyacinths, tulips,
crocuses, and narcissuses. The hyacinth thrives best in a compost of
light loam, leaf-mould, and sand; plenty of the latter may be included
in order to secure perfect drainage, which is a very important item in
the culture of bulbous plants generally. Perhaps no other spring
flowering bulb looks so well when grown in neat patches as the hyacinth;
the bulbs should not be less than six inches apart, and at least two and
a half inches beneath the surface. They should be purchased in the
autumn, selecting firm heavy roots; and "first come, first served" must
be borne in mind, as by buying early in the season the best may be
secured, and finer spikes of bloom will follow as a natural consequence.

                *       *       *       *       *

Tulips have been for many years great favourites with gardeners, both
amateur and professional. About two hundred years ago the mania for
these plants amounted almost to a national calamity in Holland, and
scores of acres are now entirely devoted to their culture. For our own
part, we scarcely consider the tulip as in any way justifying the praise
which is lavished upon it even in the present day, because its beauty
is, to say the least, ephemeral, whilst its showiness is far from being
either chaste or delicate. It will be, however desirable to have six or
even a dozen bulbs, which only cost about a penny apiece. They can be
planted any time during the present month, from two to three inches
below the surface, in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, sand, and
well-rotted manure. When purchasing, see that every bulb is perfectly
solid, and select as many different sorts as possible, thereby securing
a variety, which is very desirable in a garden of limited extent. In
cold northern situations tulip-beds should always be covered over with a
little straw or litter during very frosty weather.

                *       *       *       *       *

Few Spring flowers are more welcome or appear so very early in the year
as crocuses. No matter how cold, foggy, or dirty the weather may chance
to be in this most erratic climate, the regiments of yellow, golden,
blue, flaked, white, and versi-coloured crocus flowers will never fail
to put in an appearance. The common sorts thrive almost anywhere, and in
almost any ordinary garden soil. They should be planted during the
present month, about two inches under the surface. As the roots only
cost about threepence per dozen hardly any spot ought to be bare of
flowers from the middle of January to early in March. A
universally-grown plant, even earlier than the crocus, is the well-known
snowdrop. This also, like the crocus, can be grown almost anywhere, and
may remain in one spot undisturbed for years; both are most effective
when grown in clumps. The French name of _Perceneige_, or Pierce-snow,
is singularly applicable to the snowdrop. Place the tiny roots from one
to two inches deep, and grow the single-flowered form only.

                *       *       *       *       *

The narcissus or daffodil is another of the many spring-flowering plants
which are invariably greeted with enthusiasm. The varieties are endless,
but the greater number are almost unexcelled for growing in such
situations as the tops and sides of hedges, banks, &c. They can scarcely
be grown too extensively. Of the various sorts, and exclusive of the
ordinary double form, few are more beautiful or more desirable than that
known as the Poet's Narcissus (_N. poeticus_). The pure white of the
segments and the delicate bright scarlet centre are best when the plant
is grown sheltered from strong winds. Another favourite narcissus of
ours, and which we can confidently recommend to our readers, is that
known as "Orange Phoenix;" it is a singularly beautiful plant, and
produces large double and well-formed flowers; it thrives best in a
light sandy soil. Several colours may be secured by purchasing a dozen
roots of mixed sorts, costing from two to three shillings per dozen.
They may be planted any time throughout October and up to the middle of

                *       *       *       *       *

The Kitchen Garden of our young folk will need but very little looking
after during the present and next two months; but in stating this we
must not be understood to imply that it should be wholly neglected. On
the contrary, it must be kept quite free from weeds of all sorts; and
everything should be in perfect order. To this end paths should be swept
and weeded every week, when the state of the weather will admit of this
being done. The Kitchen Garden is much too frequently seen in a
disreputable state, even in pretentious places, and where
flower-gardening _is_ done very well. But well-executed work in one
department by no means justifies slovenliness in another. Vacant spaces
of ground will need digging, but this operation should, if possible, be
left to a labourer, who, for the sake of a small remuneration, would
probably be very glad to do it after his ordinary working hours. Even an
enthusiast cannot but consider digging as the most laborious of all
gardening work, and will take especial care to shirk it whenever
possible. In fact, real garden drudgery of all kinds is better done by a
labourer, no matter how simple and easy such work may superficially
appear to our young folk. Good work, as we all know, can only be done by
an accustomed hand.

[Illustration: OFF TO HER GARDEN. (_See p. 239._)]


A boat came back from a journey. It had been to a far-off land. All the
sailors jumped ashore, only too glad to run about again, but they tied
up the boat to a long arm of rock, and left it there while they were

The tide was very low and the sky was dull; there was just enough water
to lap against the sides of the boat, and make it rock up and down. The
boat fretted like a petulant child, and pulled at the rope as a dog
pulls against its chain, but it could not get away, for all that.

"How dull it is here!" cried the little white boat; "they have all gone
on shore and are merry. They don't consider my feelings, left here for
the day all alone. And oh, what an ugly place this is!" and it looked
right and left.

The sky was grey, the tide was very low; the boat was lashed to a long
piece of rock that ran out like an arm into the sea. At each side of the
rock a mass of seaweed clung--limp and brown.

"Of all the ugly things I ever saw," exclaimed the boat, "that seaweed
is the worst. Think of the places I have been anchored in before--of the
lovely tropical flowers that grew at the water's edge."

"You do not know who we are," cried the seaweeds; "we are young fairy
sisters, who dance every night. This beach is the floor of our
ball-room, and we dance, and are decked with jewels. We dance and are
gay in the evening; in the daytime we lie still and rest."

"I do not believe you," said the boat; "you are ugly, and brown, and
old. And this place is the dullest I have seen all my life."

So the boat sulked, and was unhappy all day. But when the evening
arrived the sailors came down to the shore, and undid the boat, and
rowed away.

And the boat looked back, and it was sunset, and a change had passed
over the place. The sky was pink and golden, the waves were bathed in
light; the sea was as transparent as a sapphire, and you looked through
the sapphire roof and saw a golden floor.

Sure enough that was the floor of the dancing-room, and the tide had
crept up the sides of the rock, and all the little seaweeds looked
yellow and golden, and danced up and down in the arms of the waves.

The boat looked over its shoulder, and saw them: it would willingly have
gone back to the scene and danced up and down with the rest, but it
never saw them again, for it was bound to a far-off land, never to




Harry Pearson was rather a good sort of boy, but he had one very bad
habit. He was the greatest stone-thrower in all Tolhurst Village.

It was Harry who had broken the draper's window and the glass of Squire
Stopford's greenhouse. He had not been found out; but he knew well
enough who had done the mischief, so when one afternoon, as he was
running home from school, he saw a man putting up a great placard
announcing that stone-throwers would be prosecuted, he felt very much

He was just slinking home when out came his father, the Squire's

Harry thought that his father had found out about the stone-throwing,
and hung down his head.

But, instead of scolding him as, he had expected, his father said, as if
he were pleased--

"Harry, Master Edgar is better to-day, and he wants you to come in now
and wheel his chair for him."

Harry's face brightened at once; for there were few things he liked
better than to be allowed to go into the Squire's beautiful garden when
Master Edgar, the Squire's only son, was well enough to come out in his

Edgar Stopford was about the same age as Harry; but he had never been
strong, and for more than a year he had been lame.

"All right, father!" exclaimed Harry gleefully. "Is he in the garden?"

And without waiting for an answer he ran in and found Edgar Stopford
waiting for him.

"Harry," said Edgar, "I want you to take me in the chair round to the
stable, for I want to see the young rabbits. How old are they now,
Harry? I've been so ill that I can't quite remember."

"Seven weeks old to-day," said Harry. "I want to see them again very
much, Master Edgar. They're such beauties; I can't help thinking of them
every day."

"You haven't any rabbits, have you?" asked Edgar.

"No," said Harry. "Don't I wish I had!"

"Mine are prize rabbits, you know," said Edgar, "The old tortoise-shell
one took the prize both this year and last year at the County show. Oh!
And what do you think? A boy I know has been over here ever so many
times trying to get that young lop-eared tortoise-shell doe! You
remember which one, don't you?"

"Oh yes! oh yes! That was the one I liked best of all! It had such good
broad ears!" cried Harry with enthusiasm. "You didn't let him have it
though, did you, Master Edgar?"

"Oh no? He offered me a pair of his best Antwerp pigeons for her. And I
wanted the pigeons; but I wouldn't let him have that young doe!"
exclaimed Edgar, with a smile on his white face.

"You wouldn't? Oh, I'm so glad!" exclaimed Harry.

"I thought you would be," returned Edgar with another bright smile. "I
told him I wanted her for somebody else. Push on, Harry. Let's get round
to the stable."

Harry pushed with all his might, while his face flushed up to the roots
of his hair; for he could not help thinking--

"I wonder if Master Edgar is going to give that doe to me! But no,
that's all nonsense! I won't think of such a thing; of course he is
saving it for one of his friends! Shouldn't I like her, though!"

It seemed to Harry quite a long way to the stable, so anxious was he to
get there. At last he wheeled the chair into the yard.

"Fetch out the young ones, and let me have a good look at them," said
Edgar. "Bring them out one by one; but bring the young doe last."

"All right!" said Harry. And leaving the chair, away he rushed, opened
the door of the stable, where, to his delight, he saw the great prize
buck in a hutch, and the doe and four young ones all hopping about among
a quantity of fragrant hay.

Harry shouted with joy--

"Oh, Master Edgar! Oh, how they've grown! You won't know them! They're

He caught up his favourite first of all, and examined her thoroughly
with breathless delight.

She had grown into the most beautifully-marked rabbit that he could

Even to handle such a rabbit seemed to Harry a very great happiness.
What could it be like really to be the owner of that young prize

With something like a sigh Harry put her down, and caught one of the

"I've seen the young doe, and I've measured her ears!" he exclaimed, as
he took the other rabbit to Edgar Stopford.

"Well! He _has_ grown!" cried Edgar. "Try if you can push the chair to
the stable-door! I should so much like to see them all running about!"

Harry managed to do as Edgar wished, although it gave him a good deal of
trouble; but he did not mind that a bit.

"Oh, Master Edgar! Did you ever see such a beauty as that young doe? Do
look at her!" said Harry, eagerly, opening the stable-door, and making a
dive after the lop-eared tortoise-shell.

The two boys played with the rabbits for a good half-hour. How much they
found to say about them, any boy who is fond of animals can imagine.
Poor Edgar had not been out for some weeks, and all that time Harry
Pearson had not seen those rabbits. Harry was very happy, but still he
could not help saying to himself now and then, as he looked at his

"I wonder who is going to have her?"

"You seem very fond of that tortoise-shell young one, Harry!" said Edgar
presently with a smile.

"Ee--yes!" said Harry, his eyes brightening as he looked down tenderly
at her.

"But how could you keep her?" asked Edgar.

"Oh, I'd keep her fast enough!" cried Harry, turning quite scarlet,
while his heart gave half a dozen tremendous thumps. "I'd keep her! Why
I'd make the neatest little hutch that ever was. And I'd give her the
best of oats and pollard. Ah, as much as ever she'd eat!"

"Well, then, I shall give her to you," said Edgar. "I made up my mind
when I was ill I'd give her to you, for I was sure you would take care
of her. That's why I wouldn't let that other boy have her. He is rich,
and can buy prize rabbits if he wants them. I'd rather give her to you."

Harry Pearson could not speak a word for a minute or two. He could only
look down on the beautiful gift. To think that such a rabbit was his own
was too much for him at first.

"Oh!" he gasped, presently. "Oh! Master Edgar. Oh! Thank you! Thank

"Put her in that basket, and take her home," said Edgar.

Harry lost no time in obeying this delightful command. After which he
wheeled Edgar, who was getting tired, back to the house, and then ran
home with his rabbit, the proudest and happiest boy in Tolhurst.

All that evening there was an eager crowd of youngsters in front of the
cottage where Harry lived.

It was a long while since there had been such an excitement in the

Nor did the boys' interest in that rabbit die out; boys were always
dropping in to see how she was getting on; and Mr. Blades, the butcher,
who was a great fancier, offered Harry three-and-sixpence for her.

Very often Harry went to wheel Edgar Stopford's chair, when the two boys
would have long talks about the rabbit; and Edgar's pale face would
quite glow with pleasure as he listened to Harry's praises of the
wonderful animal.

So things went on for some time until Edgar Stopford was taken away to
the sea-side.

Harry missed him very much, but he still had his rabbit to amuse himself
with; and so, although it was then the holidays, the days did not hang
on his hands until very nearly the date of the re-opening of school.

One afternoon, however, the time did seem very long indeed. Most of the
boys Harry liked had gone to a treat to which he had not been asked. He
was cross and dull. He had spent the whole morning in cleaning out the
rabbit-hutch; he wanted something else to do, when, happening to be
loitering about in a meadow by the side of the Squire's house, he saw a
squirrel in a tree.

In an instant Harry was cruelly stoning away as fast as he could pelt.

He had not done much stone-throwing since he had had the rabbit; now he
forgot for the moment everything except the pleasure of aiming the

Up went the stones one after another; a minute later, and--Crash! Crash!
Smash went a lot of glass--then there was a yell of pain and rage--a
side-door flying open--and Harry tearing, as if for his life, across the
field, while after him rushed his own father and his father's
master--the Squire!

They followed him--they drove him into a corner of the field; they
secured him.

"Walk him off to the police-station this minute!" exclaimed the Squire
in a voice of fury.

"Oh, sir! oh, please! please, sir! Oh! oh! Don't, sir! don't! I'll never
do it no more!" sobbed the trembling boy.

"Take him to the station-house! Indict him for manslaughter. He might
have killed me?" cried the enraged Squire.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Harry's father, touching his hat; "I've
cautioned that boy times without number; but leave him to me this once
more, sir."

Harry was marched home. His mother was told. She cried bitterly.

"How much money have you?" asked the father.

"Not a--a far--thing," sobbed Harry.

"Then how is the four shillings to be raised to pay for that broken
glass?" continued Mr. Pearson.

"I don't--boo-hoo! kn--now!"

"But I do!" exclaimed Harry's father, in a tone of dreadful meaning.
"_That rabbit must be sold!_"

"No! no!" shrieked Harry; "I'd rather be sold myself!"

"Take that rabbit to Mr. Blades, and bring back three-and-six," said
Harry's father, in a stern voice.

He felt as if to part with that rabbit would kill him; but he knew it
had to be done. I don't know how he managed to do it. What he suffered
was terrible, yet he was sure there was no escape; so he put his pet
rabbit into a basket and took it to Mr. Blades the butcher. There, in
the picture, you can see him.

[Illustration: "HE ... TOOK IT TO MR. BLADES."]

"You won't kill her, will you, Mr. Blades?" he faltered, for the sight
of the knives in the shop was too much for him.

Harry has learned a hard lesson. Don't you hope Edgar will buy that
rabbit for him again? I do.

L. A.

Our Music Page

"_Dignity and Impudence._"

_Words from_ "LITTLE FOLKS." _Music by_ BURNHAM W. HORNER.

_In moderate time._


[Illustration: music]

  1. Said a wee little bird, with a pert little look,
    To an adjutant stork by the river--"I suppose
  that you think you're as wise as a book,
    And in fact that you're wondrously clever! You're a
  picture of dignity, that I'll admit,
    But alas! that is all I'll allow, ... For indeed
  you're not quarter as wise as a tit,
    That hops to and fro on the bough."


  Said the adjutant-stork to the wee little bird,
    With a dignified kind of a stare--
  "Little creatures like you should be seen and not heard,
    And your impudence well we can spare!
  You had better by far go back to your nest,
    And be pert where they'll heed what you do;
  For you see that in height I'm six feet and the rest,
    While you are just no feet two!"


  So it is with us all as we pass through the day:
    For we each of us think we're most clever--
  Whether impudent bird that chatters away,
    Or "Dignity" stork by the river.
  On our size or our form or our talents we pose,
    And we hold ourselves up every hour:
  If the Queen of the Garden be known as the Rose,
    Then we are that wonderful flower!




How a Dog saved its Blind Master.

Some time since, a blind gentleman, well known in the north of England,
went for a walk of several miles, accompanied by his dog. He knew the
road so well, that he did not strap up the dog, but let it run loose. He
had gone nearly five miles on his way, and was crossing some fields by a
footpath, when his dog gave a peculiar whine in front of him. He was
about to climb a stile, when another whine was heard. This startled him,
so he crossed the stile as carefully as he could, feeling every step.
Just as he got over the stile, the dog gave a louder whine of alarm,
placed its fore feet upon his breast, and held him fast against the
stile. He tried to push the dog aside, but it would not let him proceed.
The strap was therefore put around its neck, and the wise creature at
once led its master by a roundabout way quite out of the ordinary path.
It appeared that part of the footpath which led past a stream had been
entirely washed away by a flood, so that, had the gentleman continued
upon the old path, he must have met with a most serious accident. What
made the sagacity of the dog more conspicuous on this occasion was the
fact that it had not been with its master for eighteen months--he having
been laid up for the whole of that period, and the dog living with a
friend during the illness.

Abraham Men.

This was the name bestowed upon a class of vagabonds who wandered over
the country dressed in grotesque fashion, pretending to be mad and
working upon the fears or the charity of people for alms. They were
common in the time of Shakespeare, and were found even as late as the
Restoration. The slang phrase "to sham Abraham," is a survival of the
practice. There was a ward in Bethlehem (or Bedlam) Hospital, called the
Abraham Ward, and hence probably arose the name of these beggars.
Harmless lunatics who had been discharged were often to be seen roaming
about the country and were allowed a great deal of licence in
consequence of their weak-mindedness. Accordingly, the impostors above
mentioned, who used generally to eke out the gifts of the charitable by
stealing, when detected in their theft, would plead, as a rule, lunacy
as an excuse of their crime.

Famous Abdicators.

When a sovereign abdicates the throne, he does so either of his own free
will, or from compulsion. These acts have been sufficiently numerous as
to form quite an interesting history. Take a few of them by way of
example. Amadeus of Savoy abdicated in 1439, in order to become a
priest. The collapse of his great schemes induced the Emperor Charles V.
to give up his office in 1556. Wishing to retire into private life
Christina of Sweden laid down the crown in 1654, though she still
desired to exercise the rights of queen. Philip V. of Spain withdrew
from the throne in 1724 in a fit of melancholy, but ascended it again on
the death of his son. Victor Amadeus of Sardinia abdicated in 1730, and
afterwards wanted to recall the act, but was not permitted to do so.
Richard II. of England was compelled to abdicate in 1399, and in 1688,
James II. was forced to yield to the wishes of his subjects. Other
instances might be cited, but enough have been, quoted to stimulate the
research of industrious readers.

Memory in Cats.

An anecdote is told by a gentleman of a cat which will illustrate
pussy's affection for those who treat her kindly. He had her from her
birth, and brought her up as a friend and companion. After he had kept
her for five years circumstances required him to leave home for twelve
months, the cat of course having to remain behind. He returned one
Christmas morning about four o'clock, admitting himself by a key that
had been sent to him by post. He went upstairs to his old bed-room, and
in the morning found puss asleep in her wonted place at the foot of the
bed. She made a great fuss with him, and he ascertained that she had
never been upstairs from the time he left, a year before. She must, he
therefore concluded, have recollected his footstep, and at once have
fallen into her old ways.

Fugitives from Siberia.

Prince Krapotkine--a Russian noble who has experienced many of the
hardships of which he writes--in describing the life of exiles in
Siberia, says that its cruelty is so horrible that every spring, when
the snow has disappeared from the forests, and men may sleep in the
woods of a night without being frozen to death, thousands of the
convicts try to escape from the gold and salt mines. These poor folk
prefer to run the risk of capture and the brutal punishment it involves,
rather than remain longer in endless misery. Feeding on mushrooms and
berries they plod their weary way back, amid perils of every kind, to
their native homes, hundreds--it may be thousands--of miles distant.
They avoid towns and highways, of course, but they freely enter the
villages. The Siberian peasants, in silent pathetic fashion, show their
sympathy and good wishes for these unhappy people by leaving on the
windows of their houses bread and milk "for the poor runaways." Surely
we too may hope that the efforts of every unjustly-exiled person to flee
from the wretchedness and torture of the Siberian mines may be crowned
with success.

Tame Humming-Birds.

A young lady in California who had, through illness, to spend several
hours a day reclining on rugs spread on the garden-lawn, succeeded in
taming two humming-birds. At first the birds watched her with some
curiosity from a distance. To entice them to come nearer she fastened a
fuchsia, filled with sweetened water, to a branch of a tree above her
head. The tiny fellows soon thrust their bills into the flower. Thinking
they might like honey better, a fresh flower was filled with it every
day. This food was quite to their taste, and so eager were they to get
it that they would hardly wait for their mistress to leave the flower
before they began to rifle its sweets. They grew so familiar at length
that when she held a flower in one hand and filled it with drops from a
spoon, the birds caught the drops as they fell. Only two male birds
monopolised the honey flower, and they would not permit any bee or wasp
to come near it. Between themselves even squabbles continually arose
about possession. Change of weather compelling the young lady to keep
indoors, she tried to coax them to the parlour windows. For a time the
birds could not understand the altered position of affairs, but at last
one of them repeatedly went up to her and took honey from her hand.

Intelligent Dogs.

Some time ago I had occasion to speak of a wise cat of Colonel Stuart
Wortley's. Now I may mention the doings of two intelligent dogs of his.
One of them was able to tell whether or not it might go out with the
housekeeper, according as she wore a hat or bonnet. If she wore her hat
it knew that it might accompany her, and barked with joy as soon as she
appeared, but if she wore her bonnet it knew she was going to church or
on a visit, and that it could not go with her. It became so familiar
with these articles that if drawings of hat and bonnet were placed
before it, it could indicate which was which. The other dog was a Skye
terrier. When the Colonel went out it was enough to say "Yes" or "No" in
an ordinary tone for the dog to know whether it might accompany him or
not. The terrier was next taught to distinguish the words when printed
on cards--Yes and No--and in a few weeks it never mistook them.

Skating-Race in Lapland.

With a view to test the powers of the Lapps in the matter of
long-distance skating, Baron Nordenskjöld, the celebrated Arctic
explorer, offered prizes for a contest during his stay in that country.
The highest prize was £14, and the distance was about 142 miles,
starting from Quickjock and returning to the same spot. The distance was
accomplished by the winner in 21 hours and 22 minutes, inclusive of rest
on the way. But so keen was the struggle that the second was only half a
minute later, while the third arrived 11 minutes later.

The Riddle of the Sphinx.

The sphinx was a strange creature that figured in different old-world
mythologies. Its form varied, but the monster which propounded the
famous riddle was supposed to have the body of a lion, the head of a
woman, bird's wings, and a serpent's tail. Well, this sphinx appeared
once upon a time, near Thebes, in ancient Greece, and asked a riddle
of every passer-by, whom it promptly slew if the correct answer were not
forthcoming. This scourge at length drove the poor Thebans to despair,
and they offered their kingdom and the hand of their Queen to whomsoever
would relieve them of the dreaded monster's presence. One Oedipus
essayed this task. The sphinx asked him, "What being has four feet, two
feet, and three feet; only one voice; but whose feet vary, and when it
has most, is weakest" Oedipus answered, "Man," and there and then the
sphinx threw itself into the sea. Man, you will notice, has four feet
(hands and feet) and, when compelled to use a staff, three feet.

The Wolf and the Bees.

Not long since a wolf, in a milk factory in Cheshire, was stung to death
by the bees of a hive that stood near its kennel. As the honey was being
taken from one of the hives the wolf happened to come out of his den,
and the bees swarmed upon him in large numbers. The poor brute at once
retired into his house, but it was evident he was in much agony, for he
rolled over and over, pulling the hair out of his coat in great
quantities. Steps were accordingly taken to draw off the bees, the
kennel being closed and smoked. These efforts, however, proved useless,
and within three hours the unfortunate wolf was dead. A horse and two
dogs were also seriously stung on the same occasion.

About Pages.

Nowadays, when we talk of pages, allusion is made as a rule to the "boy
in buttons," but long ago they were rather important folk. It was the
practice, hundreds of years since, to employ youths of noble birth to
wait upon the sovereign, and the custom flourished in the Middle Ages.
The young gentleman "served his time" at courts and castles as a page,
previous to taking the further degrees of esquire and knight. The habit
of educating the higher nobility as court pages declined after the
fifteenth century, and they are now a mere survival, on a very small
scale, of a once general practice. Four pages of honour still form part
of the state of the British court.

The Union Jack.

Everybody has seen the banner of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland. It is formed of a combination of the crosses of St. George
(England), St. Andrew (Scotland), and St. Patrick (Ireland). The first
Union Jack was introduced in 1606, three years after the union of
Scotland and England, and showed, of course, only the first two crosses.
A century later (July 28, 1707), this standard was made, by royal
proclamation, the national flag of Great Britain. On the union with
Ireland a new union banner was needed, and the present ensign was
accordingly devised.

Glendower's Oak.

[Illustration: GLENDOWER'S OAK.]

Owen Glendower was a noble Welshman, who led his countrymen in the long
and stout resistance which they offered to King Henry IV. Henry Percy,
surnamed Hotspur, son of the Earl of Northumberland, made common cause
with Glendower, and each at the head of a large force prepared to do
battle against the king, who was intent on crushing the rebellion in
Wales. Henry IV. reached Shrewsbury just before Percy, and it was of the
utmost importance to him that he should engage the latter before his
troops should be reinforced by Glendower's. The battle accordingly took
place on the 21st of July, 1403, and after a protracted struggle, in
which Hotspur lost his life, victory declared itself on the side of the
king. Though Glendower did not take part in the contest, tradition
points to an oak near Shrewsbury as the tree from whose boughs he
watched the fight.

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._

    45774 Florence Bird             14
    45775 Bessie G. Smith           12
    45776 Ernest Johnson             9
    45777 Ethel Rawson              13
    45778 C. I. Rawson              15
    45779 Ethel Wilson              13
    45780 G. T. W. Osborne           8
    45781 Godwin H. Powell          10
    45782 Frank Simpson             10
    45783 Ada Simpson               15
    45784 Leila J. Simpson          16
    45785 A. E. M. Haes             12
    45786 F. A. M. Johnson          11
    45787 E. M. Curling              9
    45788 JESSIE L. FOSTER,
            Nunhead                 12
    45789 Alice A. Davis            12
    45790 Hilda L. Davis            10
    45791 Alice Sawyer              13
    45792 L. Sawyer                  6
    45793 Ada Neville                6
    45794 Richard Farrow            14
    45795 I. M. Restler              8
    45796 Kate Odell                13
    45797 Harry Edgell              12
    45798 Amy Henry                  8
    45799 Mary Cattermole           11
    45800 Louisa Hull               19
    45801 Aubrey H. Carter          10
    45802 Elzbth. F. Sharp          15
    45803 Louisa Baker              20
    45804 Lizzie Utton              12
    45805 George Ayres              10
    45806 Alice Cass                11
    45807 Alice Cottrell             9
    45808 Vincent Farrow            19
    45809 Eliza A. Sharp            11
    45810 Henry Neville             19
    45811 Hester Neville            11
    45812 Ella Foster                6
    45813 Ernest Hawkins            10
    45814 Elizabeth George          11
    45815 Martha Chinnery           18
    45816 Annie Morris              17
    45817 Mary Watson               15
    45818 Eleanor Frost             14
    45819 Rosie Henry                6
    45820 Mabel Carter              12
    45821 E. Chamberlain            13
    45822 A. Chamberlain            17
    45823 Mary Oldfield             13
    45824 Nellie Langley            10
    45825 Daniel Riley              21
    45826 Lizzie Grubb              10
    45827 Elizabeth Hall            13
    45828 Ada Foster                18
    45829 Charles Farrow            17
    45830 Maude Pasley              10
    45831 Alfred Frost              18
    45832 Alice Allen                8
    45833 Lizzie Shorey             11
    45834 Jenny Clifford             9
    45835 Frank Foster               8
    45836 Charles Stracy            15
    45837 Frank Foster              13
    45838 SARAH HAGUE,
            Hollingwood             14
    45839 Sarah Holme               20
    45840 F. W. Ashford             12
    45841 A. W. Holme               13
    45842 Nancey Holme              18
    45843 P. H. Hague               13
    45844 F. S. Hague               20
    45845 S. J. Hague               16
    45846 B Holme                    8
    45847 M. Colvine                14
    45848 M. A. Hulse               13
    45849 Lizzie Lissett            13
    45850 E. A. Faulkner            14
    45851 Edith E. Taylor           15
    45852 Sarah Halliwell           16
    45353 Lucy Ashly                14
    45854 Ruth Hulse                11
    45855 M. Broadbent              15
    45856 L. Stevenson              16
    45857 Elizabeth Titter          12
    45858 Hannah Booth              13
    45859 Mary Marland              12
    45860 Eliza Marland             12
    45861 Agnes Spencer             14
    45862 Eliza Ogden               11
    45863 Emily Ashbury             10
    45864 W. Hague                  10
    45865 G. Stott                  12
    45866 W. Lees                   12
    45867 A. Lees                   17
    45868 Polly Lees                 9
    45869 Dora Lees                 19
    45870 Maria Holt                10
    45871 E. A. Ogden               10
    45872 W. A. Hunt                16
    45873 M. A. Jones               12
    45874 E. Goodard                14
    45875 M. Goodard                13
    45876 E. A. Butterworth         13
    45877 J. W. Ayre                12
    45878 J. S. Taylor              15
    45879 S. Broadbent              14
    45880 Ada Booth                 10
    45881 W. C. Broome              11
    45882 A. E. Broome              13
    45883 Bessie Colvine            12
    45884 Alice Colvine             16
    45885 J. Colvine                14
    45886 T. Holme                  16
    45887 Mary E. Kelly             17
    45888 Harry Kelly                8
    45889 Emma Kelly                12
    45890 Jessie Hague               7
    45891 John H. Faull             10
    45892 Marian B. Mills           10
    45893 Lucy V. Barron             9
    45894 Nellie M. Barron          11
    45895 Leonard Barron            15
    45896 M. S. H. Osborne          10
    45897 Anna N. Pagan              8
    45898 Amy Osborne                7
    45899 M. Hollingworth           19
    45900 Susie Winchester          13
    45901 Blanch Mitchell           18
    45902 Bertha Hollis             12
    45903 A. E. Hollis               9
    45904 T. J. MacDermott          16
    45905 A. T. Chamier             12
    45906 C. E. K. Godfrey          10
    45907 Edith R. Carr             13
    45908 Gertrude Paulet           12
    45909 Nina M. Allen             13
    45910 H. G. Abel                 8
    45911 Guy L. Joy                11
    45912 William Carroll           11
    45913 Emily Higgs               17
    45914 Fanny M. Hall             15
    45915 K. W. Pickford            14
    45916 Evelyn Bloom               7
    45917 K. E. Jameson             16
    45918 Isabella Jameson          15
    45919 Ernest M. Ellis           12
    45920 George Slade              12
    45921 Charles Northam           10
    45922 Momtitue Cooper           13
    45923 Fred Steinle              13
    45924 Simmey Price               7
    45925 Arthur Lambert            12
    45926 Fredk. London             10
    45927 F. Montgomery             12
    45928 W. Kingston               13
    45929 Will Elliston             14
    45930 Bert Kingston              4
    45931 Fredk. Wollven             8
    45932 John Kingston             12
    45933 Richd. Plumsted           13
    45934 Will Scotcher             14
    45935 James Barratt             11
    45936 Frederick Lister          12
    45937 Sidney H. Lewin           14
    45938 George Durmford           13
    45939 Jsph. Johnanson           14
    45940 John Fraser               12
    45941 Frederick Neal             9
    45942 John Finbow               12
    45943 George Downes             11
    45944 Alice Goddard              9
    45945 Sidney Hinton             13
    45946 Harry Garnham             11
    45947 Will Oxer                 14
    45948 Annie Giddins             11
    45949 Edward Downes             12
    45950 George Mayes               8
    45951 Fredk. Woolley            14
    45952 Charles Saxby             10
    45953 Joseph Smith              12
    45954 John Bligh                12
    45955 Fredk. Lloyd              12
    45956 Arthur Miller             13
    45957 William Price             11
    45958 Walter Smithson            8
    45959 Arthur Stockings          11
    45960 W. Hastings               14
    45961 Louisa Thompson            9
    45962 Richard Saxby             13
    45963 Sidney Kingston            6
    45964 Annie Mayes               10
    45965 Louie Scotto              16
    45966 Walter Withers            12
    45967 Louise Giddins             8
    45068 Harry Gainham             12
    45969 HERBERT  H.
            Lee                     11
    45970 E. T. Spackman            18
    45971 R. E. Wetherell           11
    45972 Bertie Gilling            10
    45973 C. F. G. Low              12
    45974 W. H. Sturton             11
    45975 Robt. G. Reeves           11
    45976 L. H. Matravers            7
    45977 A. C. G. Dournel          10
    45978 B. R. Bostock             11
    45979 Charles H. Hoare          14
    45980 Bruce Angier              11
    45981 F. J. C. Helder            9
    45982 Wm. J. Helder             12
    45983 Mary J. Orr               17
    45984 E. L. K. Pratt            11
    45985 Isabella Cowie             7
    45986 Lina Cowie                 5
    45987 Mabel Cowie                4
    45988 Frederick Wilkes          11
    45989 Jenny A. Wilkes           14
    45990 Peter Wilkes              13
    45991 Lucy C. Wilkes             8
    45992 Elsie Wilkes               6
    45993 Andrew Wilkes              3
    45994 A. Whittington            16
    45995 E. Whittington             9
    45996 Flrnce. Smithers          12
    45997 A. T. Smithers            11
    45998 M. C. E. Wright           12
    45999 L. Durling                15
    46000 Caroline Ford             15
    46001 E. H. Keeling             17
    46002 A. M. H. Keeling          11
    46003 Edward Loat               11
    46004 Eva Wheatley              19
    46005 Alice Coveney             16
    46006 Ada Coveney               14
    46007 Alfred Horton              9
    46008 Bertie Horton              8
    46009 Queenie Horton             7
    46010 Martham Thorne            11
    46011 James Thatcher            16
    46012 George Brackley           17
    49013 Jessie Farminer           18
    46014 Charles Lindsey           11
    46015 Margt. McLean             14
    46016 Jessie McLean             12
    46017 Emily Cole                11
    46018 Gertrude Cole             10
    46019 Albert Cave               10
    46020 Ethel Cave                 8
    46021 Edith A Brook             12
    46022 Ulda Piza                 12
    46023 Ruth Piza                 13
    46024 Sissy Tuteur               9
    46025 May Vinning               12
    46026 LILLY M. WEEB,
               Hythe                14
    46027 Clarence J. Weeb          12
    46028 Henry G. Weeb             15
    46029 Effie M. Clarke           15
    46030 G. E. Matthews            12
    46031 M. Matthews               15
    46032 Emily A. Rigden           13
    46033 M. W. Lovegrove            9
    46034 Ethel C. Lorden            7
    46035 D. B. Machin              18
    46036 E. V. Machin               9
    46037 Annie E. Jones            15
    46038 Mary V. Wethey            15
    46039 Elsie Wethey              17
    46040 E. E. Wethey              10
    46041 Annie Wills               17
    46042 Lily Spencer              17
    46043 Alice M. Escott           15
    46044 Jessie Rawlinson          19
    46045 N. E. Lawson              12
    46046 Helen Macnair             11
    46047 J. A. Saunders            18
    46048 Ada Bull                   6
    46049 Victoria Salter            6
    46050 Bertha Leal                7
    46051 A. Chiverton              10
    46052 Williams Small             9
    46053 Ellen Hiscock              9
    46054 Elizabeth Rolf            13
    46055 A. M. Lambert             11
    46056 Kate Matthews             13
    46057 Arthur Plumley             8
    46058 Agnes Guttridge           13
    46059 Augusta Cooper            13
    46060 S. K. Lambert             17
    46061 Walter Matthews           10
    46062 Amy Wells                  8
    46063 Lydia Crump               15
    46064 Maud M. Crump             11
    46065 Chas. T. Crump            13
    46066 Thomas Rolf               12
    46067 George Duffey             10
    46068 Benjamin Daish            12
    46069 James Downer              12
    46070 Edward Drake              11
    46071 Alfred Hollis             11
    46072 Louisa Holliday           12
    46073 Francis E. Court          11
    46074 Lily Blackwell             8
    46075 Florce. Marshall          12
    46076 Kate Wickens              10
            Stroud                  14
    46078 Kate Cheriton             20
    46079 Mary Cheriton             17
    46080 Ella M. Trotman           16
    46081 Caroline Trotman          13
    46082 Nellie Trotman            12
    46083 Katie Trotman             19
    46084 B. M. Trotman             15
    46085 A. Middleditch            14
    46086 Frank Dix                 11
    46087 Herbert Williams          15
    46088 Flory Barker              13
    46089 Alice Bignold             10
    46090 Charlotte Ellery          17
    46091 Ada Hogg                   6
    46092 G. P. Steward              8
    46093 Zoë Hawkins                7
    46094 Florce. Stephens          12
    46095 Emily Pockett             13
    46096 H. M. Dauncey             20
    46097 Charlie Pearce             8
    46098 Rosa Pearce               10
    46099 R. N. Milner              13
    46100 Alice Milner               9
    46101 Bessie Milner              6
    46102 Tom Milner                11
    46103 Frederick Seal             8
    46104 Louie Seal                 7
    46105 Thirza Liddell            16
    46106 Mary Cresswell            14
    46107 Maude Bailey              15
    46108 Adelaide Bailey           14
    46109 Alfred Hill               14
    46110 Florence Hill             10
    46111 Harriett Hill             12
    46112 Mildred Hill               7
    46113 Emily Hill                16
    46114 Caroline Hill             13
    46115 J. W. Barge               15
    46116 Frances Barge             20
    46117 Edith Barge               19
    46118 Lily Ricketts             12
    46119 Edgar Ricketts            10
    46120 E. E. Ricketts            14
    46121 Fredk. Ricketts           21
    46122 Minnie Ricketts           17
    46123 Mary Early                15
    46124 Walter Harrison           17
    46125 George Harrison           12
    46126 Eva Page                  11
    46127 Emma Field                12
    46128 Alice Hawker              14
    46129 Blanche Moore             16
    46130 Benjmn. Danzey            17
    46131 H. Lansdown               15
    46132 Albert Smith              14
    46133 Agnes Clout               18
    46134 Fanny Osborne             18
    46135 Janet Rham                17
    46136 M. Humphrey               18
    46137 Bertha Geer               20
    46138 Nellie Cheesman           18
    46139 Marian Tompsett           16
    46140 Edith Atkins              17
    46141 F. Hutchinson             14
    46142 Lilian Hawkes             16
    46143 Minnie Gulliver           15
    46144 James Page                16
    46145 Amelia Baker              16
    46146 Louisa Holmes             20
    46147 Anney Evans               13
    46148 Richard Reeve              9
    46149 Sarah R. Reeve            13
    46150 L. Underwood              20
    46151 Walter Hawkes             14
    46152 William South             20
    46153 Kate Watson               17
    46154 Alice Hawkes               9
    46155 George Hawkes             18
    46156 Emily Rose                19
    46157 Emma Percivall            18
    46158 Sarah Davis               17
    46159 Charles Lightford         18
    46160 Thomas Ebstob             18
    46161 Ada Gadd                  15
    46162 M. Millward               17
    46163 Elzbth. Paige             16
    46164 Rosy Burke                20
    46165 Isabella Glithero         18
    46166 Elizabeth Carter          15
    46167 Ada Nicholls              19
    46168 Nellie Jawles             14
    46169 Bessie Pervin             15
    46170 Emily Roberts             16
    46171 Fanny Gadd                18
    46172 Laura Clarke              17
    46173 Lizzie Wilkinson          12
    46174 E. Weatherstone           16
    46175 Florce. Wilkinson          9
    46176 Mary Reeve                16
    46177 Lizzie Garnham            14
    46178 John A. Speers            14
    46179 W. W. KIDSTON,
            Glasgow                 14
    46180 Edith Prain               16
    46181 Thomas Pearcey            11
    46182 Peter Weir                14
    46183 Gilbert Ritchie           12
    46184 Ethel Prain                8
    46185 Frank Prain               11
    46186 R. Thomson                14
    46187 R. A. Thomson             14
    46188 James Campbell            12
    46189 D. H. Duncan              12
    46190 John B. Kidston           16
    46191 Helen E. Kidston          17
    46192 I. D. Kidston             18
    46193 James Kerr                12
    46194 D. Macdonald              12
    46195 Alexandra Orr             13
    46196 William Napier            13
    46197 Adam Reid                 12
    46198 H. M. Lean                13
    46199 Walter Guthrie            11
    46200 John Turnbull             11
    46201 G. Hannah                 13
    46202 James Maltman             11
    46203 A. McLennan               10
    46204 Willie Gilchrist          11
    46205 John Chalmers             11
    46206 Edwd. Campbell            11
    46207 Willie Dewar              11
    46208 John McGowan              11
    46209 Hugh Tennant              11
    46210 Geo. Lauchlan             11
    46211 John A. Hunter            12
    46212 James Thompson            13
    46213 James Frame               13
    46214 Geo. Anderson             11
    46215 John Holliday             14
    46216 William Smith             13
    46217 James Nicol               13
    46218 James H. Davie            11
    46219 Wm. Torrance              10
    46220 M. H. Fleming             13
    46221 Charles Chalmers          13
    46222 James Wilson              14
    46223 David Gray                13
    46224 John Dickie               14
    46225 Wm. G. Christian          13
    46226 O. Pattenhausen           13
    46227 Wm. Jamieson              13
    46228 J. D. Gellaitry           10
    46229 Millie Prain              12
    46230 CHARLES W.
            COUCH, Devonport        18
    46231 Bessie Hamley             11
    46232 Chas. Mugridge            11
    46233 Chas. Bowning             15
    46234 Emily Poor                12
    46235 Jessie Poor                8
    46236 Kate Whitfield            13
    46237 Jessie Whitfield          10
    46238 B. J. Locke               16
    46239 George Yandell             9
    46240 Alfred Callaway           17
    46241 Emily Morgan              13
    46242 Charles E. Craig          17
    46243 Blanch Couch              16
    46244 Annie Hellyer             15
    46245 Mary Dyer                 12
    46246 Emily Hellyer             17
    46247 Wm. D. L. Roue            12
    46248 Richard Harris            16
    46249 H. Marshall               16
    46250 William G. Hall           16
    46251 Rose Couch                12
    46252 Alfred Mugridge            7
    46253 James Couch               20
    46254 Eda Moxey                 12
    46255 Alfred Chapman            14
    46256 Lucy Routcliffe           13
    46257 Hy. J. Richards           15
    46258 Polly Dolphin             10
    46259 Lily Couch                10
    46260 Wm R. Rees                 9
    46261 Ernest Yandell            10
    46262 Edward J. Welsh           12
    46263 Charles Evans             14
    46264 Henry Chapman             17
    46265 Walter Rees               11
    46266 Willy Bickford            12
    46267 Richard Warn               9
    46268 Wm. C. Simmons            20
    46269 William Andrews           16
    46270 Stephn. H. Tozer          15
    46271 Alfred Jenkins            15
    46272 Alfred Winn               17
    46273 R. Roseman                 8
    46274 Ada Rickford              10
    46275 Geo. J. Budge             11
    46276 Charles Mallett           12
    46277 Frederick Giles           10
    46278 W. Blofield               15
    46279 Henry Freethy             18
    46280 Jane Hellyer              11
    46281 ELLEN C. BUTTERS,
            Cross                   13
    46282 Minnie Burney              7
    46283 Rosa East                 11
    46284 Kate Townsend             12
    46285 Nellie Grimston            9
    46286 Maud A. King              12
    46287 Ruth Cleathers            13
    46288 Eleanor Clark             12
    46289 H. Cannadine              12
    46290 M. M. Armitage            12
    46291 Emily Stanton             10
    46292 Emma Rodnell              11
    46293 Selina Osborn             12
    46294 Catherine Mills           10
    46295 Ethel O'Donnell           11
    46296 Eliza Palgrave            11
    46297 Lydia Millington          11
    46298 A. M. B. Hubbard          12
    46299 Ellen Langley             11
    46300 Emma Harber               10
    46301 Susan Stanton             12
    46302 Isabel Murrell            12
    46303 Phoebe E. Jones           13
    46304 Florence Sims             12
    46305 F. Cannadine              11
    46306 Alice M. Pulling          10
    46307 Ada F. Boness             10
    46308 Alice E. Palmer           12
    46309 Alice Raymond             11
    46310 Laura Dodd                10
    46311 Eva Vale                  12
    46312 Minnie Wallace            11
    46313 M. A. Aldridge            11
    46314 Louisa Greenner            7
    46315 Amy Crowther              11
    46316 Emma Osborn               10
    46317 Theresa Porter            11
    46318 A. M. Wakeling            11
    46319 Isabel S. Sharp           11
    46320 Margaret Bassam           12
    46321 Mary Cannadine            10
    46322 Ada Sewell                10
    46323 Alice Binsted             11
    46324 Hetty Kimber              13
    46325 Bessie Tullett            12
    46326 Ida C. Vale               10
    46327 Lizzie Rowland            10
    46328 Ada Young                 14
    46329 E. J. Millgate            11
    46330 Lillian Taylor            12
    46331 Emily Harner              11
            Islington               12
    46333 John Offer                14
    46334 James Toynton             14
    46335 Willie Morris             13
    46336 C. W. Elborne             10
    46337 Francis Frayer            11
    46338 Walter Mansfield          13
    46339 Jeanie Brown              15
    46340 Nellie Brown              13
    46341 Jamie Brown                8
    46342 Maggie Brown              17
    46343 F. Crossingham             8
    46344 Edward Blower             11
    46345 Harry Morton              12
    46346 Robert Finlay             14
    46347 Will Roberts              13
    46348 Alfred Johnson             7
    46349 Fredk. G. Gooch           12
    46350 C. M. Stephens            11
    46351 Edith Lance               13
    46352 F. A. S. Harris           11
    46353 Fanny Watt                16
    46354 F. Crowhurst              18
    46355 Arthur Chapman            11
    46356 H. A. Kitchener           16
    46357 Emily Boult                8
    46358 Clara Kübler              13
    46359 E. J. Baker               12
    46360 Arthur Blake              12
    46361 Frank Watt                 9
    46362 Sydney Sullens            11
    46363 L. Crowhurst              19
    46364 Robert J. Johnson          6
    46365 Charles H. Pull            8
    46366 Frank Warrell              9
    46367 Fredk. J. Modell          13
    46368 Frank Cross               13
    46369 Edith Bulson               8
    46370 Lillian Lance              7
    46371 Lily Hunt                 12
    46372 Charlotte Bulson          11
    46373 Charles Copeland          17
    46374 Charles Walters           13
    46375 Geo. Browhurst            10
    46376 E. Irwin                  12
    46377 Victor Farley             12
    46378 Charles Watt              11
    46379 John Porter               12
    46380 Sidney Jordan             11
    46381 I. Cuthbertson             8
    46382 Harry Westcott            14
    46383 Mary Bryant               11
    46384 M. McMillan               14
    46385 H. L. OSBORNE,
            Ashborne                11
    46386 Clara Hood                11
    46387 H. E. Hood                15
    46388 Eva Eyre                  11
    46389 Ethel Slater               6
    46390 C. T. Reeve                8
    46391 Alice M. Smith            10
    46392 Mary M. Kerry             11
    46393 Margrt. Osborne            6
    46394 Mary E. Osborne            8
    46395 Ada Barnes                 9
    46396 Tom Barnes                 8
    46397 F. J. Howell              10
    46398 L. A. Richardson          15
    46399 J. G. Swinscoe             8
    46400 Mary Buxton               14
    46401 Emma Buxton               10
    46402 Thos. E. Buxton           15
    46403 Agnes Buxton               9
    46404 Minnie Sowter             13
    46405 F. E. Osborne              7
    46406 F. J Osborne              10
    46407 Antill Osborne             5
    46408 Lillian Turner            11
    46409 S. J. Middleton           20
    46410 Sarah A. Burton           11
    46411 John W. Twigge            14
    46412 E. V. Higgins             14
    46413 Jane Morley               18
    46414 Adelaide Doxey            10
    46415 John Doxey                 9
    46416 E. A. Davies              12
    46417 J. T. Parker               7
    46418 G. Twigge                 10
    46419 C. E. Smith                7
    46420 Frank Smith               16
    46421 Joseph Holmes             14
    46422 Alice M. Clifford         12
    46423 H. F. Clifford            10
    46424 Thos. H. Clifford          7
    46425 Marian Clifford            6
    46426 Esther Barron              6
    46427 Louise Wall               11
    46428 Fredk. T. Lewis            7
    46429 Mary Lewis                 5
    46430 F. M. Homer               14
    46431 Gertrude Homer            19
    46432 Florce. E. Homer          16
    46433 Nellie Bannister          16
    46434 F. E. Bannister            5
    46435 E. H. Bannister           14
    46436 Wm. Bannister             13
    46437 Harry Bannister           11
    46438 C. O. Bannister            7
    46439 S. E. Bannister           18
    46440 Frank Grigg               10
    46441 William Gall               7
    46442 Maggie Martin             11
    46443 John Martin                9
    46444 L. H. Langlands            9
    46445 Gretta Rahilly            11
    46446 Ethel Hollis              17
    46447 Alice M. Allen            15
    46448 C. M. Allen               12
    46449 Reginald Foster            7
    46450 Mabel Foster               8
    46451 ALICE WEBB,
            Bow                     14
    46452 Minnie Cross              11
    46453 Amy Pounds                14
    46454 Ellen A. Kelly            10
    46455 B. E. Learmond             9
    46456 Mina L. Cole              12
    46457 A. Whitehead              12
    46458 Alfred E. Hicks           13
    46459 Rose May                  13
    46460 Florce. E. Halls          13
    46461 Edith Harmer              13
    46462 Florce. M. Creed          13
    46463 Alice M. Priddle          14
    46464 Julia R. Kaines           14
    46465 Jessie Steele             14
    46466 M. A. Halcrow             19
    46467 Florence Howard           14
    46468 E. L. Halcrow             15
    46469 Harry Wickett             15
    46470 Eliza A. Tovey            16
    46471 Archibald Webb            18
    46472 Elzbth. J. Bazelt          9
    46473 Alice L. Gibbs            12
    46474 Matha Walter              13
    46475 Alice Hallett             10
    46476 A. G. Armstrong           16
    46477 Annie C. Howard            7
    46478 Catherine Webb             8
    46479 Bertram Harmer             8
    46480 E. A. Kingston            12
    46481 George Lindsay            10
    46482 E. A. Collyer             10
    46483 D. G. Phillips            10
    46484 Julia Suxworth            10
    46485 D. E. F. Webb             16
    46486 Alfred Tovey               7
    46487 E. F. Kingston             9
    46488 Florence M. Gill          10
    46489 Wm. G. Harmer             11
    46490 Edith H Webb              14
    46491 E. B. Aldridge             9
    46492 Albert Tovey               9
    46493 J. Danzelmann             10
    46494 Minnie J. Steele          12
    46495 Emma L. West              11
    46496 G. E. Wynne               12
    46497 Mary Hammond              11
    46498 A. C. L. Weller           11
    46499 Louisa Scott              11
    46500 Edith S. Potter           11
    46501 Arthur Lester             11
    46502 Edith Harwood             14
    46503 Lydia M. Britten          13
    46504 Florence Hepper            9
    46505 Ellen Buckley             18
    46506 Isabella Ouless           12
    46507 Heloise Pritchard          8
    46508 Beatrice Preston          10
    46509 Harry C. Nott             11
    46510 Elsie Nott                 6
    46511 Maud Nott                  8
    46512 Marion Nott               10
    46513 Nellie Peploe             11
    46514 Wm. Jennings              12
    46515 Rosy Jennings              7
    46516 Isabella Jennings         10
    46517 Elizabeth Adams           11
    46518 Emily Adams                8
    46519 Gertrude Beckett          12
    46520 M. A. Carroll             15
    46521 FLORENCE M.
            BAYLIS, Victoria
            Pk., Lndn.              11
    46522 Jeanie McFee              10
    46523 Alfred McFee              12
    46524 Eliza Wilkinson           15
    46525 Helen S. Pickford         13
    46526 John Letch                17
    46527 Ada Louger                15
    46528 Walter Payne              13
    46529 Maud Blane                14
    46530 Stanley Baylis             4
    46531 L. M. Godfrey             11
    46532 Nellie Kniep              12
    46533 Edith F. Clayton          11
    46534 E. L. Willmott            11
    46535 Mary E. Young             10
    46536 E. C. A. Wegner           13
    46537 Maud A. Heath             13
    46538 Amy Tyler                 13
    46539 C. Wegner                 16
    46540 Wm. T. Rogers             19
    46541 Florrie Rogers            12
    46542 Edward Rogers             15
    46543 Amy Rogers                17
    46544 Eva Davis                 14
    46545 Agnes Davis               15
    46546 Hilda M. Dott             11
    46547 Elizabeth Dott             9
    46548 B. Freeman                 9
    46549 Harold Freeman            13
    46550 Florence Dabbs            16
    46551 Alice Dabbs               14
    46552 E. C. Boughen             12
    46553 Alfred Davis               8
    46554 Freddy Davis              10
    46555 Ada Davis                  6
    46556 Florence Davis            13
    46557 Emily Davis               12
    46558 Edith Dyer                13
    46559 Fredk. J. Dyer            18
    46560 Lucy Blenman              17
    46561 J. L. Blenman             12
    46562 Ernest Blenman             8
    46563 Harriet Cockrill          19
    46564 Kate Cass                 14
    46565 Emily Collins             11
    46566 Lina Cass                 12
    46567 Teresa Collins            13
    46568 Daisy E. Willmott          9
    46569 Margt. R. Hanna           16
    46570 Alice Sanders             16
    46571 J. Bartholomew            14
    46572 Helen M. Sharpe            8
    46573 Mamie de Messing          10
    46574 H. L. Thomas               8
    46575 C. F. Mulliken            10
    46576 T. S. Thomas               9
    46577 C. E. Jobling             11
    46578 Charles A. Wills           9
    46579 John Wills                11
    46580 EDITH SEWARD,
            Poplar                  13
    46581 Katharine Jones           10
    46582 M. G. Bundock             10
    46583 Ellen E. LeGall           12
    46584 Ada C. Finnis             12
    46585 Julia Sutton              13
    46586 Ellen Silvester           11
    46587 Lily Bundock               6
    46588 Aurelie Vaillant          11
    46589 Lucy Styles               12
    46590 Theresa Wells             10
    46591 F. E. M. Dobson           10
    46592 A. G. Elston              11
    46593 E. A. Smith               11
    46594 Violet A. Wheeler         12
    46595 Jenny Gibb                11
    46596 E. A. Wallworth           12
    46597 Eleanor Nowell             8
    46598 Mary J. Nowell            10
    46599 Amy Terry                 13
    46600 Isabella Nowell           12
    46601 Eliza Macland             12
    46602 Mary Townsend             19
    46603 Jane Catlin               19
    46604 H. E. Jacobs              19
    46605 Ellen Buckley             18
    46606 Margt. Moore              17
    46607 Clare E. Coombs           18
    46608 Margaret Martin           18
    46609 Ellen Christmas           18
    46610 Nellie Toomey             19
    46611 Ellen Chouchman           18
    46612 John Craddock             12
    46613 A. Steward                16
    46614 A. P. McLean               4
    46615 Wm. J. Smith              14
    46616 Henry E. New              15
    46617 W. le Gall                 9
    46618 Alfred Smith               9
    46619 W. E. McLean               7
    46620 Joseph Styles              8
    46621 William Durling            9
    46622 Sidney Rowe                7
    46623 Herbert Rowe              12
    46624 Wm. H. Seward             18
    46625 Arthur Ellis              11
    46626 Wm. Macland               10
    46627 Sidney Macland             8
    46628 William Norwell           17
    46629 Louisa Macland            14
    46630 P. A. Seward               8
    46631 Hannah Warwick            13
    46632 Maggie Wiper              13
    46633 H. Benington              10
    46634 A. E. Hollis               9
    46635 Bertha Hollis             12
    46636 Ibrahim Naame             14
    46637 E. M. Studdy              14
    46638 A. G. E. Studdy           12
    46639 A. T. Bonham               8
    46640 E. A. Bonham              17
    46641 CLARA H POOLE,
            Cheltenham              13
    46642 Annie M. Potter           11
    46643 Lucy Tippetts              9
    46644 E. C. Osborne             13
    46645 Mary J. Slader            19
    46646 Rosa E. Mason             10
    46647 John Guy                   8
    46648 M. H. Letheren             7
    46649 Sophie Baugham            11
    46650 Maria Tippetts            11
    46651 Thos. C. Guy               9
    46652 Amy S. Slader             15
    46653 Mary A. Shill              9
    46654 L. K. Holliday            12
    46655 E. H. Letheren            16
    46656 Anne Tippetts              8
    46657 M. M. Morland              6
    46658 H. E. Giles               10
    46659 Annie Whitfield           16
    46660 Florce. Robinson          14
    46661 Rose G. Tinker            13
    46662 Charles W. Tyler           9
    46663 Isabella E. Giles         10
    46664 Freddy A. Pratt            9
    46665 Laura E. Hunt              9
    46666 Ellen Swinscoe            15
    46667 Edwd. Swinscoe            11
    46668 L. M. E. Mitchell         11
    46669 A. L. Holliday            10
    46670 A. E. Robins              11
    46671 Amy Harboure              10
    46672 Charles E. Slader          7
    46673 Maggie Dix                 9
    46674 F. B. Slatter             10
    46675 John R. Tyler             10
    46676 Lizzie Weaver             12
    46677 Ellen E. Tyler            12
    46678 F. M. Freeman             11
    46679 Stanley A. Hunt           10
    46680 Harriett E. Hunt           8
    46681 Sarah J. Guise            16
    46682 Agnes E. Slader           10
    46683 Dannie Kelliher            9
    46684 Annie Smith               12
    46685 John S. Letheren          10
    46686 Caleb H. Slader           17
    46687 George H. Hunt            12
    46688 Annie L. Deane            14
    46689 T. H. Giles               16
    46690 E. G. F. Poole             7
    46691 Fanny Minett              16
    46692 Alice Reed                16
    46693 R. H. Langstone           13
    46694 Nellie Slade              12
    46695 Kate E. Deane             12
    46696 H. A. Pritchard           10
    46697 ADA WOOLLEY,
            Westminster             14
    46698 Sarah Fielder             16
    46699 Emily Smith                8
    46700 Edith Guillim             14
    46701 Beatrice Warren           13
    46702 Florence Turner           12
    46703 Lily Weeks                 9
    46704 L. E. Demone               9
    46705 Mariam John               13
    46706 Mary Lukins               11
    46707 Mary Bowen                11
    46708 Alice Smith               13
    46709 Edmund Leech               6
    46710 Rebecca Bolton            12
    46711 B. L. Jones               13
    46712 Honor Bolton              11
    46713 Julia Douglas             19
    46714 Charles Hill              10
    46715 Miriam Cade               13
    46716 Hannah Weeks              12
    46717 Edith Russell              9
    46718 Clara Russell             14
    46719 Julia Weeks               14
    46720 A. M. Banks               12
    46721 John Weeks                16
    46722 Sarah Topham               8
    46723 Annie Button               8
    46724 Ada Biffen                12
    46725 Alice Wiffen              17
    46726 Lizzie McCullock          10
    46727 Lilly Wiffen              19
    46728 Rosa Collins              14
    46729 Louisa Austin             14
    46730 Clara Banks                8
    46731 Lula M. Wilson             8
    46732 Alice Davis                7
    46733 A. Norridge               12
    46734 C. Carwood                16
    46735 William Hill               8
    46736 Ethel Russell              7
    46737 A. Blofield               14
    46738 James H. Wilson            9
    46739 F. H. Woolley             14
    46740 Frank Bedford             19
    46741 Alice Lucas               12
    46742 Edith Davis               12
    46743 Alice Lohmann             15
    46744 F. E. Picking             13
    46745 Sarah Carwood             14
    46746 A. Hockney                14
    46747 Elzbth. Fielder           17
    46748 F. L. Russell             12
    46749 Clara Lillifant           13
    46750 Edith Baker               15
    46751 Ada M. Leach              15
    46752 M. J. Creagh              14
    46753 Laura Gillatt              9
    46754 Edwin P. Page             13
    46755 Sarah Boughen             19
    46756 Alice E. Boyton           14
    46757 Louisa Hyde               12
    46758 Hilda V. Bayly            11
    46759 Charles J Brans           12
    46760 Rosa Mitchell             16
    46761 William Pruden            11
    46762 Henry T. Mullord          11
    46763 William Jennings          12
    46764 Rosa Jennings              7
    46765 F. STEINLE, Gt.
            Chapel St., Ldn.        13
    46766 Phillip Limback           16
    46767 Henry Filgate             12
    46768 Mary Maddick              10
    46769 Ettie How                  9
    46770 Nellie Pierson            12
    46771 Helen Scotcher            12
    46772 Julia Robinson            11
    46773 F. Nightingale            10
    46774 Fredk. Limback             9
    46775 Charles Green             11
    46776 George Clements           11
    46777 Phillip Raphael           12
    46778 Fredk. Finbow              8
    46779 Christian Steinle         16
    46780 Frank Randall             13
    46781 Albert Steinle             8
    46782 Herbert Puttock           12
    46783 William Steinle            5
    46784 George Steinle            14
    46785 James Roe                 13
    46786 Walter Bull               11
    46787 John Akers                 8
    46788 Ethel Budd                10
    46789 Edith Williams             9
    46790 Robert Harrison           13
    46791 Frederick Fuller          12
    46792 Kate Roe                   9
    46793 Charles Cameron           12
    46794 Wm. Cameron               10
    46795 Lillian Brown              9
    46796 William Walker            11
    46797 Abraham Harris            12
    46798 Joseph Roe                13
    46799 Rose Billett               9
    46800 A. Steinle                 6
    46801 Lindsay Ash               12
    46802 Louise Roe                11
    46803 Mary Steinle              18
    46804 Arthur G. Bull            12
    46805 Willie Finbow              7
    46806 Edward Moore              11
    46807 Fray Blewer                8
    46808 George Limback            12
    46809 Emily Willomatt           10
    46810 Chas. Kilminster          12
    46811 Frank Collins             12
    46812 Roley Harris              10
    46813 William Dones             14
    46814 Henry Green               12
    46815 Rose Steinle              11
    46816 Willie Randall            10
    46817 CARRIE G. REES,
            Oswestry                14
    46818 Arthur Thomas             15
    46819 Walter M. Shaw             5
    46820 C. A. Humphreys            4
    46821 M. H. Humphreys            7
    46822 Isabel Turner             14
    46823 Alice A. Evans            12
    46824 Amy Scotcher              13
    46825 M. E. Garner              13
    46826 Lilian Turner             11
    46827 Jessie F. Hughes          10
    46828 Norrie Thomas             10
    46829 John Thomas               13
    46830 Mary A. Thomas             8
    46831 M. J. Thomas               9
    46832 C. Thomas                  7
    46833 E. H. Pryce               11
    46834 Margrt. E. Pryce           9
    46835 Thos. H. Pryce            15
    46836 R. Williams                7
    46837 Edith Williams             8
    46838 Kate I. Pryce              6
    46839 Samuel H. Pryce           10
    46840 Mary E. Pryce              7
    46841 Jessie M. Jones           10
    46842 Nora Jones                 7
    46843 Annie Jenkins             15
    46844 George Jenkins            12
    46845 Kate Jenkins               7
    46846 Jessie Jenkins            10
    46847 Pollie Jones              11
    46848 Emily Jones                8
    46849 Annie Jones               12
    46850 Annie E. Price            14
    46851 Wm. H. Turner              7
    46852 Dora Turner               16
    46853 Hannah Evans              14
    46854 Kate Thomas               18
    46855 M. L. Tilsley             12
    46856 Emma E. Tilsley           15
    46857 May Davies                 9
    46858 Emily S. Davies           15
    46859 Alfred P. Chivers          7
    46860 A. O. Chivers             13
    46861 Ethel A. Chivers          12
    46862 Ernest C. Chivers          9
    46863 H. B. Chivers              6
    46864 Hilda Chivers              5
    46865 Maud Griffiths            11
    46866 Melville McKie            18
    46867 Fanny McKie               14
    46868 Mary E. Byron             15
    46869 Sarah J. Byron            17
    46870 J. R. Pomarede            15
    46871 INA McNEILL,
            Belfast                 14
    46872 Haidee Robb               13
    46873 E. McDowell               16
    46874 Annie Vance               14
    46875 Lizzie Tipping            18
    46876 Sara Corbitt              16
    46877 H. D. Ruddell             17
    46878 F. Thornton               17
    46879 E. A. Corbitt             18
    46880 J. A. Haslett             14
    46881 Ethel Maxwell             17
    46882 Annie Elliott             15
    46883 Mary A. Ruddell           17
    46884 Agnes Reid                18
    46885 K. D. Blakely             18
    46886 Lizzie Harput             11
    46887 Mary Harrison             18
    46888 A. L. D. Russell          15
    46889 Sophie Robb               15
    46890 Maude Black               16
    46891 Annie R. Taylor           13
    46892 Annie Shelton             15
    46893 Maggie Hanna              15
    46894 Maud Niven                15
    46895 David Taylor               9
    46896 Mary Stewart              15
    46897 J. E. McAskie             14
    46898 Lizzie Kelly              14
    46899 R. McCracken.             13
    46900 Sarah Harpur              15
    46901 Edith Clarke              16
    46902 G. Gimshaw                16
    46903 Lizzie Burden             13
    46904 Anna Morton               14
    46905 E. L. Buchanan            14
    46906 Mary M. Cromie            14
    46907 Freda Martin              15
    46908 M. B. Burden              15
    46909 Maggie Fisher             15
    46910 Kathleen Stewart          16
    46911 Etta Thompson             16
    46912 Georgina Purdon           15
    46913 Lizzie Purdon             16
    46914 Susan Byers               15
    46915 Olga Loewenthal           13
    46916 Fairie Morgan             16
    46917 Carrie G. Ward            18
    46918 Mary Heron                14
    46919 Florence Gordon           14
    46920 Frances Naylor            17
    46921 Chattie Taylor            16
    46922 A. CROSSMAN,
            Bow                     13
    46923 M. A. Williams            13
    46924 Eliza E. West             15
    46925 Florce. Davidson          12
    46926 Fredk. Drayson             9
    46927 C. Chatterton             13
    46928 Charles Drayson            7
    46929 Alice A. Smith            11
    46930 Emily Reid                13
    46931 Lamisa J. Jones           15
    46932 Ada R. Nevill             13
    46933 George Nevill              9
    46934 C. Newton                 11
    46935 C. Newman                 17
    46936 William Jones             13
    46937 Emily J. Jones            11
    46938 Mary Barnard              12
    46939 Florce. Constable          8
    46940 Edith Sortwell             8
    46941 Mary A. Gillen             8
    46942 A. W. Sydenham             9
    46943 Kate Adams                12
    46944 K. H. Wimshurst           12
    46945 Charlotte Robbie          11
    46946 M. L. Manchee             13
    46947 Rose Cooper               14
    46948 E. Danzelman               8
    46949 Sarah Skuse               21
    46950 Olive Philbrick           14
    46951 Elizabeth Fay             14
    46952 Annie Howlett              9
    46953 Alice Hodges              14
    46954 Caroline Green            14
    46955 Alice Rushbrook           12
    46956 Kate Finch                16
    46957 Eleanor Harris            12
    46958 Florence Harris           16
    46959 Julia R. Kaines           12
    46960 Alice Winhall              8
    46961 Albert Lane               11
    46962 Martha Watson             13
    46963 Jane Smith                 9
    46964 F. Rudderham              13
    46965 Anne Cearns               13
    46966 F. McKindley              13
    46967 James W. Cearns            7
    46968 Louisa A. Cearns           9
    46969 Emma Taylor               15
    46970 Edith Cearns              15
    46971 Matilda Ford              11
    46972 Edith Green               15
    46973 C. F. Truman              19
    46974 Ellen Ward                12
    46975 C. E. Partington          15
    46976 E. A. Partington          11
    46977 Lucy Taylor               12
    46978 Geo F. Taylor              9
    46979 J. A. Truman              14
    46980 Edith M. Truman            8
    46981 Lizzie Truman             12
    46982 E. M. Truman              14
    46983 Jessie G. Truman          10
    46984 Fredk. Guy                14
    46985 Grace I. Truman           11
    46986 Josph. W. Baxter          16
    46987 E. M. Asquith              9
    46988 Florrie Spencer           14
    46989 Alice Spencer             12
    46990 Edith Spencer             10
    46991 E. W. Shakespear          12
    46992 E. M. Shakespear          14
    46993 E. W. Warman              12
    46994 Harry Hawkins             10
    46995 Herbert Hawkins            8
            Bow                     13
    46997 Albert Mackrow            12
    46998 Rosa Felgate               8
    46999 George Stannard           16
    47000 John Rushbrook             9
    47001 Annie Palmer              16
    47002 Lillian Shelton           11
    47003 Helen Roberts             14
    47004 Henry Fullick             11
    47005 Rebecca Fullick           10
    47006 Sarah Stapleton           12
    47007 F. C. Stedman             10
    47008 John Morgan               14
    47009 William Palmer            14
    47010 Lillian Macland            9
    47011 Harry Roberts              9
    47012 Clara A. Gibbs            12
    47013 William Roberts           11
    47014 Helen Hyam                 9
    47015 David Dickerson            9
    47016 Hannah Maskell            12
    47017 Wm. Stapleton             10
    47018 Minnie Valantine           6
    47019 Francis Maskell           17
    47020 Louisa Dennis             14
    47021 Margaret Irven            13
    47022 Elizabeth Silva           14
    47023 Jane Sayers               11
    47024 Emily Sexton              15
    47025 Clara Dickerson           13
    47026 Florence Sayers           13
    47027 F. Dickerson              11
    47028 Emily Stapleton           14
    47029 Clara A. Brooks            8
    47030 Mary A. Ellis             14
    47031 Mary A. Jones             14
    47032 Mary A. Forrow            12
    47033 Maria E. Ray              11
    47034 Alice L. Howard           12
    47035 Ellen R. Adams            11
    47036 Charlotte Brooks          12
    47037 Elizabeth Hulme           10
    47038 Minnie Mackland           12
    47039 Mary Rushbrook            12
    47040 Alice Stannard            14
    47041 Lillie Palmer             12
    47042 Ellen Barrett             14
    47043 Annie Silva               15
    47044 Annie Palmer              16
    47045 George Roberts            15
    47046 E. H. Davey               14
    47047 Gertrde. Waldron          17
    47048 Eliz. A. Clements         17
    47049 D. A. Harrison            15
    47050 Ethel K. Swan             15
    47051 Margt. A. Yates           15
    47052 Amy F. Swan               16
    47053 Mary J. Bold              11
    47054 Elizabeth Crowe            9
    47055 Matilda Crowe             12
    47056 Grace G. Parry            14
    47057 EDITH H. WEBB,
                    Bow             13
    47058 Agnes L. Allum            19
    47059 Louisa G. Winter          18
    47060 Alice M. Davis            15
    47061 E. S. Ashdown             15
    47062 Annie Hearsey             14
    47063 Sarah Broom               14
    47064 Ada V. Jones              14
    47065 Ada Ferguson              14
    47066 Eliza Finnis              13
    47067 W. H. Armstrong           14
    47068 Mary M. Davis             12
    47069 M. F. Ferguson            12
    47070 E. S. Coomber             12
    47071 Lydia A. Smith            12
    47072 F. C. Ballard             12
    47073 M. F. Creighton           12
    47074 Isabella Tomling          12
    47075 Ada Keable                12
    47076 F. M. Davidson            12
    47077 A. E. Browning            11
    47078 M. L. Keable              11
    47079 Ada Rohwetter             11
    47080 H. E. Ashdown             11
    47081 Jenny Anthony             11
    47082 Elizbth. Cluney           10
    47083 Mabel Miller              10
    47084 Janet Munn                10
    47085 Lilian E. Wood            10
    47086 Elizbth. L. Woolf         10
    47087 A. S. K. Dobson           10
    47088 Harriett Odonko           10
    47089 Ada Mayne                 10
    47090 Alice M. Lovett           10
    47091 Alice Mackelcken          10
    47092 A. L. Nigthingale         10
    47093 R. M. Winter              10
    47094 F. M. Hammond             10
    47095 A. E. Denham               9
    47096 F. L. Parnell              9
    47097 E. M. Davis               10
    47098 Minnie Ashdown             9
    47099 R. M. Winter               9
    47100 A. M. Wakeham              9
    47101 Arthur Cross               9
    47102 Arthur Blaker              9
    47103 L. B. Wakeham              8
    47104 M. Hammond                 8
    47105 Alice E. R. Burn           8
    47106 L. M. Ferguson             7
    47107 E. A. Kaines               7
    47108 M. A. Kaines               6
    47109 Emily C. Allen            10
    47110 Ada L. Freir              14
    47111 Herbert J. Jeffery         9
    47112 F. J. C. Jeffery           7
    47113 Fredk. J. Symes           12
    47114 JANE REID,
            Rothesay                19
    47115 McNeill Duncan            16
    47116 Annie B. Cook             20
    47117 Jeannie Gow               16
    47118 James R. Gow              14
    47119 Maggie Lowson             14
    47120 Beatrice Lowson            7
    47121 Lizzie Lowson              9
    47122 Wm. McCullock             10
    47123 A. Colville               11
    47124 James Colville             4
    47125 Jane Ludlow                8
    47126 Elizbth. Ludlow            7
    47127 Hy. H. Thomson            10
    47128 Gordon Thomson             9
    47129 A. C. Thomson             11
    47130 Grace C. Thom             20
    47131 Isabella Black            16
    47132 Bella Macloy              11
    47133 W. MacClilland            16
    47134 E. R. Macdonald           19
    47135 H. McDonald               20
    47136 John G. Palmer            10
    47137 Sarah B. Stewart          12
    47138 Thomas Stewart            10
    47139 Arthur Brash               5
    47140 Harris Brash               7
    47141 M. Brash                  10
    47142 Frank Brash               12
    47143 Gregor T. Brash           14
    47144 Sarah Lindsay             14
    47145 M. B. Furguson            15
    47146 Hannah Duncan             15
    47147 Mary Worling              16
    47148 Helen Murray              12
    47149 A. M. Murray              10
    47150 J. A. L. Murray            6
    47151 A. Murray                  6
    47152 Andrew Murray              9
    47153 E. C. Rankin              17
    47154 C. M. Rankin              20
    47155 Pryce Rankin              19
    47156 Maud Porter               12
    47157 A. M. Barrowman            7
    47158 W. R. Barrowman            8
    47159 T. Barrowman              12
    47160 M. Barrowman              16
    47161 M. Barrowman              10
    47162 J. M. Barrowman           18
    47163 Mary B. Blair             13
    47164 Elizabeth Phillp          13
    47165 E. B. Watmouth            13
    47166 W. Watmouth               11
    47167 H. E. Warwick             13
    47168 Alfred E. Curtis           7
    47169 Kate M. Curtis            14
    47170 Jessie Curtis             10
    47171 Edgar H. Curtis           12
    47172 G. H. ORLEBAR,
            Clapton                 12
    47173 S. C. Akehurst            13
    47174 Anne M. Bailey            19
    47175 Thos. A. Baynes           13
    47176 Elizabeth Bush            11
    47177 Arthur E. Coates          12
    47178 Fanny Cox                 11
    47179 Fredk. C. Dove            12
    47180 James N. Dove:            10
    47181 T. S. Edridge             11
    47182 Chas. Emerson             16
    47183 C. G. Fishlock            12
    47184 A. J. Freshwater          11
    47185 Henry Frost               12
    47186 M. R. Griffith            11
    47187 Alice Hall                10
    47188 Fanny A. Hall             12
    47189 E. H. Hillworth           16
    47190 M. E. Hillworth           11
    47191 Susan Hughes              13
    47192 Emma Hull                 17
    47193 Fanny Hull                13
    47194 Alfred J. Hunt            12
    47195 A. T. Ireland             11
    47196 A. J. Jamieson            14
    47197 H. G. Jamieson            11
    47198 Charles J. King           12
    47199 John A. Law               13
    47200 R. J. Messenger           15
    47201 Ada E. Moore              13
    47202 Chas. M. Morris           11
    47203 Chas. M. Mynott           12
    47204 E. P. Newberry            12
    47205 Emily J. Orlebar          16
    47206 Wm. G. H. Paull           12
    47207 Arthur T. Pike            13
    47208 Arthur G. Pipe            11
    47209 Wm. C. Potter             12
    47210 William Radley            13
    47211 C. J. Rainbow              9
    47212 Jessie Rainbow             7
    47213 William J. Rous           12
    47214 Wm. H. Sanders            10
    47215 Richard T. Scott          12
    47216 Arthur H. Sibley          14
    47217 Joseph Sleap              12
    47218 A. L. Stevenson           11
    47219 Fredk. W. Upson           12
    47220 George Wall               13
    47221 Sarah Welsh               10
    47222 Joseph Wright             11
    47223 Joseph Wilson             13
    47224 Joseph Griffin            15
    47225 Charles Griffin           12
    47226 George Gregg              12
    47227 Edgar Marshall            13
    47228 Edward Harris             13
    47229 G. F. Brewill             10
    47230 B. SANDERS,
            Shepherd's Bsh.         18
    47231 Emma Jänko                15
    47232 Ellen Dowling              9
    47233 Janet Cooke               11
    47234 Francis Ward               9
    47235 Katie Ward                14
    47236 Marcia Cooke              14
    47237 Fanny Stoyle              17
    47238 Mary Pearce               18
    47239 H. V. Pearson             12
    47240 Daniel Holmans            10
    47241 Emma Dowling              12
    47242 Annie Angell               8
    47243 William Kennedy           11
    47244 A. B. Rugg                13
    47245 Maggie Jones               9
    47246 Levi Jenkins              10
    47247 Fredk. Price               9
    47248 Emily Williams            11
    47249 Agnes Hughes              14
    47250 Emily Jones               14
    47251 Bessie Beigh              13
    47252 Mary Welch                10
    47253 Minnie Barnard            13
    47254 Julia Cowlin              13
    47255 Mabel Cock                11
    47256 Rose Patmer               12
    47257 Emma Welch                 9
    47258 Thomas Wilton              8
    47259 William Smith              9
    47260 Clara Cock                 9
    47261 Sarah Watson              12
    47262 Oswald N. Roper            8
    47263 Arthur Stacey              8
    47264 Lizzie Kendrew             9
    47265 Nellie Kenneth            11
    47266 Elsie M. Kenneth           9
    47267 Alice A. Kenneth          15
    47268 E. M. Kenneth             17
    47269 Clara Phillips            13
    47270 Edward Phillips           18
    47271 Edith Fetcher             14
    47272 Florry Fetcher            12
    47273 Clara Fetcher              7
    47274 H. O. Kenneth             12
    47275 George Maxwell            13

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



DEAR MR. EDITOR,--My father knows a gentleman who is teaching his dog to
read. He prepared some thick pieces of cardboard and printed on each
card, in large letters, such words as _Bone_, _Food_, _Out_, &c. He
first gave the dog food in a saucer on the card _food_, and then he
placed an empty saucer on a blank card. Van is his name, and he is a
black poodle. The next thing he did was to teach Van to bring the cards
to him. He brings the card with _out_ on if he wishes to go out. One day
he brought the card with _food_ upon it nine times, the card being
placed in a different position each time among the other cards. The
gentleman hopes to teach him more, for Van quite understands what he has

(Aged 13.)
_Woodthorne, Wolverhampton._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--We were once in the country. There was a gentleman
living near us, and he had two horses and a carriage. One night he was
driving home from dinner, when suddenly the horses stopped. The coachman
whipped them, but still they would not move a step farther, so the
footman got down and lit a lantern to see what was the matter. What was
his surprise to see a tree lying right across the road. Wasn't it clever
of the horses to know the tree was there when it was so dark? The
gentleman was very pleased with his horses, because if they had gone on
the carriage would have been upset.

(Aged 7¼.)
_St. Peter's Parsonage, Cranley Gardens, London, S.W._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--Not long ago I was given a little tabby Persian
kitten, about four months old, which I called "Ruffle." We soon became
great friends, and when I went out she would follow me like a dog. At
the bottom of our park there is a river, in which we have a
bathing-place. One morning when I was going to bathe I thought I would
take Ruffle with me, as it would be a nice run for her, and I could
leave her with my maid in the punt whilst I was in the water. She did
not seem in the least afraid until I was in the water, and then she
began to mew. She would not stay in the maid's lap, but ran to the side
of the punt mewing piteously. I came to the side of the punt and stroked
her and she began to purr at once. I thought she would be quite happy
now, and so I left her, but I had hardly turned my back before I heard a
little splash and turning round saw my maid vainly trying to rescue
Ruffle, who had jumped into the water! Instead of trying to reach the
bank she swam to me. Of course I picked her up, little drowned mite that
she was, and took her into the bathing-house and dried her as well as I
could. I need not say that this proof of her affection made us firmer
friends than ever.

(Aged 14.)
_Peper Harow,
Godalming, Surrey._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--I thought you would like to hear of a trick played by
a Newfoundland dog of whom its owner was very fond. One day my
grandpapa, whilst out walking with another gentleman, was boasting
rather of the cleverness of Victor, his dog, in finding things which he
had not seen. His friend asked if he would hide something now, and not
show the dog. My grandfather agreed, and while Victor was not looking
placed his stick in the gutter. The two gentlemen then walked on for
about a mile and a half; the dog was then called, and told to fetch the
stick. By-and-by he returned, but without the cane. Grandpapa was very
angry, especially as his friend remarked that he never really believed
it possible for any animal to find a thing at such a distance. The dog
was sent back again, but returned with the same result. The gentlemen
then determined to follow him, and see where he went. And what do you
think the sly fellow did?--why just went round the corner and lay down
till he thought it was time to go back! But when he found our that he
was discovered he went and brought the stick to grandpapa, who could not
help laughing at the trick he had been played.

(Aged 13.)
13, _Windsor Terrace, Newcastle-on-Tyne._

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




The picture on page 128 of LITTLE FOLKS represents the ruins of the vast
Flavian Amphitheatre, or, as it is also called, Coliseum. After a period
of civil war and confusion, Vespasian began the Flavian dynasty, and
entered upon his reign by filling up the spaces made by the demolitions
of Nero, and by the fire, with large buildings, the most conspicuous and
massive of them being the Coliseum. It is not known whether this name
was given to it from its tremendous size or from the Colossus of Nero
which stood near.

Vespasian, however, did not complete it, but his son Titus, who
succeeded him, did so. The splendour of the interior, as gathered from
Roman poets, was said to be unequalled. Marble statues filled the
arcades, gilt and brazen network supported on ivory posts and wheels
protected the spectators from the wild beasts, fountains of fragrant
waters were scattered throughout the building, and marble tripods for
burning the incense upon. Speaking of the size of it, it covers five
acres of ground, and is capable of holding a hundred thousand persons.
An idea of the solidity of the building may be taken from the fact that
after two thousand years, during which time it has been used for a
quarry for materials for palaces and churches, nearly three-quarters
still remain. Now that a description of the building has been given, I
will say something about the uses of it.

The Coliseum was first of all built for gladiatorial shows, which were
the favourite amusement of the Romans. All of both sexes, from the
Emperor down to the meanest slave, used to flock to see them. Primitive
Christianity is associated in a great degree with this building; "The
Christians to the Lions" often being the cry throughout the city, and
hundreds of innocent persons were "butchered to make a Roman holiday."
The first Christian Emperor tried to put a stop to this butchery
(statistics say that the combats of this amphitheatre cost from twenty
to thirty thousand lives per month), but the custom was too deeply
rooted to be stopped all at once. In the reign of Honorius, however, it
was altogether abolished. It is very marvellous how this piece of
masonry should have stood through all these years with comparatively so
little decay.

(Aged 15).
11, _Greenfield Crescent, Edgbaston,

Certified by HENRY HOPE (Father).


_First Prize (One-Guinea Book), with Officer's Medal of the "Little
Folks" Legion of Honour_;--H. D. HOPE (15), 11, Greenfield Crescent,
Edgbaston, Birmingham. _Second Prize (Seven-Shilling-and-Sixpenny Book),
with Officer's Medal_:--MARGARET T. S. BEATTIE (13), St. Michael's,
Torquay. _Honourable Mention, with Members Medal_:--M. AGNES HOWARD
(10½), 15, Clarence Square, Gosport; G. G. CALLCOTT (15½), Hageldon, 27,
Shepherd's Bush Road; KATE E. GREENHOW (12½), Highfield, Chelmsford,
Essex; EDITH WINGATE (15), 2, Finlayson Place, Relvinside, Glasgow;
ADRIANA POLI (11), 24, Via Ricasoli, Livorno, Italy; SYBIL COVENTRY
(13½), Severn Stoke Rectory, Worcester; CLIFFORD CRAWFORD (11¾), 21,
Windsor Street, Edinburgh; EDITH B. JOWETT (15¾), Thackley Road, Idle,
near Bradford; PERCY G. TRENDELL (12), 10, Coburg Place, Bayswater Road,
London, S.W.


The "LITTLE FOLKS" ANNUAL for 1885 (price Sixpence) will be published on
the 25th of October, 1884, under the title of


In this ANNUAL will be related, in a number of bright and entertaining
Stories, the amusing adventures and incidents which befell several
Children during a wonderful "voyage" undertaken by them; and, in
addition to telling of all the doings of these Children, and of what
they saw and heard, the ANNUAL will contain a large number of laughable
Puzzles, Riddles, &c., a Song with Music, and a new Indoor or Outdoor
Entertainment by Geo. Manville Fenn, which has been specially written
with the view to its being easily performed at home by Boys and Girls.
All the Stories in "A SHIPFUL OF CHILDREN" are from the pens of Authors
with whose writings readers of "LITTLE FOLKS" are familiar, including
the Author of "Prince Pimpernel," Henry Frith, Julia Goddard (who
contributes a Fairy Story), Robert Richardson, the Author of "Claimed at
Last," and others; while the Illustrations--humorous and otherwise, and
about Forty in number--have been specially drawn by Harry Furniss, Hal
Ludlow, Lizzie Lawson, Gordon Browne, C. Gregory, W. Rainey, A. S. Fenn,
E. J. Walker, and others. The Editor would remind intending purchasers
that the "LITTLE FOLKS" ANNUAL last year was out of print a few days
after publication, and many were in consequence unable to obtain copies;
it is desirable, therefore, so as to avoid disappointment, that orders
for "A SHIPFUL OF CHILDREN" should be given to booksellers as early as




  My 2, 3, 4, 7, 6 = pungent.
  My 1, 9, 16 = to taste.
  My 12, 11, 14, 10 = mists.
  My 8, 5, 15 = an Egyptian notable.
  My 6, 7, 13, 17 = food.

  My whole is a bird.


The initials form the name of an island at the entrance of the Baltic

  1. A lake in Switzerland.
  2. A river in Spain.
  3. A river in Italy.
  4. The capital of a country in Europe.
  5. Some mountains in Europe.
  6. A river in Africa.
  7. A river in Turkey.

  M. A. WARD.
  (Aged 10½.)
  54, _Southfield Square, Bradford, Yorks._


The following is a verse from one of Tom Hood's poems:--

  '× w × s × n × h × p × i × e × f × u × m × r × i × e,
  n × v × n × n × c × l × a × d × o × l,
  n × f × u × a × d × w × n × y × a × p × b × y ×
  C × m × b × u × d × n × o × t × f × c × o × l:
  × h × r × w × r × s × m × t × a × r × n × n × s × m × t × a × l × a
    × t,
  × i × e × r × u × l × t × i × a × o × l.

  (Aged 11¾.)
  _Meadow House, Mansfield,



  2. An eatable.

  3. Related.

  4. A fissure.

  1. A vehicle.

  2. A tree.

  3. Part of the verb _to ride_.

  4. A river in England.

  1. A partner.

  2. A salt.

  3. A melody.

  4. A large bird.

  (Aged 12¾.)
  2, _Ashley Road,
  Hornsey Rise, London, N._


  The building is erected near the town hall.
  2. The king told us we served him well.
  3. If they find us, we must run away.
  4. Mary and Emma are going for a walk.
  5. Feel how hot I am, Stella.

  (Aged 11½.)
  1, _Priory Gardens,


  My first is in table, but not in chair.
  My second is in orange, but not in pear.
  My third is in come, but not in go.
  My fourth is in fast, but not in slow.
  My fifth is in tin, but not in lead.
  My sixth is in cover, but not in bed.
  My whole is a vegetable much liked by some,
  And now my riddle-me-ree is done.

  (Aged 12.)
  17, _Esplanade, Waterloo,
  near Liverpool._


A word of the proverb is contained in each line.

  1. There were a great many people at the ball.
  2. Who gave you that flower?
  3. They live close by us.
  4. She went in the train because it was raining.
  5. The glass is not put in the frame yet.
  6. All these houses belong to him.
  7. You must not stay out so late again, Edith.
  8. Are you not going for a walk?
  9. You throw the ball too high, Louise.
  10. We will flood the lawn when the stones have been swept away.

  (Aged 15.)
  _Clarence Lodge, Canning Road, Croydon._



  "With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red,
  A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread:
  Stitch! stitch! stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt;
  And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, she sang the 'Song of
    the Shirt.'"


  1. H OP e.

  2. O BO e.

  3. H ER d.

  4. Ta RT an.

  5. Qu OI ts.

  6. Fi NA le.



  1. C hesterfield.

  2. E rne.

  3. L iffey.

  4. E lba.

  5. B lenheim.

  6. E uphrates.

  7. S hrewsbury.


  1. "Strike while the iron is hot."

  2. "Where there's a will, there's a way."

  3. "Too many cooks spoil the broth."


  1. Wheel, heel, eel.

  2. Slate, late, ate.

  3. Stale, tale, ale.



  I celand contains the volcano of Hecl A.

  T unbridge Wells is remarkable for its spring S.

  A thens, the capital of Morea, is famous on account of its Acropoli S.

  L eghorn is situated 14 miles south of Pis A.

  Y armouth is the chief seat of the herring fisheries in the kingdo M.



As announced last month, the Editor proposes to give those of his
Readers residing abroad an opportunity of competing for Prizes on
favourable terms with Subscribers in Great Britain. A list of the Prizes
is given below, and the Puzzles, together with additional particulars,
will be found in the September issue.


Twenty prizes will be awarded for the best Solutions to the Puzzles
given _in the last number_ (_p. 190_); Ten to Competitors in the Senior
(for girls and boys between the ages of 14 and 16 _inclusive_), and Ten
to Competitors in the Junior Division (for those _under_ 14 years of

The following will be the value of the Prizes, in books, given in _each_

  1. A First Prize of One Guinea.
  2. A Second Prize of Half a Guinea.
  3. A Third Prize of Seven Shillings and Sixpence.
  4. Two Prizes of Five Shillings.
  5. Five Prizes of Half a Crown.

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.

N.B.--The Solutions, together with the names and addresses of the Prize
and Medal winners, will be published in the January Number of LITTLE


Solutions to the Puzzles published in the last number (p. 190) must
reach the Editor not later than October 25th (November 1st 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.



  1. Anne.
  2. Bonaparte.
  3. Coxwell.
  4. Dugdale.
  5. Erasmus.
  6. Fox.
  7. Godoonoff.
  8. Hyde.
  9. Isaeus (or Isocrates).
  10. Junius.
  11. Klingenstierna.
  12. Leveridge.

CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained eleven marks or less:--G.
Blenkin, R. Brook, Hon. M. Brodrick, H. Blunt, M. Bradbury, A. Bradbury,
N. Besley, H. Coombes, L. E. Curme, J. Cooper, M. Cooper, B. Coventry,
F. G. Callcott, C. Debenham, G. Dundas, H. Dyson, Rosita Eustace, L.
Fraser, M. Gollidge, E. Gollidge, E. D. Griffiths, B. Hudson, G. Horner,
A. Hartfield, E. Chapell-Hodge, L. Haydon, M. Jones-Henry, M. Heddle, A.
Jackson, E. Jowett, W. Johnson, M. Jakeman, A. Lynch, E. Lithgon, A.
Leah, E. Leake, E. Maynard, K. Mills, E. Morgan, K. F. Nix, J. Nix, M.
Nix, G. Pettman, A. Pellier, G. Russell, F. Roberts, C. Rees, C.
Stanier, A. Sifton, M. Addison-Scott, A. J. Sifton, Una Tracy, C.
Tindinger, B. Tomlinson, K. Williams, E. Wedgwood, B. Walton, M. Wilson,
H. Watson, A. Wilson, F. Burnet, A. Elliot, G. Burne, M. More, E.
Hanlon, M. Lloyd, B. Law, N. Ross, W. C. Wilson, N. Pybus.


  1. Marlborough.
  2. Nares.
  3. Oppian.
  4. Perseus.
  5. Quarles.
  6. Rebolledo.
  7. Sansovino.
  8. Talma.
  9. Ursinus.
  10. Victor.
  11. Washington.
  12. Young.

CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained eleven marks or less:--D.
Blunt, M. Balfour, M. Buckler, Lolo Besley, M. Beallie, G. Barnes, E.
Brake, L. Coventry, M. Curme, M. Callcott, C. Crawford, M. Cooper, A.
Coombs, G. Debenham, P. Davidson, M. Frisby, S. Fullford, J. Gruning, E.
Gruning, L. Gill, L. Hudson, G. Chapell-Hodge, G. C. Jackson, A. King,
E. Lucy, K. Lynch, E. Leake, G. O'Morris, N. Maxwell, H. Mugliston, F.
Medlycott, E. Neame, E. Parks, E. Quilter, M. Somerville, J. Seager, S.
Sifton, F. Todd, M. M. Calman-Turpie, M. Wilson, G. L. Williams, G.
Williams, E. Yeo, C. Burne, F. Burne, V. Coombes, E. A. Coombes, E. L.
Metcalf, H. M. Smith, L. Weetman.



The _First_, _Second_, and _Third Prizes_ are divided between the
following Competitors, each of whom gains an equal number of marks, and
is awarded Books to the value of 12s. 6d.:--MATILDA HEDDLE (15), St.
Leonards, St. Andrews; CAROLINE J. NIX (14¾), Tilgate, Crawley, Sussex;
RUTH H. BROOK (15), Helme Edge, Metham, near Huddersfield. F. G. CALCOTT
gains an equal number of marks, but having taken a Prize last Quarter is
not eligible to receive one on this occasion.

_Bronze Medals_ of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour are awarded
to:--ALICE BRADBURY (14), Oak Lodge, Nightingale Lane, S.W.; LILIAN
HAYDON (15), Cholmeley Park House, Archway Road, Highgate; CHRISTIANA
JANE DEBENHAM (15), Cheshunt Park, Herts.


The _First_, _Second_, and _Third Prizes_ are divided amongst the
following Competitors, each of whom gains an equal number of marks, and
is awarded Books to the value of 12s. 6d.:--ELEANOR YEO (11), 30, Paul
Street, Exeter; EMMELINE A. NEAME (12½), Church House, Llangadock, S.
Wales; NELLIE M. MAXWELL (9½), Jenner Road, Guildford.

_Bronze Medals_ of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour are awarded to
AGNES F. COOMBS (13), Beaminster, Dorset; DOROTHY BLUNT (12), Manor
House, Dorchester, Wallingford; M. GWENDOLINE BUCKLER (12½), Bedstone
Rectory, Birkenhead.



As the autumn evenings are now at hand, I mention below a Proverb Game
which may be made amusing where there is a party of children who are
fond of intellectual diversions. Each player thinks of a proverb, writes
the syllables on a piece of paper in the manner indicated below, and
hands it on to his next neighbour, who writes on the back the proverb
itself, _if he can_, and keeps the paper. If he cannot solve the Puzzle,
he reads out the syllables _quickly_, and any player who guesses the
proverb receives the paper. At the end of the game see how many papers
each player has:

  1. -dle fire great it kin- Lit- out ones put sticks -tle the.

  2. By gets go- -ing mill the.

  3. are all be not to Truths told.

  4. A got is -ny pen- spared twice.

  5. -ing no pays Talk- toll.

  6. a- -eth fire -far not quench- -ter Wa-

  7. be- -eth fox Geese the preach- -ware when.

  8. A -ers gath- -ing moss no roll- stone.

  9. A a -ant's -ders dwarf far- gi- on of shoul- sees the the -ther two.

  1. Little sticks kindle the fire; great ones put it out.

  2. By going gets the mill.

  3. Truths are not all to be told.

  4. A penny got is twice spared.

  5. Talking pays no toll.

  6. Water afar quencheth not fire.

  7. Geese beware when the fox preacheth.

  8. A rolling stone gathers no moss.

  9. A dwarf on a giant's shoulders sees the farther of the two.

It will be seen in the above examples that a certain clue is given by
writing the syllable with which the proverb commences in a capital
letter. This need not be done in playing the game where elder children
only take part, but it is an assistance for the younger ones. As to the
arrangement of syllables, it will be seen that the above are assorted in
alphabetical order, and this plan will be found most easy for reference,
but the sections may be placed in any order. In the case of number 2,
the above arrangement gives a clue to the proverb, and therefore in
writing out your "sections" it will be found that for _short_ proverbs
it will be desirable to place the syllables in such a manner as to give
the slightest indication of the sentence; whilst in longer proverbs the
alphabetical plan will be best.


[_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._]


LOUIS VERRIER, T. S. J.--[I am glad to tell you that a new "LITTLE FOLKS
Painting Book" is in preparation. Particulars will be announced


LITTLE MAID OF ARCADIE would like to know if any one can tell her in
what poem the following lines occur--

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

and who the author is.

A NORTHERN MOLE would be much obliged if any reader of LITTLE FOLKS
would tell her who wrote the poems "Sintram" and "Lyra Innocentium."

ALICE IN WONDERLAND wishes to know the story of King Cophetua.


PEROQUET writes, in answer to GREEN-EYED JOWLER, that the game of "Cross
Questions and Crooked Answers" is played by any number of persons--about
seven or eight are best. The players sit in a row, the first one asks
her right-hand neighbour a question and receives an answer, both in an
undertone. Then the player who was asked has to ask her next neighbour a
question, and so on all round, the last one asking the one who began.
Then in turn they all declare the question they were asked and the
answer they received; _not_ the question _they_ asked, or the answer
_they_ gave. The fun consists in the perfect nonsense of the proper
answers to the wrong questions, and from this it gets its name, "Cross
Questions and Crooked Answers." Answers also received from ONE OF THE


ASTARTE would like to know how to make a baby's woollen jacket.


CHUCKLES writes in answer to MAID OF ATHENS that the way to make
oat-cakes is:--Put two or three handfuls of meal into a bowl and moisten
it with water, merely sufficient to form it into a cake; knead it out
round and round with the hands upon the paste-board, strewing meal
under and over it, and put it on a girdle. Bake it till it is a little
brown on the under side, then take it off and toast that side before the
fire which was uppermost on the girdle. To make these cakes soft, merely
do them on both sides on the girdle.

F. W. BOREHAM writes in answer to SNOW-FLAKE that the way to make almond
rock is to cut in small slices three-quarters of a pound of sweet
almonds, half a pound of candied peel, and two ounces of citron; add one
pound and a half of sugar, a quarter of a pound of flour, and the whites
of six eggs. Roll the mixture into small-sized balls and lay them on
wafer paper about an inch apart. Bake them in a moderate oven until they
are of a pale brown colour.

PANSY asks how to make Queen's Cakes.


W. E. IRELAND sends in answer to W. ROUTLEDGE'S inquiry the following
directions for making a graph for copying letters, &c.:--Six parts of
glycerine, four parts of water, two parts of barium sulphate, one part
of sugar. Mix the materials and let them soak for twenty-four hours,
then melt at a gentle heat and stir well. I have used this recipe and
have frequently taken twenty or twenty-five clear copies. Once I took
over thirty. A great deal depends on the stirring, also the melting.


VIOLA would like to know if sorrel is good for birds, and if so, in what
quantity should it be given.--[Probably some birds eat it, but with the
majority it is too acid. Groundsel or plantain is much better. Green
food may be given freely in summer--regularly; but alternate supply and
deprivation are bad.]

SEJANUS would like to know of a really good book on British birds' eggs,
and what the price of it would be?--[At the end of every volume of
"Familiar Wild Birds" (published by Cassell and Company), there are
plates and descriptions of the eggs of all the birds described.]

A. K. would be glad to know of a cure for her dog. The balls of his
eyes, which were brown, have turned light blue; he can hardly see at
all. He is just four years old.--[We fear it is doubtful if your dog can
be cured. It is possible that dropping into his eyes a solution of
atropine may restore his sight, but you should get advice from a
veterinary surgeon, who must in any case show you how to do it.]

"Picture Wanting Words" Competition.

Full particulars of the Special Home and Foreign "Picture Wanting Words"
Competition--open to all readers under the age of Sixteen, and in which
Six Prizes and Officers' Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour, in
addition to some Members' Medals, are offered--were printed on page 192
of the last Number. This Competition is open until October 25th for
Competitors in Great Britain and Ireland, and until November 1st for
those who reside abroad. (Competitors are referred to a notice about the
Silver Medal on page 115 of the last Volume.)


  A widow lives across the creek
  Who took in washing by the week
  But aches and pains have crossed her way
  And now she lies in want, they say,

  Without a loaf of bread to eat,
  A slice of cheese, or pound of meat.
  So, while the owls around us sing,
  This basket full of food we bring.

  We made a raid on market stall,
  And took the poultry, fish, and all--.
  For Brownies are not slow, be sure,
  To do their best to help the poor.

  Across the window-sill with care
  We'll slide it to her table bare,
  And when she wakens up, no doubt,
  She'll think her neighbours were about.



    | Transcriber's Note:                                          |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 205: the caption HIS FIRST SKETCH." has been changed to |
    | "HIS FIRST SKETCH." with opening quotation marks             |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 210: "dashed into the principal room" has been changed  |
    | to "dashed into the principal room,"                         |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 213: caption A LITTLE ANT-EATER SLOWLY UNCOILING        |
    | ITSELF" has been changed to "A LITTLE ANT-EATER SLOWLY       |
    |     UNCOILING ITSELF" with opening quotation marks           |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 215: "What accusation bring ye against this Man? has    |
    | been changed to "What accusation bring ye against this Man?" |
    | with closing quotation marks                                 |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 227: He's not coming with us, in the first place?       |
    | has been changed to He's not coming with us, in the first    |
    | place,                                                       |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 233: LITTLE MARGARET'S. KITCHEN has been changed to     |
    | LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN                                    |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 235: arranged alphabetically, "air, has been changed    |
    | to arranged alphabetically, air, with no quotation marks     |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 253: "Too many cooks spoil the broth.' has been changed |
    | to "Too many cooks spoil the broth." with double quotes      |
    |                                                              |

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