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Title: Little Folks (Septemeber 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 (Septemeber 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._


When Elsie awoke in the morning, after at last falling into a dull,
heavy sleep, she had not an opportunity of seeing what sort of weather
it was. There was no light in their rude sleeping-place, except the dim
one that came through the aperture from the other room. She listened,
and hearing sounds of life below, she hastily rose, and creeping down
the ladder, went in search of her frock.

Mrs. Ferguson was already up, and busy. Elsie asked for her frock, but
Mrs. Ferguson told her it was not dry, and she had better make what
shift she could with the old gown she had given her on the previous
night. As she could nowhere see her dress, she was obliged reluctantly
to follow the woman's advice.

To her delight, she perceived that the morning was bright and warm after
the rain, and she fully resolved, as soon as their things were decently
dry, to be on their road once more.

In the meantime, however, Duncan's jacket had also disappeared. She
could get nothing out of Mrs. Ferguson about it, except that it was
drying, and Duncan had to put up with a cotton jacket, which Mrs.
Ferguson stripped from her own boy's back to give him.

This mystery as to the whereabouts of their clothes very greatly annoyed
Elsie, who tried in vain to make Mrs. Ferguson say where they were. She
pretended not to understand what Elsie meant, though Elsie felt quite
sure all that was feigned.

Their breakfast consisted of some thin watery porridge, without bread,
sugar, or milk.

When their scanty meal was ended, Mrs. Ferguson ordered them to go out
and help Sandy Ferguson, her husband, who was waiting outside for them.
At first Elsie felt disposed to refuse, but on second thoughts, she
obeyed. Sandy Ferguson was on the spot, his wife in the kitchen, with
the cottage door open, their two boys about here, there, and everywhere.

To get away unperceived was out of the question, besides the serious
matter of losing their garments, which Elsie had not yet been able to

So they had to work away in company with the two ragged urchins. Elsie
was boiling with rage, but she hid it as well as she could; and as for
poor Duncan, he worked away without uttering a word, but with only an
occasional inquiring glance at Elsie, which was infinitely touching.

Elsie soon perceived that there would be no chance of their pursuing
their journey that day. Mrs. Ferguson protested that she was getting
their things dried as fast as she could, and would say nothing more; but
Elsie had a keen misgiving that for some reason or other she did not
mean to let them go.

Was it possible that she knew anything of their mother, and was thinking
to send them back? or did she only mean to keep them there, and make
them work for her family?

At times Elsie felt a terrible fear creeping over her that these
dreadful people meant to steal or hurt her and Duncan. "Perhaps she
wants our clothes," Elsie thought, "for she knows we have no more

So she took the first opportunity she could find to tell Mrs. Ferguson
that they didn't think they could wait any longer for their things to
get dry; they could easily get some more at Killochrie. She said this
with an air of indifference. She would put her jacket on over her stuff
petticoat, and that would do very well. Duncan could wear the cotton
jacket, and leave his tweed one behind.

But all this made no impression on Mrs. Ferguson. She only laughed
grimly to herself; and as their things were not forthcoming, Elsie might
as well have spared her generosity. If she could only have found her
jacket she would have been contented, but this, too, had disappeared,
and even if she had found the opportunity, Elsie would hardly have had
the courage to go on her way with Mrs. Ferguson's dirty tattered gown
tucked up and pinned together about her.

By-and-by Elsie began to think she saw what Mrs. Ferguson was thinking
of. She noticed that she frequently looked along the road, and carefully
watched for any vehicle whose wheels sounded in the distance. "She
thinks mother'll come and fetch us," Elsie said to herself, "or at least
the woman that I told her I lived with; but she'll never come here after
us, that's certain."

But although Elsie had very little fear that they would be found, yet
she was determined to get away somehow from this hovel.

Two whole days had elapsed. They had spent three wretched shivering
nights on the floor of the loft. On the third day Elsie felt she could
bear it no longer. She was in a state of suppressed excitement, and she
felt that she could almost jump out of her skin.

It is very strange to notice through what small loopholes people often
make their escape. The fairy-tale idea of passing through keyholes and
up chimneys is scarcely more wonderful. Now, Mrs. Ferguson had been
keeping a strict watch on these children, and not only herself, but her
husband and two children had all been employed to watch. On the third
day there stopped at the cottage door a lumbering vehicle, containing a
man and woman and several baskets. The two alighted, and came into the
cottage, where a great talking ensued, and many purchases were displayed
and loudly discussed. The two Ferguson lads should have been with Elsie
and Duncan, but they had climbed on to the top of the peat-stack by the
side of the house, and were lying full length, peering unobserved
through the dingy window. Suddenly Elsie perceived that they were alone,
and without waiting to consider the possibilities of the case, she took
Duncan by the hand, pushed him over the stone wall, quickly climbed it
herself, and flew away over the grass as fast as her feet could carry
her in the direction of the hills.

Here, again, fortune favoured her, as it sometimes does favour the most
rash ventures. After running a goodish way, Elsie saw what she had never
dreamed of finding--a roadway sweeping round the foot of the hill, and
quite hidden from sight by a sudden rise in the ground. When they gained
the road, they too would be hidden by the rising ground between them and
the crofter's cottage, whereas now they could be seen distinctly by any
one who should happen to look, for there was not even a tree or bush to
shield them. Elsie pushed on quickly, not venturing to take even a peep
behind until they had safely scrambled down the steep bank into the
road, when, to her joy, she found that the stone walls enclosing the
croft, even the little hovel itself, had completely disappeared.

"Elsie," said Duncan, catching his breath, and looking up to her with a
glance of terror, "will they catch us?"

"No, I don't think so, Duncan," Elsie answered, quite gently. "We are
quite out of sight. We must be quick, and find out where this road

"I am so frightened, Elsie!" Duncan exclaimed, with a pitiful, appealing
glance to her not to be angry. He had kept his terror to himself so long
that he could hide it no longer. "Did you think they were going to kill
us, Elsie?"

"No, Duncan, of course not," Elsie replied, not without a little shiver.

It was very noticeable how different Elsie's tone was from her usual
one. There was no snapping up or ridiculing her little brother. She
spoke more as if she were trying to persuade herself of the truth of
what she said.

"But, Elsie, there was never any one came near," Duncan persisted.
"Sandy Ferguson could dig a big hole, and put us in right easy. No one
would know. Don't let him catch us, Elsie."

"He shan't catch us, dear," Elsie said, reassuringly, though she was not
feeling very easy about it herself. It was only now that she began
really to feel what a terrible time they had lived through in those last
two days, and what unknown horrors they had escaped from. Duncan's words
filled her with fear. To be overtaken and carried back to that dreadful
woman seemed the worst thing that could befall them.

"I wonder where this road leads?" Elsie said, trying to make Duncan
think of something else. "There's no one to ask."

"P'raps they might be like the man if you asked," Duncan said fearfully;
"and you look so ragged in that dirty old gown, Elsie. They will think
we are beggars."

Elsie had been thinking the same thing herself, though she was not going
to tell poor Duncan--already frightened out of his senses--how
uncomfortable she really felt. Alone in a country road, which led they
did not know where, without a penny to buy food or, so far as they could
see, a house from which they could ask some, what was to become of them?

"Elsie?" Duncan said presently, looking at her very wistfully.

"Yes, Duncan?"

"You won't be angry, will you?"

"No, I won't be angry," Elsie said impatiently. "What is it?"

"I feel so tired. Couldn't we go home?"

"Do you think you could find the way back?" Elsie asked.

"Oh! but we could ask for Dunster," Duncan said, eagerly. "People would
tell us. I'd try to run very fast, Elsie."

"We should have to get back to that other road, where the cottages are,
first," Elsie said, contemplatively. "Would you like to do that,

"Oh, no!" the child cried, in _terror_. "They'd catch us, Elsie, they'd
catch us: I'm sure they would."

"We won't go there," Elsie said, trying to comfort him, for it was
pitiful to see his fright. "Wait till I see a nice tidy person, and I'll
ask all about it."

"There might be another way," Duncan suggested.

Just then they heard the sound of distant wheels. Duncan caught hold of
Elsie's shoulder in an agony of fright. "It's the man!" he cried,
trembling from head to foot, and turning as white as death. "He's
coming, Elsie! he's coming to fetch us back!"


With what indescribable torments of dread the two children stood waiting
it is difficult to express. Elsie's feeling of fright for herself was
merged in care for Duncan. She had never seen him look like this before,
and it startled her. His white face was drawn into an expression that
changed it altogether. His eyes were wide and staring, looking along the
road in a sort of fascination of terror.

Elsie held him close to her, drawing him round so that he should not see
the approaching vehicle, still far distant, for on that still, lonely
road the sound of hoofs could be heard at a great distance. Elsie
listened, with her heart standing still.

"Duncan, Duncan, it is two horses!" she cried, presently. "And they are
coming quickly. It is a carriage, not a cart."

But Duncan was so terrified that he had no reasoning power left in him.
Even when the carriage came in sight he would not have been a bit
surprised to have seen the crofter and his shrewish wife jump out of it.

Instead of that, however, the carriage contained a very
fashionably-dressed, rich-looking lady and gentleman. Elsie could see
directly that they were gentlefolk, who would never think of hurting two
little children. She resolved to speak to them.

They were certainly in fortune's way. The carriage drew up close by
them, and a dainty voice asked--

"Children, can you tell us if we are on the right road to Killochrie?"

"I don't think you are, ma'am," Elsie replied, in her best manner.

"Oh dear!" the lady exclaimed; "how annoying when we are in such haste!
Can you direct us?"

"There's a road right over there leads to it," Elsie replied, pointing
with her hand.

"But how do we get on to the road? Does this one meet it anywhere?
Driver, don't you know?"

The driver muttered something in a rather surly fashion, whereupon the
gentleman, who had not yet spoken, leaned forward, and said angrily,
"You told us you knew this neighbourhood. You are an idiot!"

"Perhaps this little lass could show him," the lady remarked.

"Indeed, ma'am, it's right glad I'd be to do it," Elsie began (how very
polite any one can be when they choose), "but we're quite strange, and
have lost our own way, our mother being dead and our father in London,
which we're trying to find; and perhaps, ma'am, you would be so kind as
to tell us the way." All this was said very rapidly.

"If they can't help us, why not drive on?" the gentleman remarked

"Stay a moment," the lady said. "These children may possibly be of great
use to us. Look at the girl, William. She hasn't at all a bad face, if
she were well dressed," she added, in a low tone, which, however, did
not escape Elsie.

"You say your mother is dead and your father in London," the lady added.
"Who are you living with?"

"There was a woman who took care of us," Elsie replied quickly, "but she
let our father think we were dead, so we ran away to find him; and a man
who gave us a ride in his cart robbed us of our pennies and our clothes,
and was very cruel. We ran away in the clothes they gave us."

"What a deal of running away," the lady said, not unkindly; "and your
little brother looks tired. Do you know how far it is to London?"

"No, not exactly, ma'am," Elsie replied.

"Well, it is hundreds and hundreds of miles; and let me tell you at once
you will never get there if you walk for ever. But," she added quickly,
leaving Elsie no time to reply, "I may be able to help you. I am a sort
of good fairy. Walk on towards Killochrie. Ask any one you see the way
there, and before night I will come back again. That is all. Coachman,
drive on. You must look out for some one else to direct us."

Then the man whipped up his horses and drove off, leaving Elsie standing
by the roadside in a sad state of bewilderment. Could she have heard
aright? Before three minutes had passed she began to think she had been
mistaken, but that could not be, for Duncan presently said to her--

"She won't ever come back, Elsie, will she? But she was a bonnie lady,
wasn't she?"

"She was bonnie, and real kind," Elsie said. "I wonder whether she will
come back after all."

"She might have put us inside the carriage if she'd liked," Duncan said,

"Perhaps the gentleman wouldn't have let her," Elsie replied. "I think
she meant she would come alone."

"Will she be very long?" Duncan said, pitifully; "and will she take us
to London, to him--our father, Elsie?--or will you ask her to take us
back to Dunster?"

"We must wait till she comes," Elsie said, evasively. In her heart of
hearts she would not have been sorry to find herself back in Mrs.
MacDougall's cottage, but the humiliation of returning and acknowledging
why she had run away, and how she had failed, was too much for her
proud, stubborn will.

"Do you like running away?" Duncan asked, looking up anxiously in her

"I don't mind it," Elsie answered. She was getting into a contrary mood,
partly because Duncan's remarks touched her so keenly, partly out of
anger and impatience at the misfortunes that had befallen them.

They had been walking along slowly in the direction the carriage had
taken. Duncan did not seem inclined to go faster. Presently he stopped,
and stood watching a number of black-faced Highland sheep scampering
down the side of a hill. There were sounds of barking, and at last there
appeared a shepherd and collie.

"He will know the way," Elsie cried, with delight. "Come on, Duncan;
let's run and ask him."

"You run, Elsie. I'll wait till you come back," Duncan said, wearily. It
was very unusual for him to hang behind, but Elsie was too eager to
notice it. She left him sitting by the roadside, and flew after the

"The way to Killochrie? Weel, you just keep to the road right away till
it runs into another one, an' that'll take you straight through; but
it's a long, long way to walk."

The man was engaged in eating a large piece of bread and cheese. Elsie,
who was very hungry, eyed it longingly.

"Ye look a wee bit starved," the man said.

"We'll be getting some food at Killochrie," Elsie said, evasively.

"I did hear last night that there was two children lost off Dunster
Moor--stolen, they do say. I suppose you bain't one of them?" the man
continued, eyeing her curiously "Was dressed in plaid frock and cloth
jacket. That ain't you, any way."

"We live at Killochrie," Elsie said quickly and wickedly, not hesitating
to conceal the truth, and to tell a falsehood to do so. "We've come
farther than we should, and I wasn't quite sure of the way."

"Aweel! aweel!" the man said, in his slow northern fashion. "It's a good
thing ye're not lost away from your natural home, which I'd be sorry to
think of happening to any bairn. It's a goodish bit out of my road, but
I'd like to carry the poor bairnies back to their mother, wherever she

Elsie waited to hear no more. She bade the man a hasty "Good-day," and
ran off. How strange it was that this out-of-the-way shepherd should
have heard the tale, and yet not so strange when one thinks how quickly
such a tale spreads far and near, and how few other concerns the
shepherd had to drive it from his mind. Already the news of the lost
children was being discussed in every whiskey-shop and cottage. It had
reached the little village three miles out of Killochrie, where the
shepherd's wife lived. And if the children had been elsewhere than in
the crofter's lonely cottage they must have been discovered, as there
was every chance that they would be before long.

Now, if Elsie had known it, the first piece of good fortune that had
really come to them was when she met the shepherd. He was an honest,
kind-hearted man, the father of children. At one word of explanation he
would have taken the children in charge, and delivered them safely over
to their proper guardian. Providence, watching over the misguided
children, had put this means of deliverance in their way. But Elsie was
still obstinate, and the very thought of being taken back roused every
feeling of opposition and anger.

If only poor little Duncan had known the opportunity, which was every
moment retreating farther away!

Elsie breathed freely when she perceived the shepherd disappear in the
valley. "We are all right," she said to Duncan, keeping to herself the
shock she had received. "This will lead us to Killochrie."

Duncan said nothing. He seemed neither glad nor sorry. He was not much
of a companion, Elsie thought.

The day crept on. They did not make much progress, for Duncan was cross,
and lagged dreadfully.

Elsie had in her mind a firm conviction that the kind lady would return,
and she was not wrong, for at last they saw a female figure coming
towards them; she carried a good-sized leather bag in her hand, which
Elsie believed contained food for them. How glad she was now that she
had fled from the shepherd. The good fairy had come.

[Illustration: "THE CARRIAGE DREW UP CLOSE BY THEM" (_p. 131_).]

There was one thing Elsie had never thought of. Wicked spirits often
assume the appearance of good fairies. Every one knows that, so that it
was to be seen whether this was a good fairy or not.



Such a disappointment! As the figure drew near, Elsie saw that she had
made a mistake. Instead of the beautifully-dressed lady of the carriage,
it turned out to be a person dressed in black garments, with a long
black veil covering her face.

She walked along quickly, and as she came up to the children, she
stopped. Then she turned up her veil, and Elsie saw with astonishment
that it was really the lady who had spoken to them that morning, but so
changed, that it was no wonder Elsie had not known her. The face that
had looked so gay and smiling was now sad and pensive; the fair curling
hair, falling in pretty confusion over the white forehead, was drawn
smoothly back under the neat crape bonnet, with its widow's cap.


The many bracelets and other jewellery were all gone. So complete was
the transformation that Elsie stood staring, not knowing what to

"I told you I was a fairy," the lady said, in a kind, but sad, voice.
"You must not be surprised to see me so changed. To-morrow I may change
again. A fairy is all sorts of things, you know."

"Ye--es, ma'am," Elsie said, doubtfully.

"I dare say you think that a fairy can change other people as well as
herself, do you not?"

"Yes, ma'am; fairies do that in books," Elsie replied.

"Well, and I tell you I am a fairy," the lady said, a little sharply;
"and I am going to change you."

"What is she going to change us into, Elsie?" asked the matter-of-fact

"Ah! what?" the lady asked, with a laugh. "Shall I change you into two
little Highland sheep scampering over the hills, and feeding upon

"Oh no!" Elsie said quickly; but Duncan, whose mind never readily
accepted a new idea, only replied stolidly, "You couldn't, you know."

"Don't be so sure of that," the lady replied. "But I am not going to. I
am going to make you into my own little children."

This seemed very nice and kind, but it so completely did away with their
own father that Elsie did not know what to say. The lady seemed
displeased, and stamping her foot, said very sharply--"Do you hear what
I say? I am going to turn you into my little boy and girl."

"Thank you, ma'am," Elsie said slowly. "It is very kind, only we've got
our own father."

"I didn't say anything about a father, did I?" the lady said. "I shall
be your mother. While you are my children, your father is dead."

"But he isn't indeed, ma'am," Elsie began; but he lady's face suddenly
changed. It grew very red, and her eyes blazed with passion.

In place of the sad, pensive face, she saw an angry, furious,
dreadful-looking face, that struck terror into her heart. "While you are
my children," she exclaimed, in a loud terrible voice, "your father is
dead. If you forget that for one moment, I will instantly change you
back into the wretched little creatures you now are, and set you down on
top of that high mountain, where you will perish of cold and hunger."
Then suddenly she dropped her voice, her face grew calm and
sweet-looking again, and she said, very gently, "Will you be my

The children were so bewildered and astonished that they could hardly
believe their senses. Elsie replied at once--"Oh yes, if we may;" but it
was really more because she did not dare to say anything else, for fear
of offending this strange being, and the dread of being left alone all
night among the dark, gloomy hills.

"Follow me," the lady said, drawing down her veil, and turning away
from the road on to the grass.

The children followed. She led them some distance over the lowest part
of a small hill. She walked quickly, the children doing their best to
keep pace with her light, rapid footsteps, although Duncan was very
tired, and both were desperately hungry. Presently they found themselves
in a tiny dell, through which ran a little babbling stream, and where
large yellow daisies, and bonnie blue-bells, and other flowers bloomed
abundantly. Here the strange lady stopped, and opening her bag, she drew
forth some black garments. The first one was a frock of fine black stuff
with crape. She bade Elsie take off the old gown she was wearing, and
put on this.

Elsie was charmed. The dress fastened down the back, and had a narrow
skirt, cut in one with the body, forming a complete contrast to her own
short full skirt and round body of bright plaid. Then there came forth
from the fairy bag a black hat and a pair of beautiful silk gloves. "You
will do for to-night," the lady said, when Elsie had put them on.
"To-morrow morning we must think of shoes and stockings less clumsy than
those you have on."

For Duncan she brought out a black overcoat, which reached nearly to his
ankles, and a black cloth cap. Elsie waited impatiently, hoping to see
some nice food come out of the bag, but the fairy mother seemed not to
have thought of that, for she shut it up when she had taken the cap out,
and gave it to Duncan to carry. Then she rolled up the tattered gown and
jacket, and threw them into the stream.

"You are to call me mamma," she said sweetly, "or mother, if you are
more used to that."

"Then please, ma'am--ma--we are very hungry," Elsie said.

The lady did not seem pleased. "What dreadful things children are! They
want to eat!" she exclaimed. "Well, there is no time now; we must get
home quickly. Give me a hand each of you."

They did as they were told, and very soon were again upon the road,
walking as quickly as they could to keep up with her. Every now and then
she gave Duncan a sharp tug to make him walk quicker.

The poor child was so tired and hungry that he hardly knew how to get
along, but the lady took no notice. Elsie really was beginning to think
that there was something about her quite different from ordinary people,
but she was not sure that she liked her any better for that. She
wondered whether she knew what it was to feel very hungry.

They walked what seemed to the weary children a very, very long way, but
at last they saw houses, and they perceived that they had arrived at a
little village. Here the lady bought them some buns and rolls, which
they eagerly devoured, but to their infinite disappointment they found
they were not to stay here. On they walked another long way, till they
reached a place with many houses and streets and shops, such as Elsie
had never seen in her life before.

It was now quite dark, but the lady hurried them through the streets,
not allowing them to stop for a moment. By-and-by they arrived at a
strange building of wood. They were presently lifted into a carriage.
The lady followed; the door was shut. There was a shrill scream, and
then the lights outside began to glide past them. They were, for the
first time in their lives, in a train.

Duncan had not been in the carriage two minutes before his head fell
back against the woodwork, and he was asleep. Elsie's brain was too busy
for her to do the same thing. The sensation of gliding along in the dark
was so new and strange that she was at first very frightened, but as
every one else looked quite comfortable, her fears began to abate, and
she could turn her mind to the strange adventures that had befallen

After some little time they stopped, and their companion lifted them
out, rousing Duncan out of his heavy sleep with much difficulty.

A tall, dark gentleman was waiting, on the platform for them. "Here are
the dear children," the lady said, in a sweet, sad voice. "Children, say
'How do you do?' to your Uncle William."

The gentleman shook hands with each of them, and taking Elsie by the
hand, led her forward, the lady following with Duncan. They passed
through some gates, and found some carriages waiting outside. Into one
of these the gentleman and lady took the children, and they were driven

These two strange individuals conversed a great deal, but the noise of
the wheels prevented Elsie from hearing much of what they said. She made
out that the lady was telling the gentleman about her journey, and she
thought they both seemed rather pleased.

Suddenly the gentleman leaned over, and laid a hand upon Elsie's arm.
"Mind what you are about," he said in her ear. "If you say anything to
displease this lady, your good mother, it will be the worse for you. The
less you say to anybody, the better; and look after the boy. What is
your name?"


"No it isn't. It is Effie Donaldson. Don't forget it again. Your
brother's name is Donald Donaldson. Don't let him forget it, either."

Elsie saw in a moment that there was no trifling meant, and that she
would have to obey. It was the same gentleman who had called the driver
an idiot in the morning. She had stolen a glance at him then, and had
not liked his face. She liked it still less now. Still, they must be
kind people, or they would not have brought her and Duncan all this way,
and given them such nice clothes. Elsie very much wished, however, that
gentlefolk had not such strange manners.

She was very glad and thankful when at last they alighted at a house,
into which they entered. A neat, tidy-looking woman came forward to meet
them. "Everything's quite ready, ma'am, as the gentleman ordered," she
said, with a curtsey. "I've made up an extra bed in your room, ma'am,
for the little boy, which the gentleman said would suit you, and the
supper's waiting to be served in a moment. I dare say the children are
tired, ma'am."

"Yes," said the lady, in a sweet, gentle voice. "They have had a long
journey, and they are tired to-night. They will be glad to get to bed as
soon as we have had supper, won't you, dears?"

"Yes, mamma," Elsie answered quickly. Duncan made no reply.

"You go in there, and sit down till I come," the lady said, pointing to
an open door, through which came the gleam of a fire. She took Elsie's
hat and Duncan's cap, and went upstairs, leaving the children, as they
thought, alone.

But that was a mistake, for the gentleman came in the next moment.
However, he told them, not unkindly, to sit down and warm themselves,
which they were glad enough to do. The table was already spread for a
meal. Presently the woman brought in a dish of ham and eggs, which made
the famished creatures ready to cry with delight.

Their new mamma watched them very narrowly as they ate. Fortunately,
Mrs. MacDougall had been very strict about their behaviour, but there
were still several things that displeased their new friend, for which
she corrected them pretty sharply; and to show how easily children can
remember when they really know they must, Elsie not only bore in mind
the faults that were found with herself, but also those points in which
Duncan had offended.

The woman of the house came in by-and-by, to ask whether she should see
the children in bed. She looked so kind and nice, that Elsie hoped their
new mamma would say "Yes." She, however, declined, saying that she could
not bear any one to do anything for the children but herself. Then she
took them upstairs, and locking the door, bade them undress. She then
went to a box, and got out some night garments, which were much too
large; but the children did not mind that. She tucked Elsie kindly into
the snuggest, sweetest bed that could be, and then went to do the same
kind office for Duncan. Then telling them that they were on no account
to get up till she came to them the next morning, she left them to such
a night's rest as they had not had since they left the cottage on
Dunster Moor.

[Illustration: "'YOU ARE TO CALL ME MAMMA,' SHE SAID" (_p. 134_).]


The children had been in the habit of rising at an early hour all their
lives. Elsie woke the next morning about six o'clock, to find the sun
shining in brightly at the curtained window. She had always thought what
a fine thing it must be to be able to lie in bed as long as one liked,
so she was not at all averse to doing as the lady had bidden her,
especially as the little bed was so soft and warm. She lay quietly,
looking round the room at the pictures which hung on the walls, and at
the various articles of furniture it contained; but after a while she
began to grow tired of this, and to wonder when the lady would come to
her. After an hour or so she crept to the door, and turned the handle,
thinking to see if any one was about yet; but she found that she was
locked in, so there was nothing else to be done but to get back into


The time passed very slowly; still no one came. Elsie grew very
restless, and did not at all like the feeling of being locked up away
from Duncan. Still these people were gentlefolk, and rich. It was quite
impossible they could mean any harm. She could hear distant sounds of
people moving in the house. Could it be possible that they had forgotten
all about her? She had heard a clock strike seven, then eight, now it
was striking nine. At home, she would have been across the moor and
back, have had her breakfast, and been at school by this time.

Much as she stood in awe of her mysterious benefactress, she grew at
last so restless that she could be still no longer, but jumped up, and
began to wash and dress herself.

She was standing before the glass, greatly admiring her appearance in
the new frock and hat, and wondering how the lady had really got them,
when the key turned, and the fairy mother herself entered. She was
dressed in long trailing black garments, with a white cap on her head,
and looked, Elsie thought, wonderfully sweet and pretty. But as her eye
fell upon Elsie the sweetness vanished, and the angry expression that
had once before so terrified her came back.

"I told you not to get up till I came," she said, in a threatening

"I thought you had forgotten; it was so late," Elsie faltered.

"You are not to think," the lady said. "You have disobeyed me once. The
second time you will find yourself, before nightfall, back on the top of
the mountain, as I warned you before. And far worse things than that
will befall you, and your brother too. Take care! I shall not warn you
again. Now, put on these stockings I have brought you, and let me see if
these shoes fit."

They were a pair of fine woven black stockings, for which Elsie
willingly changed her thick grey knitted ones. The shoes were a little
long, but were soft and easy to her feet, and seemed to Elsie very
beautiful ones. They were, in fact, a pair of the lady's own, and yet
were scarcely any too large for Elsie. Then the lady combed out her
hair, and tied it up with a piece of black ribbon. Elsie felt herself
very grand indeed.

"Now kiss me, and say, 'Good morning, mamma,'" the lady said, holding
her cheek down.

Elsie did as she was bidden. "That will do," the lady said. "When you go
downstairs say 'Good morning' to your Uncle William in the same way. You
can go now."

Elsie went downstairs. At the door of the room where they had supped the
night before she met the woman of the house, taking in a plate of eggs,
coffee, and other good things.

The woman looked at her curiously, but made no remark. Elsie went in,
and found the gentleman already there. She went forward and bade him
good morning, as she had been directed.

He lifted up a pair of large black eyes from the paper he was reading,
and gave her a look which somehow scared her, as he said "Good morning,
Effie." She stood still, not daring to move at all, and feeling
extremely frightened and awkward.

"Go and tell your mamma that breakfast is ready," he said, with another

"Yes, dear, I'm coming," the lady called, in response to Elsie's
message. "Don't walk so heavily, child!" she exclaimed, as Elsie ran
downstairs. "I do not know what sort of manners they have taught you at
that wretched school. Bring your hat down, dear; then we shall be all
ready to start. You will see that the luggage is in readiness, Mrs.
Alexander," she added to the woman, who was at that moment coming out of
the room.

"Yes, ma'am, certainly. And the fly will be round at a quarter to ten

The lady thanked her very sweetly; she was leading Duncan by the hand.
He had on his overcoat, and held his cap in his hand. Elsie concluded at
once that this was because he had no jacket, and wondered why the lady
had not provided one for him as well as clothes for her. The child was
looking pale and heavy, and, Elsie thought, unhappy.

All the time they were at breakfast the lady and gentleman talked about
the weather, and the long journey they were going to take, and such
things, just, Elsie thought, as if Mrs. Alexander were outside
listening. Elsie was considerably bewildered by the way they spoke of
her and Duncan.

"Effie is not so much grown as I would have thought," the lady remarked
to the gentleman, who seemed to be her brother.

"She is very much tanned, and her hands are as brown as berries," he

"Ah! that is the natural result of such a country life," the lady
returned. "She has perfect health."

"Donald does not look so well."

Elsie could make nothing of this strange conversation, but she supposed
that the lady wished her and Duncan to be taken for some other children
who were not there. Still this was puzzling, for where could the other
children be?

Duncan ate very little, and seemed to take that more because he was
frightened to leave what had been given him than for any hunger.

After breakfast a carriage came to the door, and they drove back again
to the station from which they had come last night. After a little
waiting, the train started.

There were no other passengers in the carriage they occupied, and the
lady and gentleman talked a great deal together. Elsie could not
understand half that they said, but she heard them mention Edinburgh and
London, and talk of hotels, and lodgings, and a great many other things,
which gave her no information; but her heart beat wildly when they spoke
of London, and she hoped above everything that they would take her
there, for she had lost all count of the way by now, and would have had
no more idea in which direction to go, had she been left to herself,
than she would have had to find her way back to Dunster.

For a while the lady and gentleman were so engaged in talking together,
that they took no notice of the children. Duncan had seated himself in a
corner, and was leaning his head against the cushion with a strange
expression on his face. Elsie, sitting opposite, glanced at him several
times, as if to inquire what was the matter, but he took no notice. To
go over and ask him was more than she dared. She was far more frightened
to move a finger before this strange lady than she had been to disobey
Mrs. MacDougall in the most flagrant way.

But suddenly the gentleman's eye fell upon Duncan, and he said sharply,
"That child is ill, Lucy!"

"Nonsense!" said the lady, quickly. "He is putting it on. A good shaking
will rouse him."

Elsie glanced uneasily at Duncan. He took no notice; his heavy eyelids
were almost closed. It flashed upon Elsie that what the gentleman said
was true, although she had not thought of it before.

"I think he is ill," Elsie said, plucking up her courage, for she
thought it was cruel to talk of shaking him.

"Nonsense! He shall not be ill. Let him dare to!" the lady cried

"It strikes me that he won't be able to help it," the gentleman said,
with an ugly smile, which seemed to make the lady very angry. "Well now,
what's to be done? This is a look-out you had not bargained for."

The lady looked puzzled and very much annoyed. She bit her lip, and
tapped her foot on the floor.

"If he lasts out till we get to London, I don't know that the child
being ill will interfere with our plans. It might be turned to
advantage. If not, he must be left behind in Edinburgh," the lady said.

Elsie pricked up her ears. "You do not mean that you would leave him
without me," she said quickly, thinking her ears must have deceived her.

"He could be brought to London when he was better," the lady said, with
a glance at the gentleman. "He would be taken care of; but we must go

"If he stays in Edinburgh, I shall too," Elsie said, with sudden

"You will do what I tell you!" the lady said, with one of her terrible
looks, which so frightened Elsie that she could say nothing, although
her mind was firmly made up that she would never leave Duncan.

Then they went on talking again, and Elsie heard a great deal of
discussion about whether they should stay in an hotel or not, and she
gathered that the presence of herself and Duncan was the point of
difficulty, for she heard the lady say that she had not been able to get
him any clothes, and his own were much too coarse and common, and that
people in Edinburgh would notice much more than simple country-folk like
Mrs. Alexander.

Elsie had long been doubtful whether these people were kind or not, but
now she felt sure they were not. She had no idea why they had done all
they had, but she felt sure it was not from real kindness, and she began
to feel suspicious that they would be very unkind to Duncan.

It was a very strange thing, and not at all what she had ever read in
any book, that they should twice have fallen in with unkind people.

By-and-by some other people came into the carriage, and then Mrs.
Donaldson went and sat by Duncan, putting her arm round him, and drawing
his head down on to her shoulder.

After being many hours in the train, they arrived at a great place,
which turned out to be the Waverley Station at Edinburgh. It was such a
busy, wonderful place, with so many lights and people, that Elsie would
have been wild with delight if it had not been for her anxiety about

The gentleman gave some directions to a porter about taking their
luggage. Then he and the lady took poor Duncan between them and led him
out into the streets, which were full of people and carriages.

It was, she supposed, because so many people looked at Duncan's pale
heavy face and tottering steps that the gentleman, after a a few
minutes, took him up and carried him. They went some little distance,
till they came to a small shop, the window of which was full of all
kinds of papers and pictures. The gentleman had some conversation with a
man behind the counter, who took them into a small room, where the lady
and gentleman bade them "Good-bye," and left them, saying they would
come back the next morning.

After a little time, a girl, dirty, ragged, and untidy, came into the
room, and taking Duncan up in her arms, carried him upstairs, Elsie
following with a candle.

The house seemed to be a tall one, for there were more stairs than Elsie
had ever seen in her life, and they were dark, steep, and narrow, so
that she frequently stumbled. The girl, however, went on quickly enough.
They paused at several landings with doors, from which came the noise of
voices, sometimes raised pretty high, as if in anger and dispute.

At last they reached a tiny room, quite up at the top of the house. It
had a low, sloping roof, much discoloured with damp and dirt, as were
also the walls. The floor was bare and black with dirt and age, the
whole apartment squalid and uncomfortable.

The girl laid Duncan down on the bed, and began removing his things with
a certain amount of gentleness; he seemed quite unable to do anything
for himself. When she had undressed him, she put back the bed-clothes.
Then she went away, and once more the children were alone together, and
very much alone, for Elsie noticed that the girl locked the door before
she went away.

(_To be continued._)


[Footnote 1: See Little Folks, Vol. XVIII., page 291.]


Are you ready to hear about more things which can be made with a
penknife? Then I am ready to tell you.

Amongst my acquaintances and friends are certain little toy-boat
builders, who bestow upon me from time to time boats fashioned by their
knives; vessels which would not, it is true, encounter stormy seas, and
therefore are not fitted for use, but which look taut and trim as they
lie in the quiet harbour of bracket or slab amongst other choice
ornaments. A rowing-boat, a yacht, a schooner, a man-of-war--all these
varieties are somewhat commonplace. The construction of them requires
skill and dexterity, I know, but you do not want a description from me
of these, and I wish to tell you of something more uncommon than the
boats we see on our own waters.

Perhaps some of my readers have not attempted anything on so large a
scale as this I am about to describe. If they are afraid of the size of
the venture, they can follow the general directions, and make their
dimensions smaller.

Two boats we want, and four paddles.

The boats are to be in shape and form like the Indian birch-bark canoe:
this, as you know, has a very distinctive appearance of its own, and is
quite different from any boat we see on English waters: for this reason,
although you might be able to find a picture of one in some book, a
drawing is given for you to study, as your model for shape and form. As
I have said, we require two of these canoes, and they are to be of
different sizes. The length of the big one is 12 inches; the depth of
this boat in the middle is 2 inches; at its stern and prow, which you
will see are alike also in form, the measurement is 2½ inches.

The length of the little canoe is 9½ inches: in the middle it is 1½
inches, and prow and stern measure 2 inches.

The particularly bulging sides of boats of this character are the cause
of the chief difficulty of their construction; fortunately for our
purpose only one side of the canoes have this protuberance, for this
reason--these canoes and paddles are placed together and hung up against
a wall, and therefore one side of each canoe has to be flat in order to
rest steadily and comfortably against the wall. The interiors of the
canoes are scooped out, and serve as receptacles for odds and ends.

The paddles of some canoes are short and have wide spoon-like blades at
each end; these, you see, have not. The length of the pair of big
paddles is 13 inches; of these inches the blade takes 2½ inches. The
extreme length of the little paddles is 12 inches; their blades are as
large as those of their companions.

These four paddles are crossed over each other, and over one another,
all at the same time standing in an upright position.

The two long paddles cross each other just below the blades, which rear
themselves aloft; the two short paddles also cross each other near their
blades, but they are head downwards. When these four brothers are placed
together in proper juxtaposition, the ends of the little paddles are
just below, but an inch or so away from the blades of the big paddles.
The ends of the big paddles descend as far as the bottom of the blades
of the little paddles. I hope that you are not confused or bewildered:
the drawing will help to enlighten you.

Against this background of paddles the two canoes are placed: the little
one uppermost, the larger one a few inches below. Very pretty the whole
device looks. I should keep the secret until the whole is quite
complete. The surface of the wood should be made as smooth as satin by
dint of rubs and scrubs with sand-paper, and then it looks well if left
without any covering of paint or varnish: the stems of the paddles have
a little adornment in long specks of red and blue paint.

Now L am going to turn away--for a time at any rate--from whittling of
wood, and to speak of cutting of cork--that is ordinary corks. So many
things can be constructed with them by the help of a penknife and liquid

The celebrated Cleopatra's Needle is a good object; a wheelbarrow, an
old-fashioned square arm-chair, a book-case, an old oak chest, a Dutch
cradle, and many other articles of furniture can be imitated. In
selecting copies for imitation it is best to choose those of old date,
made of oak, for the cork resembles old worm-eaten oak when its first
freshness has gone and its complexion becomes darker. A very pretty and
uncommon object to copy is that of an old-fashioned clock, a veritable
"my grandfather's clock," an upright tall eight-day clock that has a
long chain and a heavy pendulum concealed within its tall case, and that
shows a big square face with large figures printed on it. I will give
you a few details about my cork clock, and I think you will make one and
set it upon a bracket to be admired by all beholders. This miniature
clock stands 7½ inches high. Its two cases and head are hollow; it is
built of little blocks of cork of different sizes, fitted neatly
together, so that at the first glance one imagines each portion to be
one large piece. The lower part of the clock is 2 inches high and 1½
inches across. This hollow four-sided case stands on a basement formed
of cork blocks, which project a wee bit beyond the case; this structure
is supported by 4 feet of a club-like form. So far so good. Now we will
raise the structure higher. A case in which the pendulum with its chain
is supposed to be hanging and swinging and tick-tacking is formed
likewise of bricks of cork: its length is 2½ inches, its breadth is 1
inch. Now as the upper case is smaller, you see, than the lower one,
there would be a cavity, and indeed nothing for the higher one to rest
upon, so we put little bevelled pieces on the lower case, which fill up
part of the aperture and give the upper case a resting-place. The door
of the clock is represented by a narrow thin piece of cork, at least 2
inches long, placed down the middle of the upper case. Now we have come
to its head: this is a hollow square, 1½ inches high and wide. A little
platform is put on the upper case, which projects beyond it all round.
On this the head stands, and at each corner a little round pillar, the
height of the head, rears itself up. On the top of the head there is an
ornamental battlement, composed of dog-tooth pieces of cork. As the
clock has a head, it ought to have a face; indeed, the face is one of
the chief parts of a clock. Take a piece of stiff white paper or thin
cardboard, cut it square the exact size of the head, and on it mark, in
your neatest style, the proper number of figures and the two black
hands: fasten the paper on a square of cork the same size, and put it in
at the back of the head. Keep it in its place by fastening projecting
blocks of cork to the back of the square; this will keep it steady, and
prevent the face from falling away from the front of the head. The face
looks rather too staring if the whole square is seen, therefore fix tiny
half squares of cork in each of the four corners of the head in front.

E. C.


          I fed the birds in the winter,
            And so in the summer, you see,
          They flew through my open window,
            And stayed for a cup of tea.
  They little thought I was looking, the dear little
      feathered things,
  As they hovered o'er cups and saucers, and fluttered
      their pretty wings.

          For I was standing on tip-toe,
            In hiding behind the screen,
          And a livelier chirpier party,
            I think I have never seen.
  The air was sweet with the summer, the window
      stood open wide,
  My room was a garden of flowers, and lime-trees
      blossomed outside.

          So the old birds paid me a visit,
            And the young birds came in their train,
          For they took my room, with its nosegays,
            For part of their own domain;
  While they sipped the cream in my teacups, and
      daintily pecked my cake,
  And called to their friends and neighbours, that
      each and all might partake.

          But just as I stood there watching,
            Enjoying their chorus gay,
          My cat stole in from the kitchen,
            And all of them flew away--
  With wings that fluttered and quivered, they chirped
      to another tune,
  As they flew away through the garden that beautiful
      day in June.


[Illustration: SUMMER VISITORS. (See _p. 140._)]


We mention this game--which we believe has never appeared in
print--because not only many may take part, but like really good games,
amusement and perhaps some instruction are derived in playing it; and
any number may play at _the same time_. Let us suppose that ten children
decide to play this game of "Names." Each player is provided with a long
strip of paper and a pencil, and if one of the players has a watch so
much the better; if not a clock must be used. One commences by calling
out: "Girls' names commencing with A, two minutes allowed." Each player
then writes down all the girls' names that he (or she) can recollect
that commence with A, and at the expiration of the two minutes, "time"
is called. Then the oldest player reads from his (or her) slip all the
names he or she has written down. Say, Amy, Amabel, Alice, Ann, Annie,
Amanda, Aileen, &c. All the other players, as the names are read out,
cancel any name read out. If, for instance, all have written Amy, all
cancel Amy, and count one mark. Say six players have Amabel, and four
have not, each of the six count one mark; those who have not thought and
written down Amabel get nothing for Amabel, and so on through the list.
The object of the game is to teach the children all girls' and boys'
names. When the marks have been allotted for all the names, the total of
marks are read out and noted on each slip. The players then proceed in a
similar manner for all boys' names commencing with A, such as Alfred,
Abel, Adam, Andrew, Arthur, &c. The game can be continued till all the
letters in the alphabet are exhausted, but practically young players
rarely care to "do" more than thirty sets or fifteen letters
consecutively. Various names crop up, and the memory is well exercised,
and children generally vote it great fun. Any one introducing pet or
fancy names, such as Pussy, Kit, Teddy, &c., forfeits two marks, unless
it be arranged that they will be allowed.


_By the Rev._ J. CLEMENT P. ALDOUS, _Chief Instructor and Chaplain to

The _Britannia_ is the training-school for naval officers. All boys who
are to be fighting officers in the British Navy go to the _Britannia_.
They enter when they are about thirteen, and stay there two years, and
from this ship they go as midshipmen to our ships in all parts of the
world. We are going to pay a visit to the _Britannia_, and see how these
young naval cadets spend their day.

[Illustration: CADET IN FULL UNIFORM.]

If we want to see the whole day through, we must start early. So we will
take a boat and go off from the shore at five o'clock in the morning of
a fine summer day. It is only a row of some 200 yards to reach the
_Britannia_ from the shore. She is anchored in the middle of the River
Dart or Dartmouth Harbour.

Have you ever seen one of England's old wooden walls--a three decker?
How high she stands out of the water! If you will look at the picture
you will see that there are quite six storeys to this great floating
house. As you come up to the ship's side in a boat, she towers above you
like a great cliff--a wooden wall--you can see what these words mean

Let us step up the ladder; they will be surprised to see us so early.
The sentry on the middle deck wishes to know our business. "We have come
to see _everything_," we say, and show our authority for coming.

So we go up a ladder--not a staircase, mind!--to the sleeping deck.
There we see two long rows of chests, which represent the wardrobe,
chest of drawers, washing place, private locker, every piece of
furniture, in fact, which a naval cadet possesses.

Over these hang the hammocks, each the sleeping-place of a cadet. A
hammock is such a funny thing to sleep in. I dare say you have a string
hammock on your lawn, in which you sometimes lie on a very hot summer's
afternoon. But it is a queer bed to sleep in, for your head and your
heels are both of them stuck up in the air, while your body hangs
underneath in a graceful curve.


Half past five is struck, or rather _three bells_, for man-of-war time
goes by half-hours till eight bells are reached at noon and midnight,
four and eight o'clock, when it starts again. Three bells! a corporal
walks along and picks out here and there some unfortunate boy who has
been misconducting himself the day before--perhaps he was late or
idle--and he has to "turn out" an hour before the others and stand up
till they join him. A wretched beginning of a day, especially on a
winter's morning--to stand shivering on an open deck, while all his
comrades are peacefully tucked up in their warm hammocks. I think if you
knew you would get this punishment, my little friend, you would take
good pains to be in time.


As we walk round the hammocks we now see the servants busy placing the
cadets' clothes on their chests, ready for them to dress. There is a
servant to about ten boys.

By-and-by five bells is struck, half past six, and a bugle rings out a
merry peal, on the middle deck. It is the _turn-out_ bugle, and you can
play it on the piano:--

[Illustration: two lines of musical notation]

In a few moments we hear the same bugle-call, far away. The bugler is
gone off to the _Hindostan_, and he is giving the sound for the other
boys to turn out.

We only saw half the cadets in their hammocks in the _Britannia_. If you
will look at the picture on page 145 you will see another smaller ship,
the _Hindostan_, moored ahead of the _Britannia_. The younger boys sleep
in "the other ship," as it is called.

What a merry noise there is, as the cadets bound out of their hammocks,
and rush off to the big salt-water bath, which is fitted in either ship!
I am glad we are only describing a visit, for were we looking on we
should get drenched from head to foot.

The corporals walk about among the hammocks to see that all the young
gentlemen are turned out.


"Show a leg there, sir! Come along, come along now, now, now, bugle's
gone long ago, sir," as he finds some sleepy youth, not at all willing
to show a leg. "Make a start, sir."

Basins are fitted up along the deck for them. They need not use the
basins in their chests. These must be used at sea when the weather is
not rough enough to dash the water out over the clothes.

At five minutes past seven a warning bugle is heard, to warn them that
in ten minutes they must be dressed and ready. Some are kneeling at
their chests, beginning the morning with prayer for help to live as in
God's sight all the day. Some are hurrying on their clothes. Some are
reading the Bible, a few verses, as they have promised their people at
home never to omit to do.

At a quarter past seven rings out another bugle-call.

[Illustration: line of musical notation]

This means _assembly_, and the cadets all troop down to the middle deck,
where they form in line, two deep, all along the deck; the port watch in
the fore part of the ship, and the starboard watch farther aft. This
division into two parts, starboard watch and port watch, is to accustom
them to the idea of the whole ship's company being always divided into
two watches.

The cadet captains stand in front of the two lines, the chief captains
one at the end of each watch. These are cadets chosen as "monitors" to
have charge of the others.

The _silence_ bugle sounds, though no one is supposed to make a noise
after the _assembly_ has sounded. The officer of the day comes along, a
lieutenant, whose duty it is to look after the cadets that day. "_Open
order! March_," is his order; "_Rear rank, dress_," says the chief
captain, and he walks round the two lines, and sees that the cadets are
properly dressed. That white lanyard you see round their neck is for
holding their keys. A sailor always has a knife at the end of such a

"_Close order! March_," and the officer of the day marches them off to
their various studies for the morning. Let us go and see where they have
gone. Half of them, one watch, have gone down into the large mess-room.
They sit round the room at the tables by the ship's side, and prepare
work for their naval instructors. In a little while the servants will
lay the middle tables for breakfast, but they do not mind the noise.

Up in the lecture-room, the chaplain has some classes at a Bible lesson.
Just outside the lecture-room a sailor is teaching some of the boys at a
model of a ship. On the main-deck of the "other ship," a sergeant is
drilling some of the boys, and on the place where all stood for the
first muster cadets are seated on forms, and are being taught by a
sailor the meaning of some sea expressions, and what they are to do to
avoid collisions at sea.

So they are busy at work till at ten minutes past eight a bugle goes for
all to go down into the mess-room, where they range themselves at their
places for breakfast.

At a quarter past eight the chaplain comes down to read prayers, the
captain of the ship and the officer of the day coming down too. Then
breakfast and letters, which are handed round to the fortunate ones.

There is plenty of talk at breakfast; but tea, coffee, and cocoa,
bread-and-butter, meat of some sort, eggs, bacon, or fish and porridge,
are very welcome after the hour's work, with which the day has begun.

At a quarter to nine there is a bugle-call which sends a pang to some
hearts. _Defaulters'_ bugle. Those who have been reported during the
previous day are told to "fall in on the aft deck," and there they stand
in a line. The commander comes and hears the report--investigates the
case--asks what the cadet has to say, and then awards some punishment.
We have seen one form of it. Then there is extra drill and march out
with a corporal, or standing up after the others have "turned in," or as
we should say, gone to bed. Poor fellows! it is a court of justice; and
they would do well to keep off the aft deck. If the offence is serious,
it is reported to the captain of the ship, who is head of all. Perhaps
the offender is reduced to "second class for conduct," and has to wear a
piece of white tape on his arm, be kept apart from all the others, and
undergo all sorts of drills and privations.

At nine, the bugle sounds _assembly_--the principal assembly of the day,
"Cadets' Divisions" it is called. All the officers are present. The
cadets are again inspected, and they are marched off to their various
studies for the morning. Mathematics and navigation are learned with the
naval instructors. Then there are French and drawing, English,
seamanship, instruments and charts, natural philosophy and many
difficult things which it is considered necessary for these little
fellows to master before they are fit to go to sea. If we visit them in
their class-rooms, we shall see very light cheery rooms built on the
upper deck, so that they have light from above. There are eight pupils
only in each room, each having a separate table with a drawer for books.
The naval instructor is teaching them, with the help of a blackboard, to
do some questions about ships sailing, or to solve some problem made of
lines and circles.

The cadets are all taught how to find by the sun and the compass where
their ship is on the sea, and how they ought to steer her to get from
place to place.

In another class-room, we find a staff commander teaching a class how to
use the sextant, which is the sailor's most useful instrument for
finding his place at sea, from sun and stars; or he may be teaching them
how to use a chart or to draw a chart themselves.

In the lecture-room a lecture is being given on the steam-engine and the
ways in which heat is used. Behind the lecturer, in glass cases, are
many beautiful models for teaching the cadets all about machines, light,
heat, sound, magnetism, and electricity, such as would make many boys
long to pull them about for a while, and see how they work.

We might go and learn how the sails are set and furled from one of these
fine models of ships, or how anchors and cables are managed from

In this little room, called the "Sick Bay," we find some poor fellows
who have to lie in bed. One has caught a cold, and one has cut his foot
in bathing. Fortunately, the Sick Bay is most frequently empty, for the
_Britannia_ life is a very healthy one.


There are eight studies like the one where we saw the naval instructor
teaching navigation, four in each ship. In the _Hindostan_ we find two
Frenchmen teaching their classes how to read and write French, and two
drawing studies, in one of which they are taught to draw models with the
aid of ruler and compasses. In the other they are learning the use of
paints and paint-brushes. It is so useful for a young boy to be able to
make sketches in water colours of all the pretty places he goes to; some
of them are really quite clever at it before they leave.

We hear a noise of marching about; the bell is struck four times; ten
o'clock. The French classes are only an hour long, and boys are changing

AND _HINDOSTAN_. (_See pp. 143, 146._)]

At five minutes to eleven there is a bugle-call, followed by a
hurry-scurry; the whole ship is alive at once. There is an interval of a
quarter of an hour. Leap-frog in the open air on the upper deck; running
after one another till they get out of breath; fun of all sorts
immediately becomes the order of the day, and certainly this quarter of
an hour is right well spent in throwing off the evil effects of working
too hard.

It is too soon interrupted by the warning bugle. And the whole ship
sinks into silence as the cadets go back to their studies; those who
have been at seamanship or drawing going to the harder work of

At one o'clock study is over for the morning, and a good hard morning's
work it has been for the boys, since a quarter past seven, with a break
for breakfast, and an interval for play.

On half-holidays, work is over at twelve, and we shall soon see how they
spend their half-holidays. Bugle--"wash hands," and then the merry bugle
which means dinner.

Before and after dinner, a blessing is asked by the chief captain of
cadets. When the cloth has been removed and grace has been said, away
they rush for a short time of fun before study at two, and they do a
somewhat light class of work till half-past three.

This is the happy time of all the day, and so you would think if you saw

Before you would have thought they could be all fairly out of their
studies, you will see many of them rushing down to the large boats,
which are waiting alongside. They are dressed in white flannel trousers,
which they are all obliged to put on before going ashore. It is a fine
sight to see these boats, one on each side of the ship, filled full of
boys, all eager to get to their games.

We must follow them ashore. But first, I must tell you that in winter
they go directly after dinner, and stay ashore till four o'clock. They
then have their afternoon study from half past four till six.

It is much better for the boys to have daylight for their run ashore,
instead of waiting till daylight has all gone, and landing at half past
three to find it soon become dark.

On Wednesday and Saturday, when there is a half-holiday, they have
dinner at twelve and land directly after. And then they are free in
summer till a quarter to seven. What a royal time most schoolboys would
think this! No roll-call. They are quite free to go as far as they like,
for there are no bounds, except the town.

They are on their honour not to go into houses. This, and their promise
not to bathe at any but the appointed time and place, are the only
restrictions put upon them.

But we must hurry after them, or they will get the start of us, and we
shall lose them.

We have not far to go before we catch them. A bugle sounds, and a
hundred and twenty forms plunge from the bathing-stage and quay into the
water. The bright harbour is dotted with the heads of swimmers. Some
backward boys are being taught to swim in a "swimming-tray," a thing
like a flat-bottomed barge, sunk with its bottom about four feet below
the surface. A capital place it is for teaching youngsters to swim. But
all soon learn, and are free to join the others in sporting about and
cutting capers in the water. A warning bugle of one note says "it will
soon be time to get out," and by the time the bugle sounds fifteen
minutes from the first, they must all get out of the water.

The gymnasium--the building in the top left-hand corner of the picture
on p. 145--is close by. Here they must go through a series of exercises,
and they are obliged to attend till they can do them. "Compulsory Gyms,"
is not a favourite, so they like to get through and be free.

Here are the "blue boats,"--boats which they may have by themselves,
gigs for four to pull, skiffs for two or one. They may row about
wherever they like, and when the new boys first come, they are very fond
of going out in boats as often as they can. They have to take turns with
one another in using them. There are six little sailing-cutters too,
which the elder cadets may take and sail by themselves. Then, besides,
there is a fine yacht, a schooner, which they may sail on a holiday,
when ten or twelve wish to go.

These young fellows have every sort of game. We turn away from the
water, and follow some who are mounting a steep path. Here is the
racquet-court--four are playing racquets and four playing fives.

And climbing still higher up the hill, we get to the cricket-field, a
glorious sweep of grass with nets for cricket and lawn tennis, as much
as heart could wish.

In the summer, there is a match at cricket between the _Britannia_
eleven and some neighbours every half-holiday, and the _Britannias_
usually win, though they play the best elevens round. Their officers
play with them.

There is a flow of boys with paper bags from a suspicious-looking little
house in the corner of the field. Ah! I thought as much. No schoolboy
can do without his sweetstuff, and here it is. "Stodge" they call it, a
horrible name, but very true. I am sure much more sensible are those who
walk off to the neighbouring village of Stoke Fleming, where they can
get a nice tea from Mrs. Fox from sixpence to a shilling.

We well remember how shocked Mrs. Fox was to come in and find the elder
son of the Prince of Wales chopping sticks in her kitchen; for these two
young princes six years ago spent a cadet's life of two years, and lived
with the others, and worked and played exactly like the rest.

The _Britannia_ life, you will see, is a very free and happy life. "Work
while you work and play while you play" is the motto, and there is
plenty of work and plenty of play for all who will have it.

In the afternoon of a half-holiday, when there is a grand cricket-match,
and the band plays, and many ladies come to grace the field, there is
not a brighter sight in all the country side, for the field stands in
the prettiest place possible, with lovely country, sea and hills, to be
seen around.

But it is time for all to go back--the longest afternoons must end, and
the letter B, a square flag with a red middle, which is hoisted to
recall them, is already displayed on the _Britannia's_ mast.

A bell in the cricket-field says "play is over," and down they go in
twos and threes to find the same big boats ready to take them back.

It has been a fine afternoon, and the field and sports have looked at
their best. But if it had rained hard, and when the cadets came out from
dinner, or from study, they had found the words "No Landing!" hanging by
the ship's clock, there would have been no such fun. It is a long
afternoon when it rains, and they are tied to the ship.

Tea at seven, or a quarter past--a merry meal with all the stories of
the day to tell. Sometimes an accident--a boy has fallen down the cliff,
or been hit in the field--will throw a damp over all. Sometimes they
will be all alive with the discussion of a piece of news--there is to
be a war. In six months some of them will be fighting. Sometimes an
adventure, an irate farmer has caught two in his wheat, and has chased
them and possessed himself of a cap. They will see that cap next
morning, and its owner will be standing on the aft deck at 8.45 for

In the winter there is a pack of beagles, which lead the cadets a fine
chase over the country.

"Oh! they are spoiled, these boys!" you will say. But wait till you see
them, in a year's time, broiling under a tropical sun, cruising for
weeks in a boat after slavers, and living on a short allowance of dry
food and water. These young fellows are welcome to a happy life while
they can get it.

For tea they have cold meat, or something else substantial. After tea,
work for those who have it to do, in two studies, which are kept quiet,
or in the mess-room.

The band plays, and some cadets dance with one another on the open
middle deck.

And at a quarter past nine, prayers are read in the mess-room, and the
bugle sounds "Turn in."

And the ship is silent till the day begins again.



"ARTHUR! Arthur!" Kitty called, as she ran down the garden path.

Her brother was lying under the beech-trees at the foot of the garden. A
copy-book lay on the grass before him, in which he was writing with a
pencil. Arthur wrote poems, and histories, and tragedies, which he and
his companions acted for the edification of their relations and friends.
At this moment he was composing a story which he intended should be very
thrilling. He had only got as far as the two first sentences.

"Charles was determined to have some adventures. So he went into a wood
and met a tiger."

At this point he heard his sister calling to him.

"What is it, Kitty? I wish you wouldn't interrupt me just now. I'm very,
very busy."

"Oh, Arthur, I wish you would come and see a little boy who's at the
gate. He looks so hungry."

Arthur rose somewhat slowly, and went to the boy. Like all authors, he
didn't much like being called away in the full swing of literary
production. He proceeded to a little side gate which opened on to the
highway and the open fields beyond. Here Arthur found a boy about a year
younger than himself, bareheaded and barefooted, without a coat, and
with a very worn and ragged shirt and trousers. The little fellow looked
both tired and hungry, and his wearied look would have touched harder
hearts than those of Arthur and Kitty.

"Are you hungry?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, vera. I've no had onything sin' yesterday."

"I'm sure he's telling the truth. You have only to look at him," said
Kitty, who now joined him.

"Well, we might get him something to eat, anyhow. You stay there, boy,
till we come back."

Arthur and Kitty went into the house together, and presently returned
with a very large slice of bread, a piece of cheese to correspond, and a
bit of cold pudding, that would have alone satisfied the appetites of
two ordinary boys, even though extraordinarily hungry. It was as much as
the lad could do to hold them all, and he thanked his young benefactors
more by looks than words.

On the following morning, shortly after breakfast, Arthur's mother


"I should like you to take something for me to Mrs. Stewart's to-day,
Arthur. There are several things I should like to send her. I have a
small cheese and a pot of currant jelly that can go. Then I want her to
have one of those young Dorking hens your father got the other day. I'll
give you a small basket for that."

Mrs. Stewart was a very old friend of the family, having been the nurse
of Arthur and Kitty, and of their mother before them.

Arthur set out with his leather bag strapped across his back, and the
basket containing a little Dorking hen in his hand. Presently he became
aware how hot it was getting, and when he reached a small clump of trees
near a hay-field he thought he would sit down and rest a while. He had
been walking about an hour by this time. He thought he never recollected
such a warm day. Arthur began to feel very sleepy. He rubbed his eyes to
keep himself awake, but his head nodded more and more, and before he was
well aware of it he was fast asleep, lying huddled together on the bank
on which he had sat down.

Arthur must have been asleep nearly an hour, when he awoke with a sudden
start. The sun was high up in the heavens, and he judged it to be nearly
midday. He got upon his feet hurriedly and caught up his basket. It felt
lighter, he thought, and hastily lifting the wicker lid he found that
it was empty. The little Dorking hen was gone!


Astonishment was the first feeling in Arthur's mind, then perplexity and
mortification. What would his mother think of his carelessness and
unbusinesslike qualities. It seemed he could not be trusted to execute
this simplest message. What was he to do? He searched all the ground in
the immediate neighbourhood in the hope of discovering the little hen
hidden behind some bush or clump of ferns. But she was nowhere to be
seen, and he was in sore perplexity and chagrin.

Then he picked up his empty basket, and continued on his way. There was
nothing for it but to take the cheese and the pot of jelly to Mrs.
Stewart, explain matters to her, and return another day with another
hen, if his mother so decided, as it was probable she would. He walked
on with a pretty downcast heart.

He was now ascending a hill, and when he reached the top an unexpected
sight met his eyes. A crowd of people were gathered in the plain below.
They made a large circle, and it was evident that the attention of
everybody forming the circle was concentrated on what was going on
within it. Flags were flying, and the strains of a military band floated
up to Arthur, where he stood on the top of the hill. On the outskirts of
the crowd a number of carriages and other vehicles were standing, filled
with ladies and gentlemen.

Then Arthur recollected that this was the day of the Highland gathering
of the county. A dance was going on as he approached, and four tall and
stalwart Highlanders in complete national costumes, bonneted and kilted,
were leaping and wheeling, cracking their fingers and uttering shrill
cries as they danced with astonishing vigour and adroitness on a raised
wooden platform.

But Arthur's attention had hardly been turned upon the dancers when it
was diverted in another direction. What should he catch sight of, a good
deal to his astonishment, but his little Dorking hen stepping quietly
about among the people, unconcerned and unmoved by the stir and the
bustle, paying heed to nobody, and no one giving heed to it.

At the moment Arthur caught sight of his truant hen, it was passing
under a carriage, quietly pecking among the grass and ferns in its
march. So he approached, and cautiously bent down on his hands and knees
to get at the hen. It was almost within his grasp when a sharp report
rang through the air--a rifle-discharge, the signal for a foot-race to
begin. The next moment he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder, which
knocked him flat upon his back. A mist rose up before his eyes, in which
the whole world around him seemed to float for a moment; then he felt
himself being dragged suddenly and forcibly backward, and then he knew
no more.

Arthur had gone off in a faint; but it only lasted a few moments. When
he came to himself, he beheld a little crowd of people gathered round
him, and a man was bending down and bathing his forehead with a wet
handkerchief. Then he saw another figure stretched on the ground at his
side, quite motionless and silent. It was the form of a boy; the face
was turned upwards, and to his great astonishment Arthur found that it
was the poor lad to whom he and his sister had given the food on the
previous day.

"I saw the whole thing. It was all over in a twinkling," a gentleman was
saying. "The boy was bending under the carriage reaching forwards to
secure the bird. At that moment the gun went off, the horses started
forward, and the wheel came against the boy, and knocked him backward.
Just then this poor little fellow rushed forward right among the wheels
of the carriage, caught the boy, and dragged him out, but not in time to
save himself. The wheel passed over his leg, and I am afraid it is badly

By this time Arthur was on his feet.

"Oh! he is not dead, Dr. Bruce, is he?" he asked of the gentleman, who
was busy examining the boy, and whom he knew quite well as the doctor of
the district.

"No, not so bad as that, I hope; but a rather bad break, I am afraid.
It was a close shave for _you_, laddie. But for this brave boy the
carriage-wheel would have passed right over you."

"What are you going to do with the poor boy, doctor? Do you know who he
is, or anything about him?" a lady asked, whom Arthur recognised as Lady

"No, I never saw him before. But we must get him to Redloaning as
quickly as possible, and have him taken to some cottage."

"See that he has everything that is necessary, doctor; and send up to
Inverweir, if you can't get all you require in the village," Lady
Elmslie said. It was her horses that had started forward at the
discharge of the gun, and had been the cause of the accident.

A man now stepped forward, and said, "Ye'll just let me carry the laddie
to the village, doctor. I'll start the noo, and I'll carry him easier
like than any kind o' trap, ye ken."

"A good idea, Stoddart. Lift him gently."

"I'll do that. He's a bit hero, puir laddie; an' we mauna let him dee
for his brave deed."

Stoddart lifted the still unconscious boy in his strong arms like an
infant, and starting off carried him in the direction of Redloaning.

"Take him to Mrs. Aikman's cottage, and I'll be there as soon as you,"
the doctor said. In a few minutes he mounted his horse and followed in
the same direction.

[Illustration: "ARTHUR BEGAN TO FEEL VERY SLEEPY" (_p. 148_).]
[Illustration: "STODDART ... CARRIED HIM" (_p. 149_).]

Meanwhile Arthur stood by hearing all that was said with anxious
interest. Though not much hurt, he was a good deal shaken, and was still
trembling from head to foot.

"Are you sure you are not hurt too, Arthur Dalrymple?" Lady Elmslie
asked, looking into the boy's white and startled face.

"Oh, no, I'm not hurt; but that poor boy, Lady Elmslie, will he be all
right again soon?"

"I hope so. We will do all we can for him. Don't you know anything about
him, either? But stop! Get up here beside me and I'll drive you home;
and you can tell me all you know about it."

Arthur got into the carriage. He rapidly decided that he would return
home at once, and give up all thoughts of going to Mrs. Stewart's
to-day. On the way home he told Lady Elmslie as briefly as possible all
he knew about the little boy who had been the means of saving probably
his life.

Lady Elmslie set Arthur down at the garden gate, but did not go with him
into the house. Then Arthur had to recount to his father, his mother,
and Kitty all the morning's adventures in detail, which he did in a
somewhat excited manner.

"I shall walk over to Redloaning and see how the poor boy is doing this
evening," Mr. Dalrymple said.

Mr. Dalrymple, much to his relief, found that the boy, his son's
preserver, was progressing as favourably as the case permitted. The poor
boy was manifestly suffering much pain, but he made no complaint or
murmur. He was able to tell his simple story.

On the previous day when he had first seen Arthur and his sister, he
had been on his way to Redloaning from the neighbouring village of
Westburn, to see if he could get any kind of light employment in the
former place. His mother was dead, and his father had lately enlisted in
the army, leaving his boy to his own fate and fortunes. He had succeeded
in obtaining a situation in Redloaning as a message-boy, but the place
would not be vacant for a few days. So after passing a night in the
village he was returning next day to Westburn, to remain there until he
could enter upon his new duties. He was attracted by the show and stir
and bravery of the games, and, like Arthur, lingered a while to watch
the gay on-goings.


There he saw his young benefactor of the previous day before the latter
saw him. The kindness and generosity of Arthur and his sister were yet
fresh in his heart; the moment came when he saw an opportunity of
repaying those kind offices, and I have tried to show you how he seized
and used it.

Andy received the tenderest nursing, and more kindness and gentleness,
probably, were compressed into the weeks he lay in bed than had fallen
to his lot during the whole of his previous life.

"Arthur," Kitty said, on the first day that her brother and she saw
Andy, "hasn't it all been strange about Andy and you?" Then a funny
little smile came into her eyes, and she added, "You see, Arthur,
_Charles was determined to have some adventures_, as you wrote; but it
was you who got them. By-the-bye, you never told us what became of the
little hen."

"I can't tell you. I never saw it again. I don't think it was hurt by
the carriage, and it may be wandering about the hill-side still, and
perhaps it may wander back home again."

Andy's progress towards complete recovery from his hurt was slow and at
times painful. But at last he did get well and strong again. When he was
quite able for work, instead of taking the situation at Redloaning,
which had been long since filled up, he went into Mrs. Dalrymple's
service as assistant to the gardeners at Fircroft, a post he was still
filling with much success and credit when I last heard of him.




"Benny, so here we are then," said the sturdy-looking sailor, as Ben,
the "Reading-Boy," went running up to the railway station at Liverpool
Street, London, just as the last shower of night rain was blowing away
over the houses, and the sun was just peeping out and giving the grey
sky a tint of salmon colour. "I'm glad as you've got from this mornin'
to Wednesday, Benny, becos you see it's a pretty long v'yge from here to
Yarmouth, and I'm glad you're in good time, Ben; an' I'm glad as your
precious mother has made you put a coat over your jacket. 5.15 the train
goes, Ben."

"What fun it is, eh, uncle! Only fancy my going down to the sea! Why, I
shouldn't want to come back if it wasn't for mother."

"Now don't you be a rollin' stone, Benny. It's all very fine for fair
weather sailors, to go and sit about on the beach, and p'raps be rowed
out a little way, or take a trip when everything's smooth below and
aloft, but just you find yerself aboard one of our smacks, in the North
Sea, one night when there's a stiff sea on, and the wind cuttin' your
hair off your head, and your hands stiff and blue with haulin' on to the
trawl-nets, and you'd tell a different story. No, no, I don't _think_ as
you're cut out for a fisher-boy, or leastways a smack-boy, for that's
what they call 'em."

"A smack-boy! that's a queer name," said Ben, laughing.

"Ah, ain't it? and there's a double meanin' in it too, for I can tell
you the smack-men ain't very slow for to give the youngsters a knock
over the head, or a smack of the face, or a rope's-endin'. But as it's
Yarmouth we're bound for, you will soon see what our fisheries are
really like; and there, too, you'll find our men hard at it in
tarpaulins or canvas frocks, and wet through and through perhaps, and
not much time to get a drop of hot coffee nor a bit to eat. Think of
that, Benny."

Ben looked serious when he heard this, and it was not till they had
taken their seats in the railway-carriage, and were rattling along far
beyond the houses and amidst the trees and fields of the country that he
began to talk again.

"Don't the boys that go fishing like their business?" he asked.

"Well, you see," said his uncle, "they've _got_ to like it, because when
they're once in it they can't well turn to anything else. It's a rough,
hard life, especially for the young 'uns, Benny. Not so hard as it used
to be, though. I can remember when I was a younker we used to go fishing
for cod off the Dogger Bank, which is a great ridge of hills at the
bottom of the sea, not far from the coast of Holland. We'd be out for a
good while, and not have much to eat except cod b'iled or cod fried in a
pan; and if there was much sea on, and the wind blowin' a gale, it was a
hard matter to cook it at all. Now the cutters bring us some of our meat
and vegetables and soft bread; but still the boys have a hard time.

"If it's the herring-boys, they have to watch the floats--the big, round
things that you'll see at the edge of the nets, Ben--to keep them near
the top of the water; and whether it's drift-nets or trawling-nets, they
must take their share of hauling in and of playing out, night or day.
More than that, too: any sort of work is boy's work, whether it's to
swab the decks or to take a turn at frying fish in the cooking-galley,
or paying a boat with tar, or helping to take a boat-load of fish off to
the cutter in bad weather, when the waves tosses so that the fish, being
loose, may slide, so that one side of the boat may heel over, and before
you know where you are you're capsized and struggling in the dark, cold
sea, with a singing in your ears, and the faint cries of your mates just
as bad off as you are."

"But, of course, it isn't always so bad," said Ben.

"Well, no; and there's times when we've no call to grumble. Such weather
as this, when there's green sea and blue sky, and bright sun overhead
and clear moonlight nights, with fresh and light breezes to take the
sail. Nothing could seem more pleasant than the life of a fisherman if
it was always like that; but then, this isn't exactly fishing weather,
Ben, and however fine it may be the boys haven't any idle time of it.

"There's always ropes to splice, or sails or nets to mend, or something
to clean or to scrape, or to pay down with tar; and if there's any good
in going out at all the nets must be looked to and lowered and hauled
in. Even on Sundays there's things to be attended to by the lads, and
though I don't say as 'ow boys is made to do useless work, yet, when
they're there on that day, they toil pretty hard for little 'uns.

"And now, Ben, if you don't object, I'm going to smoke a bit o' bacca,
and then you can rest your tongue a bit, if you like."

But Ben had a hundred more questions to ask about the fishing-boats, or
"smacks," as they are called, and how many of them there were, and how
many fish they caught at a time; and his uncle, who settled comfortably
down and lighted his pipe, told him a great deal about them.

And Ben was surprised to hear that there are many thousands of men and
boys who go out to catch the millions and millions of all sorts of fish
that are sent to the markets in the large towns of England by railway
nearly every day. He had been to Billingsgate Market in Thames Street,
and to the new fish-market in Smithfield, and had seen the great piles
of cod-fish, and skates, and soles, and plaice, and the boxes and
baskets of white fresh herrings, and the beautiful shining mackerel, but
he did not know how great was the number of herrings, and pilchards, and
cod-fish that were also salted and put in barrels to be sent from
England to foreign countries. He knew what bloaters were, of course, and
had heard that they were herrings just a little salted and smoked over
burning wood, but how was he to know that at Yarmouth there was a great
fleet of herring-boats, and that in the cold November weather they went
far out to sea in the mist and rain, and were night after night hauling
in the great nets full of glistening silver fish?

His uncle was the owner of two smacks, but he did not go
herring-fishing. He was what is called a trawler, and he and his men and
boys used a different sort of net. The herring-nets are called
drift-nets, and catch the fish that swim in shoals, which means a large
number together, near the surface of the sea; but the trawl-nets are
shaped like a long purse or bag open at the mouth. These nets go to the
bottom of the sea, and in them are caught cod, whiting, soles, and other
fish that lie at the bottom, and swim deep down in the water.

When Ben's uncle was a smack-boy the trawlers, after they had caught as
many fish as they could carry in a deep well in their boat, used to
sail away as fast as they could to Billingsgate Market, or to some place
where people would buy their fish and send it by railway to London; but
now the old fisherman said they had much bigger vessels, and would stay
out sometimes for four or five weeks tossing about in the North Sea, or,
as it is sometimes called, the German Ocean, and dragging the great
trawl-nets night and day.

"Not much time to play, Ben, my boy," said the bluff old fellow.
"Sometimes not too much to eat either, except fish and biscuit, and not
much room to sleep in when you turn in to your hard wooden bunk and pull
a rough blanket over you to keep out the cold."

"But you don't keep the fish long on board, do you, uncle?" asked Ben.

"No, no, my lad. A fast-sailing boat that we call a cutter comes and
goes from shore to the fleet of trawlers, and takes the fish off;
backwards and forwards it goes, and away goes the fish directly it's
sold--up to London, or elsewhere, where there's millions of mouths
waiting for it. Ah! I well remember when the smack-boys, or the
fisher-boys, would have to help to take the fish off in a boat to the
cutter on a dark night, and many a time the poor fellows would get
capsized, and afterwards go down in that cold North Sea. Hard work, my
lad, hard fare; and in danger half the time. Things are better now,
perhaps; but we're out longer a good deal, and there's a big fleet that
belongs to a company that keeps the men and the boys out for weeks at a
time, and fetches all that they catch, so that by the time they get
ashore the poor fellows are pretty near worn out. Of course the cutter
takes out food for 'em, but it can't take 'em out warmth and dry
clothes, and snug beds, and every year there is some of the vessels
lost, and perhaps all on board lost too."

"Well," says Ben, looking very solemn; "there's some that get lost on
land too. They fall ill or get a bad cough, or have some sort of
accident with machinery or something, you know, uncle; but we're obliged
to work all the same."

"Well said, my boy Ben," said the fisherman. "The thing is to do our
duty, whatever it may be, and to pray that we may be made able to do it.
Some of our smack-boys go to school when they're at home, and there's a
mission-room where they go to hear and to read the Bible, and have teas
and singing, and various treats, and some fun too sometimes. Yes, things
are better than they used to be in my young days."

It was a long journey to Yarmouth, but Ben greatly enjoyed it, and when
he and his uncle got there they went at once to have a look at the sea.

Such a great broad expanse of soft yellowish sandy beach, where the
great waves came rolling in! such a long pier where people were fishing
with hooks and lines, and sometimes catching a codling or a whiting!
"I'll go and have a try at that by-and by," said Ben; "but what are
those great wooden towers that look like a sort of big puzzle stuck up
on end?"

"They're the look-out towers, Ben. Now, do you see that cutter over
yonder, coming into shore with its big sail like a sea-bird's wing? Keep
your eye on it for a minute, and then look at the top of that tower, and
you'll see that there are men there that have got their eyes and their
telescopes on it too. Now do you see these carts coming along, and do
you see those black barges floating ready to pull out when the cutter
comes near in shore? The cutter will unload a rare lot of fish. The men
on the look-out tower saw her coming, and signalled to the barges and
the carts to be ready. That shipload of fish will be off by a special
train to-night, Ben; and if you were in London you might, if you could
afford it, have some of it."

"But where's the herrings--the Yarmouth bloaters, you know?" asked Ben.

"Ah, well! this isn't the time to see so much of them. It's in the
winter you see the herring-smacks come in at the herring-wharf over
yonder, and hundreds of baskets full of the shining fellows brought
ashore and sold, and sent off fresh in no time; while others are kept
here to turn into bloaters, or red herrings, or kippers. Those sheds in
the yard over there are where hundreds of women and girls set to work to
salt or pack the herrings in barrels; the bloaters are what we call
cured in the herring-office."

"That's a funny name," said Ben.

"Yes; and it's funny what goes on there. The herrings are brought
ashore, are shot out of the baskets on to the stone floor, shovelled
into big tubs to be washed, and then threaded through the gills on to
long laths of wood. Then these laths with the rows of herrings strung on
'em are hung in frames from wall to wall of a top room, like a barn with
a stone floor, and a hole in the roof. When that room's full of herrings
all hanging in rows--thousands and thousands o' fish--a fire of oak
chips and logs is lighted on the floor, and the smoke going all among
the herrings, and only by degrees getting out of the hole in the roof,
the fish are smoked; and them that's salted first is red herrings, and
them that's only just touched dry with the smoke like are bloaters.

"So now we'll get down to our lodging, and have some supper, Ben; and so
to bed, that we may be up early in the morning; but don't you dream
about being a smack-boy, or you won't sleep at all sound, I can tell




  As I passed down the pathway
     I heard a merry pair
  Shout from behind the garden wall,
     "Let's ride the old brown mare."

  With whip and voice I heard them
     Urge on the maddened steed,
  Whilst to my frantic warnings
     They paid no single heed.

  Then quickly down the garden,
     Trembling with fear and fright,
  And bursting open wide the door
     I saw this curious sight:--

  Upon a wooden railing
     That ran down from the wall,
  Two little folk were riding,
     Quite safe from fear or fall.

  "Why, auntie, what's the matter?"
     Shouted the merry pair;
  "You cannot think what fun it is
     To ride the old brown mare!"



A Mighty king lay stretched upon a magnificent bed of gold. His head
rested upon pillows of crimson satin, beautifully embroidered with gold,
and studded with golden spangles and precious stones. Over him was a
coverlet of crimson satin, also adorned with gold: and everything in his
chamber was in keeping with the richness of his couch.

Costliest delicacies and oldest wines had weighed down his supper-table,
round which had sat some of earth's grandest and most powerful lords. He
had been lulled to sleep with soft strains of sweetest music.
Ever-watchful attendants stood by him, as he slept, and cooled his brow
with gentle breezes stirred up to life by fairy fans. His last thoughts
had been of his vast wealth, his uninterrupted prosperity, and his great
power. He was king of kings, and the whole world trembled at his feet.
He had attained to the highest pinnacle of glory. Earth had yielded to
him its most costly treasures, and had nothing more that she could give.
Men had profusely showered upon him their highest flatteries, and
addressed him in humblest language.

Yet his sleep was troubled. His brow grew dark, and the colour deepened
upon his cheeks. He breathed heavily and moved nervously on his
luxurious bed, which, grand as it was, could not give him rest. Hundreds
of years afterwards it was said of the bruised and bleeding martyr
Stephen, that he sank peacefully to rest amid a shower of stones, and
the yells and hoots of bitterest enemies; for in all circumstances He
can give "His beloved sleep." But this flattered son of pomp and
splendour, this mighty king, upon whose very breath seemed to hang the
fate of nations, tossed restlessly upon his bed of gold and purple. No,
he knew nothing of that joy and peace that pass all understanding, which
the world can neither give nor take away, and which has converted many a
fiery furnace into a shadow from the heat.

Over those who love Him God watches in the night, and holds sweetest
communion with them, as through the long dark hours they lie upon their
beds; but to the wicked He sends no thought of comfort or consolation.
He does not soothe them to rest with the remembrance of His loving care.
And often He troubles them with dark thoughts and unwelcome dreams, that
banish true repose.

So this wicked king, Nebuchadnezzar, who lived for himself, and not for
God, who enriched himself at the expense of others, who closed his ears
to the cry of the fatherless and the widows, and who passed by judgment
and justice and mercy, was perplexed with a mysterious dream.

He saw, growing in the middle of the earth, a mighty tree, which reared
its lofty head to the skies, and, on every side, sent out boughs to the
ends of the world. Large bright green leaves thickly covered its
branches, from which hung, in unheard-of abundance, great clusters of
fruit. The beasts of the field found under it a grateful shadow from the
heat of the burning sun. The fowls of the air came and built their nests
in its leafy branches, and there laid their eggs, and reared their
young, and joyously sang out their gladness. All was bright and
beautiful; and the sleeping king, as he gazed wonderingly at the giant
tree, admired its grandeur and its greatness.

To what length of days, he thought, might this majestic tree not attain!
and how would the earth be able to hold it if it should go on increasing
in size?

But suddenly there was a fluttering in the air; and down from the bright
heavens came "a watcher and an holy one," who was terrible in his
strength, and whose face shone like the sun. Judgment, and not mercy,
was written upon his forehead. And oh, his voice! How dreadful it
sounded to the startled king, who would gladly have closed his ears to

"Hew down the tree," the Angel cried, with a voice of thunder, his eyes,
which were like balls of fire, flashing with righteous indignation. "Hew
down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, and
scatter his fruit. Warn the beasts to get from under it, lest they be
crushed with its weight. And bid the little birds leave its branches.
But do not destroy the tree. Leave the stump of his roots in the earth.
Let it be wet with the dew of heaven; and let his portion be with the
beasts in the grass of the earth. Let his heart be changed from man's,
and let a beast's heart be given unto him; and let seven times pass over

What a strange dream for a king to have! And how troubled his
countenance was when he rose from his bed! His eyes moved restlessly
from one object to another, telling of a mind ill at ease. His limbs
shook; and he seemed many years older than on the previous day. His
grandly-arrayed lords came round him as before, with pleasant smiles and
flattering speeches. But he could heed none of them. Whatever he did, he
could not give his mind to affairs of state. Try to control them as he
would, his thoughts would wander back to the towering majestic tree, to
its great thick trunk, its leafy branches, its rich profusion of
delicious fruit affording sustenance to all the world, and to that
bright but awful being who had come from heaven and pronounced over the
tree that dread sentence.

What if the tree should mean himself? Who in all the wide world but
himself could be compared to it for strength and majesty? Who but
himself had attained to such power and magnificence? And oh! what if all
should be taken away from him? What if the widely-spreading tree should
indeed be cut down, its glory and its beauty and its strength alike

How he wished he knew the meaning of his dream! And how anxiously he
consulted the wise men who were summoned to his presence! Magicians,
astrologers, Chaldæans, and soothsayers, all the wise men of Babylon
came to his palace to hear his dream, and to try to tell the meaning of

But the effort was in vain. The dream was from heaven, and not all the
vaunted wisdom of this world could interpret it. The meaning of it could
only be told by one inspired by the Spirit of God who had sent it.

Then Daniel, the Jewish captive, to whom Nebuchadnezzar had given the
name of Belteshazzar, or _a layer up of things in secret_, was brought.
Not long before he had not only told the king the meaning of a most
mysterious dream that he had had, but he had also recalled the dream
itself, which Nebuchadnezzar had forgotten. And as an interpreter of
dreams and the wisest of mortals, his fame had spread far and wide; and
Nebuchadnezzar could see that the Jewish prophet had a wisdom far
surpassing that of his wisest and most skilled magicians.

So the strange dream of the mighty tree cut down was told to the Jewish
captive, and the usually calm face of the prophet grew dark and troubled
as that of the king.

"Do not be distressed by the dream or its interpretation, Belteshazzar,"
Nebuchadnezzar said in his gentlest tones; for he saw that the dream
meant something bad, and that Daniel did not like to tell him. "Show me
the interpretation."

"My lord," the Jewish prophet replied sadly, "it is a dream that will
please only your enemies; and all those who hate you will rejoice at
it." And then he went on to explain to the king that the great tree that
he had seen towering towards heaven, and spreading itself over the whole
earth, with its fresh green leaves and abundance of fruit, with its
thousands of beasts taking refuge under its spreading branches, and its
myriads of feathered songsters nestling amongst them, was himself. "It
is thou, O king," he said; "for thy greatness is grown, and reacheth
unto the heavens, and thy dominion to the end of the earth."

By the coming down of the holy watcher, and his commanding the tree to
be despoiled of its glory, and hewn down, Daniel showed the king was
meant his own humiliation. He should be driven from the abodes of men,
his dwelling should be with the beasts of the field; he should eat grass
like an ox, and his body should be wet with the dew of heaven.

But he was not to be for ever removed from his place. The malady was to
continue only for seven years; for as the stump of the tree was left in
the earth, so that it might some day put forth its branches again, and
once more abound in foliage and fruit, so his terrible affliction should
only last until he should acknowledge that it was not by the strength of
his own arm, but by the power of God that he had been raised to so great
a height of glory; that the kingdoms of the earth belong to God, and
that He raises up whom He will to govern them.

"Oh, learn this lesson in time, mighty king," Daniel pleaded; "that
supreme power belongs alone to the living God. Humble thyself before
Him. Put away every iniquity; and begin to show mercy to the poor and
the defenceless, who have hitherto cried to thee in vain. For it is in
mercy that God has sent thee the dream, to show thee how thine heart has
been lifted up, and to give thee an opportunity of averting the
punishment by timely and sincere repentance."

Oh, if Nebuchadnezzar had but heeded the warning dream! If he had but
taken his kingdom and his glory, his riches and his honour, and laid
them all at the footstool of the great King in Heaven, acknowledging
that they were all from Him, and must be held and used for Him; what
great trouble he might have saved himself, and all those who looked up
to him! How soon, by humbling himself, and how effectually he might have
turned aside the threatened judgment! How the great and compassionate
God above would have rejoiced to show mercy! And how the holy angels
would have sung for joy over the repentant king, and the blotting out
of his great sin, and the withholding of judgment, and the showing of

But the dream was unheeded. The warning was lost.

The great and mighty king having conquered all his enemies round about,
and extended his power to the utmost limits, devoted his attention to
the improving and embellishing of his capital. And as he saw Babylon
increasing in glory and beauty, his heart became still more lifted up.
He had done it all himself, he thought. He was so great, and so wise,
and so glorious a king, that he had no need of divine aid. Such a thing
as being in any way dependent upon a higher power never entered his
mind, and by very severe means he had to be taught the needful lesson
that might have been learned from the dream that had in mercy been sent
to warn him.

While surveying the glorious city from the roof of his palace, and
congratulating himself upon the dignity to which he had attained, a
voice, like that which he had heard in his dream, fell from heaven,
telling him that his kingdom was taken from him, and that he should meet
the fate of which he had been forewarned by the cutting down of the huge

And so it was.

That same hour, the terrible malady predicted by Daniel came upon him.
He lost his reason, and became as a wild beast. His costly crown of
gold and pearls and diamonds was taken from him, and he was driven from
his throne. For seven years he lived with the beasts of the field,
stooping down to the earth and eating grass like an ox, and drinking
with his mouth of the flowing streams. The rude winds blew upon him,
ruffling the hair that had been so carefully kept, and the scorching sun
tanned his face, once so expressive of majesty. The hairs of his
neglected beard became like eagles' feathers; and his uncut nails grew
like birds' claws. He noted no difference between the changing seasons;
and when the sun sank in the west, he lay down to sleep upon the hard
ground, like the beasts, his companions, and his body was wet with the
falling dew.

At the end of seven years another opportunity of repentance was offered
to him, and after so severe a lesson he gladly accepted it. His reason
returned, and instead of taking glory to himself, he ascribed it to God,
acknowledging that He rules above all.

So the dreadful affliction was removed, his kingdom was restored to him;
and his glory and honour and majesty were greater even than before.

As he once more lifted up his head amongst his nobles, he said humbly,
"The great God of heaven is King; and those who walk in pride He is able
to abase."

H. D.


25. How many times is the Lord's Prayer recorded?

26. Where are we told that departure from evil is understanding?

27. From what words is it supposed that St. Paul, like Elijah, visited
Mount Sinai, there to hold communion with God, before entering upon his
apostolic work?

28. Where are we told that he who rules his own spirit is better than he
who takes a city?

29. Where is the Eastern custom of gathering the tears of mourners in
tear-bottles alluded to in the Psalms?

30. Where is it said of the departed that they have "fallen asleep"?

31. How is the passing away of the Old Testament saints spoken of?

32. Which of the Evangelists tell us of Christ's offering three
successive prayers in Gethsemane, on the night of His agony, and of His
three times finding the disciples sleeping?

33. Where, in the New Testament, is David called "David the King"?

34. How many days elapsed after Noah's entering into the ark before the
flood came? And who shut the door?

35. How many armour-bearers had Joab?

36. What was done with the sword of Goliath?


13. St. Matt. xii. 49, 50; St. Mark iii. 33-35; St. Luke viii. 21.

14. In Prov. xvii. 17.

15. In Neh. ix. 17; Ps. ciii. 8, cxlv. 8; Joel ii. 13; Jonah iv. 2; Nah.
i. 3.

16. From St. Luke xi. 1.

17. In Prov. xv. 18, xxvi. 21, xxix. 22.

18. In Prov. xvi. 32.

19. In St. Luke iii. 38.

20. From St. Matt. i. 5, 6.

21. In Gen. ix. 13.

22. In Rev. iv. 3, x. 1.

23. The names of the women are Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James
and Joses, the mother of Zebedee's children, Joanna, the wife of Chuza
(Herod's steward), and Susanna. (St. Matt. xxvii. 55, 56; St. Luke viii.
2, 3.)

24. In Ps. cxxi. 4.

The Water-Carriers of the World

In the hotter countries of the world, in which water is the very
mainstay of life, a number of persons drive a considerable trade in the
sale of that liquid. Most of us know what a trouble it is to get water
during a severe winter when the pipes are all frozen. Suppose such a
state of things to be usual the whole year round, and you will perhaps
understand the difficulties of families in some tropical lands with
regard to what is to them--in a sense almost more than it is to us--a
necessary of existence. Thus it is that the water-carrier is so
important a personage in these warm climes. His figure is as common in
the streets as our milkman, though he is generally a very much more
picturesque-looking individual.

In the illustration on this page we have grouped together portraits of
the water-carriers of different countries, and it will be seen that, in
respect of their quaint attire and the curious vessels in which the
water is carried, there is no reason for surprise that they have engaged
the brush of many painters.


No. 1 represents a water-carrier of one of the provincial towns of
France. With his cocked hat and queer staff, and his water-skin strapped
like a knapsack on his back, he reminds one not a little of an old
soldier. His next door neighbour's nationality is a good deal more
obvious. Whose can that jaunty, lazy air be but that of the gay,
ease-loving water-carrier of Madrid? With earthenware pail hanging from
each arm, turban on head, bright-coloured waistband, and cigarette in
mouth, you can tell at a glance that he belongs to a sunny country where
leisure and pleasure go hand in hand. In No. 3 we find the
representation of the Peruvian water-carrier. He does such good business
that he can afford to keep a donkey to carry the water, which is
contained in a big leather sack that lies like a bolster across the
animal's back. I am afraid he is not so mindful of Neddy as he ought to
be, and that some of our own costermongers could teach him a lesson or
two in the humane treatment of his patient beast of burden. Leaving Peru
and South America, and travelling to the northern continent, we are
introduced in No. 4 to a water-carrier of Mexico. Notice how he carries
the water in two odd-shaped vessels suspended from his head by means of
a broad band. In No. 5 will be observed an Egyptian fellah woman
carrying a jar of water on her head. Compared with her, the Norwegian
peasant in No. 6 looks prosaic and businesslike. The last two are not
sellers of water, but are merely taking home a supply for their own
households. How fortunate those towns are where the water is conveyed by
pipes from house to house!



"Heigho!" sighed Thusnelda, as she lay on the straw not far from the
spot where her three beautiful puppies were curled up in a heap.
"Heigho!" she sighed, "I do hope dear master will not deprive me of any
more of my darlings. Let me see now, there were ten of them originally.
Yes, ten, for I counted them over and over again fifty times a day, and
now there are only three. Heigho!" Here she glanced round towards these
sleeping beauties in the straw, and her lovely eyes were brimming over
with motherly affection and intelligence.

"To be sure," she added, "master has kept the three prettiest, that is
some consolation, and the others have all gone to good homes, where I
doubt not their virtue will be duly appreciated, though I shall never,
never see them more."

Thusnelda was a dog of German birth and extraction. In truth, she was a
Dachshund, and a high-bred one too, and both in this country and in
Berlin she had taken many honours at dog shows.

Some might not have thought Thusnelda's body shapely. She was long and
low, with a red jacket as smooth and soft as satin; so low in stature
was she, that her chest almost touched the ground, and her fore legs
were turned in at the ankle, and out at the feet--the latter indeed were
almost out of all proportion, so big and flat were they; but no one
could help admiring Thusnelda's splendid head, her broad intelligent
skull, and her long silky ears and gazelle-like eyes. If ever eyes in
this world were made to speak love and affection and all things
unutterable, those eyes were Thusnelda's.

She got up at last and went and stood over her darlings. She gazed at
them long and fondly, wondering and thinking what future they had before
them. She held her head so low as she did so, that her splendid ears
trailed and touched them. They moved in their sleep, they kicked and
gave vent to a series of little ventriloquistic barks as puppies have a
habit of doing; then the mother licked them fondly with her soft tongue,
and therefore one awoke. It was Vogel. The names of the other two were
Zimmerman and Zadkiel. As soon as Vogel awoke she gave a joyful wee bark
of recognition, which aroused both her tiny brothers, and the whole
three rushed at once to their good mother.

"Ah, my dears," she said; "you are very fond of me at present, I dare
say, but you will get to be different as you grow older, I expect.
However, I must make the most of you while you are young. Why, let's
see, you will be six weeks old tomorrow, and you can lap every bit as
well as I can. Yes, and it's quite a treat to see you lapping, and
master thinks so too."

"Master" did.

"Master" was very fond of dogs, and he doted on good ones. He used to
come and admire these three puppies by the hour. The milk he gave them
was of the freshest and creamiest, and he even thickened it with a
little boiled flour. Whenever Vogel and Zimmerman and Zadkiel saw him
coming with the milk-pan they expressed their joy by saucy little barks
and yelps, and made a headlong but awkward rush towards him, and when he
put down the pan they weren't content to simply put their heads over the
side and lap. No, they must have their fore feet in as well, although
their mother often told them it was only little piggies that fed in that
fashion. But Vogel was worse even than Zimmerman or Zadkiel, because she
used to insist upon getting in the dish bodily. Only Vogel was master's
favourite, and he used to take her kindly out of the dish again and
place her by the side of it, and try to show her how to lap like a lady.

Vogel was the prettiest, Zimmerman the biggest and sauciest, and Zadkiel
by far the wisest of the trio.

In the picture with which our artist has presented us, Vogel is standing
in the centre, Zimmerman is lying on the left, while the far-seeing,
deep-thinking Zadkiel is sitting on the right.

An impudent sparrow has just alighted on the puppies' pan, and is coolly
helping himself to what has been left from breakfast.

"Delicious!" the sparrow is saying. "I'm the king of all the birds in
the creation. Everybody admires me, I build in the choicest apple-trees,
and feed on the daintiest food. Farmers cut down their hay that I may
make my nest, farmers' wives kill the fowls that I may find feathers to
line it, and even the cows cast their coats to aid in the same good
work. Why, you little puppies, don't _you_ admire me also, you
ridiculous-looking fluffy things?"

"I admire your profound impudence," Zimmerman is saying.

"I am astonished at your daring audacity," Vogel is remarking.

But Zadkiel is thinking. "I dare say," he says at last, "that even such
a wretched mite of a bird as you must have been meant for some good
purpose. To pick up the grubs and the green flies perhaps."

"Absurd," cries the sparrow, and off he flies in disgust.

Then the pups forget all about it, and begin to lick each other's noses
and toes--I was nearly saying _toeses_--in the funniest way imaginable.
After that they go in for one of the most terrible sham fights that has
ever been fought.

"You'll be a badger, Zadkiel," cries Vogel, "and Zimmerman and I will
worry you to death."

So at it they go pell-mell. Zadkiel is hemmed up in a corner of the
cart-shed, and his brother and sister make pretence, to tear him limb
from limb. Zadkiel defends himself gallantly, but has to succumb at
last, for he is fairly rolled on his back, and in a few minutes is,
figuratively speaking, turned inside out. Then they espy the
good-natured admiring face of their mother, peering at them over the
corner of the straw, and at her they all rush. They make believe that
she is a fox, and her life is accordingly not worth an hours' purchase.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughs some one not two yards away, and looking up they
espy "master," who all unknown to them has been enjoying the fun for the
last half-hour.

"You dear, delightful little pets," he says, "why, you are as lively as
kittens, and as healthy and happy-looking as the summer's day is long.
You will do your mother credit yet. Your legs are straight, but work
will bend them into the right shape, then you'll be able to creep into
any rabbit's hole in the country,

  "To beard a badger in his drain,
  A wild wolf in his lair."

So in order to make these little rascals' legs bend to the proper shape,
master, as soon as they got a little older, used to bury bones for them
deep down in the garden earth, and get the whole trio to scrape and find

This was grand fun, and by the time the puppies were six months old they
were just as shapely as the mother was, or as unshapely, if you like it
better, for after all perhaps the beauty of their bodies consisted in
their ugliness.

It isn't every one who knows how to rear puppies properly, but this
master did. He fed them on bread and milk, and broth and scraps of meat
four times a day, he never forgot to give them plenty of the freshest
of water, and as for straw, why they could at any time bury themselves
in it. But this was not all, for he made the little things his constant
companions, when he himself went out for exercise. And didn't they
scamper and didn't they dance, and frolic, and run! Many a rat, and
stoat, and polecat had reason to wish them far away, I can tell you.

Few people know how wonderful, intelligent, and sagacious a dachshund
can become under proper treatment. But there must be system in the
treatment. The whip must be hidden away out of sight entirely, the
animal must be treated like a reasoning being, as indeed it is; it thus
soon comes to know not only every word spoken to it, but your will and
your wishes from your very movements and looks.

A dog never forgets kind treatment, and whenever he has the chance he
acts a faithful part towards a loving master. I could tell you a hundred
true stories illustrative of that fact, but one must here suffice. Had
you seen the dachshund puppies then as they are represented in our
engraving, brimful of sauciness, daftness, and fun, and seen them again
two years after as they appeared when accompanying their beloved master
in his rambles, you certainly could not have believed they were the same
animals. They were still the same in one respect, however, for Vogel was
still the beauty and Zadkiel the philosopher.

One day their master went out to hunt in the forest. It was far away in
the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. He had gone to shoot deer, but as
he was returning in the evening after an unsuccessful stalk, he caught a
glimpse of a fox disappearing round the corner of an old ruin.

"Ho! ho!" he cried. "You are the rascal that steals my ducks. We'll have
you if we can."

But the fox had taken at once to his burrow in the ruin. It was a very
ancient feudal castle, only just enough of it remaining to give an idea
of the shape it once had been, for regardless of the respect that is due
to antiquity the keepers had carted away loads of the solid masonry to
build their houses, leaving the place but a beautiful moss-grown chaos.

"Watch," was all the master said to his dogs as he crept in through an
old window into the donjon keep. It was a foolhardy thing to do, for the
stones were loose around it, but he had many times got in there before,
and why, he thought, should he not do so now. Besides, this was
Reynard's favourite den, and he hoped to shoot him in it. But the fox
had improved on his dwelling since the hunter had last paid him a visit;
he had excavated another room. Stone after stone the hunter began to
pull down, when suddenly there was a startling noise behind him, and he
found himself in the dark.

[Illustration: THE PUPPIES AND THE SPARROW. (_See p._ 158.)]

Buried alive! Buried in a dungeon in which there was hardly room to
turn. The situation is too dreadful for pen to describe. He sank on the
soft damp mould of the floor and gave himself up to despair. And thus
hours went past.

Hitherto there had not been a sound, but now the impatient yelping of
the faithful hounds told him they had begun to appreciate the terrible
danger of the master.

The rest of the story may be told in a very few words. Vogel did nothing
but run about wild with grief, and made the rocks around her echo the
sounds of her grief. Zimmerman set himself to work to dig the master
out. But alas! solid stone and lime were too much for even his strong
little limbs. But where was the wise and thoughtful Zadkiel? Gone. He
turned up some hours after at his master's house, and his strange
behaviour soon caused the servants to follow him into the deep forest
and straight to the old ruin.

Morning had dawned ere the hunter, more dead than alive, was extricated
from his living grave. His first act as soon as he recovered was to
return thanks to Him who had delivered him, his next to embrace his
faithful dogs.



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

"I wonder what we shall do to-day, Mary?" said Margaret, as the two
children stood by the kitchen table waiting for the next lesson.

"I don't know," said Mary; "but I fancy we are to learn something about
fat, for I heard mistress giving orders to put the fat ready for us. And
there it is. Don't you see all those pieces of fat on the dish?"

"Well, children," said Mrs. Herbert, who at that moment entered the
kitchen, "how would you like to learn to fry to-day?"

"We should like it very much, mother," said Margaret.

"But what shall we make?"

"I wish we might make some apple fritters, like those we had the day
before yesterday."

"You shall learn to cook the fritters at our next lesson," said Mrs.
Herbert. "To-day we shall be quite sufficiently busy preparing the fat
for frying. Can you, Mary, tell me what it is to fry food? If you had to
fry the fritters, for instance, how would you set about it?"

"Please, ma'am, let me think," said Mary. "When we fried the pancakes,
we put a little fat in the frying-pan, and let it melt, and then put in
the batter. So I suppose we should do the same with fritters."

"That is exactly what we must not do," said Mrs. Herbert. "There are a
few things which we must fry in a shallow pan, with very little fat.
Pancakes and omelettes are amongst them. But as a rule, this is a very
extravagant, wasteful mode of cooking. It is much better to _fry_
properly, that is, to cook in an abundance of fat, using as much fat as
will cover the food entirely, so that we may be said to boil the food,
but in fat instead of water."

"I should have thought it was very wasteful to use a quantity of fat,"
said Margaret.

"Do you remember how much fat we used when we fried the pancakes?" said
Mrs. Herbert.

"I remember," said Mary: "for every pancake we used a piece of fat about
the size of a walnut."

"And how much of this was left when all were finished?"

"Why, none, mother," said Margaret. "The fat was used each time, and it
seemed to dry up or go into the pancake, or something. At any rate, it
was lost altogether."

"Then if we were trying to find out how much the pancakes cost, we ought
to include the cost of the fat in which they were fried?"

"I suppose so."

"Do you not think, then, that if in frying we could so arrange matters
that the fat should be used again and again and again, that would be
less wasteful?"

"Of course it would," said Mary.

"Then this is what we will do. We will provide a quantity of fat, as
much as will half fill a good-sized iron saucepan. When we use this for
frying, we shall find that if we are careful of it--that is, if we lift
it from the fire as soon as it is done with, do not let it burn, and
strain it--we can use it again and again and again. In fact, it may be
used any number of times, and we keep adding fresh fat as we get it."

"But we could not fry pancakes in that way," said Margaret.

"No; I told you just now that pancakes and omelettes must be fried in a
little fat. This process is generally called by cooks _dry frying_.
When plenty of fat is used, and the food is boiled in the fat, the
process is called _wet frying_."

"And how are we to tell which way is suitable for what we have to cook?"
said Margaret.

"Ah, Margaret! you want to get on too quickly. To know which is the best
way of treating different kinds of food is a large subject, and can only
be learnt with time. I may tell you, however, that nearly all small
things which can be quickly cooked, and can be covered with fat, may be
wet fried. Things which need longer cooking, such as uncooked meat,
bacon, sausages, &c., should be dry fried. Chops and steaks, too, are
often dry fried, but they are best when broiled; and of broiling I must
speak to you another day."

"We shall easily remember that wet frying is using plenty of fat, and
dry frying is using very little fat," said Mary.

"Of course you will. And now for the kind of fat you are to use. There
are four kinds of fat used in frying--dripping, oil, butter, and lard.
Of these, dripping is the best and lard is the worst."

"But please, ma'am, lard is generally used, is it not?" said Mary,
looking astonished.

"Indeed it is," replied Mrs. Herbert, "and this is the mistake which is
made. Those who do not know have a great scorn for dripping. They sell
it for a small sum to get it out of the way, and when they have done so
they buy lard. Yet lard is more apt to make food taste greasy than any
fat which can be used."

"What is the dripping made from, then?" said Margaret.

"From little odds and ends of fat, either cooked or uncooked, left from
joints, and 'rendered,' that is, melted down; also from the fat which is
skimmed from the top of the water in which meat is boiled. I should like
you little folk to remember that one of the surest signs of cleverness
in cookery is that nothing is wasted, and one of the most certain ways
of preventing waste is to look after the fat. A good cook will not allow
as much as half an inch of fat to be wasted. She will collect the scraps
together and melt them down gently, and so she will never need to buy."

"Just as cook has put those pieces of fat together there, ready for us
to melt down?"

"Yes; and now we will go on to render them down, shall we? First we cut
them up in very small pieces. We then put them into an old, but
perfectly clean, saucepan, with a quarter of a pint of water to each
pound of fat. We then put the lid on the saucepan, and boil gently for
about an hour, or till the water has boiled away, when we take the lid
off, and stew the fat again until the pieces acquire a slight colour,
when the fat is ready to be strained through a jar. We must not forget
to stir the fat occasionally, to keep it from burning, and also to let
it cool slightly before straining, for fear of accident; for boiling fat
is very hot, more than twice as hot as boiling water."

"Supposing we have no pieces of fat, mother, what shall we do then?"

"We must buy some. Those who like beef fat will find ox flare excellent
for the purpose. The most experienced cooks, however, now prefer mutton
fat to any other, because it is so hard and dry. Fat which is bought
must be rendered down as scraps are rendered. I fancy, however, that
where meat is eaten every day it is seldom necessary to buy fat, if only
proper care is taken of the trimmings."

"If dripping may be used for frying, could we not take the dripping left
from joints, mother?" said Margaret.

"Certainly we could, dear. Only we must be careful to have it thoroughly
clean and dry, with no water or gravy in it. To make it thus we should
probably have to wash it in three or four times its quantity of boiling
water, then let it go cold and scrape away the impurities which would
have settled at the bottom. After which we should melt it gently down
again to get rid thoroughly of any moisture there might be in it."

"Wash dripping! I never heard of such a thing," said Margaret.

"It is a very necessary business at times, for all that. The most
certain way of taking care of anything we value is to keep it clean: and
certainly we value our kitchen fat. But then, as I told you, besides
keeping it clean we must keep it dry; and one reason why good cooks
prefer mutton fat to any other is that it can be more easily kept dry
than other fats. Fat should be thoroughly strained also each time it is
used, as well as after being rendered the first time, and this will help
to keep it pure."

"I think the water has all boiled away from our fat now, ma'am," said
Mary, who had been looking very earnestly into the pan, and stirring the
pieces very vigorously.

"Then," said Mrs. Herbert, "we will take the lid off the pan, and when
the pieces begin to colour we will let the fat cool and strain it away.
It will so be quite ready for our purpose, and at our next lesson I will
show you how to fry some apple fritters."

"I think we shall enjoy frying fritters as well as making pancakes,"
said the two children together.

_(To be continued.)_



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


The holidays were over at last; the ten days flew by only too quickly to
Bertie, for, compared with Gore House, Fitzroy Square seemed the most
delightful place in the world. He was not very artistic in his taste,
and thought but little of carving and gilding, soft carpets, and
luxurious chairs; therefore the shabby parlour with Aunt Amy seemed far
more beautiful than the very grandest apartment in Aunt Gregory's grand

"If I could only stay here always, Aunt Amy, how happy I should be!" he
had said a dozen times during his stay; and each time, though her heart
echoed his wish, she cheered him with loving smiles, encouraged him with
hopeful words, begging of him to try and make the best of his Uncle
Gregory's home, and be as happy and contented as he could. Eddie often
wished that he had such a magnificent residence, for he made no secret
of his contempt for the shabby and somewhat dingy comfort of Uncle
Clair's house and its dreary surroundings. He thought artists should
have everything beautiful and graceful about them, and looked very much
astonished when his uncle said, in his sweet low voice, that beauty and
grace were certainly essential, but they should be in the artist
himself, and then he would see them reflected everywhere. Both Bertie
and Agnes endorsed that statement, for they loved the old house, and
were quite happy there. Eddie, still longing for something out of his
reach, instead of making the most of what was at his hand, grumbled and
shook his head; but Uncle Clair only smiled, and said, "You'll be wiser
when you are older, my boy. Knowledge comes with years."

Mrs. Gregory's presents caused Mrs. Clair to think that she was sorry
for her neglect of Bertie, and meant to be kinder to him in future;
besides, Uncle Gregory had said there might be other arrangements when
he returned, so that it was with a very hopeful heart that Bertie
entered the office punctually at nine o'clock on the 2nd of January, and
was taking his old corner to await the arrival of his uncle, when the
head clerk conducted him into the inner room, and pointed out a seat at
a desk near a window looking into a narrow court.

"Go through all those letters," the clerk said, pointing to a huge heap;
"select the circulars, open them, and place them on that stand; arrange
all the English and foreign letters on Mr. Gregory's table, and then
address those envelopes from that book on your desk."

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied cheerfully. It certainly was much pleasanter
in that warm room, with its clear blazing fire, soft carpet,
leather-covered chairs, and draughtless windows, than in the large, and
often chilly, outer office, but when Mr. Gregory entered with his
compressed lips and keen piercing glance all round, Bertie began to
think it would not be pleasant to have to sit always within the reach of
his critical eyes.

"Good morning. You have not forgotten, I see: that's well," Mr. Gregory
said, as he hung up his coat and pulled off his gloves. Then, with a
quick glance at his table, he added, "You may go on with your work."

Bertie copied industriously for an hour, never raising his head from his
desk; then his master's voice startled him. "Come here, Bertie. I want
some conversation with you. How old are you?"

"Nearly thirteen, sir."

"You look more. Do you like business?"

"I think I do, sir. I shall like it more when I understand it better."

"Quite so. Now, Bertie, because you are my nephew, and have been a good,
steady lad, I am going to place you in a position of great trust. You
are quick, and write a good hand, and I shall train you to be my private
secretary. You shall answer all my business letters, from my dictation.
Of course I don't mean all my letters," catching Bertie's nervous glance
at the table, "only those I have been in the habit of attending to
myself. It means several changes: one is, you need not get here till I
do in the morning; another is, that I shall require your services for an
hour or two every evening in the library at Gore House. You can leave
here at four instead of half-past five, and I wish you to take lessons
in French and German three times a week. I have engaged a master for
you, and you can leave here every other day at half-past three. I will
pay you twelve shillings a week, out of which you must pay for your
luncheon, and you will dine with us, except when there is a large
party. Now sit down, and write exactly as I tell you, and as quickly, as
neatly, and accurately as you can."

"Yes, uncle; thank you," Bertie replied, his heart throbbing violently.
That was indeed a change from the dull routine of the past five months:
he had won his uncle's confidence; he was to have no more solitary
evenings; and, best of all, he was to have a salary, and only luncheon
to buy out of it.

"Why, I shall only want a Bath bun and a glass of milk every day. I can
save nearly all," Bertie whispered to himself at luncheon-time. "Uncle
Gregory is good to me, and no mistake!"

Mr. Gregory was good to his nephew, but not before he had thoroughly
satisfied himself that the boy fully deserved his confidence, and, what
was more, would fully and amply repay it. That twelve shillings a week
was a master-stroke of policy, for it made Bertie eternally grateful;
and if the young gentleman fancied his Uncle Gregory did not know that
nine shillings of it went into the post-office savings' bank regularly
every week, he was greatly mistaken. The dining down-stairs was not
quite such a success; he was usually completely ignored, and always felt
glad when the formal prolonged meal was over, and he was at liberty to
follow Mr. Gregory to the library. There, indeed, Bertie had often two,
or even three, hours' trying work, copying out prospectuses and share
lists, reading aloud a strange jargon he did not half understand about
stocks, consols, and dividends, adding up prodigious sums of money,
subtracting other sums from them, and, when the result did not quite
satisfy Mr. Gregory, having to consign them all to the waste-paper
basket, and begin over again. Still, it was better than the long dreary
evenings in the deserted school-room, though so much confinement was
beginning to tell a little on Bertie's rosy cheeks and healthy young
frame. The atmosphere of the Underground Railway, too, was injuring
lungs that had never breathed anything but the purest country air, and
at last Mr. Gregory noticed his altered appearance, and invited him to
drive into the City in the dog-cart with himself every morning. That was
indeed a red-letter day,--almost as good as driving to Dr. Mayson's at
Riversdale: better, in fact, Bertie began to think later on, for the
bustle and confusion, the eager, hurrying, restless life of the City
began to have a strange charm for him, and that brisk drive to and from
Mincing Lane was a real pleasure. Then he was progressing famously with
his French and German. The old professor who gave him his lessons was a
sociable, voluble, eloquent gentleman, who waved his hands, rolled his
eyes, chattered nonsense that made Bertie laugh, but at the same time
interested him so much that he took great pains to listen and remember;
and having learned his grammar fairly well at school he was soon able to
make his way with tolerable ease through either a newspaper or letter.

But you must not suppose it was all sunshine and smooth sailing for
Bertie Rivers. He had a great many trials and troubles, and perhaps the
heaviest was his inability to go to Fitzroy Square, except on Sundays,
and not always then. Then he missed his runs in the Park and his walks
into the country in the early morning, his wood-carving and
cork-carving, and all the other amusements with which he was in the
habit of filling up his spare time. Then Uncle Gregory was becoming
daily more exacting and particular, and Bertie gathered from the letters
he wrote that some of the many speculations of the great City merchant
were not going on entirely to his satisfaction. Every evening he
remained later in the library, and Bertie had more letters to write and
circulars to address, and sometimes his head ached sadly, and his eyes
were dull and heavy in the morning. But there was one unfailing source
of satisfaction--his weekly visit to the post-office savings' bank.
Bertie would not have missed that for the world: nine shillings a week,
and sometimes even ten--for nothing could tempt him to spend a penny,
except on his luncheons and in writing to them at Fitzroy Square--soon
mounted up to five pounds, and then Mr. Gregory remarked one day that if
Bertie had saved any money he would invest it for him in a company that
would pay five times as much interest as the post-office. So the money
was handed over to Uncle Gregory, and Bertie received a very large and
formal paper, which he never read, but still was proud of, and in his
next visit handed it triumphantly to Mr. Clair. He read it carefully,
and then shook his head. "This company promises too much, Bertie," he
said; "better have left your money where it was."

"As if Uncle Gregory doesn't know best!" Bertie laughed. "Why, he has
hundreds of shares himself."


"You may go and spend a few days with your brother," Mr. Gregory said to
Bertie one Saturday at the end of July. "I am going away for a week, and
so I can spare you; but mind you are back on the Monday after next, and
in good time."

"Yes, sir; thank you, uncle," Bertie replied, with a bright smile.


"You may go now, if you wish. I do not require anything further;" and
Bertie fairly ran out of the office, jumped into an omnibus, and hurried
straight to Fitzroy Square, instead of going home to Kensington. The
moment the hall door opened he saw something unusual was about to take
place: there were trunks and packages and muffle straps in the hall, and
there, amidst them, stood Uncle Clair, looking quite calm, while Aunt
Amy, Agnes, and Eddie flew hither and thither in every direction. There
was a four-wheeler at the door too, so that evidently the family were
going away. For a moment Bertie felt inclined to cry. What possible
pleasure could he have in a week's holiday without Eddie and Agnes to
share it? But the moment Aunt Amy caught sight of him, her bright face
and cordial welcome re-assured him.


"Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your uncle could not spare you
to come with us. But where are your things?"

"I haven't brought any. I only just came from the City to tell you Uncle
Gregory gave me a week's holiday," Bertie replied, looking very much
perplexed. "I did not know you were all going away, auntie, or of course
I would not have come."

"Then you did not get the letter I sent you, dear?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission to come with us to the
sea-side for a week. But I suppose the letter miscarried some way.
However 'All's well that ends well,' Bertie. You are just in time. Come
now, help to carry the parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything."

"If we were going to stay a year in a desert island a thousand miles
from a shop, I should think we have enough luggage," Uncle Clair said,
glancing comically at the numerous packages and trunks; "instead of
which, we're only going to Brighton, and can get everything we want
there just as well as in London."

"But am I really to go to the sea-side with you, Uncle Harry?" Bertie
cried eagerly.

"Why, of course, child; you don't suppose we're going to leave you

"Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!" and Bertie executed a sort of
war-dance, tossed his hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a
dozen times at least before taking his seat in the cab. "You had better
go with your aunt in a hansom, Bertie," Uncle Clair said; "Eddie, Agnes,
and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the station first, wait
for us at the booking-office. Mind you don't get lost," he added, with a
smile, as they drove away.

"As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!" Bertie said proudly.
"Why, I know the place by heart now; and shan't I be glad to get away
from it for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle Gregory to give me a

"Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally. Do you know, dear, I
am sorry we did not try to persuade Eddie to take his place in the
office too: I almost think he would have been happier, and have got on
better; he does not seem very contented with us, and, worst of all, he
does not make much progress in the profession he has chosen. Agnes is
far ahead of him."

"But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do anything if he likes,"
Bertie cried loyally. "And I do not think he would get on with Uncle
Gregory: he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never cared to be
told to do anything. Even poor papa used to say, 'Please, Eddie,' or
'Perhaps you will do so, Eddie.' Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to do
forty different things in different ways every day, and I don't mind a
bit; but Eddie would stand and look at him, and frown so, and just walk
away. My brother would never get on with Uncle Gregory, Aunt Amy,"
Bertie repeated gravely. "Eddie would never make a merchant."

"And your uncle Clair says he will never make an artist, unless he
changes greatly," said Aunt Amy, rather sadly. "Poor Eddie! I am really
very anxious about his future: he is so like his father: his ideas are
quite magnificent, but he has no energy."

"He's clever, though, auntie; papa often said Eddie was a genius,"
Bertie whispered, "and I can work enough for us both. When I am rich,
and can buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy. You don't know
how different he will be when he gets back to our beautiful home," and
Bertie's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought, for the
dream of Bertie's life was to get back Riversdale. The anxieties of the
great establishment in Mincing Lane never touched him; he knew nothing
of risks, disappointments, or failures; in fact, Bertie never even
thought of such things, for he was but a child at heart, and had perfect
faith in his uncle's assurance that if he were only a good, obedient,
industrious boy he would be very rich some day, and get back his home.
But no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office, or the hot
library at Kensington troubled him as he took his seat in the train, and
was whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie sat
silently looking out of the window, envying his brother's high spirits;
he could not think what made Bertie so happy when he felt discontented
and miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything in the world.
Agnes, too, seemed infected with some of Bertie's good humour; her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed merrily at the utter
nonsense her cousin chattered incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his
discontent, and made the most of his misery. And yet he had no real
cause to be unhappy: every one was kind, gentle, patient with him; he
had not a reasonable wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat
silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of the carriage, while
the others chatted and laughed, and seemed as if they could not keep
still for very enjoyment.

"Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!" Agnes cried, "Look how the sun shines on
the trees, and the brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to get
away from London, and see the country once more; and such a sky, Bertie!
you don't have anything like that in Mincing Lane!"

"No; but though our skies may be somewhat inky, Miss Agnes, they have a
silver or a golden lining," Bertie replied, with the air of a judge. "We
don't want sunshine in the City, because we have no time to look at it;
and besides, we have plenty of gas and electric light."

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something about his brother's want
of artistic taste, when Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

"Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite a philosopher as well as
a capitalist and man of business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your
parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five minutes, and then for a
glimpse of the glorious sea."

"Why, Uncle Harry, I've never seen it!" Bertie exclaimed, as if he were
very much surprised at not having given the matter a thought before.
"All the way down I never seemed to think we were going to the sea-side:
I was so glad to get away from London. Will you let us have a boat,
Uncle Harry?"

"That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps fine we may go for a sail
some day."

"Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little punt on the ocean as we
did on the river at home," Eddie said, rather scornfully. "He has no
idea what the sea is like."

"Well, well, he will know better presently, for here we are," Uncle
Harry said gently; and in a few minutes more they were all in a shabby,
shaky, but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

"Oh!" Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy's hand. "Oh, how beautiful! I
feel as if I can't breathe, auntie."

"It is jolly!" Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright way. "What a place
for a swim, Eddie!"

"The idea of thinking the sea only a place for swimming!" Eddie replied
contemptuously. "I----"

"You can't swim a bit: that's the reason you don't care about it,"
Bertie cried merrily. "But Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle
Harry, so you will hear him say presently, 'What a lovely place for a
row!' and I do believe it's not a bit rougher than our little river."

"It's very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears a very different aspect,

"I don't believe it ever could be really rough, just like Turner's
pictures," Eddie grumbled. "It's not a bit like what I thought it would

"It's ten times prettier than anything I ever saw," Bertie cried
enthusiastically. "Just look at all the boats, and such pretty houses,
and the donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have a donkey-ride? and
such lots of boys!"

"What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his enemy at home, and he would be
as happy as Bertie," Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to Aunt Amy; and
she only shook her head and smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though
spoken in a very low tone, reached Bertie's quick young ears, and he
glanced at his brother in sore perplexity. But at that moment the
carriage stopped at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments,
and in the bustle of getting in the packets, exploring the rooms,
exclaiming at the beautiful view from the balcony, and Bertie's sudden
discovery that it was a glorious place to test the powers of a
pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot all about Uncle Clair's words and
Aunt Amy's sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little, and agreed
that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with the bright sun shining on her
snow-white sails, was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head on the pillow--he had
been running and dancing along the beach for hours--his last waking
thought was, "I must find out who's Eddie's enemy; and if he's not a lot
a bigger fellow than I am, I'll thrash him!"


Brighton in the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and
crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands
and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun
blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and
the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to
delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at
least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence
without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in
every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could
look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter,
watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There,
at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much
capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes
with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example
he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their
cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the
same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in
the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch
them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt
Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing
doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of
fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt
half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and
refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with
Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and
Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to
Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.

"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight,"
Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his

"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said,
advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I
have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"


"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said
carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a
trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed,
he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in
papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked

"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a
little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He
used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie
better than me: he saw him oftener."

"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said.
"You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day,
and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange
you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of
my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."

For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and
confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie
looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he--he is dead," he said
steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office;
Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his
money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."

"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean----" then
glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity
that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered
up his forehead in the strangest way.

"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently,
turning to Mrs. Gregory.

"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the
office, as usual."

"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray

"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I
might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran
straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just
starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"

"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman
said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is
Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"

Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr.
Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember
it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the
children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed
hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and
a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly
anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before
an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions
outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair
pleased Mr. Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the
boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was
thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium
that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both
gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly
that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little
curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior
clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old
friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for
several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had
overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and
the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family,
and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers'

"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might
have done something better for that fine lad."

"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You
should be the last person in the world to object to business."

"I don't object, only the boy is too young--a mere child. Why did not
you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"

"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him
dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he
thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the
more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of
Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their
cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have
a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason
for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their
father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously,
but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder;
he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or
experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life
acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines
himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an
exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual
losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him
deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the
effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very
eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate
generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often
spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great
fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished
for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory
hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had
seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take
in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the
gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would
have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance
of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and
meant to call at their address the next morning.

(_To be continued._)


  The Autumn sunshine falls so warm,
    So warm in the orchard green,
  A golden tent is the apple-tree;
    And under the leafy screen
  Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,
    As high as he can go,
  Dropping the apples red and brown
    To his Cousin Prue below.

  Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,
    Spreads wide her pinafore,
  The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,
    By two, by three, by four;
  With watchful eye and ready hand
    She lets no apple fall--
  As fast as Rex can throw them down
    She catches one and all.

  The blackbird on the topmost bough
    Is singing loud and clear,
  The children shouting at their task
    It does him good to hear.
  He watches them with his bead-black eyes,
    And blither still he sings;
  But clearer than dear blackbird's note
    The children's laughter rings.



Of the Fish-house at the London Zoological Gardens it must be said that
its contents are decidedly "mixed," for it is the home not only of a few
specimens of the finny tribe, but also of some wading and diving birds,
of a very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of several of the
beautiful flower-like sea-anemones. The collection, however, loses
nothing in point of interest because of its varied character, and will
repay a good deal more study than it seems to receive from visitors.

[Illustration: SEA-ANEMONES.]

Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy's familiar friend, the
minnow. Others, like the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare--in England,
at any rate. Then there are kinds known to every lover of angling, such
as the perch and pike. Seldom has a popular name been so aptly bestowed
as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses. In the upper half of
their wee bodies they have all the equine look and bearing, but in the
lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness, excepting that
both animals have tails. But the tail of the sea-horse is a most useful
appendage. The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds and
vegetables, and by this means drifts along with the current into far
distant seas and strange climes. To this cause the occasional discovery
of foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed. With regard to the
name of the cat-fish, one must not be quite so particular. There is, on
a cursory glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the head of
this curious animal to explain how the title came to be applied to it.
It strikes one as being rather a morose and surly creature, an
impression that is fully borne out when one learns that it will fight
desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered as other than common
fishes, they always are worth watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no
body, but they may be regarded as being nearly all body with very little
head, and the two bright black eyes, which look as if they were "stuck
on," give them a rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive,
too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and they will all flock to
see what it is. On the contrary, other fishes, such as the pike and
carp, will remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you may make,
and some, like the timorous trout--for which Isaak Walton loved to angle
above any fish,--will be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of your
digit that they will dart off in every direction.

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest in the pikes, those
"fresh-water wolves" and "tyrants of the rivers," as they have been
styled in consequence of their ferocity. They thrive well despite their
savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age. One was captured in a
pond in Sweden, in 1449, with a ring round its neck, which bore an
inscription which showed that it had been placed in the pond more than
two hundred years before. However that may be, there is no doubt that
the pike is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will clear a
pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to attack those even that are
nearly as big as itself. There is a case on record of a pike fastening
on the lips of a mule, which had been taken to drink in the pond. They
have been known to bite at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is
a most voracious creature. It may be assumed also that it is unsociable,
for it generally swims about by itself, and not in shoals or in
companies like other fishes.

[Illustration: IN THE ORCHARD. "_AN APPLE SONG_" (_p. 170_).]

Among other inmates of this house which call for mention are carp,
gobies, dace, roach, bullhead, gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels.
They lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro in their tanks,
in a wearisome way. But their graceful movements and curious colours are
worth notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small specimens. Those
in the deep sea sometimes attain a gigantic size. They are able to use
their tail as a hand, and have been known by means of it to seize the
gunwale of the boat in which they were imprisoned and jump into the sea.

[Illustration: THE MARINE BULLHEAD.]

One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates of the house, however,
is not a fish but an amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians, one
called _tailless_--to which frogs and toads belong--and the other
_tailed_, of which the newt and the axolotl are members. The Zoological
Society are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both the black and
white axolotl. This creature, which is a native of Mexico, has a strange
life-history not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of tadpole stage
of existence, in which it is furnished with a collar of gills and lives
in the water. After a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs
grow much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look about its
permanent form. In the first period of its history it is styled
_axolotl_; in the final period it becomes known as _amblystome_. They
say its flesh is esteemed a delicacy in Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard the anemones--the "most brilliant of living
flower gardens," as Charles Kingsley called them--as useful in the way
of ornament, and pass their tanks without paying further heed to them.
This is not the case with respect to the diving birds, which are beyond
all question the centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds
comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a penguin. The
first-named is seldom seen in this country. It is a largish bird with
webbed feet, long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming in the
water with its body entirely submerged, it looks not unlike a snake
forging along. Hence it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant
and darter, though here classed for convenience' sake among the divers,
really belong to the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird
found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may be looked upon as
representing the divers of the Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most
awkward bird ashore, but in its native element its movements are elegant
and rapid. When the keeper has placed some food in the water-tank, the
darter is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim round, then spots
its prey and goes for it with unerring aim. Rising to the surface it
throws the fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it with
business-like despatch. It then goes fishing again, and after its wants
have been supplied it returns to its house. The other three birds are
allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling amongst them. Enough
fishes are thrown in to keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed
with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly amazing. Once more one
has an opportunity of noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it
tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank a platform with
transverse bars is let down for the convenience of the birds, but the
silly penguin, instead of going to the end of the platform and gradually
working its way upward, sometimes endeavours to climb up the side, its
frantic struggles to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to
possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the easiest manner, for
Mr Keeper has to assist it with a long iron pole with a hook at the end,
by means of which he pushes the bird along to the foot of the platform.
The feeding of the birds is a very instructive performance. Unless some
such occasion were afforded us of seeing these essentially aquatic birds
in the water, one could not have the slightest idea of the power and
grace of their movements.

And in leaving the fish-house let me say that this educational value, so
to speak, of the Zoological Gardens undoubtedly forms one of their
strongest claims upon public support.




Behind, before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of
grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and
clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden
sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw
the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook
gently, saying,

  "The bells shall ring
  For the fairy king;
  Ding, dong, bell!
  Ding, dong, bell!"

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell
to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at
being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were
much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other
fairies were laughing.

  "We are the Queen's pages,
  And very great our rage is!"

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how
tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet,
they burst out crying, saying--

  "We are not fit to be seen
  By her Majesty the Queen;
  Our clothes are all blue and green,
  Who will wash and make them clean?"

"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.

  My pages shall not be
  Treated so shamefully!"

And her face grew as red as a peony.

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea
that the fairies were in the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out
of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a
dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one


And then--

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and
all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though
she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and
neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of
which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had
never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of
divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where
they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of
blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.

All at once she cried out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and though she hunted in and out
among the trees and bushes, she could not find her. No one answered,
except the echoes repeating, "Blanche! Blanche! where are you?"

[Illustration: "WALKING ARM IN ARM."]

And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.

[Illustration: "HE ... STOOD WITH HIS HAT IN HIS HAND."]


Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping, and her eyes were
swollen up, and her cheeks wet with tears. Some one was standing by her,
and a voice was saying--

  "Why are you crying, little girl, I pray,
  On such a pleasant sunny summer day?
  I'm a little packman, with my funny pack.
  Such a weight! oh, such a weight! to carry on my back.
  What will you buy, maiden? what will you buy?
  Half a dozen handkerchiefs, to wipe your cheeks quite dry?"

Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off crying. Before her stood
a small boy with a bundle of wheat over his shoulder. He looked tired
and melancholy, and not by any means as jovial as might have been
expected from his words.

"Handkerchiefs!" said Belinda, disdainfully. "Why, you've nothing but a
wisp of straw over your shoulder, and it can't be any weight."

"Try it," said the boy, throwing it down upon the ground.

But Belinda took no notice of it.

"And you're not a packman, only a little boy," she said, angrily; "how
can you tell such stories?"

The melancholy-looking boy answered--

  "Perhaps I'm a king in disguise,
  Although of a very small size;
  If you were a little more wise,
  You might find in my pack a great prize.

However, I'll leave it for you, and the first young gentleman you meet
with will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it home for you; for you will
soon find you are not able to lift it yourself."

And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda was again alone.

"Not lift a few ears of corn," she said, giving a slight kick to the
heap at her feet.

But as her foot touched it it was no longer a bundle of wheat, but a
sack tied close at the mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as
Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared to be something alive in
it, for it moved from side to side as though some creature were
struggling inside.

"Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!" exclaimed Belinda, "and the boy has brought
her back. He said 'a great prize,' and a king in disguise. He may have
been a fairy, who can tell?"

And she tried to open the sack, but to no purpose, for she only tore
her fingers and made them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her frock
and stained it, and she grew very hot.

There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt down and bathed her hands
and face; and as she rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool,
and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for she was dressed so
grandly. She had on a pink satin gown and a white satin apron with
cherry-coloured bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with gold buckles.

"I wonder wherever these clothes could come from?" she said aloud.


The sack gave a roll, and whatever might be within was evidently trying
to get out. And again she called out--

"Blanche! Blanche!"

She tried to lift up the sack, for she thought if she could drag it
along she might in time find some one who could open it.

But she found that the melancholy boy was right, she could not move it.

"And I am not likely to meet with any one in this part of the wood."


Some one was whistling in the distance.

Belinda listened.

Then she cried out, "Help! help!"

The footsteps came nearer, and a boy in a fine suit came along. As soon
as he saw Belinda he made a low bow, and stood with his hat in his hand.

"This must be a gentleman," thought Belinda, "or he would not be so

But she did not speak.

"Did you not cry out for help?" asked the youth.

"Yes," replied Belinda; "I have lost Blanche, and I want some one to
find her, and to help me to carry this bag; for I can't lift it, and I
believe there is a prize in it."

"Prize!" repeated the boy; "I should think there was! Why this bag is
full of wonderful magic toys, and if you let them out they will search
the world over until they find anything that you have lost. Where did
you get them from?"

"A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack. At least it wasn't a
sack, but it turned into one--and----"

"It must have been Oberon himself, the King of the Fairies, you know,
who brought the sack to you."

[Illustration: "OUT RUSHED THE TOYS."]

"Ah!" returned Belinda, "he did say something about a king in disguise,
but I did not believe him."

"Perhaps if you had been more polite," answered the boy, "you would have
found Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about her. The Queen
has carried her away because she knocked her little pages about."

"Knocked her little pages about! you are as foolish as the other boy.
But if you know so much, pray where has the Queen hidden her?"

"How should I know?" replied the boy.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belinda, and she began to cry again.

"Do be wise," said the boy; "crying does no good."

"Wise, prize, size, disguise," murmured Belinda.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing!" said Belinda.

"That is not true," he answered; "you said some words; say them again."

And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted up the sack quite
easily, and cut the string that fastened it, with his knife. And his
clothes changed even as Belinda's had done. He wore now a sort of helmet
with a plume of feathers in it, and a slashed dress; and he knelt down
and opened the mouth of the sack. Ah! was not Belinda astonished, for
out rushed the toys--such toys--all of them able to move about. One of
them, a man on horseback, galloped away over a bridge, in the distance;
another ran up the mountain with a donkey following after him. A woman
and a little child next rushed down into the valley, so did a boy with a
dog that did not look like a dog running behind him.


To all of these the youth said--

  "Now be kind,
  Find, find, find!"

Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she seen such toys before.

"Now," said the boy, as a white horse with a cart behind it emerged from
a heap of carriages and toy soldiers, "jump in, and you and I will drive
about the world till we find Blanche."

"But we can't possibly get in," returned Belinda; "it is too small for
one, certainly for two."

"Do not be stupid," said the boy; "almost all mischief comes from
stupidity; get in whilst I hold the horse."

How Belinda got into the little cart she did not know; but in it she was
with the boy beside her, and he was driving as fast as he could go. And
there was plenty of room for both.

The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and were riding behind them
and at the side of them, for the boy had said--

"Mount quickly, guards."

And as they went along, Belinda presently heard the man on horseback and
the woman and all the magic toys come clattering after them as hard as
they could come.

"Ah!" observed the boy; "we are on the right path; the King has sent
them after us."

"The King!"

"Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the bridge?"

"No," answered Belinda; but she whispered to herself, "a king in
disguise; wise, prize, size."

"You are getting more sensible," said the boy, as he drove faster and
faster till the white cart-horse seemed to turn into a race-horse, he
went so swiftly.

"There will be an accident," said Belinda.

And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and down went the cart,
and Belinda and the boy were tumbled into a ditch, whence they
scrambled out and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on, such a
distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.

"This is the end of the drive," said the boy; "we need not trouble about
the horse and cart. Follow me."

And Belinda followed him.

He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and
as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully
beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and
the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the
thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could
hear the words they were saying.

Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful
poetry before.

And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a
different song.

  "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
  Slumbering let the maiden lie,
  Sweetest dreams shall float around her,
  Magic blossoms shall surround her.
  Fairy chains shall keep her still,
  Fairy wand ward off all ill,
  Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
  Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,
  Potent is the fairy charm."

"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"

"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."

Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried



But the boy put his hand over her mouth.

Nevertheless they had found Blanche.

Yes! there she was fast asleep on a crimson cushion with tall white
lilies and bright poppies and splendid foxgloves nodding all round her
and drowsily ringing their sweet bells; whilst a flood of fairy light
fell over her. She looked very happy, as though she were having pleasant

"Kiss her," said the boy.

And Belinda stooped and kissed her.

And then Blanche opened wide her eyes, saying.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "I have had such a nice sleep. It all
came from the foxglove."

Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but he had vanished.

So had the cushion and the lilies, and the poppies.

"Why it's the old woodpath again," murmured Belinda. "I know the place
quite well. Size, wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise,"
she repeated; "yes, the young gentleman must have been a king in

Blanche looked surprised.

"Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I thought I had really quite
lost you, and he brought you to me."

Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of course he never told them.

"But he must have been a great many Oberons," Belinda went on, musing;
"the melancholy packboy, the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it is of
no use thinking about it, one only gets confused."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS FAST ASLEEP."]

But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music, she would have heard
this song:--

      "Each little page
      Hath lost his rage,
      The punishment is o'er;
      The sisters twain
      Have met again,
      To separate no more.
  So 'tis decreed by Queen and King,
  Who now the two together bring."



  Beneath the poplars' leafy screen
    The shade is cool and sweet,
  Where Daisy sits like any queen--
    The sunbeams kiss her feet,
  Steal round the border of her dress,
  And one white dimpled arm caress.

  She holds her dainty parasol
    Above her playmate's head,
  Lest the hot sun should touch her doll,
    And fade the lovely red
  In dolly's rosy cheek that lies,
  Or dim her beautiful blue eyes.

  She weaves a pretty dream, I know,
    All in the garden shady,
  How dolly was, long, long ago,
    A little fairy lady,
  And held her court on a green, green knoll,
  Ere she became a mortal doll.

  She thinks her blue-eyed pet knows all
    The solemn words she speaks,
  And feels the kisses soft that fall
    Upon her mouth and cheeks:
  And often when I see the two
  I wish I were the doll--don't you?  R.




On the occasion of our last visit to the Abbey, I told you a little
about the coronations that have taken place within its walls, and apart
from the venerable fane itself, the principal object connected with that
long chain of events was the antique royal chair, standing in the Chapel
of Edward the Confessor. Returning to the same spot, we will now look
around us, and we soon see that we are in the midst of a burying-place
of English kings. Sebert and his Queen Ethelgoda have their monument
beside the gate at the entrance to the chapels; but there is no
authentic account of a funeral here before that of Edward the Confessor,
whose ashes, after three removals, repose in the shrine close beside us.

It was on January 5th, 1066, just after the consecration of his
beautiful new Abbey, that the soul of St. Edward passed away. Englishmen
were filled with gloomy forebodings at the event. Crowds flocked to see
the body as it lay in the palace, with an unearthly smile on its rosy
cheeks, and with the long thin fingers interlaced across the bosom.

Then, attired in royal robes, and bedecked with crown, crucifix, and
golden chain, they laid the remains before the High Altar of the Abbey.
His wife Edith was afterwards laid beside him. After the Conquest, royal
personages for a time were buried in Normandy, till "the good Queen
Maud," the wife of Henry I. and niece of Edgar Atheling, was laid
beside the Confessor. In rebuilding the Abbey, Henry III. provided a new
shrine, to which the remains of the now canonised Edward were removed,
and in which (except for a short time) they have since remained.

Behind the shrine the king placed some holy relics, including a tooth of
St. Athanasius, and a stone said to show a footprint of our Lord. For
fifty years Henry watched his new Abbey growing to completion, and
determined it should be the burying-place of himself and the Plantagenet
line. He was laid temporarily in the place from which the Confessor's
bones had been taken. His son Edward I., returning from the Holy Land,
brought home porphyry, slates, and precious marbles to build the tomb to
which Henry's body was transferred about twenty years after his death.
The Abbess of Fontevrault was then in London, and the late king's heart
was delivered into her hands to be deposited in the foreign home of the

[Illustration: DAISY AND DOLLY. (_See p._ 176.)]

Henceforward many royal personages were brought to be buried near the
Confessor's shrine; but I shall only mention the more prominent. When
Queen Eleanor died in 1291, the course of the funeral _cortége_ from
Lincoln to London was marked by twelve memorial crosses, and the Abbots
of Westminster were bound to have a hundred wax lights burning round her
grave for ever on the anniversary of her death. In 1307, after having
placed in the Confessor's Chapel the golden crown of the last Welsh
Prince, Llewellyn, and the Stone of Fate from Scotland, Edward I. was
himself brought here to lie beneath the rough monument, from which it
was hoped that, in accordance with his dying wish, his bones might at
some time be taken and carried through Scotland at the head of a
conquering army.

In 1394, Richard II. buried here his beloved Queen Anne, the friend of
the followers of Wickliffe. The palace of Sheen in which she died was
destroyed by her sorrowing husband, and immense sums were spent on her
funeral. For asking to go away before the ceremony was completed, the
Earl of Arundel was struck on the head with a cane by the king, and
brought to the ground with his blood flowing on to the Abbey pavement.
The affair caused so much delay, that darkness came on before all was
over. The tomb that covers her remains was intended by her husband for
both, but whether Richard II. sleeps in the tomb that bears his name or
not must remain a matter of doubt. Henry IV. brought a corpse from
Pontefract to Langley, and Henry V. transferred it to this tomb; but few
believed it to be really the body of the murdered king.

England had never seen a grander royal funeral than that of Henry V. He
died at Vincennes, and with great pomp his body was brought by Paris to
London. At every stage between Dover and London, and again at St.
Paul's, and at the Abbey, funeral services were performed. The closing
scenes were very impressive, as the funeral car, amidst a blaze of
torches borne by hundreds of surpliced priests, and followed by his
three favourite chargers, came up the nave to the altar steps. Room for
the tomb was made by clearing away the holy relics behind the
Confessor's shrine. Here was placed the magnificent piece of
workmanship, which we now behold, a tomb below, and above a chantry, in
which for a year thirty poor persons were to read the Psalter of the
Virgin and special prayers for the repose of Henry's soul. At the back
of the chantry hung the king's indented helmet (in all probability the
one worn at Agincourt), his shield, and his saddle. In the arch beneath
lies the headless effigy of Henry, the silver head having been carried
off when Henry VIII. was robbing the churches.

Henry VI. was very fond of the Abbey. He chose a place for his tomb, and
even paid the first instalment for its erection, in readiness for his
own demise. But the civil wars hindered its completion; and I have
already told you how Henry VII. meant to raise a special chapel for him
and altered his mind.

We will pass on now into the Chapel of Henry VII., the grand mausoleum
of a race of kings, who looked back (as Stanley points out) not to
Saxon Edward, but to British Arthur, as their great ancestor. A gloomy
porch conducts us into a blaze of splendour. Walls, ceilings, and arches
are richly decorated; the "stone seems by the cunning labours of the
chisel (says Washington Irving) to have been robbed of its weight and
density, suspended aloft as if by magic." Nobody seems to be quite sure
who was the architect of this beautiful piece of workmanship. The king
lavished vast sums of money on the costly edifice, and left plenty with
the abbot for its completion after his death. And in the stalls monks
were to sing masses for the repose of his soul, "while the world lasts."

In April, 1509, Henry died, and was placed beside his Queen, Elizabeth
of York, in the great vault beneath the chapel floor. His mother,
Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was brought here three months
afterwards, of whom it was said, "Everyone that knew her loved her, and
everything that she said or did became her." She endowed charities,
founded colleges, ended the civil wars by marrying her son to Elizabeth
of York, and protected Caxton in his early labours.

At the Reformation there was a carrying off of relics, a rifling of
tombs, and a temporary disturbance of the Confessor's bones. But the
royal tombs saved the Abbey from destruction, although Protector
Somerset was on the point of pulling it down to build his new palace in
the Strand. Edward VI. was buried here, and Anne of Cleves, and then, in
1558, came Queen Mary, the last English monarch interred with Roman
Catholic solemnities. In the same tomb reposes her sister Elizabeth, at
whose funeral the national mourning was intense. An old chronicler tells
us that, as her coffin was borne through the streets crowded with
spectators, "there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as
the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth
any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation
for the death of their sovereign." The tomb was raised above the two
sisters by James I. He also raised the monument to his mother, Mary
Queen of Scots, in the south aisle, and had her body removed to it from
Peterborough. Devout Scots visited this tomb, as the shrine of a saint,
and many miracles were said to have taken place here.

In the north aisle of this chapel, beside two infant children of James
I., are the remains of the murdered princes brought from the Tower. In
the south aisle lies Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, of whom such high
hopes were entertained. Two thousand mourners swelled his funeral
procession, but no monument marks his resting-place. Three years later
the corpse of Arabella Stuart, the king's cousin, whom some would have
put in his place, was brought up the Thames from the Tower at midnight,
and placed without ceremony in the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. James
I. came here in 1625 and was laid in the tomb of Henry VII.

Under the Commonwealth the royal monuments suffered no harm; their
dilapidations date (as we have said) from Henry VIII's time. The mother,
sister, and favourite daughter of Cromwell were buried here; the great
Protector himself was interred in the august Chapel of Henry VII.
amongst the royal dead. For two months the body lay in state at Somerset
House in a room hung with black, and lit with innumerable black candles.
Then there was a grand procession, a magnificent hearse, and the usual
ceremonies of a royal funeral. On the 30th of January, 1661, Cromwell,
Ireton, and Bradshaw were dragged from their tombs to Tyburn, and there
hanged and beheaded. Their bodies were buried beneath the gallows, and
their heads set up over Westminster Hall.

Charles I. was to have been brought from Windsor to a grand tomb in the
Abbey, but Charles II. applied the £70,000 voted for this purpose to
other uses, and the matter dropped. This king's funeral was a hurried
affair--it took place at night without pomp of any kind. To the same
narrow vault was brought William III. Mary, after her death on December
28th, 1694, had been interred here--"one of the saddest days," says
Macaulay, "that Westminster had ever seen." She was the first English
sovereign who was followed to her grave by both Houses of Parliament, as
in other cases Parliament had expired with the sovereign.

Eleven children of James II. and eighteen children of Queen Anne lie
around the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Anne herself was brought
in a coffin more enormous than that which inclosed the gigantic frame of
her husband, Prince George, to the vault of her sister Mary. George II.
and Queen Caroline repose in a black marble sarcophagus in the centre of
the Chapel of Henry VII. And now Westminster Abbey ceased to be a
burial-place of English kings and queens. George III. constructed a
vault at Windsor for himself and his numerous family, and there his
descendants have been interred.


The month of September is one of even more fickle and changeable a
nature than most others; it is, however, one of very great importance to
those who are desirous of securing plenty of geranium and other
cuttings, for the next summer's work; because, should the month by
chance happen to be a dry one, it will be almost impossible to obtain
very many in consequence of so little growth being made. If, on the
other hand, plenty of rain fall during the latter part of August and
throughout September growth will be made both rapidly and vigorously,
whereby cuttings can be taken almost _ad infinitum_. When the weather is
of a congenial nature, perhaps few months in the year are more enjoyable
in one's garden than that of September.

                *       *       *       *       *

The present month is the best one in which to consider the various
effects--good or bad--which have been secured by growing certain plants
in juxta-position with others. All incongruities or extremes arising
from misplaced judgment or uncertain taste should be at once noted in a
pocket-book reserved exclusively for gardening notes, comments, &c. It
is ever so much easier to determine the proper positions of various
colours, and situations of certain plants, when they are at the
perfection of their beauty, than it is to allot them to certain
imaginary quarters on plans, however skilfully drawn up, in winter.
Indeed, it may be stated without reservation, that the only satisfactory
means of insuring an harmonious blending and contrast of colours is by
comparing the relative position which one plant of a certain colour and
habit should occupy to another and different plant, when growth is

                *       *       *       *       *

Most bedding plants can be induced to continue flowering for a
considerable period longer, if deprived of their seed-vessels so soon as
these are formed, than they would otherwise do; geraniums, more
especially. Not only does it hasten their decay to allow seeds to ripen,
but materially enfeebles the entire plant. It is wise to secure as much
beauty as is possible just now from your gardens, as a single and
unexpected frosty night will destroy almost everything; nothing is more
ephemeral than floral beauty.

                *       *       *       *       *

As last month, the chief attractions in the garden will be dahlias and
hollyhocks; fine displays of roses often delight us throughout the
autumnal months, and the last rose of summer charms us quite as much as
the first one of spring. Rose-cuttings may still be taken, and those
inserted last month should by this time be well-rooted plants, if
properly treated, and must at once undergo a process of being gradually
hardened off to the open air. Growing rose-shoots, having plenty of
buds, must be carefully tied in. As regards very strong-growing plants
which will need keeping within bounds, the operation of cutting them
back requires the very greatest care, and our readers should get a
practical gardener, if possible, to point out those which need trimming,
and those to be left alone. Most young people possessing a knife
generally commence sundry manoeuvres on the first plant or tree within
reach, and generally with very disastrous results. Trimming and pruning
of all sorts should, therefore, be only done by practical hands, and
then the life of the plant will be in pretty safe keeping.

                *       *       *       *       *

Dahlias will require plenty of attention until frost commences its
havocs; shoots will need thinning, and the branches must be secured to
stout stakes firmly placed in the earth; autumnal winds wreak great
destruction among such branches as are insecurely made fast, and a
number of handsome blooms are thus destroyed without coming to
perfection. Insects are very fond of infesting dahlias, and their
depredations must be guarded against. Hollyhocks, if entirely free from
disease, will still be handsome objects, but their beauty will be
somewhat on the wane; seeds may be saved from the best flowers, and
should be sown at once in a pan of light sandy soil, and placed in a
cold frame. Rooted layers of carnations of all sorts and of every
section should now be planted out into a rich light soil, or, what is
more preferable, two can be placed in a 5-inch or 6-inch pot, and
wintered thus under glass. Asters of various kinds, such as Chinese and
German, will now be in full beauty, and where large single flower-heads
are a desideratum, only two or three must be allowed beyond the bud
stage. Asters are among the prettiest of autumn flowers, and for
children's gardens we would recommend what are known as "Dwarf Bouquet."

                *       *       *       *       *

The present month is the one during which all tender or half-hardy
plants used in summer gardening are "housed," or removed to their winter
quarters under glass. It is courting failure to allow such plants as
chrysanthemums, auriculas, geraniums, and many others, to be exposed to
the influence of cold, frosty nights, as when the "fell destroyer"
commences to exert its power all plants touched by it rapidly decay.
Gladioli will now be clothed in the full glory of their gaudy, but
handsome dress; they are comparatively easy to manage in well-drained
spots, and being such continuous bloomers, at least three or four or
even half a dozen should be in every small garden. In winter they must
be covered by about six inches of litter; but in cold and ill-drained
soils it will be safer to take the roots up during October, keeping
these in a dry situation until the following spring.



  When skies are bright and winter's o'er,
  And leaves and flowers return once more,
  A little blossom 'mongst the grass
  Peeps at wayfarers as they pass.

  'Mongst gayer buds of larger size
  It modest opes its purple eyes;
  And those who love the flowers know well
  The little Scarlet Pimpernel.

  It hath a story of its own,
  That unto country-folk is known;
  For Nature's hand hath given it strange
  Perception of the weather's change.

  If clear will be the day, and fair,
  It opens wide its petals rare;
  But if the clouds should threaten rain,
  It shuts them up quite close again.

  The shepherds love the little flower
  That tells them of the changeful hour,
  And many a one asks, "Tell me, pray,
  What weather there will be to-day."

  And so in time another name,
  In honour of its rare gift, came;
  And the wee blossom 'mongst the grass
  Was called the "Shepherd's Weather-glass."

Our Music Page.

"Let's away to the Woods."

_In moderate time._

_Words and Music by_ CHARLES BASSETT.


1. The tints of the trees are mellowing down From their summer green to
a russet brown, And many a harvest is over and past, For Autumn has
chas'd away Summer at last.

2. The summer's warm glow has not died from the land, But is seen and
felt upon ev'ry hand; From the orchard where apples hang ripe on the
trees, To the thicket where nuts nod and dance in the breeze.

3. The birds sweetly sing as they soar in the sky, And the squirrels
frisk in the branches high; And it makes me as happy and merry as they
To roam in the woods on a bright autumn day.

Then away, let's away to the woods, Where the nuts and
blackberries grow, Where the flow'rs at our feet send forth fragrance
sweet--To the woods, to the woods let us go!... To the woods let us



Who were the Janizaries?

About 1330 the Sultan Orkhan formed a military force out of Christian
prisoners who had been compelled to become Mohammedans, and to these was
given the name of Janizaries, from two Turkish words meaning new troops.
A few years later they were more regularly organised, and granted
special privileges, their number being increased to 10,000. Though for a
time their ranks continued to be recruited from Christian prisoners, the
service began, at length, to attract young Turks. Their chief officer,
called the _aga_, wielded almost unlimited power. They fought on foot
and were noted for the impetuosity of their charge. In course of time
they manifested a rebellious spirit, often being the cause of
conspiracies, riots, atrocities, and assassinations of rulers,
statesmen, and high officials, and ultimately they grew to be more
formidable to the Sultan than even foreign foes. Attempts to disband
them were unsuccessful till Sultan Mahmoud II. finding himself opposed
by them in 1826, managed to excite against them the fanatical zeal of
other portions of his troops. Deserted by their _aga_ and other
officers, they were utterly crushed, their barracks were burned, and
their force was declared, on June 17, 1826, to be for ever dissolved. It
is estimated that 15,000 of them were executed and more than 20,000
banished. In this way this once famous body of men was extinguished.

A Canine Guide.

A Lincolnshire farmer has a dog that for practical wisdom will compare
favourably with most men. Should its master leave anything--such as a
stick or gloves--on the farm, he has but to make known by a sign the
fact of his loss when off the dog will trudge, and not come home till it
has found the missing article. It will permit a well-dressed man to
enter the farm-yard by day, but should a beggar put in an appearance
this respecter of persons will gently seize him by his clothes and see
him safely off the premises. By night, however, all strangers approach
at their peril. The farmer's sister lives on the adjoining farm,
communication between the two farms being obtained by means of a single
plank across the deep ditch that separates them. Sometimes the farmer's
children want to visit their aunt, and they are always entrusted to the
care of the dog. It marshals them in a small troop, conducts them to the
bridge, where a halt is called. The bairns are then taken over one by
one, doggie seizing hold from behind of the child's dress. It then waits
for the return journey and escorts them home in the same way.

The Taming of Bucephalus.

Bucephalus, the famous steed of Alexander the Great, is said to have
been broken in in the following manner. The horse was so fierce and
unmanageable that no one would ride it. It had broken one man's neck,
another man's leg, and seriously injured several others. An animal with
such a reputation no doubt excited a good deal of attention, and
Alexander was one day watching it in the Hippodrome or Circus, when it
struck him that the horse was rendered ungovernable by fear of its own
shadow. Accordingly he mounted it, and running it against the sun--so
that its shadow fell behind--in due time succeeded in thoroughly
subduing it. Tradition stated that through being the first to break in
Bucephalus--which became his favourite charger--Alexander had fulfilled
the condition which had been declared by an oracle to be necessary to
his gaining the crown of Macedon.

The Price of a Picture by Landseer.

Sir Edwin Landseer's magnificent stag-picture called, "The Monarch of
the Glen," and well known all over the world from engravings, was
recently exposed to auction, when it fetched the enormous price of
£6,510. It is said that the painter sold it off his easel for 800
guineas. The bidding at the sale began at £2,000, and by bids of one
hundred guineas reached £4,000, at which price it was hoped that it
might have been secured for the National Gallery. The competition,
however, continued beyond that sum, until the picture was sold for 6,200
guineas. Only one other picture by Landseer has brought a higher
price--namely, the famous Polar Bear subject, "Man proposes, but God
disposes," which realised £6,615.


As commonly used nowadays this term is equivalent to "dunce," but it was
originally employed as a law term. It is a Latin word, and literally
translated means, "we do not know." In former days when a grand jury
considered that a bill or indictment was not supported by sufficient
evidence to prove the need for a trial, they wrote the word "ignoramus"
on the back of it, signifying that they rejected it. The words used in
present practice are simply "not a true bill," or "not found." But in
course of time the old Latin term was made serviceable, as we have seen,
in a new way.

Saved by South Sea Islanders.

Considering the reputation that most of the South Sea Islands used to
enjoy for cannibalistic practices, it is pleasing to read that the
natives of one of the isles in the Marshall group in the South Pacific
Ocean rescued the crew of a vessel wrecked near Ujaal Island. A number
of natives went in their boats to the wreck and took off the crew and a
lady passenger, conveying them to an island some fifteen miles from the
spot where the ship was lost, and treating them with great kindness.
Tents were erected out of the sails of the wrecked vessel, which were
removed for the purpose.

A Strange Vow.

Not long since there died in a workhouse in Southwark a pedlar who used
to sell odds-and-ends on a tray on London Bridge, and who pretended to
be deaf and dumb. It is said that, though clothed in rags, he was a
Swiss gentleman of means who, stung by remorse, had vowed not to open
his lips for ten years, to go bareheaded and barefooted, and to abandon
for twenty years all the advantages of his fortune. His vow was rigidly
kept, and at the period of his death he was in the fourteenth year of
his singular penance.

Honour among Cats.

Seeing that pussy is by no means friendly to birds, it is rather
gratifying to hear of a cat that was entrusted with the care of a
shopful of birds and was true to her trust. She was shut in the shop for
the purpose of doing battle with such rats and mice as might put in an
appearance; and discharged this duty with signal success. Yet though it
may have been--at first at any rate--a sore trial to her to keep her
paws off the birds, she was able to resist every temptation to gratify
her natural tastes, and might even have been seen quietly snoozing on
the top of one of the cages.

Memory in Parrots.

These birds have retentive memories. A parrot that belonged to a lady
recognised a black servant after three years' absence. Another bird was
so fierce that no one in the house liked to touch it, but it would allow
a lady visitor to handle it with impunity. It was at last given away, as
its ill temper seemed incurable. About three years later this lady
called upon a friend, when a parrot in the corner of the room became
greatly excited. As it was generally very quiet in its demeanour, its
mistress remarked the unusual behaviour, but her visitor on going up to
the cage recognised her old friend of the savage disposition, which had
not forgotten her. When she spoke to it the bird was much pleased, and
came on to her hand and fondled her.

The Clock-tower in Darmstadt Palace.

The residential palace in Darmstadt, where Queen Victoria made a brief
stay in the spring of this year, has a clock-tower the chimes in which
discourse sweet music four times every hour. At the first quarter they
strike up a verse of the stirring "Watch on the Rhine;" at the half-hour
the familiar notes of "God save the Queen" fall upon the listener's ear;
at the third quarter an air from the well-known opera of the "Marriage
of Figaro," enlivens the palace; while the hour is hailed with the
bridal chorus from Wagner's "Lohengrin."

Oiling the Waves.

During the last two or three years a good deal has been heard of
experiments for calming an angry sea by pouring oil upon the troubled
waters. This has been proved to have a marked effect, but it is
interesting to note that the idea is by no means new. In 1844
experiments were made in the North Sea, with a view to test this special
property, and though several gallons were used on the occasion, no
diminution of their rage was noticed in the waves. Captain Wilkes,
however, the commander of the United States Exploring Expedition in
the Antarctic Ocean, 1838-42, observed that the oil leaking from a
whaler had a stilling influence upon the sea. And this quite agrees with
the result of nearly, if not all, recent trials.


Spider Knicknacks.

A large trade is done at Santa Barbara, in South California, in the
preparation of stuffed specimens of a big, ugly, vicious, poisonous
spider. Cards decorated with these insect monsters are readily bought by
tourists, by museums, and by science schools. This spider excites great
curiosity on account of the nest with trap-door which it constructs with
much skill, but though its native valleys abound with countless numbers
of the homes and tunnels, yet hardly a living spider can be seen. It is
for this reason, doubtless, that the demand for stuffed specimens is so
considerable as to engage wholesale merchants as well as retail
shopkeepers in meeting its supply.

An Affectionate Dog.

Early this year, a lady died in New York. She had had a Skye terrier as
a pet for twelve years, and during the two months of her illness it
remained by her bed. After the funeral it took up its old position by
the bed, refusing to eat. A few days afterwards it found a pair of its
mistress's shoes which had been thrown out of doors. The faithful animal
brought them in its mouth to the bedroom, placed them on the floor, laid
its fore paws and head across them, and continued in this position for
several hours. Early one morning its mournful cries aroused the
household, and exactly a week, to the very hour, after its mistress's
death, the poor terrier expired beside the bed, its head and paws still
resting on the cast-off shoes. This story shows how keenly some animals
feel the loss of those who have treated them kindly.

A Sagacious Cavalry Horse.

Some weeks since a gentleman was knocked down by a cab in a busy street
in London, and owed his escape from what might have proved a fatal
accident to the sagacity of the horse by which the cab was driven. The
hansom cab was going along at an ordinary pace, and the gentleman (who
carried a bundle of papers) tried to pass it. In doing so he was knocked
down, his papers were scattered, and he was himself in imminent danger
of being run over, as the driver did not notice the accident in time to
pull up. The horse, however, happened to be an old cavalry horse, and it
neatly stepped over the prostrate body of the gentleman and stopped just
as the wheels of the vehicle had reached his body. The gentleman was
then dragged from his perilous position, much shaken and frightened, but
in other respects uninjured.


What is a Nabob?

You have now and again met with the phrase, "rich as a nabob," and have
perhaps wondered what a nabob had to do with riches. I will tell you.
Under the Mogul Empire the provinces of India were administered by
deputies called _nawâb_, who commonly amassed great wealth and lived in
much splendour. The title was used under British rule, but became
gradually corrupted into _nabob_. In course of time it was applied
generally to all natives who had grown rich, and latterly it was
bestowed--more often in a derisive sense--upon Europeans who, having
made large fortunes in India, returned to their native land and spent
their money in a luxurious and ostentatious way.

A Curious Volcano.

Most active volcanoes have nothing very remarkable about them so far as
the discharge of lava is concerned. In the Isle of Bourbon or Réunion,
which lies in the Indian Ocean, there is, however, a volcano which is in
a state of eruption twice every year. It occupies about one-sixth of the
whole island, it often changes its crater, and the streams of lava
sometimes reach to the sea. The surrounding district is called the
Burned Land, from the desert aspect which it always wears. From the
accompanying picture it will be seen that this volcano occasionally has
several sources of lava.

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._

    44278 A. M. M. Weeks                   13
    44279 Frank George                     11
    44280 E. M. Hilling                    11
    44281 Annie Ball                       14
    44282 Herbert Kitchener, Islington, L  15
    44283 James Baker                      10
    44284 Fredk. Morley                    11
    44285 Charles Russell                  12
    44286 George Freeman                   13
    44287 Ernest West                       9
    44288 Edward Frayer                    13
    44289 Albert Logsdon                   11
    44290 William West                     10
    44291 W. J. Thomas                     11
    44292 Joseph Thomas                    10
    44293 W. Nicholls                      15
    44294 Walter F. Turner                 10
    44295 Stanley Kingston                 11
    44296 John Mitchell                    10
    44297 Alfred Wright                    12
    44298 S. Kitchener                     18
    44299 Joseph Taylor                    12
    44300 Alfred Alley                     11
    44301 Mark Rapson                      11
    44302 William Fansett                  14
    44303 R. Archer                        12
    44304 Edwin Pearce                     11
    44305 J. Cooper                        11
    44306 Harry Snow                       12
    44307 Harry Dawkins                    11
    44308 George Wheeler                   11
    44309 James Green                      14
    44310 Robt. Couchman                   10
    44311 W. Cowling                        9
    44312 C. Hardingham                    11
    44313 James Cons                       14
    44314 George Beaven                    11
    44315 R. Kingston                      10
    44316 Fred Marle                       12
    44317 Alfred Archer                    10
    44318 George Moss                      12
    44319 Fredk. Follett                   10
    44320 Fredk. Baker                     11
    44321 Charles Barnicott                11
    44322 H. Matthews                      11
    44323 William Ellis                    11
    44324 Herbert Tubbs                    10
    44325 John Keuleman                    13
    44326 William Croxford                 10
    44327 Thos. Kingston                   11
    44328 James Sturman                    11
    44329 Henry Nicholls                    9
    44330 H. Tissington                     9
    44331 Charles Taylor                   12
    44332 GEO. E. OGLE, Brighton           14
    44333 Nellie Child                     14
    44334 Florence A. Moss                 15
    44335 K. Padwick                       10
    44336 Adelaide M. Ogle                 20
    44337 Mary C. Clark                    11
    44338 Walter Payne                      8
    44339 W. Padwick                       13
    44340 Hy. Clark                        12
    44341 N. E. Newman                     11
    44342 George R. Mills                   7
    44343 Emily Mills                       9
    44344 Amy Mills                        10
    44345 Kate M. Ogle                     18
    44346 Emily Cousins                    13
    44347 Grace Pyne                       11
    44348 A. Hollingdale                   10
    44349 George Pollard                   13
    44350 Laura B. Godfree                 11
    44351 Ellen Ogle                       10
    44352 Ada Pyne                         13
    44353 William A. Ogle                  13
    44354 Annie Webber                      9
    44355 Helen Perrin                     16
    44356 Harry Perrin                     10
    44357 Alice Webber                     10
    44358 Albert L. Carter                 16
    44359 Fredk. W. Mills                  12
    44360 Alfred Pelling                   10
    44361 G. Hollingdale                   13
    44362 Elizabeth Scott                  11
    44363 Alma Collis                      13
    44364 Emma Heryet                      15
    44365 Emma Tull                        12
    44366 Agnes Scott                      13
    44367 Albert Gearing                   10
    44368 Arthur F. Parker                 11
    44369 James Simmons                     8
    44370 Violet M. Moss                   16
    44371 George Webber                     8
    44372 Geo. P. Newman                   15
    44373 G. T. Swaffield                  14
    44374 James French                     11
    44375 Agnes Prudden                    12
    44376 E. Mattheson                     11
    44377 Charles Sier                      7
    44378 Augusta Prudden                  19
    44379 V. Cummings                      16
    44380 CHARLOTTE A. CROSSMAN, Limehouse 12
    44381 Fanny E. Jones                   14
    44382 Alice Fetter                     14
    44383 Edna G. Pattison                 14
    44384 E. E. Fullick                    13
    44385 Margaret Clark                   13
    44386 Florence E. Davis                12
    44387 Julia Page                       12
    44388 Laura A. Young                   15
    44389 Sarah Crawley                    14
    44390 L. M. Crossman                   10
    44391 Margt. Scruton                   10
    44392 Jane Crossman                     7
    44393 Florence Peck                    13
    44394 F. A. Bowers                     10
    44395 Ada E. Craddock                  13
    44396 Elizab. A. Gibbs                 15
    44397 E. M. Buckman                    10
    44398 Ada Smith                        12
    44399 Phoebe Povey                     11
    44400 Maud Curno                       14
    44401 Ethel Pattison                   10
    44402 Ann A. Halcrow                   14
    44403 Rose A. Jordan                   14
    44404 Charlotte Smith                  11
    44405 H. J. D. Webb                    16
    44406 E. J. Harper                     13
    44407 E. M. Perkins                    13
    44408 Alice Hubbard                    11
    44409 Alice Webb                       15
    44410 William Jordan                    9
    44411 E. Hutchison                     12
    44412 Emma Speaight                    13
    44413 Kate Moate                       13
    44414 A. E. Drayson                    13
    44415 Rosa G. Webb                     13
    44416 A. F. Bennett                     7
    44417 Blanche Childs                   11
    44418 C. C. Pettersson                 12
    44419 Amy L. Hicks                     10
    44420 Emily Cameron                    10
    44421 Sarah P. Findley                 16
    44422 Marion Cameron                   13
    44423 Nellie Wardle                    13
    44424 Alice Bowller                    13
    44425 Emily Bennett                    13
    44426 A. Whittenbury                   11
    44427 E. Whittenbury                   14
    44428 Annie Pitter                     13
    44429 A. C. Ohlsen                     19
    44430 Florence Crispe                  12
    44431 Edith Larter                     10
    44432 AMY WELLER, Poplar               14
    44433 Florence Bull                    10
    44434 M. C. Stupple                    12
    44435 Sophia Osborn                    20
    44436 M. M. Mackrow                    14
    44437 H. A. Christmas                  15
    44438 Rachel Bull                       8
    44439 Ann Priest                       16
    44440 Elizabth. Holmes                 14
    44441 Eliza E. West                    15
    44442 H. Wiseman                       13
    44443 Annie Sherlock                   14
    44444 Florence Barrett                 12
    44445 Louisa Price                     11
    44446 Wm. Southgate                    14
    44447 Thomas Osborn                     9
    44448 Sarah Seward                     19
    44449 Alice M. Devine                  16
    44450 Louisa Huggins                   12
    44451 F. H. Terrey                     15
    44452 Ada Gordon                       16
    44453 E. Southgate                     11
    44454 A. E. Hubbard                     8
    44455 Matilda Wattson                  10
    44456 Ernest Pattison                   8
    44457 Beatrice Burrow                   7
    44458 Mary Wesson                      13
    44459 Alice Looker                     13
    44460 Elsie Woodley                    13
    44461 Walter Osborn                    11
    44462 F. E. J. Hubbard                 14
    44463 Rosina Ricketts                  16
    44464 Amy Loaring                      10
    44465 Mary Straiton                    13
    44466 Elizbth. Ballard                 13
    44467 B. L. McLean                     11
    44468 Gertrd. M. Ford                  11
    44469 Elizbth. Harrold                 13
    44470 Wm. R. Ricketts                  13
    44471 Wm. A. Perkins                    8
    44472 Thomas Webb                      12
    44473 Ellen M. Webb                    15
    44474 W. H. Christmas                  14
    44475 E. M. Wilkerson                  14
    44476 Lea L. Christmas                 11
    44477 Elizabeth Osborn                 14
    44478 Esther J. Gill                   11
    44479 Sarah A. Wesson                  11
    44480 A. C. Houlding                   13
    44481 Josaphin Popham                  14
    44482 Clara Bull                       12
    44483 F. H. Ricketts                   12
    44484 Agnes Stedman                    13
    44485 B. Hattersley                    11
    44486 Elizabth. Burrow                 12
    44487 Emily Taylor                     13
    44488 Janet Bright                     12
    44489 E. C. S. Seward                  13
    44490 Hannah Skelton                   13
    44491 Bertha Kellman                   12
    44492 Charlotte Barrett                 8
    44493 FLORCE. GALES, Bow               14
    44494 Edith Fowler                     12
    44495 Hugh Hay                         10
    44496 Catherine Watson                 14
    44497 Fanny Jones                      17
    44498 Annie Hunter                     12
    44499 Eliza Mitchell                   12
    44500 Mary A. Williams                 13
    44501 Maud M. Fowler                   11
    44502 F. A. Weller                     12
    44503 Louisa Fowler                    19
    44504 Jemima Wesson                     9
    44505 Ada H. Hubbard                   16
    44506 Annie Godfrey                    10
    44507 Charlotte Pitt                   14
    44508 Bertha E. Fowler                  9
    44509 Ellen Manhire                     9
    44510 Chas. Ayscough                   11
    44511 Clara Payne                      13
    44512 Thos. Goodfellow                 14
    44513 E. S. Lowery                     13
    44514 C. Hancock                       13
    44515 Kate Whiteway                     9
    44516 William J. Lowis                 17
    44517 Ada Pennell                      20
    44518 Dorothy A. Noble                 10
    44519 Clara Richardson                 13
    44520 Isabella Hay                     13
    44521 Minnie Keable                    10
    44522 Maggie Hay                        7
    44523 Mary A. Osborn                    7
    44524 Margaret Cole                    13
    44525 M. McDonald                      12
    44526 Eliza Whiteway                   11
    44527 Alice Rushbrook                  12
    44528 Clara Gales                      17
    44529 Henry A. Lewis                   12
    44530 Caroline Stride                  12
    44531 Albert Weller                    10
    44532 Ada Gales                         9
    44533 Sarah Eagle                       9
    44534 Alice Stafford                    9
    44535 Florence Fenney                  11
    44536 Elizabh. Wiseman                 17
    44537 Edith I. Gales                    7
    44538 Albert J. Cutting                16
    44539 Elizabeth Grieve                 18
    44540 Keziah Weaver                    17
    44541 Elizabeth Farr                   11
    44542 Jane Read                        10
    44543 Alex. McDonald                    9
    44544 Edith Hoole,
    Camberwell                             13
    44545 Bertie Mitchell                   9
    44546 Bertie Longman                    8
    44547 Louie Longman                    10
    44548 F. Longman                       13
    44549 Horace Brown                      6
    44550 Leonard Brown                     8
    44551 A. Brown                         13
    44552 Lily Hoole                        3
    44553 Edith K. Wood                     9
    44554 Alfred T. Wood                    3
    44555 Maude Wood                        5
    44556 Emma Wood                        11
    44557 Lizzie Edwards                    9
    44558 Isabel Edwards                   11
    44559 Edith Edwards                    19
    44560 Maggie Edwards                   14
    44561 Lizzie Smith                     14
    44562 Louise Melton                     7
    44563 Flory Melton                     11
    44564 George Swain                      9
    44565 Elizabeth Field                   8
    44566 H. Field                         10
    44567 Louisa Field                     12
    44568 Annie Bedford                    11
    44569 Charlie Jarratt                   8
    44570 Selina Jarratt                   15
    44571 Arthur Jarratt                   13
    44572 A. E. Martin                     14
    44573 A Day                            14
    44574 Helen Day                        17
    44575 Mary E. Crawley                  19
    44576 Marian B. Wright                 13
    44577 Alice M. Wright                   9
    44578 Edith Broom                      17
    44579 Laura J. Lockie                  12
    44580 Monty Hammett                     3
    44581 Bertie Hammett                    9
    44582 William Cook                     12
    44583 Emma Short                       16
    44584 Charles Short                     7
    44585 Amelia Short                     11
    44586 Eleanor Short                     8
    44587 Bertha Reed                      14
    44588 Maude Pummell                    10
    44589 A. Hinton                        12
    44590 Jessie Mackie                     8
    44591 Edith Green                       7
    44592 Sydney Green                      9
    44593 Arthur Green                     11
    44594 A. E. Warell                     12
    44595 NELLIE PERCIVAL, Liscard         12
    44596 Ada Mitchell                     12
    44597 Harry Lyons                       6
    44598 Alice Love                       17
    44599 Wm. R. Lyons                      5
    44600 Bessie Robertson                 16
    44601 Ada Holt                         16
    44602 Ada Rowe                         16
    44603 Alice Helsby                     17
    44604 Maggie Sinclair                  16
    44605 Robt. P. Stafford                 9
    44606 Barbara Fletcher                 13
    44607 Bessie Dickson                   13
    44608 Beatrice Hale                    17
    44609 Emily Casement                   17
    44610 Ruth Ryland                      15
    44611 Hettie Ward                      14
    44612 Charles Sinclair                 12
    44613 Maud Bayley                      14
    44614 Emma Crossley                    12
    44615 Jas. H. Stafford                  8
    44616 Louie Bryer                      15
    44617 Annie Percival                   13
    44618 F. Leighton                      14
    44619 Mabel Woodall                    16
    44620 Charlotte Bourne                 15
    44621 Maggie Percival                  15
    44622 M. Casement                      16
    44623 Douglas Sinclair                 10
    44624 Dicky Smith                       7
    44625 Maude Shepherd                   13
    44626 Laura Hirst                      13
    44627 A. M. Johnston                   17
    44628 Marian Morris                    16
    44629 J. Wainwright                    17
    44630 Minnie Evans                     14
    44631 Charlie Gleadell                  6
    44632 Kate Charles                     14
    44633 Mary Lilley                      18
    44634 Maggie Goodlass                  12
    44635 Maggie Lenard                    18
    44636 F. Moulding                      16
    44637 Beatrice Jones                   14
    44638 Minnie Noble                     14
    44639 Barbara Clark                    14
    44640 Alethea Clark                    10
    44641 Margt. E. Noble                  16
    44642 Percy Smith                       5
    44643 Elizbth. Jackson                 17
    44644 Alice M. Taylor                  17
    44645 Alice Willis                     16
    44646 Minnie Sanders                    9
    44647 H. W. Sanders                    15
    44648 Alfred Payne                     11
    44649 FLORENCE BOON,
            Llantrissant                   11
    44650 Charles Smith                    14
    44651 Alfred Boon                      21
    44652 Thomas Williams                  12
    44653 E. A. Davies                      9
    44654 Chas. I. Leyshon                  7
    44655 Thos. Leyshon                     6
    44656 Evan Davies                      11
    44657 E. E. Hasking                     5
    44658 David Roberts                    10
    44659 E. T. Leyshon                     9
    44660 Annie Baker                       9
    44661 William Jenkins                  17
    44662 Eugnie Davies                     6
    44663 Lydia Williams                    7
    44664 Edwin Pritchard                  10
    44665 George Pritchard                 14
    44666 Rosina Pritchard                 12
    44667 Jas. H. Pritchard                 5
    44668 Anne Dells                       10
    44669 Ellen Roberts                    12
    44670 Mary A. Evans                    13
    44671 Martha East                      12
    44672 Edith M. Smith                   10
    44673 Jessie Davies                     8
    44674 Jane East                        14
    44675 Ellen M. Parker                  12
    44676 Charles East                     10
    44677 Thomas Angell                     7
    44678 E. Devonshire                    10
    44679 Amelia Phillips                   9
    44680 Edwin Smith                      11
    44681 Ann Williams                     12
    44682 William Williams                  7
    44683 Annie Hosking                    18
    44684 S. Bartlett                      15
    44685 Samuel Escott                    10
    44686 Ada Thomas                        7
    44687 Wm. Hosking                      13
    44688 Mary E. Thomas                   12
    44689 Evan Angell                      11
    44690 Annie Cox                         6
    44691 S. Devonshire                     8
    44692 Alfred Hosking                   10
    44693 Mary Cox                          8
    44694 Mary J. Baker                     5
    44695 Alice T. Cooke                    7
    44696 Maude M. Cooke                    8
    44697 Bertha E. Cooke                   8
    44698 Wm. J. Warman                     7
    44699 Arthur Cooke                     10
    44700 Lucy Williams                    11
    44701 James Richards                   10
    44702 Frederick Lyes                   17
    44703 Henry Rex                        18
    44704 E. A. Priestley                  20
    44705 Lillie Hugill                    17
    44706 Annie Hugill                     14
    44707 FANNY L. CHEW,
               Stroud                      13
    44708 Nettie Sonthern                  13
    44709 Geo. A. Hulbert                   8
    44710 F. J. Holland                    14
    44711 Bessie Hulbert                   13
    44712 Willie R. Ford                   11
    44713 Alice R. Hulbert                 11
    44714 Fred Griffiths                   14
    44715 Edith E. Holland                 16
    44716 W. E. M. Hulbert                 10
    44717 Robert Johnston                  13
    44718 Lizzie Davis                     21
    44719 Gertrude Holland                 14
    44720 Georgina Chew                     8
    44721 Alfred R. Ford                   14
    44722 W. A. Watkins                    10
    44723 Maud Harrison                     9
    44724 Florence Hooper                  10
    44725 Arthur Ellis                     13
    44726 Lilly McKellar                    8
    44727 Harry Chandler                   13
    44728 Ernest J. Tayler                 10
    44729 Walter Wheeler                   14
    44730 Harry Roberts                    10
    44731 Arthur Chew                      12
    44732 Lionel Chew                       8
    44733 William J. Fass                  11
    44734 Corbett Holland                  11
    44735 E. B. Pitt                       15
    44736 Harry Holland                     9
    44737 Henry Gazard                     13
    44738 C. Baumbrough                    16
    44739 Louisa Parfitt                   18
    44740 Flora E. Watkins                 17
    44741 Gertrd. Watkins                  14
    44742 Fredk. Nind                      13
    44743 Nellie I. Aspinall               11
    44744 Edith Compton                    10
    44745 Ralph Wheeler                    12
    44746 Harry Halford                    12
    44747 Constance Pitt                   12
    44748 George Docker                    13
    44749 Mary Chew                         8
    44750 James Treseder                   12
    44751 Violet McKellar                  10
    44752 Frederick Pitt                   20
    44753 Seymor Bonford                   14
    44754 Ernest Ricketts                  12
    44755 Kate Eliot                       13
    44756 Charlie Bailey                   13
    44757 John Wheller                     14
    44758 Mary Jenney                      11
    44759 Annie E. Throp                   12
    44760 Susannah Jenney                   9
    44761 R. Welsh                         10
    44762 Ernest Wall                      10
    44763 G. Mallalieu                     10
    44764 Ethel Harris                      8
    44765 Arthur F. Pacey                   7
    44766 Ethel Homes                      12
    44767 Edith S. Dealy                   13
    44768 Clara Hoëlzer                    12
    44769 Gilbert Haldane                  14
    44770 Harry G. Assiter                 15
    44771 Agnes M Mullins                  11
    44772 J. C. Waterhouse                  9
    44773 M. Waterhouse                     8
    44774 A. Waterhouse                    11
    44775 LUCY A. GRIEVE, Greenock         13
    44776 Margt. M. Neish                  11
    44777 E. W. Johnston                   11
    44778 Agnes McKinnon                   11
    44779 Margaret Lower                   11
    44780 C. McKinlay                      11
    44781 Eliza A. Boyd                    11
    44782 I. M. McDonald                   11
    44783 Mary McAulay                     10
    44784 Robert McAulay                   12
    44785 Gracie McAulay                   18
    44786 Annie McAulay                    16
    44787 John Cooke                        8
    44788 Jeanie Cooke                     12
    44789 Harry Cooke                      10
    44790 Edwd. L. Grieve                   4
    44791 Florce. A. Grieve                 7
    44792 Robertha Grieve                  10
    44793 James H. Grieve                   8
    44794 Hilda C. Grieve                   5
    44795 Bella Longwill                   10
    44796 Maggie Longwill                  15
    44797 John F. Hodge                     8
    44798 Agnes L. Hodge                   12
    44799 Archie Grieve                    15
    44800 Mary J Grieve                    10
    44801 John Grieve                      13
    44802 Laura M. Trew                    12
    44803 M. Symington                     10
    44804 M. J. Symington                  12
    44805 Robert Smith                     12
    44806 Agnes Smith                      10
    44807 M. E. Brittlebank                16
    44808 M. Brittlebank                   11
    44809 C. D. McKay                      17
    44810 F. J. Thorburn                   11
    44811 Isabella Mara                     9
    44812 Mary Mara                         5
    44813 Jas. B. Fulton                   12
    44814 Agnes B. Fulton                   9
    44815 Wm. B. Fulton                    10
    44816 John Whiteford                   17
    44817 Jane Whiteford                   19
    44818 M. Whiteford                      8
    44819 E. A. Paterson                    9
    44820 J. G. Paterson                   10
    44821 A. F. Whiteford                  11
    44822 Jessie Whiteford                 15
    44823 John Ramsay                       8
    44824 C. Ramsay                        12
    44825 E. J. Whiteford                  12
    44826 M. C. Whiteford                  17
    44827 Mary Trew                        10
    44828 S. R. Paterson                    7
    44829 V. M. Paterson                    6
    44830 Janet McMurtrie                  13
    44831 M. McMurtrie                     16
    44832 Robt. McMurtrie                  10
    44833 Jane McMurtrie                   18
    44834 Jane Thorburn                     9
    44835 Jessie Sime                      16
    44836 John M. Sime                      9
    44837 Sarah Sime                       18
    44838 HILDA VORLEY, Camden Road,
          London                           14
    44839 Jessie Rintoul                   13
    44840 Kate Darvell                     15
    44841 H. Hardy                          9
    44842 Mary A. Darvell                  20
    44843 Fanny Blake                      19
    44844 H. F. Fredricks                  18
    44845 Fredk. W. Darvell                18
    44846 May Vorley                       17
    44847 Herbt. D. Lister                 15
    44848 Thomas Allen                     16
    44849 E. F. Gillott                    15
    44850 Emily F. Colls                   13
    44851 E. Wilkinson                     11
    44852 William Vorley                   12
    44853 Cecilia Loebl                    10
    44854 Arthur Gartley                   10
    44855 Bessie Shaw                      12
    44856 Emmeline Vorley                  16
    44857 John Brooke                       8
    44858 E. M. Jennings                   14
    44859 Harry Brooke                      6
    44860 Ada Parker                       11
    44861 Lucy Merzbach                     8
    44862 Edwd. Merzbach                   11
    44863 L. M. Hearn                      16
    44864 A. H. Colebrook                  10
    44865 Ethel Pyke                       10
    44866 Florence Baker                   12
    44867 Fanny Gartley                    14
    44868 Hilda Corner                     12
    44869 John A. Brown                    11
    44870 Louisa Rintoul                   15
    44871 Lilian Brock                     12
    44372 F. Matthews                      12
    44873 K. A. Wilkinson                  14
    44874 Mary Dowsett                     14
    44875 F. W. Dunaway                    18
    44876 E. A. Townsend                   17
    44877 Lily Barker                       8
    44878 Ethel Barker                     13
    44879 Kathleen C. Gow                  17
    44880 Lillie Stoner                    12
    44881 Gertrd. Rayment                   8
    44882 Samuel Brooke                     9
    44883 Ernestine Baker                  15
    44884 Lydia Gardner                    14
    44885 Emma E. Allen                     8
    44886 Caroline S. Allen                11
    44887 Wm. H. Allen                     14
    44888 Emily M. Allen                   18
    44889 Mary A. Jones                    12
    44890 Ellen G. Jones                   10
    44891 Percy M. Jones                    9
    44892 Mary M. Jose                     13
    44893 Sophie H. Isle                    7
    44894 James C. Isle                     9
    44895 Shirza Ferguson                  14
    44896 Francis L. Smith                 12
    44897 Margaret Gill                    16
    44898 Dora Gill                        14
    44899 Louis H. Daish                   15
    44900 Percy P. Cotton                  11
    44901 Lucy W. Barker                   12
    44902 F. M. Barker                     10
    44903 Frank D. Barker                   7
    44904 K. W. Barker                      5
    44905 Edith Wallace                    15
    44906 Amy Wallace                       9
    44907 John B. Stewart                   8
    44908 Gertrd. A. Escott                10
    44909 Charles Brereton                 11
    44910 Mary E. Wallis                   20
    44911 A. A. Langley                    19
    44912 E. J. Newman                      9
    44913 Evelyn P. Sewell                 10
    44914 Winifred Lamb                    12
    44915 Anna Lamb                        13
    44916 Helen Lamb                       16
    44917 Emily Lamb                        7
    44918 GERTRUDE A. AMOS, Hampstead      16
    44919 Kathleen Jenkins                  8
    44920 F. E. Jenkins                    15
    44921 May Jenkins                      11
    44922 Annie Lee                        19
    44923 Ewart C. Amos                    17
    44924 Thomas Cowney                     7
    44925 Arthur Cowney                     9
    44926 Ethel Cowney                     11
    44927 Minnie M. Shaw                    8
    44928 Charles J. Shaw                  12
    44929 Rose K. Nowlan                   13
    44930 P. L. Nowlan                     15
    44931 Edith M. Dwight                  19
    44932 Edith A. Rogers                  15
    44933 Jessie E. Rogers                  8
    44934 J. A. Rogers                     18
    44935 Miriam Rogers                    16
    44936 Wallace Barron                    8
    44937 Ethel M. Yates                   15
    44938 C. M. Hewetson                   10
    44939 Alice A. Miley                   15
    44940 Emily Fowke                      15
    44941 E. M. Thompson                   16
    44942 E. M. Clements                   11
    44943 Rose M. Smithers                 15
    44944 Katerine Wickes                  11
    44945 A. M. Wickes                     14
    44946 Henry White                      16
    44947 Charles White                    12
    44948 Katie Spalding                    9
    44949 Alice M. Spalding                12
    44950 Catherine White                  15
    44951 K. A. Bergin                      9
    44952 Mary Bergin                      14
    44953 Margaret Bergin                   8
    44954 Thos. G. Bergin                  11
    44955 Gertrude M. Sims                 10
    44956 Edith Sims                       13
    44957 Emmeline Sims                    10
    44958 Mildred P. Orwin                 11
    44959 Ethel M. Orwin                   14
    44960 Henry Wines                      10
    44961 Charlotte Wines                  14
    44962 John Wines                       11
    44963 Bessie Biggs                      9
    44964 Clara D. Mills                   16
    44965 E. M. Spalding                   11
    44966 Violet Spalding                  15
    44967 Marian Goodall                   13
    44968 Mary White                        9
    44969 Susanne E. Price                 12
    44970 Rosa L. Candy                    13
    44971 Jas. H. Nicholson                11
    44972 Frances L. Hyde                  12
    44973 Ellen R. Carr                    12
    44974 Ella M. McCaul                   15
    44975 Albert C. Farmer                 12
    44976 NELLIE CHAPPELL, Camden Road,
          London                           13
    44977 Katie Avern                      13
    44978 Emily Avern                       8
    44979 Annie Gregory                    10
    44980 G. A. Jaques                      8
    44981 Louisa Price                      8
    44982 Kate Spain                       12
    44983 Lily Petch                       11
    44984 M. Bourdelaine                   14
    44985 Gertrude Hedges                  16
    44986 Edith Smith                       9
    44987 E. B. Palmar                     10
    44988 Thos. A. Avern                   11
    44989 L. Bourdelaine                   12
    44990 Eva R. Child                     13
    44991 Edith Pybus                      13
    44992 F. Hughes                        12
    44993 Edith Palmar                      8
    44994 Lizzie J. Shenton                11
    44995 Julia Denny                       9
    44996 Flornce. J. Reeve                14
    44997 Edith T. a'Bois                  14
    44998 Lucy Ashton                      16
    44999 Percy H. Brown                   12
    45000 Alice E. Lloyd                   14
    45001 M. E. Goodman                     9
    45002 Edith F. Ball                    10
    45003 R. G. Durnford                   11
    45004 H. L. Darnton                    11
    45005 Maggie L. Polak                   9
    45006 William P. Ball                   6
    45007 M. W. Smith                       4
    45008 Jenny Ball                        9
    45009 Lydia Taylor                     12
    45010 May Lloyd                         8
    45011 Ada Rayner                       11
    45012 Ellen M. Hunt                    17
    45013 Eleanor C. Muir                  14
    45014 Loetitia Lambert                 12
    45015 Edith A. Cox                     12
    45016 Jessy F. Charles                 14
    45017 Nellie Pybus                     14
    45018 Clara E. Brice                   16
    45019 Jessie E. Davis                  13
    45020 Ada Chappell                     15
    45021 L. H. Shelton                     8
    45022 Emily L. Smith                   11
    45023 Florence M. Pitch                 9
    45024 Bessie Cox                       11
    45025 Florence Mashell                 10
    45026 Annie J. Charles                 16
    45027 JANET M. GREGORY, Paignton       12
    45028 Florce. E. Waith                 12
    45029 M. F. E. Waith                   10
    45030 Mary Bradford                    13
    45031 Lily Telfer                      18
    45032 Edith Cawley                     12
    45033 Beatrice E. Harris               12
    45034 Ethel M. Rundle                  11
    45035 Ida M. Madden                     9
    45036 Kate Cawley                       9
    45037 Blanch Telfer                     9
    45038 L. K. Madden                     14
    45039 E. Mulcaster                      9
    45040 Richd. Mulcaster                  7
    45041 B. E. Shorland                   12
    45042 E. I. Shorland                   11
    45043 Violet Gregory                    4
    45044 Edith M. Lory                    18
    45045 E. A. Richards                   17
    45046 Janie Rowe                       16
    45047 E. M. Madden                     17
    45048 Emily M. Corew                   14
    45049 Ada E. Rowe                      13
    45050 Frances C. Telfer                 8
    45051 C. L. Telfer                      5
    45052 James D. Telfer                   6
    45053 Edith Telfer                     13
    45054 C. M. Rogers                     12
    45055 Ethel H. Clark                   12
    45056 E. M. Hughes                      7
    45057 Mary B. Winch                    12
    45058 Winifred Mason                   10
    45059 Clara M. Mason                    9
    45060 Arthur Mason                      7
    45061 Willie P. Martin                  8
    45062 Effie Robertson                  15
    45063 Gussie Cay                       13
    45064 Agnes Clarke                     14
    45065 Daisy Comber                     13
    45066 Laura R. Trioni                  15
    45067 Sophie Ridley                    16
    45068 Alice F. Morrell                 14
    45069 Annie Fowler                     12
    45070 Blanche Fulton                   13
    45071 Lizzie Franklin                  15
    45072 Effie Lecky                      14
    45073 Ethel Norbury                    13
    45074 E. L. H. Wilder                  12
    45075 Katie Haswell                    13
    45076 Chas. F. Bluett                   5
    45077 Alfred Kingston                   5
    45078 E. M. Kingston                    7
    45079 E. E. Faithfull                  11
    45080 Cathrne. J. Jones                13
    45081 M. W. Jones                       9
    45082 Robert Jones                     11
    45083 L. L. Baxter                     15
    45084 L. J. Stephens                   13
    45085 Florence B. Shaw                 11
    45086 Edith A. Shaw                    15
    45087 Dora K. Purvis                    9
    45088 Hannah S. Purvis                  7
    45089 Mabel F. Shaw                     8
    45090 Jessie C. Shaw                   10
    45091 Annie V. Shaw                     9
    45092 Alice M. Heins                    9
    45093 F. M. Heins                      11
    45094 Mary A. Howard                    9
    45095 F. S. Howard                      7
    45096 John A. Harrison                 11
    45097 J. M. Mackenzie                   8
    45098 JULIA M. CROWHURST, Gt.
          Ormond St., Lond.                14
    45099 Stanley J. Beeson                 7
    45100 Edgar T. Beeson                   9
    45101 Alice Wills                      16
    45102 Julia C. Horley                  11
    45103 Ellen N. Horley                   7
    45104 L. H. Wingfield                  17
    45105 Edith Wingfield                  10
    45106 Frank Wingfield                  12
    45107 G. M. Wingfield                   6
    45108 Florence Carlton                  7
    45109 Ada I. Sanders                   15
    45110 Etta Gash                        17
    45111 Chas. F. Sanders                 11
    45112 E. E. Gunton                     17
    45113 Sarah Oldham                     20
    45114 Arthur Goode                      9
    45115 W. W. Crowhurst                  12
    45116 Annie Goode                      18
    45117 Maria Goode                      19
    45118 Arabella Brooks                  13
    45119 Elliott E. Brooks                12
    45120 John B. Goode                    15
    45121 Ethel S. Brooks                  10
    45122 Wm. C. Brooks                    15
    45123 E. S. Sherwood                   15
    45124 Jas. T. Sherwood                 13
    45125 Thos. N. Carlton                  9
    45126 Ada Edwards                      12
    45127 Henry Edwards                    15
    45128 Annie Edwards                    13
    45129 Frank Neck                       10
    45130 Walter Powell                    11
    45131 C. Hotchkiss                     18
    45132 Rosa Folley                      17
    45133 Mary E. Lucas                    18
    45134 Edwd. H. Adams                    9
    45135 M. E. Symonds                    19
    45136 Frank Allen                      15
    45137 B. Allatt                        13
    45138 I. Crowhurst                     20
    45139 H. A. Crowhurst                  15
    45140 E. M. Crowhurst                  16
    45141 Herbert Wills                    13
    45142 Ormond A. Taylor                 19
    45143 Albert J. Turner                 15
    45144 Louisa Turner                    17
    45145 F. E. Taylor                     15
    45146 Fredk. R. Horley                 13
    45147 George Horley                    12
    45148 Edith Wills                       9
    45149 MIA BOWCOTT, Bath                16
    45150 M. I. C. Whitley                 12
    45151 H. F. Whitley                    10
    45152 H. P. Whitley                    13
    45153 Owen Owen                         9
    45154 Edwd. J. Hughes                  10
    45155 E. Clack                          9
    45156 R. H. Mattingly                  13
    45157 J. F. Healey                     14
    45158 H. R. Hancock                    11
    45159 S. J. Bowcott                    12
    45160 C. S. Chatterton                 15
    45161 F. M. Chatterton                 12
    45162 Kate Chatterton                  11
    45163 Emily A. Estens                  19
    45164 Florce. Hayward                  14
    45165 Flossie Rolfe                    13
    45166 T. E. Archard                    10
    45167 E. E. Archard                    12
    45168 H. Newham                        10
    45169 B. W. Whittaker                  19
    45170 Charles D. Fox                   17
    45171 Maud D. Fox                      19
    45172 Rosa A. Cole                     16
    45173 Frank H. Greves                  11
    45174 F. E. McManus                    12
    45175 Annie Parfitt                    12
    45176 Emma Hillary                     17
    45177 Lucy J. Cobb                     19
    45178 Kate Francis                     19
    45179 K. F. Alabaster                  15
    45180 I. M. Alabaster                  13
    45181 Emily A. Fuller                  19
    45182 Edith Weeks                       9
    45183 Mary Salmon                      13
    45184 Ada E. Fisher                    18
    45185 Bertha E. Fisher                 20
    45186 A. F. Merrick                    20
    45187 Charles Fowler                    9
    45188 C. H. Fowler                     13
    45189 H. Fowler                        11
    45190 John Tucker                      13
    45191 William Dale                     11
    45192 H. J. Sheppy                     10
    45193 G. D. Lewis                      17
    45194 James W. Lewis                    9
    45195 Mary Hillier                     15
    45196 Emily Jennings                   10
    45197 Kate Merrett                     14
    45198 Jane Tadd                        14
    45199 Nellie Hancock                   11
    45200 Ethel Hancock                     9
    45201 Clarissa A. Ball                 18
    45202 Stephen Owen                      6
    45203 Millicent Owen                    8
    45204 Florence Owen                    18
    45205 Lily H. Weeks                    11
    45206 Arthur Broderick                 11
    45207 Herbt. A. Brewer                 13
    45208 Emily Ford                       13
    45209 Frances Gayner                   10
    45210 Emily Marshall                   16
    45211 Edith Marshall                   10
    45212 Elizabeth Bolton                 12
    45213 Alice Druce                      18
    45214 Ada Fisher                       10
    45215 Mary A. Sotcher                   9
    45216 C. N. Pasfield                   12
    45217 E. Crump                         18
    45218 Maggie Neale                     14
    45219 O. Nicole                        17
    45220 Archie Palmer                    13
    45221 Evan Powell                      12
    45222 Henrietta Leah                   15
    45223 E. E. Hampson                    12
    45224 Nellie Brucker                   13
    45225 LOUISA J. STEVENS. Poplar        13
    45226 Eliza Bucknell                   10
    45227 Thersa Turner                     9
    45228 William Baker                    13
    45229 Jessie Double                     9
    45230 Jane E. Palmer                   10
    45231 Amy Joyce                         7
    45232 Edith M. Fisher                  10
    45233 Rosina Young                      8
    45234 Minnie Walker                     9
    45235 F. L. Mortlock                    8
    45236 Ferdind. Geiger                  10
    45237 Leah Payne                        8
    45238 Bertha Baker                      8
    45239 W. Underwood                     10
    45240 Arthur T. Gray                    8
    45241 Eleanor Porter                   10
    45242 Mildred Braine                    9
    45243 E. Thompson                      16
    45244 Mary A. Neil                     13
    45245 George Neil                       9
    45246 Emily Dickson                    18
    45247 Emma Neil                        15
    45248 Thos. Jenkyn                     11
    45249 C. J. Cockshott                  12
    45250 Sarah A. Baynes                  13
    45251 Mercy Knopp                      12
    45252 Nellie Brooks                    11
    45253 Lily Winch                       11
    45254 Edith Springford                 19
    45255 Elizabeth Green                  15
    45256 Hugh M. Green                    12
    45257 Geo. Shepherd                    13
    45258 M. J. Cockshott                   9
    45259 Florence Horne                    9
    45260 Alice L. Barrett                 16
    45261 Rosina Barrett                   18
    45262 Edwd. J. Barrett                 12
    45263 William Day                       7
    45264 Henry Day                        16
    45265 Ellen Wright                     11
    45266 Minnie Colton                    14
    45267 Edith Lakin                      15
    45268 T. G. Greghirn                   20
    45269 John Murton                      14
    45270 Melindia Murton                  16
    45271 Annie Stevens                    19
    45272 W. Thomson                        9
    45273 Selim Wright                      8
    45274 Mary A. Wright                    6
    45275 Annie Barrett                    19
    45276 C. F. Winckworth                  7
    45277 W. Winckworth                    10
    45278 Alfred C. Warren                  8
    45279 G. I. Warren                      4
    45280 A. J. Blagbrough                 12
    45281 Florence Pearson                 14
    45282 Lydia M. Japp                    16
    45283 Samuel H. Hague                  14
    45284 Minnie Rodgers                   14
    45285 F. E. P. Haigh                   10
    45286 Ethel M. Haigh                   11
    45287 F. E. A. Haigh                   12
    45288 C. Ainsworth                      8
    45289 J. E. Ainsworth                   7
    45290 W. A. Ainsworth                   6
    45291 IDA G. NEWTON, Weston-super-Mare 11
    45292 C. M. Newton                      9
    45293 H. L. Rossiter                   14
    45294 Agnes L. Evans                   11
    45295 Martha M. Mills                  17
    45296 William Tucker                    8
    45297 Tilda Tucker                      8
    45298 William Mitchell                  2
    45299 Rosa Mitchell                     5
    45300 Amelia Day                       19
    45301 Alice Day                        14
    45302 Albert Hawker                    11
    45303 Jessie L. Taylor                 20
    45304 Ethel Kidd                       12
    45305 Lilian E. Kidd                   10
    45306 Caroline E. Long                 14
    45307 Mary A. Gawler                   16
    45308 K. E. Stockman                   16
    45309 Rosa Richardson                  16
    45310 S. A. Hancock                    14
    45311 Annie S. Misson                  16
    45312 Minnie Rowley                    11
    45313 Ada Tollis                       13
    45314 B. C. Foutt                      14
    45315 M. Perrem                        12
    45316 A. Young                         13
    45317 A. Lee                           13
    45318 Amy T. Pillis                    11
    45319 Susan Milsted                    14
    45320 Lizzie Rich                      13
    45321 Lillie Webber                    15
    45322 Margaret Neads                   15
    45323 Emma Goodall                     15
    45324 Ada Watts                        15
    45325 Annie Smaile                     13
    45326 Lillie Jay                       13
    45327 Emily Morgan                     12
    45328 Ada Knight                       10
    45329 Florence Hoobs                   12
    45330 Amelia Mintern                   15
    45331 H. Cridland                      15
    45332 Ada Maggs                        15
    45333 Maggie May                       16
    45334 E. S. Thompson                   16
    45335 Mabel Herbert                    10
    45336 Minnie May                       12
    45337 Julia Furkins                    13
    45338 Ada Trowbridge                   13
    45339 Florence Brewer                  16
    45340 Charlotte Flynn                  15
    45341 Minnie Rudman                    15
    45342 Elizbth. Catterell               16
    45343 Mary McGown.                     12
    45344 Lottie Burton                    14
    45345 Bertha Pratt                     14
    45346 Selina Broom                     14
    45347 Alice Clapp                      18
    45348 A. J. Maybank                    17
    45349 Muriel L. Moore                  10
    45350 Lionel L. Moore                   9
    45351 Percy L. Moore                   11
    45352 C. Scofield                      18
    45353 A. Woodwell                      10
    45354 Frederick Berry                  15
    45355 FLORCE. PEARSON, Poplar          14
    45356 Emily Nichols                    10
    45357 Ada Nichols                      11
    45358 Clara Anthony                    13
    45359 Arthur Pearson                   10
    45360 H. R. Pearson                    20
    45361 Amelia Pearson                   19
    45362 M. Ellingford                    16
    45363 Fanny E. Jones                   14
    45364 A. E. C. Kallberg                19
    45365 Rose A. Kallberg                 15
    45366 Edith Slade                      19
    45367 C. G. Carter                     14
    45368 L. M. Carter                     18
    45369 James E. Carter                  16
    45370 Maud Taylor                       7
    45371 Betsey Carter                    20
    45372 Sarah A. Carter                  11
    45373 Fanny C. Taylor                  17
    45374 Louisa Taylor                    14
    45375 Ada P. Taylor                    10
    45376 Beatrice Taylor                   8
    45377 Jessie Taylor                    12
    45378 Edgar Taylor                     20
    45379 Emma William                     15
    45380 Rosa J. Seward                    7
    45381 Hugh Seward                      16
    45382 Ernest E. Seward                  9
    45383 Kate Buckland                    15
    45384 Arthr. E. Seward                 11
    45385 James Pearson                    10
    45386 Ernest Daglish                   10
    45387 Florence Weller                  12
    45388 Eliza Bayes                      20
    45389 Annie Hind                       13
    45390 Ellen Spence                     16
    45391 Edith Greene                     17
    45392 Chrissie Abdo                    16
    45393 Isabella Cowie                   18
    45394 Rosina Johnson                   10
    45395 Amelia Johnson                   14
    45396 Annie Miller                     13
    45397 Arthur Semmons                    8
    45398 Alice M. Semmons                 13
    45399 Elzbth. A. Pryke                 15
    45400 F. E. Semmons                     9
    45401 A. M. Semmons                    12
    45402 C. E. Ayscough                   14
    45403 Edith Webb                       13
    45404 Clara Petts                      19
    45405 Maria Maggs                      17
    45406 Wm. H. Bagnall                   16
    45407 H. M. Bagnall                    13
    45408 Elsie Gibbons                    13
    45409 F. W. Marsh                      13
    45410 Alice G. Murray                  14
    45411 F. M. Franklyn                   13
    45412 E. F. Clymer                     13
    45413 Annie M. Clymer                  14
    45414 A. E. Franklyn                   15
    45415 E. N. Franklyn                    3
    45416 I. M. Franklyn                    8
    45417 R. L. Thompson                    9
    45418 M. B. Rogers                     19
    45419 S. S. Stonehouse                 12
    45420 Edwd. Domaille                    9
    45421 C. T. T. Domaille                12
    45422 M. C. C. Domaille                10
    45423 Herbert Shelton                  11
    45424 Fred Gray                        11
    45425 Charles Windsor                  12
    45426 John Windsor                      6
    45427 Fanny Windsor                     9
    45428 Sissie Stanley                   14
    45429 Janet Windsor                     8
    45430 H. G. Atchley                    11
    45431 Jessie Archibald                  9
    45432 Richd. Archibald                 13
    45433 Wm. Archibald                    16
    45434 William Angove                   17
    45435 Viva Halstead, Rawtenstall       14
    45436 W. G. Overstall                  18
    45437 E. A. Overstall                  16
    45438 S. A. Overstall                  14
    45439 Fred. C. Overstall               13
    45440 M. A. Overstall                  11
    45441 E. J. Overstall                   9
    45442 F. P. Overstall                   7
    45443 Ernest Cunliffe                   9
    45444 E. A. Cunliffe                   14
    45445 Geo. H. Cunliffe                 16
    45446 Mary J. Cunliffe                 18
    45447 A. Killingbeck                   16
    45448 A. M. Killingbeck                12
    45449 H. Killingbeck                   10
    45450 F. E. Killingbeck                 7
    45451 Linda Cunliffe                   12
    45452 Bessie Cunliffe                  14
    45453 Lizzie Cunliffe                  16
    45454 Mary L. Hoyle                     7
    45455 Edith A. Hoyle                   11
    45456 James E. Hoyle                   16
    45457 Elzbth. A. Gould                 10
    45458 Mary Gould                       11
    45459 Joseph H. Gould                  13
    45460 Lizzie Cordingley                 7
    45461 M. A. Cordingley                  9
    45462 J. J. Cordingley                 12
    45463 Sarah E. Collins                 14
    45464 Beatrice Dunkin                  14
    45465 Pollie Birtwistle                14
    45466 Jane A. Spencer                  16
    45467 Julia Taylor                     15
    45468 S. E. Ashworth                   15
    45469 Justina Roberts                  18
    45470 Lucy Snead                       19
    45471 A. Grundy                        16
    45472 Thos. W. Grundy                  18
    45473 Harriet Grundy                   19
    45474 Frank Brown                       9
    45475 Bertram Brown                    12
    45476 Florence Brown                   14
    45477 M. L. Ashworth                   12
    45478 T. A. Ashworth                   16
    45479 Richd. Ashworth                  14
    45480 Francis J. Barker                10
    45481 Walter Barker                    14
    45482 Annie Barker                     15
    45483 M. Pennington                    17
    45484 Annie Pennington                 19
    45485 Alice Lord                       11
    45486 Bessie Lord                      13
    45487 Thomas E. Lord                    9
    45488 Alice Lord                       16
    45489 Jennie Cunliffe                  17
    45490 B. Cunliffe                      19
    45491 Polly Melligan                    8
    45492 Clara Melligan                   10
    45493 Polly Broughton                  15
    45494 Geo. Broughton                   19
    45495 Edith Clarke                     10
    45496 Eliza Clark                      16
    45497 Annie Shaw                        8
    45498 Harry Bridge                     10
    45499 Sarah J. Coupe                   11
    45500 I. M. Clements                   12
    45501 Harriett Ingham                  12
    45502 Nellie Benson                    13
    45503 Sarah E. Parker                  13
    45504 Bradley Starkie                  13
    45505 I. H. HUME, Jedburgh             18
    45506 Isabella Smith                    6
    45507 Edith Cumming                    15
    45508 Maggie Easton                     7
    45509 Ronald Easton                     5
    45510 Eliza Easton                      5
    45511 Frances C. Hume                   8
    45512 Agnes Smith                       9
    45513 Lizzie Wight                      8
    45514 Mary Hush                        10
    45515 Bella Turnbull                    9
    45516 Netta Turnbull                    7
    45517 M. A. Young                      13
    45518 Bella Easton                      8
    45519 James Rorkland                    7
    45520 Janie J. Simpson                 14
    45521 Ella McDougall                   12
    45522 Ina Euston                       10
    45523 Janie Hume                       12
    45524 Afra Caudee e                     7
    45525 Maggie Burn                      16
    45526 Nellie Whillans                  13
    45527 G. Davidson                      13
    45528 Mary Polson                      15
    45529 Jane Cairns                      18
    45530 A. J. E. Hume                    12
    45531 Geo. A. Taylor                   13
    45532 Frederick Potter                 11
    45533 J. A. B. Porter                  17
    45534 Isabella Scott                   14
    45535 Jane Hannah                      10
    45536 Elizabeth Atkin                  11
    45537 Nettie Oliver                     9
    45538 H. S. Dickman                     8
    45539 J. S. Dickman                     6
    45540 Jane Atkins                      10
    45541 James Robertson                  17
    45542 Agnes Miller                      8
    45543 Isabella H. Miller               15
    45544 Janet C. Miller                  13
    45545 Mary Davidson                    15
    45546 I. H. Davidson                   11
    45547 Johanna M. Clay                  14
    45548 A. B. Jamieson                   10
    45549 Jane Murray                      12
    45550 Janet Halliburton                12
    45551 C. W. Dickman                    11
    45552 May Bruce                        18
    45553 Bessie Oliver                     7
    45554 Arthur Wright                     6
    45355 Agnes Porter                      7
    45556 Caroline Lucas                   12
    45557 Alpha Hansen                     11
    45558 Clarissa Cooper                  17
    45559 Marian Howard                    11
    45560 Ethel Oliver                     10
    45561 Hilda Howard                     10
    45562 Jessie Kidd                       8
    45563 Edith Howard                     13
    45564 Marie Arthur                     16
    45565 Jenie Cooper                     14
    45566 Mabe Sloggett                    12
    45567 Hilda Taylor                     10
    45568 Julia S. Ramsden                 12
    45569 Mary Schomberg                   12
    45570 Norman Pringle                   12
    45571 Helen Hurley                     12
    Alfreton                               16
    45573 Martha Allcock                   16
    45574 Agnes Unwin                      21
    45575 Clara Winchester                 12
    45576 M. Tomkinson                     17
    45577 Bertie Vine                      12
    45578 Lilian Vine                      19
    45579 A. Tomkinson                     18
    45580 Gertrude Dean                    12
    45581 Pattie Knowles                   11
    45582 Fanny Evans                       9
    45583 Ada M. Wright                     9
    45584 F. E. Drabble                    16
    45585 Charlotte Wright                 14
    45586 Sarah J. Wright                  11
    45587 Lilly Holland                     9
    45588 Laura Mason                      19
    45589 Ada Goodwin                      11
    45590 Lizzie Evans                     11
    45591 Florence Slack                    9
    45592 Mary J. Askew                     9
    45593 Ada M. Deeley                    15
    45594 Annie Holland                    15
    45595 Lizzie Holmes                    12
    45596 Elizabeth Barker                 18
    45597 L. J. Robertson                   6
    45598 J. M. Robertson                  10
    45599 Alexander Miller                 10
    45600 Mary Miller                      11
    45601 Helen Miller                      9
    45602 Elzbth. Shardlow                 10
    45603 H. E. Cunliffe                    8
    45604 Mary Johnston                    11
    45605 Hugh Smith                       13
    45606 May Smith                         7
    45607 Maggie Smith                      9
    45608 Agnes Smith                      19
    45609 A. Lancaster                     13
    45610 Annie Brierley                   13
    45611 Annie Woolley                    14
    45612 H. Shardlow                      12
    45613 Clara Clarkson                   14
    45614 Jellie Garlick                   14
    45615 W. A. Shardlow                    7
    45616 J. H. Shardlow                    8
    45617 Edward Shardlow                  10
    45618 A. Hollingsworth                 12
    45619 Wm. H. Hunsley                   15
    45620 Arthur Shardlow                   5
    45621 M. E. Shardlow                    8
    45622 Mary Bacon                       16
    45623 E. Stevenson                     20
    45624 William Allcock                  14
    45625 Annie Allcock                    18
    45626 Willie. E. Smith                  6
    45627 John A. J. Smith                 10
    45628 Harry G. Smith                    8
    45629 Emily A. Smith                   12
    45630 Ralph R. Allen                   12
    45631 Charles Smith                    11
    45632 Marian E. Phipps                 10
    45633 F. M. D. Lindsey                 14
    45634 A. R. Roberts                    11
    45635 Howard Evans                     13
    45636 R. F. Woodward                   13
    45637 A. M. Aldington                  13
    45638 Edith Neale                      10
    45639 R. C. Trousdale                   7
    45640 C. W. Trousdale                   8
    45641 E. M. Trousdale                  10
    45642 Angela Mallmann                  12
    45643 Eleanor F. Fox                    9
    45644 Elizabeth M. Fox                 10
    45645 H. M. Grieve                     15
    45646 E. J. Simpson                    15
    45647 C. B. Shaw                       11
    45648 John F. Badeley                   9
    45649 Leslie Neale                      9
    45650 Lilly Pritchard                   9
    45651 Lizzie M. Rudge                  20
    45652 Mary Waite                       11
    45653 Emily Stokes                      7
    45654 Sarah Smith                      13
    45655 Gertie Rudge                      9
    45656 Lilly Washband                    9
    45657 Hetty West                        8
    45658 Emily Waite                      12
    45659 Mary A. Davis                    10
    45660 Alice Stokes                     10
    45661 Martha Jakeman                   10
    45662 Caroline Jakeman                 16
    45663 Eliza Freeman                    10
    45664 Lizzie Pritchard                 13
    45665 Arthur Stokes                    12
    45666 ARCHIBALD S. HOCKING, Junction
          Rd., Lond.                       14
    45667 Ada Brooking                     18
    45668 George A. Haines                 17
    45669 Blanch Smith                     11
    45670 Lily Smith                        8
    45671 Fredk. Smith                     14
    45672 Alfred Lamb                      14
    45673 Chas. F. Chappell                16
    45674 A. J. Chapman                    15
    45675 Frank Evans                       9
    45676 Ellen Nash                       18
    45677 Florence Smith                   11
    45678 Thomas Digby                     12
    45679 Arthur Beadles                   14
    45680 Charles Nichols                  14
    45681 James Teasdale                   15
    45682 Alice Digby                      13
    45683 Edward Withers                   16
    45684 Walter Amor                      15
    45685 A. Woodliffe                     11
    45686 William Druigne                  14
    45687 William Baugham                  15
    45688 J. H. G. Baugham                 13
    45689 Edith Hocking                    13
    45690 Neville Clifton                  15
    45691 Henry Colebrook                  11
    45692 Henry Courtier                   10
    45693 Godfry McCullock                  9
    45694 John Rowley                      17
    45695 S. T. Colebrook                  13
    45696 George Pettit                    12
    45697 T. A. B. Carver                  14
    45698 Emma Langton                     13
    45699 William Lown                     14
    45700 Rose Smith                       20
    45701 Lily Smith                       18
    45702 Flrnce. Newman                   15
    45703 Lucy Ruddle                      14
    45704 T. W. Woodliffe                  15
    45705 Robert Thomas                    14
    45706 Alfred W. Ward                   14
    45707 Ernest Furley                    14
    45708 H. Monnickendam                  15
    45709 C. W. Fowler                     14
    45710 Wm. Colebrooks                    9
    45711 A. W. Dadson                     14
    45712 G. H. Bassett                    15
    45713 Fredk. Nichols                   11
    45714 Lewis B. Brown                   14
    45715 Harold Deakin                    16
    45716 John Fidler                      14
    45717 Cecil R. Littlejohn              14
    45718 A. E. Speaight                   13
    45719 H. E. Hopkins                    13
    45720 Clara Curling                    10
    45721 Jennie Hewitt                    13
    45722 Annie Crossman,
          Limehouse, London                12
    45723 Annie Mills                      14
    45724 Florence Harvey                  11
    45725 F. M. Cullum                     11
    45726 Emma Rae                         11
    45727 Eliza Elston                     10
    45728 Christina Hayes                  12
    45729 Martha Markham                    9
    45730 Ada Wickett                       9
    45731 Florence Knight                   9
    45732 Florence Hart                    14
    45733 Florence Cable                    9
    45734 Nell Hepworth                    11
    45735 Alice Baker                      11
    45736 Ellen Felgate                    13
    45737 Kate Cable                       13
    45738 Daisy Hooker                      7
    45739 John Bowller                      7
    45740 Samuel Bowller                   11
    45741 Sarah Terry                      12
    45742 Elizabeth Smith                  13
    45743 Mary Rogers                      10
    45744 Elizbth. E. Gibbs                11
    45745 Minnie Miller                    14
    45746 Lilian Skelton                   11
    45747 Maud Clegg                        7
    45748 Maud Bristow                      9
    45749 Martha Goodman                   18
    45750 Mary Gapp                         7
    45751 Louisa Pomeroll                   8
    45752 Fredk Fowler                     17
    45753 Emily Gapp                       13
    45754 Janet Dunk                       14
    45755 John Dixon                       10
    45756 Minnie Pomeroll                  12
    45757 Ernest Cutting                   12
    45758 Gertrude Cutting                  8
    45759 Ada Cutting                       7
    45760 Geo. C. Hudson                    9
    45761 Wm. C. Hudson                    11
    45762 Henrietta Davis                   9
    45763 Laura J. Davis                    8
    45764 W. H. Davis                       3
    45765 Ellen L. Davis                    6
    45766 Minnie Witten                    10
    45767 Ellen Fowler                     17
    45768 Leopold Bland                    13
    45769 Caroline Hart                    11
    45770 Wm. T. Bright                    17
    45771 C. E. Ayscough                   15
    45772 Maud Hicks                        8
    45773 Myra Whittle                     15

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



DEAR MR. EDITOR,--The little anecdote I am going to tell you is about a
parrot my aunt once had--named, of course, Polly. She had been taught
many funny and amusing speeches, among which she used to say to a canary
that hung in the same room, "Pretty Poll, shabby canary;" and when the
canary sang she would cry out, "Oh, what a noise! what a noise!" My aunt
having been very ill, had not seen Polly for a long time, not being able
to bear her noisy talking; but one day feeling better, she asked to see
her. She was brought to her room, but seemed very quiet. My aunt, who
could not understand why she was so unusually quiet, called to her,
"Polly, come and kiss me!" The poor bird flew to her mistress, laid her
beak on her lips, and died, it is supposed, of her great joy at again
seeing her mistress, after grieving so long at her absence.

(Aged 15.)
_138, Edgware Road, London, W._


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--The following little stories are quite true. A friend
of mine told me of a cat of hers which was in the room with its master
(my friend's father), who was asleep sitting on an arm-chair. The cat
wanted to go out of the room, but could not, as the door was shut. So
she went and patted her master on the ear, then walked away to the door
and scratched at it until it was opened for her. She is a very clever
cat, and can learn anything you teach her in a few minutes. I also know
of another cat who never laps her milk, but always puts her paw in the
saucer and then licks the milk off of it again.

_Hainault Lodge, near Chigwell._
(Aged 12.)


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--A London carpenter whom I know for a long time
constantly found the oil-bottle attached to his lathe emptied of its
contents. Various plans were devised to find out the thief, but they all
failed. At last the man determined to watch. Through a hole in the door
he peeped for some time. By-and-by he heard a gentle noise; something
was creeping up the framework of the lathe. It was a fine rat. Planting
itself on the edge of the lathe, the ingenious creature popped its tail
inside of the bottle, then drew it out and licked off the oil. This it
continued to do until nearly every drop of oil was taken from the

_Osbournby, Lincolnshire._
(Aged 14.)


DEAR MR. EDITOR,--One day a few months ago we had let one of our
canaries out of his cage, and forgetting that he was out we left open
the door of the room where he was. When we remembered the bird we were
much afraid lest he should have flown out of the room. We hunted high
and low, calling his name, "Carmen," to which he often answers with a
chirp. At last I happened to push aside a little low stool, and there,
crouching down so as not to be found (as he dislikes being put into his
cage) was Carmen. He has tried since then to hide; but we know his
tricks, so he is unsuccessful.

_3, Ilchester Gardens, Bayswater._
(Aged 13¼.)

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 Editor desires to inform his Readers that the "LITTLE FOLKS" ANNUAL
for 1885 will be published, as usual, on the 25TH OF OCTOBER. Further
particulars will be shortly announced.




"I am afraid one of them must go, Helen."

"Oh, Maurice, really? Father gave them to us," and Helen Claire raised
her soft, tearful, brown eyes to her brother's face.

"Yes, dear, 'tis hard to part with either Diamond or Ruby, but then it
is for Dora's sake."

"I can't give up Ruby, Maurice!" faltered Helen, with quivering lips.

Maurice made no reply, but glanced across to the chair where two frisky
little spaniels sat watching them with bright eyes. Ruby, hearing his
name, stood up, looking ready for any amount of mischief.

"Mine shall go, Helen, after all," he added, quickly. "I think Ruby,
perhaps, is more engaging, and fonder of us than Diamond."

But you will want to know the cause of this giving-up of so beloved a
little playfellow.

Maurice and Helen Claire lived in a small, shabby house, with their
mother and little sister Dora. Poor children! For nearly a year now they
had been, as far as they knew, fatherless. Captain Claire had never
returned from his last voyage. His ship had been reported as missing;
and the once happy home of the Claires had been left for a small house
in a busy town. Maurice and Helen, healthy, hopeful children, bore up
well enough under their reduced circumstances. But fragile little Dora
had begun slowly to droop. The doctor ordered change of air to some
seaside place. So it was that Maurice had announced that they must sell
one of the dogs--their father's parting gift.

Maurice having decided between Diamond and Ruby, took up his cap, and
went out, leaving Helen alone. Hardly had he gone, when a little girl,
with long fair curls, and dreamy blue eyes, stole softly in. She sat
down on the sofa with a weary sigh.

"Dora," began Helen, "you will go to the seaside yet."

"Oh! shall I?" cried Dora, clasping her thin white hands.

"Yes, Maurice is going to sell Diamond."


The pretty flush which the pleasant news had brought to her face died

"Oh, no, Helen! I couldn't let Maurice sell Diamond only for me; that
would be too selfish!"

"Dora, you _must_ go! and--Maurice doesn't mind so much."

Dora smiled wistfully. "You don't know how fond he is of Diamond," she

This conversation was suddenly interrupted by a thundering knock at the
front door; and, a few minutes later, a gentleman was ushered into the

"Father!" screamed Dora, springing forward.

And in another moment both children were locked in his arms.

What a happy evening that was! Captain Claire soon explained how the
ship had been wrecked, and he, after being picked up, was ill for a long
time. Then, since his recovery, he had been seeking his wife and
children, for the old home was deserted. Soon, however, a happy party
returned there again. Dora grew bright and strong, while Diamond and
Ruby were greater pets than ever.

_6, Clarendon Square, Leamington._(Aged 15¾.)
Certified by ALICE MORIN (Mother).


_First Prize (One-Guinea Book), with Officer's Medal of the "Little
Folks" Legion of Honour_;--CATHERINE A. MORIN (15¾), 6, Clarendon
Square, Leamington. _Second Prize (Seven-Shilling-and-Sixpenny Book),
with Officer's Medal_:--EMILY GITTINS (13½), 14, Philip Road, Peckham
Rye, S.E. _Honourable Mention, with Member's Medal_:--ETHEL M. ANGUS
(14½), North Ashfield, Newcastle-on-Tyne; MILDRED CROMPTON-ROBERTS (13),
16, Belgrave Square, London, S.W.; LOUIE DEBENHAM (15), Presteigne,
Radnorshire; CLIFFORD CRAWFORD (11¾), 21, Windsor Street, Edinburgh;
LOUIE W. SMITH (15), 11, Woodside Terrace, Glasgow; JULIA ELDRED (14),
Truro Vean Cottage, Truro; EDITH B. JOWETT (15¾), Thackley Road, Idle,
near Bradford; MADELINE DE L'ECUYER (12), Château du Rohello par Baden,
Morbihan, France; EMILY W. WALL (15), The Hill House, Warwick; BLANCHE
K. A. COVENTRY (14¾), Severn Stoke Rectory, Worcester; C. MAUDE
BATTERSBY (15), Cromlyn, Rathowen, West Meath.



1. Nu B ia.  2. Ame R ica.  3. Sp A in.  4. Spe Z zia.

5. Jer I cho.  6. Ire L and.


1. C abinet. 2. L abourer. 3. A rc. 4. U nicorn. 5. D eer.

6. I ron. 7. U rsula. 8. S apphire.


1. New-port.  2. Sunder-land.  3. Scar-borough. 4.
War-wick.  5. Vent-nor.  6. Maiden-head.  7. Ox-ford.
8. Work-sop. 9. Clap-ham.


1. "Fine feathers make fine birds."
2. "Many a true word is spoken in jest."
3. "Prevention is better than cure."



1. B loo M. 2. E ncyclopædi A. 3. E ggfli P. 4. C ur L.

5. H uman E.



1. P eipu S. 2. E rla U. 3. R acconig I. 4. S uperio R.

5. I vic A. 6. A biya D.



  "The children then began to sigh,
    And all their merry chat was o'er,
  And yet they felt, they knew not why,
    More glad than they had felt before."--Aiken.



  "Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise,
  I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,
  When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain
  The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain."



1. Monsoon. 2. Combat. 3. Rail. 4. Won. 5. Fault. 6. Aim.



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

  W × t × f × n × c × s × e × r × a × d × o × n × i × h × y × l × d
    × h × a × y × n × r × d,
  × w × m × n × a × i × u × w × m × n × y × a × s × l × i × g × e ×
    n × e × l × a × d × h × e × d:
  × t × t × h × t × t × h × t × t × h × n × o × e × t × h × n × e ×
    a × d × i × t;
  × n × s × i × l × i × h × v × i × e × f × o × o × o × s × i × c ×
    s × e × a × g × h × s × n × o × t × e × h × r ×.

_Glen Albert, Roscrea,_ (Aged 15.) _Co. Tipperary, Ireland._


My initials read downwards represent an island in the
East Indies.

1. A town in Derbyshire.
2. A lake in Ireland.
3. A river in Ireland.
4. An island in the Mediterranean Sea.
5. Scene of a battle-field in Germany.
6. A river of Asia Minor.
7. A town in Shropshire.

(Aged 14.)
_Burleigh House,_
_Cliftonville, Margate._


The initials and finals of the lines formed by the above objects give
the names of two countries.


My central letters read downwards will form the names
of two characters from Shakespeare.

1. A desire.
2. A musical wind instrument.
3. A flock.
4. A kind of checkered cloth.
5. An old game.
6. Termination.

(Aged 15.)
_Rose Mount, Sydenham Rise._


My first is in light, but not in dark;
My second is in field, but not in park.
My third is in gate, but not in door;
My fourth is in ceiling, but not in floor;
My fifth is in three, but not in two;
My whole is a beast well known to you.

(Aged 13¾.)
_Eagle House, Barton-on-Humber_


2. aaaeeeeeehhhillrrrssttwwwy.
3. abcehhiklmnooooooprssttty.

(Aged 14½.)
_St Peter's Parsonage_,
_Cranley Gardens, London, S. W._


  I am part of a cart.
  Behead me, I am part of the foot.
  Behead me again and I am a fish.

2. I am something to write upon.
  Behead me and I am not in time.
  Behead me again and I am part of the verb _to eat_.

3. I am not fresh.
  Behead me and I am a story.
  Behead me again and I am a drink.

(Aged 13.)
_Seafield, Blakeney Rd., Beckenham._



As announced in the two previous numbers, 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. In order
to do this an extension of time for sending in Solutions to the Puzzles
will be necessary; and, as may be seen from the notice below, about Two
Months will be allowed for sending in Solutions to the Puzzles contained
in this Number. Thus Children dwelling on the Continent, in the United
States and Canada, and elsewhere abroad, will be enabled to take part in
these popular Competitions.

It may be mentioned that Children residing in Great Britain will all be
eligible to compete for Prizes as usual.


Twenty prizes will be awarded for the best Solutions to the Puzzles
given _in this Number_; 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 age).

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 this number 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.


In guessing the following Puzzles the letters given, when arranged in
their correct order, will give the names of the places indicated. Thus,
if the word were Scotland, it would be arranged thus--ACDLNOST--(A


_Proem._--ACEFNR (a country).

_Lights._--1. AEEFLLRW (cape). 2. CEEHORST (town). 3. ACIINOSTT
(island). 4. AEHN (river). 5. AACEHILNOP (island). 6. AADEEMNRRSTU


_Proem._--AAACDN (a Crown colony)

_Lights._--1. ABCES (gulf). 2. AABDDEGIMRS (sandbanks). 3. AEEHNNVW
(town). 4. AACEGHLNR (port). 5. ADGILNR (river). 6. AEEEIMNRRST (town).


In place of the words given below put others having the same meaning. If
correctly given the centre letters of the lights will give the proem.


_Proem._--A division of Cryptogamous plants.

_Lights._--1. An old kind of weapon. 2. A kind of rich, sweet cake. 3.
Petulantly. 4. Ancient or obsolete. 5. A cloth worker's forked
instrument. 6. Vacuity.


_Proem._--A division, dignity, or distinction.

_Lights._--1. Strange or whimsical. 2. Inapplicability. 3. Having
differed or dissented. 4. An egg-shaped chemical vessel. 5. A recital of
circumstances. 6. Having flat petals.



1. Centaury. 2. Polyanthus. 3. Mimulus. 4. Eschscholtzia. 5.
Antirrhinum. 6. Valerian. 7. Achimenes. 8. Clematis. 9. Ageratum. 10.

     CLASS I.--Consisting of those who have gained ten marks:--M. C.
     Brodrick, M. Breffit, R. Brooke, A. Bradbury, H. Bagnall, N.
     Besley, J. Cooper, L. E. Curme, M. Cooper, F. G. Callcott, C.
     Debenham, M. Edwardes, H. G. Fraser, W. Farndale, F. Forrest, A.
     Golledge, D. von. Hacht, L. Haydon, M. Heddle, G. Curling-Hope, J.
     Jackson, M. Jakeman, A. M. Jackson, A. Lynch, M. Lloyd, L. Leach,
     B. Law, C. Morin, E. Maynard, F. MacCarthy, M. More, E. Marsden, M.
     Mercer, E. McCaul, E. Morgan, G. Martin, M. C. Nix, K. Nix, C. J.
     Nix, N. Pybus, E. Roughton, H. R. Stanton, A. Sifton, L.
     Wood-Smith, H. R. Dudley-Smith, M. Browning-Smith, A. Sifton, A.
     Slessor, Una Tracy, C. Trüdinger, B. Tomlinson, A. C. Wilson, M.

     CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained nine marks or
     less:--A. Adams, G. Burne, M. Bradbury, M. Buckley, E. A. Browne,
     H. Blunt, A. Bartholomew, J. Burnet, J. Bumsted, H. Coombes, W.
     Coode, A. Carrington, H. Cholmondeley, B. Coventry, H. Cornford, H.
     Collins, G. Dundas, H. Dyson, B. Dunning, R. Eustace, L. Fraser, M.
     Fulcher, E. D. Griffith, A. Good, J. Chappell-Hodge, E. Hanlon, G.
     Horner, M. Jones-Henry, E. Hinds, M. Hartfield, E. Hobson, B.
     Hudson, E. Hayes, E. Chappell-Hodge, F. Ivens, W. Ireland, W.
     Johnson, J. Jowett, E. Jowett, V. Jeans, G. Leicester, H. Leah, J.
     Little, E. Lithgow, H. Leake, C. Mather, E. May, K. Mills, M.
     Meagle, A. Pellier, M. Pretty, E. Parks, K. Pickard, G. Pettman, K.
     Robinson, L. Rees, N. Ross, A. Rawes, R. Row, E. Rita, G. Russell,
     A. Reading, E. Rudd, M. Spencer, J. Side, M. Addison-Scott, G.
     Sayer, M. Stuttle, M. Trollope, M. Welsh, E. Wilkinson, E.
     Wedgwood, W. C. Wilson, B. Walton, B. Wright, L. Webb, H. O.
     Watson, K. Williams, H. Wilmot, M. Wood, one without name, E. L.
     Prenner, A. Treacy, C. M. St. Jean.


     1. Celandine. 2. Jasmine. 3. Agrimony. 4. Dianthus. 5. Campanula.
     6. Dielytra. 7. Begonia. 8. Coreopsis. 9. Anemone. 10. Pimpernel.
     11. Succory.

     CLASS I.--Consisting of those who have gained eleven marks:--L.
     Besley, C. Burne, A. Browne, F. Burne, M. Balfour, M. Bagnall, M.
     Buckler, L. Bennett, G. Blenkin, G. Barnes, F. Clayton, S. Cuthill,
     M. Curme, A. Coombs, Lily Clayton, H. Curme, C. Crawford, M.
     Callcott, W. Coventry, G. Debenham, K. Edwards, G. Fulcher, F.
     Foulger, A. Farmer, L. Forrest, H. Fox, L. Gill, M. Humphreys, Elma
     Hoare, M. A. Howard, E. Jowett, L. Leach, E. Leake, K. Lynch, H.
     More, G. O'Morris, A. Marindin, N. Maxwell, M. Morin, E. Metcalf,
     D. Maskell, E. Neame, G. Neame, L. Rudd, H. Russell, M. Wood-Smith,
     G. Stallybrass, V. N. Sharpe, M. Somerville, M. McCalman Turpie, E.
     Thompson, E. Wilmot, L. Weekman, G. Williams, M. Wilson, E. Yeo, M.
     E. John, G. T. A. Hodgson.

     CLASS II.--Consisting of those who have gained ten marks or
     less:--R. Ainsworth, M. Beattie, E. Brake, E. Barnes, G. Buckle, D.
     Blunt, F. Callum, E. Carrington, E. Coombes, V. Coombes, M. Cooper,
     P. Davidson, E. Elston, E. Evans, L. Franklin, M. Frisby, A.
     Gilbert, F. Gibbons, M. Golledge, L. Hudson, W. Hobson, A. Harding,
     K. Hawkins, G. Chappell-Hodge, A. Ireland, G. Jackson, M. Jenkins,
     B. Jones, A. King, E. Lucy, W. Lewenz, L. Lockhart, J. Lancum, F.
     Löwy, C. Little, A. Leah, M. Lang, H. Mugliston, M. McLaren, F.
     Medlycott, E. Nicholson, F. Newman, C Prideaux, J. Pillett, G.
     Price, B. Peachey, E. Raven, A. Rudd, E. Spencer, E. Stanton, H. M.
     Smith, M. Delisle-Trentham, L. Walpole, M. Wiper, N. Wright, C.
     Wise, D. Wright, G. Williams, B. Webb.



     The _First Prize_ of a Guinea Volume is awarded to FREDERICK G.
     CALCOTT (15), Hazeldon, 27, Shepherd's Bush Road, W.

     The _Second, Third_, and _Fourth Prizes_ are divided between J. L.
     LEWENZ (16), Pelham Crescent, The Park, Nottingham, and MABEL and
     JANET COOPER (twin sisters), (15¾), Birdhyrst, Auckland Road,
     Upper Norwood, S.E., who are awarded Books to the value of 7s. 6d.

     _Bronze Medals_ of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour are awarded
     to:--MABEL BRADBURY (16½), Oak Lodge, Nightingale Lane, S.W.;
     MATILDA HEDDLE (15), St. Leonard's, St. Andrews, N.B.; EMMA P.
     PRATE (15), The Square, Warwick; M. A. ADDISON-SCOTT (16), Abbey
     Park Villas, St. Andrews, N.B.; EMMA MAYNARD (16½), 16, Wood
     Lane, Shepherd's Bush, W.


     The _First_ and _Second Prizes_ are awarded between FREDK. S.
     HOWARD (7½), and MARY A. HOWARD (11), 15, Clarence Square,
     Gosport, who are awarded books to the value of 15s. 6d. each.

     The _Third_ and _Fourth Prizes_ are awarded between FREDERICK
     COOPER (13) and MABEL COOPER (11), Warwick House, Ticehurst,
     Sussex; NELLIE M. MAXWELL (13), Jenner Road, Guildford; MURIEL M.
     WOOD-SMITH (12), 11, Woodside Terrace, Glasgow: each of whom
     receives a Book value 3s. DOROTHY BLUNT and M. McCALLMAN TURPIE
     gained the same number of marks as the above, but having taken a
     Prize last Quarter are prevented by the rules from receiving one
     this time.

     _Bronze Medals_ of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour are awarded to
     FRANCES JEAN CLAYTON, 2, Anchor Gate Terrace, Portsea; AGNES F.
     COOMBES (13), Beaminster, Dorsetshire SHARLEY FULLFORD (11½),
     High Street, Fareham, Hampshire; LUCIE FORREST (13), Northolme,
     Gainsborough; ARTHUR J. KING (13¼), 75, Beresford Street,
     Cawberwell, S.E.


     [_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._]


HELEN.--[I am always pleased to see any Picture Puzzles sent by my
readers, and am willing to insert them if they are suitable. They
should, however, differ as far as possible from any already published in

A. H., TWO COMPETITORS.--[All the 1884 Special Prize Competitions close
on the 30th of September. Others will be announced in due course. All
the articles of every kind sent in competition will be distributed among
the little inmates of Children's Hospitals.--ED.]


PUSSY CAT asks where the line

  "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast"

is to be found? and who was the author?

DAPHNE writes in answer to FLURUMPUS FLUMP to say that

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

occurs in one of Longfellow's earlier poems, entitled "My Lost Youth."
The first verse is as follows:--

  "Often I think of the beautiful town
     That is seated by the sea;
  Often in thought go up and down
  The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
     And my youth comes back to me.
       And a verse of a Lapland song
       Is haunting my memory still;
  'A boy's will is the wind's will,
  And the thoughts of youth are long long thoughts.'"

Answers also received from SEA NYMPH, NELL GWYNNE, TATTIE CORAM,
E. M. T., and TAFFY.

LITTLE BO-PEEP asks if any one can tell her the author of the following
lines, and in what poem they occur:--

  "There is a reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen.
  He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between."


GEORGINA DEXTER asks how to make a pair of bedroom slippers.

FLORENCE WATERS would be glad if any one could tell her how to clean


VIOLET writes in answer to A MAID OF ATHENS that a very good recipe for
oat-cakes is as follows:--Put two or three handfuls of coarse Scottish
oatmeal into a basin with a pinch of carbonate of soda, mix well
together, add one dessert-spoonful of hot dripping, mixing quickly with
the hand; pour in as much cold water as will allow it to be lifted out
of the basin in a very soft lump. Put this with a handful of meal upon a
pastry-board, scattering meal upon it. Roll it out quickly with a
rolling-pin; when as thick as a half-crown brush off all meal with some
feathers or a pastry brush. Put another board upon the cake, reverse it,
and brush it the other side. Slip it upon a hot girdle, cut it with a
knife across and across so as to form triangular pieces. When they begin
to curl up at the edges turn them on the girdle, keep them there till
dry enough to lift, then remove them to a toaster in front of the fire,
where they should become a light brown. Be careful to keep the girdle
brushed free of loose oatmeal, scraping it occasionally with a knife.
The more rapidly the cakes are made the better.


HERBERT MASTERS would be very glad if any of the readers of LITTLE FOLKS
would tell him the cost of a small carpenter's bench.

AN AMATEUR MECHANIC inquires which is the best wood for fretwork
purposes; and where fret-saws may be obtained.

STICKLEBACK wishes to know if it is necessary to have real salt water
for a salt-water aquarium, or whether any sea-salt which is sold would
answer the purpose.

W. R. writes in reply to M. H. S.'s question, that maidenhair ferns
should never be allowed to want water, which, if the drainage of the pot
is perfect, may be applied every evening during the summer months, and
at mid-day twice a week from late autumn until early spring. Answers
also received from Erin, H. J. M., DOROTHY DRAGGLE-TAIL, "THE WOMAN IN


A GREEN GOOSEBERRY wishes to know what makes canaries desert their eggs,
and how they can be prevented.--[They cannot be "prevented." The most
common cause is insect vermin. If these are found, burn all the old
nests, use Persian powder freely on the birds, and paint the cracks in
the cages with corrosive sublimate, and then varnish over the places.]

PEARL would be glad to know how to keep dormice, and what their habits
are; she has just had two given to her, and one died the third day and
the other only sleeps.--[They are fed chiefly on dry grain with a few
nuts, and occasionally some blades of grass. They are shy, and sleep
most of the day. During that time they want a quiet place and to be let
alone, but when tame they will come out at night and climb up the
curtains if allowed.]

A GUINEA-PIG asks what is the best food for guinea-pigs?--[They are fed
like rabbits in the main, but may have a little bread and fresh milk
squeezed rather dry, with a few bits of dry crust, or a few grains of
wheat or barley occasionally. Every day give a little green food, dried

Picture Wanting Words.


As already announced, the Editor has arranged, in response to repeated
requests, for a Special "Picture Wanting Words" Competition, in which
Readers of LITTLE FOLKS residing on the Continent and in the United
States, Canada, &c. (or anywhere abroad), may have an opportunity of
competing for Prizes on favourable terms with Subscribers in Great
Britain. In order to do this, a longer time than usual for sending in
answers to the Picture will be necessary; and as will be seen below,
about Two Months will be allowed for this purpose in the present
Competition. (Children living in Great Britain and Ireland will, of
course, all be eligible to compete for Prizes as usual.)


The picture printed on this page forms the subject for the Competition,
and the Prizes to be awarded are as follow:--For the Two best short and
_original_ Descriptions of the Picture Two One-Guinea Books and
Officers' Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour will be given; for
the next best Description a Half-Guinea Book and an Officer's Medal will
be given; and Three Seven-Shilling-and-Sixpenny Books and Officers'
Medals will also be given for the Three best Descriptions _relatively to
the age of the Competitors_--so that no Competitor is too young to try
for the three last-named Prizes. To avoid any possibility of mistake,
and for the guidance of new Competitors, the full Regulations are

1. No Description must exceed 500 words in length, and each must be
written on one side of the paper only.

2. The Descriptions must be certified as _strictly original_ by a
Minister, Teacher, Parent, or some other responsible person.

3. All the Competitors must be under the age of Sixteen years.

4. Descriptions from Competitors residing in Great Britain and Ireland
must reach the Editor on or before the 25th of October next; in the case
of Descriptions sent from any place abroad an extension of time to the
1st of November will be allowed.

5. In addition to the Six Prizes and Officers' Medals, some of the most
deserving Competitors will be included in a special List of Honour, and
awarded Members' Medals of the LITTLE FOLKS Legion of Honour. The award
of Prizes, in addition to One of the Prize Descriptions, will be printed
in the January Number of LITTLE FOLKS.

6. Competitors are requested to note that each envelope containing a
Description should have the words "Picture Wanting Words" written on the
left-hand top corner of it.

N.B.--Competitors are referred to a notice respecting the Silver Medal
printed on page 115 of the last Volume.

    | Transcriber's Note:                                          |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 138: opening quotation mark has been removed--By-and-by |
    | some other                                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 147: "the aft deck at 8.45 for judgment" has been       |
    | changed to "the aft deck at 8.45 for judgment."              |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 159: "you are the rascal" has been changed to "You are  |
    | the rascal"                                                  |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 164: "as much interest as he post-office." has been     |
    | changed to "as much interest as the post-office."            |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 186: the name Ethel Hancook has been changed to Ethel   |
    | Hancock                                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 187: the name Helen Hurley is unclear in the original   |
    | version                                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 187: the name Samuel Bowller is unclear in the original |
    | version                                                      |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 187: the name William Bangham has been changed to       |
    | William Baugham                                              |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 188: closing quotation marks have been added--fonder of |
    | us than Diamond."                                            |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 191: closing quotation marks have been removed after:   |
    | the cakes are made the better.                               |
    |                                                              |

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