"The mug fell with a crash on the bridge.""The mug fell with a crash on the bridge."
"The skipper glanced at his watch.""The skipper glanced at his watch."
A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.
(Continued from page 199.)
As soon as Charlie had filled another mug with tea, he hurried back to the bridge.
'You have been a fine long time getting this,' the skipper declared, anxious to resume bullying. But Charlie was determined not to give him an occasion for fault-finding, and therefore he made no reply; but, as he walked back to his galley, he vowed to himself that, do what he might, the skipper should not have the satisfaction of making him miserable. Already he had come to the conclusion that the man was dishonourable, and was more than ever determined to find out to what extent he hoped to defraud his father. He found that the galley contained very few cooking utensils, but the need of them was not likely to be felt that voyage, as the provisions consisted almost entirely of tinned meats. There was not even one joint of fresh or salted meat aboard. Charlie, therefore, did not have much difficulty in preparing the dinner, as each tin of provisions bore instructions for the cooking of its contents. Punctually at one o'clock he took a plate of mock-turtle soup to the skipper, who was then in his cabin under the bridge.
As Charlie entered, the skipper glanced at his watch hanging on a nail at the side of his bunk; but, finding that he could not abuse him on the ground of being late, he contented himself with scowling. But, a few moments later, he pretended that he had a real cause for complaint.
When Charlie returned with the next course the skipper said, sharply: 'Look here, young fellow, don't you be so generous with other people's things. There is enough meat for two men here. I'll eat it this time, but remember I won't have any waste on this trawler. I know exactly what provisions you have, and if they go too quickly, I shall give you in charge for robbery. So just you be careful.'
Charlie had not given the skipper a very big allowance of food, and was naturally surprised at the reprimand which he had received. Had he known that the skipper had a private stock of provisions, kept under lock and key in his cabin, he would not have been surprised at his small appetite.
'Can I bring you anything more, Sir?' Charlie asked.
'No,' the skipper replied, 'and don't you come bothering for these things until after two o'clock.'
That order was given so that Charlie should not return until he had removed all traces of his private provisions.
Glad to have finished for a time with the skipper, Charlie, with the aid of the ship's boy, carried the men's food to the foc's'le. There was no mock-turtle soup for them, but simply tinned meat, boiled and floating in brown liquid.
The crew of theSparrow-hawkwere a brutal, low-minded set of men, and their conversation sickened Charlie even more than the discomfort of his life; so, after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the food, he went on deck, and, going aft, sat down on a coil of rope to think.
When he had been there about ten minutes Ping Wang joined him.
'This is the first time you have been to sea on a trawler,' the Chinaman declared as he sat down beside him.
'How do you know?' Charlie asked, astounded to find that Ping Wang could speak excellent English.
'I could see that you were surprised at the way in which the men eat and talked. If you had known that they behaved in that manner, you would not have come to sea.'
'That is very likely,' Charlie admitted.
'Why have you come?' Ping Wang inquired.
'One must do something for a living.'
'You could have got a better job ashore. I am certain of that. You have come to sea for fun.'
'If I had, I fancy that I should be disappointed.'
'The skipper has been bullying you, I suppose. He bullies every one.'
'Yes, he has been bullying me, but I will let him know very soon that I won't stand much of it.'
'I advise you not to quarrel with him. I should not have come aboard this trip had I known that he was coming. He told us last voyage that that was his last trip.'
'Where did he expect to be? In jail?'
'No,' the Chinaman answered, smiling; 'he said that he was going to retire. He was going to sell the trawler to some rich old fellow who knows nothing about such things. The mate told me that the skipper hopes to get half as much again as the trawler was worth. Last trip he cut down expenses, and he is doing the same again now, so that the gentleman who is buying her will think the cost of running a trawler is less than it is. We are a hand short this trip.'
'Is the trawler a sound boat?'
'This is the only one I have ever been on, but the fellows on the foc's'le say that she is the rottenest trawler on the North Sea. The engines are patched up, and they have to be very careful of them.'
'Then the skipper intends to swindle the man over the sale of her?'
'Of course he does.'
'I hope that the man won't buy her.'
'So do I, but the skipper is confident that he will. If he doesn't, the skipper's temper will be worse than ever next voyage. I shall take very good care not to make another trip with him.'
'Do you like a fisherman's life?'
'No. I dislike it very much indeed.'
'Then why are you aboard this ship?'
'Did you not tell me that one must do something for a living?'
'That is true; but, at the same time, I cannot understand why an educated Chinaman should travel so many thousands of miles to become a fisherman.'
'I came to England to make my fortune,' Ping Wang declared. 'I thought that when I got to London, I should be able, having an English education, to get employment in the office of some merchant doing business with China. But I soon found that nobody wanted me. The only offers I received were not to my liking. One was a placein a laundry, and the other was to stand outside a tea merchant's and distribute bills. No one seemed to think that it was possible for a Chinaman to be a gentleman, or to have any self-respect. At last, when all my money was gone, I got a job as steward on board a pleasure boat. The owner became bankrupt, and I was paid off at Yarmouth. I walked from Yarmouth to Grimsby, and, after I had been hanging about the docks for a few days, the skipper of this boat took me on.'
'Then he is not such a heartless brute as I imagined,' Charlie remarked.
'It was not out of compassion that he took me,' Ping Wang answered. 'He said that as I had never been on a trawler, he would have to give me small wages. After I had been at sea three days I could do my work as well as any of the other men, but I only received half the wages that they did. He knew very well that I should be able to do my work after a few days' practice, and by taking me on he made a saving in his wages bill. This trip he is giving me three-quarters of what he pays the other men. We were only in dock for two or three days, and I had no time to find another job, but I have made up my mind never to go to sea again on a trawler, even if I have to starve. When we get back to Grimsby I shall go to London, and see if the Chinese Embassy or the Home for Asiatics will pay my passage home. I am afraid, however, that they will not believe my story of being able to repay them, and I do not desire charity. In fact, now I come to think of it, it would be very foolish of me to tell my story to the people at the Embassy.'
'Is it, then, such a wonderful story?'
'An Englishman would think so, but a Chinaman would not.'
For a few minutes Ping Wang was deep in thought, and Charlie got up to look at a passing Norwegian ship. When he returned to his seat on the coil of rope, Ping Wang said to him suddenly, 'Have you any Chinese friends?'
'No.'
'Have you any English friends living in China?'
'No.'
Ping Wang gave a slight sigh of relief.
'Then, if you will promise not to repeat what I tell you,' he said, 'you shall hear my story.'
'I promise,' Charlie answered. 'But I hope that you are not going to tell me any anti-European plots.'
(Continued on page 214.)
Chinese rice-paper is a thing which we frequently hear of, but do not often see. It is very curious and pretty, but far too frail for most of the uses to which we put our English paper; and, for this reason, it has no commercial value in European countries, and is only brought away by travellers and traders as a curiosity.
The rice-paper which I have seen was cut into small squares about three by two inches, each of which had a beautiful coloured picture of a Chinese man or woman. The paper was very white and thin, slightly rough, like blotting-paper, stiff and brittle. It was impossible to fold it, as the least effort to bend the sheet broke it in two. The pictures upon these little sheets had evidently been painted by hand, and were very beautiful and interesting. The surface of the paint was bright and clear, and the paper was transparent enough to permit the picture to be seen from the back, with all its colours and details only a little dimmed, as if seen through a thin sheet of ground glass.
Notwithstanding its name, rice-paper has really nothing to do with rice. It is not made from rice, nor even from the rice plant, but from the pith of a kind of ivy, theAralia papyrifera, which grows abundantly in the island of Formosa. ThisAraliais not much like our English ivy. It is, in fact, a small tree, which may attain a height of twenty or thirty feet, and is crowned with a number of large leaves, shaped like those of the sycamore. It bears clusters of small, pale yellow flowers, which contrast beautifully with the dark green foliage. The stem is ringed with the marks of the fallen leaves, very like the stems of the castor-oil plants which are often seen in pots in England.
The stem of the rice-paper plant is hollow, and filled with a pith which, though it is rather broken in the centre, is firm and compact outside. After the tree has reached a certain age, the pith becomes less serviceable, and so the tree is usually cut down when it is about twelve feet high, before it has attained its full growth. The stem is cut into lengths of nine or twelve inches each, and the pith is pushed out by inserting a stick at one end, and hammering it through the core of the tree. The little rolls of pith obtained in this way are placed in hollow bamboos, which permit them to swell a little, but prevent them from curling up as they dry. When properly dried, they are ready for the cutting, which is the really skilful part of the making of rice-paper. The man who cuts up the pith has a long, sharp knife, which he places against the side of the roll of pith in such a way that it will take off a thin paring as he turns the roll round and round. It is like paring off the bark of a log by rolling it round against a sharp knife, with these differences, however, that the paring is as thin as paper, and that it is part of the log itself, and goes on until the broken centre is reached. The parings, or sheets, when stripped off, are about four feet long, and they are placed one upon the other and pressed, after which they are cut into squares like those described above. The squares are made up into packets of one hundred each, which the Chinese sell for five or six farthings a packet. Many of these little squares are dyed or stained different colours, and are used for making little artificial flowers; others, as we have already seen, are covered with little pictures, representing sometimes the people and the costumes of China, and sometimes the birds, butterflies, and animals of that country.
There are a few other trees or plants which yield a pith from which rice-paper can be made; but theAraliais the most important. Though the tree grows best in the northern part of Formosa, the paper is made less by the Formosans than by the Chinese, who barter their goods for the rice-paper trees or logs.
"How it tasted—well, I've never heard!""How it tasted—well, I've never heard!"
Afox one day had left his cosy den,And wandered forth amid the haunts of men.What did he want? Of course he wanted food—A tender duck, or something quite as good;But though he wandered far and wandered near,No duckling could he see his heart to cheer.Through fields and copses did the poor fox go,With hungry longings and a heart of woe.Thought he, 'It's very plain that dainty foodI cannot find to-day; still, something goodMay yet turn up. But stay! what's that I seeHanging asleep upon the old ash-tree?'I do declare the creature is a crow—Not very tempting to the taste, I know;But still, if nothing better can be had,Perhaps it may not taste so very bad.So up at once he jumped, and seized the bird,But how it tasted—well, I've never heard!
Afox one day had left his cosy den,And wandered forth amid the haunts of men.What did he want? Of course he wanted food—A tender duck, or something quite as good;But though he wandered far and wandered near,No duckling could he see his heart to cheer.
Through fields and copses did the poor fox go,With hungry longings and a heart of woe.Thought he, 'It's very plain that dainty foodI cannot find to-day; still, something goodMay yet turn up. But stay! what's that I seeHanging asleep upon the old ash-tree?
'I do declare the creature is a crow—Not very tempting to the taste, I know;But still, if nothing better can be had,Perhaps it may not taste so very bad.So up at once he jumped, and seized the bird,But how it tasted—well, I've never heard!
M. K.
A Corner of Hyde Park.A Corner of Hyde Park.
I wonder if you who read this are a Londoner, and, if so, whether you have ever sailed paper boats on the Serpentine? Can you remember watching your fleet of snowy paper spreading their white wings and sailing away into the far distance, after the manner of Christopher Columbus or Vasco di Gama? Or have you seen your toy ships driven by fierce winds on to a lee shore bristling with cruel crags and yawning clefts?
A very ocean it is, no doubt, to the feathered creatures that float upon its waters, shelter beneathits rush-lined banks, and spend their whole family life within its borders. Here the babies are born, and here the tiny birds take their first airings—some perched on their mother's back, some swimming beside her without a thought of danger. Nothing is more delightful to the children of all classes who daily throng the park than a family of ducklings having their first lesson in the way to take care of themselves. One way or another, the duck tribe come in for more practical attention than all the other birds put together; for most people like to have their kindness warmly met, and no duck ever says 'No' to an offer of food.
Once in a way a stately swan may condescend to pick up a bit of bun or biscuit, but it is done with such a proud air, that the duck's ready gratitude and eagerness is more attractive. Here and there, in very quiet nooks overlooking the water, may be seen a group of bunnies, nibbling some dainty weed, and far too much at home to pay attention to the warlike looks and noisy cries of Father Duck, who clearly thinks his family is in danger.
On the right of the Serpentine towards the north, a wide slope of grass and trees above the water has been fenced off for the benefit of the Peacock family, and these are objects of great interest to admirers of all ages. The males come in for most attention, owing to their beauty. It is a very droll sight to see Mr. Peacock, with gorgeous tail and crest fully outspread, his richly coloured breast and neck gleaming in the sunlight, bowing, strutting, and scraping before the peahen whom he admires. On this same ground moorhens and other shy aquatic birds make their home in bush and sedge, from time to time crossing the open grass, evidently aware of their safety, but taking little interest in the lookers-on.
Memories of the past have very much to do with this oldest of the national parks. The Serpentine recalls to us one of London's lost rivers, the Westbourne, the current of which still helps to swell its volume of water. Rising in the Hampstead heights, and passing the villages of Paddington and Kensington, this stream flowed through and often overflowed the pleasant Manor of Hyde, which then belonged to the rich Abbey of Westminster, and from which the present park takes its name.
Good Queen Bess thought her own amusement and that of her courtiers of more importance than the enjoyment of the common folk, and filled the park with antlered stag and timid deer, while for many a long day the merry 'toot, toot' of the hunter's horn echoed amongst its glades, until merriment vanished before the grim tragedy of King Charles's execution in 1649. Then for twenty years and more the stately avenues were quiet and peaceful, and little children played beside the river until Cromwell died and Charles II. 'came to his own again.' Nothing less than turning the park into a race-course would content the new king, and the enclosure echoed with the sound of galloping horses, whilst an army of men with pick and shovel cleared and cut out the circular drive now known as Rotten Row, a name which is supposed by some to be a corruption of the French 'Route du Roi' (King's Way).
North-east of the park, close to where the Marble Arch now stands, was a plot of ground connected with more horrors than could be found elsewhere in England. This was the site of the famous Tyburn Tree—London's hanging-place in the days of old, when even a child might be hanged for stealing a few pence. Many a procession of carts came from Newgate in the City, laden with men, women, boys, and girls, followed by an excited crowd eager to watch the execution. Round the gallows galleries were erected and let out at high cost to fashionable folk—fine ladies and gay gallants all ready for the show. Happily humanity has made progress in the last century, and such dreadful sights have long been done away with.
William III., like most of his Dutch relations, was a great gardener, and cut quite a large slice out of Hyde Park to improve the gardens of Kensington Palace, where he and Queen Mary made their home. At the same time he made a great many improvements in the actual park, although for the Serpentine we have to thank Queen Caroline, wife of George II.
Since then Hyde Park has always been the playground of the rank and fashion of the United Kingdom, and nowhere else in England can such numbers of magnificent carriages and horses be seen as here in the season. The alleys bordering the drives are filled on summer afternoons with thousands of well-dressed people—many perhaps admiring the splendid clumps of rhododendrons, which form one of the sights of the park in early summer. The rich, too, are not the only people who appreciate this national playing-place. Thousands of poorly-clad women bring their white-faced children from crowded courts and alleys to enjoy the fresh air, and unlimited room in which to play.
Turn where we will, Hyde Park is, in our times, a scene of peaceful rest both of body and mind for weary citizens. Yet matters far less suitable to its beautiful surroundings have often disturbed its peace. In the days of duelling, the north side beneath the trees was a favourite place of meeting. Here on a Sunday in 1712, the first Duke of Hamilton, a statesman who could ill be spared by his country, engaged Lord Mohun, and both adversaries were carried dead from the field.
As we stand on the bridge, looking down and watching the quiet water, with all its living things, and the rabbits in their corner, it seems hard to believe that we are in the midst of a maze of human dwellings, and that miles and miles of busy streets surround us. But pause and listen awhile, and you will hear, above the music of the birds, the ring of voices and echoes of children's laughter, above the dull hum of well-hung carriages and pattering of horses' feet, a never-ending roar—the sound of the greatest city the world has ever seen. All round us, shut off only by a little space of grass and trees, lie its pleasures and its miseries.
Not long ago there was a story told of a young girl whose kindness to an old man brought her a great reward. She was in the crowd upon the occasion of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee, and observed a rather shabbily dressed old gentleman who appeared to be ill. Taking him by the arm, she made a way for him through the dense throng of people, and got him safely into a quiet street. There he explained to her that he had a weak heart, and that he had foolishly ventured out sight-seeing, but the excitement and the closeness had made him faint. He thanked the girl warmly for her help, and asked for her name and address, which she gave him.
A few years after this little adventure, the girl received a letter in a big blue envelope. It was a communication from a lawyer, who informed her that the gentleman whom she had so kindly helped on Jubilee Day had died, and had left her by his will the greater part of his large fortune.
There is another story rather like this, but about a different sort of girl. A gentleman happened to read the above tale out of a newspaper as he sat with his family at breakfast. His little daughter, as she listened to her father, thought how nice it would be ifshecould win a fortune thus easily. So the next time she saw an old man shivering on the brink of a crossing, she went up to him, and, with a sweet smile, said in her politest tones: 'May I have the pleasure of assisting you?'
But the man chanced to be a cross-grained old fellow, and, thinking that the girl was making fun of him, he brandished his stick at her, whereupon, in a great fright, she ran away as fast as she could.
I think you will agree with me that the little girl quite deserved this rebuff, because of the unworthiness of her motive.
E. Dyke.
'Fine window-plants! Who'll buy?' shouted the man with the flower-laden donkey-cart; but it was Mary, his daughter, who did most of the selling. She stood on the edge of the pavement, a plant in each hand, and smiled at the passers-by, and few could resist the pretty picture she made. They would stop and admire the flowers even if they could not afford to buy, and Mary had smiles for all, though perhaps the brightest were kept for those who made a purchase.
And yet the girl's heart was heavy, and tears lay very close behind the smiles. Trade had not been very brisk of late, while illness in the home had made the expenses heavy. Her favourite little brother was still ailing, and seemed to make no progress. The doctor had said he needed change of air and nourishing food; but how could the doctor's orders be obeyed when money was so scarce?
The morning was getting on, and still the cart had not lost much of its load. Smiles were more difficult to manage as the hope of being able to take home something dainty for Dicky's supper grew less.
A lady with her little boy had just passed, but looks of admiration were all they gave. In the distance an old gentleman appeared, and he was even a more unlikely customer. He peered through his spectacles, and seemed too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to spare attention for anything else.
As he was passing the cart he slipped, and would have fallen had not Mary put out her arm quickly to steady him. But, alas! in doing so the flower-pot she was holding fell, and lay in fragments on the pavement, with the delicate blooms of the azalea quite ruined.
'Thank you, my dear,' the gentleman said. 'It was kind of you to come to an old man's help.' But he did not notice the broken flower-pot, and passed on, while Mary gazed in dismay at what meant a loss they could so ill afford.
'Run after him, my girl,' her father said. 'Tell him he must pay for that flower. A fine thing to come damaging other folk's property, and to slip off without a word!'
But at that moment a girl came hurrying along the pavement. 'Oh,' she cried, 'I saw what happened. That is my grandfather, and he is nearly blind. I must overtake him, and I am sure he will come back and repay you.'
Mary watched anxiously, and when they arrived, the old man leaning on the girl's arm, her spirits rose again.
'My grand-daughter says I always get into mischief when she leaves me for a minute,' he said, smiling. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a few coins. 'Will this make good the mischief I have done?' he asked.
'Oh, sir, it is too much,' Mary said. 'The price of the flower was only eighteen-pence.'
'But I must pay for my rudeness in running away without apologising, and you can buy a ribbon for yourself with the extra money.'
'I shall get something a great deal more useful than that,' she said.
'You seem to be a sensible young woman for your age. I wonder what this useful purchase will be?'
'Something to make my little Dicky strong,' Mary said softly.
'And who is Dicky?' asked the pretty grand-daughter; and she looked so sympathetic that somehow the whole story came out, for Mary's heart was full, and words came readily in response to this touch of kindness.
'I shall call and see him,' the girl promised, when she had inquired where Mary lived. And so the misfortune of the broken flower-pot turned out to be the best bit of good fortune Mary had ever enjoyed. Not only did her new friend come laden with delicacies for the invalid, but she interested herself in having him sent with some other children for a month to the sea-side. And when Dicky returned, brown and rosy, and full of life and spirits, Mary felt she could sell her flowers with a smiling face again, and look forward to the future with a light heart.
M. H.
"'Who'll buy?'""'Who'll buy?'"
"Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was arrested.""Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was arrested."
'Truth is stranger than fiction,' says a very old proverb, which is certainly illustrated by the following tale of an eccentric nobleman's life.
Lord Massereene was born in 1742, and in due course sent to Cambridge University, where, however, he learnt next to nothing except how to row on the river, and this he did to perfection.
On coming of age, he started off to do the 'Grand Tour,' as it was called—a leisurely visit to the various capital cities of European countries. This was a custom much in vogue amongst the young men of the wealthier classes a hundred years ago. Our young friend, however, went no further than Paris, for that fascinating city was too much for the foolish fellow, and he spent his money right and left, till he was almost penniless. He then fell into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer, a native of Syria, who put before him a plausible tale of how easy it would be to make a fortune by importing salt from Syria to France. Lord Massereene, in the hope of regaining the money he had wasted, invested all he could lay his hands on in this wild scheme, and of course, as it was a fraud, lost every penny.
The next misfortune that happened to him was an arrest for debt, and he made acquaintance with the inside of 'La Châtelet,' one of the largest prisons in Paris. He could, however, have satisfied his creditors, and been released from prison, had he been willing to allow his estates to be charged with his debts; but this he persistently refused to do.
There was at that time a law in France permitting debtors who had suffered twenty-five years' imprisonment to be allowed to go free, with all their liabilities discharged, and this extraordinary young man actually decided to do this, and to settle his debts by undergoing a quarter of a century of prison life!
Beyond the inability to leave the prison, Lord Massereene seems to have suffered at first but few privations, for cheerful society was not denied him, and he managed to woo and wed the daughter of one of the principal officials of the place.
A plan of escape was at length made, and as the young lady's father was able and willing to help in the matter, it was very nearly successful. But not quite! For, just as Lord Massereene was leaving the door of the prison to enter the carriage which was in waiting for him, he was arrested, and taken back to the prison. It appears that the Governor's suspicions had been aroused by seeing a carriage and pair loitering about the gate. As soon as he had caught the escaping prisoner, he ordered him to be lodged in the dungeon, a gloomy cell, below the Seine, on which Le Châtelet was built.
Lord Massereene now knew all the rigours of a French prison. He was left to languish in damp and darkness, with no companions but the rats, and only the coarsest food.
When at last the twenty-five years were ended, and his release came, he was indeed a pitiful object: gaunt, yellow, with a long unkempt beard reaching below his knees.
But his wife had remained constant to him, and together they set out for England. On landing at Dover, Lord Massereene was the first to step on shore, and falling on his knees, he exclaimed fervently,—
'God bless this land of freedom!'
He lived nearly twenty years in the enjoyment of the estate for which he had suffered imprisonment for so long, and died in 1805.
Sago is made from the pith of a tree-trunk. This tree—the sago-tree—is a kind of palm, like the date-tree and the cocoanut-tree. It is found in the East Indian Islands, where it gives food to many thousands of people, particularly in the large island of New Guinea, where a great part of the population is almost entirely dependent upon it.
The sago-tree grows in swampy places, either by the sea or in little hollows by the hill-sides. It is thicker than the cocoanut palm, but it does not grow quite so tall, being about thirty feet high when full grown, and perhaps twenty inches in diameter. What looks like the root of the sago-tree is really a creeping underground stem, from which a spike of flowers grows up when the tree is about ten or fifteen years old. For some years, while the plant is young, the upright growing stem is covered and completely hidden by very large spiny leaves. These are rather like enormous feathers, of which the centre stems, or midribs, corresponding to the quill of the feather, are from twelve to fifteen feet long, and, in their widest part, as thick as a man's leg. They are used like bamboo by the natives, for building houses, and also for making the roofs and floors of houses that are built of other kinds of wood.
The bases of the midribs widen out and wrap round the stem like a kind of sheath, as almost all leaf-stalks do to some extent. But the sheaths of the sago-tree are so large that, when they are broken off and trimmed, they are like large baskets or troughs—wide in the middle, where they have grasped the stem, and narrow at the ends, where they have joined the tree or are rolled up to form the midrib of the leaf. It is interesting to remember this, because the natives actually use the sheaths as baskets and troughs.
The hollow stem of the growing sago-tree is not more than half an inch in thickness, and it is filled with a light, pithy matter, from which 'sago' is made. This pithy matter varies in colour from a rusty tinge to white, and is rather like the eatable part of a dry apple. Strings of harder, woody fibre run through it like straight veins, and these are of no use for making sago. The pith is best for use when the tree is full grown and just about to flower, and it is then that the natives cut it down.
The tree is cut close to the ground, and, as it lies on the soil, its leaves are cut off, and a portion of the bark is shaved away from the upper side of the trunk so as to lay the pith bare. A native takes a club with a sharp stone in the end of it and beats the sago-pith with it. By this means he breaks up the fibres and the pith into little chips, taking care that they are kept within the trunk. From timeto time these chips are loaded into one of the sheaths of the midribs, and carried away to be cleaned. The beater continues to break up the pith until there is nothing left but the hollow tree-trunk.
The sago is separated from the fibres in the pith by the aid of water. The natives take two sheaths of the sago-plant and make them into water-troughs. They set them up upon little frames, one sheath a little higher than the other, with one of its narrow ends projecting like a spout over the lower sheath. A kind of net-like bark or skin, obtained from the cocoanut tree, serves as a strainer or sieve, and is stretched across the upper sheath or trough. They empty the broken pith into the trough above the strainer, and pour water upon it. The soft part of the pith is a kind of starch, which dissolves in the water, and so flows through the sieve and down the spout into the lower trough, but the fibres are held back by the sieve. In order to get all the sago-starch out of the pith, the sago-maker kneads and squeezes the pith until nothing but fibre remains. This is waste, and is thrown away. When the sago-laden water falls into the lower trough it rests awhile, and the sago sinks into the bottom of the sheath as a soft reddish sediment, while the clear water rises to the top, and by and by trickles over the end of the sheath. When this trough is nearly full the sago-starch is taken out, made into rolls, and wrapped in the leaves of the tree.
The sago thus prepared is known as raw sago, and is used by the islanders without being further refined. They boil it in water, and eat it with fruits and salt, or they bake it into cakes in a little clay oven. When these cakes have been well dried they will keep for years; a man can make in a few days sufficient sago-cakes to last him a whole year. It has been calculated that a single tree will produce about eighteen hundred of these cakes.
The sago which we use for our puddings is made by refining the raw sago. When our grandfathers and grandmothers were young, the best raw sago used to be mixed with water and rubbed into small grains before it was sent to Europe. At the present time the sago, after being moistened, is passed through a sieve into a shallow iron pot, placed over a fire, and in this way the round pearly sago which we use is produced. As this sago is half-baked in this operation, it will keep for a very long time.
The Malays call the sago-tree therumbiyaand its pithsagufrom which word we get our namesago. We have here an instance of a Malay word which is in daily use in the English language.
A little story is told which helps to show the difference between faith and sight.
The master of an infant school told a boy to move a stool in such a way that he was not seen by the little ones himself. Then he taught them this lesson.
'You cannot see any one moving the stool; is it not alive?'
'Oh, no, sir! it never was alive. Some onemustbe moving it.'
'But you cannot see anybody; perhaps it moves itself.'
'No, sir; though we don't see anybody, that makes no difference. It cannot move itself.'
Then he told them of the moon and stars, which, though we see no one move them, certainly do move, and no one could do it but God, whom we do not see.
'Yes!' they said; 'it must be God.'
'But then we cannot see Him.'
'Please, we must believe that it is He.'
'You do believe it, then?'
'Yes sir.'
'Then this is Faith.' He added: 'If you have little faith, what will you do then?'
'I will shut myself up in a corner,' said one little mite, 'and pray for more.'
Grown-up insects seem to be very short of legs compared with many of their distant relatives. Thus, while no member of the insect tribe—when grown up—has more than six legs, the Centipede or the Millipede may, as their names imply, possess a far greater number—as many, indeed, as two hundred and forty-two! But there is one curious likeness between the legs of the insects and those of their relatives—the number of pairs of legs is always odd. The insect has three pairs; the centipede and millipede have a very variable number, ranging from fifteen to one hundred and twenty-one pairs!
We have seen how wonderful the foot of the fly is, with its two sticky plates for smooth surfaces, and its two claws for rough ones. The Honey-bee has very similar feet, but the two plates are joined to form one! As in the fly, when climbing rough surfaces the flat plates are raised up, and the claws used instead; but when a smooth or slippery place has to be crossed, the claws are pulled backwards and the plates are brought down.
The legs of insects vary much, according to the purpose for which they are used. Thus, the Gnats, which spend the greater part of their time on the wing, have long slender legs, suitable for breaking the shock of alighting. Whilst in other insects the legs are used for all kinds of work, such as seizing prey, carrying it, climbing, digging, and so on. When this is the case the legs are provided with spines, or bristles.
In the Mole Cricket (fig.1) the fore-legs are very strong, being short and broad, and ending in a broad comb-like plate, which is used for digging. They are very like the great digging paws of the mole.
The exact way in which insects walk is not easy to describe, and much study has been given to this most puzzling subject. Many devices have been adopted to make the insect draw a map of its course. In one instance the legs of a slow-walking beetle were painted, and the insect was then made to walk upon a clean sheet of paper; the track made by each leg being distinguished by the use of a different colour.
From this and other experiments it appears that there are always three legs in motion at the same time, or nearly so; meanwhile the remaining three legs support the body. First (as in fig.2) the left fore-leg steps out, then the right middle-leg and the left hind-leg. Then the movement is taken up by the legs of the opposite side of the body, and so on.
If the movement of the legs in the six-legged insects is difficult to find out, what shall we say when the centipede (fig.3) and millipede come to be examined? These, though not insects, are nearly related to the insects, and since they are common in our gardens, must be referred to here.
Fig. 1.—Mole Cricket (magnified).Fig. 1.—Mole Cricket (magnified).
According to the lines of a humorous poem, the centipede was said to have been—
'Happy tillOne day a toad, in fun,Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?"This raised her doubts to such a pitchShe fell exhausted in the ditch,Not knowing how to run.'
'Happy tillOne day a toad, in fun,Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?"This raised her doubts to such a pitchShe fell exhausted in the ditch,Not knowing how to run.'
Fig. 2.—Beetle walking.Fig. 2.—Beetle walking.
The last pair of legs in the centipede and millipede are never used for walking, and are generally much longer than the rest. In a South American species they are provided with delicate nerves, and are used as antennæ or 'feelers,' so that the animal is armed with organs of touch at each end of the body! In one kind of millipede, in the male the last pair of legs has a sound-producing apparatus, consisting of a ridged plate, which, by being rubbed against a set of tiny, bead-like bodies set in the surface of the last shield covering the body, produces a peculiar noise.