P
erhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is, with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people. We have to remember that this population is made up of many different races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various parts. India is above all things anoldcountry. Its sacred books, its temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may accountfor the likeness between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new subjects.
The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha, though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves largely of the many naturalcaverns with which the rocks of India and Thibet abound.
At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall, with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers might have been worse off.
Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.
East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta.East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta.
One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns, though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals, either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.
The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.
Helena Heath.
The Simplon Pass.The Simplon Pass.
In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his troops many hundred years before.
This road of Napoleon's—still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in Europe—was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres) along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.
How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain, would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.
Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.
'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'
'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey in less than an hour by rail.'
'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel, boxed up in a stuffy train?'
'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour, smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country, and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel is twelve miles long—the longest railway tunnel in the world.'
'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an explanation from some one.
A Swiss gentleman—speaking, however, most excellent English—enlightened the lad.
'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'
'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in future?'
'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the peasants—they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so greatly diminished.'
'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard of them.'
'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow, and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the snow.'
Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.
S. C.
'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball,While mounting to the skies;'I know I shall have such a fallAfter this dreadful rise.I speak no ill of any one,However they provoke,But many things the Bat has doneAre something past a joke.''Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,'The Bat exclaimed with glee,'But yet he never says he owesHis rise in life to me.No, no, that's not his way at all;And though I do my best,His graceless growls at every fallAre something past a jest.'
'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball,While mounting to the skies;'I know I shall have such a fallAfter this dreadful rise.I speak no ill of any one,However they provoke,But many things the Bat has doneAre something past a joke.'
'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,'The Bat exclaimed with glee,'But yet he never says he owesHis rise in life to me.No, no, that's not his way at all;And though I do my best,His graceless growls at every fallAre something past a jest.'
John Lea.
A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in Somaliland.
He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without a letter.
'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'
A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.
X.
The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.
Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.
On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they would want.
'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.
'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'
'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,' May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon for my flowers.'
May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.
'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody will miss the ribbon.'
'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this would be quite useless.
How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some plan.
However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.
'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice said.
'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always so kind to us.'
So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help her.
'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice promised, as she kissed her good-bye.
It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.
'You have been a good, industrious girl,' she said to Alice. 'Now you must come in and have some cake and milk, and I have a few little scraps of finery your mother may like for her patchwork.'
She brought a bundle of pieces of bright-coloured silk, and among them Alice saw, with delight, a length of lovely green ribbon.
Her eyes shone with excitement as she thanked Mrs. Stevens.
'Do you think, ma'am, we might use that beautiful ribbon for our garland? It would still do for Mother's patchwork if we ironed it afterwards.'
Then Mrs. Stevens had to hear all the story of May's wish and her sister's fears for her disappointment. She gave Alice leave to go through their orchard on her way home, and to pick as many of the wild jonquils—'White Sundays,' the children called them—as she liked. So Alice was a happy girl, and, although she saw by the tears on little May's cheeks that the child had cried herself to sleep, she knew how glad her waking would be.
Alice was awake at daylight to weave the garland and arrange the bunch of flowers on the pole. When all her preparations were finished, she roused May and told her that it was May Day and she had a delightful surprise for her. She brushed the little girl's golden hair till it shone, and put on her best white frock, and then, looking from the window, saw some other children coming to meet them.
'Run off, dear,' she said; 'I will follow with your garland.'
She just had time to slip on a clean pinafore, and then hurried after her down the hill.
'Oh, how lovely!' cried May, when she saw the green ribbon; and she was so excited she could hardly stand still while she held the garland and Alice tied it on.
The other children were full of admiration, and May's happy little face, with the hug she gave her kind sister, quite repaid Alice for her hard work the evening before, and for getting up with the sun to prepare for a joyful maying.
M. H.
"She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon on.""She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon on."
"The empty branch bore a label.""The empty branch bore a label."
At a college in Cambridge there was once a master who was extremely fond of figs. He watched his fig-tree very closely and tenderly, for he held that in the existence of a fig there was but one fit and proper moment at which the ripe fruit should be eaten. To eat a fig either before or after that supreme moment was, said the master, a neglect of an opportunity and a sad mistake.
One year, for some reason, the tree produced only one good fig; and one day the master's examination of this solitary fruit led him to the conclusion that it would be at its best on the day following. Then he did an exceedingly foolish thing—considering that there were undergraduates about! He wrapped his precious fig in a piece of silver paper and labelled it 'The Master's Fig!'
At what he judged the exactly right moment of the next day the master went to the tree, anticipating a brief but exquisite pleasure. Alas! the fruit had vanished, and the empty branch bore a label with these words; 'A Fig for the Master!'
H. J. H.
The daffodils are nodding;There's a swaying of the trees;The playroom window rattlesTo the fragrant summer breeze.There is sunshine in the garden,And the bees are all a-hum.Oh, hark, the invitation:'You must come, come, come!'The butterfly is glancingOn his wings of golden hue;Ah! see where now he loitersO'er that bed of pansies blue;A moment since he hoveredAt this very window-pane,To see if we were comingTo the garden and the lane.Hats! hats! for those who want them,;Boots! boots!—oh, lace them,do!Fling open doors and windows,To let the sunshine through!When birds and bees and blossomsInvite us out to play,Oh, who could well refuse themUpon so bright a day?
The daffodils are nodding;There's a swaying of the trees;The playroom window rattlesTo the fragrant summer breeze.There is sunshine in the garden,And the bees are all a-hum.Oh, hark, the invitation:'You must come, come, come!'
The butterfly is glancingOn his wings of golden hue;Ah! see where now he loitersO'er that bed of pansies blue;A moment since he hoveredAt this very window-pane,To see if we were comingTo the garden and the lane.
Hats! hats! for those who want them,;Boots! boots!—oh, lace them,do!Fling open doors and windows,To let the sunshine through!When birds and bees and blossomsInvite us out to play,Oh, who could well refuse themUpon so bright a day?
John Lea.
Plums, especially if pickled, are a favourite ration of the Japanese soldiers. These plums are said to be such marvellous thirst-quenchers that if you have once tasted them the mere recalling of their name is sufficient to allay the severest thirst.
There is a saying in the Japanese army that when a regiment shows signs of being overcome from want of water, the officer in command has only to say, 'Two miles from here, my men, there is a forest of plum-trees.'
At once, says a Japanese writer, the men's mouths begin to water, and the danger is past.
X.
I fell asleep at last, and, on opening my eyes the next morning, saw the sunlight shining into the squalid room. Evidently it had been empty on my arrival at the house, and Mrs. Loveridge had flung these things on the floor, and placed a basin and what looked like a duster on a broken-backed chair, and considered the room furnished. Not aware of the time, but believing it to be quite early, I got up and said my prayers and began my toilet, with the intention of going downstairs to explore the house. Having lain down in my clothes, I now washed as well as I could without soap, opened my door, went out to the landing, and listened. All that I could hear was snoring; so, taking courage, I tried to walk downstairs without noise—a task in which I only partially succeeded.
Passing the first floor, I went on to the rooms which I had entered yesterday, and then to the front door. I saw that it was locked, and that the key, as Mrs. Loveridge had hinted, had been taken away. At the back of the passage was a flight of stairs, and, in the wild hope of finding some kind of back door, I went down.
In this basement were two rooms, that in front being an ordinary kind of kitchen—the door of the back room being locked. I was in the act of stooping to look through the keyhole, when I felt a hand on my collar.
'Now, get away from that,' cried Mrs. Loveridge, flinging me heavily against the wall. 'None of your prying down here, or it'll be the worse for you.'
I returned upstairs without speaking, and there I hung about the room, where the supper things still remained on the table, until I smelt an odour of frying bacon. Both the men came to breakfast, and nobody spoke during the meal. When it ended, Mr. Loveridge left the room, and I heard him downstairs, opening and shutting the door of the room where I had been caught trying to peep. I strained my ears for any fresh sound, fancying that some one must be blowing a pair of bellows, such as may be seen in any blacksmith's shop, until my attention was suddenly diverted.
'I never expect gratitude,' said Mr. Parsons, 'so I am not disappointed if I don't get it. There are private goings on in every house, come to that, and visitors have got to behave themselves.'
'Of course,' I answered, remembering the caution I had administered to myself last night.
'People tell me I am what you may call a good-natured man,' he continued. I noticed how thin his lips had become, and what an unpleasant expression had come into his eyes. 'But if you rouse me,' he exclaimed, 'I'm a Tartar—a Tartar I am! So you had better be careful.'
I was rapidly growing convinced that there was a mystery connected with the house, and that the cluewas to be found downstairs in what ought to have been the back kitchen. But I had no time to think of this at present, because Mr. Parsons said he intended to take me out. He accompanied me into the passage, where he carefully brushed his tall hat with his sleeve, and opened the street door, whilst I determined to lose no opportunity of making my escape before we returned. The next minute we were walking away from the house, and, to my surprise, Mr. Parsons put his hand through my arm, holding it with what seemed to be a grip of iron.
'Where are we going?' I asked, as we left the street.
'I want to make a deal with a friend of mine,' was the answer. 'Appearances are very important in this world, my lad. I like to see a boy nicely dressed. I'm always very particular myself what I wear.'
'My clothes are all right,' I muttered.
'Ah, you think so, do you? Now, I'm very fond of a short black jacket and a tall hat—a tall hat is most important.'
'You mean Etons?' I suggested.
'You will see what I mean before you're much older,' he answered, still keeping his grip of my arm.
In a wider street in the neighbourhood of Edgware Road we stopped before a good-sized second-hand clothes-shop, which was kept by a man, who appeared to be a friend of Parsons. Telling me to enter first, he stood blocking the doorway while he carried on a whispered conversation with the shopkeeper.
'Take off your jacket,' he said, a few minutes later, as the shopman began to show some folded suits of clothes.
Although I did not in the least like the notion of exchanging my own clothes, shabby as they were, for a suit which had already been worn by somebody else, it was a part of my plan to offer no unnecessary objection. Besides, it must be confessed that, in his quiet way, Mr. Parsons had succeeded in filling me with something very like terror. In a manner, he seemed like a volcano, looking perfectly harmless, and even pleasant, but yet capable of a terribly dangerous eruption.
The shopman brought out an armful of clothes, and the second jacket I tried was only a trifle too small. In less than a quarter of an hour I had taken off my own suit and put on in its place an ordinary suit of Etons, such as we all wore on Sundays at Castlemore. Although obviously far from new, it was not in very bad condition; but the hat, which had a soiled lining, required to be filled in with paper to prevent it from coming down over my eyes. Mr. Parsons sold my old suit (it could scarcely have fetched a very high price), and paid the difference to the shopman, who, I observed, examined the money, coin by coin, with close attention.
'Now,' said Parsons, as we walked in the direction of Edgware Road, 'you look a little more genteel.'
We entered a cheap hosier's shop next, and there he bought me a white shirt, two wide Eton collars, and a dark tie, all of which I carried home in a brown-paper parcel.
So far the morning had been passed harmlessly, if unpleasantly, for I continued to resent the second-hand suit, and especially the hat, and now we walked direct back to the house. After a meal, of which the less said the better, Mr. Parsons took me into his own bedroom, telling me to change my shirt and look sharp about it. When I had put on the white shirt, a wide collar, and the new necktie, I returned to the front room, but was sent into the passage to fetch the tall hat.
In the front room I found Mr. and Mrs. Loveridge, as well as a rough-looking man whom I had not seen before. Mr. Parsons placed his hand on my shoulders, and turned me round and round as if he were proud to show the change he had affected in my appearance.
'Won't he do beautiful?' he cried, excitedly. 'Did ever you set eyes on a nicer, genteeler-looking lad? Don't he take the cake?'
They all began to laugh, evidently with approval, while I bit my lips and tried to look as if I also liked it, although I think it was one of the worst minutes of my life.
'Well,' said Loveridge, 'we shall see what we get for our money.'
Mrs. Loveridge muttered something which I could not understand, and Mr. Parsons shook his head with a significant frown.
'Trust me for that,' he answered. 'Come along, Jacky! Handsome is that handsome does, you know.'
A few minutes later we were again out in the street, and while any casual passer-by would have imagined that I was accompanied by an affectionate old gentleman who held my arm, I knew very well what was his real motive. It was a hot afternoon, and presently we took an omnibus to Oxford Circus, where we at once turned down a side street.
'I dare say you are thirsty, my lad,' he exclaimed, suddenly. 'Now, two or three doors from here there's a nice shop where they sell delicious ginger-beer—a penny the bottle. Go and get yourself a bottle, Jacky.'
'I—I don't want any,' I answered, as he took a coin from his pocket.
'Jacky,' he said, looking full into my face, 'you will find it always best to do as you're told. Go and get yourself a bottle of ginger-beer, my lad.'
Taking the two-shilling-piece, I walked on and entered the small shop, where a clean-looking woman stood behind the counter. Opening a bottle of ginger-beer, she poured the contents into a glass, counting out the change for the florin while I drank. In the meantime Mr. Parsons was waiting directly outside the door, and the moment I reached his side he again gripped my arm.
'Change!' he muttered, whereupon I put the one and elevenpence into his shaky hand.
When we had walked a little farther, he stopped at another shop—a tobacconist's this time.
'Just go in there and buy me a box of wax lights,' he said, giving me half-a-crown.
Accordingly I entered the shop, where a young man was smoking a cigarette just within the door.
'A box of wax lights,' I cried, placing the money on the counter. Having given what I asked for, theman began to examine the coin. He rang it on the counter, he tried it with his teeth, and then he looked curiously into my face.
"'Take off your jacket,' Mr. Parsons said.""'Take off your jacket,' Mr. Parsons said."
'Haven't you got any smaller change?' he asked.
'No,' I answered, and, with another curious glance, he examined the half-crown again, and finally gave me the change.
(Continued on page 158.)
Of the five senses, sight is to mankind undoubtedly the most precious. The changes of the seasons, the beauty of scenery, sunset and sunrise, the wonders of nature, and the triumphs of art are only to be appreciated through the eyes, which have aptly been described as the 'windows of the soul.' Yet there are many who pass through life without even realising what we may call the 'gilding' of the world—the delights of colour. Quite a large number of people have no colour-sense, and are unable to tell red, for instance, from green. The writer knows an eminent botanist who is unable to tell the colours of the flowers he so loves to study!
Fig. 1.—Head of Insect with eyes at side (greatly magnified).Fig. 1.—Head of Insect with eyes at side (greatly magnified).
How is it with the little people of the insect world in this matter? Their eyes are constructed on an entirely different plan from ours. What sort of a world is it that they look on? Taken as a whole, it would seem that the insect inhabitants of our world see but very little of it; they perceive it rather through the sense of smell. Only a very few insects, such as dragon-flies, for example, see well, and even their length of sight probably does not exceed six feet or so. They are a near-sighted race. Moreover, they see moving objects more easily than stationary ones.
Fig. 3.—Head of Drone Bee (greatly magnified). 'Ocelli' at O.Fig. 3.—Head of Drone Bee (greatly magnified). 'Ocelli' at O.
That many recognise colours there can be no doubt, and many show preferences for certain colours. Bees show a great liking for blue, and ants for violet. White butterflies appear to prefer white flowers, and yellow butterflies yellow flowers. Orange and yellow are also attractive to bees, whilst other colours seem to have no charms for them.
Fig. 2.—Head of Worker Bee (greatly magnified).Fig. 2.—Head of Worker Bee (greatly magnified).
Fig. 4.—Eye of Bibio Fly. 'Ocelli' at O (greatly magnified).Fig. 4.—Eye of Bibio Fly. 'Ocelli' at O (greatly magnified).
There is no doubt that some insects, however, see much more of the world than others, for the eyes of the insects and their near relations, the spiders and scorpions, are of two different kinds, and both kinds differ greatly from ours in structure. Let us take the simple eye found in the spider or scorpion, for an example, and look at it. If you catch a spider, and carefully examine the front of his head, you will notice a number of bead-like bodies of different sizes, arranged sometimes in the form of a circle, sometimes on a prominent swelling or 'tubercle,' or it may be in some other fashion, according to the kind of spider. These are the eyes. A section cut throughone of these eyes and placed under the microscope would show that the surface of the eye was formed by a transparent body like a lens, and that behind this lay a complicated arrangement of rods passing gradually into the nerves of sight. Onlyocelli, as these eyes are called, are found in the spider and his kind. But in true insects, like the dragon-fly, or the butterfly, we meet with eyes of another kind, in addition to ocelli. These are known as compound eyes. Where compound eyes are found, the ocelli never exceed three in number, and are arranged in the form of a triangle, and placed in the middle of the head (figs.2,3, and4).
The compound eyes vary greatly in their size. In some insects they are placed one in each side of the head (fig.1); in others, as in the drone bee, they meet one another at the top of the head (fig.3, spot marked O) and extend downwards to the mouth. In others, yet again, they may attain a huge size, and occupy even the whole front of the head, crowding over the ocelli to form a little group at the top, as in the head of a species of fly known as the Bibio (fig.4).
The compound eye is so delicate and wonderful, that great knowledge of anatomy or the science of optics is necessary before it can be really appreciated. Briefly, it is made up of a cluster of simple eyes, in each of which there are several parts. Beginning at the surface we have what is known as the facet, or cornea, which roughly corresponds to the surface of our own eyes. Next we meet with a clear, glassy rod, and this passes downwards into the nerve of sight. Around these rods is a sheath of black colouring matter, so that each eye is cut off from its neighbour. Thus the whole eye may be likened roughly to a bundle of telescopes.
Of what use, it may be asked, are the three little eyes in the middle of the head of insects which have these wonderfully complex eyes? Well, the large compound eyes are used to watch the movements of other animals; thus they are enabled to escape their enemies. Many of you doubtless have tried to catch butterflies, and if so you will know how suddenly and quickly they avoid the master-stroke that is to land them in the net. But the use of the three little eyes seems to be to enable their possessor to see in the dark. By their means the bee (figs.2and3) can distinguish objects even in the darkest parts of the hive; so too the ant can find his way about the galleries of his underground home. Night-flying moths all have these little eyes, whilst in butterflies, which fly in the daytime, they are wanting.
W. P. Pycraft, A.L.S., F.Z.S.
People in high stations of life often receive from authors presents of their works, and are expected to say something flattering about them in return. They do not like to hurt the author's feelings if the book is worthless, and so Benjamin Disraeli, when Prime Minister, used to answer those who approached him in this way: 'I have received your book, and shalllose no time in reading it.' This sentence, as you can see, is capable of being read in two ways, but the sender of the book was, of course, intended to understand the more flattering reading. It was a kind of deception, and was not very honest, but it was done out of kindness.
A musical composer found another way of answering the many applicants for his opinion: 'I have received your music,' he would write, 'and much like it.'
S. Clarendon.
Rudel and Lisbeth were a little girl and boy who lived many years ago in a beautiful gabled farmhouse on the edge of a forest in Germany. The forest was far from any town, and the children were dressed in the quaint and pretty costumes of German peasants at that time. Lisbeth looked like a tiny copy of her old grandmother, except that her own hair hung down in two long, tight flaxen plaits, while her grandmother's was completely hidden under a high cap.
The forest, which was many miles wide, lay on one side of the farmhouse; on the other it was open country, and from the top of a low hill in the neighbourhood you could see villages and churches for miles round. This hill was a favourite playground of the children, for it was full of caves and hiding-places; it was in fact the great 'show-place' of the neighbourhood, but the children only thought how delightful it was to play houses in.
Rudel and Lisbeth were very strictly brought up, and were punished for the slightest fault. They seldom spoke to their grandparents unless spoken to, and were never talked to about anything that was going on. Like other children, however, they had a good deal of curiosity about their elders, and it puzzled Rudel very much one day when he saw that as his grandmother went about her household work, the tears were running down her face.
About this time Rudel stopped playing at houses, and took to playing at soldiers. The new game absorbed him so much that he could think of nothing else. The neighbours also began to talk of soldiers, and at last the children came to know that there was a war going on in Germany, and that certain States speaking the same language were fighting with one another. This was very sad, but the children thought it very exciting and delightful.
One night Rudel said to Lisbeth, 'We must get up early to-morrow and go and storm the hill. I am going to play at having a siege. I heard grandfather say to-morrow is to be a holiday.'
Lisbeth joyfully agreed, and they went to bed full of plans for the siege.
In the middle of the night, as it seemed to Rudel, he woke and heard a loud noise in the living-room below. Two men were talking in loud, angry tones, and a woman was sobbing. Presently the crying ceased, and the two men seemed to leave the room. Rudel sprang up and looked out of his tiny window—yes! there were his grandfather and another man going towards the forest. But after taking a fewsteps they paused, spoke together for a little while, and then turned in the opposite direction.
'They are going to our hill,' thought Rudel, as he went back to bed. Hours afterward, as it seemed to him, a light flashed into his eyes, and he awoke again. His grandmother was standing over him with a candle. She was crying, and as she wept she bent down and kissed Rudel, which frightened him very much.
'Oh, Rudel,' said Grandmother, sobbing, 'will you always be a good boy? Promise me you will.'
Rudel promised, and, after kissing him again, Grandmother went away. Rudel wondered if she was going to see Lisbeth, and make her also promise to be a good girl. Rudel fully meant to keep his promise, but he was a forgetful little boy, and he broke it the very next day.
'Children,' said Grandfather, just as he and Grandmother were setting off on business, 'you are not to go to the hill to-day, nor anywhere near it—keep to the orchard and garden.'
And, without even stopping to make them promise, he went away, while Rudel stamped his foot in a rage, and Lisbeth began to cry.
'If Grandfather thinks,' said Rudel, after they had been wandering about for some time, 'that I am never to be a man, and do as I like—oh, Lisbeth, we didn't promise Grandfather—if we had promised it would be wrong to go; but we didn't! Let us go to the hill—no one will see us.'
Lisbeth stood out against her brother for a little while, but she was so accustomed to follow his lead in everything that she gave in at last, and the children went to the hill.
They played at the foot for some little time, and then mounted to the top, Rudel busy explaining the plan of his siege; but on reaching the top and looking round they uttered cries of amazement on seeing a party of soldiers—an army they thought it—riding rapidly towards the hill and surrounding it on every side. Rudel was fascinated by the horses and trappings, but Lisbeth was frightened and began to cry.
'Let's go and hide,' she said.
'You may,' said Rudel, 'but I shall go and speak to the soldiers, and ask them what they want. And mind, Lisbeth, don't come out or speak, but stay till they are gone.'
The children ran down the hill to a cave they knew of, which could hardly be found by any one who did not know where to look, and Lisbeth went in. But her terror may be imagined when she found it already occupied. A fierce-looking man rose up at her entrance, seized her, and pressed his hand over her mouth.
'Silence,' he whispered into her ear, 'or it will be the worse for you.'
Meantime, Rudel went to face the soldiers.
'Hallo!' cried a rough-looking soldier, who seemed in authority, 'is this the spy and deserter we are seeking?—truly a dangerous ruffian!'
The other men laughed loudly, and pressed round Rudel, who began to be frightened.
'Where's your father, boy?' asked the leader.
'He has gone away,' answered Rudel.
'You know where he is. I remember your face now; aren't you the grandson of old Peter Klinger, who holds yonder farm? Well, we are looking for his son, Rudolf Klinger, whose children we know live with the grandparents. We believe that he came here last night, and is hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood. Tell us where he is, and you shall have as many sugarplums as you can eat.'
'You are not looking for my father,' said Rudel boldly; 'he would not be a spy and deserter, and if he were I should not betray him.'
'We shall soon see that. If you don't tell us where he is you shall be shot as a deserter in his place. We have no time to waste.'
The soldiers laughed. They were accustomed to their leader's cruel jokes, but Rudel was not. He turned pale, and began to tremble a little.
'Now, then, tell us,' said the leader.
'You may kill me,' said Rudel, 'but I will not tell.'
Full well did Rudel guess now the cause of his grandmother's tears last night, and who the visitor had been.
'Fall in, men,' commanded the leader, winking at the next in command; 'form a shooting party.'
Soldiers were rough and cruel in those times, especially in time of war, and poor Rudel fully believed he was going to be shot. He watched the preparations with fascinated eyes, and allowed himself to be placed in position against a low stone wall. Then he burst into tears.
'Once more—will you tell?'
Rudel did not answer, but shut his eyes and began rapidly to repeat the Lord's Prayer. The leader glanced round with a grim smile, and the men clicked the locks of their muskets. Then fear overcame the poor little fellow, and he sank down in a heap on the ground.
Meanwhile, in the cave, which was quite close, Lisbeth had heard all. She began to struggle, and uttered a stifled scream. The man released her, and, to her surprise, gently touched her flaxen hair.
'Fear nothing, little one,' he said, and taking her hand, went with her out of the cave, and walked straight up to the soldiers.
'I may be a spy and a deserter,' he said loudly to the leader, 'but I am not a brute as you are.' And he struck the officer a violent blow in the face.
'Take that!' he said, 'and shoot me as soon as you like. I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my son.'
The soldiers surrounded and seized him, and when Rudel came to his senses he found them already gone, and his grandfather lifting him into his arms and preparing to carry him home.
The next morning both children were punished for disobedience. Rudel thought this very cruel, and years afterwards, when for the first time he dared to ask about his father, he asked his grandfather why he had done so.
'To make you forget all you had gone through,' answered the old man, smiling, 'and only remember the beating. Besides, you had disobeyed me!'
Rudel never saw his father again, for when the deserter had undergone a long imprisonment for his offence, and was free again, he was ordered to leave the country for ever; and Rudel and Lisbeth stayed on with their grandparents.