FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[1]This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., London.)

[1]This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., London.)

"He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors.""He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors."

"She was just high enough, and could light the lamps.""She was just high enough, and could light the lamps."

(Concluded from page 39.)

e shall now take a peep at the lighthouse and its first watcher. 'That will never be finished,' said one of the wreckers, when he saw the work slowly progressing on the lonely rock at Land's End. But it was finished. Arthur Pendrean wrote to many rich ship-owners in London and elsewhere, and at length, by the aid of their money and the toil of skilful workmen, a light began to burn in the Longships Lighthouse on September 29, 1795. Those were early days of lighthouses, and experience had hardly yet proved the risk and the danger of leaving one man alone on a solitary rock to attend to the lights, often cut off for days, or even weeks, from all communication with the shore. In these days things are very different. Three men, and sometimes four, are appointed to take charge of lighthouses, such as the Longships, Eddystone, and others.

One night a furious gale from the south-west raged along the coast; many were the watchers at Sennen and other villages along the shore, keeping a sharp look-out for wrecks; but whether owing to the lighthouse or to the fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortunes of others were frustrated. Owen felt very anxious about the lonely lighthouse-keeper, whom he could not help thinking of as trimming his lamps on the solitary rock with the roar of the ocean around and below him. He knew that one who had not been there could not possibly have any idea of the awful noise on the Longships Rock occasioned by the roaring and the raging of the waves in the caverns underneath. We cannot stay to describe all that Jordan, the lighthouse-keeper, in his loneliness experienced, nor to tell how the waves, leaping above the lighthouse, sometimes completely covered it. We see him as he walks about, now up and now down, almost terrified by the fierce yells and shrieks which fell upon his ears, and at last watch him, in despair, fling himself upon his bed. Oh, that he had never been tempted to come to this accursed, haunted rock—for haunted he felt certain it was! Like most sailors, he was more or less superstitious, and the angry roar in the caverns beneath sounded to him like the roar of hundreds of imprisoned wild beasts, until, by-and-by, losing all his presence of mind, his hair turns white in a single night with terror, and he becomes a maniac. It was thus that Arthur Pendrean found him several days later, when, seeing, to his great grief, that the lamps were unlit, he put out to learn the cause in a little boat manned by Owen and one or two of his friends. How Owen and the others failed to effect a landing on the rock, and how the brave young clergyman made a bold leap, springing safely upon a projecting ledge of the Longships, is all thrillingly told in the chapter headed 'A Hazardous Voyage and a Bold Leap.'

Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is the bravery of Mary Tresilian, Philip's little sister, who, although only a child, when she sees that no man can be found to undertake the dangerous and difficult work of keeping the lamps lit on the Longships, begs her father most earnestly to himself undertake the task, and permit her to accompany him. At first he would not hear of it, neither would Arthur Pendrean; but the child pleaded so earnestly and fearlessly that, in the end, no one else coming forward to undertake the duty, they yielded to her prayers. And so we find the light burning again in the lighthouse, thanks to the courage and unselfishness of a brave little girl.

'Trust me, I will be a match for them, somehow or other,' said Nichols, when he knew who the new lighthouse-keepers were. 'I have an old grudge against that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that parson, you all know what I think of him.'

'Well, John, there's many a chap here will be glad enough to help you,' said Pollard.

A very exciting chapter is that entitled 'A New Conspiracy,' which tells how Owen, coming ashore with some fish, was waylaid by a ruthless gang of wreckers and smugglers, who tied him up as a prisoner, and would have left him to starve had it not been for one of them with a little more heart than the rest, who cut the cords that bound his wrists, seeing there was no chance of his escape from the cavern into which they thrust him, bolting and barring the gate that closed it. A more wretched dungeon could scarcely be imagined. Dark even in brilliant noon-day, damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the ground full of pools of stagnant sea water, the air so chilly that it seemed to freeze one to the very bones, such was the place to which these cowardly enemies consigned the unfortunate man. And he? His thoughts were of his little child. Truly his troubles were great; his wife was dead, his son torn from him, and now his daughter, his only child, doomed, as he thought, to a terrible fate, while he, her father, was a prisoner and powerless to help her. But was he powerless? Could he not pray? It was this thought that caused him to fall on his knees in his lonely prison and entreat protection for her from the Father in heaven.

And Mary, what was she doing? At first, when she found that her father did not come back, she gave way to grief. The darkness coming on and the tempest rising, with trembling hands she tried to make a fire. Suddenly the thought struck her that the lamps were not lit, and she determined, brave child that she was, to light them herself. She had often watched her father do it, and she knew how. She stood on tip-toe to reach the lamps, but they were far, far above her. Nothing daunted, she piled one thing above another until every article that she could lay hold of was in use except the old Bible. Being a very reverent little girl, she could not bear the idea of treading on the Holy Book; but, at last, when she had reflected thather standing on the book for the purpose she had in view, the saving of the lives of many poor sailors, could do it no harm, she placed it reverently on the top of the pile, and above it, that she might not tread directly on to it, a large basin. And now she was just high enough, and found, to her great delight, that she could light the lamps. Great was the surprise of Nichols and his companions when they saw, as they ascended rising ground with their false light, the bright rays of light streaming out from the Longships. For a minute or two they could say nothing; then a volley of wicked words proceeded from them.

'Who would have thought it? That child has managed to light the lamps, and there they are burning as brightly as ever.'

'Who would have thought it indeed?' exclaimed Nichols. 'If it had ever entered my head that the girl would have been up to those tricks, I'd have rowed out in Tresilian's boat, carried her off from the lighthouse, and locked her up with her father; and now here's all my fine plan spoiled.'

For the beautiful ending of this attractive story, of Owen's release and Philip's rescue from drowning by his own father, and of the punishment that befell the wicked men who occasioned the deaths of so many brave fellows, we can only say that our young readers should go to the book itself, where they will find these facts all set forth in a thoroughly interesting manner. To-day a new lighthouse stands on the Longships, and the light shines out at an elevation of one hundred and ten feet above high-water mark, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles.

The sting of the bee and the lancet of the gnat, although fashioned of very different materials, bear a close likeness in their mechanism. In each case the piercing organ is, in the first place, a gouge-like weapon which prepares the way for more delicate lancets. But in the spider we find a very different piece of machinery for the injection of the poison. It is formed by a pair of peculiarly modified legs which act as jaws, and are armed each with a powerful claw, at the tip of which, as in the poison-fang of the viper, is a small hole. Out of this hole a drop of poison oozes when the prey is seized, and this has the effect of paralysing the victim. The poison is formed in a curious bag, or 'gland' (G.L), which communicates with the claw by means of a long tube or duct.

Many people feel a remarkable repugnance or even dread for spiders. This, in many cases at least, is due to the supposed venom in their bite. Yet, except the famous 'Tarantula,' no spiders really inflict a painful wound. Tales of fearsome black spiders are common enough. One of the spiders known as 'line weavers' is reputed to have a very poisonous bite. To test the truth of this, one authority on spiders repeatedly allowed himself to be bitten, yet suffered no inconvenience! In the early and barbarous days of medical practice, a spider was frequently applied to the wrists of patients suffering from fever.

Even the virulence of the dreaded Tarantula's bite has been greatly exaggerated. It was supposed to cause the disease known as Tarantism: the victim was seized with a mad desire to dance. The mania, while it lasted, was accompanied with leaping, contortions, gesticulations, and wild cries, until finally the fit of hysteria, for such it was, wore itself out. The methods of treatment were many and curious. One of the most favoured was to bury the patient up to the neck! But the dulcet strains of music were believed to be the most powerful of all cures, and certain peculiar tunes came to be regarded as especially effective, and hence became known as Tarantella!

Parts of India now desert are said to have been deprived of their inhabitants through the dread caused by certain huge spiders known as the Galeodes. Their bite is without doubt extremely painful, and may cause violent headache, fainting fits, or even temporary paralysis. Camels and sheep are sometimes so severely bitten by these spiders that death results.

Occasionally the spider catches a Tartar, for wasps and bees now and again get entangled in the web spread for more helpless victims. Rushing out in a blind fury, the spider closes with his captive, and then follows a fight to the death. Sometimes the spider wins, but as often as not the sting of his would-be victim is thrust home with deadly effect, for the soft and pulpy body of the spider offers a target not easily missed.

There is a saying that we should 'eat to live,' but the dragon-flies seem to have reversed this rule, for they appear almost to 'live to eat,' their appetites being enormous. This is especially true of the larval or infantile stages of growth, and the manner of capturing their prey is peculiar.

Readers ofChatterbox, who combine a love of natural history with a fondness for boating, have probably many a time watched the gauze-winged dragon-fly hawking for flies. But how many have realised that, below the surface of the stream, the coming generation of dragon-flies was waging a precisely similar war—a war, too, even more relentless? The full-fledged dragon-fly cannot bring himself to venture out, even to eat, unless the sun be shining; but the budding dragon-fly has not yet learnt to be so particular, and hunts incessantly, be the weather fine or wet. The apparatus by which his prey is captured cannot, however, be easily described. The mouth of an insect is made up of many separate parts, and that which in other insects forms the 'under-lip,' is in the young dragon-fly peculiarly modified to form what is known as the 'mask.' This remarkable piece of apparatus may be compared to a pair of nippers mounted on a jointed and freely movable handle. When not in use these nippers are kept folded up close under the head; but as soon as prey comes within reach, the nippers flash out, and the victim is seized and brought to the powerful jaws, where it is rapidly torn to pieces.

The weapons of offence of the spider and dragon-fly larva differ in one important particular from those of the bee and the water-bug, and similar insects: the former are used for the capture of victims intended as food, whilst the latter are employed, inthe case of the bee, for attack or defence; and in the case of the water-bug for robbing the animal or plant of a small and quite insignificant quantity of its blood, or sap, as the case may be.

W. P. Pycraft, A.L.S., F.Z.S.

1. Young Dragon-Fly and "Mask" (magnified). 2. Dragon-fly. 3. Poison Gland of Spider (much magnified). 4. Spider and Bee Fighting.Young Dragon-Fly and "Mask" (magnified).Dragon-fly.Poison Gland of Spider (much magnified).Spider and Bee Fighting.

Young Dragon-Fly and "Mask" (magnified).Dragon-fly.Poison Gland of Spider (much magnified).Spider and Bee Fighting.

houghts of the ill-favoured tramp had once or twice come into my head while I ate my eggs and bacon, but, perhaps as one result of the meal, I felt very little doubt that he had by this time got some distance ahead, while the rest which I had determined to take would allow him to leave me still further behind. On coming into the street again, however, I took the precaution to look to the right and left, and rejoiced to see no sign of the man. The houses of Broughton soon grew farther and farther apart, but I had to walk a mile or more without seeing any tempting resting-place. The sun was very hot, and my legs were beginning to ache, when, at the foot of a slight hill, I saw that the road was edged on each side by a thick wood, whose shade looked particularly inviting. As soon as I reached the shade, I found that I was not alone, for sitting in the road were two men wearing wire spectacles and breaking stones with a hammer. They paid not the slightest attention to me, while, for my part, I felt rather glad of their presence. The shade made the spot seem more lonely than the road I had as yet traversed, so that I stepped into the wood on my right with a pleasant feeling of security. A few yards from the road I lay down at the foot of a large beech-tree, and resting my head on my bag, after listening for a few minutes to the ring of the hammers in the road, I must have fallen asleep. On reopening my eyes I instinctively felt for my watch, and when I realised that I should never see it again, it seemed that I had lost a familiar friend. The sun now shone lower in the sky, and it must in any case be time that I continued my journey.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walked towards the road, when what was my dismay to see the tramp, who I imagined had long left me behind, seated by the roadside, smoking a very short, black pipe and gazing silently at the stone-breakers. Although he took no notice of my presence, I now began to wonder whether he had deliberately followed me from Broughton, or whether his presence in this shady part of the road was merely a chance coincidence. It was quite possible that he hadhidden himself while I was in the coffee-shop, watched me from its door, and set forth in my wake. If this were the case, his purpose seemed scarcely doubtful, for he had certainly seen me receive the money for my watch and chain.

"His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket.""His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket."

Still, it was not possible to stay where I was all day, so reluctantly turning my back on the stone-breakers, I walked on, trying to hope that, after all, the tramp might be perfectly harmless in spite of his evil appearance. Though strongly tempted to look behind and ascertain whether he was following or not, I warned myself that it would be wiser to appear to take no notice, till, at last, when the stone-breakers must have been half a mile to the rear, I looked back, and saw, to my horror, that the tramp was still dogging my steps.

Half panic-stricken for the moment, I quickened my pace; but when I looked behind again ten minutes later, it appeared that the tramp had lessened the distance between us.

It now began to seem like a nightmare. There was no prospect of getting away from my pursuer. If I hastened, he walked faster, and I no longer felt the least doubt that his intention was to rob me. Although the road was little frequented, it was by no means deserted. An occasional bicyclist would pass, or a waggon, or a dog-cart, while here and there stood farm-houses and cottages by the way-side.

I believed that the tramp would dog my steps until dark, and that in the meantime he would not allow me out of his sight. Yet, until the present, I had no actual cause for complaint, and when I met a policeman, there seemed no excuse for referring to the tramp's existence. Feeling bound to speak to the policeman, however, I stopped to inquire the time, and he eyed me curiously as he took out his watch. My clothes were by this time covered with dust, and no doubt I appeared a disreputable figure.

'Five past five,' said the policeman. I must have slept in the wood longer than I had thought.

'Thank you,' I answered, and he passed on, greatly to my regret.

The finger-posts told me that a place named Polehampton lay ahead, but I would not inquire the distance, and so tell the policeman that I did not know much about my destination. But when I fancied he must be close to the tramp, I looked back, just in time to see them exchange a nod in passing.

Every time I looked behind after this, my pursuer appeared to be gaining, although he took care not to overtake me. He could easily have done so had he wished, because I was becoming extremely tired, the more, no doubt, because of the fear which oppressed me. As this gained strength, I did the worst thing possible—playing, as it were, into the tramp's hands if his purpose was what I suspected. But this walk along the straight, open road as evening fell became gradually more and more unbearable. I even began to ask myself whether it could be actually a nightmare, and I should presently awake to find myself in bed at Ascot House, scarcely knowing which would be preferable.

Seeing a stile leading to a field-path on my right, I suddenly determined to climb over it, and though I had no notion whither it lead, to take to my heels, regardless of everything but the chance of leaving the tramp behind. In a second I was over, and, doubling my fists, began to run. There were some cattle in the field, and the path appeared to end at another stile, beyond which was a plantation of chestnut-trees. To the left, beyond a hedge, lay a large plot of waste ground; to the right, a dense wood, where I could hear some pigeons cooing.

I did not stay to look back until I reached the farther stile, a good deal out of breath, and then, to my intense relief, I saw nobody in the path. I persuaded myself that the tramp must have reached the first stile before now, and that, as there was no sign of him, he had gone on his way. Perhaps, I thought, as I climbed over the second stile, I had wronged the man after all, and had simply been the prey of my own timidity. Resting on the top of the stile a moment, I began to look around. In front was a narrow path through the chestnut plantation, and it must lead somewhere, though I knew not where. But I determined to follow it, thus making a slight divergence from the main road, and finding a way back to it to-morrow. Meantime, I might come to a village, where it would be possible to obtain some supper and a bed. So, rejoicing to have shaken off my nightmare, I sprang to the ground on the other side of the stile, when immediately I felt a hand on my collar, and saw the dark eyes of the tramp once more peering into my own.

He had, of course, dived into the wood when he saw me climb over the first stile, and, cutting off the corner, had been coolly awaiting my arrival. On the whole, I think that being in his grasp was almost preferable to the feeling that he was dogging my steps. His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket and flannel shirt, and instantly I began to wriggle, twisting my leg about his own in an attempt to bring him to the ground; but the man was of enormous strength, and, freeing himself, he shook me as a terrier shakes a rat, until I felt there was little breath left in my body.

Yet I did not give in without another struggle. I knew that he would take every penny I possessed, and that there was nothing else on which to raise any money. I was still nearly ninety miles from London, and already ready for another meal. I butted my head into his stomach, I struck out madly with my fists, I writhed and kicked, until, raising his right arm, he brought down his fist on my head, and after that I knew nothing for some time.

When I regained consciousness, I lay in the plantation about two yards from the path, just where I had been flung, I suppose. My head and body seemed to ache all over, but, on attempting to rise to my feet, I found no difficulty, beyond a slight giddiness. My bag had disappeared, my knickerbocker pocket, which had contained my total capital of fourteen shillings and eightpence, was sticking out empty, and, of course, there was no sign of the tramp. Walking to the stile, I found that my left ankle pained me, although not very severely; I could also see in the lessening light that my clothes were considerably torn.

So hopeless appeared the outlook that I confess I rested my arms on the top of the stile, buried my face on them and sobbed, until the increasing darkness warned me that crying would not provide a bed for the night. A bed for the night! But how could I obtain a bed without money? Still, it was not practicable to remain where I was, while I thought it would be better to take my chance through the plantation than to return to the road, where I might even meet the tramp again. Certainly, whichever direction I followed, I had no wish to walk very far. I had never felt quite so worn out in my life, as I continued my way through the plantation and a field beyond, the gate of which opened into a pleasantcountry lane. Here I turned to the right, as the main road lay to the left, and I had not walked many yards before I reached a pretty farm-house, standing well back, with a barn on its left, in which some cows were lowing. The sky was by this time of a dark blue, and one small star twinkled. I could not help looking rather longingly at the cosy house, and, while I looked, a lamp was carried into one of the front rooms and a red blind was drawn down. However, it was no use lingering there, so I walked on beside a hedge, fragrant with honeysuckle, past one or two fields, until I came to a black gate with something shadowy behind it. Stopping by the gate, I saw that the object in the field was part of a haystack, one side being cut into a kind of terrace. Four black calves came to the gate, but they turned tail and trotted away again as I put my leg over the top rail, for I at once made up my mind that there would be no better place to sleep than the haystack. The night was fine and hot, and my body ached to such a degree that I felt I could sleep anywhere.

(Continued on page 54.)

The little days come, one by one,And smile into our face;Each hath its dawn and set of sun,Each hath its little place.Then scorn them not, but use them well,Treat each one as a friend;Neglect them not! We cannot tellHow soon our days may end.Heed not the years! Makeevery dayWith love and labour fair;The years, then, as they roll away,Will need no further care.

The little days come, one by one,And smile into our face;Each hath its dawn and set of sun,Each hath its little place.

Then scorn them not, but use them well,Treat each one as a friend;Neglect them not! We cannot tellHow soon our days may end.

Heed not the years! Makeevery dayWith love and labour fair;The years, then, as they roll away,Will need no further care.

E. D.

The captain of a merchant ship, on being appointed to a new vessel, heard that his crew had a very bad name for the use of oaths. He determined to put an end to bad language on his ship, and, knowing how hard it would be to do so by the mere exercise of authority, thought of a novel plan which was entirely successful. He summoned the men and addressed them thus:

'I want to ask you all a favour, and I know that British sailors will hardly refuse a favour to their new captain. It is my duty to take the lead in everything, and especially in one thing. Now, will you grant me my favour?'

'Aye, aye, sir,' said the men, not knowing what he would ask.

'It is this, then. I want to take the lead in swearing, and to use the first oath on board this ship, before any of you begin to swear.'

The men were at first surprised at the strange request, but they soon recovered and gave the captain a rousing cheer. Needless to say, the captain's oath was never uttered, and so the men had no excuse for swearing.

hanks to his quickness of brain and fleetness of foot, M. de B——, a French Royalist officer, was able to use a well-known device and so effect an escape from imminent death.

On a certain memorable morning, sixty-nine brave soldiers were executed by the Republicans. The story of these deaths, and of one remarkable escape, is related by a fellow-prisoner who witnessed the scene.

At nine o'clock in the morning the prisoners were startled by the entrance of a Republican officer, who held a piece of paper in his hand, and was attended by an escort of about twenty soldiers. As he came in he announced:

'Citizens! you are to accompany me. Those whose names I shall call will not return to this place. As I read out the roll, let each one named range himself on the right-hand side.'

The men obeyed this order in silence; no one knew what it meant, and all feared the worst. Only two names were excepted from the roll; the other prisoners, seventy in number, stood in line, awaiting their unknown fate.

'The word was given to march,' says the narrator, 'and the whole seventy-two of us, guarded by a large number of Republican soldiers, filed out from the gloomy gaol. We were taken to the seashore, where a halt was made; then the officer in charge read the death-sentence, adding, as he turned to us—the two whose names were excepted from the fatal list—these words:

'"These others will not be sentenced until further evidence has been heard, but they will be present at the execution of those condemned."

'The unhappy men were then and there shot, one by one. This work of horror went on for an hour, and we, whose time had not yet come, were forced to stand by, fully expecting that the same fate would shortly be our own.

'Sixty-nine had fallen, and at last came the turn of De B——. The four men told off to shoot him said, "We are extremely sorry to do this, but it is the law, and we cannot help ourselves; and now, if you have any money about you, please bestow it upon us."

'A happy thought flashed through the Royalist's brain. "I have twenty guineas," he replied calmly, "but I do not desire to cause any jealousy amongst you. I will therefore fling down the coins, and let each one get what he can."

'With a dexterous movement of his hand he sent the golden coins spinning in all directions. The soldiers, in their greedy eagerness, forgot the prisoner for a moment, and scrambled for the money; this was what M. de B—— had reckoned on. As he was an excellent runner, taking to his heels, he promptly fled, got safely away, and was never recaptured.'

"The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money.""The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money."

"'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!'""'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!'"

M. de Tourville, a French Admiral who lived in the beginning of King William the Third's reign, proposed to make a descent on the English coast, and, as his intention was to land somewhere in Sussex, he sent for a fisherman, a native of that county, who had been taken prisoner by one of his ships, in hopes of obtaining some useful information concerning the state of the Government. He asked the fisherman to whom his countrymen were most attached, to King James or to the Prince of Orange, styled King William.

The poor man, confounded by these questions, made the Admiral this reply: 'I have never heard of the gentlemen you mention; they may be very good lords for anything I know; they never did me any harm, and so God bless them both. As for the Government, how should I know anything about it, since I can neither read nor write? All I have to do is to take care of my boat and my nets, and sell my fish.'

'Then, since you are indifferent to both parties,' said the Admiral, 'and are a good mariner, you can have no objection to serve on board my ship.'

'I fight against my country!' answered the fisherman, with great vigour. 'No, not for the ransom of a king!'

W. Y.

We got up to welcome the swallowsThis morning as soon as the sun;Then over the hills and the hollowsWe went for a beautiful run.The daisies were ready to meet us—All over the meadows they grew;But now we must say:'Good-night, O good-day!We've been very happy with you.'We sang with the busy bees hummingO'er blossoms too bright to forget,And when the soft breezes were comingWe saw the grass bow as they met.Oh, may all the hearts that have known youNow beat with a pleasure like ours,And cheerfully say:'Good-night, O good-day!And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'

We sang with the busy bees hummingO'er blossoms too bright to forget,And when the soft breezes were comingWe saw the grass bow as they met.Oh, may all the hearts that have known youNow beat with a pleasure like ours,And cheerfully say:'Good-night, O good-day!And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'

John Lea.

Many thrilling stories have been written about the dangers of whale-fishing. The perils and hardships of whaling expeditions are braved in order that we may be supplied principally with two things—whale-oil and whalebone. If you can learn what whalebone is, and what is its use, you will know a good deal about the habits of the whale itself.

The substance which we call whalebone is not true bone. It would be much more correct to call it whales' teeth, as it occupies the same position as teeth, and, in a measure, serves the same purpose. Moreover, the whale has a skeleton of true bones underlying its flesh, and serving as a framework for its huge, bulky body. These bones are very light and porous, and this is a great advantage to the whale, which spends most of its time floating upon the surface of the water without having to make much effort.

There are numerous kinds of whales, and they do not all yield the substance which we call whalebone. The sperm whale, or cachalot, has teeth in its lower jaw, and no whalebone whatever. The Greenland whale, on the other hand, which is the one most sought after for its oil, has no teeth, but abundance of whalebone, which hangs from the sides of its upper jaw.

In order to get some idea of what this whalebone is like as it hangs in the whale's mouth, we must try to picture what the whale itself is like. The largest of them grow to something like sixty feet in length. The head is unusually large, and forms about one-third of the whole body, and the inside of the mouth is about as large as a ship's cabin or a very small room. The strips of whalebone, which reach from the upper jaw to the lower one, must, therefore, be very large. The largest strips, which hang in the middle of the jaws, are rather like large planks, being from ten to fifteen feet long, and about twelve inches across at their widest part. They are thinner than planks, however, and perhaps we might better compare them to long and broad saw-blades. There are altogether about three hundred of these whalebone planks or blades in the whale's mouth. They are set transversely—that is to say, one narrow edge of each piece touches the tongue, while the other edge lies against the cheek or lip. They lie so close together that from the middle of the edge of one blade to the middle of the edge of the next the distance is less than an inch, and yet there is a space between them. The whole set extends like a huge grate round the whale's mouth, the bars of whalebone being long in the middle of the sides of the jaws, and growing shorter near the back and front.

Whalebone is very fibrous or stringy, and it splits very readily. The lower ends of the pieces in the whale's mouth are split and frayed into stiff bristles, and the inner edges are frayed in the same way, while the outer edges are made smooth, so that they do not hurt the inside of the animal's lips. The roof of the whale's mouth is covered with smaller pieces of whalebone hanging down like bristled quills. Many of these are only a few inches long, but they make the whole of the upper part of the whale's mouth rough and bristly.

The creature's tongue is an enormous one, often measuring six yards long and three yards wide. Its throat, however, is so small that sailors often say a herring would choke it. What can be the use of such a large mouth and tongue, and such large bars of whalebone to a creature which has so small a throat?

On the surface of the Arctic Sea, where the whale lives, there are swarms of living creatures. Some of these are jelly-fish, like those which are often left upon the sea-shore when the tide goes out. But one of the commonest of these lowly animals is a littlesoft-bodied creature about an inch and a half long, which moves along through the water with the help of two organs like wings or paddles. It is called theClio borealis, and it is very rarely seen near the shore. It is upon these creatures that the whale feeds. Opening its mouth wide, it rushes through the sea, and takes in a crowd of these soft-bodied animals, along with the water in which they are swimming. Closing its mouth, it drives out the water through its plates of whalebone, and the little creatures are caught in the bristles as in a net. Its great tongue is lifted up, and crushes them all into soft pulp, which is easily swallowed, even down the whale's small throat.

Thus every part of the whale's mouth is altered to suit its strange mode of feeding. The hard teeth, which would be of no use for biting small pulpy animals, are done away with, and a new growth of whalebone appears, which is of the utmost service in catching the whale its food.

Whalebone has been used for many purposes. It is split up into little pieces, and used for light frameworks, which are required to be stiff, but, at the same time, elastic. It used to be used for the ribs of umbrellas and for ladies' hoops. It was also split very small and used for the bristles of brushes. But it is now becoming scarce, and other substances are generally used in its place.

W. A. Atkinson.

The following story of the Crimean War, told by the Russian author, Turgenieff, is well authenticated.

A young Russian Lieutenant, named Sergius Ivanovitch, was one cold night with an attacking party whose object was to drive a body of French soldiers from their position in front of the Russian lines. Wishing to be as free from hindrances as possible, this young lieutenant did not take his military cloak.

The French proved to be well posted on the edge of a wood. At the end of a desperate fight, the Russians were forced to retreat, leaving behind them their dead and wounded. Among the latter was Sergius Ivanovitch.

How he now longed for his cloak! He suffered even more from the cold than from his wound. Although a bullet was in his leg, he knew that the exposure, rather than the wound, would be the death of him. With many a shiver and groan, he was trying to examine his leg, when he heard some one say in French:

'You had better leave it alone. Be patient, and disturb your wound as little as possible.'

The man who thus spoke was a veteran French captain, who lay close by, more severely injured than Sergius.

'You are right, no doubt,' said the Russian; 'but I shall die of cold before morning.'

Then the Frenchman blamed him for coming out in the snow without his cloak. 'I have learned by experience,' said he, 'never to go out without mine. This time, however, it will not save me, for I am mortally wounded.'

'Your people will fetch you presently.'

'No, my dear enemy, I shall not last until help arrives. It is all over with me, for the shot has gone deep. Here! take my cloak. Wrap yourself up in it and sleep. One can sleep anywhere at your age.'

The young Russian protested in vain. He felt the cloak laid upon him, and its warmth sent him to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, the French captain lay dead at his side. The Russian never forgot this generous act of one whom the policy of his nation had made his enemy.

E. D.

hile we shall have to consider some of the most wonderful caverns of other lands, we must not forget that Great Britain can boast of perhaps the most beautiful cave in the world. As we are a nation of sailors, it seems fitting that our marvellous cavern should rise directly from the sea, and that its pavement should be the mighty ocean. It is claimed as the most beautiful because it has the advantage of light to exhibit its wonders, as well as the endless variety of the dancing waves to illuminate its dark pillars with a never-ending flash of gems, as the waters dash against its walls in storms, or lap lovingly round them in the summer sunlight.

Fingal's Cave is one of many fringing the cliffs of the little island of Staffa, off the coast of Mull, in Scotland. These caves are all formed of what learned people call basalt, which means rocks moulded by the action of fire. Basalt contains a good deal of an opaque glassy substance, and its colour may be pale blue, dark blue, grey, brown, or black. This rock has a special faculty for building columns with (usually) six sides, but the form varies as much as the colour. These pillars are divided at fairly equal distances into lengths, just as stone pillars in a cathedral are generally built, and, wonderful to say, the joints, when closely examined, are found to be of the cup-and-ball pattern, on which our own bones are put into their sockets.

Basalt is usually hard and tough, and it is supposed, though with no certainty, that the regularity of the columns is the result of the contraction of the rock in cooling after undergoing great heat.

The name Staffa is a Scandinavian word meaning 'Pillar Island,' and no doubt its wonders have been known from very remote times. It is quite near the island of Iona, one of the earliest settlements of the Christian missionaries from Ireland.

Fingal's Cave Staffa.Fingal's Cave Staffa.

A little distance from the shore is the tiny island of Bouchallie, or the Herdsman, which is entirely composed of basaltic rocks of great beauty; and from this islet a colonnade of pillars leads to the entrance of Fingal's Cave. The mouth of the cave is forty-two feet wide, the roof is fifty-six feet above, and the length of the cavern is two hundred and twenty-seven feet.

All down the sides pillars line the walls, and from above hang the ends of pendant columns. Below is the clear blue water, where even at low tide there is a depth of eighteen feet.

Sir Walter Scott was so impressed with this marvel of Nature, that he wrote:

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