"'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'""'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'"
He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to act scenes for their amusement from the great Danish writer, Holberg, whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do Hans' work for him.
After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory—never to return to it.
The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare. Theold toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put through the scenes of theMerchant of VeniceandKing Lear.
After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'
He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him) of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to Copenhagen and try his fortune.
She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off to make his own way in the world.
He reached Copenhagen—the city which now proudly claims him for her own—late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved acting.
'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.
'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow fat,' quickly answered the boy.
'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans had to go away with a heavy heart.
Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!
But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared him in the face.
At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.
It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans persevered, and at last he passed all his examinations, and was granted a travelling scholarship.
Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful; the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all over Europe.
He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years later, he stayed with Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill.
Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels, and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.
On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.
The end came a few months later, and on August 4th, 1875, Hans Christian Andersen died, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, and most of all by the band of children whom he had so loved to gather round him.
Hurry Harry, Deerslayer, Judith, and Hetty are the four principal characters in Cooper's famous book, which has delighted many thousands of readers.
Hurry Harry, as he was nicknamed, his real name being Harry March, had a dashing, reckless, off-hand manner, and a restlessness that kept him constantly moving about from place to place. He was six feet four in height, well proportioned, with a good-humoured, handsome face. Deerslayer was a very different man from Hurry Harry, both, in appearance and character. He, too, was tall, being six feet high, but with a comparatively light and slender frame. His face was not handsome, but his expression invited confidence, for it had a look of truth and sincerity.
Hurry was twenty-eight years of age and Deerslayer several years younger. Their dress was composed of deer-skins, and they were armed with rifles, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. The two men were guided by very different principles, those of Hurry Harry being entirely selfish, while Deerslayer sought, backwoodsman though he was, to live up to what he called 'white-man's nature.'
Judith and Hetty were supposed to be the daughters of a man known as 'Floating Tom,' otherwise Thomas Hutter, a man who had been a noted pirate in his younger days, but in his later years had settled down—as he hoped, beyond the reach of the King's cruisers—to enjoy his plunder.
At the time at which the story is laid Britain and France were at war, fighting in Canada, and it is said that neither side had refrained from offering payment for scalps. Whatever excuse there may have been for tribes of Indians taking the scalps of their enemies, there can have been none for Christian white men, and so Deerslayer held, but not so Hurry Harry and Thomas Hutter, both of whom, as we shall notice, suffered for their cruel practices.
If Hurry and Deerslayer were unlike in appearance, character, and principle, so, too, were Judith and Hetty. Judith was very handsome, quick-witted, fond of admiration and fine clothes, while Hetty was not beautiful to look at. Hetty was possessed of a weak mind, and cared little for the admiration of others, although she was of an affectionate nature. Her principles were good, and she ever sought to follow the good she knew, her constant companion being her Bible, for which she had the deepest reverence, while the good counsels of her mother, whosebody rested beneath the waters of the lake beside which the family dwelt, were put in daily practice by the devoted child.
Two other characters of the story deserve more than a passing word. One was Chingachgook the hunter, the other 'Hist,' a lovable maiden, both of whom were great friends of Deerslayer; they were Delaware Indians by nationality.
(Concluded on page 171.)
FOOTNOTE:[2]The Deerslayer, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap editions published which can be easily obtained.
[2]The Deerslayer, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap editions published which can be easily obtained.
[2]The Deerslayer, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap editions published which can be easily obtained.
1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet,But nearly always good to eat.2. A pigment painters use when theyThe lovely blushing rose portray.3. A garden tool we sometimes needWhen smoothing soil and sowing seed.4. Our true regard for any friend;The purpose, final cause, or end.5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold,Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep;A noisy Irish feast to keep.
1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet,But nearly always good to eat.
2. A pigment painters use when theyThe lovely blushing rose portray.
3. A garden tool we sometimes needWhen smoothing soil and sowing seed.
4. Our true regard for any friend;The purpose, final cause, or end.
5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold,Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.
6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep;A noisy Irish feast to keep.
C. J. B.
[Answers on page 195.]
6.—1.Cat.2.Yes.3.Will.4.Pony.5.Dry.Rat.Yet.Pill.Pond.Day.Rag.Pet.Pile.Bond.Way.Hag.Pot.Pine.Band.Pay.Hog.Not.Pint.Bard.Pat.Dog.No.Pent.Bare.Pet.Went.Care.Wet.Won't.Cart.
7.—Never despair.
An old philosopher who had two pupils one day gave each a sum of money, and told them to purchase something with it, which should fill the room where they did their studies. One pupil went out into the market and bought a large quantity of hay and straw, and the next morning he invited his master to see his room, which he had almost filled with the results of his purchase.
'Ah! very good, very good!' exclaimed the philosopher; and now turning to the other pupil, he said, 'Well, friend, and what have you bought?'
'A small lamp and some oil, which will fill the room with light in the dark evening hours. This will enable us to continue our studies by night as well as by day, if we should so wish,' replied the pupil.
'You have made the best purchase,' said the philosopher.
A wise pupil, who profits by instruction, is the delight of the master.
For a quarter of an hour, during one of the greatest crises of the Battle of Waterloo, when the Duke of Wellington had sent all hisaides-de-campwith orders to the different divisions of the army, he found himself alone at the very moment when he most needed help. While watching the movements of his troops through his field-glasses, he saw Kempt's brigade beginning a manœuvre which, if not promptly countermanded, would probably lead to the loss of the battle. But there was no officer at hand to convey his orders. Just then he turned round in his saddle, and saw not far off a single horseman, rather quaintly attired, coolly watching the progress of the strife. The instant the Duke caught sight of him, he beckoned to him, and asked him who he was, why he was there, and how he had passed the lines.
He answered: 'I am a traveller for a wholesale button manufactory in Birmingham, and was showing my samples in Brussels when I heard the sound of the firing. Having had all my life a strong desire to see a battle, I at once got a horse, and set out for the scene of action; and, after some difficulty, I have reached this spot, whence I expect to have a good view.'
The Duke, pleased with his straightforward answer, determined to turn his sense and daring to good account, and addressed him as follows: 'You ought to have been a soldier. Would you like to serve your country now?'
'Yes, my lord,' said the other.
'Would you take a message of importance for me?'
Touching his hat in military fashion the traveller replied, 'Were I trusted by you, sir, I would think this the proudest day of my life.'
Putting his field-glass into the man's hands, the Duke explained to him the position of the brigade that had made the false move, and added: 'I have no writing materials by me; see, therefore, that you are very accurate in delivering my message.' He then entrusted to him a brief, emphatic order, which he made him repeat, that there might be no mistake.
The orders were barely delivered before the stranger was off at the top of his horse's speed, and soon disappeared amid the smoke of the battle. After a few minutes' interval, the Duke turned his glass in the direction of the brigade which was at fault, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, 'It's all right, yet. Kempt has changed his tactics. He has got my message, for he is doing precisely as I directed him. Well done, Buttons!'
The Duke used to say he considered the alteration of Kempt's original movement the turning-point of the battle. Wishing to reward our hero for his intelligence and courage, he caused inquiries to be made for him in every direction, but in vain. It was not till many years afterwards that he accidentally heard of the man's whereabouts, and managed to secure for him a good appointment in the West of England, in recognition of his services.
"'Would you take a message of importance for me?'""'Would you take a message of importance for me?'"
"'If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'""'If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'"
An English sailor, when travelling through France, arrived at the town of Vernon, where he met with a great crowd of riotous men and women. The mob had laid hands on a wealthy man, though he had done no wrong, and knew the use of money much better than they did. The rich man was to be hanged. In vain did the young sailor plead with the crowd: they only laughed at him, and pushed him aside with words of scorn. As a last resource he boldly pushed his way through the crowd, and with a strong grasp clung fast to the man who was so near his death.
Above the wild yells and uproar, his voice was heard: 'This man has done no wrong. I come to save you from a great sin. If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'
The worst of hearts are often touched by a noble act of self-sacrifice, and the fearless words of truth. The Frenchmen gave a cheer for the brave sailor, and were ready to carry him off like a hero. This gave time for the captive to escape. When the incident became known in Paris, the sailor received much honour, and a sword was presented to him, for they said, 'He who had no arms, and yet could save a stranger at the risk of his own life, will never draw a sword except in a cause that is just and right.' The sailor became afterwards Admiral Nesham, who lived to serve his country for many years, and died at Exmouth in 1853.
Acrocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed,In a wood where the red robins sing,And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spreadI heard the first footfall of Spring.'And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top aboveThere fluttered the song of the Wind:'I come from the south, with a message of love,And the Spring follows closely behind.'Then while the soft echo was stealing along,The snow melted gently away,And over the meadow a bee's early songTold stories of April and May.The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast,And see, where the snow-drifts still cling,The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly castAt the feet of her Majesty, Spring.
Acrocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed,In a wood where the red robins sing,And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spreadI heard the first footfall of Spring.'
And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top aboveThere fluttered the song of the Wind:'I come from the south, with a message of love,And the Spring follows closely behind.'
Then while the soft echo was stealing along,The snow melted gently away,And over the meadow a bee's early songTold stories of April and May.
The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast,And see, where the snow-drifts still cling,The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly castAt the feet of her Majesty, Spring.
ManyChatterboxreaders have, no doubt, visited Smithfield, and others have seen pictures of it as it was in the olden time, when it was known by its executions and burnings. Upon St. Bartholomew's Eve, 1305, Sir William Wallace was put to death under the elms, a large clump of which then stood on one side of the open space. At Smithfield, too, Wat Tyler met King Richard II. on June 15th, 1381, when he received his death-blow from the Lord Mayor of London. In more recent years it was familiar to the public as a big cattle market, now fortunately removed to a better spot north of London. Evidently, too, it was for centuries a very favourite resort with the citizens, the name at first, so historians think, being 'Smoothfield.' The level open space was turfed, and made suitable for horse exercise and a variety of sports.
During the Middle Ages our kings had a palace in the city, and many of the nobles built themselves houses within the walls, or not far off. For some centuries tournaments were forbidden on account of their danger, and they were seldom held in England till after the reign of Richard I. The position of Smithfield was very convenient for holding jousts and tournaments. None but those who were esquires or knights were allowed to take part in these contests, which usually celebrated some important event, such as a royal marriage or a great victory. These tournaments gave an opportunity for a display of courtesy and chivalry. Galleries were arranged for ladies, and one in particular was chosen to preside, who was usually called the 'Queen of Beauty.' If any dispute arose, this lady settled it, and she also gave away the prizes awarded to the victors. A remarkable tournament was held in 1374 at Smithfield. A grand procession was started from the Tower; the King rode first in a triumphal chariot, followed by a number of ladies on horseback, each of whom had a knight leading her horse by the bridle. Many gallant feats of arms were performed, and the tournament lasted a week.
After the battle of Poictiers, a three-days' tournament took place in the cold weather of March, when the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and the sheriffs offered to hold the field against all comers. The chief of the heralds and minstrels had forty pounds given him for his services—a large sum in those days. Richard II. held a great tournament in 1394, when the Earl of Mar and other nobles from Scotland appeared in the field. Then, and for several years afterwards, there were several jousts and combats between Scots and Englishmen. A remarkable combat took place in 1398 on London Bridge, a wooden structure broad enough to give room for the fighters and spectators. Sir David Lindsay and Lord Wells agreed to run courses on horseback for life or death, and this was done in the presence of King and court. After a desperate struggle, Sir David Lindsay won. Again, there was a joust at Smithfield during the same reign, when the Queen gave as prizes to the most successful in tilting a gold coronet and a rich bracelet. At this tournament, too, there was a grand procession from the Tower; in front there rode an array of minstrels and heralds, while along the streets flags and banners were displayed.
The fifth Henry held several famous tournaments, and so did the fourth Edward. Edward IV. had a tournament at Smithfield in which his queen's brother, Lord Scales, engaged the young Duke of Burgundy. They fought with spears, swords, and pole-axes, until Lord Scales slightly wounded the Duke. It seemsprobable that tournaments at Smithfield ceased after the Wars of the Roses.
It may be as well to explain the difference between a tournament and a joust. Jousting, or tilting, was a frequent amusement; in this the knights fought with blunt lances, and each tried to break his opponent's lance or to unhorse him. But in a tournament they engaged with sharp weapons, and the combatants were often wounded, sometimes killed outright. The large open space in St. James's Park, next to the Horse Guards, was at first called the Tiltyard, because of the tilting that went on there when our kings came to reside in Westminster.
(Concluded from page 167.)
'The Deerslayer' abounds in incident. One of the most thrilling adventures is that which befell 'Floating Tom' and Hurry Harry, who had so far forgotten what was due from their white man's nature as to plan to enter the camp of the Indians at night, with the object of securing the scalps of unwary men, women, and children, and so obtaining the bounty offered by the Government for each scalp. On one of these occasions, when they had gone ashore, they were taken captives by the Indians and came very near to losing their lives. They only escaped through the brave conduct of Hetty, the well-known straightforward dealings of Deerslayer, and the fact that hidden away in an old sea-chest of Hutter's, amongst fine clothes and other relics, were some beautifully chased ivory chessmen, among them being four castles supported by elephants, an animal unknown by sight to the American Indians. When the grim old warriors who held Hutter and Hurry prisoners saw the little ivory animals, their delight knew no bounds. They were familiar with horses and oxen, and had seen towers, and found nothing surprising in creatures of burden. They supposed the carving was meant to represent that the animal they saw was strong enough to carry a fort on its back. It was fortunate for the prisoners that the old sea-chest contained such treasures; had it been otherwise, they would probably both have lost their lives.
They were not so fortunate when they fell a second time into the hands of the Hurons, who had secretly gained possession of 'Muskrat Castle,' as Hutter's house had been called. This 'castle' stood in the open lake, at a quarter of a mile from the nearest shore. There was no island, but the house stood on piles, with the water flowing beneath it. The lake in other directions was of a great depth, but just where the piles had been driven was a long narrow shoal, which extended a few hundred yards in a north and south direction, rising to within six or eight feet of the surface of the lake. Floating Tom had built his house strongly, while the position made him safe against attack unless his assailants came in a boat. One day when Hutter and his friends were absent from the 'Castle,' the Hurons took possession of it, and when Hutter and Hurry returned they knew that they had fallen into a complete trap. Only a short time previously, Hurry's reckless spirit had led him to commit an act of wanton cruelty,—that of raising his gun and firing from the canoe in which he was seated into the woods. His random shot struck down an Indian girl, and caused her death, so that the Hurons felt no goodwill towards him. The Indians knew, too, that Tom and Hutter would have been only too willing to attack any of their party should it lie within their power to do so. Hurry, whose conduct towards his foes had been ferocious, was captured by means of a rope of bark, having an eye, which was thrown so dexterously that the end threaded the eye, forming a noose and drawing his elbows together behind his back with a power that all his gigantic strength could not resist. A similar fastening secured his ankles, and his body was rolled over on to the ground, as helpless as a log of wood.
Hutter fared even worse, for he was found by his daughters wounded, and in a dying condition.
'Oh, Judith!' exclaimed poor, weak-witted Hetty, as soon as they had attended to the sufferer, 'Father went for scalps himself, and now where is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful punishment.'
A different scene is that which tells what befell Deerslayer when he fell into the hands of the foe. They had let him out on furlough, well knowing that they could trust his word. It was in vain that his friends in 'Muskrat Castle' tried to persuade him that he was not obliged to keep faith with such a cruel foe. Deerslayer was firm. A promise to return had been given, and it must be kept, for God had heard it, and God would look for its fulfilment. Well he knew that the cruelties of the Indians would be practised on him, and that he would be put to the 'tortures'—the young Indians, all of whom hoped to become warriors, would not, he knew, hesitate to subject him to such woes that even to read of them makes one's heart sink. Yet this knowledge could not deter him from keeping faith with them.
Bound so tightly to a tree that he could not stir an inch, he was obliged to submit while the various young men of the Indian tribes threw their tomahawks so as to strike the tree as near the victim's head as possible without hitting him. His nerves stood the terrible test, and he neither winced nor cried out with fear. The second torture was that with the rifle, only the most experienced warriors taking part in this. Shot after shot was sent, all the bullets coming close to the Deerslayer's head without touching it. Still no one could detect even the twitching of a muscle on the part of the captive or the slightest winking of an eye.
But we will not continue to describe the tortures to which the brave Deerslayer was subjected, none of which could cause his brave spirit to quail. Hetty, whose feeble mind won for her the esteem and care of the Hurons—who believed that the feeble-minded were under the special favour of the Great Spirit—unable to endure the thought of what Deerslayer, their good friend, might be suffering, made her way to the camp of the foe,carrying her Bible with her, and there addressed the chiefs and warriors assembled at the 'sports.' They listened to her patiently and kindly for a time, but after a while bade her sit down, and proceeded with their dreadful work. In vain did Judith, dressed out in all the brocaded finery from the old sea-chest, suddenly appear on the scene, telling them that she was a great mountain-queen who had come in person to demand that Deerslayer be set free. Both the sisters' attempts failed, and death would have been the lot of the good man had not troops from the nearest garrison arrived at the very moment when they were most needed, and so saved Deerslayer.
The Deerslayer in the Hands of the Indians.The Deerslayer in the Hands of the Indians.
"He grasped my left wrist.""He grasped my left wrist."
I descended to terrible depths during those homeless days, and, at the lowest, when half-starving, dirty, hopeless, it happened that I almost ran against Mr. Parsons. It was about a quarter to three, in Brook Street. He stopped abruptly, and stood gazing at me with an evident effort to maintain his usual expression of benevolence.
'Now,' he said, smoothly, 'you will just make up your mind to come along with me, my lad.'
'I know I won't,' I answered.
He stood with his hands on the crook of hisumbrella, while his lower jaw moved as if he were trying to swallow something; but whether it was one of his favourite aniseed lozenges, or his indignation against myself, was more than I could tell. One thing, however, seemed certain: if he strove to hide his wrath, it could only be with the object of getting me once more into his power.
'Ah, Jacky, my lad,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, 'you have not done much good for yourself since you turned your back on your best friend. A great mistake, Jacky—a great mistake!'
Indeed, I must have looked very disreputable. A pair of grey trousers, supported by one brace—the other having given way some days ago—a dirty shirt, neither jacket nor waistcoat, unwashed hands and face, boots coated in mud, hair which had not lately known a comb and brush—it would have been difficult to find a grubbier street-arab within a few miles.
'Anything is better than living with you,' I cried.
He had drawn closer, but at the same time I took the precaution to edge away, determined on no account to allow him to put a hand on me again.
'Don't be afraid, my lad,' he said.
'I'm not,' I answered, though it was only half-true.
'I don't want to hurt you, Jacky,' he continued, in a wheedling voice. 'I want to be your friend. You look hungry, my lad; now come along with me—not home, but to a nice little eating-house I know. The hot joints will be just ready. Nice hot joints, Jacky—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and apple pie to follow. It is waiting for you round the corner, Jacky, as much as you like to eat, and then we can have a nice quiet chat together.'
It appeared inconsistent, but the naming of these luxuries caused a feeling of something like temptation for the moment, which only those who have been in need of food can understand. While I knew that nothing in the world could induce me to accompany Mr. Parsons, still the mention of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tickled my palate, and a great longing for something to eat came over me. I had tasted no food that day, and yesterday only a few scraps.
Instead of answering, I turned my back, whereupon Mr. Parsons thrust out his umbrella, catching my right arm with its crook, while at the same time he grasped my left wrist with his disengaged hand. Now I had been conscious of a strange giddiness and weakness, with a tendency to let my thoughts wander, during the whole of yesterday and to-day, and at this moment the fear suddenly seized upon me that I might be unable to resist the man and consequently fall into his hands again. So raising my voice I shouted with all my might, 'Police! police!' and although no policeman appeared, two or three passers-by soon collected around us, while Mr. Parsons still gripped my wrist.
'Would some gentleman kindly call me a cab?' said Parsons, in a voice which might have deceived anybody. 'You will break your father's heart, Jacky,' he continued. 'Now come home to your mother without making any more trouble.'
'You are not my father,' I answered, still speaking as loudly as I could. 'You are a thief, you make false coin, and you live at——'
'Ah!' cried an old lady, who formed one of the small crowd which by this time had collected, 'here is a policeman at last,' and at the same moment I felt Mr. Parsons' grasp relax. Pushing his way through the throng, he stepped into the middle of the road, stopped a passing hansom, entered it and was driven off. While the old lady intercepted the policeman, I seized the opportunity to get away, turning my steps towards Hyde Park, where I sat down on a seat.
Now I began to find a difficulty in keeping my eyes open; my chin constantly dropped on to my chest, and then I would wake again with a start.
I seemed to be living again through all that had occurred since I left Castlemore: again I was selling the silver watch and chain at Broughton, while the tramp gazed at me through the window; again I was being pursued along the main road, sleeping under the tree in the wood, robbed of all I was possessed in the chestnut plantation. Once more I was awakened after a short sleep by Mr. Baker's dog, Tiger, and taken to the cosy farmhouse with the red blinds, where Eliza gave me food and a comfortable bed, in which I dared not lie down to rest, because I knew that Mr. Baker would be certain to carry me back to Ascot House the following morning. Then again I was racing across fields, floundering into damp ditches in the darkness, sleeping in the shed, and afterwards helping a bicyclist to blow up his tyre in the country lane. Once more I seemed to be lying prone in the cornfield, while Mr. Turton inquired whether Mr. Westlake had seen me, and Jacintha was looking down from the other side of the hedge at the same moment. I was sleeping in the empty house on the forest, and shivering at the weird, ghostly sounds in the night; I was again delighted to make friends with Patch, and regretful to have him taken away from me by the fat ginger-beer man.
I could almost taste the pear and the preserved apricot which I had eaten in the arbour at Colebrooke Park with Jacintha and Dick; once more I made the acquaintance of Mr. Parsons in the train.
Which, if any, of these were waking memories, which were feverish dreams, it is quite impossible to tell, but every day's experience seemed to be lived through again, and, at all events, at last I must have fallen pretty soundly asleep; and after I actually woke again, reality appeared like a dream. It seemed perfectly natural, after my recent adventure with Parsons, to meet Jacintha and a lady, who, from the likeness, in a confused kind of way I imagined must be her mother.
I fancy that I must have opened my eyes for an instant, and then, unwillingly, have closed them again. At any rate, as I sat on the seat, there stood Jacintha, much more gaily dressed than I had seen her before, with gloves and a sunshade, and high buttoned boots, but apparently taking no notice of me as she continued to talk very quickly and excitedly to her companion. They were still in the same position, Mrs. Westlake listening with a kindly, grave face, Jacintha looking almost as if she had been crying, when I once more opened my eyes.
'Jacintha!' I murmured, and still she seemed to be almost a part of my dream.
'Mother, he is awake!' cried Jacintha, and Mrs. Westlake leaned forward towards me.
'I want you to come home with me,' she said, but when I tried to stand, it seemed as if I should have fallen if she had not put a hand beneath my arm. With Mrs. Westlake supporting me on one side and Jacintha on the other, I managed to cross the road to the nearest gate, where a hansom was hailed, and I found myself seated by Mrs. Westlake's side, while Jacintha was perched on her knees. Probably I dozed off again the next minute, for the next thing I knew was that the hansom had stopped before the door of a large house, where a middle-aged butler carried me through the hall and laid me down on the dining-room sofa.
Mrs. Westlake seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with a short, stout, rather elderly nurse, whose name was Harper, and presently she left the room, to return a few minutes later with a breakfast cup full of beef-tea, after drinking which I felt very much better. A little later, the butler half-led, half-carried me upstairs, and I seemed to be getting into a deliciously comfortable bed, where I quickly fell asleep in earnest. I have an idea that Harper came to look at me once or twice during that night, and the next morning she took my temperature with a thermometer, but although she declared there was not anything the matter with me, I felt very tired, and not in the least sorry when she brought me my breakfast in bed.
It was about twelve o'clock when Mrs. Westlake herself came to tell me to get up, and then Harper brought a dressing-gown, which together with everything else in the room must have belonged to Dick, who was away from home on a week's visit.
'First of all, you are to have a nice warm bath,' she said, and she led the way to a bath-room, where she had already made everything ready. The water was quite a foot deep and delightfully hot.
When I had had a bath, and put on a summer vest, a white shirt, a suit (almost new) of drab tweed with knickerbockers, a collar and a decent blue and white spotted tie, I confess that I regarded my figure in the glass with considerable approval.
'If you're quite ready,' said Harper, outside the door, 'you're to come to lunch,' but first she led the way to what was evidently Mr. Westlake's smoking-room. I fancied from his manner that he only half-approved of all that Mrs Westlake had done for me. He reminded me of Captain Knowlton, not because the faces were alike so much as because they both seemed to dress and speak in the same way. Captain Knowlton had been dark-haired, and wore a moustache, while Mr. Westlake was fair, and his upper lip was shaven, but he also wore an eyeglass, and stood nearly six feet in height, appearing a little stiff before I knew him properly. As Mrs. Westlake led me towards him, she said a few words in French, and I knew that they referred to her own boy, and the possibility that he might want friends some day, but still Mr. Westlake did not offer his hand, but only nodded and said, 'How d'ye do?'
'Let us go to luncheon,' he exclaimed the next moment, and I stepped forward to open the door for Mrs. Westlake. In the dining-room I saw Jacintha, who at once met me with her hand outstretched.
'You gave me quite a shock in Dick's clothes,' she cried.
'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, turning to Mrs. Westlake. 'I—I don't know what to say.'
The butler stood with his back slightly bowed, ready to remove a dish-cover; Jacintha shook back her hair, and looked tearful; Mrs. Westlake stared at the plates at her end of the table, and her husband put a pair of hands on my shoulders and pushed me towards my chair, facing Jacintha.
'That's all right,' he cried. 'Sit down and have a good luncheon. We will talk by-and-by.'
(Continued on page 181.)
Readers ofChatterboxwill remember a story which told how a child saved a German town; here is another tale of a siege in which children played an important part.
One morning, during the siege of Hamburg, a weary merchant was slowly returning to his house. With other business men, he had been aiding in the defence of the walls. So severe had been the fighting that he had not taken off his clothes for a week.
He reflected bitterly that all his labour was in vain, for by the following day famine would have compelled a surrender. Passing through his garden, he found himself admiring his cherry-trees, which were loaded with fruit. The mere sight was refreshing, and a thought occurred to the merchant. He was aware that the enemy were suffering from thirst. How glad they would be of that juicy fruit! Could he not by its means purchase safety for his city?
There was no time to lose, and he speedily made up his mind. He collected three hundred small children belonging to the city, had them all dressed in white, and loaded them with cherry-branches from his orchard. Then the gates were opened, and they were sent forth in the direction of the enemy.
When the commander of the besieging force saw the white-robed procession passing through the gates he suspected some trick, and prepared for battle; but when the children came nearer, and he saw how pale and thin they were from want of food, tears filled his eyes, for he thought of his own little ones at home.
As the thirsty—and, in some cases, wounded—soldiers received the juicy fruit from the children's hands, a cheer arose from the camp. Love and pity had conquered. The little ones returned accompanied by waggons of food for the famished citizens, and an honourable treaty of peace was signed the next day.
For many years, the anniversary of the day on which this deed was done was kept as a holiday, its name being 'The Feast of Cherries.' The streets were thronged with children, each one carrying a cherry-branch. Then they ate the cherries themselves, in honour of their brave little forerunners, the saviours of their city of Hamburg.