"He loaded the children with cherry branches.""He loaded the children with cherry branches."
"One pig went squealing down the road.""One pig went squealing down the road."
Jim Brown stood at the farmer's door—'I want a job,' he said.'Well, lad, have you done aught before?'But Jim just shook his head;An idler boy he'd always beenThan any in the village seen.'Well, tell me now, what can you do?''Oh, anything,' said Jim.'Oh, anything!' said Farmer Grey;Then looking hard at him—'Well, drive these pigs to neighbour Pratt—'Tis time they went, they're prime and fat.'Jim drove the pigs from out the yard,But, ere they'd gone a mile,One pig went squealing down the road,And one towards a stile;And while Jim pondered what to do,The naughty pig just wriggled through.Just then the farmer chanced to pass;'Hullo!' said he, 'what's wrong?'And when he saw Jim's downcast face,He laughed both loud and long.'My lad,' said he, with knowing wink,'You're not as clever as you think.'
Jim Brown stood at the farmer's door—'I want a job,' he said.'Well, lad, have you done aught before?'But Jim just shook his head;An idler boy he'd always beenThan any in the village seen.
'Well, tell me now, what can you do?''Oh, anything,' said Jim.'Oh, anything!' said Farmer Grey;Then looking hard at him—'Well, drive these pigs to neighbour Pratt—'Tis time they went, they're prime and fat.'
Jim drove the pigs from out the yard,But, ere they'd gone a mile,One pig went squealing down the road,And one towards a stile;And while Jim pondered what to do,The naughty pig just wriggled through.
Just then the farmer chanced to pass;'Hullo!' said he, 'what's wrong?'And when he saw Jim's downcast face,He laughed both loud and long.'My lad,' said he, with knowing wink,'You're not as clever as you think.'
C. D. Bogle.
The curious and interesting 'little ways' of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the designer of the Suez Canal, gained for him the favour of many prominent Egyptian officials, when he was in Egypt, and he was often able to get over a difficulty and do a kind act by unusual means. Among his duties was the inspection of a large number of convicts in the Egyptian galleys. Some of these were political prisoners—rather more than four hundred unfortunate Syrians, who had been brought from Syria by Ibrahim Pasha, son of Mehemet Ali, the famous Viceroy.
The Syrian prisoners begged the French count to help them to freedom. De Lesseps had no real power to do this, but he had a kind heart, and did his best to procure the release of the prisoners.
When, however, he mentioned the subject to Mehemet Ali, the Viceroy shook his head.
'These men,' said he, 'are my son's captives, and in such a matter I could no more handle him than I could handle the lightning.'
De Lesseps would not be put off. Mehemet, impressed by his persistence, and wishing to stand well with the French, at last told De Lesseps that he would manage to get five prisoners released quietly every week, until all were free.
He kept his word, and this piecemeal business of freeing the prisoners began. But very soon De Lesseps' house was besieged by the relatives and friends of the Syrians still imprisoned, all begging him to use his influence to get their own special friends included in the next batch to be set free.
The anxious folk thronged round the Frenchman, and in their eagerness plucked at his sleeve and tore it. He resolved to turn this fact to account with the Viceroy. He had an old suit of clothes torn into actual tatters, and wore it upon his next occasion of seeing Mehemet.
Mehemet was naturally greatly astonished at his friend's strange appearance.
'What on earth has happened to you?' said the Viceroy.
'In arranging that five of those prisoners should be freed each week,' replied De Lesseps, 'you have made me the prey of the relatives of those who yet remain in the galleys. The number of the Syrians was four hundred and twelve; therefore your Highness can easily reckon up and tell how long I must go in rags.'
The Viceroy was highly amused with the serious and pitiful look which De Lesseps put on as he said these words. After indulging in a hearty laugh, he gave orders for the immediate release of the remaining prisoners. Thus, by his ready wit, De Lesseps persuaded the Viceroy into an action which he would never have done if asked plainly at first.
E. D.
Have you ever heard of a white negro? Perhaps you will laugh at me for asking the question, but there really are such people in the world, and travellers and missionaries have met with them. I do not mean to say that there are whole tribes of white negroes in some far-off countries, which are not often visited by travellers, but that, scattered among all or nearly all the black races, there are individuals who are white. These persons are like the rest of the tribe in size and shape; they have the same features, and the same kind of hair; but their complexion is white, their hair is either quite white or straw-coloured, and their eyes are lighter in shade than those of their companions.
Dr. Livingstone met with several of these white natives in some parts of Africa, while in other parts he never saw any. One of these strange people was a young boy, a very fine, intelligent fellow, of whom his mother was very fond. His features were exactly like those of his parents, who were both black. His woolly hair was yellow, and the pupils of his eyes were pink. His father looked upon him with horror, very much as an English father might be expected to look upon a black child, and he treated him always as an outcast. The great traveller knew others, both men and women, who were quite white. Their skins were always very sensitive, and the heat of the sun blistered them very much. One of the white women, perhaps through a sort of shame for her colour, was most anxious for Dr. Livingstone to make her black, which was more than he could do.
A missionary who had spent many years in Fiji had met with five Fijians who were white. Three of these were grown-up persons, and one was quite a little baby, being only two or three weeks old. This baby's skin was much whiter than that of an English baby, although both its parents were young and healthy, and as black as any Fijian could be. The grown-up persons were as white as, if not whiter than, a weather-beaten Englishman, and their hair was flaxen. Their skin was very smooth, and lookedlike a kind of horn, and it was cracked and blistered with the heat of the sun, like the skin of the white negroes whom Livingstone saw. The white Fijians had pale blue or sandy-coloured eyes, which could not bear the heat of the sun, and the poor men went about with their eyes half closed. Similar men with white skins and white hair are found among the other black races which inhabit the islands of the South Sea.
Among the red men of North America there are a few who have no colour in their skins, and there are a great many who have light-coloured hair. In one tribe a traveller found a great many men and women who had had grey or white hair all their lives. He thought this was a very strange thing, but had he known as much about other countries, he would have been aware that this peculiarity is found among the dark races in nearly every part of the world. White men are found not only in the countries already named, but also in India, where they are looked upon with some amount of dislike by their fellow-countrymen. In some parts of Africa, on the other hand, these white men are regarded as magicians, and held in honour by the rest of the tribe.
Strange to say, not only are there negroes who are white, but there are some who are patched or spotted black and white all over. I have a picture of such a negro before me as I write. He is a native of Loango, on the west coast of Africa. From head to foot he is spotted in black and white patches like a piebald horse, though in all other respects he seems a large, well-made, healthy man. I have also before me the picture of a spotted negro boy; who was exhibited as a curiosity in one of the London fairs nearly a hundred years ago.
When a negro is white or piebald, it is because he has been born without the black colouring matter which other negroes have in their skin. He suffers from a defect, and deserves to be pitied. The black colour of a negro's skin enables him to bear the heat of a fierce sun, and, as we have seen, the negro whose skin is white suffers much pain and inconvenience. A similar colouring matter in the eyes helps to shield them from the bright glare of the sunlight, and the poor man whose eyes are without this protection is compelled to go about with half-closed eyes.
A couple of boys were once climbing about some disused scaffolding in a lonely place, when a beam on which they were standing gave way under their feet. Both fell, the elder a little before the younger. But just in time the elder managed to clutch another beam and hold fast to it. By a providential coincidence, his brother, catching wildly at anything within his reach, seized his legs, and the two hung suspended thus, with all the weight on the elder boy's arms. Before long, the strain became too great, and he called out to the other that they were lost, for he could hold on no longer. No one was near, and there was little hope that their cries would attract attention.
'Could you save yourself if I let go?' asked the younger.
'I think so.'
'Then good-bye, and Heaven bless you,' said the little boy.
With these words he let go, and was dashed to pieces upon the ground beneath. His brother, thus released from the additional weight, was able to pull himself up to a place of safety.
The wings of insects are like those of bats and birds only in the work they do. In another respect they are quite different organs. The wings of the bird and the bat, for instance, are formed from the front pair of limbs, but the wings of insects are formed on a very different plan from the walking limbs, of which there are never less than three pairs. The bat and the bird have only one pair of wings, the insects have two, though in many cases the hinder or second pair have been reduced to the merest stumps, or vestiges, as they are called. In other words, they are all that is left of a once useful pair.
The butterfly has two pairs of wings; the fly is a good example of an insect which has but one pair. The stumps or vestiges of the second pair can only be found after careful search. But these vestiges—which are known as the 'balancers'—have a new use, and probably act as organs of hearing as well as to guide the flight. The butterfly uses both pairs of wings in flight, the beetle only the hinder pair, the pair that in the fly are only 'vestiges.' The front pair of wings in the beetle form hard horny cases or shields for the protection of the hinder wings, which lie beneath them when not in use.
The wings of insects are often brilliantly coloured, and this colour may be caused in two very different ways. Generally the colours of the wings are due to the way the surface of the wing is made, for this surface reflects light. But the colour of the wing of the butterfly is to be traced to a quite different cause. If the fingers be rubbed over the surface of a butterfly's wing, they will be found to be covered with a fine coloured dust, whilst the wing itself will become quite transparent (as in fig.1). If this dust be looked at under the microscope, it will be seen that it is made up of a number of tiny scales, most beautifully shaped (as in fig.2). Each scale is fixed to the surface of the wing by a tiny stalk and in a regular order.
From the shape of the wings in the butterfly or moth we can tell more or less how the insect flies. Long and narrow wings give a swift and rapid flight, broad round wings a slow and leisured flight.
The wings of insects are moved by only a few muscles, but with wonderful rapidity. It has been calculated that the common fly makes with its wings three hundred strokes per second, the bee one hundred and ninety. The dragon-fly and the common cabbage-white butterfly of our gardens, however, have a much slower beat of their wings, the former twenty-eight strokes per second, thelatter only nine. The machinery by which they move is like that of an oar.
1. Butterfly's Wing (magnified). 2. Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified). 3. Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open. 4. Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).Butterfly's Wing (magnified).Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified).Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open.Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).
Butterfly's Wing (magnified).Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified).Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open.Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).
Insects' wings are folded in various ways. Those of the butterfly, when at rest, are raised up over the back, so that the upper surfaces of the right and left wings come together. In the moth the hinder wings pass under the fore-wings, which are held flat over the back. But the beetle and the earwig hide their hind-wings beneath a hard case not used in flight. The size of the hind-wings, however, is so great that before they can be covered by the horny case, they have to be folded up, and this is done in a really wonderful manner, especially by the common earwig.
Most people probably think of the earwig as flightless; but, nevertheless, beneath a tiny pair of horny wing-cases, a very wonderful pair of transparent wings is cunningly tucked away. The marvellous way in which they are folded up after use we cannot describe in detail here. In each wing there is a hinge shaped somewhat like a half-moon, in the middle of the stiff front edge (fig.3, in the wing extended on the left). When the hinge is bent, the outer half of the wing folds over towards the tail, and the tip points forward. The further inward folding of the hinge of this rod next appears to divide the wing into two, the second portion passing under the first, and thus bringing the wing down to half its original size. By this time the mechanical or automatic folding process stops, and the rest of the folding up has to be done by the aid of the pincers at the end of the body. Finally the packing up is complete, and the two hard outer cases, like a couple of tarpaulins, are drawn over the delicate wings to protect them.
On the right side of the body, in fig.3, the wing has been folded up, and is covered by the wing-case.
The folding of the beetle's wing is also done by means of a hinge, but the packing up is less close, as the outer covering cases are larger.
Most insects walk as well as fly, and their walking is not less wonderful than their flight. Fig.4represents the foot of a fly. It will be seen, under a strong microscope, to have a pair of large claws and a pair of leaf-like plates, one on each side. The claws and the plates have different uses. The plates are used when the fly is walking, say, up a window-pane or along a ceiling. They are moved so as to lie flat on the surface which the fly is crossing, and when they are laid flat a number of tiny hairs are pushed out from them, from the tips of which a sticky liquid oozes, so that the fly is practically glued to the surface on which it is crawling. The claws are used to cling on to uneven surfaces, on which they can get a good grip. In the next article we shall say more about the way in which insects walk.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
"There stood Captain Knowlton.""There stood Captain Knowlton."
During the meal Mr. Westlake talked about cricket, asking whether I played, and I explained that there had not been enough of us at Castlemore to make a proper eleven. He inquired further about Mr. Turton and Mr. Windlesham, and gradually led the conversation round to the days when I used to live in Acacia Road with Aunt Marion. I told him that she had married Major Ruston, and gone to India, but that I did not know her address nor Major Ruston's regiment.
'We can soon find that out,' he said, and sent thebutler for theArmy List. When he had looked in this, he raised his eyes to my face again, mentioning the number of the regiment, and explaining that it was at present at Madras.
Then he turned to the book again. 'I don't find Captain Knowlton—didn't you say that was the name?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered, 'but he left the service when he came home from India, four or five years ago. He came into a lot of money, you see.'
'And Captain Knowlton was your guardian?' he asked, fixing his eyeglass.
'Not exactly an ordinary guardian,' I explained. 'My father was a soldier too, and Captain Knowlton said he saved his life, and that was why he looked after me.'
After I had told him all about Mr. Parsons, he rose and went to the room where I had first seen him, calling me to follow. I shut the door when Mrs. Westlake had entered, and Mr. Westlake stood lighting a cigar.
'Upon my word,' he said, in his slightly drawling voice, 'there seems to be only one thing that is possible to be done with you for the present, Everard.'
'What is that?' I asked, with considerable misgiving.
'Naturally,' he continued, 'I shall write to Major Ruston and explain the exact circumstances in which Mrs. Westlake found you, and I have no doubt that when he hears what I shall tell him, he will make some sort of arrangement for your future.'
'But it will take a long time to get an answer.'
'No doubt, but you seem to be placed in a very awkward position. As far as I can understand, Captain Knowlton had every intention of looking after you if he had lived——'
'Oh, yes!' I cried, 'because he told me I was to go to Sandhurst.'
'But, you see,' he said, 'he did not make a will. Is that right?'
'Yes,' I answered. 'Mr. Turton found out the address of his solicitor, and told me there was no will.'
'So that, except your aunt in India,' he continued, 'there appears to be no one upon whom you have the least claim. Yet, Mr. Turton——'
'I don't want to go back to Mr. Turton,' I cried, taking a step towards him.
He took his cigar from his lips, and stood gazing for a few seconds at the ash, which he then knocked off into the fender.
'That is all very well,' he said. 'I suppose no boy who ran away from school ever felt any strong desire to return. But I understand that you admit that Mr. Turton tried to find you—that, in fact, he would have found you if Jacintha had acted as she ought to have done.'
'I don't want to get Jacintha into a row,' I exclaimed, and the slightest of smiles lighted his face.
'I am certain you don't,' he answered, 'and you need not trouble yourself on that score. But as Mr. Turton tried to find you, it is pretty clear that he wished to take you back with him. Now, if he wished to take you back, he could not have had any strong objection to keeping you. You don't complain that he treated you brutally?'
'No,' I said, 'I never saw him give any fellow a licking; but, still——'
'Anyhow,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'I have decided to write to Major Ruston, and tell him all the circumstances, offering to do anything on your behalf which he wishes; then I shall take a train to Castlemore the first thing to-morrow morning and have a chat with Mr. Turton.'
'I wish you wouldn't,' I exclaimed.
'That is what I feel compelled to do,' he said, 'and what I hope will happen is this. I hope that Mr. Turton will take you back and promise me to treat you well until there's time to get an answer from Madras. If that answer is unfavourable, though it is not in the least likely to be, I shall see Mr. Turton again. In any case, we must have no more wanderings. There has been enough of that. Supposing that Major Ruston cannot do anything, and Mr. Turton declines to keep you, we must make the best of a bad job. No doubt I can find you employment in a firm with which I am connected, and you ought to have sense enough to see that this is the very best thing to be done in the circumstances.'
'Couldn't you find me work at once, and not tell Mr. Turton?' I suggested eagerly, while Mrs. Westlake fixed her eyes on his face. But he slowly shook his head.
'Understand,' he said, 'I don't intend to lose sight of you again. At the worst, you will have to work for your living; but, in the meantime,' he added, 'I am going to put you on your honour. You must give me your word not to attempt to leave the house alone until my return.'
Of course I gave my word, but I felt that my last hope had gone. All that I had done, all that I had passed through, had been to no purpose. I might as well—far better—have stayed at Castlemore, since there seemed little doubt that I should be taken back to Ascot House to-morrow. I could imagine Augustus's triumphant snigger, and all the humiliation of the return.
'I should not be surprised,' said Jacintha, later in the afternoon, 'if Mr. Turton refused to take you back, and if he does,' she exclaimed, 'Father is going to see whether Mr. Windlesham will have you until he hears from Major Ruston.'
'I should not mind that,' I answered. 'I shall not mind anything if I don't go back to Mr. Turton's.'
I went to bed early that night, and slept perfectly until one of the maids knocked at my door the next morning. But when—as soon as we had finished breakfast—Mr. Westlake was driven away from the door in a hansom, I felt that my own departure might be only a matter of a few hours. During the morning Mrs. Westlake took me out for a drive with Jacintha, but try as I might it was impossible to show them a cheerful face, and while I understood that Mr. Westlake was doing what he considered the best for me, it seemed difficult not to regard him as an enemy. That afternoon I sat in the dining-room, unable to attempt to make my escapebecause of the promise which I had given Mr. Westlake, yet feeling that there were few things I would not endure rather than eat humble pie and go back to Mr. Turton.
Four o'clock had struck, and Mr. Westlake might arrive at almost any moment with the news of my fate.
'Do you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'that Father will bring Mr. Turton with him?'
'I should not be a scrap surprised,' I answered, dismally. 'Then I shall sleep at Ascot House to-night.'
'Mind you write,' she exclaimed, 'and tell me everything that horrid Augustus says, and all about things.'
A little later, as the clock struck half-past four, Mrs. Westlake entered the room.
'I think Mr. Westlake must have missed the train which he expected to catch,' she said. 'The next will not bring him home until about half-past six.'
'We were wondering whether Father would bring Mr. Turton with him!' cried Jacintha.
Mrs. Westlake came to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder. 'You know,' she said, gently, 'that at the very worst you will only stay at Castlemore until we hear from Mrs. Ruston.'
But, for some reason, I placed very little confidence in Aunt Marion, who, I felt certain, had entirely washed her hands of me before her marriage. Presently Jacintha suggested that we should go to another room where there was a chess-table, but it was impossible to fix my thoughts on the game, and she checkmated me twice in ten minutes.
'It's no good,' I exclaimed. 'I can't think of anything but Mr. Turton.'
When the clock on the mantelpiece struck six, I rose from my chair and began to fidget about the room, looking every few minutes to see how the time was passing.
'I think I heard a cab or something stop at the door!' cried Jacintha presently.
'So did I!' I muttered.
'I wish I knew whether Mr. Turton had come,' she said.
'Can't you find out?' I suggested.
'Perhaps I can see from the hall,' she answered, and as the front door bell rang again she left me alone in the room.
A few seconds later she hastily re-entered.
'Therearetwo!' she cried, excitedly.
'Is one of them Mr. Turton?' I demanded.
'I could not see distinctly through the glass door,' she said. 'Only I am quite positive there are two.'
As she spoke, and I gave myself up for lost, the butler hastened past the open door of the room in the act of thrusting his left arm into his sleeve. The bell was rung a second time.
'Do have another look!' I urged, and once more Jacintha darted out of the room, while I felt, for my own part, as if my feet were riveted to one particular part of the carpet.
'It isn't Mr. Turton,' she exclaimed, returning the next instant, and this was at least a reprieve.
'Perhaps he wouldn't have me back after all,' I answered, and then I felt suddenly cold from head to foot, for the voice of Mr. Westlake's companion sounded remarkably like one which I had never hoped to hear again. Unable to restrain myself, I ran out to the hall, and there stood Captain Knowlton giving his hat and stick to the butler.
'Ah, Jack!' he said, with one of his casual nods; and he took my hand as if he had parted with me yesterday, and had been expected back as a matter of course to-day. But I began to laugh and cry by turns, clinging to his hand as if I were fully determined never to let him go again.
(Continued on page 187.)
Our commonest bird is the sparrow, that plucky, impudent, little creature which hops about in our gardens and yards, and twitters upon our roofs all day long. It seems rather difficult at first to understand why it should be so much more common than other birds. It is not large or strong, or swift on the wing, and it seems to have none of those advantages which would help it to defend itself against enemies. It is not handsome, and it is not a sweet songster, so that man is not disposed to give it much protection. He is often prompted to destroy it, because of the injury which it does to his gardens and his crops.
But in spite of all its difficulties, the sparrow thrives, and brings up a numerous family, because it has less fear of man than other birds have. It frequents the haunts of men, while other birds are scared away from them. It requires some courage to brave the noise and tumult of a town, but the sparrow possesses this courage, and is rewarded accordingly. As other birds are too timid to trust themselves to a life among houses and streets, the sparrow needs no protection from them.
Ordinary as the sparrow is in almost every respect, we cannot but admire its courage and its wariness. It is surrounded by many dangers, and it is not only surprising how it braves them, but also how watchfully it looks out for them, and how cleverly it learns to avoid them. We all know how it watches the cats and the dogs, and even a man with a gun, and seeks a place of safety at the first sign of danger.
One of the newspapers recently gave a very striking instance of a sparrow's confidence and coolness. A passenger who was waiting for a train in one of the Underground Railway stations observed a sparrow hopping upon the rails in search of crumbs. A train came into the station from the direction in which the passenger wished to travel, and he had leisure to watch the sparrow. It allowed the engine to come within a few feet of it, and then, instead of flying away, it quickly hopped off the rail upon which it stood, and hopped into the space between the rails. There it lay until the train puffed out of the station, when it jumped upon the rails again, and resumed its search for crumbs. Presently another train entered the station, and the sparrow was seen to repeat its previous action, and to take refuge once more between the wheels of the train.
W. A. Atkinson.
"It hopped into the space between the rails.""It hopped into the space between the rails."
"The woodpecker fled in fear.""The woodpecker fled in fear."
The squirrel in the woods is as full of frolic and play as a kitten. One would think that it had not a care or anxiety of any kind to break in upon its play. And yet it has food to find, a family to bring up, a winter nest to make, and several stores of food to lay up ready for those occasional days when it wakes up from its long winter's sleep.
This winter sleep of the squirrel, and some other animals, is something very strange, which we do not thoroughly understand. With the first touch of winter's cold, they curl themselves up, and fall into a sleep which lasts until the return of spring. This sleep, or hibernation as it is properly called, is a very useful habit for the animals which are subject to it, because it enables them to live on at a time when their food is very often scarce. During this sleep their bodies scarcely waste away at all, and a few good meals, when they wake, soon put them right; whereas, if they were always running about, they would be almost incessantly hungry, and would probably die of starvation during the winter.
Some animals remain torpid throughout the winter, while others wake up occasionally, and enjoy a day's life every now and then in the midst of their long sleep. The common squirrel is one of the latter. Whenever there is a warm, mild day in winter, it wakes up, feeling very hungry, and turns out of its nest for a run. If it trusted to chance for a meal, it would have to return to its nest hungry. But during the autumn it has gathered large quantities of hazel-nuts, acorns, beech-nuts, and fir-cones, and has stored them away in various holes near its nest. When, therefore, it has enjoyed one of its winter runs, it visits one of these store-houses, makes a hearty meal, and then returns to its nest to sleep for a few more days, or a few more weeks, until another warm day comes round.
The squirrel selects for his storehouses various holes in the trunk of the tree near his nest, which are often the deserted nests of some wood-pecker. Indeed, he is not always content to wait until the wood-pecker deserts her nest, especially as he relishes the taste of an egg. A writer in theStandarddescribes how he saw a wood-pecker turned out of her house to make room for an impudent squirrel. The squirrel, descending backwards down a tree-trunk, suddenly found his hind legs in a hole. Probably he felt something sharp pecking at them, for he drew them out quickly, and rapidly climbed to a branch immediately above. A moment later a wood-pecker flew out of the hole. The squirrel watched her out of sight, and then returned to the nest, and helped himself to an egg or two, which he carried up to his perch, and ate.
When these were disposed of, he descended once more to the wood-pecker's nest and waited for the return of the bird. The moment she appeared at the entrance to her nest, the squirrel flew at her like an angry cat. The startled wood-pecker fled in fear, and the squirrel came forth triumphantly and went away for a short time. Whilst he was away the wood-pecker came again and looked into her nest. Something, however, probably a broken egg, displeased her, and she flew away again. Shortly afterwards her mate looked into the nest, but he, too, was dissatisfied, and flew away. Many times they returned to the nest, but always with the same result. At length they seemed to make up their minds that they could never make their home in that nest again, and they flew away to another part of the wood. The squirrel promptly took possession of the deserted nest, and when autumn came he turned it into a store-house for nuts.
W. A. Atkinson.
The world's a pleasant picture-book,Wherein my eyes may daily look,And see the things set there to please:Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.Soft rivers where the sunbeams play;The blue sky spread far, far away;Bright flowers that blossom at my feet,The tender grass, the ripened wheat.Though I am young, I may grow wiseWhen on this book I turn my eyes,And, as I look, with reverence seeThe pictures painted there for me.'Tis God Who made this book so fair,Who gave the colours that are there;Who paints the daisies red and white,And in the sky sets stars at night.
The world's a pleasant picture-book,Wherein my eyes may daily look,And see the things set there to please:Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.
Soft rivers where the sunbeams play;The blue sky spread far, far away;Bright flowers that blossom at my feet,The tender grass, the ripened wheat.
Though I am young, I may grow wiseWhen on this book I turn my eyes,And, as I look, with reverence seeThe pictures painted there for me.
'Tis God Who made this book so fair,Who gave the colours that are there;Who paints the daisies red and white,And in the sky sets stars at night.
Frank Ellis.
Slates are not so much used in our schools as they were years ago, exercise-books being cheaper now. Still, there are some schools where the children have slates, and pocket-books are to be bought, containing a slate tablet, on which you can write notes, and rub them out afterwards to make fresh ones. Slates upon the roofs of houses are objects familiar to us all. Probably few, young or old, who have to do with slates, ever think what this substance is, and where it has come from. Yet slate is one of the most wonderful things in this world of ours.
Supposing the first question put to us was, 'What is slate?' our answer would be, 'It is simply a sort of dried mud.' If the second was, 'What is its place amongst the rocks of our earth?' we should say, 'Slate belongs to the Cambrian formation.' This is a big series of rocks, sometimes eighteen thousand feet thick. It contains in the middle what geologists callflagsandgrits, but the larger part of it is slates. There is but one series of rocks more ancient than the Cambrian, and that is the one called the Laurentian, which is said not to be found in Britain.
'Cambrian,' some might say: there is a reason for that name, which of course is only another word for Welsh. Though, in their first order, these slaty rocks lie deep down, they have been lifted high up, and they show us some of the grandest scenerywe have in this island. The hills and precipices of Wales, and the hollows where the mountain streams flow, tell of the shakings and twistings that the Cambrian rocks have gone through. Amongst them grow ferns and rare flowers, while many a tourist draws in new strength as he mounts them. Sometimes, high up, the rains and winds have made the rocks so bare that even mosses cannot live upon them, and in the clear sunlight the slates appear of various shades, from pink to deep blue.
One curious thing about slate is that the layers are often twisted or wrinkled. This has been caused, partly at least, by their being thrust up when half hardened, so as to cause a sort of fold or crease. This was chiefly done by the still harder granite.
It is wonderful to think of the succession of plants and animals that slate has had to do with; it was in existence when the coal forests were forming, and it must have been trodden by the strange creatures of other strata, which are now extinct, but of which relics are dug up. Another remarkable fact is that the slate-beds have had wonderful ups and downs over and over again during the earth's changes—being at one time under a deep sea, at another lifted to form hills, as we frequently see them now.
A strange accident happened a few years ago on board a large steamer in the Red Sea.
One of the assistant-stewards had occasion to go to the ship's ice-room to fetch something which had been forgotten when the day's provisions were given out in the morning.
The man was not missed for some time, and, when search was made, the poor fellow was found nearly frozen to death. Some one had thoughtlessly slammed the door of the refrigerator, which could only be opened from the outside.
The prisoner had a terrible experience, and after doing what he could to attract attention, had sunk exhausted on the floor.
Fortunately, the head steward noticed that the key of the ice-room was missing, and this led to the man's discovery. If he had not been found till the following day, he would probably have been the first man to be frozen to death in one of the hottest parts of the world.
With the return of Captain Knowlton the story seems to come to its natural end; but, although he had heard from Mr. Westlake all about my own adventures, there still remained, of course, a great deal to discuss.
When he was presented to Mrs. Westlake, she insisted that we should both dine in Grosvenor Gardens, and as it was difficult to refuse anything to one who had shown me such kindness, Captain Knowlton apologised for his travelling clothes and consented. Presently, when we were all sitting down together, Mrs. Westlake begged for Captain Knowlton's story. He leaned back in his arm-chair, beginning in an easy, conversational tone, as if he were telling us about a walk from one part of London to another.
'It was April when I left the Solent in theSeagull,' he said, 'making for Gibraltar, where I picked up two or three men of my old regiment, and cruised for a week or two in the Mediterranean. Early in May I sailed for Madeira, touched at the Canaries, then steamed south, crossed the line, and in due course reached Capetown. There the man who was to have accompanied me for the whole trip found a telegram to the effect that his father lay seriously ill in Vienna, so that I had to continue the voyage without him. A few days out from Capetown we got into very bad weather, which grew worse and worse until, in the middle of the roughest night I ever experienced, we were run down by a huge liner, which brutally went on her way, leaving us to our fate. The skipper wanted to be the last to leave theSeagull, but I sent him off with seven or eight of the crew, and, before the rest could get away, the ship went down under us. I found myself in the water, one moment lifted high on the crest of an enormous wave, the next sunk in the trough. I gave myself up for lost, when something was washed against my arm, and seizing it, to my great good fortune, I found that it was one of our life-rafts, which had served as a seat on theSeagull'sdeck.
'The night was the blackest you can imagine; from the moment the ship foundered I saw nothing either of the boat's crew or of the men who had been left with me. For what seemed an endless time I clung to my raft, and I imagine that the tide must have carried me some distance from the scene of the wreck. As the night wore on—it seemed as if it would never pass—I grew weaker and weaker, but presently the sky became lighter, and just as I was telling myself that I might as well let go of the raft and bring things to an end, I saw a small schooner close by. After half an hour of terrible suspense, I began to think she was bearing down upon me, and, with such strength as I had left, I shouted. At last, thank Heaven, I succeeded in attracting attention; a line was thrown, and after some little trouble, more dead than alive, I was hauled on board.
'The schooner was a Spaniard bound for Valparaiso, but she had lost two men—washed overboard in the storm—and been a good deal knocked about. In fact, I began to think that my end had only been postponed for a few hours. She had sprung a leak, the water seemed to be gaining, and after a short rest I took my turn at the pumps with the crew. However, we rode out the storm, and then, two or three days later, we lay becalmed for three weeks. She was, at the best, the slowest craft I have ever seen, and everything seemed to be dead against her. We were many miles out of our course, the stock of provisions—such as it was—and of water ran short, and although the captain seemed very little dissatisfied, I grew more and more hopeless.
'Naturally,' said Captain Knowlton, with a glance in my direction, 'I thought a good deal of Everard. I knew that there was no one but myself to provide for him, and that in any case I should be given up for lost. Even if (as happily proved to be the case) our skipper succeeded in getting to land, he would be certain to report all the crew that were not in his boat as drowned—as, in fact, they all were except myself. I fumed and fretted to reach land, but that was all I could do, and when at last we got to Valparaiso, I lost no time in sending Mr. Windlesham a telegram.'
(Concluded on page 194.)
A Story of Adventure in the North Sea and in China.
By H. C.Moore, Author of 'Britons at Bay,' &c.
'I want a North Sea fisherman's outfit.'
'Yes, sir,' the Grimsby shopkeeper answered cheerfully, suspecting that his young, gentlemanly-looking customer required the things for a fancy-dress entertainment or theatricals. In two or three minutes he had produced for inspection a jersey, thick trousers—commonly called 'fear-noughts'—heavy top-boots, and a set of oilskins.
'I will try them on,' the lad said, and, retiring behind a screen, changed his clothes. Then he looked round for a glass, anxious to satisfy himself that he had the appearance of a North Sea fisherman. The shopkeeper, unasked, assured him that he had, and, as there was no one else there who could be consulted, the youth purchased the outfit.
'Do my other things up in a parcel,' he said to the shopkeeper. 'I will keep these on.'
'But it's raining hard, sir,' the man exclaimed, not believing that his customer wanted the clothes for real use.
'I don't mind that at all. I want a little of the newness rubbed off. Now I come to think of it, I might just as well have had a second-hand outfit.'
The shopkeeper rustled the brown paper, and pretended that he had not heard what was said.
'May I send it home?' he asked when he had made a neat parcel of the suit, cap, and boots which the boy had taken off.
'Yes. I will write the address.'
When the bill had been paid, the lad stepped out into the dirty Grimsby street, and strode off in the direction of the docks.
The clothesweremeant for use after all. Charlie Page—for that was the lad's name—was not going to a fancy-dress ball, but had purchased his fisherman's outfit because, on the following morning, he was to begin work as a deck hand on board the steam trawler,Sparrow-hawk.
How it came about that he was bound for the Dogger Bank needs explanation. His father was a prosperous Lincolnshire man who had built up a large export business, which was now about to be converted into a limited liability company. Mr. Page was to become managing director of the new company, but, unfortunately, he could find no suitable position in the concern for his son Charlie. He determined, therefore, to purchase, with a portion of the money which he would receive from the company, a new business for his son.
He had heard that there were three Grimsby steam trawlers for sale, and entered into correspondence with the respective owners. The price which they asked for the trawlers was not high if they really earned what it was asserted they did, but Mr. Page had a strong suspicion that the amount of their profits was exaggerated.
'Shall I go to Grimsby and discover the truth?' Charlie said to his father one evening rather suddenly. 'I might get a job on one of those three trawlers and keep a sharp look-out all the while I was aboard her. I could count the boxes of fish, and get all the information that I could from the crew.'
'A good idea, my boy, but do you think that you could carry it out? A North Sea fisherman's life is a terribly rough one. It would not be a pleasure trip for you.'
There was a great deal of discussion before Charlie's daring plan was finally adopted. Mr. Page was struck by his son's grit and keenness, and knew, moreover, that the experience would do him good. In his own young days, before he returned to Lincolnshire and settled down to business, Mr. Page had spent three eventful years in South America, and although he had had many decidedly unpleasant adventures, he by no means regretted them. He was glad, too, to find that his son inherited some of his love of adventure, especially as it was to be used, in this case, for a good, sensible purpose. Charlie was only sixteen, but he was big and strong for his age, and the sea air and hard life would probably do him good physically as well as morally.
'I will give you ten pounds,' he said to Charlie on the following morning, 'and as you are not likely to be away much more than a week, it will, I think, be ample for your wants.'
Charlie thanked him heartily, and an hour or two later started for Grimsby. He knew the town well, and making his way to the docks, had little difficulty in finding where theSparrow-hawklay. She was coaling when he discovered her, and knowing that all hands would be busy, he sat down on the black scaffold-like dock and watched from a distance as truck after truck was tilted over, sending its load of coal into the shoot, down which it ran with a rattle on to the ship's deck. The trawler's men, black as niggers, shovelled the coal quickly into the hold. Fortunately the greater portion of the load had been taken aboard before Charlie arrived, and after waiting for about half an hour, he saw the last truck-load shot down. He knew then that in about an hour's time some of theSparrow-hawk'smen would be coming ashore. He watched them with interest as, having shovelled all the coal into the hold, they turned the hose on the deck, and with brooms and swabs worked hard to remove the coal-dust which coated everything. When this task was finished,the men gathered around two buckets and washed themselves. They needed washing badly.