"Mag raised her shrill note of warning."
Mag was seldom at rest: from morning till night she hopped about, in her smart black-and-white coat—her bright eyes shining, her head a little on one side, and her chatter constantly to be heard.
Those bright, bead-like eyes of hers saw everything that was to be seen; but, of all the creatures that met her view, Mag admired the pheasants most. She thought there never were such fine and noble birds, and she could not tire of looking at them, and noticing how the rich greens and blues and browns of their soft plumage shone in the autumn sunshine.
She proved her interest once in a remarkable way. The pheasants—several of them—were pecking amongst the bracken, and Mag, perched on an oak bough overhead, was looking round, as was her custom, when her glance fell upon a fox, lurking treacherously amongst the long grass, evidently making ready to spring upon the stately birds.
What was to be done? To cry out would be to draw Master Reynard's attention away from the pheasants to herself; but Mag did not hesitate for a moment. At the risk of her own life she raised her shrill note of warning, and the pheasants, roused to the danger, scuttled away, just in time.
The disappointed fox tried hard to get at the magpie, but her strong wings stood her in good stead, and she, too, managed to reach a place of safety.
Two moles once dwelt together in a hole at the foot of an enormous mountain. They had long lived a quiet life, and now wished to make a noise in the world, so they caused a report to be spread about among the animals that they intended moving the mountain on a certain day. The beasts thought it a wonderful thing that two little moles should move a great mountain, and they never stopped to ask if it was possible or not.
On the day appointed, they came together with one accord to see this extraordinary feat of strength. Not only animals came, but men too, who had provided themselves with sacks, bags, and wheelbarrows to carry away the gold and silver and other precious metals which they fancied were inside the mountain. After waiting some time, the moles came out, and said: 'Dear sirs, the sight of so many of you here to-day does our hearts good. We have lived a very quiet life hitherto, and now desire to make a name in the world. We will, therefore, perform the wonderful task of moving the mountain as we promised; but before it can be accomplished, we shall require you all to bring a large waggon and place the mountain on the top of it ready for starting. Until you have done this, we shall not be able to move the mountain.'
Then the moles retired to their hole to watch the effects of their speech. The animals saw at once that they had been deceived, and they tried to tear down the place, but could not, for the wily moles lived too far under the ground to meet with any hurt.
Moral: Do not be taken in by the vain promises of those who only wish to make a name for themselves.
(From H.Berkeley Score'sOriginal Fables.)
When I was a child about seven years of age, my friends one holiday filled my pockets with half-pence. I went directly to a shop where toys were sold for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I saw on my way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain which I had made, told me that I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and they laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation. My reflections on the subject gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This little event, however, was afterwards of great use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, 'Do not give too much for the whistle,' and so I saved my money.
From 'Benjamin Franklin's Life.'
T
LITTLE Bee, one sunny day,Through garden beds sped on its way;It went from flower to flower.As on its busy way it flew,It entered blossoms white and blue,And lingered by the bower.Each lovely blossom with its cup,Something of sweetness yielded up,Something of what was good.There was no flower that I could seeBut gave up something to the bee—Each one did what it could.As on through life I go each day,And here and there pursue my way,Like to that busy bee.Oh, may I gather what is good,And find for heart and mind sweet food,Enriched by all I see!
On a cold winter's afternoon, in the year 1806, the little crowd that had been attending a sale of furniture at the chief auctioneer's in Wolverhampton was slowly melting away, for the few lots still left to be sold mostly consisted of worn-out saucepans, broken towel-rails, and some shabby chairs, and such-like worthless articles.
Very poor people, however, cannot be too fastidious, and a few buyers still remained who were glad to bid for such things, and amongst these people was a respectable-looking widow, in threadbare mourning, with a boy of about thirteen years old by her side.
'Lot 213!' said the auctioneer, with a yawn; for the excitement of the sale was over, and he did not waste professional jokes except on well-to-do hearers. 'Rosewood armchair, upholstered in best wool damask! Now, then, what offers?'
His assistant meanwhile had hoisted on to the table the very shabbiest chair that had ever occupied so prominent a position! No doubt it might once have been a good piece of furniture, but now the rosewood was so encrusted with dirt that it required much scrutiny to say what the wood really was; and, as for the 'best wool damask,' that must have existed only in the auctioneer's imagination, for the chair looked as if it were upholstered in a ragged, colourless canvas, with the stuffing sticking through in numberless places.
Some of the little audience laughed and jeered as the chair was placed before them, and one man said, derisively, that 'it wasn't worth breaking up for firewood.'
The little widow's eyes, however, brightened, and she whispered to the boy, 'That's the chair I told you of. I saw it yesterday. I could clean it up, and make it comfortable for your grandfather. I can't bear to see him sitting on that hard chair of his, with his rheumatism and all. But I'm afraid it will go for more than I have.' And she clutched the leather bag, with its solitary half-crown, more firmly in her hand.
'It's a big chair,' said the boy; 'but it's all to pieces, mother.'
'I could settle it, if only I get it,' said the widow, anxiously, still looking at the chair.
'Now! What offers?' repeated the auctioneer, looking impatiently round. 'Come, make a bid! A good rosewood chair, upholstered in damask.'
There was silence. No one seemed to want such a wretched piece of furniture, except the widow, who longed for it so earnestly that the power of speech seemed to go from her.
'George,' she gasped, as she pulled her boy's sleeve, 'say you'll give a shilling. I can't make him hear me.'
'A shilling!' shouted out the boy, and the auctioneer turned in his direction at once.
'A shilling for a rosewood chair, upholstered in best damask!' he said, in a voice of scorn. 'And this in the respectable city of Wolverhampton!'
The spectators laughed, but no one bid any further sum, so the auctioneer, who wanted to get home to his supper, banged his hammer on the table, and to her surprise and delight the widow found that the chair was hers.
With her boy's help she got the chair home, and cheered her invalid father by telling him 'his old bones should ache no longer. She would have him in an easy-chair by the following day.'
She was up at daybreak, and immediately after their frugal breakfast she dragged the chair into the yard, and began ripping up the fusty old lining.
'Let me do that, mother. I can rip finely,' said George, taking the knife out of her hand, for there is a certain joy in tearing and cutting that appeals to a boy.
'Very well,' said his mother, 'then I will get a pail of warm water, and we will scrub the rosewood, and get all this black dirt off it; and when that's done I'll begin the upholstering. I'm going to coverit with my old red cloak. It will be fine and soft for your grandfather, and I don't wear colours now, so that I can spare the cloak. But, first of all, I will put Grandfather in the window-seat, so that he can see all we are doing. It will amuse him; his life is dull enough, poor dear old man.'
She went indoors, and George continued the ripping, enjoying the clouds of dust he raised in the process.
The little woman had just settled her father comfortably on the wooden settle, where he could look out of the window and see all that went on in the yard, when they were startled by a cry from George.
'Mother! Mother! Oh, come!'
'He has cut himself!' said the poor woman, turning deadly pale, as she flew out into the yard.
But George was unhurt, though he looked dazed and half stupefied.
'Look here, Mother,' he said, pointing down to the ground, 'this chair was full of gold pieces. No wonder it was so heavy to drag home!'
'Gold pieces! Oh, no!' she said, shaking her head. 'You must have made a mistake, my boy.'
'Look at them!' said George, stooping down and picking up a handful of guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'
'Theylooklike guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety. 'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'
'Theyareguineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to Grandfather—he will know; and if they are—and Iknowthey are'—he repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.
Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all told.
Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he lost his case and had to pay the costs.
Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office to sign George's indentures.
Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'
S. C.
"'Mother, this chair was full of gold pieces!'"
"Set to the hardest and most menial work.""Set to the hardest and most menial work."
NE summer's day, nearly five hundred years ago, a queen lay dying in the royal city of Lisbon. She was an English princess, daughter of our own John of Gaunt, bearing the loved name of her grandmother, good Queen Philippa, and she had been a helpful wife to her husband, King Joao of Portugal, and a wise and tender mother to the five lads who stood in bitter sorrow round her death-bed. Even now, as her life ebbed away, she roused herself to speak to them brave words of cheer and counsel, and, calling them close to her, gave to each a sword, bidding them, with her failing breath, to draw the blades only in the cause of truth and right, and in defence of the widow and the orphan.
A good cause it was in which the young princes went forth but a few weeks later. They had one and all refused to receive knighthood for some bloodless achievement at a tournament, and had begged to be allowed to win their spurs by an expedition against the Moorish pirates, who, from their strongholds on the African coast, swept the Mediterranean Sea, and carried off numberless prisoners into cruel bondage. It was in the cause of many a widow and orphan, whose bread-winner toiled in some Moorish seaport, or below the decks of a pirate galley, that the Portuguese princes drew their mother's last gifts on African soil.
So well did they acquit themselves that, after one day of desperate fighting, the city of Ceuta, one of the most valuable of the pirate strongholds, fell into the hands of the three elder lads. Enrique, the third brother, who was not only a gallant fighter, but so skilful a general that our own Henry V. offered him a command in his army, so distinguished himself that his father would have knighted him first, had he not refused to be preferred before his elders.
But, of all the five, there was no more eager Crusader than the youngest, Fernando, who, though a mere child, had been the first to suggest the expedition, and who longed beyond everything to follow in his brothers' footsteps. Eighteen years, however, passed away before another such expedition could be undertaken, and by that time the eldest of the five brothers, Duarte (or Edward), the namesake of his great-uncle, our gallant Black Prince, had succeeded his father as King of Portugal. From him Enrique and Fernando won permission for another attack upon the Moors, and set forth, full of the hope of taking Tangier as they had taken Ceuta. But Fernando's honours were not to be won with the sword. The Portuguese forces found themselves so far outnumbered that the brothers, bitterly disappointed, felt it necessary to retreat. But worse was to come. There was a traitor in the Portuguese camp, who let the enemy know of the princes' movements, and when the starving, weary troops reached the coast at daybreak, they found themselves cut off from their ships.
The Moorish leader, Lyala ben Lyala, agreed to release the army in exchange for the city of Ceuta, Prince Fernando and some of the noblest of his followers remaining as hostages, while news of the disaster and of the terms offered was carried to Lisbon. The royal prisoner and his companions were treated with all honour and courtesy, and assured that their captivity could only be a short one, for the Portuguese King would lose no time in redeeming his gallant brother.
But the Christian prince knew better. The city which had been so gallantly won from the infidel might not be lightly given back. Some say that Fernando himself sent a message to the King at Lisbon, forbidding him to weigh his brother's freedom against the fair prize of their first deed of arms. At any rate, he showed neither surprise nor dismay when the answer was returned that the King of Portugal would pay any sum the Moors could ask for his brother's ransom, but would not part with Ceuta. It must have been heart-breaking work for the King and his brothers to agree with the decision of the Council, that the city must be held at the cost of the freedom of the youngest and best-beloved of their gallant band, even though they knew that Fernando himself would be the first to applaud them. Grief and anxiety must have added to the sickness of which King Duarte died a year later, leaving a child heir and much trouble and confusion behind him. Enrique left camp and court to live in seclusion at Algarve, and there gave himself up to the study of naval science and astronomy. His name is famous yet as 'Prince Henry the Navigator,' and his renown spread over Europe in his lifetime. But, as he planned and sent forth exploring expeditions or studied the stars in his long night watches, the wise prince's heart must have ached many a time at the thought of the younger brother, paying the penalty of their failure among the dark-skinned foe.
For the Moors, who had hoped to hoist the crescent once more over their ancient stronghold, wreaked a bitter vengeance on the man who would not plead for his own freedom.
Fernando and his companions, sons of the noblest families in Portugal, were set to the hardest and most menial work, loaded with chains, and driven to their tasks with blows and threats. But no ill-usage could break the spirit of the prince, or induce him to send home entreaties for the only ransom his captors would accept. The lad who had promised at his dying mother's bedside to fight as become a Christian knight, was to show a higher courage than he had ever needed on the battle-field. He, the noblest born and the least robust of the captives, did his hard tasks with a diligence and patience which won the admiration even of his tormentors.
When the captives were shut at night into the dark and noisome dungeon where they slept, he would gather his companions about him and hearten them with his brave words, calling them brothers and comrades, and only grieving that he had led them to share his own ill-fortune. Complaints and murmurs were shamed into silence by his brave patience, and if ever the self-control of the weary, half-starved captives broke down and they quarrelled among themselves, the angry words were checked by the remembrance that nothing would so grieve the prince. And since
'The courage that bears, and the courage that dares,Are really one and the same,'
not one of Queen Philippa's sons proved more worthy of his knighthood than the youngest of the five.
The bitterest trial came when Fernando's health, always delicate, gave way altogether under his privations, and he could no longer do the tasks required of him. Even the comfort of his companions' presence was now denied him, and in his wretched cell he lay patiently through the stifling days, counting the hours until the tramp of feet and clank of chains told of the return of his friends from their long day's toil.
Then, if their warder was lenient, there would be a pause by the cell-door, and a moment's breathless waiting lest there should be no answer to their anxious question of how he did, lest the voice, that would still speak words of comfort and cheer through the darkness, should be silent for ever.
But, as the prince grew weaker, his courage and patience moved even his captors to mercy, and his friends were about him when, after seven years of slavery, the brave spirit passed at length into the true freedom.
Thirty years later the body of Fernando was ransomed, in exchange for a Moorish prisoner, and laid in his native land; but his true monument is the city which his long captivity saved for Christendom. The days of such slavery as his are gone by. The galleys of the Moorish pirates no longer sweep the inland sea, and we shall have stories to tell by-and-by of the men who chased them from their strongholds. But Ceuta was won four hundred years earlier, by the swords which our English princess bequeathed to her sons, and was held by the seven years' brave patience of him who so worthily earned the name of 'El Principe Constante,' the Constant Prince.
Mary H. Debenham.
We can never fully understand an animal until we know its life-history, but we can give some sort of an account, at least, of its development from birth to death. With some creatures, as with butterflies, moths, or birds, for example, this is easy enough, but with others this is by no means true. The life-history of the Sole is a case in point; only by the slow accumulation of factshas this been put together. But the result is most interesting, and without more ado we now proceed to relate it.
The cradle of the young sole, like that of its relatives, the plaice, turbot, and flounder, takes the form of a crystal globe of a jelly-like material, in the centre of which lies a smaller globe containing the germ which will grow into the young fish, a little store of food material, and a small quantity of oil, which seems to keep the whole afloat at the surface of the sea. This is the egg. It differs from the eggs of its relatives, in that the oil which it contains is distributed in the form of tiny drops, instead of being collected in one big drop, as in the turbot's eggs, for instance. The careful mother lays these eggs far out at sea and leaves them; if they were deposited near the land they would drift ashore and be destroyed. And in the illustration (fig. 1, egg) you will see what this water-baby looks like just before he quits his cradle.
In less that a month the little sole has grown enough to enter the world, but he is strangely helpless; a tiny little creature, perfectly transparent, mouthless and finless, so that he must drift helplessly, whithersoever the currents carry him. Though mouthless, he is not hungry, for there remains within him a certain amount of the nourishing yolk, which was stored up for this purpose, in his crystal cradle. This little food reserve is the cause of the rounded swelling on the under surface of the young sole in the illustration (fig. 1,aandb). In this picture you should note, first of all, the curious shape of the head, which is, as yet, only roughly modelled. There is no mouth, and the eye, as yet, is colourless. Along the middle of the back there runs a high fin, transparent as glass, and this is continued round the tail and forwards to the swelling caused by the yolk-bag. Over the whole are scattered a few patches of colour, in the shape of spidery lines and blotches, as yet only just dense enough to attract attention.
At six days old, as you will see (fig, 1,c), he has grown darker, and has developed a mouth and a tiny pair of breast-fins; but beautiful he certainly is not, judged by human standards of beauty. It often happens, however, that the outward mark of ugliness is but the sign of hidden peculiarities of unusual interest. Up to this point this baby sole is very like any other fish-baby; but from now onwards it enters on a most remarkable career. At six days old he shows all the promise of a well-grown fish; that is to say, his body is round and tapering, he has an eye in each side of his head, and both sides of the body are alike in colour—in other words, he is symmetrical.
The beginning of the change (fig. 1,d) is indicated by a disposition of the growing fish to lie on one side—the left—and at the same time the left eye begins to change its position, moving from the side of the head towards the crown of it! In a short time this point is reached, and passed, and not until the left eye has approached its fellow of the right side fairly closely does its progress stop! By this time the habit of lying on one side has become fixed, and the body has taken the characteristic shape of thesole. Thus, then, what appear to be the upper and under surfaces of the sole, are really the right and left sides, and this can easily be proved by a careful examination of the body, which, if it be placed on edge will be found to have a back or dorsal fin, and a pair of breast fins—one on either side, as in ordinary 'round' fishes.
Fig. 1.—Egg of Sole, and Stages in its Growth.Fig. 1.—Egg of Sole, and Stages in its Growth.
The difference in the colouration of these two sides is a matter to which we must now refer. As everybody knows, the upper side is dark-coloured, while the under side is white. Why is this? Why are not the colours reversed, or why are not both sides coloured? These questions open up a most fascinating study—the use and meaning of the colours of animals. And you will find, when you come to look into the matter, that there is a very close relation between the colour of an animal and the nature of its surroundings. In the case of the sole, the brown upper surface, from its resemblance to the mud and sand at the bottom of the sea, serves to conceal it from the sharp eyes of prowling fishes on the look-out for a meal. A broad expanse of white would at once betray it to the enemy. No colour is developed on the under surface, for it would be a waste of energy to produce colour for a surface that was kept constantly concealed from view.
Fig. 2.—Full-grown Sole.Fig. 2.—Full-grown Sole.
Although, in our picture, all these fish can be seen quite plainly, in real life they are quite hard to find. The young, being well-nigh transparent as glass, are almost invisible as they float in the water; while later, when these wanderings cease, and they settle down to a quiet life, the dark colour forms an equally invisible covering.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
Prairie Dogs.Prairie Dogs.
The little animal which is commonly called the prairie dog is not a dog at all, but one of the Marmot family, which is to be found in Europe and Asia, as well as in America. The only reason for calling it a dog is that, when excited, it utters a cry which is very like the barking of a puppy.
This little marmot is rather larger than a good-sized rat, and rather like that animal in general appearance. Its colour is a red-brown, speckled with grey and black hairs above, but whitish-grey below. The tip of its tail is tufted with black hair, which is rather long and bushy.
The prairie dog lives out on the vast, treeless prairies of North America, where immense numbers of them congregate together, and make what are called dog-villages, or towns. The marmots burrow in the ground like rabbits, and sometimes the country is undermined with their burrows for a space of several miles. Each marmot, as it builds its burrow, throws out the loosened earth into a little hillock by the mouth of its burrow, and when it has nothing better to do it sits upon the top of its mound, and watches what is going on. At the sight of a stranger, or an enemy, the marmots, sitting on their mounds, begin to bark and chatter, jerking up their little tails with every effort until they feel that they are hardly safe any longer; then they drop into their holes, and, turning round, pop out their heads to watch a little longer. If the intruder comes too near, however, they withdraw altogether, and seek safety in the depths of the burrows. But they are very inquisitive, and if they are not harmed they soon put out their heads again to see what is taking place. Hunters who have walked through a dog-village, hoping to get a shot at one of the little householders, have been amused to see them scamper indoors as they approached, and come out again as soon as they had passed. All around, within the range of a gun, there was not a marmot to be seen, but at a safe distance there were hundreds, or even thousands, on the watch.
The opening of a marmot's burrow is four or five inches in width, and the passage runs downwards in a sloping direction for several feet. It then makes a sharp turn, and continues horizontally for some distance further, till it turns slightly upwards. The marmot's nest is made at the extreme end of the burrow, and there can be little doubt that the last upward turn of the burrow is meant to keep the nest dry, when, after a heavy storm, rain-water flows into the mouth of the passage. The burrows are generally within a few feet of each other, and as the ground above them gives way under pressure, they are often a source of great danger to travellers upon horseback. The horses' feet slip, and there is great risk of their spraining or breaking a limb. For thisreason parties of travellers often have to go several miles out of their way, in order to get round a prairie dogs' village.
Prairie dogs live upon grass, and near their burrows the grass is cropped quite short by their flat, chisel-shaped teeth. In one respect they are very strong, for it takes a very serious injury to kill them, and they quickly recover from small ones. They have one or two enemies, the worst of which is probably the rattlesnake, which often takes up its residence in their holes. But, notwithstanding their enemies, the marmots increase in numbers very quickly, and soon over-run a favourable district. In winter they hibernate like our squirrels, passing several months underground in a kind of slow and nearly motionless existence. The sleep enables the animal to live on, after its grass-food is exhausted in autumn, until the crop grows again in spring.
In the year 1852, Gordon got his commission in the Royal Engineers. Two years later, he volunteered to go out to the Crimea, and came in for his full share of the terrible sufferings and privations of the ensuing winter.
One day, it is said, he came upon a corporal and a sapper, engaged in a hot dispute. The corporal wanted the sapper to stand up exposed on the ramparts, while he handed him up some baskets from below. Gordon at once sprang up to the parapet, told the corporal to follow, and planted the baskets, under the fire of the Russian gunners. Then, turning to the corporal, he said, 'Never order a man to do anything that you are afraid to do yourself.'
H. B. S.
T
HE seed set in the gardenBecomes a lovely flower,It opens in the sunlightOr twines about the bower;It beareth tender blossoms,In beauty it is drest,And though at last its grace is past,How many it hath blest!The tiny little acornBecomes an oak at last,And children swing upon its boughsWhen many years are past.Though now it looks so mighty,And branches hath so tall,Ah, yet we know, ere it did grow,It was an acorn small.As flowers grow up from tiny seeds,As oaks from acorns spring,E'en so from kindly words and deedsGrows many a lovely thing.They still the angry passions,They break the stubborn will,And earth so sweet, where these do meet,Becomes yet sweeter still.
Fred Miller was feeling very dull and rather sorry for himself. He stood by the garden gate and wished he had a brother or sister to play with, as other boys and girls had. He even wished that the holidays would come to an end and that he might go to school again: for in the holidays the children from school went away into the country or to stay with friends—all, except Fred; somehow there was never a chance for him to go.
He was an only child, but his father and mother had many cares, and could not spare time to amuse their boy, or spend money in pleasing him. 'You must play in the garden and not run about the streets,' Mr. Miller would say when he went off to his day's work: perhaps he did not quite know how tired a boy might grow of being in the same little plot of ground all day and every day.
Fred was thankful when there were errands to be done; it was better to fetch flour or potatoes from the shop than to play by himself. But the errands were soon over, leaving him face to face with the old question, 'What shall I do?'
'Fred,' called Mrs. Marshall, one day—she lived in the next house to Mr. Miller's—'can your mother spare you to go to the library for me?'
Now it happened that Fred had never been to the library, for his own people did not care for reading, so he was eager to take Mrs. Marshall's book, and he listened carefully to the instructions that were given him, and repeated to himself all the way the title of the book he was to try to get in exchange.
Books had hitherto meant nothing but lessons to Fred, and he was not more keen upon those than most other boys; but when he saw the rows of volumes on the library shelves, and was told by the clerk in charge to go and find the one he wanted, he woke up to the knowledge that they might mean something more.
He opened one, at random; it was full of pictures. He began to read; it was about strange places and people: about the dense forests and great rivers of some far-off land, and the wonderful creatures—birds, beasts and fishes—to be found there.
The clock struck twelve—it was a good thing for Fred that the sound was loud enough to startle him—he put back the volume of travels with a sigh of regret, found, with some trouble, the book Mrs. Marshall wanted, and ran all the way home to make up for lost time.
Though he would have been too shy to talk about them, his mind was full of the wonders of which he had been reading. 'I never knew there were such things; it's like—it's like having a new world to look at! I wish I could read some more; but perhaps Mrs. Marshall won't ever ask me to go again,' he thought.
Mrs. Marshall, however, did more than that. 'Why don't you get your mother to let you have a library ticket, Fred?' she asked, when Fred, flushed and breathless after his run, presented himself before her.
'Me! Why, I couldn't, Mrs. Marshall; I'm not grown up,' said the little boy, wistfully.
'Oh, that doesn't matter in the least,' Mrs. Marshall assured him. 'Come now, Fred,' she added, 'I owe you a good turn; I'll do my best to get you a ticket.'
Mrs. Marshall was as good as her word, and Fred, the proud possessor of a ticket of his own, was soon a regular visitor to the library. He had come to the end of his dull days, for, as the poet truly says:
'Books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good,'
and Fred had found it out.
C. J. B.
(Continued from page51.)
The close bond which united the families of the Moat House and Begbie Hall, and the daily intercourse, had thrown the two governesses much together. Happily for both, their acquaintance had grown into friendship and affection. Not only did they meet during the walks taken with their pupils, but Estelle shared with her cousins in Miss Leigh's lessons in arithmetic and English subjects, while Marjorie and Georgie, and Miss Leigh herself, received instruction in French, Italian, music and drawing from Mademoiselle Vadevant.
When, therefore, Marjorie had proposed to spend the remainder of the rainy day with Estelle, Miss Leigh hailed the suggestion with pleasure. She would have Mademoiselle's companionship, while the children amused themselves in their own way. She splashed through the mud and wet, laughing and happy, with Georgie dancing along by her side, and hardly noticed that Marjorie did not join in her mirth. Marjorie was uneasy; she thought Miss Leigh was unkind not to allow her to wait for Alan. What was the sense of hurrying her off when Alan wanted her?
It was some time before Alan overcame his pride enough to follow, and then he plodded rather sulkily through the slush. Passing by the ruined summer-house he paused to look at it, the vague mystery making it always an object of interest. He wished Peet had been a more genial man: it might then have been possible to get him to show the inside of that gloomy place. But he was very surly, and the secret must be found out in some other way.
As he stood gazing, a slight stir among the bushes attracted his attention. Slipping behind a corner of the buttress, he waited, somewhat sheltered from the dripping rain by the overhanging ivy. He had not long to stand shivering there. A hurried whisper caught his ear.
'What's that? Did you hear a sound?'
'I thought I did, but it seems quiet now. Come along this way. It's more—— '
The voices died away, and after some slight rustling all grew still again. Alan, now beginning to feel that the mystery, whatever it was, appeared to be deepening, and that he must decide what he meant to do quickly, was on the point of quitting his shelter, when another sound arrested his movement. A rough grating, the swing of the heavy door of the summer-house, and Peet stepped into sight. Hestopped to close the door carefully, and lock it before he walked away.
'Wonders will never cease,' thought Alan, amazed. 'Is that old curmudgeon in the business, too? He's the last man I should have imagined would mix himself up with a man like Thomas.'
Having no reason to expect further developments Alan set off at a run, so as to get out of the rain as speedily as possible. He was pretty wet, and what he had just seen and heard had made him forget the annoyances of the morning. His good temper was quite restored, though his thoughts were busy and perplexed. He almost made up his mind to consult somebody, and if he did, why not Aunt Betty, who never let out secrets? It was worth thinking about, even if he did not make up his mind to do it at once. At the same time he must not let things go too far.
Running down the path, vaulting the little gate leading into the shrubberies, and dashing down a back way almost dark with the thick laurel-bushes overhead, he soon reached what was known as the postern door. Entering a low passage, narrow and dimly lighted from some invisible opening, he pursued his way along various twists and turns of the old house, with now and again a few stairs up, till he finally came upon a crimson-baize door, opening on a long panelled corridor. The first two or three rooms were unoccupied, the remainder were devoted to the use of Estelle and her governess. In the schoolroom the whole party were assembled, the children waiting with more or less impatience for his arrival.
'Youhavebeen a long time!' cried Marjorie, while his cousin jumped up from the table, to clear away the round game they had been playing.
The governesses having retired to Mademoiselle's study, the children started off on their usual rainy-day amusement, hide-and-seek. They never tired of rushing about through the old passages and rooms, and often came upon strange discoveries. Things hidden away for years and forgotten, doors which had remained unopened, or perhaps even had been mistaken for a part of the wainscot for generations. These discoveries were somewhat awe-inspiring, and the game not unfrequently became what the children called 'Treasure-hunting.' They generally managed to keep together on such occasions; it was too uncanny to be alone in those ghostly apartments.
As a rule Georgie was not allowed to join in these weird expeditions. He was too young, and his conduct could not be depended upon. He might choose to be frightened and scream just at the wrong moment, or he would obstinately refuse to go into dark, shuttered rooms, where the smell of rats and dust seemed to strike them in the face, so stifling was it. Hide-and-seek could not be comfortably played with him, either. He could not run fast enough, nor did he like being left behind, and any sudden clutch from behind a door nearly terrified him out of his life. So, much to his disgust, he was forced to remain with the governesses, or go down to Aunt Betty, if she would let him sit with her. He liked that best, as she never minded what mess he made, or how untidily his toys were scattered about.
(Continued on page70.)