"He staggered forward and reached the landing.""He staggered forward and reached the landing."
"Lieutenant Fegan led a gallant resistance.""Lieutenant Fegan led a gallant resistance."
LEAVE the work with you,' said Livingstone in the Senate House at Cambridge, after speaking in burning words of the needs of Africa. He went back himself to the land from which he returned only to his grave in Westminster Abbey, and around the slab in the nave which bears his name, we read his words to those who should take up the work he left them: 'May Heaven's rich blessing come down on every one, American, English, Turk, who will help to heal this open sore of the world.'
The 'open sore' was the traffic carried on in those days, without let or hindrance, in the great slave-market of Zanzibar. The crowds of men, women, and children who were paraded up and down, examined, and bargained for, and then taken across to the clove plantations in Pemba, or kept as domestic slaves in Zanzibar, were brought from the interior by the Arabs, the great slave-dealers of East Africa. Sometimes a native village had been attacked and set on fire, some of the inhabitants shot down among their blazing huts, and the rest carried off. Sometimes the Arabs would settle for some time in a neighbourhood for elephant-hunting, and, when they had secured as much ivory as they required, would stir up a quarrel between two villages and offer their powerful aid to one side or the other, on condition of receiving all the prisoners in payment. Then came the horrible journey to the coast. The luckless slaves were yoked in gangs, often with their necks fastened into forked sticks. The sick or feeble, unable to keep up with the rest, were either killed or left to the mercy of wild beasts. Babies, whose mothers were hindered by their weight, were flung aside upon the terrible track. Those who reached the coast alive were packed in the hold of a slave-dhow, and, after enduring untold miseries upon the voyage, were sold in the market of Zanzibar. No wonder that the sight of such things as these roused the loving heart of Livingstone to a white heat of indignation, and sent him home to infect his countrymen with his own anger.
For some time the conscience of Christian Europe had been awakening to the duty of putting an end to these horrors, and, as in the case of the pirates of Algiers, it was England who first played the part of policeman. Early in 1873, Sir Bartle Frere was sent to Zanzibar to confer with the Sultan, Seyid Barghash, on the suppression of the slave-trade, and, a few months later, he was followed by six English men-of-war, reinforced by two French and one American ship. The effect of these nine good arguments for reform was that, on June 6th, 1873, a treaty was signed, by which the slave-traffic was abolished and the Zanzibar market closed for ever.
For years after that, however, the Arab dealers managed from time to time to evade the law, and to ship their cargo of miserable human beings, kidnapped from their homes on the mainland, from Zanzibar and Pemba. Therefore, there was plenty of work for the officers and men of H.M.S.London, appointed to watch the coast for slavers, and with authority to search suspected vessels. Many were the exciting chases and triumphant rescues made by the English sailors; many, too, the disappointments when the dhow proved to be empty, the slaves having been hastily smuggled on shore and hidden among the undergrowth till the search was over. As a rule the Arabs, though expert in tricks and shifts, did not offer armed resistance, but now and again they showed fight, and the rescue of their captives cost the life of more than one brave Englishman.
In 1881 the gallant Captain Brownrigg was killed in a struggle with an Arab slaver, owing chiefly to his own punctilious respect for the French flag under which the dhow was sailing. Not wishing to begin hostilities, he came alongside the Arab without arming his men, who were powerless to make any resistance when boarded by the enemy. The Captain, who wore his sword, kept up a gallant fight single-handed, even killing one man with his telescope before he fell at last bleeding from twenty wounds.
Six years later a pinnace from H.M.S.Turquoise, with Lieutenant Fegan in command, was watching the creeks and bays running up into the coast of Pemba Island. At daybreak one May morning, a dhow was seen making for an opening known as Fungal Gap, and the dinghy, or small boat, with three men, was sent to hail her. The dhow replied by a volley, and, as Lieutenant Fegan turned his nine-pounder gun upon her, she left the small boat and bore down upon the pinnace. The Arab crew numbered twenty desperate men armed with swords and rifles; the Englishmen were ten, of whom three were in the dinghy, but Lieutenant Fegan, shouting to his lads to stand firm, led a gallant resistance to the fierce, dark-faced men who sprang upon the deck as the two boats crashed together. Two men he shot down, and ran another through with his cutlass before he received a severe wound, disabling his sword-arm. Only the timely help of a sailor, who cut down his opponent, saved him from being killed outright. The dhow, finding the pinnace a tougher vessel than she had anticipated, tried to escape, but the English, though four of their number were wounded, at once gave chase, and were presently reinforced by the men in the dinghy.
Some of the Pemba Arabs, hearing the shots, came down to the shore and fired upon the pinnace, but the gallant vessel held on to her prize until the dhow foundered at last in shallow water and capsized, the crew jumping into the sea and trying to save themselves by swimming. Their well-wishers on the shore were soon dispersed by the English fire, and those of the crew who were not utterly disabled by their wounds, turned to the task of rescuing the living cargo of the dhow. The wretched slaves, crowded together in the hold and terrified by the firing, saw the kindly faces of the English sailors looking down upon them, and learnt by degrees that they were safe and among friends.
It was ten days before a doctor could be had to attend to the wounded; one man died, but the gallant fight had won freedom for fifty-two slaves, and in many cases not only freedom, but teaching and training such as they would never have had but for their short, bitter experience of captivity and the rescue that had ended it. The Universities' Mission was the direct result of Livingstone's appeal to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge; it offered to take charge of slave children released in Zanzibar, and in the girls' school at Mbweni, the Boys' Home at Kilmani, and the College for elder lads at Kiungani, a new generation was growing up of children saved from degradation and misery for a happy, useful Christian life.
And the most striking sign of the change that has been worked, is the scene which now meets the eye of the visitor to Zanzibar when he seeks the site of the old slave-market. The ground was bought by a member of the Universities' Mission, and upon the spot once given over to injustice and cruelty arose the stately Cathedral of Zanzibar: a church full of memories, where Bishop Steere was master-builder, watching over the mixing of the mortar and the laying of the stones, studying brick-making in England that he might put it into practice in East Africa. It was he who suggested the material for the roof—pounded coral, of which the island of Zanzibar actually consists, mixed with Portland cement and forming a solid arch across the church.
'It is supported by charms until the opening day,' said the Arabs; 'then it will fall and crush the Christians.' But the roof of Zanzibar Cathedral stands sure and firm after twenty-six years, and on the opening day, Christmas 1879, the hymns, 'Hark, the herald angels sing,' and 'While shepherds watched their flocks by night,' were sung in the native tongue on the spot where men had bought and sold their brethren, and as the 'up-and-down music' of chiming bells greets the traveller from the Cathedral tower, it will bring to his mind many a brave name among clergy, teachers, sailors and statesmen who took their part in 'healing the open sore of the world.'
Mary H. Debenham.
The late Archduke Joseph of Austria was fond of telling a story of how he bad been saved from disaster by a gipsy soldier.
It happened during the war with Prussia, in 1866, when the camp was pitched near a Bohemian village. A little before dawn the Duke was awakened by the sentry's challenge, 'Halt! who goes there?' and directly afterwards an adjutant came in to say that a gipsy was outside, and insisting on speaking to him in private.
The gipsy was a soldier, and on his being admitted, the Archduke asked him what he had to say.
'The enemy is stealing on us, and wishes to surprise us,' was the man's answer.
'But the outposts have seen nothing suspicious,' said the Archduke.
'No, your Highness,' said the gipsy, 'because the enemy is still far off; but he will soon be here, and then we are undone.'
'Well! but how do you know this?'
'Will your Highness step to the window?' said the soldier respectfully. 'Do you see the number of birds flying out of the woods to the south?'
'I see them—but what then?' said the Duke.
'What then?' repeated the gipsy, looking full at the Archduke; 'do not birds sleep at night as well as men? They would not be on the wing if there was peace in the forest. The enemy is certainly coming through the woods, and that is what has scared the birds.'
So the Archduke gave orders to strengthen the outposts and to rouse the camp, and when the foe arrived, they found—not a sleeping camp, as they had expected, but an enemy well prepared to give them a warm welcome.
The camp had been saved by the intelligence of the gipsy soldier.
ALM and still the waves are lapping,Silvered by the moon's pale light,As the noble ship glides onwardIn the silence of the night;While the exile, home returning,Dreaming of his heart's desire,Starts from slumber, rudely wakenedBy the dreadful cry of 'Fire!'In the smoke and din and turmoil,There the captain takes his stand;'First the women and the children,'Clearly rings his stern command.Boats are manned, and strong arms rowing,Bring them safely to the shore,Where kind hands are stretched to greet them,Safe from danger, home once more!
"Fire!""Fire!"
HE mouth of the Forth has very nearly bitten Scotland in two, and anybody who wishes to travel from Edinburgh to Dunfermline would have to go a long way round if they objected to crossing the river. Formerly a great many peopledidobject to this, because they knew that, although the voyage was only about a short mile, the great billows from the North Sea would meet them before it was over, and give them a very unpleasant time. So everybody who had anything to do with the Forth was willing that it should be spanned by a reliable bridge, and plans for carrying this into effect were frequentlyproposed. Indeed, arrangements were almost completed in 1879 for building a huge suspension bridge from shore to shore. The drawings were made, the estimates prepared, and the spades and trowels even beginning to work on the foundations, when, one sad December night, a terrible gale arose. All through the hours of darkness it roared and shrieked across the British Isles, working havoc upon sea and land, but, when morning came at last, few were prepared for the appalling catastrophe it had caused. Sweeping up the Firth of Tay, it had torn away a portion of the great railway bridge that crossed the inlet, and hurled it into the water. A train was passing over at the time, and plunged into the abyss with all its passengers. The terrible event shook public confidence, and we might almost say that the gale of that December night caught all the drawings and papers connected with the proposed suspension bridge over the Forth, and swept them from public favour.
Immediately afterwards, Sir John Fowler and Mr. Benjamin Baker (both celebrated engineers) came forward with an alternative plan of which no one could doubt the strength. It may perhaps be described as an arch-suspension bridge, because the design includes the strength of both styles; but engineers themselves call it a cantilever bridge.
Building the Bridge.The Forth Bridge at the Present Day.Train crossing the Bridge.
Work was begun in earnest in June, 1883, and the first passenger train crossed from shore to shore in March, 1890. At the place chosen for its erection, the river is one mile and one hundred and fifty yards wide. Nearly in the middle of the stream there is a rocky island called Inchgarvie, and on this the great striding giant would have to plant one of itsponderous feet. But Inchgarvie was private property, and trespassers were likely to be prosecuted. So the stepping-stone for the giant to place its foot upon could not be laid there until the island had been bought and paid for. This being done, a huge caisson, similar to those which we have seen sunk under the piers of Brooklyn Bridge, was floated out to the island, and there lowered on to the rock underwater, and firmly bedded. It was followed by three others, forming, as it were, the four corners of an oblong, which is two hundred and seventy feet long and one hundred and twenty wide. Eight more caissons were built, four for each side of the river, and these were sunk on to beds of firm clay, some of them being as much as seventy feet below the surface of the water. On each caisson a stone pier was built to take the iron columns of the main structure, and thus we see the bridge was to cross the mile-wide river in three strides. Starting from the southern shore at Queensferry, the first group of four stepping-stones lie six hundred and eighty feet away. Then comes a leap of one thousand seven hundred feet to the four on the island of Inchgarvie, followed by a similar bound to the four near the northern bank, and then a half-stride again of six hundred and eighty feet to land.
The three sets of caissons once being in their places, and the stone piers built on top of them, people at last began to see the beginning of the Forth Bridge. From each of the four piers in each group there slowly rose a huge steel tubular column, twelve feet in diameter, each pair leaning inwards, so that though at their bottoms they stood one hundred and twenty feet away from the pair on the opposite side (that being the width of the base of the bridge), the head of both pairs were only separated by a distance of thirty-three feet. This was done to afford greater resistance to the wind. Each group of four columns forms what are called the towers, and rises to a height of three hundred and thirty feet. They are firmly braced together by tie-girders and cross tubes nearly as large as themselves. They were erected section by section, rivets and hammers being used instead of trowel and mortar. Scarcely were their summits united when, from their feet, there began to spring on either side the great tubes forming the lower part of the arch. In the cantilever construction, the bridge grows right and left from its piers at the same moment, because balance must be maintained. As the lower arched tubes just mentioned stretched further over the water, sloping girders started downward from the tower top to meet them, and they were soon connected by lighter cross-ties. Tubes were used for the arch because they are best suited to bear thecompressionstrain caused by a train passing over the bridge. The girder form was chosen to stretch downward from the tower top because it is better able to bear the tension orpullingstrain. They together form what is called a cantilever; if you lay the letter V on its side, the open end will represent roughly the place where the arch and girders start from the tower. Thus we see how the two strengths of suspension—cable and arch are combined in the Forth Bridge.
When the sets of cantilevers from the grouped piers had grown out toward one another till they were separated by only three hundred and fifty feet, the gap was spanned by a connecting girder, the joints between it and the cantilever being sufficiently loose to allow of the expansion and contraction of the great bridge with the changes of temperature.
The two 'skeleton towers' on the north and south sides of the river are not so wide as the one on Inchgarvie, because their shoreward cantilevers are supported on strong stone buttresses, whereas the Inchgarvie cantilevers are both stretched out to the connecting girders only. The broader base helps to prevent the bridge see-sawing when a heavy train goes over it, and it is further assisted by the landward ends of the other two cantilevers being heavily loaded. This prevents them 'tipping up' when the train has crossed the first tower on its way across the river.
It is easy to understand that such a mighty work was not accomplished without great danger, and it is surely a wonder that the knowledge of this danger did not make the workmen careful. Yet frequent accidents occurred entirely through their indifference to peril.
On one occasion a company of riveters were working on a platform which was being slowly raised to the summit of one of those lofty towers. Suddenly the winch at the top, by which they were being hoisted, refused to act, and instead of looking down to ascertain the cause, the men continued to force the handle of the winch round till the toothed wheel broke. Down went the platform with its gang of workers, crashing from girder to girder, and striking other men headlong into the air, to be killed or wounded among the network of girders far below. This terrible accident caused the death of three people. A constant source of mishap was the thoughtless dropping of tools from great heights, and no appeals would induce the men to lay their implements down instead of throwing them from them as soon as done with. The authorities themselves did all they could to preserve the health of their men. Warm clothing was supplied to them, and even warm food and shelter were to be found on the summits of those windy towers, and out on the ends of the cantilevers over the icy river. Portable stoves in small kitchens were built in the most precarious positions, and a man could dine there as comfortably on a stormy day as in his own home.
Those who are fond of figures will be interested to learn that this enormous structure weighs fifty-one thousand tons, and is held together by nearly seven million rivets. It cost three million pounds, almost enough, one would think, to cast the stepping stones on which it rests in solid gold.
(Continued from page235.)
On her return, Mrs. Wright found Estelle calmer; still very shaky, and with tears but half dried, but ready to listen to reason. Jack was assuring her there was nothing to be afraid of: that nothing could or would happen to her in his absence. The cavern passages and chambers were absolutely empty, and securely shut up by doors and iron gates. It was foolish to be so frightened about mere fancies.
Mrs. Wright gave her some of the cordial, and said she had better come to bed. She would soon forget her terrors in a sound, healthy sleep, and in the morning Goody would take her down to watch the boats come in, and Jack along with them. She should see all the beautiful fish they brought, and choose what she liked for their supper.
Estelle made no reply. She stood leaning against Goody, but her eyes were fixed with the same terror on Jack, as when he gathered up his things, and prepared to start.
'You are really going?' she began, her voice quivering, and the tears welling up again.
'Hush, my dear,' said Mrs. Wright, holding her tight in her motherly arms. 'I'll take right good care of you.'
'That she will,' said Jack, heartily.
Embracing his mother, and with a touch of his hand on Estelle's head, he smiled down into her tearful eyes, and was gone.
Great indeed was the blank he left behind him! Knowing from sad experience the perils of the toilers of the sea, Mrs. Wright never saw her son depart without anxiety and dread; and to-night, as if to make matters worse, the rain was coming down heavily, and the sighing of the wind was not promising. But it did no good to stop and think, and there was plenty to do.
'Come, dear,' she said, choking down the lump in her throat, 'it won't do to sit down and mope. That's not the way to bear our sorrows. You must think your fears are nothing to matter, with me here to defend you. Come along to bed now. That's the first thing to think about.'
Estelle obeyed, only begging Goody not to leave her.
Nevertheless, the evening's excitement left its trace. Estelle tossed about some time before she could get any sleep, and when at last she fell into a feverish doze, her dreams were distressing. She was back again in the long passage of the ruined summer-house. Behind her was the closed door, all around her fell the earth and stones from the roof, while the continual drip of water filled her ears. She was quite alone—every one had forgotten her—no, no! she heard footsteps running. The bay of mastiffs came near; they were on the track of two men, of Thomas (though she could not remember his name); and she was in front, her feet too heavy to run, the way too long and dark for any hope of escape. She heard the ripple of the sea; and then she was in a boat, and saw herself falling, falling—the cruel water swallowing her up.
She sat up with a stifled scream.
Mrs. Wright, who was sound asleep, woke with a start, and hastening to her, made her lie down, soothing her, and assuring her it was only a nightmare.
Again Estelle sank into a sleep. She was in a large library, the room was surrounded by book-shelves, the backs of the books glistened in the ruddy firelight. All around spoke of luxury and comfort. She was sitting on the hearthrug, her head against the knee of—whom? A gentleman was stroking her hair, and she heard him say, 'It is the sweetest name on earth to me, my darling.' What name? She was sure he pronounced it, but no sound seemed to come from his lips. Weeping, she entreated, oh, if she could only hear that name!It was her own. She felt sure of that, but she could not tell what it was. She looked up to ask again, but the gentleman was gone. There was a sweet old lady sitting in an armchair, surrounded by four children. They had been having tea on the lawn. Before them was a wide stretch of green grass ending at the lily-pond; yellow and white blossoms dotted the calm water, and swans were pluming their wings in the summer sun. The lady was telling the children a story—something sad, something that contained a great lesson, and Estelle tried with all her might to hear what that story was. It seemed quite natural that she should be there; the old lady and the children appeared to be connected with her in some close way. She tried to touch the lady to ask her name, but she could not.
A sense of misery overcame her. She appealed in vain to be heard, but the old lady went on with her story, and the four children listened very gravely and sadly. Throwing herself back upon the grass, she sobbed till a voice said, 'Come, come, Missie, don't take on like that.' The lady, the children, the garden had gone, and she was in a strange place, surrounded by dirty people, men, women, and children, and still more dirty stalls of toys and sweets. Jack held her hand, and pointed out a big flaring painting on the front of a marquee, but as she looked a face peeped out from between the canvas curtains, and, terrified, she clung to Jack's hand, for it was the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had been running. He grinned recognition at her, he nodded, and, coming out of the marquee, advanced towards her.
Trembling with terror, Estelle awoke. Daylight was struggling through the window, Mrs. Wright was beginning to move about, and Estelle herself was safe and sound in her own little bed.
'Your bath will be ready in a couple of minutes, dear.'
Estelle made no answer. Hastening to her, Mrs. Wright was much disturbed to see the condition she was in. There was no getting up that day. The horrors of her dreams had exhausted her, and she lay white and wan, scarcely opening her eyes. She was able neither to talk nor to eat, only wanting to lie still, and see her dear Goody close to her.
Coming home at noon, Jack was horrified to hear the news.
'We forget how young she is, and talk too much of these caves and such things,' he said.
Towards evening, however, Estelle became better. The sense of safety, now that Jack had returned, was comforting. She would not think of that long row of empty chambers in the cliff which had once been full of the sick and dying.
A good sleep that night restored her. She was able not only to get up as usual, but accepted Jack's offer to take her with him when he went to do the marketing for his mother. The change of scene, he thought, would do her good; so would the walk in the fresh air and sunshine. Accompanying them the whole length of the terrace, Mrs. Wright stood smiling and nodding as they looked up at her at every turn of the path, till the trees hid her from their sight.
(Continued on page254.)
On the Way to the Market.On the Way to the Market.
"The bear would eat and drink in a truly dignified fashion.""The bear would eat and drink in a truly dignified fashion."
The chief attraction of the Royal Circus, London, in the year 1806, was the clever performances of a young black bear belonging to one of the clowns—Mr. Bradbury. This bear was so tame that it had travelled from Liverpool to London with its master on the top of the coach, and had made great friends with its fellow-travellers.
After the bear had gone through its performances at the circus, its master used to reward it by taking the docile beast to a coffee-house, and here it would sit amongst the company with a tall hat on its head, and eat and drink in a truly dignified fashion.
This bear was never muzzled, for it was so gentle that the children of the neighbourhood would fearlessly romp and play with it, and it was so devoted to its master that it would follow him about like a dog.
There came a day, however, when Mr. Bradbury was suddenly summoned to Manchester, and during his absence he left the bear in charge of a man who promised to take good care of it. This promise he did not keep. The poor animal was shamefully neglected, and kept so short of food that hunger drove it at last to desperation, and one night, breaking loose from its chain, it made its way into a yard and killed a dog.
The piteous howls of the dog aroused the neighbourhood and brought several people to the spot. The first was one of the carpenters of the circus; the bear instantly pounced on him, but the man, with a sudden wrench, shook himself free,—leaving his coat behind him, however. The bear next attacked a goat, and then, seeing a boy of about thirteen amongst the crowd (for boys a hundred years ago were always foremost in a crowd, as they are to-day) the infuriated animal pursued him, overtook him, and fastened upon him from behind, with its two paws on his shoulders; and before a spectator with a gun managed to shoot the bear, the poor lad was almost scalped.
He was at once taken off to the hospital, and, in time, recovered from his injuries; but when Mr. Bradbury returned from Manchester, all that was left of his pet was the shaggy skin and a large supply of pots of bear's grease in a neighbouring hairdresser's window.
Some of our well-known trees have a long and curious history belonging to them: the Oak, Elder, and Willow are good examples, but perhaps the Ash excels all others in its remarkable history. It is a tree often found growing on a ridge or hill by itself, and therefore exposed to storms, which it withstands wonderfully. Though in former days it was held to be a sacred or lucky tree, people believed that it attracted the lightning—no doubt a solitary ash has been sometimes struck. The wood is valuable for its toughness; it seldom splinters, and will bear a greater weight than the wood of most other trees. In the olden time, the Romans made from it spears and ploughs, and the Greeks also used it for several purposes. Hop-poles are chiefly manufactured from ash saplings in England; tables and pails of ash are also fairly common.
In some years much harm is done to ash-trees by a caterpillar which bores into the wood; when full-grown, the insect turns into a handsomely spotted moth, which is called the Leopard, from its markings. To Eastern folk the ash was a notable tree, because of a legend that it was the first tree under which Adam, the father of mankind, sat. Our northern ancestors also thought much of this tree, because it would thrive in exposed places, where few others could make progress. An old woodcut shows women working along the fields, while their babies or young children were hanging in baskets upon the branches of an ash. The reason for this was that the tree had the fame of keeping off snakes, and also of protecting persons from witches. About the thorpes and granges of the old Anglo-Saxons the ash was common, the tree being sacred and a favourite. Even now we see many a group of knotted ash-trees on Hampshire hills and Devonshire moors.
About some parts of the West of England they burn ash foggots at Christmas, to keep in memory, it is said, a cold winter when King Alfred and his soldiers were marching through the country and had to warm themselves by fires of ash-wood.
Some people used to wear the flowers of the ash, commonly called 'kegs,' in their hats or coats, owing to a belief that they kept away diseases, and a medicine was prepared from them by the old herbalists. Evelyn, who lived in the seventeenth century, says that some people pickled them for salad. Search used to be made upon the twigs for a double leaf, for if one was discovered it was supposed to bring good luck to the finder. Sometimes, when a child had a painful illness, people split a pollard ash down the middle, the two parts were held back, the child was passed through the opening, and then the tree was tied up again. Ash-trees that have been cut in this way to get a cure are still to be seen here and there about the country. There are also noticeable shrew-trees, as they are called, in which a hole had been cut to receive a shrew mouse, owing to an old notion that, by being hidden there, this little animal cured the sick cows.
'If the oak is out before the ash,'Twill be a summer of wet and splash;But if the ash is before the oak,'Twill be a summer of fire and smoke.'
The summer of 1903, for instance, was certainly one of 'wet and splash,' with little of the heat implied by the 'fire and smoke;' but was the oak first, then, to put forth new leaves? It is said that the two trees leafed at nearly the same time, both being backward owing to the cold spring. But there is another version of the rhyme which gives the last three words as 'souse and soak.'
Reading is the cheapest of all amusements, and the most lasting.
'Douglas, I want you.'
Douglas jumped up obediently from the kitchen floor, where he was bathing a wound in his terrier's side. He followed his father into the study, and Bully the terrier followed at his heels.
A red-faced man stood in the door, and Douglas guessed what was wrong.
'That's him,' almost shouted the visitor. Bully crept closer to Douglas' side, and bared two teeth, for it was to him the farmer alluded.
'It wasn't,' said Douglas, and his face grew as red as if it were he who was accused of some crime. 'He has been with me all the time. He has not touched anything of yours.'
'He knows, you see, mister,' said the man slily, 'knows all about it before a word's said. If that was my boy—— '
Douglas' father interrupted. 'A moment, please,' he said. 'Listen to me, Douglas. Mr. Wilkins says that your dog and you, too, were in his yard a few days ago. Is that so?'
'Yes, Father,' said Douglas, 'the cowboy threw mud at me, and I went over to thrash him.'
'Trespassing,' said the farmer, 'and the lad rolled him in the mud for his pains.'
'He is bigger than I, a lot,' said Douglas; 'I didn't see him properly till after I had hit him once.'
'Well, my lad has seen him in the yard once before—the dog I mean, not you, boy; and I have missed three chickens this week, and that's the dog which took them. It ought to be shot.'
Douglas' hand tightened on his friend's collar, and his face whitened. 'It's not true,' he said. 'Bully is an awfully good dog. He never touches anything; he wouldn't even touch my rabbits if they were loose.'
So far as looks went, Bully came short of this good reputation. His face was villainous-looking, and a wound on one side, and sundry scratches on his nose did not add to his beauty.
'I have paid for those chickens, Douglas,' said his father, when the angry farmer had gone away. 'I don't suppose it was Bully, but as he is so much at large, we must take Mr. Wilkins's word for it. In future he must be kept under control.'
Several weeks passed without any further complaint. Bully spent all his time, when Douglas was at school, on his chain by the back-door, an injustice which the boy resented as bitterly as the dog.
After an interval of this restraint the discipline was gradually relaxed, and Bully at times was allowed his usual freedom.
Douglas was scarcely surprised when the farmer appeared at their house again, this time with his enemy the cowboy.
'Here sir,' Farmer Wilkins hailed the boy, 'that dog of yours has made away with four as nice pullets as ever I saw.'
'I don't believe it,' said Douglas, bluntly.
'Well, here is my boy. Saw the dog in the yard, didn't you, boy?'
'Yes, I did, said the boy. 'I saw it with my own eyes, slinking away in the dusk.'
'Are you sure?' asked Douglas's father.
'Quite sure, sir,' answered the boy.
'I have never caught him telling lies,' said the man. 'I would take his word before your boy's.'
The upshot of it was that the chickens were again paid for, and Bully the favourite—Bully, who was almost one of the family—was condemned to go. Douglas polished his coat-sleeve with some salt tears in private, and Bully poked him all over with his damp cool nose, as if he guessed that something was wrong.
Towards evening, Douglas went out, taking Bully with him. He thought he would see for himself if Bully would try to take the chickens, and with this idea, went up the garden to a place overlooking the farm hen-roost. The chickens were chirping and snuggling on their perches, and he felt sure that Bully was innocent, for he did not even prick an ear at the sound.
As he stood there, somebody came quietly up the yard.
'The boy, to shut up for the evening,' thought Douglas, for he knew that at this time the farmer was generally out with the milk. But when they came nearer he saw that there were two people, the cowboy and a man with a bag.
Douglas tightened his hold on the dog's collar to cut short a growl, and listened with all his ears, as the lad went into the shed, and some squawking and fluttering went on.
'I daren't take more than one,' he said; 'and it is the last time. I have been putting it on the dog over yonder, and they are getting rid of it now.'
The man looked annoyed. 'Make it half a dozen, if it's the last time,' he said. 'I can't give you more than sixpence for that one. It's not worth coming up here for.'
Douglas loosened Bully's collar.
'Watch him,' he said, and Bully needed no second telling, managing to keep the tail of his eye on the frightened cowboy as well as on the stranger with the bag.
'You wicked boy,' said Douglas. 'It was you that stole the chickens. I heard everything you said.'
'I will never do it again,' cried the boy, blubbering. 'Don't tell Master, young gentleman, it won't happen again.'
'No, that it won't,' put in a new voice, as Farmer Wilkins arrived unexpectedly on the scene. 'I will take good care of that. Call your dog off, if you please, Master Douglas; I don't much like the looks of him.'
Douglas secured Bully, and the farmer seized the dishonest cowboy by the collar. The stranger was quick to take advantage of the moment, and before anybody could say 'knife,' he had slipped behind the barn, and away over the fields.
'Let him go,' said the farmer, who was too fat to want to run. 'He has had a fright. As for you.' turning to the cowboy, 'I have an account to settle with you, before I send you off. I am much obliged to you, young sir,' he said, turning to Douglas, 'and very sorry for the trouble you have been caused.'
'Well, look here,' said Douglas, 'will you do something to oblige me?'
'Why, yes,' said the farmer.
"'Watch him!' said Douglas.""'Watch him!' said Douglas."
'I wish you would let him off pretty easily. You won't send him away, will you?'
'I just will,' said the man, hotly; 'and give him up to the police too.'
'Oh, please, don't do that,' Douglas, pleaded, 'to oblige me. Give him one more chance.'
Farmer Wilkins scratched his head.
'It's perfectly ridiculous,' he said; 'but there, seeing that you have got a say in the matter, so to speak, I don't know but what—'
And the cowboy gave Douglas such a grateful look that he could not help feeling that there was still some hope of his turning out all right in the end.
'You see,' Douglas afterwards explained to his father, 'I felt so awfully glad when I found that I should not have to send Bully away, that I didn't want to pay the boy out in the least. And I think it would do him more good to be forgiven than if he was sent to prison, don't you.' And Father thought it would.
"A Madi village being removed.""A Madi village being removed."
HE roof is by far the most important part of the houses or huts of savages. It is the part upon which most labour is spent, and it is the part which is taken most care of when the whole house is finished. Many huts are, in fact, little more than a roof borne up by a few posts. A native house in Samoa is simply a great dome-shaped roof resting upon a ring of posts which are only about four feet high, and supported by three central posts which are as much as twenty-five feet high. When seen from a distance the house looks like an enormous mushroom just rising from the ground.
The making of the roof is the great task in building one of these houses, and the Samoans think so much of their roofs that in times of war they have been known to take them off their posts, and carry them away to some place which was safe from attack. The roofs are very large, but they are so constructed that they can be taken down in three or four pieces, and each of these may be placed upon a raft made of canoes, and carried away by sea.
Although it would perhaps be difficult to find movable roofs so large as these in other countries, there are many houses in Africa which are constructed in a similar way, and are little more than roofs resting upon a few posts, from which they can be easily removed. Dr. Livingstone saw a great many of them in the heart of Africa, and the villagers, with whom he and his men stayed for the night, frequently took off the roofs of their huts, and lent them to the travellers. As soon as the natives learned where Livingstone had decided to encamp, they lifted off the roofs of some of their huts and brought them to him. Livingstone's men propped up the roofs with a number of small posts,and the houses were made. The roofs kept off the rain, and in that warm country no other shelter was needed. On one occasion it rained so heavily that the water flowed in along the ground, and flooded the travellers' beds. To prevent such an accident occurring again, Livingstone made his men in future dig a trench round the hut, and throw the earth inwards to raise the ground under the roof. By this means the rain-water was caught in the trench, and the beds lay high and dry upon the raised floor of the hut. When the travellers moved onward to another village, they left the roofs just as they were, and the villagers put them back in their proper places at their leisure. The roofs were always lent by the natives without any expectation of receiving payment for their use, though I have no doubt that the noble-minded missionary never forgot to reward them.
When Speke, a traveller who discovered one of the sources of the Nile, was returning homeward, and passing through the country of the Madi, near the head of the Albert Nyanza, he saw similar huts to those which I have just described. In one of his books there is an amusing picture of a Madi village removing. The greatest burden is a conical roof, which four men are carrying on their heads. Other men and women are carrying a few sticks or baskets, but the all-important thing is the roof. These roofs are easily lifted from their posts, and Speke once saw a number of Turkish traders take off the roofs of a village without permission, and carry them off to make a camp for themselves.
1.—A committee of management,Curtail—and find a wild animal.Behead and curtail—a kind of pole.Transpose—wide, extensive, liberal.2.—The end of being.Behead and curtail—to do that without which we cannot be.Transpose—thoroughly disliked.3.—A borderland—measured movement.Behead—a curved stone structure.Behead and curtail—a part of a circle.Transpose—an irresistible power to please.
C. J. B.
The central letters read downwards will give the name of a fragrant flower.
1. A fair woman, who was the cause of much warfare.2. A wrong and illegal act.3. A celebrated physician.4. A continuous line of cars.5. A philosopher and essayist.
C. J. B.
[Answers on page286.]
8.—1. Alcester.2. Camberwell.3. Dunfermline.4. Doncaster.5. Dursley.6. Middlesex.
Count Zinzendorf was a great German noble who did a great deal of good in the world. One day, when he was a boy, he was playing with his hoop near the banks of a deep river, and he spied a dove struggling in the water. By some means the poor bird had fallen into the river, and was unable to escape.
The little Count quickly rolled down a washing-tub, which had been left near the water's edge, jumped into it, and, though generally very timid on the water, by the help of a stick he managed to steer himself to the place where the dove lay. With the bird in his hand, he guided the tub back, and got safely to land. Then he set the bird free.
'Were you not afraid?' asked his mother, when she heard of it.
'Yes, I was,' he answered, 'but I could not bear that the dove should die. You know, Mother, its little ones might have been watching for it to come home!'
HAVE a linnet small and brown,And I to it am kind,Because it must be sad at heart,For it is quite, quite blind.Oh! only think what it must beNever to see the flowers,And never see the sky and trees,In golden summer hours.But still my linnet sweetly singsA rippling, happy song,As though its tiny heart o'erflowedWith joy the whole day long.And so, whenever I am cross,And tears fall like the rain,Oh! when I hear my linnet sing,It makes me good again!
(Continued from page247.)
A very pretty little fishing village is Tout-Petit. The deep blue sea, the green hills, and the tiny red-roofed, white-walled hamlet straggling down to the port made it very quaint. A rivulet, spanned by a cranky bridge, swept round the base of the hill to the left, and down the centre of the village street, till it found its way into the sea at the harbour. There were shady paths close to the shore, little knots of silver poplar and birch, winding walks among the rocks and on the smooth sands. The port was full of brown sails and tall masts; the air redolent of tar and sea-weed. When the fishing boats spread their canvas and glided out one by one into the open sea, the scene was enchanting. At the top of the hill was the Grande Place, where stood the ancient church, the market-place, the municipal buildings, and the houses of the better class.
It was at the top of the hill, where there was a great stone cross, that the women and children collected to watch for the returning boats. It was to this old cross that the homeward-bound mariner first turned his eyes. He knew that his dear ones were standing there waiting, longing for him.
Estelle was charmed with the village, and with the many kindly greetings she received from the peasant folk. All seemed glad to see her, the market-women even pressing an apple or a few plums on her. They, on their side, were delighted with her graceful manner and her excellent French. They seemed to know all about her.
Madame Bricolin, busy over the important business of buying a chicken, vegetables, and fruit for M. le Curé's table, found time to draw her master's attention to the child. The old man was coming down the hill, but he stopped to look at the fair-haired, slender English child, whose high-bred, dainty little air, caused him to ponder. Who and what was she? He smiled when Mère Bricolin brought her to him, and put out his hand to greet her.
Estelle thought he had the kindest of faces, and accepted with joy his invitation to let Jack bring her one day to see him. At that moment the doctor, hastening across the Grande Place, caught sight of her.
'What!' he exclaimed, striking an attitude of surprise, as his face beamed in merriment on her; 'you here, my little patient! Come to life again all right, eh?'
'Have you tried to find out who your little friend is?' asked the Curé, turning to Jack while Estelle laughed with her old friend.
'She cannot remember the name, sir, yet,' replied Jack, 'so I don't know how to set about it. I have not the means to search without some clue. Anyhow, I thought we would wait till she is stronger. She's hardly up to a journey yet.'
'Journey!' cried the genial doctor, overhearing the last remark, 'who's going to take a journey? Not this little lady? No, no: not yet. We cannot lose ourpetite dame' (little lady) 'yet.'
'It can't be me,' said Estelle, her face clouding. 'I have nowhere to go.' Then the remembrance of her dreams returning to her mind, she added, 'At least, I can't think what my name is—— '
'All in good time—all in good time,' exclaimed the doctor hastily. 'Why, M. Jack and his mother are here to take care of you—— '
'And kind friends round you also,petite dame,' added the Curé, with his pleasant smile.
It seemed to soothe Estelle, and she went on with Jack, smiling too.
The excitement in Tout-Petit increased as the day of thefêtedrew near. The arrival of huge vans, decorated with gaudy colours and glaring pictures, was received by a crowd of all sorts and conditions of the peasant folk. This great fair was an annual business, and was held in April each year.
It was held in the great meadows beyond the village, where there was no limit to the space whichit might occupy if its promoters chose to stretch it out—space for booths innumerable; space for the great circus, with its big tent for animals as well as men, women and children; space for the huge varieties of shows, and space enough and to spare—one would think—for the motley crowd to wander about in. Neighbours from all the country round visited thefête. The richer women, of all classes, secured lodgings. The poorer, who could not afford this luxury, procured rooms among friends. Others camped out all night with their husbands and sons, returning to their homes only when the very last van and show had disappeared.
All Tout-Petit collected to watch the putting up of the booths, the erection of the tents and marquees, and the getting into line of the menagerie. This part of thefêteMrs. Wright and Jack had wished to avoid. Jack would not have allowed Estelle to be exposed to the rough sights which were to be seen on such occasions. He was annoyed that the subject had been mentioned before her. He considered it wiser, however, to make no objection, as the idea had caught her fancy, and he and his mother would be there to protect her. Nevertheless, as the day drew near, he disliked the thought of the crowd more and more. The child might catch any sort of complaint, or meet with unhealthy adventures, or see cruel sights. But even these did not altogether account for the dislike he felt to taking her to thefête. After doing his best to get rid of his own fears, he resolved to consult his mother. She, after all, was a better judge than he. Since his great trouble he had shunned any large concourse of people. Rarely had he gone to any village festivity, though he had lived at Tout-Petit for many years. Mrs. Wright never cared for them either. Estelle's presence had brightened her up, however, and her opinion now appeared to have altered. She spoke of all there would be to see as if she quite looked forward to a bit of pleasure. The desire to please Estelle was of course the reason for this sudden change of mind. It was with some hesitation, therefore, that, Estelle having gone to bed, Jack broached the subject a few evenings before thefête.
'What can happen to the child?' asked Mrs. Wright, surprised. 'We will take care not to lose sight of her. There's plenty of room for stirring, and it won't be difficult to steer clear of the crowd. You are a tower of strength, Jack,' she added, with a proud look at him. 'With you as our guardian, we have no one to fear.'
Jack gave an uneasy laugh. 'I can't account for the misgiving I have,' he said, sighing.
'The child would be bitterly disappointed if we made difficulties now,' continued his mother, wondering what had suddenly made her son fanciful. He could not be afraid of meeting any of his own countrymen, could he? That was not likely. What did he fear then? Concluding that he was out of sorts, she did not encourage his talking more about the subject. She meant to go, she meant the child to enjoy herself for once in a way, and there was nothing in Jack's objections which could reasonably interfere with their intentions.
(Continued on page262.)