Muriel's First Patient.Muriel's First Patient.
"He swung himself off the ground.""He swung himself off the ground."
UR African picture-gallery would be quite incomplete without a thought of the Dark Continent as the land of great beasts, the home of those kings among the wild creatures who can never be made the servants or the friends of man; the land where the roar of the lion wakes the dark hours, and the elephant and buffalo steal down to drink at the muddy pools. And so our next story must be of one of those mighty hunters of half a century ago who went to Africa for pastime, long before any one dreamt of a Cape to Cairo railway. William Cotton Oswell was a sportsman of the best type, six feet in height, wiry and muscular, a magnificent rider and a dead shot. He spent five years in Africa without a day's illness, was absolutely fearless, and, withal, so gentle and kindly of heart that he won the love of every one, English or African, with whom he came in contact; and he was so modest that his adventures were known only to intimate friends.
'I am sorry for the fine old beasts I shot,' he said, looking back, a grandfather and a quiet English gentleman, to the old wild hunting days; and if, as the chroniclers tell us, William the Conqueror 'loved the high deer as if he were their father,' so his nineteenth-century namesake had a warm corner in his heart for the lion and the buffalo, and the great, clumsy, fierce rhinoceros, against which he matched himself so successfully.
In 1844, Mr. Oswell, who had been sent to South Africa to recruit, after fever contracted in India, started on a hunting expedition with Major Murray as his companion, visiting on the way Dr. Livingstone's settlement at Mabotse, and getting information from him as to the country and the game to be found there. The doctor was a better naturalist than he was a sportsman; he had the keen observation indispensable to the hunter, but never became a good shot. He gave his visitors, however, all the help and information he could, and they passed on into what was, in those days, an almost untrodden land for sportsmen, alive with game of every kind. Mr. Oswell says that a man who was anything of a shot could easily feed a party of six hundred by his own gun. Still, there might be some risk connected with the securing of the dinner, and the hunter might have to ask, like the primitive savage, not only, 'Can I kill it?' but 'Will it kill me?'
On one occasion Mr. Oswell walked unexpectedly into the middle of a herd of buffaloes, who scattered in all directions. Only one patriarch of the herd, who had been lying apart from the rest, stood his ground, and the young Englishman found himself facing the great beast, at a distance of ten yards, with but one barrel of his gun loaded. He gave the contents of this to the buffalo, but did not reach a vital part, and the animal charged him. Mr. Oswell was standing under one of the mimosa-trees which grow plentifully in this part of the country. He seized a branch and swung himself off the ground, drawing, he says, his knees up to his chin, so that the buffalo actually passed beneath him. The feat sounds almost impossible, but Mr. Oswell tells it in the most matter-of-fact fashion, simply adding that he thought it safer than the usually advised method of springing to one side, as the buffalo can swerve sideways in his charge, and gore his enemy in passing.
Another adventure during this expedition certainly tested the hunter's nerve to the uttermost. Mr. Oswell's men informed him one morning that there was no meat in the camp for the dogs who guarded the party at night; so, taking his gun, with but one barrel loaded, he strolled out in search of a supper for his watchmen, feeling sure of securing something without going to any distance, or needing more ammunition. Nor was he disappointed, for, two hundred yards from the camp, he came upon some quagga, and killed one of them. The animal ran a little distance before it dropped, and Mr. Oswell, after marking it down, went back for men to carry the game home. But in this monotonous country, with its stretches of thorny bush and mimosa-trees, nothing is easier than to miss a track, and Mr. Oswell, though nicknamed by the Kaffirs, 'Jlaga,' the watchful or wide-awake, found himself on this occasion at fault. No waggons or encampment came in sight. He tried to retrace his steps and start again, or, by making a circle, to strike his original track, but all in vain. It had been ten in the morning when he left the camp, and at sunset he was still seeking it, without food, unarmed save for his useless, unloaded gun.
The situation would have been ludicrous had it been less serious; but Mr. Oswell, feeling sure that his friends would seek him at nightfall, followed the track of beasts to a pool of water, and determined to wait there until he should hear some sound of them. The fuel about was scanty, but he collected what he could until the short twilight of the tropics darkened into night, and then, with the idea of saving firewood, climbed a tree. But now the cold became intense. The heat of the day had been followed by sharp frost, and the unfortunate sportsman, with no extra covering, became so numb that he decided to descend from his perch and light his fire. He had clambered down to the lowest bough, and was about to drop to the ground, when something stirred below him. A moving body parted the bushes, and he heard at his feet an unmistakable sound, the pant of a questing lion. Had he dropped a moment sooner, he would have fallen right on to the top of the beast. We need hardly say that he returned very swiftly to his upper story, and, crouching there, could hear distinctly two lions, hunting in a circle round about the water, passing and saluting each other, like sentinels on their beat.
It was a trying situation, certainly, to have to sit, clinging with frozen fingers to the branches, only a few feet above the heads of the other 'mighty hunters,' who seemed to have resumed, in the night hours, their rule of the land he had dared to dispute with them.
But the horror of darkness came to an end at last. The moon rose, silvering the pool and showing the wide stretch of bush, and, at the same moment, sounded, still far away, the report of guns, a volley of firing which could only come from his own party. The sound must have been like new life to the chilled, lonely man, nerving him to a desperate effort to join those who were seeking for him. Those guns were as the voices of his friends, and he would sooner risk everything in an attempt to reach them than die of cold within hearing of their summons. He waited until the two lions were, as he judged, at the furthest point of their round, then he dropped noiselessly to the ground. The firing continued at intervals, and he made for it through the bush, running, pausing, listening, with breath held, for the rustle or movement among the grass and undergrowth that might mean sudden death. He says himself that his uncertain course and frequent stoppages probably saved him, since the wild beast distrusts any prey that does not go straight forward, as if expecting counter-manœuvres. It was an hour's journey—a trial, certainly, to the stoutest nerves. But the haven of safety was reached at last. The anxious searchers heard their guns answered by the shout of their lost companion, and the exhausted sportsman found welcome and food and fire awaiting him. As he sat, thawing his numbed fingers by the cheerful blaze, a distant roar sounded among the bushes, the voice of a lion who scents his prey. The Kaffir servants looked at each other and at their master.
'He has found your track, Jlaga,' said one of them.
The race had been a close one indeed; a few minutes' difference, and the story of that night under the African sky would never have come home to England.
Mary H. Debenham.
The Athenian general and statesman, Themistocles, was one of the few Greeks who, when Xerxes, the King of Persia, invaded Greece with a great army and a huge fleet, thought it possible to resist the Great King (that was the title which the king of the Persian Empire bore). He had much difficulty in persuading the generals of the other Greek states to fight at all, or even to await the coming of the enemy; some he bribed, others he bullied, till at length the Persian fleet was totally defeated off the island of Salamis.
After this victory, there were great rejoicings, and it was resolved to give splendid honours to the general who was considered the worthiest, and also to him who came next in glory. The generals therefore voted to see who should be considered first and who second.
For the first place, no one got more than one vote; each general had voted for himself for the first prize!But Themistocles was unanimously declared to have won the second prize, for though no one of them liked to admit that Themistocles was better than himself, they were each certain that he was superior to all the rest. So no one got the first prize, but special honours were paid to Themistocles.
Many years ago a number of persons were travelling by coach northwards towards Paisley. Some of them were Scottish farmers; others, tradesmen or persons of good position in Paisley; and one was a Scotsman of superior appearance, who, judging by his conversation, had travelled a good deal and seen much of his fellow-men. He recounted many interesting experiences as they journeyed along, and they all chatted freely and pleasantly with each other.
The road was a hilly and rough one, and at a lonely spot where it was especially bad, the coach was so severely jolted that one of the axles broke. Fortunately, no one was injured, and when all had alighted from the coach, they began to inspect the damaged axle. The passenger whose conversation had proved so interesting came to their assistance, and examined the axle critically. Presently, he asked the coachman if there were any blacksmith near at hand. There was not a house in sight, and the coachman told him that the forge of the nearest blacksmith was a mile or two away.
'Help me to carry the broken parts to the smith,' said the other, 'and I will see that they are properly mended.'
So they carried the broken axle across the moors to the blacksmith's shop, but they found that the blacksmith was not at home. Nothing daunted, the passenger who had undertaken to see the axle repaired lighted the blacksmith's fire, set the bellows to work, and, with the help of one of his fellow-passengers, mended the axle himself. They carried it back to the coach, fixed it in its place, put on the wheels, and the coach started off again upon its journey.
But now the passengers, instead of being grateful for the fortunate help which had been given them, began to hold aloof from the man who had mended the axle, and they had little to say to him. From his conversation they had taken him to be a gentleman, but he had shown them now that he was nothing but a common blacksmith. So for the rest of the journey they neglected him, and he sat lost in his own thoughts.
"They began to examine the damaged axle.""They began to examine the damaged axle."
When the travellers reached the end of the stage they separated, and each went his own way. On the following morning one of them had business with the Earl of Eglinton at Eglinton Castle. He reached the castle in good time, and after being announced, was shown into a room where the Earl was seated at breakfast. But judge of his surprise when he found that his fellow-traveller of the previous day, the very man who had mended the broken axle of the coach, was sitting at breakfast with the Earl. He was not, then, a blacksmith, after all! No; he was John Rennie, the constructor of the Waterloo, Southward, and London Bridges, the Plymouth Breakwater, and the London Docks; in fact, the greatest engineer of his time, and a man honoured by all who knew him. He had learnt his trade thoroughly, from the very bottom, and was not above making use of it in the humblest way—even as a blacksmith.
"The kitten at once began lapping.""The kitten at once began lapping."
Breakfast was over, Father had started for the City, and now was the time for Pussy's breakfast.
Eva brought the saucer to her mother, and when it was filled with milk, Eva put it carefully on the floor. The kitten rushed up to it, and at once began lapping.
'Isn't she clever, Mother?' asked Eva, as she seated herself on her own footstool, and watched the dainty way in which the kitten licked up every drop of milk that fell on her fur. 'She knows how to keep herself so clean and tidy.'
Mrs. Poison was reading a letter which had just come by the post, but she looked up as Eva spoke, and said half-absently, for she was thinking more of her letter than the kitten, 'Yes, very clever! Listen,Eva, my letter is from Mrs. James: she wants us both to drive over to her this afternoon and have tea.'
'Oh, I shall like that,' said Eva, shaking out her long auburn hair like a cloud, as she joyfully nodded her head. 'I shall like to see Jessie again. Is she quite well now?'
'No, dear, she is not; her mother says she seems as if she could not shake off the effects of the whooping-cough.'
'Oh! and I had it at the same time, and I am quite well,' said Eva, in astonishment.
'Poor Jessie! she is a delicate little thing,' said Mrs. Polson. 'You must see what you can do to cheer her up, Eva.'
'Yes, Mother,' said Eva, thoughtfully.
When Eva and her mother arrived at Mrs. James's house, no Jessie was in the drawing-room to welcome them, and Mrs. James had to explain the reason.
'Poor Jessie, she is terribly upset,' she said, 'for only an hour ago her little cat was found dead in the garden. We are afraid it was poisoned. Jessie is fretting about it, and she is shy of showing herself with her red eyes, so she ran away to the nursery.'
'May I go to her?' asked Eva.
'Yes, dear, do,' answered Mrs. James; 'she will perhaps forget the poor cat in a game of play.'
Eva ran upstairs to the nursery, and did her best to comfort Jessie, but the poor child was languid and fretful, and could hardly put away the thought of her lost pet.
'It was such a dear little cat, and quite black all over,' she told Eva. 'There was not a white hair in it. I shall never see a quite black kitten again. Nurse says they are very rare; oh! I wish I had it back!' Again Jessie burst out crying, for she was worn out with grief, and hardly knew how to stop.
Eva was really sorry for Jessie, who, though two or three years older than herself, looked so small and frail, and throwing her arms around her, she whispered, 'Don't cry any more, Jessie! You shall have my kitten for your very own; it is quite black, too, and you will soon love it very much. I will ask Mother to let the groom bring it you to-night.'
'Oh, Eva! will you really? But it is a shame to take your kitten,' said Jessie, stopping her sobs, and looking up at Eva. 'You love it too; I know you do, Eva.'
'Yes, I do,' said Eva, slowly, 'but I want to give it you because you are ill, and cannot run about out of doors as I can, and this kitten will be your friend; and now you must stop crying.'
The black kitten was taken to its new home that same evening, and Jessie was so pleased to have a kitten once more that she went off cheerfully to bed, much to her mother's relief.
Eva felt the parting from her pet, but there is a feeling in giving up for others that is a happiness in itself, and that happiness was Eva's.
Y mother has a string of pearls,So pure and fine and white:She lets me take it in my hands,And hold it to the light.My mother says that like that chainMy life should ever be,Each day a pearl to stand apartIn flawless purity.
Everybody has not seen one, but we all have read about the Glow-worm, the remarkable insect which has the power of exhibiting a bright light in the dusk of evening. In England we have two species of insects that are called by this name, which properly belongs only to a kind of wingless beetle, found along the hedgerows and moist banks during the summer. The other insect which shares the name is also known as the electric centipede; it is seen about gardens or fields, and has the peculiarity of leaving upon the path it has trodden a shining track.
In New Zealand there is a very curious glow-worm. The first idea about this insect was that it turned into a kind of beetle; afterwards it proved to be the larva or grub of a fly. Its light is seemingly given it to attract small insects which are its food, and these are secured by means of a web. This web is placed in a niche amongst rocks or trees, and has a central thread, from which run smaller threads to the sides of the opening. Upon several of the lower threads there are usually a number of globules that resemble tiny silver beads, but what is the use of these is uncertain. Upon the middle thread the grub sits; if startled, it glides away into a hole it has for a hiding-place. The light comes from the hinder part of the body, and the grub can display or darken this as it chooses. On damp, warm nights it is brightest, and it is not visible when the weather is cold, nor, of course, during the day. Having reached its full size, the grub becomes a chrysalis, being fastened firmly to its web. A faint light comes from the chrysalis now and then. When the fly comes out, that also has a faint light, only half as bright as that of the grub; what it feeds upon is unknown.
(Continued from page323.)
Mrs. Wright had been waiting in great anxiety for the return of Jack. Twenty times over she went to the end of the sandy path to see if the tide was going out, and returned in an anxious state of mind to make preparations for the drenched party. She reproached herself bitterly for carelessness. How could she have trusted so entirely to Julien? She ought to have known he was ignorant of the tides, if not of the caves. Her anxiety was almost more than she could bear by the time the tide had left the gorge. Then she stood on the beach to watch, and it was with a cry of delight that she saw the three coming towards her.
They were all glad of the hot meal which smoked upon the table in readiness for their return, and sat down in very cheerful spirits, in spite of their damp condition. But it was not so pleasant to be hurried off immediately afterwards to bed and warm blankets. Julien, who had not shown much appetite, and still looked pale and shivery, refused to go to bed. Jack would have compelled him, but the boy begged to be allowed to go home, as he felt ill. It really seemed the best thing to do; so, wrapping him up in a big coat, Jack took him to the Préfet's house, and handed him over to his mother's care, not forgetting to say a few words in praise of the courage the boy had shown.
'Now, Jack,' said Mrs. Wright, as he entered the warm kitchen on his return, 'if you want to do something to please me, my son, you will just go and take your wet things off, and turn in for a bit. I will bring you some hot cocoa in a minute.'
Jack laughed; then, stooping, he took his mother into his great arms, kissed her, and went.
The day of Estelle's departure was drawing near. The boat had been prepared, and Fargis had been amiable enough to offer to go with them, taking his usual crew. He realised that his trouble would be paid for, and probably handsomely paid for, into the bargain. The weather was in favour of the crossing, so Estelle and Jack had come for a last walk on the cliff before that sad day came. To Mrs. Wright and her son the loss of the child was a deep sorrow; to Estelle, though she was going home to her beloved Aunt Betty, to the kindest of uncles and aunts, to her most loving cousins, it was a wrench. She loved those dear ones at home deeply, truly. But she loved Goody and her dear, kind Jack. What should she do when she could not see them? Tears came into her eyes, and made the boats and the sea dim. She longed to ask Jack for one thing before she went away. Went away! Oh, why must there be these partings?
Meantime, Jack grieved over the loss of his 'little Missie.' He was sad, and would be sadder when the long winter evenings came, and he missed her at every turn; but there were other anxieties. He must face that English world again from which he had fled in the long years of the past. For Estelle's sake, and because it was his duty, he must take her back to her English home, and he was debating, painfully, bravely, what that journey would mean to him. What would it mean to his mother? She was the dearest and best tie he had in the world. For his sake she had made sacrifices to which few mothers would have consented, had borne hardships few would have faced so nobly. Had he any right, after all she had done for him, to expose her to any chance of evils which this return to England might bring upon him, and, through him, on her?
Estelle, looking up, saw the grief and perplexity in his face, and her heart smote her for her own selfish thoughts. She did not understand how he suffered, but she felt she must comfort him.
'Jack,' she said, swallowing down her tears, and speaking in as steady a voice as she could muster—dear Jack, you have been so good and kind to me! So good, I can't express it! Do let me do something for you. I know you have a secret, and I am afraid it is that, even more than my going, which is makingyou so miserable. I don't want to pry into it, dear Jack, but remember that my father is a rich man, and he is powerful, too. If you won't mind telling him about it, I know—I am quite,quitesure—he will do anything in his power for you. Think what you have done for me! And he loves me—he has only me now.'
Jack sat silent for some moments, his head on his arms, which were crossed upon his knees.
'Missie,' he said at last, raising his face, 'nobody can help me. I want no help such as your father, or any other rich, powerful man can give. I know you mean it kindly, little girl, but there are some things in which a man must stand and fall alone. Alone?' he added bitterly; 'yes, but he doesn't suffer alone! He drags his dearest and best down with him, let his remorse be what it may.'
'Remorse? Does that mean the man is sorry? Are you sorry for something you have done? Oh, Jack, if you are sorry, Aunt Betty told me once that was all that was wanted. Everybody forgives any one who is sorry.'
'I am not so very sure of that, Missie; but, in this case, there is no question of forgiveness. There is no one to ask it of, for one thing; and if there were, there are some things which can never be forgiven or forgotten.'
'Are there?' murmured Estelle, a little bewildered.
'How should you know—an innocent child like you?' returned Jack, shrinking into himself as if at some terrible recollection.
There was a long pause, while both sat thinking.
'Listen,' went on Estelle, at last. 'I will tell you a story. It is quite true, for I know the man. He is the son of our head gardener. He is a cross old man, and he is often not very nice to us children. But Aunt Betty wanted to make us more patient with him; so she told us what sorrows he had had. They have madehimrather grumpy, but his son isverydifferent. The story is all about a great wrong done to that son, and how he forgave it.'
She related the history of Dick Feet almost in the words in which her aunt had told it to the children on the lawn that August afternoon. Jack, listening but carelessly at first, gradually found an interest in it which touched him keenly, but he would not have interrupted the child for worlds. Not a word would he lose. It was so strangely like a story he knew only too well!
'And the grand part was,' wound up the little girl, her earnest eyes on Jack's anxious face, 'the grand part was that he never mentioned the name of the man who did it—not even his father and mother know who it was. He begged them not to mention it if he had by any chance let it out in his illness. But he never had. No one in all the whole world knows but Dick himself.'
'Was his name Dick, too?' muttered Jack to himself.
'Yes,' answered Estelle, who had heard the low murmur, 'his name is Richard Peet.'
'What?' cried Jack, almost starting to his feet in his excitement. 'Is Dick Peet alive?'
(Continued on page342.)
"'What! Is Dick Peet alive?'""'What! Is Dick Peet alive?'"
"My partner being the lamp-post!""My partner being the lamp-post!"
OES Bobby think he is the only one who can tell stories connected with snow and ice?' said Denison, one evening; 'I, too, have been in high latitudes. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of going down the ice-hills at St. Petersburg, Bobby?'
'Rather,' replied Bobby, gazing into the fire. He smiled as he gazed; the recollection seemed to be pleasant. 'I am still giddy when I think of it,' he ended.
'Well, perhaps Vandeleur has not tried it. It's a kind of artificial tobogganing, you know; they build up a wooden erection with a flight of stairs behind, a platform at the top, and a steep slope covered with slabs of ice going down from it, and leading straight into a level road of ice some eight feet in width and a quarter of a mile in length; at the end is a similar erection pointing back in the opposite direction, the two ice runs or roads being side by side, and each ending at the foot of the stairs leading to the other, so that after a fellow has flashed down the first hill upon the little iron sledge, comfortably cushioned, and darted like lightning to the end of the first run, he only has to have his sledge carried up to the top of the second hill by the servants employed for the purpose, and start upon the return journey, and soad infinitum. One learns how to do it after a bit, and I suppose there is no more delicious sensation on earth than that rush down and skim along the level—when once youhavelearned the art; but, my goodness! one's feelings at the first attempt—eh, Bobby?'
Bobby burst into laughter.
'It is like trying to be an amateur catherine-wheel,' he remarked; 'and you see plenty of sparks!'
Ralph continued: I was asked to an 'ice-hill party' while I was in St. Petersburg some years ago. I have always wondered, since, whether the rascally British residents out there give their ice-hill parties only when there is a beginner about; certainly the poor wretch must be one of the main attractions; there was another visitor besides myself, I remember, that night, and I really don't think I ever laughed quite so much in my life as I did when he made his first few descents. We were quits, of course, for my antics were just as ridiculous to him. At these parties there are generally a few skilful exponents, who show off fancy ways of going down, and so easy does the thing appear when demonstrated by them, that the beginner is not greatly alarmed by the prospect before him.
The platform at the top of the hill is roofed and walled round, and has room for seats for spectators. There is something hot for them to drink, and I should say that when there are beginners about, these spectators must spend a remarkably pleasant evening, for the hot drinks and the exercise of laughing over the misfortunes of innocent strangers serve excellently to keep the cold out, and the scene is really extremely pretty. The 'runs' are outlined by rows of Chinese lanterns hung upon slender posts; they must not be too thick because of the limbs of the beginners, which are likely to make very intimate acquaintance with them, and even beginners must be treated with a certain amount of consideration. There are a few snow-covered trees showing like ghosts, here and there, in the semi-darkness, and all the snow which has fallen during the season upon the ice-runs is swept to either side, and left in a continuous heap or bank all along. This, too, is an arrangement made to let down the beginner easily.
They took me, with my fellow-victim, to the top of the hill, and placed us in seats upon the platform; they spoke bracingly and gave us good advice; they described the delight of the experience before us—the fascination of flying through the air, bird-like; some one said it was 'the very poetry of motion'; no one mentioned that there was much prose to be gone through before one could hope to become one of the poets of motion.
'Let's see how it's done,' said my fellow-victim, a man called Watson, 'and then I will have a shot.'
I congratulated myself that Watson intended to try the thing before me, but I congratulated myself too soon. The skilled exponent, selected to deceive us by demonstrating how easily and safely the descent might be made, now took his little sledge and placed it upon the large square ice-slab at the top of the hill. He lay down upon it, on his waistcoat, his head stretching a little way in front, his legs a long way behind. Upon his hands were huge leather fingerless gloves, for purposes of steering, 'You touch the ice gently on the side towards which you want to go,' he explained. 'Now, watch—there is no difficulty, and you cannot hurt yourself.'
He allowed himself to slip over the edge. Straight as an arrow his little sledge darted down the slope; no bird could have flown quicker or straighter; he reached the level ice-run and fled meteor-like along it; almost before one realised that he had well started upon his course, he had reached the end of it. In two minutes he was on his return journey; down the second hill he flashed, in a moment he was at our side—it was wonderful!
One or two other exponents went through the same performance; there was no suggestion of danger or of possible disaster; one simply flew upon the wings of the wind—that was the impression given by these skilled deceivers.
'I'll toss you, Denison, who goes first,' said Watson.
We tossed, and, of course, I lost. I always do on these occasions.
'Your shot first, then,' said Watson, and I prepared myself for execution. The fact that every one of the thirty guests present now quickly crowded round the ice-slab, which was, as it were, the perch from which one sprang off into space, struck me as grimly suggestive.
'What happens if one hits a lantern-post?' I asked.
'Oh, they come down,' I was told. 'They can't hurt you; they are very slender and only stuck lightly in the snow.'
'Steer very gently,' said some one; 'it's best to touch the ice as little as possible.'
'Keep your head, that's the chief thing,' said another adviser.
'You have got your ticket, haven't you?' remarked a humorist. 'Don't give it up till you reach the end of the journey.'
Then they put me straight and tipped me over, and for about ten yards I travelled, by favour of a good start, without incident. The sensation of tipping over the edge was indescribable; I don't know exactly what my heart did, but it was evidently highly surprised and disgusted, and probably thought I had insanely jumped over a cliff; I think it stopped beating; I felt, for a moment, sick and giddy; I shut my eyes for that instant.
'Steer to the right!' a deep voice roared from the top of the hill.
Instinctively I obeyed. Instantly my sledge, as though animated by the desire to look over the wooden parapet which ran, a couple of feet high, along the slope, jogged and jumped, then turned round, and, with the small amount of intelligence left in my brain, I became aware that I was whizzing along backwards. I tried to think of instructions received, but utterly failed; I endeavoured to keep cool. Where was I? I banged against something, and the sledge twisted round again; it did its best to run along sideways for awhile, like a crab; it butted me against a tree and got itself straight again; then it seemed to take the bit in its teeth, and, as if determining to get rid of me somehow, steered a bee-line for a Chinese-lantern post at a distance of thirty yards. I plunged my hand down, determined to defeat its malicious design, and instantly the little vehicle began to whizz round and round like a fire-work at the Crystal Palace. This was the beginning of the end; the next moment something 'took me in the waistcoat,' and I found myself waltzing in a sitting posture on the ice, my partner being the lamp-post, the lantern attached to it swinging wildly. Where was the sledge? The sound of hoarse laughter from the top of the hill was in my ears; the waltz ended in darkness and silence; where was I?
It was only a deep bank of snow, of course, and I was soon in the air once more. I did not know where to look for my sledge—I did not try. I did not, at the moment, feel well enough disposed towards it to care what had become of it. Some one fetched it.
I was received at the top of the hill with kind and encouraging words, intended, of course, to hearten me to provide a second entertainment. This I did, presently, but first I was resolved to be even with Watson.
'Your turn, old chap,' I said.
Watson looked at me with an expression of despair which was pathetic.
'I wish I knew what mistake you made,' he murmured, weakly. 'Did you hurt yourself?'
'Not in the least; it's a lovely sensation, to some extent' I said. My bones were aching all over, butI was determined to be even with Watson, who had not yet done his share of the entertaining.
Watson gave a glance at the stairs, as though he contemplated a bolt; if he had attempted to escape, I should have done my best to prevent him. Perhaps he read my thoughts in my face; he sighed. Presently the poor wretch was straightened out and started.... It really was very funny, and I no longer wondered at the heartless mirth of the onlookers. A pea on a drumhead is a restful object in comparison with Watson on that ice-hill. His sledge seemed determined from the first moment to rid itself of the unfortunate man clinging to it; it went everywhere and sampled every obstacle, and it shot him eventually, as it had shot me, into a snowheap, with one Chinese lantern twisted by its strings round his neck, and another, held by the post, in his hand. Watson did not know how they got there.
Watson and I solemnly shook hands; we were the gladiators of the occasion, and sympathised with one another. Three or four times did we suffer for the delight of the crowd; after that we began to become uninteresting to them, partly because we had carried away all the Chinese lanterns, and partly because we had begun to learn the art.
ULLO!' the Blackbird carolled.'Hullo!' the Woods replied,'The sun that set in the West last nightComes up on the other side.''Wake! wake!' the Starling chattered,'For the hand of rising dayHas gripped one edge of the blanket nightAnd is rolling it all away.''Up! up!' the Robin whistled,'For the Lady Dawn, so bright,Has come to the broad, dark face of earth,And is washing it all with light.''Out! out!' sang the joyous chorus:'With a hand of magic care,She's been to the nooks and corners darkAnd scrubbed out the shadows there.'And then upon snowy pillowsThere glittered the blinking sun,And a thousand thousand eyes awokeTo another day begun.
Fig. 1.—Peregrine Falcon, and young ones.Fig. 1.—Peregrine Falcon, and young ones.
Our survey of Nature's babies so far has been a fairly extensive one, and many readers ofChatterboxhave shown that they were impressed with the fact that in every case these have come into the world in a form quite unlike that of their parents. And they have probably also noticed that where this unlikeness was most striking, there, as a general rule, these young had to shift for themselvesfrom the moment they were able to move. Though the majority of these young creatures are to be found in or around the coasts of Great Britain, many are difficult to obtain, and only in a very few cases have we met with any display of care on the part of the parents for their helpless children.
Fig. 2.—Ringed Plover, and young ones.Fig. 2.—Ringed Plover, and young ones.
The unlikeness to the parents is most marked, as we have said, where the young are cast upon the world to look after themselves, often as microscopic creatures. The reason of this is because they have come from eggs which were so tiny that they could not contain enough food to support the growing body within until it had assumed its final shape. In consequence, the little creature had to start life in some more simple form, capable of feeding on the tiniest particles of food. This early development is unavoidable in cases where a single family may number some hundreds or thousands of individuals. But when only a few young ones make up a family, you will notice they are more or less jealously guarded by the parents, and they, furthermore, come into the world more nearly in the shape they are finally to assume.
Many of you, I hope, when you grow up, will be tempted to try and follow out these strange life-histories for yourselves. In this article I propose to describe some of the more interesting forms of young to be met with among the birds, because here, at any rate, you will be able to follow up the facts at once; and a very fascinating pursuit you will find it.
Birds, as every one knows, lay eggs, which, after a time, produce chicks, some of which, like ducks and chickens, for example, can run about and pick up food within an hour or two of their escape from the shell; but for a long time they are most carefully tended by their fond parents, who will brave many dangers in their defence. Now, the difference between the young chicken, or the young duck, and their parents is not very great, and this is because the egg from which they came contained a large supply of food, so that all the building up of the body could be carried on inside the shell. This food is represented by the yolk of the egg, of which there was an enormous store. That this is so you can see for yourselves, if you break an egg into a cup. The little spot in the top of the yolk represents the germ of life that is to form the chick; the rest of the yolk is to be used by that germ as food.
Fig. 3 Skylark, and young ones.Fig. 3 Skylark, and young ones.
As you doubtless know, however, some young birds, like young rooks and sparrows, thrushes and skylarks, when they leave the egg, are perfectly bare, blind, and helpless, and have to be fed and brooded by their mothers for a long time. Other young birds, like young owls, falcons (fig. 1), and hawks, also leave the egg blind and helpless, but their bodies are covered with long woolly down. Until quite recently no one could say why these differences should be, but at last we are beginning to see a way out of the puzzle. There seems to be no doubt that once upon a time the young of all birds left the shell in a fully active state, and clothed in down; further, we know that these early birds were reared in nurseries amid the tree-tops, and climbed about the branches by means of their legs and beaks, aided by claws in their wings, till at last their feathers grew and replaced the down, and they were able to fly. In course of time some birds took to building their nests on the ground, perhaps because so many young perished every year by falling from the trees. On the ground this danger was overcome. But, among those which chose to stay in the trees, a change was introduced. They took to laying smaller eggs, containing less food; in consequence, the young were hatched before they had reached such a forward state of development as their cousins on the ground; and though this meant far more work for the parents, who had to feed their helpless and blind little ones, the change proved beneficial, because, being helpless, they remained quietly in the nest till their feathers grew, and then they were in no danger of falling, for they saved themselves by flight.These two devices proved so successful that they are followed still—probably always will be. The fact that many young birds which are quite helpless are now reared in nurseries on the ground, as in the case of young skylarks (fig. 3), is a fact of interest; for it shows that the parents have chosen this nesting site comparatively recently, and are of course unable to lay large eggs, which shall produce active young, like young chickens, at will. They have acquired the habit, so to speak, of laying small eggs, and cannot alter it by changing their nesting-place.