A Cow Waggon Encamped and on the March.A Cow Waggon Encamped and on the March.
The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the 'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the plain.
Like many other institutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.
"'I will come with you at once.'""'I will come with you at once.'"
'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and bother—I'm tied to her apron-strings. Opening his paper he looked at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.
'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'
'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.
'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came away before most of them.'
'Well?'
'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a baby!'
And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to find in it a remedy for his grievance.
'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'
Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.
'My mother was just the same,' he said.
'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to stay, I do what I like.'
'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister Phyllis?'
'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'
Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.
'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else—oh, yes—it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'
'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'
Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'
'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with questions about my games and successes.
'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister—she was always delicate—still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire—she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is—fussy, you would say—and off I went, in high spirits.
'"I won't be late," I called from the door.
'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim. Mind you win the match."
'But mother followed me to the door.
'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."
'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the way of giving her a good deal of advice.
'"I wish I could think so," she said, anxiously; "but, anyway, Jim, just run in on your way to the ground, and tell him. Then he will come before he starts on his round."
'"All right," I replied, with a hasty kiss, and off I went.
'In the next street I fell in with another fellow, who was in a great hurry.
'"I say, old chap, we shall be late," he panted, as we dashed into a short cut for the playing-field.
'I wish, Roger, that I could comfort myself by saying that I forgot my mother's request. But as I turned that corner I saw the doctor's house, and thought of it at once. "But, then," I said to myself, "she is only fussing. Phyllis will be all right in the morning, and I dare say the doctor has gone out. It will do just as well after the game."
'For the rest of the afternoon's pleasure, I never gave a second's thought to my mother and sister.'
'There,' said Roger, triumphantly, 'you were just as bad as I, weren't you? And how did the match go on? Did you win?'
'Roger, from that day to this, I have never tried to remember how that game ended. At the end, two of the fellows who lived the other side of the town asked me home to tea with the rest of the team. I felt it hard to be the only one who was out of everything, so I went. I felt a little uncomfortable, and called at the doctor's, just to satisfy my mother, and he came into the hall to speak to me.
'"Anything wrong, my boy? Not Phyllis, I hope?" he said. Phyllis was a pet of his. He attended her pretty often.
'"Just a cold, sir," I said, easily; "nothing serious. Mother's fidgeting, and says she is feverish, and all that. You might call round some time."
'"I will come with you at once," said Dr. Harris, and he took his hat off the peg. I thought he was glad of my company, and gave him a vivid account of the match on the way.
'When we reached our street the hall was dark, and there was no light in the little front sitting-room. But the bedroom overhead was lighted, and the blind was pushed back as we reached the door. The next thing I saw was my mother's face. Shall I ever forget it?'
'Don't tell it, Uncle,' said Roger. 'I can guess.'
'She had been waiting for the doctor. It never occurred to her that I would neglect her message. They let me see my sister for a few minutes, before she died. A few hours, the doctor said, might have saved her life. There! that's all!'
Uncle James blew his nose vigorously, and went back to his paper; but Roger bent his head over his plate. At this point his mother came in. The boy jumped up impetuously.
'Mother dear, I am awfully sorry I broke my promise, I will never do it again, if I can help it—never, so long as I live!'
(Continued from page359.)
They walked up the avenue, with Estelle between them, and Lord Lynwood received some answers to his many questions. He thought it was more of a help to talk about things which took Jack's mind off his trouble, than to dwell on it, and unnerve him for the interview. He wished also to show that he had the greatest respect for a man who could go manfully through the ordeal to which poor Jack had pledged himself. At the end of the avenue, just before it widened into the broad sweep in front of the Moat House, was an opening in the thick laurel and rhododendron shrubbery, which, as they passed it, enabled Estelle to see that Aunt Betty—the dear Aunt Betty she was so longing to see—was on the lawn, cutting roses. Without a word, she broke away from her companions and flew across the lawn.
'Wright,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood, hastily following; 'my aunt has been seriously ill with anxiety about my little girl, and we are afraid of a sudden shock for her. Come, we may be wanted.'
Estelle, unconscious of all but that Aunt Betty was there, was calling out in glad tones which made the little old lady turn hastily.
Fortunately, joy does not often kill. Though faint and unable to stand the first excitement, Aunt Betty recovered herself more quickly than Lord Lynwood could have expected. Jack thought he had never seen anybody quite like Aunt Betty—he had not known that any such existed. He had made up his mind to tell the truth about himself to Estelle's aunt, but now that he saw her he did not feel the shrinking he had anticipated. 'She would understand,' was the way he expressed it.
Lord Lynwood, fearful of over-excitement for her, insisted on Lady Coke going into the house with Estelle. She consented, after making Jack promise to come and relate to her all the wonderful things which had happened in those long months of Estelle's absence.
'Auntie,' said Estelle, as she sat on a low stool—low enough to let her look up into the face of her aunt, lying on her sofa—'if I have a lot to tell you, you must have a great deal to tell me; and, chiefly, why it is you look like that. Are you ill?'
'I have been, with grief and anxiety about you, Estelle. But I shall get quite strong now you are at home again. I don't know how to be grateful enough to the good God Who has guarded you fromharm all this long time, and to the kind people who have been such friends in need.'
'And have taught me such a lot of things, Auntie. You must meet Goody some day, and then you will know what a dear she is, and how good she is. She has been such a mother to me! And Auntie,' she continued, with some hesitation, 'Jack is going to tell you something by-and-by, something which has made him dreadfully miserable. And if you are grateful to him and to his mother for all they have done for me, you can repay some of it by helping him in his trouble. Father says it is not necessary for everybody to know; only ourselves, and those whom Jack has bound himself to tell.'
Thus Estelle prepared the way for the confession which took place that evening. By dint of great persuasion, Lord Lynwood made Jack put off speaking to Peet till the next day. He was to sleep at Moat House that night, and in the morning the explanation with Peet would take place.
Aunt Betty was greatly touched by the story. Jack related the finding of Estelle, her dangerous illness, and the opinion of the doctor with regard to her memory, which had been fully justified. He made light of the rescue in the cave, the truth and full details of which Estelle told later on. Lady Coke listened with a heart full of thankfulness for the mercies which had shielded her child. So it came to pass that Jack, resolute in his idea of duty, found a very tender, sympathetic listener to his own sad history.
'Your mother must be a good woman, Jack,' she said.
'She has been the saving of me,' he answered. 'Hers has been the purest, the most unselfish love in the world.'
'Yes,' said Aunt Betty, with moist eyes; 'and because her love was capable of so much, you have been led to look beyond, to that greater Love which encircles us every day and hour. Your mother is a grand woman, Jack!'
'Indeed, she is,' replied the sailor. 'It is amazing that such a man as I should have been so blessed! It forces one to believe in the forgiveness of sins, if those I have injured can so forgive and forget.'
It was getting late, and, as Lady Coke looked tired, Jack got up to go. He was to meet Lord Lynwood next morning, and walk down with him to the Bridge House about the time Peet returned for his breakfast.
As he left the room, Lady Coke said to her nephew, 'I like that sailor. His has been a great repentance; as great as Dick's forgiveness has been noble.'
Meantime Estelle, in her own room once more, was thinking how strange it seemed to be in a house with windows and curtains, with Nurse and Mademoiselle making much of her, and all her own pictures and treasures about. She was very tired, however, and had scarcely time to murmur, 'I shall see my cousins to-morrow,' before she fell asleep.
An hour or two later Lady Coke and Lord Lynwood were gazing, with thankful hearts, at their sleeping child, while Jack was kneeling at the window of his room, praying in deepest grief for pardon and for Dick.
(Continued on page370.)
"'We may be wanted,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood.""'We may be wanted,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood."
"Estelle was among them!""Estelle was among them!"
(Continued from page367.)
True to his appointment, Jack met Lord Lynwood on the lawn next morning, and together they walked to the Bridge House in silence. Though Jack was anxious to see Dick once more, he had to brace himself for what he knew would be a trial to both. In one sense, the worst was over. In the knowledge that Dick was alive, and had forgiven him, he had gained what nothing could take away—peace of mind. But, on the other hand, he could not but feel sorrow and self-reproach for the grief and loss he had brought upon Dick's parents. He realised that they also had much to forgive. It seemed, indeed, almost worse to face them than to look at patient, suffering Dick. He had been so ready to pardon; would they be as willing? Jack knew instinctively how his question would be answered when he saw Peet coming towards them across the drawbridge.
'We wish to speak to you, Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, quietly.
'I know what ye want to say, my Lord,' returned Peet, gloomily, and taking care not to glance towards Jack. 'My Lady had me up this morning and told me.'
'In injuring your son I have injured you, Mr. Peet,' said Jack, coming forward, and speaking in an earnest voice. 'I do not know how to ask your forgiveness; but, if your son could express himself, he would tell you how deeply my sin has been repented, and what years of misery it has brought on my mother and me. Unhappily, I cannot undo the deed; neither can I give you back the lost years—— '
'You can do nothing, and I want nothing, thank you,' replied Peet, without looking up.
'Your son has forgiven all he has suffered,' began the Earl.
'Beg pardon, my Lord,' returned Peet, drawing himself up; 'but I'm making no complaint. I have not said a word for or against him. If my son likes to forgive him, he can do as he chooses—his acts are no rule for my wife nor me.'
'So you have spoken to your wife?' said the Earl, in a tone of regret, as Jack moved away.
'I know my Lady was against it, but my wife has been a good wife to me, and I never keep things from her.'
'And what did you wife say?'
'Well, my Lord,' replied Peet, with a little less confidence in his tone, yet with the stubborn look still in his face, 'she was upset, of course, and cried a bit, as women mostly do. But when Dick, who has not spoke for this many a year, looks up, and says he, "Mother, don't bear malice—for my sake forgive him;" why, she gave in at once. I am sure that it was from sheer astonishment at Dick's speaking so clear. She didn't think of forgiving no more than myself. Mothers are like that—mighty queer sometimes just when you least expect it.'
'Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, signing to Jack to leave them, 'I think your wife is quite right. She is acting the nobler part. You have suffered terribly; we are fully aware of that, and we have felt for you and done all we could for you. Surely you would not wish to give Lady Coke pain by refusing the very first request she asks you? Think how nearly we lost her last summer, and remember it is owing to the great care and kindness of Jack Wright and his mother that she is spared the grief of having lost the child entrusted to her keeping. You know this responsibility is what weighed most on her mind, and Jack has brought her great comfort by restoring the child. He is broken-hearted for the injury he has done you and your family, and he begs your forgiveness. Why is it impossible for you to give it? If not for your own sake, or because it is the right thing to do, then because there is one who has asked you who has been the best of friends to you through all your troubles.'
Peet looked down, red and surly. It was a hard fight for one of his stubborn character to acknowledge he was in the wrong, or to listen to arguments to which his better nature responded. Seeing that he did not reply, Lord Lynwood left him without further efforts to convince him. Peet gazed after him with lowering brow; then turned and went to his work.
Estelle was up early that morning, and after a delighted survey of all her surroundings and treasures, rushed to her aunt just as the gong sounded. Would Auntie beg a whole holiday for her cousins—just for once? How could Aunt Betty refuse this first request? It did not require much coaxing to make her promise to go directly after breakfast to Begbie Hall with Estelle and her father. She even declared she would fearlessly invade the premises sacred to Miss Leigh and learning.
Little suspecting the delight in store for him, Georgie had come down in a bad temper that morning, and he was venting it on his lesson books, and on Miss Leigh.
'What is the matter with you, Georgie?' asked the long-suffering governess at last. 'Did you get out of bed the wrong side? Nothing seems to be right this morning.'
'I always get out of bed the same side every day,' replied Georgie, firmly, placing his books in a heap as near the edge of the table as he could. 'It's not the bed; it's Alan.'
'What has Alan done?'
But Georgie's answer was drowned in the crash of his books which scattered in every direction, some of them without their covers.
'Now, Georgie!' cried Miss Leigh, exasperated.
'I believe you did it on purpose!' exclaimed Alan, who was anxious to finish his work, and found the noise disturbing.
Marjorie was about to pour oil upon the troubled waters by picking the books up when the door of the schoolroom was burst open and Estelle was among them! Miss Leigh and the three children could scarcely believe it was the 'real live' Estelle they saw, and a great gasp of amazement sounded through the room. But when they perceived Aunt Betty herself standing at the door, and behind her their father, mother, and uncle, all smiling at them, there was a general cry of delight.
Everybody spoke, but nobody listened. They all danced and raced round Estelle till the uproar became so great that their elders, including Miss Leigh, fled. Then Estelle, as soon as she could persuade them to listen, told them how Jack had saved her and brought her home; how Mrs. Wright, her dear Goody, had nursed her through her bad illness; in what a comfortable, pretty cave-house she had lived, and how even the biggest storm that ever blew, and they had had many such storms, could not shake its walls. Then there were the Treasure Caves, and Estelle made their faces quite pale as she related her adventures in them, and how Jack had saved her from drowning. She told them of the dream also, and how she could not remember their names, and how suddenly it all came back to her. This led to a stampede in search of the hero, Jack, who, after much racing about in all directions, was found at the door of the ruined summer-house. Lord Lynwood and Colonel De Bohun were with him, and it was evident that they were talking of how the accident happened. The children insisted on shaking hands with the Giant of the Treasure Caves, as Marjorie called him, and on thanking him for bringing back their dear Estelle.
'Why, you are arealgiant!' cried Georgie, much impressed by Jack's height. 'I never saw a giant before.'
They all laughed, but Georgie was right, for Jack was a good deal taller than Lord Lynwood, who was six feet three inches, and yet looked dwarfed by the sailor. They all admired him so much that they would not leave him.
(Concluded on page382.)
A.—1. Bereft of father and mother.2. The period of time during which a person or thing exists, or has existed.A home for those who have no other.B.—1. A collection of printed sheets.2. A small creeping animal without feet.A devourer of that which is written,C.—1. The edge, or brink, of a fountain or river.2. A hardened mass of earthy matter.A mineral substance.D.—1. A rodent of the genus lepus.2. A hollow sounding body of metal.A flower of the campanula kind.E.—1. An emblem of innocence.2. An extremity.A peculiar joint.F.—1. An uncertain quantity.2. The organized material of an animal.A person unknown, or uncertain.
[Answers on page395.]
C. J. B.
2.—T og AH or NE hu DS oo TP us HI sl ED ea FE vi LR el Y
A certain King of Syria had a horse of which he was very fond, and which in turn was devoted to its master. The King used to ride this horse out to battle, but at last was defeated and killed in the fight. His enemy, rejoicing in his victory, seized the King's horse and mounted it. The horse seemed to know what had happened, and who was on his back, for he began to show the greatest fury. After trying for some time to throw his new rider off, he suddenly dashed off up a steep cliff; and when he reached the top, he leapt wildly down the sheer precipice, with the man still on his back. The rider had no time to save himself, and both he and the horse were dashed to pieces. Thus the King was avenged by the faithful steed to which he had been so kind.
The old dervish divided the seventeen camels into the desired proportions by adding one of his own to the number, thus making it eighteen. The eldest brother then took his half—nine; the second his third—six; the third his ninth—two, making seventeen in all, and giving back the one camel over to its owner, the wise dervish.
We have now come to the last chapter of our series, and herein I propose to bring to your notice some curious facts which 'point a moral and adorn a tale' that should not be lost sight of.
Strange though it be, there are many creatures, among what we sometimes call the 'lower order of creation,' which give promise of great things during the earlier period of their lives, but later degenerate out of all recognition.
Let us take one or two of the more remarkable instances. Many of you, when at the seaside, must have found, clinging to rocks and shells, peculiar, tough, leathery and somewhat bottle-shaped bodies, popularly known as 'sea-squirts,' from their habit of squirting out water when touched. But how many of you have any idea that these same 'squirts' really belong to the great division of vertebrates or backboned animals? Yet such is the case, though not even scientific men were aware of this until the facts which I am about to relate were discovered.
But before I proceed, I might add that while some of these sea-squirts lead solitary lives, fast anchored to the rock or sea-weed, others form colonies, while yet others, and more distantly related forms, are transparent and swim, sometimes in countless millions, at the surface of the sea, covering an area of several miles. Some of the stationary forms make coats for themselves of sand, others build them houses to live in. While most are dull-coloured, some are, on the contrary, very brilliant.Their range in size is no less varied, some being almost microscopic, while others attain a length of as much as four feet.
But though so different in their adult stages, they all begin life as vertebrated or backboned animals, though in some this stage is more perfect than in others.
As you will see in the illustration (figs. 1 and 2) of one of these youngsters, the resemblance to the tadpole of the frog is most striking, and in some of the points wherein the sea-squirt differs from the tadpole, it represents a yet earlier structural stage which frogs have long since passed through, and no longer repeat in the course of their growth. Take the case of the eye, for example; this in the young sea-squirt lies embedded in the brain, and is only dimly able to perceive light received through the transparent head; but the eye of all the backboned animals is really an outgrowth of the brain which has forced its way to the surface; here we see it in its primitive or original condition. The mouth in the young sea-squirt, again, opens on the top of the head instead of in the front, which is here modified to form a sucker. But the gills, by which this little creature breathes, expel the water by which they are bathed through a single hole at the side of the head, as in the frog tadpole; while in the possession of a brain, a spinal cord, and a soft backbone, both sea-squirt and tadpole agree.
Thus, then, the captor of one of these baby sea-squirts though he knew nothing of the peculiar after-history of the creature, would yet be sure that he had here a very young or 'larval' stage of one of the backboned animals. But he would be surprised indeed, as he watched the career of this little creature, to find it grow daily more sluggish, and at last fix itself by the sucker at the front of its head, and there remain as if in 'the sulks.' From this time onwards the change for the worse grows rapidly. This creature, as if indifferent to the great possibilities before it, or caring nothing for the good name of its race, speedily degenerates. As it will use none of the good gifts of Nature, one by one she takes them away—eye and brain are the first to go; then the tail begins to grow less and less (you can see the last remnants of a tail in fig. 3), and finally there is neither head nor tail, power of sight, nor power of motion; all that remains is an irregular-looking leathery lump, which scarcely seems to be alive (fig. 4). It feeds by drawing water through a hole at its upper end into a great throat pierced by gill-slits (shown in fig. 5, which represents a sea-squirt with the outside wall cut away); the water passes out through the slits into a big chamber. From this chamber the water escapes by another hole (marked 'discharge' in fig. 5) to the outer world again; meanwhile, the food, consisting of microscopic animals, has been caught by a moving rope of slime running along the back of the throat, and so into the stomach. But what a fall! Think of it—a career full of promise, the equal of that of vertebrate animals, ending in an ignominious surrender of its birthright, and a drop to the level of the humble oyster!
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
"'Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'""'Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'"
It was a bitter evening in mid-winter, the fire burned cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackling and flaring up the wide chimney of a comfortable cottage home in one of the wildest parts of the Inverness-shire highlands. It was a shepherd's hut, and, as the storm continued the owner of the cottage rose and looked out of the window over the desolate expanse of moorland.
'Is it snowing still?' asked his wife, from her snug corner by the fire.
'Thick and fast,' replied he. 'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night. Many a one has been frozen to death hereabouts before now.'
Presently, however, it ceased snowing, and, through a rift in the clouds, a star appeared, while at the same moment a whining and scratching noise was heard at the door. The shepherd opened it and whistled to his dog, but, inviting as the ruddy glow must have been to her doggish heart, 'Lassie' would not enter. Standing just on the threshold she whined once more, looking up in her master's face with dumb entreaty, then running off a few steps and looking back as though inviting him to follow.
The shepherd watched her curiously. 'All the sheep are in their folds,' he said, 'and Lassie knows that as well as I do, but something is amiss with the creature to-night. What is it, Lassie?'
But the intelligent creature only whined again and moved still further away from the door.
'Give me my plaid, good wife,' said the shepherd, now fully persuaded that serious work lay before him. 'Give me my plaid, and warm your blankets, and you may as well brew a kettle of tea. Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'
As soon as the dog saw that her master was really following, she sprang forward with a joyous bark, then, settling down into a swinging trot, she led the way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. It was a walk both difficult and dangerous, but the experienced shepherd followed steadily after his guide until, having come to a certain spot by no means differing in appearance from the rest of the dismal landscape, she suddenly stopped and began to dig wildly in the snow with her paws. The shepherd stooped down and pushed aside the dog, who was now quite contented to stand aside and watch, while her master took the case in hand. Very soon he extricated from the snow what seemed to be a mere bundle of clothing, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be the rigid form of a little old woman, poorly clad and quite insensible. It was only the work of a few minutes for the stalwart shepherd to lift her into his arms as gently and tenderly as though she had been an infant, and to carry her away to his warm and sheltered cottage, where his kindly wife had everything in readiness for the succour of the half-frozen old woman.
But long hours passed ere complete consciousness returned, and the poor wayfarer was able to tell her simple story. She was an Englishwoman from Liverpool—a widow with one only son, the dearest and best of sons. He was a soldier stationed at Fort George, but he had been ordered out to India, and she had felt that she could not let him go without once more looking on the dear face. Accordingly she had gathered together all her available means and had reached Glasgow by train. But in that city her difficulties began, her money was all spent, but the mother's love still burned brightly in her heart. She resolved to proceed on foot, and had actually accomplished her design so far, when, being overtaken by the sudden snowstorm, and having wandered from the road, she would certainly have perished but for the sagacity of the shepherd's dog.
How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine, when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.
Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare. When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did not know what to say.
There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.
MONG the grass I love to lie,And watch the fleecy clouds pass by:For many pictures there I see,So clear although so far from me.Sometimes across the blue there floatsA stately fleet of white-sailed boats;On shining mountains' rugged crestsThe grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.And o'er the sunset's radiant bar,Lone fairy lands most surely are,With ruby isles in lakes of gold,Where towers in crimson light unfold.The black clouds gather from afar,As mighty armies march to war,And when they meet in thunder-crash,I see their spears of lightning flash.For ever changing, to and fro,Blown by the careless wind they go;No wonder the cloud pictures thereAre always fresh, and always fair.
'What is the new step-mother like?' asked Walter Howard. He was cycling from the station with his friend, Jack Trehane, having just arrived to spend a few days of the summer holidays.
'No good,' was the short but expressive answer.
'I remember you thought her rather a good sort before your father married her,' Walter remarked.
'You never know what people are really like until you live in the same house with them,' said Jack, gloomily.
'Hard lines, when you had such decent holidays with your father alone. How is it she is not nice to you now, when she used to be so jolly?'
'Oh, she isn't exactly nasty,' Jack explained, 'only I do so hate her mean, saving little ways.'
Walter's face fell. It would be a nuisance if he had to waste some of his precious holidays in a place where there was not even enough 'grub!'
However, the food proved to be excellent, so Walter felt that it must be in some other way that the stinginess would be evident.
'It is such a lovely day,' said Mrs. Trehane the next morning at breakfast. 'What do you say to an expedition to Pengwithen Cove?'
The boys were delighted with the idea and ran off to get ready, so that they did not see Mrs. Trehane set to work busily to cut sandwiches.
'What is that hamper thing you are carrying?' asked Jack of his father as they were starting.
'Our lunch, Jack; and, knowing who packed it, I can promise we shall not do badly.'
'But you always used to give us lunch at the hotel, Father,' Jack said.
'Ah, but we have learnt a trick worth two of that, have we not, my dear?' and Mr. Trehane smiled at his wife.
'It is so much jollier to have our lunch close to the sea,' she said, 'instead of in a stuffy room.'
'And who is going to carry that horrid, great basket, I should like to know?' muttered Jack, as he rode on ahead with Walter. 'That is one of the mean dodges I told you about. She thinks it will save the expense of a lunch at the hotel.'
The white-crested waves were rolling in over the blue waters of the bay as the Trehanes and Walter followed the cliff path towards the Cove for which they were bound. Jack loitered behind the others, for it was his turn to carry the lunch. Presently a cry from him made them look round, and what should they see but the precious picnic-basket rolling down the sloping turf which edged the cliff! As they watched, it went over with a loud report of bursting lemonade bottles, and the contents were dashed into fragments on the rocks beneath.
'How could you be so careless, Jack?' his father said in tones of vexation; but as he never dreamed it was anything but an accident, he did not say much.
They were obliged to return to the hotel for a meal, and Walter shrewdly suspected this was the result Jack had worked for.
However, the lunch was not a success. A crowd of excursionists had swept nearly everything in theshape of food before them, and left very little for any one who came after.
'Oh, dear,' sighed Mrs. Trehane, 'when I think of the nice ham sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, the lovely meat patties and raspberry puffs, which are now floating away to sea, I do feel sad!'
'What an idiot you have been!' whispered Walter to Jack, and the latter was inclined to believe his friend spoke truly.
When Mr. Trehane pulled out some money in order to pay the bill, his wife gave another sigh.
'This is worse than the cold mutton, is it not?' he asked, laughing.
Then she laughed too and held up a warning finger.
'Hush!' she whispered, 'you must not let out my secret.'
'I think we must share it with Jack,' said Mr. Trehane. 'It will make him more careful in future when we trust him with our luncheon-basket.'
He had noticed his son's scornful look when the settlement of the bill was mentioned, and had partly guessed what was in his mind.
'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Mrs. Trehane said; 'but now you have revealed half the secret, perhaps it is as well to confess the whole.'
'Well, Jack,' his father said, 'you know you have been bothering me for a new watch, but I told you I could not manage such a piece of extravagance now, and you would have to wait another year.'
'My old one is no more use than a turnip,' Jack broke in.
'All the more pity that part of the new one went over the cliff with the lunch,' remarked his father.
'What do you mean?' asked Jack in bewilderment.
Mr. Trehane looked at his wife.
'It was your plan; you had better explain it,' he said.
'You see, Jack,' she began, 'it seemed rather hard you should not have a new watch when you wanted one so badly, so I told Father I was quite sure I could save money in many little ways without robbing us of any real comforts. One of my plans was to take a luncheon-basket when we had picnics or expeditions, and to have a first-rate meal of delicious home-made dainties instead of a second-rate lunch for which we should have to pay more. Now, Jack, do you approve of my little scheme?'
Jack was almost speechless with shame and confusion, and the twinkle in Walter's eye made him even hotter.
'I think you are awfully good,' he stammered, 'but I don't deserve that watch, and I shan't have it now I was such a silly donkey as to throw the basket over the cliff.'
'Oh, yes, you will, Jack,' said his step-mother, though she did look a little astonished at the confession that it was a deliberate act instead of an accident. 'There will be plenty of money saved by the end of the holidays, if you will be careful not to lose any more baskets.'
Jack never forgot this lesson, and the beautiful new watch he carried back to school with him was a constant reminder that hasty judgments too often prove unjust.