"'What! You here, my little patient!'""'What! You here, my little patient!'"
'CHORUS, PLEASE!''CHORUS, PLEASE!'
"'You have found me out!' said the captain.""'You have found me out!' said the captain."
The following story is told of an American captain and his mate. Whenever a plum-pudding was made, most of the plums, by the captain's orders, were put into one end of it, and that end was placed next the captain, who was rather a greedy and selfish man. The captain, after helping himself, passed it to the mate, who never found many plums in his portion.
After this trick had been played for some time, the mate coaxed the steward beforehand, and got him to place the plumless end next the captain. But the captain no sooner saw the pudding than he discovered that he had the wrong end of it.
Picking up the dish, he turned it about in his hands, as if examining the china.
'This dish,' he said, in a casual manner, 'cost me three shillings in Liverpool.' With these words he put down the dish, with the 'plummy' end of the pudding turned towards himself.
'Really,' said the mate, in his turn lifting the dish, 'I should not have thought it worth more than a shilling.'
Then, with apparent carelessness, he put down the pudding, with the plums towards himself.
The two men looked at one another. The captain laughed. The mate laughed.
'You have found me out!' said the captain. 'Well, we will cut the pudding lengthwise, and in future the plums shall be fairly distributed.'
ATCH the pictures in the fire;How they gleam and come and go,Making trees and birds and cows,And red houses in a row.Did the fairies put them thereWhen the coal was underground,So that we, at eventide,All their hidden treasures found?
'I don't know whether any of you fellows have tried snowshoeing,' began Bobby on the following evening, when it was his turn to spin a yarn, 'ski-running, as they call it in Norway?'
'Yes,' said Ralph, 'I have. Why?'
'Well, I was thinking of telling you how I and another fellow, Billy Onslow, took it up one winter when I was in Russia. We—at least, I—had read about the competitions at Holmen Kollen, near Christiania, when the Norsemen have their annual fling for the great "ski-hop." Reading of this had caused me to have a great ambition to be able to shoot hills and precipices upon snowshoes as the Norse fellows do, and I persuaded Billy to be ambitious also, and to practise the things with me near St. Petersburg, where they use the same kind of snowshoes orski' (pronouncedshee).
My cousin Tom, being an expert snowshoe-runner, accompanied us to the country place where we should find slopes of every grade of difficulty, in order to show and explain how the thing was done.
'You may fall about a bit,' he said, 'at first, but you will soon learn to glide down a moderately steep hill-side safely enough. You won't be qualified to compete at Christiania this year though, Bobby, for it's an art that requires much practice before perfection is attained. One cannot do anything well that is worth doing,' added Tom, 'without a lot of trouble; that is a lesson one is constantly learning through life!'
Well, we found this true enough, for theski-running gave us a lot of trouble, as Tom had hinted.
The shoes are peculiar-looking things. They are about six or seven feet in length, some four inches in width, and are made of thin, strong, seasoned wood, half an inch thick, running to a point in front, the 'toes' turning up, of course, for otherwise they would catch in the snow. One stands in the middle, inserting the foot in a strap, which closes round the instep. Then one slides along the surface of the snow in the best way one can—which, at first, is a very awkward way indeed.
We drove down to a shooting-lodge, near Lavrik, and then, having lunched, we called for snowshoes and strapped ourselves into them.
'Now then,' said experienced Tom, 'we will just walk off towards the gully, where there are some nice easy slopes for you to begin upon.'
With these words Tom glided away upon his shoes; it looked the easiest and most delightful thing in the world. Tom moved forward like a bird upon the wing, slid a dozen yards away, turned, and came back to us.
'Lovely, isn't it?' he said. 'Come along, just skate forward; keep the front part of theskiwell apart, or the points will cross, and you will come to a sudden stop.'
Billy made a few awkward slides forward; one of his shoes went south-east and the other south-west; one of his feet left the earth as though it would soar heavenwards. Billy sat down with some violence.
'Here, I say, that won't do,' he observed.
'What made the things behave like that?' I said.
'Keep the ends apart'—Tom laughed—'but not so far as that; point them both the same way, but keep them six inches or so from one another.'
Billy got up and tried again. The points of his shoes now rushed towards one another like old friends who meet after long parting. Billy's progress was instantly checked, and he sprawled forward on his face in the most ignominious fashion.
Billy scrambled up awkwardly, for one of hisski wouldstand on the other and keep it down. He fell three times before he finally stood erect.
'You said it was so easy,' he said, reproachfully. 'Stop laughing, Bobby,' he added, 'and try yourself.'
I did so, profiting by Billy's experience, and slid carefully forward. Ten yards I covered in safety, then a small birch-tree suddenly rose up before me. I knew no way of giving it the go-by. I tried to guide myself to one side of it, and, lo! one snowshoe went to the right of the tree, the other to the left, and I found myself jammed against the trunk.
'I say, help!' I cried. 'Cut down the tree, or take me out of the snowshoes. I can't move!'
Tom shrieked with laughter; so did Billy, who ought to have known better.
'Try to back away from the tree,' Tom suggested.
I endeavoured to do so. This time the heel ends of the shoes crossed, and I sat down very suddenly, while Tom and Billy laughed even more rudely than before. I began to realise that the art ofski-running was not a perfectly easy one even upon the level. What would it be, I wondered, when we reached the hill-side?
Though the gentle slopes chosen by Tom for our first lesson were distant but a short mile from the lodge, I think we took at least three-quarters of an hour to reach the place. The pointed ends of our snowshoes—Billy's and mine—went exactly where they pleased. They behaved like ill-natured animated things, and did us all the harm they could. This was not much, of course, except to make us appear very ridiculous; but Billy and I soon got tired of laughing at one another, so that it did not matter after a while. But when we reached the hill-side, and made our first efforts to 'shoot' the slope, the real fun began.
Bill took the first attempt. Tom had shown us how it was to be done. He had poised himself upon the top of the hill like a bird about to take wing. He had allowed hisskito tip over the edge, and in an instant he was in full flight, going at nearly thirty miles an hour over the slippery, even surface of the snow, bending slightly forward, keeping his two shoes straight as arrows, and heading, true as a bullet, for the point which he had fixed upon.
'How easy it looks,' said Billy, 'and how delicious it must feel to go through the air like that, eh?'
I answered nothing, for I felt that what mattered most to me at present was whether the snow was nice and soft for the somersaults which I felt sure I was about to perform. No question for me, as yet, of a delightful thirty mile an hour excursion through air. I was going beneath the snow, and knew it.
However, Billy led off. Tom came back, and placed him carefully, saw that his snowshoes were straight at starting, gave him his final instructions. 'Don't bear too much forward, or you will over-balance. If you feel yourself going, sit down; that will save you a header under the snow; but you needn't be afraid of hurting yourself in any case, the snow is very soft.'
For a few moments I really thought Billy was about to pass through the ordeal with success. He glided down the first twenty yards of the hill in a manner which recalled the impression of 'easiness' which Tom's skill had aroused. Then something happened which inclined our poor William to direct his right snowshoe towards his left one. Instantly the left one, like an angry dog, resented the liberty,and turned upon its companion. They crossed; then disaster overtook William Onslow. For an instant he suggested a catherine-wheel at the Crystal Palace fireworks; he went three or four times head over heels, his snowshoes looking like the arms of a windmill as he went round. Then he stopped, and it seemed as though a sort of explosion had taken place. There was no sound, but the snow was cast up on all sides to a great height, and Billy disappeared. All that could be seen of our unfortunate William was the point of a snowshoe sticking out of his snow-grave, slowly waggling to and fro as though to remind us that Billy might still be found alive somewhere down below if any one thought it worth while to look for him.
Until I glanced at Tom's face, I felt anxious about Billy. Could he breathe down there? I wondered; and in how many pieces should we find the poor chap when we dug him up? But Tom was bent double with heartless mirth, and I concluded that probably he knew best about such disasters.
'Will he be all right?' I gasped.
'Rather,' Tom replied. 'He will struggle up in a minute.'
Billy did struggle up. There was a kind of upheaval in the white hill-side, and from the midst of the eruption appeared our William, gasping, angry, blinking, spluttering—snow in his mouth, in his nostrils, in his eyes. Snow filled his ears, his pockets, his boots; had crept between his neck and his collar; his hair was white with it, and in the midst of this mass of snowflakes blazed two angry eyes, which shot murderous glances at us because we laughed. Billy said nothing—he could not until he had got rid of the snow which filled his mouth. When he spoke at last he only gasped, 'All right, Bobby; your turn now. You will think it awfully funny when you have been buried alive in wet snow!'
'I'm sorry,' I said; 'but you did look so frightfully funny coming out of the hill-side in a kind of volcanic eruption.'
'Oh, don't mention it!' said angry William. 'I see Tom's amused too; I suppose he was never a beginner! Perhaps he will catch his foot in a root one of these times, and may I be there to see!'
We soothed him as best we could, but he informed me that the only consoling thing I could do would be to take my turn, while he watched. There was nothing for it. I braced myself up for the enterprise, took my position at the edge of the slope, adjusted the toes of myski, and started.
Was I a bird in air? Oh, the delight of it, this rapid passing through crisp air! and how well I was doing it, ten—twenty—fifty yards in safety! Why, it was quite easy. How disappointed dear old Billy would be! Then, suddenly, a check, a whirl through the air, a sense of chill and suffocation, blindness, deafness. What had happened?—Where was I?—What was this hard thing in my mouth? Why was I standing on my head? Where on earth were my arms and legs?
I found all these useful members presently; I also discovered that I was chewing the end of one of my snowshoes. I seemed to spend a century in making these discoveries, but I believe it was in reality ashort half-minute. Then I struggled up into the light of day. I spluttered the snow out of my mouth and looked around. One of myskihad finished the hill-shoot 'on its own,' and lay on the level far below. Close by stood Billy Onslow, behaving in a manner which provoked in me a momentary feeling of hatred for him. He was loudly roaring with laughter, doubling and undoubling himself in exaggerated mirth. I felt that the situation was not in the least funny, and that Billy was simply—and in very bad taste—taking his revenge.
"I struggled up.""I struggled up."
And that was how we began to learn ski-running.
N the Great Synagogue of Aldgate, in London, a very fine specimen of the Shophar or Ram's Horn is blown on New Year's Day, and on the Day of Atonement.
This particular kind of trumpet is interesting because it is the only known instrument used uninterruptedly from the earliest times to the present day.
The Shophar is first mentioned in the Old Testament, when the Lord descended upon Mount Sinai; it is frequently alluded to throughout the Bible, and takes a prominent place in the Vision of St. John, or Book of Revelation.
The Shophar or Ram's Horn.The Shophar or Ram's Horn.
We must all remember, too, the description in Joshua of the downfall of Jericho, at which the mighty blast from the rams' horns, with the great shout of the Israelites, shook the walls to the ground and gave the stronghold to the conquerors.
Shophar is the Hebrew name for what is usually translated 'ram's horns.' It simply consists of a ram's horn flattened by the force of intense heat, and blown through a very small opening or mouthpiece.
Shells have in many nations been used in similar fashion, and to-day the ceremonies of the Buddhist religion are accompanied by the sound of these primitive trumpets.
In ancient and modern times, whether in civilised or barbarous nations, great events, such as the accession of monarchs or proclamations of war and peace, have been announced by the sound of the trumpet. The accession of the despotic rulers of Egypt many thousand years ago, and of King Edward the Seventh in our own time, was proclaimed in much the same fashion by herald and trumpeters. The original use of trumpets probably had its origin in Egypt, and the frequent intercourse of that country with Greece probably accounts for its introduction there. The Greeks are said to have used it first in the Trojan war, when it took the place of the rough conch shells, which had in their turn replaced the ancient battle signal of the flaming torch. One of the coveted prizes of the Olympic games was awarded for the best trumpet solo, and we hear of one fortunate person, Herodotus of Megara, who gained this honour morethan ten times. It must have taken real genius to have roused melody from the primitive trumpets of early days, and even with all the facilities afforded by the scientific knowledge of the present time, the trumpet requires great skill and careful playing to make it a really musical instrument. It is usually made of brass, and occasionally of silver, which is supposed to give a softer tone.
The Rehab.The Rehab.
The Rehab is the violin of Palestine, and in appearance almost suggests to European eyes a dustpan and brush. The frame is of wood, covered, like a tambourine, with parchment, and placed across a handle from which hangs a single string of thick, black horsehair, very coarse in texture. It is played with a bow, also of horsehair, and is held much after the fashion of a violin, being chiefly used to accompany songs and the romances in which Eastern people delight. Playing is almost always done by professionals, for, although music is much appreciated, it is thought unreasonable to take trouble oneself when some one can take it for you.
At a Palestine Exhibition lately, amongst curiosities of great interest, the writer was given for exhibition a specimen of the Rattle used by the Jews at the Feast of Purim, held in memory of the deliverance of the Jewish nation by Queen Esther from the plot of Haman. The Rattle was made of tin; it was of the usual rattle form for twirling round and round, and its use was to scare away evil spirits from the Feast.
Helena Heath.
Chirp! chirp! chirp! Twit! twit! twit! Such a noise of chirping in the ivy at the back of the house! Just like a crowd of children after a school concert; but it was a much more serious affair than a concert.
We could not at first see anything to cause the disturbance, although we could not help knowing that it was a sparrow in some sort of peril or distress. At last one of us discovered that a poor little bird had entangled itself in some stout string which dangled from the ivy, and it was swinging at the end of this in a very dangerous manner. None of us could think what to do, because it was too high up for our only ladder to reach, and too far away to get at from any one of the windows.
While we were all standing looking at it we heard another chirp, as much as to say 'Hang on, dear, and I will soon set you free,' and then we saw another sparrow fly into the ivy and try and stretch itself far enough to peck at the string. But, alas!the brave little ball of brown feathers could not reach so far. The captive was perfectly quiet, and seemed to understand that some help was coming to him; and when the second sparrow found he could not reach it, he began to talk—shall we say?—to the other. They seemed to consult, as two doctors do over a patient, what was best to be done. All this time the captive sparrow was hanging by one foot with his head downwards, except when he fluttered about and tugged at the string. After they had talked for some seconds the helper flew away, and we were very disappointed: but he had not been gone long before he appeared again with another sparrow—a much bigger one!
The first sparrow seemed to do just what the last comer told him to. It was just as if he said, 'Now, my dear boy, you stand very firmly on my back, and I will fix myself on a twig of ivy as near as I can to our friend; mind you stretch as far as you possibly can, and if you cannot reach him then, you may stand on my head. Jerk the string with your beak and perhaps that will set him free.'
Number one sparrow did exactly as he was told, and nearly over-balanced himself; he only just saved himself by spreading his wings and starting to fly, and he could not reach the string. After another talk amongst the three of them (the poor prisoner only chirped very softly now), the two helpers flew away again in different directions, making as much noise as they could; and then in a very short time a whole crowd of them came. We counted fifteen of them; they talked and talked as they sat together in the ivy, until at last, as if at a given signal, they all flew out together. They fluttered, flew round and round, and pecked at the string and gave it jerks all at once, till it shook and trembled more and more.
They did this three times, each time returning to and starting from the ivy, in perfect order, as if they had been drilled to it. At last they were successful; they shook the prisoner free! Then they adjourned to the branches of a tree, near where we were standing, and the poor mite seemed to be telling them how he got into such a sad plight. It was a beautiful lesson in kindness to us all, as well as a wonderful example of the instinct which the Creator has given these little birds, so that not one of them 'shall fall to the ground.'
Some one has said that our English language is not rich in words describing colours; occasionally we have to join two words, as when we speak of something being bluish-green or reddish-brown. It is different in China, where the people have a large number of words for colours, belonging to their singular language. Many of the names of these colours have been taken from flowers. In Britain we find that colours and flowers are sometimes linked together; a plant has had its name from a colour, or that of a colour has come from a plant. This has rather an odd result now and then, because flowers may alter their colours; there are white bluebells and white violets, and gardeners can raise crimson primroses. Again, people who stroll in the lanes or fields have seen such a curious object as a white blackbird, though it is rare.
The violet has given its name to a shade of blue—really blue with a purple tinge. Some violets look decidedly red. The dog violet is usually of a lighter blue than the sweet-smelling species. It does not seem to have been called 'dog violet' because it had any connection with dogs; the word 'dog' was an expression of contempt, and forms part of the name of other English plants that were not admired. Some violets have been raised of so deep a blue as to appear nearly black. The blue wild hyacinth has given name to a colour, not very unlike the violet tint; it is sometimes called the bluebell, but pink ones may be found in woods, and garden hyacinths are of various colours. Other bluebells belong to the Campanula family.
In the olden time, one of the London street cries was, 'Fine lily-white onions!' the lily being commonly spoken of as a white flower. Yet we have several kinds of lily that are not white: 'Lent lilies' are yellow, and the showy tiger lily is red and black. Yellow is a common colour among the crocuses and plants akin to them; saffron, taken from one of these, has been used as a dye for ages. But of course our gardens show blue and white crocuses, with other hues. It is curious that Homer speaks of the dawn being 'saffron-robed.' We may notice ourselves that sometimes, at sunrise or sunset, the sky is first deep yellow, and then red.
Our gardens exhibit irises of many colours: blue, white, and brown kinds are well known, but it is thought the plant took its name from Iris, the Greek name for the messenger of the gods, and from the rainbow, because the Greeks knew a plant of this kind which had three or more colours in its flower. There is very little doubt that the Latin name of 'rosa,' given to the queen of flowers, means red, that colour being familiar before white and yellow roses had been grown. The carnation was so called because one kind was like flesh colour, a tint of red; but many carnations are much darker. Wild and garden pinks we all have seen, but the commonest 'pink' nowadays is white. Again, we have lilacs that are white, and not of lilac colour. Lavender is a colour taking its name from the flowers of the fragrant herb; we might describe it as a sort of blue-brown. Mauve is a colour approaching the hue of the marsh-mallow. Cerise, a French name for a colour, is really the same as our cherry.
(Continued from page255.)
Jack dropped the subject of the outing, and did not again refer to it till the evening before thefête. Estelle had been very eager to see the dancing at the Fontaine des Eaux, which was to begin at six o'clock that evening. Mrs. Wright had consented, and both were ready to start by five. It was quite half an hour's walk, but the way being on level ground when once the village was reached, Mrs. Wright was equal to the exertion.
Estelle, dressed in well-made (Mrs. Wright was an excellent dressmaker) but quite plain, dark blue serge, was putting on a neat white sailor hat, when Jack took advantage of her absence to say,
'Don't you think she would be satisfied with this evening's amusement, Mother? Must we take her to thefêteto-morrow?'
'At it again, Jack? Why, what should hinder our taking her? I can't think what has come to you that you make so many objections.'
Estelle came dancing into the room, in the wildest of spirits, and Jack felt as if he were cruel to wish to disappoint her. Putting aside his feelings, he determined that, as she was to go, she should enjoy herself.
Estelle had been to the Fontaine des Eaux several times in her walks with Jack. It was a favourite spot of hers. The way lay through the village, across the rickety old bridge, and up the narrow valley to the left, following the course of the river. The green hills on each side had all the bright freshness of early spring, but the real beauty of the walk was the Fontaine des Eaux itself. Here the valley broadened out into a wild and lovely glen; the hills were wooded to their base; the river, roaring and dashing over its rocky bed, followed the sweep of the hills to the left, leaving a wide, grassy expanse on the right which stretched to the foot of the hills, where it was broken up by a tangle of rocks, wild flowers, and brushwood.
Here there were seats for the spectators of the dance. A rough sort of shed had been run up, and boarded for those who feared night dews, or early morning chills. Near the Fontaine, a little bubbling spring of clear water fringed with delicate ferns and 'morning glory,' was a refreshment booth, which appeared to be driving a thriving trade when the little party of English arrived.
Everybody was in gala dress; everybody beamed with joy. The white caps and beautifully embroidered bodices of the women—though their dresses were all either black or dark blue—lent a brightness to the crowd; a bright touch was added by the gay shawls of the elder dames, and the broad slouch hats and flapping white collars of the men, got up in their best.
It was a calm evening, with a silvery crescent moon, and very warm for the time of year. Though it was scarcely dark yet, the Chinese lanterns were lighted, lanterns of every shape and size and colour. The people appeared to have gone mad on the subject. Not only did lanterns hang from the trees, outline the sheds, and shine from the tops of poles along the banks of the river, but some of the men carried them on their hats, or hanging from their thick walking-sticks.
Mrs. Wright was warmly greeted by her numerous friends. Many a smile was turned on her and on Jack, who had a bow and a smile for them all as he made way for his mother and Estelle. The little girl found it very bewildering and delightful after her long quiet days in the Hospice de la Providence. She thought she had never seen such kind people. They came to ask how she was, and commented on her looks with the politest of compliments. Until now she had not known what a stirher arrival, and the mystery which still surrounded her, had caused in the village. Shy though she felt, her gracious manner, and gentle way of receiving all the notice she attracted, charmed the simple people.
Jack found seats in the front row of the great shed. He chose them on the side which was nearer the exit by which they could slip away if his mother were tired. Here Estelle watched the animated scene, her chair close to Goody's, too fascinated to talk.
The circus troupe had brought a fairly good band with them, and to its music the gay, happy throng were dancing. Estelle was greatly entertained by the vigour shown. Still more delighted was she when M. Fargis (the captain of the boat which had picked her up) insisted on Jack dancing with his daughter, to which the sailor consented. He did not wish to appear surly or stand-offish. The manly grace with which he bore off the young lady charmed Estelle, and she scarcely heard the skipper's question: 'The young lady does not dance?'
Before Mrs. Wright could answer, M. Matou, the Préfet, was bowing in front of her, his hat pressed with both hands on his chest. His son, he said—a boy of fifteen whom Estelle knew well by sight—desired to be presented to the little English lady, to pray her to give him the pleasure of the dance. M. le Préfet was quite one of theéliteof Tout-Petit society, and Mrs. Wright was fully conscious of the honour paid to Estelle by this invitation. The boy had often seen her during her walks with Jack, or when she accompanied Goody to market.
He had watched her from the moment she had appeared on the scene that evening. His father, noticing his abstraction, rallied him on not joining his companions, and making merry with the rest in the most inviting waltz that was ever played. M. le Préfet, on learning his son's wishes, at once offered to assist him in the accomplishment of his desire. Alas for Julien Matou's hopes! Mrs. Wright answered him as well as M. Fargis in the same breath:
'Mademoiselle cannot dance to-night. She is far from strong enough for such exertion. She has only come to look on, and will be returning home soon.'
M. le Préfet and his son were a little inclined to resent the refusal, but Mrs. Wright thanked them for the honour they had done her little girl, and Estelle smiled so prettily that they were disarmed. Drawing up a chair in front of them, M. Matou sat down to talk to Mrs. Wright, while Julien leant against the side of the shed, and, looking down at Estelle, ventured on some shy remark.
Little did they think, as the elders chatted and laughed, and the younger were gradually thawed into an animated talk, that a pair of eyes were riveted on the little girl—at first in amazement, then in settled purpose. Jack's strange instinct had not been altogether at fault. It is not on record what the owner of those eyes would have felt impelled to do if M. le Préfet and his son had not taken up their position close to the little English girl.
(Continued on page270.)
"M. Matou was bowing in front of her.""M. Matou was bowing in front of her."
"He sat silent, waiting for the reply.""He sat silent, waiting for the reply."
LTHOUGH the travellers' tales from Africa are so numerous and so interesting that the difficulty is not to find them, but to choose among them, there is one traveller who stands out head and shoulders above all the rest. And though his name be 'familiar in our mouths as household words,' we cannot speak of the heroes of Africa and leave it out. Yet, strange to say, though there is no life-story more enthralling than that of David Livingstone, it is less easy to find thrilling adventures in his account of his own travels than in the journals of most explorers. For the man whose heroism has helped so many was never a hero in his own estimation. It is of his work, his beautiful surroundings, the poor people he sought to help, the crying evils of the slave-trade that he writes. He really meant what he said so simply in the Senate House at Cambridge, 'I never made asacrifice.' To be permitted to do such work for his Master was, to him, reward enough. If it meant sickness, suffering, separation from those he loved, and death at last alone in the wilderness, these were just the incidents of no sacrifice, nothing to boast of or to magnify him in the eyes of his fellow-men. Yet, even from his own matter-of-fact account, we can see how, again and again, his cool courage saved his own life and the lives of the men who followed him.
During his great journey to the West Coast, Livingstone found himself in the village of the Chiboque tribe, where the chief sent to him a demand for tribute, in the form of a man, an ox, a gun, or some cloth or powder. All the fighting strength of the village surrounded the travellers—grim-looking warriors, whose naturally plain cast of countenance was not improved by the prevailing fashion of filing their teeth to a point. Livingstone overheard the sinister remark, 'They have only five guns,' as if the Chiboque chief were quite prepared to measure forces with the strangers. The Englishman knew his own followers to be loyal, and by no means disinclined for a fight, and they would, he believed, be a match for their assailants, but he was most anxious to avoid bloodshed, and not to risk his character as a messenger of peace.
Accordingly, he sat down coolly on his camp-stool, his gun across his knees, and graciously invited the very unpleasant-looking party to be seated also. The Chiboque, accordingly, squatted on the ground, thus giving Livingstone's men, who remained standing, spears in hand, the chance of first blow, if it were impossible to avoid a fight. Fortunately, they were all well under control, and stood watching for a signal from their master, who quietly addressed the chief, bidding him state what he wanted.
A man, an ox, or a gun would do equally well, the Chiboque returned, but tribute he must have, as he always did from strangers.
The first-named was quite impossible, replied Livingstone, calmly; he and his followers would rather die than give one of their number to be a slave. Neither could they part with one of their guns; but he would give a shirt as a present to the chief, who had no right to demand any tribute at all from him. The chief was pleased to accept the shirt, but wanted something more, and Livingstone followed it up with a bunch of beads and a handkerchief. But seeing that each fresh treasure encouraged the enemy's desire to plunder the party, he resolved upon a bold stroke. It was clear, he said, that the Chiboques had no wish to be his friends. He and his men would fight if they were obliged, but the Chiboques, not they, should begin the attack and bear the guilt of it. Let them strike the first blow. Having delivered his challenge, he sat perfectly silent, waiting for the reply.
Should it come in the form of an attack, he knew that the first stroke would be directed at the white man, and he admits that the moments of suspense were, as he puts it, 'rather trying;' but he was 'careful not to appear flurried,' as he sat with his life in his hand, the centre of the wild group.
But the bold proposal succeeded. Perhaps the Chiboque measured the strength of the resolute party, and came to the conclusion that 'good words are better than bad strokes;' perhaps they felt the presence of a superior power in the quiet, watchful-eyed white man. When at last the chief spoke, it was to renew his demand for an ox. He would give in return any present that the stranger liked to name, and they could be friends. Livingstone, seeing approval in the eyes of his men, agreed, asking for some food, of which he and his party were short, and which the chief readily promised to supply. He and his warriors withdrew with their prize; and, later in the evening, a messenger arrived with the return present, a very little meal, and a few pounds of Livingstone's own ox, which had been converted into beef in the meantime!
How the cheery-hearted traveller, whose sense of humour helped him through so much, and whose laugh, Stanley tells us, was 'a laugh of the whole man, from head to heel,' must have chuckled over the generous gift of a bit of tough beast which he had brought so many miles along with him!
But though no stouter-hearted traveller ever pushed his way into the dark continent, we think less, after all, of Livingstone's heroic courage than of the burning love for all mankind which sent him into the waste places of the earth, to carry the truth to those in darkness. We think of the little orphan girl who hid behind his waggon that she might travel under his protection to seek her friends: of how he fed her, hid her from her pursuers, and vowed that, if fifty men came after her, they should not get her. And there is another story which we shall seek for in vain in his own account of his life in Africa, but which has been recorded by one who loved and honoured him.
The incident happened during those happiest days of Livingstone's African life, when, with his true-hearted wife beside him and children growing up around him, he lived in the house he had built for himself at Kolobeng. A very busy, simple life it was, with plenty of occupation to fill the days: teaching, gardening, building, doctoring, making careful observations of the plants and animals, and winning the love and confidence of the native people. One evening, news came to the little settlement of a furious attack made by a rhinoceros upon the driver of a waggon. The unfortunate man had been horribly gored; he was lying in the forest, eight or ten miles away; would the doctor come to him?
The request seemed almost beyond reason, for the night—the terrible night of Africa—was falling, and those words, 'when all the beasts of the forest do move,' have a very real meaning in that land. Ten miles' ride through the dense undergrowth, which might hide every conceivable enemy, would scare the stoutest heart. But a fellow-creature was suffering in those horrible shades, and Livingstone was not the man to weigh the value of the poor native's life against his own. Promptly he went on his way at the call of duty, but, alas! only to find the man dead, and his companions gone, and so to ride back again by the same 'passage perilous.'
Seven years after, Livingstone's worn-out body had been laid in its honoured grave in Westminster Abbey, where his countrymen crowded to do him honour, and the African, who had watched so faithfully over his remains, nearly threw himself into his loved master's grave. A man who was also to lay down his life for Africa, met a native of the Rovuma country wearing a part of an English coat. It had been given him, he said, by one who treated black men 'as if they were brothers,' and who knew his way to the hearts of men; and of all the honours paid to the name of Livingstone, none surely would have pleased him better than that memory, lingering among the dark brethren whose cause he had made his own.
Mary H. Debenham.
ICK! tick! tick! the seconds go,Flying, oh, so fast,And almost before I knowQuite an hour is past:Hour by hour goes quickly on,Till another day is gone.Day by day is going fast,Morning grows to night,Till they make a year at lastVanished out of sight.Days, weeks, months, all sped away—Yet they wait just day by day.As the days and minutes go,Speeding one by one,So my childhood, youth, I knowWill ere long be done:Books and toys all put away,Done with lessons, done with play.Be it mine to use with careTime that will not stay,Doing always here or thereSomething good each day:For as streams to ocean flow,Youth is speeding fast, I know.
The Self-heal has had a very wide repute for its good-qualities. It belongs to the family of plants known asLabiates, which includes mint, sage, thyme, and other aromatic plants; these flowers mostly have a curious lip, and grow in a spike. The self-heal is not a tall plant, though it flourishes more in the rich soil of a garden than on that of the field-bank or the hedgerow. One curious thing about the plant is, that the flowers do not open all together, but a few at a time, so that it never looks in full bloom. These flowers are bright blue, with a touch of crimson at the edges, the leaves being round and smooth. It is the habit of the plant to throw out trailing shoots, so that when it spreads over corn-fields, it causes much trouble to the labourers who have to pull it up.
The name may seem a little singular. It does not mean the plant heals itself, but that it contains the power to cure or heal without having to be mixed up into a compound, with other articles added to help the effect. Self-heal was used both inwardly and outwardly; a decoction made from the plant was swallowed as a remedy, and it was applied to wounds and sores. Even now, in Cheshire, Yorkshire, and some other parts of England, the plant is said to heal wounds, and relieve sore throats, though it is seldom called by the old name. Cheshire folk know it as Carpenter; it is not clear why the name of Sickle-flower is also given to it, unless it be that reapers use the plant for a wound made by a sickle; a very similar name is Hook-heal. Some people in the West of England call the plant the Fly-flower, though it has no particular likeness to a flower, nor does it draw flies or insects more than other plants. Yet another name is Irish; about Belfast it is known as 'Pinch and Heal.' The Dutch and Germans seem formerly to have called it Brunell or Prunel, which is nearly the same as the botanical name,prunella; both Dutch and Germans, as well as the French, in old books, rank it amongst the sovereign remedies for complaints.
Every year, at Eynsford, in Kent, an 'Arbor Day' is kept, when a number of trees are planted in different parts of that pretty village.
'Arbor,' of course, is the Latin word for 'tree.' There are not many places in England which have an annual 'Tree Day.' It is an American institution. An American settler in Nebraska, feeling sorry to see so few trees there, suggested that on a certain day of each year the children should devote themselves to tree-planting. This idea was acted upon, and the youngsters of Nebraska doubtless enjoyed the fun. The scheme succeeded so well thatit was taken up by other States, and introduced later on into Australia, and others of our Colonies.