"'Please, sir, will you—would you buy a pincushion?'""'Please, sir, will you—would you buy a pincushion?'"
But there are not many gentlemen to be seen in a London suburb in the morning on Saturday, or any other week-day, and the sisters had walked farther down the High Road than they imagined before a likely buyer came in sight.
'There's a gentleman,' said May, in a very shaky voice. 'You ask him, Ada—you.'
'Please, sir, will you—would you buy a pincushion?' stammered Ada. The pincushion factory was all very well, but the selling part did not seem so pleasant, now that she had come to the point.
'And what should I want with a pincushion?' said some one far above their heads, so gruffly that Ada longed to run away, and May, somehow, found that tears were very near.
'And what may you be doing here alone with your pincushions?' went on this terrible voice; but it was not so gruff this time. There was something in it which they thought they had heard before. Looking up, who should it be but their father's Irish friend, Mr. O'Brien, whom they were trying to capture for their first customer!
'Oh!' cried Ada, 'it's you!' and the whole story came tumbling out in such a confused way that Mr. O'Brien had nearly taken them back to Grove Villa before he quite understood it.
Mother, too, was very much puzzled. 'No, I don't say it was naughty, my dears, but you had better not have surprises out of doors again,' she said. 'But what made you think of it at all, Ada?'
'But Grannie and Grandfather could live here if they wanted to, only the country is better for them,' she explained, when the little girls had told her the reason of their 'factory.' 'Yes, you do hear me say we can't afford things, but they are things we don't really need. You always have all you want, don't you? Don't worry your little heads about money, then, and promise me one thing—never to go a step farther than I send you when you go out alone! You might have been lost if Mr. O'Brien hadn't met you!'
'Indeed we will not, Mother darling!' cried the two in one breath.
'And I think,' said May, soberly, 'we will tell Jane or somebody about our next surprise, and then we shall know whether it is all right.'
E. S. S.
"I held a long stick for him to hook on.""I held a long stick for him to hook on."
Waterton, the famous naturalist, has told us concerning his doings with a sloth when he was going through a forest near the River Essequibo. He says: 'I saw a large sloth on the ground upon the bank. How he had got there nobody could tell. My Indian said he had never surprised a sloth in such a situation before. He could hardly have come there to drink, for both above and below the place the branches of the trees touched the water, andafforded him an easy and safe access to it. Be this as it may, though the trees were not above twenty yards from him, he could not make his way through the sand in time to escape before we landed. As soon as we came up to him, he threw himself on his back, and defended himself with his legs.
'"Come, poor fellow," said I to him, "if thou hast got into a hobble to-day, thou shalt not suffer for it. I will take no advantage of thee in misfortune. The forest is large enough both for thee and me to rove in. Go thy way alive and enjoy thyself in the wilds; it is probable thou wilt never have another interview with man, so fare thee well!"
'After this I took up a long stick which was lying there, held it for him to hook on, and then conveyed him to a high and stately tree. He ascended with wonderful rapidity, and in about a minute he was almost at the top. He now went off in a side direction, and caught hold of the branch of a neighbouring tree; next he went towards the heart of the forest. I stood looking on, amazed at his singular mode of progress. I was going to add that I never saw a sloth take to his heels in such earnest, but the expression will not do, for the sloth has no heels.'
The Indians of Guiana declare that the sloth travels chiefly when the wind blows. During calm weather the animal is still, but if a breeze rises, the branches of the trees generally become interwoven, and he can pursue his journey safely from branch to branch. Should a wind blow, as it often does, after ten o'clock in the morning till sunset, a sloth will manage a good distance without resting.
Seldom, unless perhaps by accident, is a sloth seen upon the ground. There its movements do seem laborious and painful. Its home is amongst trees, and its favourite position not on, but under, the branches. Off the trees it obtains the various insects which are its food, and escapes the danger of being seized by most beasts of prey. When the sloth is at rest under a branch, it has been noticed to make a sort of purring sound, expressing pleasure, though at times one is heard uttering a plaintive shriek, possibly telling of discontent.
The head of the sloth is small and round. It is well clothed with shaggy hair, and the fore-legs are long and strong. While quite young, the little sloth is carried about by its mother.
T
HE longest night—so people say—Follows the short December day;And if by hours you count the night,Then surely what they say is right.But years, and years, and years ago,When I was very young, you know,The longest night, I'm bound to say,Followed the shortest month's last day.Thatnight I always lay awake,And longed to see the morning break,And sunshine through the window burst,For I was born on March the First.I heard the big clock—stiff and stark—Sedately ticking in the dark,And when I murmured: 'Hurry,do!'It made reply by chiming 'Two.'And on from hour to hour it seemedI dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamedOf pleasures mine—an endless sum—If March the First would ever come.And yet the morning's earliest peepWould always find me fast asleep:So fast asleep that at my doorThey called and called me o'er and o'er.So, since that time I've learned, my dear,The longest night in all the yearIs that on which we lie awake,Impatient for the dawn to break.
(Continued from page87.)
'Where's Estelle?' cried Alan, bursting into the schoolroom at the Moat House a few days later. 'I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, for startling you like that, but I thought Estelle was sure to be here.'
'She has gone to the Bridge House,' answered Mademoiselle, with an indulgent smile.
She was quite prepared for any amount of interruption and noise during the holidays, since Alan always brought a lively, breezy air with him, in his delight at being home again, and free from school work.
'Estelle is taking some grapes and roses to Dick Peet,' continued Mademoiselle. 'He seemed very weak and poorly when we passed yesterday, and she has so wanted to do something for him. He's a sad wreck, poor fellow!'
'Poor chap! It's hard lines on him. I will cut down and catch Estelle before she leaves the Bridge House.'
He was off, and Mademoiselle heard his fleet steps in the corridor a moment. Then she saw him going at full speed down the drive, so brimming over with health and spirits, so keen in the enjoyment of life and activity, with a future before him so rose-coloured and fortunate, that she could not but contrast him with that poor broken specimen of humanity, Richard Peet, the gardener's son. A contrast to him, indeed, were the children as they stood together in the little garden at the Bridge House. Dick, seated in his armchair, was looking at them in his peaceful, half-sleepy way. A handsome fellow he must have been in the days of health and prosperity. Even now, though he was paralysed in brain as well as in limbs, there was a wonderful expression of goodness and patience in his worn face.
'Are you well to-day?' asked little Georgie, putting his hand on the invalid's knee, and looking up into his face with his blue eyes full of childish sympathy.
Dick smiled. Getting better every day,' replied he, in the indistinct accents of the partially paralysed.
Estelle was arranging her flowers on the little table at his side, and Marjorie had gone to speak to Mrs. Peet.
The house was close to the old drawbridge, and its garden sloped down to the waters of the moat. Shining like silver in the bright sunshine, the waterlilies were resting on their broad leaves, and two swans were sailing in stately beauty. The summer sun had banished all signs of the thunderstorm, and Dick's chair had been placed near the elms overhanging the water. It was a pretty, well-kept garden, and a very old-world house, with a deep porch, overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis—a home not to be despised by any one. The rooms were of good size and well furnished, and everything had been done which could make Dick happy and comfortable in his misfortune.
'Better!' said Mrs. Peet, who came down the lawn with Marjorie, and had heard Dick's reply to Georgie's question, 'It's not the sort of getting better thatweunderstand. He is a bit weaker, if anything. Perhaps 'tis the heat tries him. My poor Dick!' she went on, putting her apron to her eyes, 'he will never be better in this world, that's what I says, though it does make his father angry.'
'Is he angry?' said Estelle. 'Why?
'He thinks it is hard on us, is poor Dick's illness. Itishard! But it seems to me we have much to be thankful for, specially in my lady's goodness to us in our affliction.'
'I think it's worse for Dick than for any one else,' declared Alan, who had joined the group; he could not imagine a more terrible life than the one of utter helplessness to which Dick was condemned.
'So it is,' returned Mrs. Peet, with a heavy sigh, as she gazed at her son with tears in her eyes, 'and he is so patient! Why, you never so much as hear a grumble, nor a fret! Now, what do you think his great wish is—what he is always wanting, miss?'
'If it is anything we can do—— ' began Marjorie.
'That it isn't, miss, nor nobody else. He wants some news of the man what done him the mischief. Dick's that soft. And—and, well, he is an angel. His father don't understand it, but Dick has really forgiven that man. He's downright anxious to hear how that rascal's been getting on.'
'Why should he care about that?' said Alan, who knew very little of Dick's story.
'He's afraid that the man thinks he's killed him, and that perhaps he's made wickeder than he was before,' answered Mrs. Peet, shaking her head. 'He said he'd die satisfied if he could hear that the fellow had repented.'
'Perhaps he will some day,' said Estelle, looking with pity at Dick's face.
''Tisn't likely, Miss. We shall never be likely to meet Dick's enemy; don't you believe it! But it pleases him to think he will, so I don't gainsay him.'
'I shall hope he will,' returned Estelle, as her cousins made a move to go back to the gardens.
The children were to have tea on the lawn with Lady Coke, and they could see preparations even now being made for it. They did not often have such a treat: Lady Coke, sweet and loving as she always was to her great-nephews and nieces, was too old and delicate to indulge in their companionship for very long at a time. The children were on their quietest behaviour with her, but the little voices tired her unconsciously, and she would not spare herself while they were with her.
Lord Lynwood, Estelle's father, and Colonel De Bohun were brothers and nephews to Lady Coke, while Mrs. De Bohun was the niece of Sir Horace Coke, Lady Coke's husband, who had died many years ago. This close relationship on both sides, and the nearness of the two properties, made the two households almost like one. Colonel and Mrs. De Bohun were deeply attached to their aunt, and glad to take counsel with her in the bringing up of their children. Lady Coke, in her turn, was very dependent upon them for companionship, her own sons being away on foreign service.
A merry party the children made. The laughter and chatter were as free and happy as Aunt Betty loved to hear it. The adventure in the tower appeared to interest them more than anything else, and very wild were the guesses as to what the man could have wanted. But when Aunt Betty ventured to express some admiration for Thomas' bravery, to her astonishment she was met by silence on the part of the two greatest talkers, Alan and Marjorie. The latter almost at once turned the subject by asking how Aunt Betty supposed the man managed to escape. Aunt Betty had no ideas to suggest. Alan frowned at Marjorie, but she went on quite serenely.
'Do you know, Auntie, what the summer-house contains? Peet keeps the place locked up as if he had something of value there. I wish you would let us go and see. Father says it is dangerous because of the falling of stones from the roof, but if it is safe for Peet, and the stones don't crash down on his head, why should they on ours?'
'I think it would be a good lesson if they did knock him over for once,' said Alan, grimly.
'I know he is trying at times,' said Lady Coke, in her soft, gentle voice, 'but he is a sterling old man all the same, and it is a pity you cannot let him alone.'
'He won't let us alone, Aunt Betty,' said Alan, 'and he is cheeky too. I suppose we do worry him a bit,' he added, as recollections came to him of the havoc made with the tidy paths, or the injury to shrubs when hunting for lost balls after games of tennis.
'We went to see Dick just now,' said Estelle, 'and oh, Auntie, what a dreadful thing it seems that he should have become like that! Mrs. Peet told us a little about him, and how good he is.'
'Perhaps,' answered Lady Coke, 'you would all feel more kindly towards Peet if I were to tell you how sadly he has suffered. Almost as much as his son, only in another way.'
(Continued on page102.)
"'Are you well to-day?' asked Georgie.""'Are you well to-day?' asked Georgie."
"Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground.""Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground."
(Concluded from page83.)
'I waited a moment (continued Denison) in order to give the shikari time to recover himself. I can tell you that I was not feeling at that moment much more cheerful than the poor fellow himself, who had evidently witnessed some terrible calamity to my poor friend, Charlie Eccles. I waited on tenterhooks; then I could bear the suspense no longer.'
'Did the tiger then spring upon the Sahib and kill him?' I faltered. 'Where is the Sahib's body?'
'Alas!' said the shikari, 'who can tell! Listen, Protector of the Poor. The Sahib Eccles shrieked, for the great yellow beast—may he lead a life of pain!—sprang upon him, as you say. The Sahib's bullet had struck but not killed him. He bore the Sahib to the earth, and lay for a moment upon him, the Sahib crying out once and twice again. With the Sahib's second gun I fired into the body of the beast, but whether I hit him or not I cannot say, for all was confusion and dust and terror, and also there was the fear lest the bullet should strike the Sahib. Then, in a moment, the tiger had disappeared, and the Sahib also. There was none to see, for these other men, the beaters, had quickly taken flight at the sound of the roar of the tiger, and, as for me, I must confess that, for a moment, after shooting at the beast, I turned my back upon the animal, fearing lest he should now fall upon me. When I looked again—it was but a few seconds later—both tiger and Sahib had, as I say, disappeared; therefore I made no doubt that the savage brute seized the Sahib Eccles and carried him into the jungle. Alas! there is no doubt that he is dead. This is an evil tiger, an eater of men. There is no hope that the poor Sahib is still alive.'
I listened to the shikari's narrative in speechless horror. It was difficult to realise that he had spoken of Charlie Eccles, my old school friend; that this tale he had just told me was of Charlie's death; and that his death had happened within an hour or so, and might have been prevented if I had arrived but a single day, or even half a day, earlier.
'Shikari, this is a dreadful tale you have told me,' I groaned. 'If you have told me the truth, and not lied in order to hide your own cowardice, the Sahib Eccles is probably dead. This, however, must be ascertained immediately, and his body must be found and brought in. You will guide me at once to the spot, and we shall follow upon the tiger's tracks.'
'Into the jungle, Sahib!' exclaimed the shikari. 'Upon the track of a wounded tiger! Then we are lost men, both of us.'
'At any rate, if you are a coward, and dare not help me to seek your master, you shall at least show me where he was seized, and I will go alone.'
The shikari, though evidently a nervous man, was no coward. He pulled himself together.
'I will go with the Sahib,' he said. 'It shall not be spoken of me that there was a thing of which I was afraid. The Sahib will allow me to carry this second rifle of the Sahib Eccles?'
'Of course. You have answered well, shikari; it shall be said that you are a brave man. Take the rifle and come, for this is a matter that cannot wait.'
So we set out for the place where poor Eccles had lost his life, some two or three miles from the bungalow, and my heart was heavy as lead as I tramped along with the shikari at my side, recalling many scenes in which old Charlie had been my companion at school and at Oxford and in after-life. I scarcely thought of the extreme danger of the enterprise upon which the shikari and I were now engaged, my mind being otherwise occupied; but when we came near the place, and the native, looking frightened and positively trembling as he spoke, whispered that here, within twenty-five yards, was the spot where the tiger had sprung upon the Sahib, I suddenly realised that we were about to meet a crisis in our lives.
'Have your rifle ready,' I whispered back, 'and look all ways at once. If you see the tiger, fire at the same instant.'
We reached the spot where the scuffle had taken place. The grass was trampled and broken, and there were marks of a struggle. A yard or two further on lay Charlie's helmet, with puggaree attached, and a scrap of his clothing fluttered in the midst of a thorny bush, through which, I suppose, he had been dragged. The jungle became denser at this point with every step forward, and we advanced inch by inch, very slowly, very cautiously, feeling that we carried our lives in our hands, for a wounded tiger lying hid in the cover, with so much energy left in him as this beast presumably still possessed, since he had carried Charlie's body away with him, is one of the most dangerous things that a man can face. I need not tell you fellows that, however, both of you being experienced hunters. Probably, being wounded, the tiger would not travel far. Of course, there was only the shikari's word for it that hewaswounded; but, in any case, being burdened with the body of a twelve-stone man, he would not go further than he need. So we crept slowly forward.
It, was a gruesome experience. To tell the truth, I was almost more afraid that I should suddenly come upon the body of poor Eccles lying across our pathway, than of hearing the terrible roar of the wounded tiger and seeing him crouch to spring upon us. Expecting him, as I did, at every second, it would be hard if I could not get in my shot before he could get in his spring.
The track was easily followed. A great beast cannot drag another large creature through grass and plants of all kinds without leaving behind pretty evident signs of his passing. We had gone forward—creeping almost as noiselessly as snakes—some quarter of a mile, scarcely more, when suddenly the most astonishing thing happened that ever I experienced.
Not fifty yards from the place in which we then stood, as it happened, listening for any sound which might reveal the whereabouts of the tiger, a shot suddenly rang out, instantly followed by a kind of sound, half roar, half moan; then came the noise of a scuffle, the crashing of twigs, a few gasping coughs—then silence.
'Shikari,' I cried aloud, scarcely knowing in my excitement what I said, 'it is the Sahib! Come!' I dashed forward. 'Charlie—Charlie Eccles!' I yelled, 'is it you? I am Ralph!'
A feeble cheer replied to my shout. The next moment a remarkable spectacle opened itself out before us.
Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground—pale, tattered, but smiling; a few feet away lay upon its side the body of an enormous tiger. I sprang forward. 'Don't touch me, old chap,' said Charlie, 'I feel as if I was broken all over!'—then he fainted.
Well, except a couple of broken ribs and some nasty gashes and scratches, there was nothing seriously the matter, and with the help of a litter and half-a-dozen natives summoned by the shikari, we got him home to the bungalow without further damage. There he told me his story. The tiger had been wounded, but not seriously, by his first shot. The shikari fired and missed. Then the beast had seized him by the shoulder, which was lacerated, and had dragged him to this place. Charlie had clung to his rifle, and upon reaching the spot where we had found him, the tiger laid him down and rested. Fortunately the pain of his wound had rendered the brute disinclined to eat. He stood over him for nearly half an hour, listening, licking his wound, and growling. Charlie lay still as death, for he knew that if he moved a finger he would be slain that instant. After half an hour the brute left him and lay a few yards away, but in such a position that Charlie could not fire a fatal shot; he therefore waited in hopes that he would change his attitude. The tiger lay and attended to his wound for a full hour or more, and Eccles waited patiently.
At last—just before we arrived—the tiger shifted, presenting his side and shoulder, and Charlie, pointing his rifle with the utmost care, for he knew his life depended upon the shot, pulled trigger.
'I think,' Ralph concluded, 'that evening in the Dâk Bungalow was about the happiest I ever spent. The doctor had been summoned from the camp at Bandapore and had pronounced Charlie Eccles to be progressing excellently. You may imagine how happy I must have felt after my fears. You may imagine, also, what a hero Charlie was among the natives after his exploit. Of course my friend the shikari, in telling them the story, made out that the chief honours were his, but he was good enough to admit that the Sahib behaved also like a brave man, and probably his hearers, knowing each other's little ways, distributed the honours pretty fairly.'
What is a topiary? If you have never been in one, you may have seen one represented by some artist who draws scenes that show us gardens or shrubberies of bygone days. Perhaps you may at least have been in some old-fashioned garden, which had one or more trees of odd shapes, into which they had been cut and trained years ago. When a number of such trees are growing together, the place is called a topiary, and lately people who can afford the money have been contriving topiaries in some parts of their grounds. Gardeners who understand how to make trees resemble the human figure, or different animals, or other objects, can usually get plenty of employment.
We read about sculptured hedges as far back as the times of the Tudors; it was chiefly the yew hedge that people cut and shaped into odd figures. But it was not till the Dutch gardeners came over in the reign of William III., that it became the practice to give curious shapes to trees and shrubs scattered over gardens, or brought together into a topiary. Various trees were used, but chiefly yew and box.
The Dutch were fond of making figures out of trees, and so were the Italians. At Savona, a traveller tells us that he saw a group representing the flight of Joseph into Egypt, formed of variegated holly, box, myrtle, laurel, and cypress. The poet Pope alluded to the Duke who owned the splendid estate of Canons, as a nobleman who had
'Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees,'
and he remarks that he was shown, in greenery, Adam, Eve, and the serpent, but the figures were damaged somewhat. All such figures need attention to keep them in order. There are many about England that are of good age, and may last some years yet; though, of course, these trees may be injured by wind or heavy rain. Shrubs and trees are formed into curious shapes by the help of wires, and much trimming or twisting of the shoots is needed at first. A young tree, therefore, representing a peacock, or some other bird, will cost four or five pounds, and specimens that are larger may be worth many times that amount. Figures of men, horses, bears, dogs, and various animals, including dragons, are to be seen, as well as letters of the alphabet, triangles, or other inanimate objects, some trees being cleverly made to look like jugs, bottles, and bowls. Occasionally, a singular change has been made in a tree; thus, what was a boy with a rake, by a little alteration becomes a soldier carrying a rifle.
When taking a country stroll, we may sometimes come upon a specimen of a tree-sculptor's art in a wayside cottage garden, perhaps two hundred years old. One of the finest topiaries in England is in the grounds of Levens Hall, Westmoreland, and the Earl of Harrington has a notable one at Elvaston Castle, Derbyshire.
The sons of a great landowner were permitted by their father to associate with the poor boys in the neighbourhood. One day, when they had to return home to dinner, a lad who was playing with them said he would wait till they returned.
'There is no dinner for me at home,' said the poor boy.
'Come with us, then,' said the others.
The boy refused, and when they asked him if he had any money to buy a dinner, he answered 'No.'
When the boys got home the eldest of them said to his father, 'Father, what was the price of the silver buckles you gave me yesterday?'
'Five shillings,' was the reply.
'Then please give me the money, and I will give you the buckles again.'
This was done accordingly, and the father, inquiring privately, found that the money was given to the lad who had no dinner.
Fig. 1.—Young Crab: first stage.Fig. 1.—Young Crab:first stage.
HE more we study the living creatures around us the more wonderful they become; and in many ways this is especially true of what we may call the little people of the lower world. Most of us regard the crab as a creature good to eat, or, in the case of some of the smaller kinds, as something to be hunted for in rock-pools at the seaside; but only a very few appear to know anything of the crab in its infancy.
Fig. 2.—Young Crab: second stage.Fig. 2.—Young Crab: second stage.
What we may call the childhood of the crab makes a really curious story. Boys and girls, until they are quite grown up, are, as a rule at any rate, carefully nursed and shielded from the hardships of life; but with the young crab it is otherwise. From the moment of its birth it is called upon to enter life's battle alone; of brothers and sisters, mother and father and home, it knows nothing. And such a tiny little mite it is, too, needing a microscope to see it. Stranger still, at this early period of life it is not the least bit like a crab; for a crab, as most of us know it, is a creature with a shell broader than it is long, and long legs, and a pair of pincers which can give a most painful nip to unguarded fingers. As a youngster, however, he presents a very different appearance, as may be seen in fig. 1. That is what he looks like just after leaving the egg—a creature with a huge eye, a big round body, and a long, slender tail—a sort of compromise between a crab and a lobster, but without the familiar legs and pincers.
Fig. 3.—Last stage of Crab's Infancy: back view.Fig. 3.—Last stage of Crab's Infancy: back view.
Fig. 4.—Side view of Fig. 3.Fig. 4.—Side view of Fig. 3.
A little later he assumes a form which is certainly fantastic, for from the top of the shell (as you will see in fig. 2) there grows out a long, curved spine, while the legs have taken a shape suggesting jointed paint-brushes. Later still the eyes grow out from the head and are supported on short stalks, the legs and pincers appear, and lastly the long tail curls up, till at last it grows into a curious three-cornered shield and is carried tucked away under the body. As soon as this takes place he becomes at once the crab with which we are familiar, and changes no more except in size.
The strange flap hinged to the hinder edge of the body of the adult crab, and held close to its under surface, really answers to the long body of the lobster. To make this clear, look at the series of figures 3 to 6: fig. 3 shows the back view of the last stage of the crab's infancy, and fig. 4 a side view of the same, where you will note that the tail is already beginning to curl up. In fig. 5 you have the under side of the full-grown crab with all that remains of the hinder part of the body and the tail in the position in which it is carried during life, and in fig. 6 the upper side with the tail showing as if it were unfolded. If you compare figs. 5 and 6 with fig. 7 (a lobster), you can see that the hinder part of the body of the crab, with the tail unfolded, really does answer to that portion of the body of the lobster which lies behind the last pair of legs.
Fig. 5.—Full-grown Crab, under side, showing tail curled up.Fig. 5.—Full-grown Crab, under side, showing tail curled up.
Fig. 6.—Full-grown Crab, upper side, with tail unfolded.Fig. 6.—Full-grown Crab, upper side, with tail unfolded.
But there are some relatives of the crab which come into the world still earlier, and these in the early stages have a still more un-crab-like shape which is known as thenaupliusstage of growth.
The crab, on leaving the egg, enters the world not in the form of a Nauplius, but as a 'Zoea,' as it is called; this is shown in figs. 1 and 2. By the time the stage shown in figs. 3 and 4 is reached, he has attained the dignity of what is known among scientific men as themegalopastage. What a nauplius looks like you will see in fig. 8.
Fig. 7.—Lobster.Fig. 7.—Lobster.
Fig. 8.—Nauplius.Fig. 8.—Nauplius.
Fig. 9.—Swimming Foot of Crayfish, with the young ones attached.Fig. 9.—Swimming Foot of Crayfish, with the young ones attached.
This curious order of things is true, however, only of salt-water members of the crab-tribe. With certain near relatives of the crabs and lobsters which have taken up their residence in fresh water, a different order of things prevails, for here we find some trace of maternal care. Thus, in the fresh-water crayfish the young not only leave the egg in a much more advanced stage, but they are carefully carried about by the mother, until they have learned to shift for themselves, which they do in a very few days. During this time they cling to the swimming legs of the parent by means of their pincers. When all is quiet they drop off one by one, and crawl about to gather experience and food. But at the least sign of danger the mother appears to give some note of warning, and in a moment they have scuttled back, and fastened hold of her skirts, so to speak; then, if need be, she hurries off to a place of safety. At this time these little crayfish are very tiny indeed; but to get an idea of what they look like, and how they hold on, look at fig. 9, which gives a picture of the swimming foot of a mother crayfish, and two of her youngsters hanging on to it.
It would seem that this great care is necessary, because in the swift-running streams where these creatures generally live, their young, if uncared for during their early days, would be swept away by the tide and carried out to sea, where they would speedily die.
W. P. Pycraft,F.Z.S., A.L.S.
T
REMEN was a growing city, but its ruler, hard and proud,Insolent in power and riches, all his humble subjects cowed,Till one day a bold man pleaded to the Count on bended knee:'Sire, for just a little season set my toiling brethren free!Let them leave awhile their labour, let them roam the country fair,Quit the close and crowded city for a breath of purer air;Or, perchance, their faithful service you will graciously repay,And a piece of ground assign them from your gardens vast and gay?'Frowned the Count, and answered, mocking: 'Not a little do you ask!Well! your prayer shall find a champion, and I'll set him just one task:He shall march from dawn to sunset, pacing my fair gardens round;All his footsteps can encircle shall be then the people's ground.'Morning came, the folk assembled, full of hopefulness and glee,But their eager eyes no other than the Count himself can see.Stay! there standeth one beside him, Hans the cripple, small and weak!'This is he,' the Count cries, scoffing, 'who shall give you what you seek.Fly! Hans, fly! Around my pleasaunce speed as quickly as you may!'And the cripple, smiling bravely, starts forthwith upon his way.All that day, from morn to even, Hans the cripple did his best,Walking on without cessation, pausing not for food or rest.Miracle both Count and people deemed the prowess he displayed,And the tyrant scowled in anger as he saw the progress made.Faint and weary, for his brethren Hans toiled on till eventide,Then, amid the people's cheering, knelt, and breathed a prayer, and died.Feudal days are gone for ever, but in Bremen's ancient townTell they still of Hans the hero, who for them his life laid down.
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The children were all eager to hear the story, and a sad one it was. They had become accustomed to see Dick half asleep in his armchair in the garden, or before the fire at the Bridge House. They knew him to be almost helpless, for it was only with assistance he could move, even on his crutches. They had thought very little about his condition, however, except for that feeling of pity which even a child experiences in the presence of suffering. Mrs. Peet's words had roused their interest in her son, and Lady Coke saw an opportunity for deepening the impression she had made. It would be good in many ways for these young people to hear that sad story. It had its lessons, and these she trusted would sink into their young minds; they might make it more possible to feel patient and to show more consideration for Peet, whose irritable temper, she was forced to admit, was very trying to their high spirits.
Dick, the only child of Peet and his wife, had been a fine handsome lad, with an unusual amount of brains, and with, what is still better, a wonderful capacity for really hard work. He had won all the prizes that he could possibly compete for in the little school at Lynwood, as well as most of the honours in the cricket and football field, for he was quite as good at games as at books. Peet was at that time, and had been ever since his youth, a gardener on the Earl of Lynwood's estate—Lynwood Keep, in Scotland. He had risen through steady work to be head gardener and bailiff. On finding himself possessed of sufficient means to take a wife and settle down, he had married an old love of his, a Cornish girl from the village of Newlyn, and had carried her off to the home he had so proudly prepared for her. A very happy couple they had been, and the birth of Dick had added a still greater happiness to their already bright life. Peet's temper had not then become what the sore trials and disappointments of his later life had made it. He was contented and prosperous, and the clouds which afterwards darkened his existence had not so much as sent the tiniest little messenger before them to tell of their coming.
As Dick grew older, and showed of what true, strong metal he was made, his parents' pride in him became greater than they could quite conceal. A certain amount of envy and ill-will was the natural result. Dick himself was not in the least conceited. None knew so well as he how hard it was to restrain a naturally hasty temper, to give up the games he loved for the work he did not, to labour as thoroughly at the subjects he disliked or took no interest in as at those he liked. But he had grit enough to determine he would not thus lose the battle of life in the beginning of it, and step by step the habit of overcoming difficulties prevailed.
He rose steadily and surely over the heads of his school-fellows, gaining prize after prize, until there was nothing more to win either in places or rewards.
Having by this time laid by enough to enable him to retire from work, Peet allowed himself to be persuaded by his brother-in-law to take a small cottage at Newlyn. This brother-in-law, captain of a merchant vessel, offered at the same time to give his clever nephew a berth on board his own ship, a barque trading between England and Australia. It would be a good opening for the lad, and offered him a fair prospect of advancement in life, should he choose to stick to the sea afterwards as a profession. If not, no harm would be done. On the contrary, Dick would have passed through some experiences which could not fail to be useful to him, whatever line he might prefer to follow later on.
Much to Lord Lynwood's regret, therefore, Peet resolved to take the advice thus offered him, and, resigning his post at Lynwood, took his family to Newlyn. Delighted as Dick was at the bright future opening before him, he was as sad at parting with his old friends and companions as they were at losing the most brilliant scholar and athlete the school had ever known. His warm-hearted, unaffected manner had made him a general favourite, in spite of the fact that his ability had not failed to arouse envy and dislike in some.
Dick took to the sea like a duck to water. He set himself to learn his work and become 'handy' with a zeal that soon made him a smart sailor. He managed, also, in spite of all he had to do, to carry on his own education by reading whenever he could. There were other apprentices besides himself on board, and he was treated with exactly the same discipline as they, no favouritism being shown or desired. He preferred to share like the others, and there was nothing in his behaviour, or in the treatment he received, which could have led any stranger to suppose he was the skipper's nephew. Nevertheless, his talents soon became evident. He was always the one to whom a difficult job could be safely trusted; and this came out more clearly when he went up for his second mate's certificate, which he gained with so much ease as to raise some jealousy among his fellow-apprentices. This was increased when it became known that Dick had been offered a berth as fourth officer in a well-known line of steamers.
His usual success followed him in his new career. Hard work, an even temper, and the well-kept resolution to educate himself by steady reading were good preparations for his next examination for a first mate's certificate, for which he went up at the earliest possible opportunity. But, alas! the cloud had already risen in the hitherto sunny skies of his life. He passed the examination with his usual success. The certificate was duly signed, and, happy that he could carry it down to his parents, he looked out the train to Penzance. Finding that he had an hour or so to spare, he went to an inn to snatch a meal before he started off on his long journey.
He had partaken of many a meal in that same inn. It was close to the Board of Trade offices, and he had met many another merchant sailor in the same dingy rooms, and had discussed the prospects of the service with them gladly. As he entered it on that day, happy and cheerful, with his future looking brilliant and rosy before him, he little imagined how near was the end of all his hopes. Such a small thing had turned the tide! Only that fatal decision to go to the inn to which he had been so often before, and pass the time till his train started! Others were taking their lunch there, but the number was smaller than usual; perhaps it was yet early for the rush. Dick sat at a side-table, reading over his certificate as he ate his modest meal.
So far all is clear. After this the account became so confused and contradictory that the actual truth was never known. After a good deal of sifting, the following facts were accepted as the best version of what must have taken place. According to the landlord's tale, most of the guests had left, Dick and another sailor being either the sole remaining men in the room, or nearly so. They were lunchingat the same table, and were apparently good friends. He did not remember that there were any others. He and the waiters happened to be in the pantry for a few minutes; he was sure it was not longer, when they were startled by the sound of a fall, followed by the loud bang of the outer door. On rushing in to find out the cause of the disturbance, they found Dick lying insensible on the floor, with a severe wound on the back of the head, evidently inflicted by the heavy knobbed stick discovered near him. There was no clue as to what had given rise to the quarrel. The wounded man's certificate being on his plate, and open, as if it had just been read, it was imagined that a sudden fit of rage and jealousy must have led his companion to the terrible deed.
The police and the doctor were at once sent for. A thorough search was made for the culprit, but, as no one specially remembered him, he made good his escape. From that day no trace of him was ever discovered, and the whole affair gradually dropped out of recollection.
Meantime, Dick was taken to the nearest hospital, where for a long time his life was despaired of. Having found the address of his parents, the hospital authorities telegraphed for them, and they were allowed to be with him as much as possible. As may be imagined, grief and terror filled their hearts when the telegram reached them. There was no time to dwell on their sorrow, for Dick's condition took up all their thoughts. The report of the doctors filled them with even deeper grief and anxiety. They declared it would have been better for the poor fellow if he had been killed outright. The blow had been so severe that the brain and spine were both injured. Even if he lived for years, he would never again walk; in all probability, he would never again understand or speak properly.
Dick did get better, however, and, as soon as he was fit, was taken down to Newlyn. Every care and attention were given him with the hope of proving that the doctors were mistaken. But, alas! in vain. It was a long, expensive illness. The little home, so full of comfort and happiness, the pride of Peet's heart—full, as it was too, of Dick's strange and beautiful things, relics of his voyages—all had to go: sold to meet the bills of the doctors, and to buy things which were needed for the invalid. Brought to a very low ebb by this terrible affliction, and not knowing where all the money was to come from to pay the demands made upon him—too proud to ask help from even his own brother—Peet resolved to go back to work again. He applied to his old master, Lord Lynwood; there being no vacancies at Lynwood, however, the Earl wrote to his aunt, Lady Coke, whose head gardener had died but a short time before, and who, he knew, was looking out for a capable man to replace him.
Such a berth as he found at the Moat House Peet might have searched the world in vain to discover. Lady Coke's sympathy was at once roused on hearing of his sorrows, and from her he accepted kindnesses which would have been an offence from anybody else.
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