Illustration: Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his studymr. rivers had summoned both boys to his study(p. 32).
mr. rivers had summoned both boys to his study(p. 32).
Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit wiser than he had been before, and he felt somehow that he had been reproved, and, more than that, warned. But he was not very seriously impressed, and he determined some day to find out the whole history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly what he did, and why he did it; and as he turned the matter over in his mind, as he sat perched on the gate, he came to the conclusion that his was a very strange family, and that there were a great many skeletons concealed in Riversdale.
"Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy or girl cousin some day or other," he said to Eddie suddenly. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised."
Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly at his brother. "Aunt Amy? what put her into your head, Bert?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's Uncle Frank. Don't you think it's very funny to have a lot of relations you never see, hear from, or speak about—very exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you when you least expect it. I hope, Ned, when you're master of Riversdale, you won't banish me, and forget my very existence till I'm dead. What did Aunt Amy do, I wonder?"
"She married some one papa did not approve of—an artist, I think: that's all," Eddie said gravely. "I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and I'm sure she is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale, because papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps she likes London better, and she has not got any boys or girls."
"Oh!" Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; "you seem to know all about them. Who told you?"
"Papa. I asked him one day."
"Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He never comes here either;" and Bertie looked up the road again, as if he did not care very much to hear the probable reason of that relative's absence.
"Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend to his business, I suppose," Eddie replied, rather loftily. "He came here often enough—too often, I believe—when our mother was alive, and then papa and he disagreed, and he has not come since."
"Hum!" Bertie said, slipping down and stretching himself. "How did you find out, Eddie?"
"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives; you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well ask why we always stay at home."
"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"
"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before deciding. I should like to see a great city—London for instance."
"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can tell us all about it."
"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the famous places in the world—Italy, Greece, Egypt—see pictures, statues, beautiful churches."
"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.
"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition," Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"
"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly. "Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave little lady in black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at Eddie, who had returned to the grounds. "Well," he cried, "what do you think?"
"I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little thing, not more than seven!" he cried scornfully. "The idea of a girl in blue spectacles! Come and have a walk." For once Bertie followed instead of leading, though he was strongly inclined to return to the house. He did not think his cousin was ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and sad-looking; but somehow he felt disappointed too, and out of humour with himself, and Eddie, and every one else, and in an unusually silent mood he set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were disappointed in Agnes, but in a different way.
"Ihopeyou will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home. Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead, and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.
"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?"she asked timidly, as she clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.
"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments: indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies, but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You have been ill, surely."
"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at night with father."
"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to let you?"
"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."
Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor, fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words bore the living impress of truth.
"How old are you, my dear?"
"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years ago, I had to take care of him."
"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens cried, holding up both her hands.
"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house—ever so much a finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was best?"
"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the old lady replied briskly.
"And do you think my cousins will love me?"
"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in the world."
"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.
"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If poor Mr. Frank had only——but there, what is the use of talking?" and Mrs. Mittens sighed.
"Did you know my father, ma'am?"
"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."
"Did you love him, please?"
"Love him, Miss Agnes?thatI did! Who could help loving his bright bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of the house, but he would have his own way—he would have it, and I fear it led him through a tangled, thorny path."
Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.
"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously, yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"
"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he would have given his heart's best blood for him!"
"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so friendless, so—so unhappy?"
"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have loved him, but Master Frank would not."
"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."
"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding both the child's hands,and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy, but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last, thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."
Illustration: Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittensagnes looked up at mrs. mittens(p. 35).
agnes looked up at mrs. mittens(p. 35).
So Agnes lay down very contentedly.
"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall love it!—my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park, smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.
After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind of way she looked round.
"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping Beauty!"
"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly," another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us wake her."
"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself—"I was only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before thedinner was over it was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist, like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.
Threemonths passed away, and Agnes Rivers was feeling quite at home in her uncle's house. She had lost much of her nervous shyness, but except with Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved. She was a little afraid of her uncle, as were the whole family; a little in awe of Eddie too, who was still somewhat stately and grand in his manner; and she always had an uncomfortable sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her just because she was little and weak, and his cousin.
But on the whole she was happy and contented. She ran about the park and gardens all the morning, did no lessons whatever, and amused herself sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees on the lawn, or Mrs. Mittens' dog and cat, called Punch and Judy, who lived the most useless, indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper's room. She could hit off likenesses, too, in quite a startling way, and Eddie said he would give her some lessons in painting if she wished. Agnes was enthusiastic in her thanks for what was, after all, but a trifling service, and while the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he had to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as best he could. But Eddie very soon grew tired of a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her German. Agnes consented, as she would have done to any plan or project of Eddie's. But that course of instruction also came to an untimely end; perhaps Agnes was a little dull, certainly Eddie was impatient. And then Bertie had his turn: he taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops, play cricket (theoretically), regretting every minute that she was not big and strong like Lillie Mayson, the doctor's daughter—the doctor who kept the grammar-school, not the one who came to see them when they were ill.
Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the master that some one should come and teach Miss Agnes, saying that the child was left too much alone during the day, as the boys went to school every morning. But Mr. Rivers shook his head impatiently. "Leave the child alone; let her eat and sleep and run wild till she's stronger. She ought not to be dull in Riversdale."
Nor was she. How could any one with a deep instinctive love of Nature be dull, or lonely, or sad with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an observant eye could walk through the shady lanes or ramble in the woods without seeing objects of interest and admiration at every step?
"How good of God to not only give us flowers, but eyes to see their beauty and hearts to love them," the child said solemnly one day. "What would the world be if there were not any flowers?"
Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy, remarked that he thought they could get on better without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even animals; "because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?"
"But if you had read a little about the subject, Bertie," Agnes replied, "you would learn that we could have neither trees nor vegetables nor fruit if we had not flowers first. But it's those dear little wild things that seem to grow here just to make us happy that I love best. I prefer painting flowers to anything."
"I don't; great artists never trouble about flowers," Eddie said, joining them. "When I grow up, I'll paint splendid figures and grand scenes, like the 'Raising of Lazarus,' or the 'Descent from the Cross': those are the kind of pictures great men love to paint and the world to look at."
"But Uncle Clair says people can't paint like the old masters now, and that no one would buy their pictures if they did," Agnes replied.
"I wish some of you would paint up this mask for me like a North American Indian," Bertie interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face from his pocket. "Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put on the war-paint, I shall make a mess of it." But Eddie indignantly refused to lend his talent to such base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the face with pleasure, only she had not the least idea what an Indian was like. That was an unforeseen difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in the library for a book with pictures, and copying one.
As they approached the house, they were all surprised to see Dr. Bird's carriage at the door. "Some one must be ill, surely—I hope it's not papa," Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and Agnes following. "He seemed quite well this morning. Oh! there's Lawyer Hurst's gig—what can he want? Johnson," to a servant standing at the door, "whatever is the matter? Is papa ill?"
"It's nothing, my dears—that is, nothing to be frightened about," Mrs. Mittens said, as the boys, both startled-looking, rushed into the dining-room. "Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought it as well to send for Doctor Bird."
"But why is Mr. Hurst here?" Eddie asked.
"I don't know, dearie. I think he just called by accident, or about some ordinary business."
"Has papa asked for us—for me?"
"No, Master Edward. Now, don't look so scared; there's nothing the matter, only, as I said, he got a turn. I think it was something in the paper, for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in his hand, and looked quite sad and white. I hoped he was not feeling bad, and he said 'No, no, Mittens. Put that down and leave me'; then when I was at the door, he called out, 'Mittens, set the house in order. I'm going on a journey; see to it without delay!' That's every word, Master Edward; but knowing as the master has not been anywhere for so long, and seeing him look pale and troubled like, I just took the liberty of sending a line to Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a friendly way. He came at once, and he's with the master now. I left the room as you came in, and the doctor said, 'Your master is no worse—rather better, I think.' Sonow, my dears, will you sit down to dinner?"
Bertie's answer was practical compliance; Eddie stood for a few minutes at the window, wondering if it were the death of another estranged relative that had affected his father; then he, too, took his place, and ate his dinner in silence. Presently the doctor's carriage drove away, and both boys felt less anxious; but to Agnes there was something terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed as if the servants moved about more noiselessly than at other times, and spoke in hushed whispers. Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out immediately after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes curled herself up in an easy chair in the dining-room with a book, and after reading for an hour, she fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused by the sudden ringing of bells and the hurrying of feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers' apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still, pale, frightened, scarcely daring to breathe; then she opened the door and peeped out timidly, but no one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens crossed the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and anxious; there were strange voices too, somewhere. One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the door, pressing both her hands on her heart to stop its beating. Something dreadful was happening, she felt sure, but in that household she was quite alone and forgotten; no one thought of her at all.
The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in; still Agnes sat silent and solitary, hoping the best, fearing the worst. It was quite eleven o'clock when the dining-room door was opened softly, and a fair troubled face peered in. It was Bertie. He alone had thought of her, even in his own great sorrow—and Bertie was impulsive and passionate, and felt things deeply. He remembered the poor lonely little girl, and asked Prudence Briggs if his cousin had gone to bed. The girl started guiltily; she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening; so Bertie began a hunt over the house for her, and found her at last in the dining-room alone.
"Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!" he cried, bursting into tears; and she clung to him, weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then brokenly he told her all that had happened. At five o'clock Mr. Rivers became suddenly worse. The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent home his carriage, and when he saw the change he sent for the boys at once. Eddie was in the library, Bertie was out in the grounds. "But it was all the same," the lad added, brokenly; "he was quite unconscious when Eddie reached the room. I was there half an hour after, but he never spoke, and now it's all over! Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? I can't believe papa is dead!"
"Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair," she replied, with the promptness of a person used to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who had never thought of that, rushed off to the library to suggest it to his brother, who seemed quite dazed by the sudden calamity, while Mrs. Mittens entered the dining-room also in search of Agnes.
"It's all over, dearie; the master meant to go on a journey; instead, an unexpected guest came to him. I'm all dazed and scared like, and can hardly realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen came from London this evening to see your uncle, and not one of them would believe he was 'gone' till they saw him lying there so still and restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was master of this house, so I suppose he must be Master Edward's guardian. But I do wish there was some one here to manage things!"
"Send for Aunt Amy," Agnes suggested again; and the housekeeper seized the idea gladly.
"That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first thing to-morrow morning. Surely, child, you have an old head on young shoulders! Now come and help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah! Miss Agnes, you are all orphans together now; and I how things are going to end is more than I know!"
(To be continued.)
Whereto, sir?" said the cab-driver, touching his hat.
"Great Western, please, Paddington," we replied, and in a moment the trap of the hansom was shut, and we were bowling along Piccadilly.
A civil porter received us at Paddington Station, and took our luggage for Swindon. We are going no farther to-day, because we want to see the "Flying Dutchman," not only "flying," but at rest. So first we secure a seat and then walk down the platform. We have some minutes to spare; the clock points to 11.38; we must start at 11.45 by the Great Western express, the "Dutchman," as it is familiarly called, after that mysterious sailor who came and went with such alarming celerity.
Here we are then, the summer holidays before us; and perhaps many of the readers ofLittle Folkswill be travelling by the "Flying (railway) Dutchman," by the time these lines are before them. Come with me and look at our big "iron horse," which will pull us to Swindon at the average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which means at times the fine rate of sixty miles an hour.
Our "Dutchman's" engine on this occasion is named "Crimea," and a fine fellow he is. This engine has eight wheels; two immense "driving wheels" eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet round, so each time that wheel revolves we travel (say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full swing we shall go aboutthirty yards a second!The 11.45 down train from Paddington, and the corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two "Flying Dutchmen." There are two other trains which run equally fast, up and down in the afternoon. These are the "Zulu" trains, for they were started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial was killed in Zululand.
The great engine waits at the end of the platform, and as we are good little people—like the fairies—we will jump up on the foot-plate of the "Crimea" locomotive, and no one will notice us. Give me your hand—there. Now you are standing on the foot-plate; the engine-tender, full of water and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high boiler with the furnace is in front. That long handle which comes from the middle of the boiler on a level with your little head is the regulator, which when pulled out lets the steam into the cylinders, and it then moves the pistons and rods, and they move the big eight-feet wheels. Perhaps, when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go underneath an engine and see the machinery.
"What is that other handle?" you say. That is "the lever." It is at the side next the engine-driver, you see, and he can pull it back so as to save his steam, and not use too much; he "expands" it and makes a little keep the train going after it has once got into its pace. There are the steam and water "gauges," to tell the "driver" and fireman when the steam is at proper pressure, and when the water is high enough in the boiler. The steam gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer, right before the driver. Those other handles near it are the whistle-handles. One whistle is small, and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and to tell people the train is coming. The other is a deep-toned booming whistle which tells of danger perhaps, and when blown means "Stop the train, there is obstruction in front."
"Crimea" is now ready. The engine-driver pulls open the regulator, and we glide back and are attached to the train. We have air-breaks worked on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can pull us up quickly, and when all the connections are made the "Flying Dutchman" is ready; he is harnessed to his eight coaches full of people—the solemn and sorry; the glad and the cheerful; and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.
"Right!" says the station-superintendent.
The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45 a.m. The fireman, who is looking on, says "Right, Tom," the guard whistles, then the driver touches the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream rouses the many sleeping echoes in the roof, where they had got to be out of the way perhaps, and the engine-driver opens the regulator valve—"Crimea" fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!
"Puff-puff," slowly at first, in a solemn and majestic manner. We cannot expect such big wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge, puffing a little more quickly, then we rattle throughWestbourne Park and by Wormwood Scrubs. Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite so loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back and the steam goes up with less force through the chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell—across the viaduct over the River Brent, which runs to Brentford—past the pretty church and the dull lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is passed in twenty-three minutes after quitting Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have just fifty-five miles to do within the hour. "Crimea" rushes across the Thames below Maidenhead, with a parting roar, but we shall meet the river again soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne, Goring, and Moulsford.
Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening for Reading. But we cannot wait. The "Flying Dutchman" has only done about thirty-six of his seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two minutes already, and has got forty-five minutes left to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is behind us; then the river flashes out between the trees.
Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury cakes and tumble-down station is passed. Hurrah for the "Flying Dutchman," running easily and smoothly, sixty miles an hour, well within himself. He is not tired, he does not pant or whistle, he goes calmly, swiftly along.... Here is Swindon—what o'clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past one! "Crimea" is punctual to the minute. Well done, "Dutchman!"
Good-bye, "Crimea," we are going to see your friends in the shops; we are going to hear some anecdotes of your powers, and your friends' speedy runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced to "Lightning," "Inkerman," and the "Morning Star," the first engine made for the railway by George Stephenson.
At the works we are courteously received and conducted to the various shops devoted to the manufacture of the engines and carriages—the wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and everything else connected with the rolling-stock, which brings in money to the shareholders, and proves that if "a rolling stone gathers no moss," rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young gentlemen who are pupils and apprentices at work learning mechanical engineering, and how to make the future "Flying Dutchmen" and "Zulus."
We see the old "nine feet" Bristol and Exeter engines, and are told how one once went off the line with the "Dutchman" long ago; but it was a trifling accident. Our "Dutchman," though he flies, is pretty safe; and runs free from accident. We see an engine whose boiler burst the other day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This engine looks very much ashamed of itself in the shed, and has had to submit to a severe operation to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a lesson to it in future.
Then we go under the engines and see the machinery, which works so easily; and then we sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures have happened with the "Flying Dutchman."
"Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story about the railway which will amuse you. It happened several years ago—but I won't tell you where exactly, sir."
"Let us hear the tale," we said.
"It was in my father's time, before I was a driver, that it happened. An aunt of mine—a youngish woman then—was travelling by the G. W. R. ('Great Way Round' they used to call us), when a young man entered the carriage, where she was sitting alone, and asked where the train stopped first. This was (say) at Paddington. My aunt said 'Reading' was the first station, and the train immediately started.
"'Excuse me, ma'am,' said the gentleman; 'but will you oblige me by cutting my hair a little.'
"My aunt thought the man was mad, but being alarmed by his manner, consented.
"Then the young man changed his coat, his collar, his waistcoat, and tie. He put on a pair of spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at him he was for all the world like a clergyman—an elderly gentleman in spectacles!
"'Now,' said he; 'you must promise to be quiet, and never contradict me. If you do you will rue it.' So my aunt—she was young then—promised, and before they reached Reading the train was stopped. A guard and a constable came up, and looked into every carriage.
"'Have you the tickets, dear?' said the man to my aunt.
"'All right, sir,' said the guard. 'We don't want to disturb you at all. We are looking for some one else.'
"The train went on, but the 'old' clergyman, as he seemed, left the train at Reading. He had committed forgery, but by disguising himself, escaped. 'Clever rogue,' was he not?"
By the time we had heard this tale we were at Swindon Station again waiting for the "Zulu," for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it comes just as the other train came, very punctually. We take a farewell of our friend, and as we pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our note-book what we have seen, and some of our pleasant experiences of the "Flying Dutchman."
Whateverthey may be in their native countries, the Storks at the Zoological Gardens, London, are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to take their pleasure sadly—as was once said of the English folk—but they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that perhaps they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their own experience how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to lead a hermit's existence. They are treated with severe neglect by the bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the homage of an indifferent multitude.
Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In many parts of the Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in chimneys, steeples, and trees near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement to them to pitch their quarters on the houses, boxes are sometimes erected on the roofs, and happy is the household which thus secures the patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom they sojourn during the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird as a kind of safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for their young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained heroically by their side and perished with them in the flames.
In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon as sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very useful service both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and other reptiles. In most of the towns a storks' hospital will be found. It consists of an enclosure to which are sent all birds that have been injured. They are kept in this infirmary—which is generally supported by voluntary contributions—untilthey have regained health and strength. To kill a stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also the stork is held as holy, there being a legend in that country to the effect that this bird flew around the cross of Christ, crying "Styrka!" "Styrka!" ("Strengthen!" "Strengthen!") But, as Dr. Brewer points out, this tradition clashes with fact, inasmuch as stork's have no voice. For the valuable offices which they perform in the removal of garbage they are, in some countries, protected by law. At one time the White Stork was a pretty common bird in England, where it helped the farmers by clearing the soil of noxious insects. It disappeared, however, partly because it was subjected to a good deal of persecution, but mainly because an improved method of agriculture took away its occupation.
In India the stork's cousin is called the Adjutant, and a very appropriate name it is. It is a familiar figure in most of the towns and villages where its scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should naturally expect such a serviceable bird to possess. The following notes about an adjutant's curious ways have been sent to the Editor ofLittle Folksby a lady in Calcutta, and will be read with interest.
"When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the adjutants are soon seen resting on one leg on the house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny places, or stalking very grandly through the wet grass. Sometimes in the dim lamp-light they look as they stand about on the edge of the flat roofs like stiff, badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or twelve settle on some tree, when it seems as if their heavy bodies must weigh it down.
"They do not often come in numbers into the gardens of houses or the outskirts of the town, but one was a very faithful visitor for a little while in the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all central. This house has a garden or compound, as Indians would say, which is connected by a gate with a large square containing a large tank. There are many of these tanks, in appearance like ponds or reservoirs at home, about Calcutta and the neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink from all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes. The tank now to be described is enclosed by a wall with gates to the main road and into the compounds of houses which come up to it. Round the tank is a broad gravel-walk, and on either side the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs abound in this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the ground, and make a terrible whistling at night. For some time no adjutants appeared in this tank square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at last one day an adjutant was seen walking down the grass. With self-important step and craning his long neck forward, he came slowly on, hurrying a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a hop out of his way. At last he reached a gate leading into one of the private compounds, and there he paused. What he saw inside no one can guess, as the grass is kept short; and except in one corner far, far away from the gate, there were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant might have found on his own side of the gate. Whatever he saw, certainly the bird longed to get through. He poked his head through the bars as far as he could on one side, took two steps to the other and tried that, back again to the first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off in a huff, and stood on one leg near the tank till dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his temper. About the same hour next day back came the adjutant to repeat his yesterday's performance, except that he walked slowly round the tank instead of standing on one leg when he found it a failure. Perhaps he was thinking the thing over. He did not think to much purpose, for day after day for more than a week back came the adjutant to walk like a soldier on duty up and down, up and down, poking his head through the bars each time. Sometimes he did it a score of times, sometimes only two or three. After ten days he disappeared. Where is he? Has he gone to find a blacksmith among the adjutants? or have his brother adjutants had him shut up till he has sense to know the best way for a bird with wings is, not to try to get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?"
Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather avoids the society of man, frequenting solitary places and building its nest on the very top of the very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an unamiable bird, as was proved by Colonel Montagu in the case of one which he managed to catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and which lived with him for upwards of a year. It used to follow its feeder about, and displayed a most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it was on terms, of peace, and goodwill, never threatening them with its big, strong bill. An excellent angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest advantage when it had to encounter an unusually slippery eel.
Canon Tristram observed black storks among the shallows of the Dead Sea, to which their prey was brought down by tributary streams. Surely no picture more suggestive of utter solitude could be imagined than this of the black storks, lovers of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of the Dead Sea.
James A. Manson.
Julybeing generally the hottest month of the year, plenty of water is an important thing in connection with Gardening, and as we have previously recommended, apply it right and left, to shrubs, grass, trees, flowers, and walks. It is most important for the leaves and stems of plants to be perfectly free from dust and dirt, as this is one of the very first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and vigorous growth. A writer once described the pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to a main and sending a stream of water over and on to the tops of the young trees and shrubs as well worth £100 a year to any lover of Nature. A great drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated near crowded thoroughfares, is that the plants there grown are almost invariably smothered with dust: under such circumstances successful gardening becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly any plants will thrive, or even live, under such conditions. A proper site is, therefore, a matter of primary importance.
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There is, however, plenty of work, other than watering, to be done this month. Seed of a great number of plants should now be saved and carefully placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for sowing them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials ought now to be secured and immediately planted: those of such important plants as chrysanthemums, pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in particular; divisions of auriculas and polyanthuses may now be made. If a cold frame be available, utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very hardy sorts in it until they have thoroughly rooted, and transfer them to the open border. Less hardy plants will need a protection of some sort through the winter, and few things are more suitable for such a purpose than a frost-proof frame, where air can be plentifully given every time the state of the weather admits.
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Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and as the first three or four flowers are usually worthless, cut them off before they fully expand. Hollyhocks may now be frequently supplied with liquid manure. Rose-trees will require looking after: give them plenty of rich food, and, when the "perpetual" flowering section has done blooming, cut back each shoot to about two or three buds from its base. Small pieces of grass will periodically need mowing, and this ought to be done with a proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears invariably causes an irregular and jagged after-growth. All unsightly vegetation, such as dead leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be promptly removed; weeds ought not to be allowed to grow a second pair of leaves—much less to flower—before being exterminated. Trailing and climbing plants, especially roses, will need careful attention, and keeping within bounds: straggly or weakly shoots must be at once cut away.
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The most important requirement just now in the kitchen-garden is water: during hot weather completely saturate the ground with it. July is not a very brisk month in the Children's Kitchen-garden; however, seeds of such useful salads as lettuce and radish may still be sown; and a few dwarf French beans can be put in if there is sufficient room. By sowing a small quantity of the early sorts of peas, it is just possible to obtain a fair crop, and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.
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It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as regards gathering fruit, flowers, and vegetables, as this is a much more important matter than is usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress or mustard, and fruit of every sort, an absolute rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such "telltales" as broken branches, mutilated stems, and salads—cress, for example—entirely up-rooted, will at once proclaim a slovenly method of gardening. This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful gardeners, whether amateur or professional, will sever a flower with so much care that its parent plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing the operation. In gathering peas, most people tug and pull at these as if anxious to see how much strength the podscanpossibly bear. In this instance, as in others where the same carelessness is employed, the plants get severely disturbed, and a consequent short crop is put down to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and care are principles of great moment in Gardening.