Illustration: They brought her home in triumph, a merry sight to see.they brought her home in triumph, a merry sight to see.
they brought her home in triumph, a merry sight to see.
N
essiewas lost—her brothersHad sought her high and low:Where in the world was Baby?Nobody seemed to know."Mother," at last said Harry"Now don't you be afraid;We'll make up a grand search party,And find our little maid."Harry led forth his followers,Down by the willowed pond,Past the old grey turnstile,And into the woods beyond.They searched by stream and meadow,They searched 'neath hedge and tree;"Where," said the puzzled children,"Where can the truant be?"At last, at last they found her,In a meadow far away,Under a sheltering haystack,Asleep 'mid the fragrant hay.They brought her home in triumph,A merry sight to see,With flags and banners flying,And songs of victory.
"Here, I say, old fellow! what's the matter? you look as sulky as a brown bear. And where's your cap gone? I say now,dowake up! You'll catch it if old Jacky catches you."
"Let me be. You would look sulky if you had a little chap of a brother sent to school, miles too young to come at all, and had got to look after him and keep him out of scrapes, and show him how to get on with his lessons, and keep the fellows from bullying him."
"Why in the world did he come, Graham?"
"Oh, don't bother, Johnny, old man," and as he spoke, Hubert Graham drew his arm away from the parapet over which he was leaning with book in hand, and turning round a frank, honest-looking face towards the boy who was questioning him, passed his hand over his eyes, and added, "What can have come to Uncle Charlie to make him send Chris off like this, I can't think. Middle of term too!"
"Well, how is it?—explain to me—but—I say, old fellow, where's your cap? you'll be in no end of a row if you lose it, you know."
leaning with book in hand(p. 21).
Leaning with book in handUp went Hubert Graham's hand to his head, as he answered in a bewildered way, "Cap! Haven't Igot—" and then hastily turning, and looking over the parapet, he exclaimed, "Oh! I say, Seton, just look there!" and he burst out into a hearty laugh as he added "One of those barge boys has just fished it up out of the water, and he's holding it up in triumph to me. I must have been dreaming. It's out of bounds," he went on, with a face of dismay."I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me.""Not he," said Seton.Dr. Thornley's boys were not allowed to go, without special leave, any nearer the town on the outskirts of which the school was situated than the bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The approach of a master solved the difficulty. Hubert Graham went up to him. "If you please, sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap fell into the river. A bargee has picked it up. May I run and get it?"The master looked over, and laughed. "Perhaps he won't give it up. You may go and try."When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge in triumph so far as the possession of a very wet cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind at having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling out of his somewhat scanty store of pocket-money, he found John Seton lingering about for him."I say," he said, "I want to know about your uncle, and the little one. He's a jolly little man though; I expect he'll make his way.""But there's a terrible set in the lower school for him to make his way with, and he a mere baby."
Up went Hubert Graham's hand to his head, as he answered in a bewildered way, "Cap! Haven't Igot—" and then hastily turning, and looking over the parapet, he exclaimed, "Oh! I say, Seton, just look there!" and he burst out into a hearty laugh as he added "One of those barge boys has just fished it up out of the water, and he's holding it up in triumph to me. I must have been dreaming. It's out of bounds," he went on, with a face of dismay.
"I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me."
"Not he," said Seton.
Dr. Thornley's boys were not allowed to go, without special leave, any nearer the town on the outskirts of which the school was situated than the bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The approach of a master solved the difficulty. Hubert Graham went up to him. "If you please, sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap fell into the river. A bargee has picked it up. May I run and get it?"
The master looked over, and laughed. "Perhaps he won't give it up. You may go and try."
When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge in triumph so far as the possession of a very wet cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind at having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling out of his somewhat scanty store of pocket-money, he found John Seton lingering about for him.
"I say," he said, "I want to know about your uncle, and the little one. He's a jolly little man though; I expect he'll make his way."
"But there's a terrible set in the lower school for him to make his way with, and he a mere baby."
"Well! he's seven—and that seems like a baby to us, to be sure," said magnificent fourteen years, speaking in the person of John Seton; "and you're right. Theyarea set; I wish I was the prefect in his dormitory, but I'm not. Tell me how he came here in such a hurry?"
"Well, you needn't talk about it to the other fellows. Father and mother are in India. Father's regiment was ordered abroad four years ago, and mother went with him. There were three of us, and we were sent to Uncle Charlie to take care of. I was eight years old then, Nellie was five, and Chris three years old. Uncle was jolly and kind, and sent me here when I was ten. Just before the summer holidays were over Uncle Charlie married, and I'm sure our new aunt does not care for us to be there. But I never thought they'd send Chris to school. I wonder what they'll do with Nellie?"
"Can't you write to your father?"
"I will directly, but it's so long before I can hear."
* **
A poor little fellow taken from the nursery. A brave, bright little man enough, but oh! so young, so pitifully young to be sent to a school where there were fifty or sixty boys in what was called the lower school only! Poor little Christopher! If his mother could have seen him! He came—bright—happy—full of life, determined to like it; but before two days were over his little soul was full of misery. The boys of ten and eleven years became his dread and torment. On the second day he saw nothing of Hubert till the evening, and then he said, "Hubert, why couldn't I go to our grandfather?"
"Nobody even thought of such a thing, Chris. I don't expect our grandfather would like us."
"How do you know?" said the child.
"Oh! don't bother," returned his brother. "Only by what I've heard nurse say. She was talking one day to Jane, and she said, 'The children would have gone to General Graham's, only, you know, he was angry with master for marrying, and so master never asked him to have them.' I asked nurse what she meant, and she was vexed that I'd heard it, and said it was nothing I could understand."
"But I am so miserable here."
"Try to like it. Seton says you can go into his study to-night, and do your exercises. The fellows in the school don't leave you alone, do they, Chris?"
"No," said poor little Chris; "they don't." And sitting in Seton's little study that night the child found comfort for the first time.
And for a few days things seemed better. But it was not to last. Those boys in the lower school, who had tormented him before, were worse than ever, now that they thought he was being made a favourite of by one of the senior boys, and the poor little fellow had no peace. He complained bitterly to his brother, but it was no good. Hubert said it would only make the boys ten times worse if he interfered. "And never mind, old fellow," he said; "it's half-holiday to-morrow, and you'll get some jolly games."
"Jolly games," thought poor little Christopher; "I know better. They won't be very jolly tome."
And then Christopher made up his mind, and in his brave little heart determined to tell no one, but to run away, if he only could, to his grandfather. He knew the way to the station from the school, and he knew that trains went direct to a station called Kingsdown, where Uncle Charlie always went when he visited grandfather. "After all, he can't be worse than the boys," he said to himself. "And Hubert can't help me."
But Hubert did care. His smothered indignation and anxiety knew no bounds, and the very night that Chris made up his mind to run away, long after the other boys in his dormitory were asleep, Hubert lay awake thinking how he could help his little brother. He fancied he heard a noise in one of the dormitories. It seemed, he thought, to come from the direction of the one in which Christopher was. He raised himself on his elbow to listen, and muttered to himself, "They shall only wait till to-morrow, and then those two fellows, Howard and Peters, shall have a piece of my mind. They're the ringleaders. It shall be the worse for them if they've been frightening him to-night."
Illustration: Sitting in Seton's little studysitting in seton's little study
sitting in seton's little study
And he lay there listening till all seemed quiet, and then saying to himself, "The poor little chap is at peace now, I expect," he turned round, and dropped off to sleep.
But he had not been listening quite long enough.
Little Christopher waited till all the boys in his room were sound asleep, pinching himself to keep himself awake; then out of bed he crept, felt for his clothes, which were close at hand, huddled them on, put his feet into his felt slippers, as he dared not put on any boots, and got out in the passage. His bed was near the door, which was fortunate, for he thought, if he had had to pass many of the boys' beds, his courage would have failed him. Down the stairs he stole—oh! how they creaked—and unfastening the shutters of one of the school-room windows, got out of it into the garden. But ah! he hadn't calculated on the big dog, whose kennel was hard by, and who was out in a moment.
"Dear, darling Ponto," cried the poor little fellow; "don't bark, my dear." And up he went, and stroked and patted the great mastiff, who, already knowing the little fellow, put his paws on his shoulders, and licked his face with great appreciation. For Christopher was tenderly kind to animals, and he was rewarded for this now in his day of deep distress. Ponto did not bark.
Christopher whispered to him. "Ponto, I'm very unhappy. I'm running away. I wish I could take you with me. I only love you here; excepting Hubert, and he can't help me;" and away he stole.
As he got into the high road the early dawn of morning gave him a little light.
All was consternation in the school later, in the morning. A boy missing! Dr. Thornley summonedthe whole school before him. Could any boy give him any information?
Illustration: Hubert lay awakehubert lay awake(p. 23).
hubert lay awake(p. 23).
Hubert came forward. "He said he should run away yesterday, sir; but I had no notion the poor boy would or could, or I'd never have left him last night."
"Why?—for what reason?" said Dr. Thornley, his face growing sterner and graver.
John Seton came forward. "I'm afraid, sir, there's very bad bullying in the lower school."
"So bad as this, that a boy should run away!" said the doctor; "and you a prefect!"
The colour mounted high in John Seton's fine young face.
"I've not had anything to do with the discipline the three weeks since Graham minor has been here, sir; but some of us meant to speak. It could not go on."
"May I go after him, sir?" said Hubert, his voice quivering with anxiety.
"I have sent to search for him in all directions," said the doctor. "A poor little child like that might meet with many mishaps. I am surprised," and his voice shook, "that none of you bigger boys let me know of any of this base, low, ungentlemanly conduct."
The expression on the countenances of some of the boys of the lower school, as these words fell from the doctor's lips, may be imagined.
Dr. Thornley was the kindest-hearted of men, but there were certain offences that moved him greatly; and when moved to wrath, the boys knew he could be terrible.
"I must find this all out; and if the boys who have been bullying little Graham have not the bravery to come forward, and confess it of their own free will, I must take measures to discover who they were. But I warn them," added the doctor, "that if I find them out before they have come forward and freely confessed their base conduct, their time at this school will be short. To-day is a half-holiday. All the lower school will keep within bounds to-day."
At that instant "Old Jacky," as the boys called him, the school porter, brought the doctor a telegram. His face wore a look of great relief as he read it. And he turned to poor Hubert.
"Your brother is safe." Then to the school he said, "I have just had this telegram, which I will read, 'General Sir Henry Graham, Sefton Court, to Dr. Thornley, Middleborough. Christopher Graham safe with me. Shall make full inquiries.'"
Illustration: Fast asleep, with his head on the dogfast asleep, with his head on the dog(p.25).
fast asleep, with his head on the dog(p.25).
At Sefton Court the same morning all was lazy and quiet. The blinds drawn down the entrance door side of the house to keep out the sun, but doors and windows thrown wide open. An old gentleman sitting in his library, reading his paper. Something made the old gentleman restless. He fidgeted. Something was wrong with his glasses. Then to himself he said, "I wish Henry was here. Shall write by next mail. Why shouldn't his wife come home, and bring the children here? I don't half like it now that Charlie's married. Perhaps she won't like the children. Got a craze on education too. They overdo it. Dear me! I wonder where that fellow Thomas is?"
And up got the old gentleman, and walked to the door. He had no sooner opened it than he gave a great start. "Hullo! What on earth is this?" What was it he saw?
His own old dog, Bevis, whose favourite sleeping-place was the mat at his door, lying there as usual, but not asleep. Wide awake, as if on guard. And marvel of marvels! a dear little fair-haired boy fast, fast asleep, with his head on the dog, who was lying so as to make himself into as comfortable a pillow as possible.
The old gentleman stared hard for a minute, then began to shout for Thomas, which woke the child, and he began to sob.
Illustration: They were all three assembledthey were all three assembled(p.26).
they were all three assembled(p.26).
"There, there!" said the old general. "Who are you? You oughtn't to have come in without leave." By this time poor little Christopher, for it was he, had collected his scattered faculties, and catching hold of one of General Graham's hands, cried, "You're grandfather. Do take care of me. I'm so unhappy at school; I think I'm too little. So I said I'd come off to you. You wouldn't be as bad as the boys!"
"Who? who?" stammered the poor old general.
"I'm little Christopher Graham. Uncle Charlie sent me to school, and I'm too little, I expect. I ran away. I know it was naughty, but forgive me, and don't send me back. I had five shillings in my box, and I ran away in the night, and came here by the train in the morning; and I asked where you lived, and I walked here from the station, and I saw the door wide open, and I thought as it was grandfather's house I might come in; and I was afraid of the dog, but he didn't hurt me, and I knelt down to pat him, and I suppose I was very tired, for I can't remember any more."
But he needed to say no more, for he was in his grandfather's arms. And Thomas was close by, and brought some warm tea very quickly; and a kind-looking old lady came, who said to Christopher she was his great Aunt Susan, and that he must be undressed and have a warm bath, and go to bed to get a sound sleep before they let him tell them anything else.
The very next evening Aunt Susan calledChristopher into the library. There was his very own Nellie sitting on grandfather's knee, and Hubert standing by!
Dr. Thornley had given Hubert one day's holiday to go and see Christopher. Later in the evening they were all three assembled in a pleasant cosy room, looking over funny old picture-books, which kind Aunt Susan turned out of her treasures.
"'All's well that ends well,'" said Hubert; "but you mustn't run away from school when you're bigger, old boy. You're only forgiven because you're a baby, you know."
And his grandfather said to him later on—
"My boy, in the battle-field no soldier worthy to bear the name of 'Englishman' ever turned his back on the enemy. What you had to bear was hard; but you turned your back on your enemy when you ran away. And you bear an ancient name, and you come of a noble race. We must do our Duty, come what will."
And Christopher never forgot these words.
Whowould believe it?
You may well open your eyes, and shake your little heads incredulously, but nevertheless it is a positive fact, that Venice, the fair Queen of the Adriatic, sends forth every year no less than three thousand tons of glass beads, for the adornment of your sisters big and little in all the four quarters of the globe.
Illustration: Gondolagondola.
gondola.
The largest buyers of these pretty dainty toys are the Roman peasant women. America follows closely in their footsteps, Great Britain's turn comes next, then Germany puts in a modest claim, while the worst customers of all are the Scandinavians, to whose deep, earnest, thoughtful nature the glittering baubles appear mere useless trifles. Among the Russian, Turkish, and Hungarian women, only the richest classes indulge in these ornaments; they are scarcely ever seen among the people, which may perhaps be explained by the fact that they would not at all suit the various national costumes.
All those customers, however, who belong in reality to the civilised nations (for, as a rule, the higher the cultivation, the less are these shining ornaments appreciated), only demand the cheaper kinds of glass beads. The best and dearest, the so-calledperle di luce, find their way to India and Africa, to the half-civilised and wholly savage races. And here, the long strings of gay glistening beads do not merely serve as finishing-touches to the costume, but form the principal ornament, and cover the neck, arms, hair, and slender ankles of many a Hindoo or Malay maiden, while among the Ethiopians they often represent the sole article of dress. By these people, the glass pearls are indeed looked upon as treasures, and the pretty string of Roman or Venetian beads which you, my little maiden, lay aside so carelessly, is among them the cause of as much heart-burning and anxious hopes and fears as the most costly diamond necklace would be among English people.
Japan, too, is not a bad market for their sale; whereas China again will have none of them, and turns her back rudely on fair Venice and its industry.
But come! Here lies a gondola ready to our hand—the boatman seems intuitively to have read our wishes, and as we glide over the blue rippling waters in which the stately palaces are mirrored clear and lifelike, we seem to see a second Venice reflected beneath us. Gradually we approach the island of Murano, on which is situated the largest of the seven great bead manufactories of Venice, and here Herr Weberbeck, a German, employs no less than 500 men and women. Altogether about 6,000 people earn their livelihood (and a poor one it is), by this wonderfully pretty industry, while the value of the exports amounts yearly to the sum of £300,000.
The manufacture itself surprises us by the great simplicity which characterises it. The first stage is getting the liquid mass of glass about to be operated upon into a thorough state of toughness and pliability: one should be able to pull it like rosin or sealing-wax. The colouring of the mass is done while it is still in the furnace, by adding various chemicals, the principal of which are arsenic, saltpetre, antimony, and lead.
The next process is drawing out the long glass pipes. This is most interesting. Let us, therefore, watch the man yonder, one of the glass-blowers, as, by means of an iron rod, he carefully lifts a ball of liquid glass, about the size of a small melon, fromthe open furnace, and with another simple instrument makes an indentation in the outer circle, nearly the size of that one sees at the bottom of a wine-bottle. His colleague, meanwhile, has done exactly the same to another ball of glass, and as they both press their balls together, the two outer circles merge into one, and the air inside the hollow spaces is completely shut off. Now the workmen draw back the iron rods, which are still attached to the hot mass, and a glass thread is seen connecting them to the centre ball. Then, keeping the strictest military time, the glass-blowers march off in opposite directions, to about the distance of a hundred yards, and the glowing glass thread spins itself off from both balls, until it is exhausted, or until the cold air hardens it. The imprisoned air has likewise, however, been spun out, and thus a hollow pipe, instead of a solid rod, has been formed, and so prepared the hole for the future beads.
The glass threads vary in thickness, from that of a pencil to that of a very thin knitting-needle. Those intended for beads of mixed colours are drawn out just in the same way, the only difference being that in that case the glass ball, as soon as it is taken from the furnace, is dipped in various coloured masses of liquid glass, which then form layers, one over the other, like the layers of an onion.
Sometimes, very tiny lumps of coloured glass are stuck on the glass balls, which then form parti-coloured stripes on the glass threads. The separating and sorting of the threads or pipes, which are now broken up into lengths of about three feet, is a widely-spread home-industry in Venice, and if we go down to the lower parts of the Lagoon city, where the people dwell, we shall see numbers of women and children seated before large baskets, out of which glass pipes protrude like the quills of a gigantic porcupine. With fingers spread wide apart, they carefully weigh and feel the contents of the baskets, till they have sorted all the pipes, according to their sizes. The different bundles are then carried back to the factory, where they are placed in a machine, not unlike a chaff-cutter, and cut up into small pieces. It is amusing to watch the coloured shower as it falls. Do not be afraid, but just place your hand beneath, to catch the glittering stream, and it will almost seem as if you had taken hold of a shower of hailstones.
Any pointed or jagged bits having been cut off, the beads are now rolled in fine sand, which has been carefully heated in earthen jars, until just warm enough to soften the outside of the glass, so that a gentle friction would rub off the sharp edges. The sand gets into the holes in the beads, prevents them from closing up during this process, and ere we can believe it possible, they come forth round, perfect, and complete. The larger and smaller ones are now separated and sorted by simply shaking them in different-sized sieves, and any beads that require an extra amount of polish are thrown into small bags filled with marl, and vigorously tossed and shaken.
Much more complicated is the manufacture of theperle di luce, or beads of light, which so delight the natives of India and Africa. The name is taken from the way in which they are prepared, namely, by means of a jet of intense flame, and great skill and dexterity is required on the part of the workman, who can display his talent and originality by ornamenting them with flowers and arabesques. The combined effects of light and colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment for all those eastern and southern nations over whom a halo of fable and romance is cast.
In the interior of Africa, theseperle di luceare frequently used as payment instead of coin, and the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the whole of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit the delight that the innocent negresses exhibit at his gay wares.
But contrary to what one might expect, the black, woolly-headed children of Nature show a strange distaste forglossybeads; so much so indeed, that the Venetians find it necessary to deaden the natural brilliancy which all glass obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and thus softening the otherwise shining surface.
Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry of Venice is but a poorly-paid one; only the most skilful among the hands can manage to make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the women can earn more than about 4½d. a day, so that for them all the fast-days decreed by their Church are quite superfluous;theirfasts last from Ash Wednesday to Ash Wednesday. Even polenta, that very frugal Italian national dish, is for them only a Sunday's treat; the rest of the week nature provides them with turnips and other roots, great piles of which, cooked on an open hearth, greet us in all the streets of Venice, where they are eagerly devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor people work hard to give pleasure and delight to both great and little folk.
Truly they exemplify the old proverb, "Some must sow, that others may reap."
M. H.
[Answer to "Our Imaginary Dissolving Views"—VI. (See Vol. XIX., p.351.) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2. Vandyke's picture of Charles I. and his queen: the children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3. The Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]
wasnoon-tide on a summer day,And in a hammock Bruin lay,Studying the price of pork and veal,And wondering how to get a meal,And what his little ones would doIf all the papers said was true.The sun was very warm that day,And having trudged a weary wayIn search of food, 'twas no surpriseThat Mr. Bruin shut his eyesNow and again, and did not seeTwo monkeys o'er him in the tree."Hurrah!" they whispered, "here's a chanceOf making Mr. Bruin dance!Oft has he put us in a fix:We'll pay him out now for his tricks,And let him know that, though we're small,We're not so harmless after all!"
Illustration: 'Twas noon-tide on a summer day, and in a hammock bruin lay.'twas noon-tide on a summer day, and in a hammock bruin lay.
'twas noon-tide on a summer day, and in a hammock bruin lay.
Illustration: Upon the ground, with aching bones, poor bruin mingled sighs and groans.upon the ground, with aching bones, poor bruin mingled sighs and groans
upon the ground, with aching bones, poor bruin mingled sighs and groans
Then, knife in hand, one monkey passedFrom branch to branch, until at lastHe reached the bough wherefrom was hungOld Bruin's hammock, firmly slung;And made one sudden vigorous slashThrough all the ropes: then—crash, crash, crash!Upon the ground, with aching bones,Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans,Compelled to linger there and hearThe monkeys' frequent taunt and jeer,While "What's the price, of bear's grease, please?"Went echoing through the forest trees.
G. W.
Itis a gusty Friday night just after Easter. A night full of wind which comes in sudden blasts and drives the sharp shining rain along the streets so that it seems to pierce through coats and umbrellas, and makes such a quick pattering sound upon the pavement that people who are indoors, and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains, look out at the flickering lights, and feel glad to be at home.
Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the houses in a narrow court in Fleet Street, London, any one who has eyes can see the gleam of the moon, and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip of blue overhead. They can hear the rumble of the late cab, and the tramp of the policeman outside so plainly that these sounds are quite startling. For all day long Fleet Street is a busy place, with thousands of people going up and down, and hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and carriages, hustling in the roadway, and people who have only seen and heard it in the day-time are surprised to find how silent and deserted it is at midnight.
But in the narrow court, and in many other courts and passages close by, there are other sounds and other lights than the noise of the policeman's boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one who is standing there may hear a curious buzzing, and now and then a dull thump, and looking about may see more than one big building with its windows all aglow, and the shadows of people moving across them. Now and then a door will open, and a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket tied round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as though the place were on fire and he had been sent to fetch an engine.
If you are standing near the door you will have to get out of the way of that lad, or he will be likely to run you down, or jam you against the wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch an engine, for if you watch him he scampers down the next court, or perhaps across Fleet Street, and in less time than you can get your breath properly, is back with a tray piled with steaming mugs, and plates of thick bread-and-butter; and while you are wondering how he can have got them so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up that steep flight of stairs behind the door of the big building, he gives a shout that seems to make twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.
In those big buildings with the dark doors and the lighted windows the news of the week is being printed, that people may read it in the papers. There the printers are at work, and will be at work all night; the lad who has just gone in is a printer's lad, and because of some part of the work he has to do he is called a "reading-boy."
Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and telegrams and written accounts of various things that have taken place in different parts of the world have been coming in to this building. When they come in the editor looks at them and sends them up to the chief compositor. The "compositors," up in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand before large wooden trays or "cases," each of which is divided into a number of small squares, like boxes without lids. These boxes hold what are called the types. The types are little slips of metal, and on the end of each slip is stamped a letter. One of the boxes in the tray holds the a's, another the b's, another the c's, and the capital letters and the stops also have their proper places. When the compositor has the writing before him on his case, he takes a small metal box open at one end, and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with his right hand picks up one by one the metal letters that spell the words which are on the page. These he places in the box with the letter end upwards, putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to make a space between each word. When he has filled his box he lifts all the letters carefully out without jumbling any of them up together, stands them in a tray, and keeps them from falling down by placing a flat rule of brass against the side of them. When he has set up so many of these metal letters that they are enough, when properly arranged in columns, to make a whole page of printing, they are all brought close together and then tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they are quite firm. They are next sent downstairs and placed on thepress, or printing-machine. Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink upon this metal page, and then the sheet of white paper is brought very firmly against it by a strong machine, which presses so evenly that the ink is stamped from the metal page of the types on to the paper. When that paper is removed it is a printed page, with the same words upon it that the compositor read upon the letter or written page sent in a little while ago. All night long these types with the letters upon them are being set up, all night long patient men pick up the metal lettersand form them into pages; all night long the steam engine is going, and the letters from the inky metal pages are being stamped upon the clean white paper, which, when it is printed all over, will contain the week's history of the world, and will be read by thousands of people.
There are many lads in this printing-office, and all night they are running up and down with letters and sheets of writing and printing, or are cleaning the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to fix up the frames. But why are some of them called "reading-boys?"
Of course when the metal letters are set up mistakes will occur now and then; so in the first impression printed from the type, before it is made up into the pages for printing already referred to and fastened into the metal frame, these mistakes must be put right. To do this one person takes the writing from which the type was set up, and another the impression from the type, and the man or boy who has the writing reads it aloud distinctly, while the other, who has the impression from the type, reads that to himself at the same time, and compares what he sees there with what he hears being read. If he comes to a word where there is a mistake he makes a mark against it, and sets it right. When the mistakes are all marked, the compositor sets them right by putting in the proper letters and words, instead of the wrong ones, and then another impression is printed to see whether all is right this time. These impressions that are read for mistakes are called "proofs," because they prove whether the work has been properly done. Sometimes, if the reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first writing, but the writing is very often so bad that even the men who set up the metal types can hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all night in a close little hot room, with the gas flaring, and to hear the din, and feel the rolling of the great machinery, while you have to read all sorts of things that you don't care much for, and haven't time to think about; but that is what the "reading-boy" has often to do, though he sometimes has a good deal of running up and down stairs, and now and then rushes out to fetch tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things for the men, or for himself and his companions. It is to get a second supply of these dainties that the boy whom we saw just now comes out again head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time. He carries the tray full of empty mugs, and before he can quite stop himself he comes suddenly against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who is walking up the court, and seems to be lurching from side to side of the pavement. Before the lad can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against this man's elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs on the stones of the court.
"Now, then, stoopid!" shouts the boy. "Why can't you keep on your right side?"
"Is that the way you speaks to your uncle, Bennie?" says the big man, laughing. He is a short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and with a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.
"Well, uncle, whocouldha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you been to mother's?"
"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age, Benny."
"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week by-and-by."
"What do you get now, Benny?"
"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you, uncle."
"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"
"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go. It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the dooropen. Why, uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea, and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger Bank to catch codfish, they'renothing to being a boy in a printin' office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick to it, and if they don't give me a rise to ten shillings next week, I'll leave and go into another place where they'll be proud of my talent, and admire me for mystrength. Though I think I would rather be aboard theSaucy Nancywith you, after all. I should 'like 'a life on the ocean wave, uncle, and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes."
"Bless your heart, my boy; there's lads no bigger than you at the fishing stations that have as much night work as you do. Hard work in the cold and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work, and a good deal of danger too. There, get along, and fetch your coat, Benny. I'll wait here, and then we'll go home together to see mother, and as she tells me you're to have a holiday, Saturday to Monday night, you shall come home along o' me, and then we will just see what it's like to be a Fisher Boy."
Thomas Archer.
"HowI wish it was a boy. I don't like girls!" Bertie Rivers cried, tossing aside his book. "Do come out, Eddie, and let us watch for the carriage."
Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and followed his brother through the open French window of the study. They were two bright, handsome lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the elder, but scarcely as tall as Bertie, and far slighter, with a grave reserved air, and rather thoughtful face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with restless, observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious way of dealing with people and things. Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave way to him in everything, not at all because Bertie's will was the stronger, but that Eddie, unless very much interested, was too indolent to assert himself, and found it much easier to do just as he was asked on all occasions than argue or explain.
There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that day, and they were very curious concerning her, though in different ways: Bertie openly, restlessly, questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy, expectation.
"I wonder if she will like us?" Bertie said, as he climbed to the top of a gate, and looked anxiously down the white dusty road.
"I wonder if we shall likeher?" Eddie replied: "that's of more importance, I think."
"I do wish she was a boy," Bertie repeated for about the hundredth time in the course of three days. "One never knows what to do with a girl cousin. Of course she won't care about cricket, though Lillie Mayson likes it, and she will be afraid of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I wonder we never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank either. I wonder——"
"What's the use of wondering, Bert?" Eddie interrupted, a little impatiently. "Papa told us all he wished us to know, I dare say. Come along for a walk. What's the good of idling here all the morning? It won't bring the carriage a minute sooner to stand watching for it."
"No, of course not; but I want to rush down the road to meet it, and we can't go for a walk till it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome for Cousin Agnes;" and Bertie took another long look down the road, where nothing was visible save a cloud of fine white dust.
Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned both boys to his study, and very gravely informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead, and his only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to reside at Riversdale.
"She has no home, no friends, no money, no mother. Try and be kind to her, boys. Don't ignore her, Edward; don't tease her, Bertie; and ask her no questions about her parents or her past history, remember that!"
The boys promised; they always obeyed their father implicitly: indeed, absolute unquestioning obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from every person he came in contact with.
But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very meagre information he had received, and directly he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged Mrs. Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning the new relation who was coming to make her home with them, and of the Uncle Frank whose name he had never heard before. Eddie did not share his curiosity, or perhaps concludedthat his father's command to ask no questions was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred to Agnes herself, and repeated his father's exact words to the housekeeper.
"I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you to ask no questions of anybody; and I have very little to tell," she said, gravely. "But this much I think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was your papa's only brother: he displeased your grandpapa, and left home in consequence."
"But what did he do?" Bertie cried eagerly.
"Everything he should not have done; but his worst fault was disobedience, and a world of trouble it got him into. Remember that, Master Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your papa is his own son in that respect. So take care, my dear, take care!" and the old lady shook her forefinger warningly. "But everything's forgot and forgave now," she added, more cheerfully; "and right glad I am Miss Agnes is coming here!"