AN APPLE SONG.

HE SAW SOMETHING UNUSUAL WAS ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE."he saw something unusual was about to take place."

"Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your uncle could not spare you to come with us. But where are your things?"

"I haven't brought any. I only just came from the City to tell you Uncle Gregory gave me a week's holiday," Bertie replied, looking very much perplexed. "I did not know you were all going away, auntie, or of course I would not have come."

"Then you did not get the letter I sent you, dear?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission to come with us to the sea-side for a week. But I suppose the letter miscarried some way. However 'All's well that ends well,' Bertie. You are just in time. Come now, help to carry the parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything."

"If we were going to stay a year in a desert island a thousand miles from a shop, I should think we have enough luggage," Uncle Clair said, glancing comically at the numerous packages and trunks; "instead of which, we're only going to Brighton, and can get everything we want there just as well as in London."

"But am I really to go to the sea-side with you, Uncle Harry?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Why, of course, child; you don't suppose we're going to leave you behind."

"Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!" and Bertie executed a sort of war-dance, tossed his hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a dozen times at least before taking his seat in the cab. "You had better go with your aunt in a hansom, Bertie," Uncle Clair said; "Eddie, Agnes, and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the station first, wait for us at the booking-office. Mind you don't get lost," he added, with a smile, as they drove away.

"As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!" Bertie said proudly. "Why, I know the place by heart now; and shan't I be glad to get away from it for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle Gregory to give me a holiday?"

"Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally. Do you know, dear, I am sorry we did not try to persuade Eddie to take his place in the office too: I almost think he would have been happier, and have got on better; he does not seem very contented with us, and, worst of all, he does not make much progress in the profession he has chosen. Agnes is far ahead of him."

"But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do anything if he likes," Bertie cried loyally. "And I do not think he would get on with Uncle Gregory: he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never cared to be told to do anything. Even poor papa used to say, 'Please, Eddie,' or 'Perhaps you will do so, Eddie.' Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to do forty different things in different ways every day, and I don't mind a bit; but Eddie would stand and look at him, and frown so, and just walk away. My brother would never get on with Uncle Gregory, Aunt Amy," Bertie repeated gravely. "Eddie would never make a merchant."

"And your uncle Clair says he will never make an artist, unless he changes greatly," said Aunt Amy, rather sadly. "Poor Eddie! I am really very anxious about his future: he is so like his father: his ideas are quite magnificent, but he has no energy."

"He's clever, though, auntie; papa often said Eddie was a genius," Bertie whispered, "and I can work enough for us both. When I am rich, and can buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy. You don't know how different he will be when he gets back to our beautiful home," and Bertie's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought, for the dream of Bertie's life was to get back Riversdale. The anxieties of the great establishment in Mincing Lane never touched him; he knew nothing of risks, disappointments, or failures; in fact, Bertie never even thought of such things, for he was but a child at heart, and had perfect faith in his uncle's assurance that if he were only a good, obedient, industrious boy he would be very rich some day, and get back his home. But no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office, or the hot library at Kensington troubled him as he took his seat in the train, and was whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie sat silently looking out of the window, envying his brother's high spirits; he could not think what made Bertie so happy when he felt discontented and miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything in the world. Agnes, too, seemed infected with some of Bertie's good humour; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed merrily at the utter nonsense her cousin chattered incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his discontent, and made the most of his misery. And yet he had no real cause to be unhappy: every one was kind, gentle, patient with him; he had not a reasonable wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of the carriage, while the others chatted and laughed, and seemed as if they could not keep still for very enjoyment.

"Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!" Agnes cried, "Look how the sun shines on the trees, and the brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to get away from London, and see the country once more; and such a sky, Bertie! you don't have anything like that in Mincing Lane!"

"No; but though our skies may be somewhat inky, Miss Agnes, they have a silver or a golden lining," Bertie replied, with the air of a judge. "We don't want sunshine in the City, because we have no time to look at it; and besides, we have plenty of gas and electric light."

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something about his brother's want of artistic taste, when Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

"Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite a philosopher as well as a capitalist and man of business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five minutes, and then for a glimpse of the glorious sea."

"Why, Uncle Harry, I've never seen it!" Bertie exclaimed, as if he were very much surprised at nothaving given the matter a thought before. "All the way down I never seemed to think we were going to the sea-side: I was so glad to get away from London. Will you let us have a boat, Uncle Harry?"

"That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps fine we may go for a sail some day."

"Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little punt on the ocean as we did on the river at home," Eddie said, rather scornfully. "He has no idea what the sea is like."

"Well, well, he will know better presently, for here we are," Uncle Harry said gently; and in a few minutes more they were all in a shabby, shaky, but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

"Oh!" Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy's hand. "Oh, how beautiful! I feel as if I can't breathe, auntie."

"It is jolly!" Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright way. "What a place for a swim, Eddie!"

"The idea of thinking the sea only a place for swimming!" Eddie replied contemptuously. "I——"

"You can't swim a bit: that's the reason you don't care about it," Bertie cried merrily. "But Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle Harry, so you will hear him say presently, 'What a lovely place for a row!' and I do believe it's not a bit rougher than our little river."

"It's very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears a very different aspect, Bertie."

"I don't believe it ever could be really rough, just like Turner's pictures," Eddie grumbled. "It's not a bit like what I thought it would be."

"It's ten times prettier than anything I ever saw," Bertie cried enthusiastically. "Just look at all the boats, and such pretty houses, and the donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have a donkey-ride? and such lots of boys!"

"What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his enemy at home, and he would be as happy as Bertie," Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to Aunt Amy; and she only shook her head and smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though spoken in a very low tone, reached Bertie's quick young ears, and he glanced at his brother in sore perplexity. But at that moment the carriage stopped at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments, and in the bustle of getting in the packets, exploring the rooms, exclaiming at the beautiful view from the balcony, and Bertie's sudden discovery that it was a glorious place to test the powers of a pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot all about Uncle Clair's words and Aunt Amy's sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little, and agreed that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with the bright sun shining on her snow-white sails, was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head on the pillow—he had been running and dancing along the beach for hours—his last waking thought was, "I must find out who's Eddie's enemy; and if he's not a lot a bigger fellow than I am, I'll thrash him!"

Brightonin the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter, watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There, at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.

"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight," Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his face.

"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said, advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"

"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed, he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked puzzled.

"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie better than me: he saw him oftener."

'I REMEMBER YOU QUITE WELL,' HE SAID."'i remember you quite well,' he said."

"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said. "You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."

For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he—he is dead," he said steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office; Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."

"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean——" then glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the suddengravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in the strangest way.

"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.

"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the office, as usual."

"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"

"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"

Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr. Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair pleased Mr. Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family, and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers' sons.

"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might have done something better for that fine lad."

"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You should be the last person in the world to object to business."

"I don't object, only the boy is too young—a mere child. Why did not you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"

"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very well."

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously, but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder; he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and meant to call at their address the next morning.

(To be continued.)

AN APPLE SONG.TheAutumn sunshine falls so warm,So warm in the orchard green,A golden tent is the apple-tree;And under the leafy screenSits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,As high as he can go,Dropping the apples red and brownTo his Cousin Prue below.Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,Spreads wide her pinafore,The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,By two, by three, by four;With watchful eye and ready handShe lets no apple fall—As fast as Rex can throw them downShe catches one and all.The blackbird on the topmost boughIs singing loud and clear,The children shouting at their taskIt does him good to hear.He watches them with his bead-black eyes,And blither still he sings;But clearer than dear blackbird's noteThe children's laughter rings.

heAutumn sunshine falls so warm,So warm in the orchard green,A golden tent is the apple-tree;And under the leafy screenSits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,As high as he can go,Dropping the apples red and brownTo his Cousin Prue below.Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,Spreads wide her pinafore,The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,By two, by three, by four;With watchful eye and ready handShe lets no apple fall—As fast as Rex can throw them downShe catches one and all.The blackbird on the topmost boughIs singing loud and clear,The children shouting at their taskIt does him good to hear.He watches them with his bead-black eyes,And blither still he sings;But clearer than dear blackbird's noteThe children's laughter rings.

Ofthe Fish-house at the London Zoological Gardens it must be said that its contents are decidedly "mixed," for it is the home not only of a few specimens of the finny tribe, but also of some wading and diving birds, of a very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of several of the beautiful flower-like sea-anemones. The collection, however, loses nothing in point of interest because of its varied character, and will repay a good deal more study than it seems to receive from visitors.

Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy's familiar friend, the minnow. Others, like the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare—in England, at any rate. Then there are kinds known to every lover of angling, such as the perch an pike. Seldom has a popular name been so aptly bestowed as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses. In the upper half of their wee bodies they have all the equine look and bearing, but in the lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness, excepting that both animals have tails. But the tail of the sea-horse is a most useful appendage. The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds and vegetables, and by this means drifts along with the current into far distant seas and strange climes. To this cause the occasional discovery of foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed. With regard to the name of the cat-fish, one must not be quite so particular. There is, on a cursory glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the head of this curious animal to explain how the title came to be applied to it. It strikes one as being rather a morose and surly creature, an impression that is fully borne out when one learns that it will fight desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered as other than common fishes, they always are worth watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no body, but they may be regarded as being nearly all body with very little head, and the two bright black eyes, which look as if they were "stuck on," give them a rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive, too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and they will all flock to see what it is. On the contrary, other fishes, such as the pike and carp, will remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you may make, and some, like the timorous trout—for which Isaak Walton loved to angle above any fish,—will be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of your digit that they will dart off in every direction.

IN THE ORCHARD"in the orchard."an apple song(p.170).

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest in the pikes, those "fresh-water wolves" and "tyrants of the rivers," as they have been styled in consequence of their ferocity. They thrive well despite their savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age. One was captured in a pond in Sweden, in 1449, with a ring round its neck, which bore an inscription which showed that it had been placed in the pond more than two hundred years before. However that may be, there is no doubt that the pike is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will clear a pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to attack those even that are nearly as big as itself. There is a case on record of a pike fastening on the lips of a mule, which had been taken to drink in the pond. They have been known to bite at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is a most voracious creature. It may be assumed also that it is unsociable, for it generally swims about by itself, and not in shoals or in companies like other fishes.

THE MARINE BULLHEADthe marine bullhead.

Among other inmates of this house which call for mention are carp, gobies, dace, roach, bullhead, gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels. They lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro in their tanks, in a wearisome way. But their graceful movements and curious colours are worth notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small specimens. Those in the deep sea sometimes attain a gigantic size. They are able to use their tail as a hand, and have been known by means of it to seize the gunwale of the boat in which they were imprisoned and jump into the sea.

One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates of the house, however, is not a fish but an amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians, one calledtailless—to which frogs and toads belong—and the othertailed, of which the newt and the axolotl are members. The Zoological Society are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both the black and white axolotl. This creature, which is a native of Mexico, has a strange life-history not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of tadpole stage of existence, in which it is furnished with a collar of gills and lives in the water. After a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs grow much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look about its permanent form. In the first period of its history it is styledaxolotl; in the final period it becomes known asamblystome. They say its flesh is esteemed a delicacy in Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard the anemones—the "most brilliant of living flower gardens," as Charles Kingsley called them—as useful in the way of ornament, and pass their tanks without paying further heed to them. This is not the case with respect to the diving birds, which are beyond all question the centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a penguin. The first-named is seldom seen in this country. It is a largish bird with webbed feet, long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming in the water with its body entirely submerged, it looks not unlike a snake forging along. Hence it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant and darter, though here classed for convenience' sake among the divers, really belong to the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may be looked upon as representing the divers of the Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most awkward bird ashore, but in its native element its movements are elegant and rapid. When the keeper has placed some food in the water-tank, the darter is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim round, then spots its prey and goes for it with unerring aim. Rising to the surface it throws the fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it with business-like despatch. It then goes fishing again, and after its wants have been supplied it returns to its house. The other three birds are allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling amongst them. Enough fishes are thrown in to keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly amazing. Once more one has an opportunity of noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank a platform with transverse bars is let down for the convenience of the birds, but the silly penguin, instead of going to the end of the platform and gradually working its way upward, sometimes endeavours to climb up the side, its frantic struggles to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the easiest manner, for Mr Keeper has to assist it with a long iron pole with a hook at the end, by means of which he pushes the bird along to the foot of the platform. The feeding of the birds is a very instructive performance. Unless some such occasion were afforded us of seeing these essentially aquatic birds in the water, one could not have the slightest idea of the power and grace of their movements.

And in leaving the fish-house let me say that this educational value, so to speak, of the Zoological Gardens undoubtedly forms one of their strongest claims upon public support.

James A. Manson.

Behind,before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook gently, saying,

"The bells shall ringFor the fairy king;Ding, dong, bell!Ding, dong, bell!"

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other fairies were laughing.

"We are the Queen's pages,And very great our rage is!"

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet, they burst out crying, saying—

"We are not fit to be seenBy her Majesty the Queen;Our clothes are all blue and green,Who will wash and make them clean?"

"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.

My pages shall not beTreated so shamefully!"

And her face grew as red as a peony.

WALKING ARM IN ARM"walking arm in arm"

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea that the fairies were in the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one another.

II.

And then——

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.

All at once she cried out—

"Blanche! Blanche!"

For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and though she hunted in and out among the trees and bushes, she could not find her. No one answered, except the echoes repeating, "Blanche! Blanche! where are you?"

And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.

III.

Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping, and her eyes were swollen up, and her cheeks wet with tears. Some one was standing by her, and a voice was saying—

"Why are you crying, little girl, I pray,On such a pleasant sunny summer day?I'm a little packman, with my funny pack.Such a weight! oh, such a weight! to carry on my back.What will you buy, maiden? what will you buy?Half a dozen handkerchiefs, to wipe your cheeks quite dry?"

Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off crying. Before her stood a small boy with a bundle of wheat over his shoulder. He looked tired and melancholy, and not by any means as jovial as might have been expected from his words.

"Handkerchiefs!" said Belinda, disdainfully. "Why, you've nothing but a wisp of straw over your shoulder, and it can't be any weight."

HE ... STOOD WITH HIS HAT IN HAND."he ... stood with his hat in hand."

"Try it," said the boy, throwing it down upon the ground.

But Belinda took no notice of it.

"And you're not a packman, only a little boy," she said, angrily; "how can you tell such stories?"

The melancholy-looking boy answered—

"Perhaps I'm a king in disguise,Although of a very small size;If you were a little more wise,You might find in my pack a great prize.

However, I'll leave it for you, and the first young gentleman you meet with will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it home for you; for you will soon find you are not able to lift it yourself."

And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda was again alone.

"Not lift a few ears of corn," she said, giving a slight kick to the heap at her feet.

But as her foot touched it it was no longer a bundle of wheat, but a sack tied close at the mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared to be something alive in it, for it moved from side to side as though some creature were struggling inside.

"Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!" exclaimed Belinda, "and the boy has brought her back. He said 'a great prize,' and a king in disguise. He may have been a fairy, who can tell?"

And she tried to open the sack, but to no purpose, for she only tore her fingers and made them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her frock and stained it, and she grew very hot.

There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt down and bathed her hands and face; and as she rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool, and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for she was dressed so grandly. She had on a pink satin gown and a white satin apron with cherry-coloured bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with gold buckles.

"I wonder wherever these clothes could come from?" she said aloud.

The sack gave a roll, and whatever might be within was evidently trying to get out. And again she called out—

"Blanche! Blanche!"

She tried to lift up the sack, for she thought if she could drag it along she might in time find some one who could open it.

But she found that the melancholy boy was right, she could not move it.

"And I am not likely to meet with any one in this part of the wood."

IV.

Some one was whistling in the distance.

Belinda listened.

Then she cried out, "Help! help!"

The footsteps came nearer, and a boy in a fine suit came along. As soon as he saw Belinda he made a low bow, and stood with his hat in his hand.

"This must be a gentleman," thought Belinda, "or he would not be so polite."

But she did not speak.

"Did you not cry out for help?" asked the youth.

"Yes," replied Belinda; "I have lost Blanche, and I want some one to find her, and to help me to carry this bag; for I can't lift it, and I believe there is a prize in it."

"Prize!" repeated the boy; "I should think there was! Why this bag is full of wonderful magic toys, and if you let them out they will search the world over until they find anything that you have lost. Where did you get them from?"

"A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack. At least it wasn't a sack, but it turned into one—and——"

"It must have been Oberon himself, the Kingof the Fairies, you know, who brought the sack to you."

"Ah!" returned Belinda, "he did say something about a king in disguise, but I did not believe him."

"Perhaps if you had been more polite," answered the boy, "you would have found Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about her. The Queen has carried her away because she knocked her little pages about."

"Knocked her little pages about! you are as foolish as the other boy. But if you know so much, pray where has the Queen hidden her?"

"How should I know?" replied the boy.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belinda, and she began to cry again.

"Do be wise," said the boy; "crying does no good."

"Wise, prize, size, disguise," murmured Belinda.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing!" said Belinda.

"That is not true," he answered; "you said some words; say them again."

OUT RUSHED THE TOYS."out rushed the toys."

And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted up the sack quite easily, and cut the string that fastened it, with his knife. And his clothes changed even as Belinda's had done. He wore now a sort of helmet with a plume of feathers in it, and a slashed dress; and he knelt down and opened the mouth of the sack. Ah! was not Belinda astonished, for out rushed the toys—such toys—all of them able to move about. One of them, a man on horseback, galloped away over a bridge, in the distance; another ran up the mountain with a donkey following after him. A woman and a little child next rushed down into the valley, so did a boy with a dog that did not look like a dog running behind him.

To all of these the youth said—

"Now be kind,Find, find, find!"

Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she seen such toys before.

"Now," said the boy, as a white horse with a cart behind it emerged from a heap of carriages and toy soldiers, "jump in, and you and I will drive about the world till we find Blanche."

"But we can't possibly get in," returned Belinda; "it is too small for one, certainly for two."

"Do not be stupid," said the boy; "almost all mischief comes from stupidity; get in whilst I hold the horse."

How Belinda got into the little cart she did not know; but in it she was with the boy beside her, and he was driving as fast as he could go. And there was plenty of room for both.

The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and were riding behind them and at the side of them, for the boy had said—

"Mount quickly, guards."

And as they went along, Belinda presently heard the man on horseback and the woman and all the magic toys come clattering after them as hard as they could come.

"Ah!" observed the boy; "we are on the right path; the King has sent them after us."

"The King!"

"Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the bridge?"

"No," answered Belinda; but she whispered to herself, "a king in disguise; wise, prize, size."

"You are getting more sensible," said the boy, as he drove faster and faster till the white cart-horse seemed to turn into a race-horse, he went so swiftly.

"There will be an accident," said Belinda.

And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and down went the cart, and Belinda and the boy weretumbled into a ditch, whence they scrambled out and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on, such a distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.

"This is the end of the drive," said the boy; "we need not trouble about the horse and cart. Follow me."

And Belinda followed him.

He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could hear the words they were saying.

Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful poetry before.

And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a different song.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Slumbering let the maiden lie,Sweetest dreams shall float around her,Magic blossoms shall surround her.Fairy chains shall keep her still,Fairy wand ward off all ill,Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,Lullaby, oh, lullaby!Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,Potent is the fairy charm."

"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"

"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."

Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried out—

"Blanche!"

But the boy put his hand over her mouth.

Nevertheless they had found Blanche.

Yes! there she was fast asleep on a crimson cushion with tall white lilies and bright poppies and splendid foxgloves nodding all round her and drowsily ringing their sweet bells; whilst a flood of fairy light fell over her. She looked very happy, as though she were having pleasant dreams.

SHE WAS FAST ASLEEP."she was fast asleep."

"Kiss her," said the boy.

And Belinda stooped and kissed her.

And then Blanche opened wide her eyes, saying.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "I have had such a nice sleep. It all came from the foxglove."

Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but he had vanished.

So had the cushion and the lilies, and the poppies.

"Why it's the old woodpath again," murmured Belinda. "I know the place quite well. Size, wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise," she repeated; "yes, the young gentleman must have been a king in disguise."

Blanche looked surprised.

"Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I thought I had really quite lost you, and he brought you to me."

Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of course he never told them.

"But he must have been a great many Oberons," Belinda went on, musing; "the melancholy packboy, the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it is of no use thinking about it, one only gets confused."

But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music, she would have heard this song:—

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