HARVEST DAYS.

Away we'll sailDown the river in the vale,Away to the pinewoods, away, away."

Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was shining.

IT HISSED LOUDLY.IT HISSED LOUDLY.

How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing a girl in a largecap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be gathering some flowers growing in the water.

As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.

"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.

"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.

"It's all the same," answered the gander.

"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."

"THE LILY-BELLS SWAYED.""THE LILY-BELLS SWAYED."

"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."

"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.

"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to them in vain."

"I don't understand," said Felix.

"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I leave you to take care of yourself."

So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the Pine Queen.

As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds, and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very glittering and dazzling altogether.

She looked at Felix, and then said—

"Two little maidens winding wool all day,If you want to see them please to walk this way."

"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine Queen along the path through the trees.

It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.

"We wind, we wind till we've wound enoughOf wool a hundred balls to stuff."

sang the little maidens.

"What for?" asked Felix.

"For cricket-balls we work away,With which pine-cricket players play."

sang the maidens.

"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.

"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are brushes, and we make no scores."

"It must be a queer game," said Felix.

"Wethink it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught out."

"HE PERCEIVED ... TWO LITTLE GIRLS.""HE PERCEIVED ... TWO LITTLE GIRLS."

"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should notcare to play at such a game."

The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.

"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.

"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was everything seemed so very strange to him.

"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,And the roses must all be full-blown."

"THEY MET A GIRL WITH A PAIL.""THEY MET A GIRL WITH A PAIL."

The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.

"Weroll and mow the grass," he half whispered.

"Wescour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.

"Weplay with bats," Felix went on.

"Weplay with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our players in full costume."

Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle, as a salutation to the Queen.

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.

"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the balls well?"

Felix stared at him.

"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good cricketer."

"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."

The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes popped up their heads and laughed—

"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"

There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got an answer.

"What are they laughing at?"

"At you," answered the boy.

"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the magpies, which were chattering.

"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."

Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground, saying—

"Thank you! thank you!"

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen knew what he was saying, for she said—

"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground, and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy was about to throw.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen—

"Throw, throw, hit, hit!No danger, not a bit."

But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at the snow-covered patch of land.

"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to be seen when the regular game begins."

And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.

"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."

"HE ONLY SAW A BOY ... LIKE A STREET-SWEEPER.""HE ONLY SAW A BOY ... LIKE A STREET-SWEEPER."

Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players,dressed in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground, frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.

"THE GIRL WAS RAISING HER BRUSH" (p. 107)."THE GIRL WAS RAISING HER BRUSH" (p.107).

Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players, brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours whirling past him.

All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying—

"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."

"That I will," replied Felix.

But he never did.

For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.

Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen the wonderful game.

"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how brush-cricket is played?"

And how should he?

Julia Goddard.

Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,And turned all the stubble to gold,And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of eveningDeep crimson and purple unrolled.The gleaners were busily gleaningThe yellow corn scattered around;The waggons, all heavily laden,Were tracing with furrows the ground.The farmer stood lazily viewingThe harvesting in of his wheat,His daughters were standing beside him,His faithful dog lay at his feet.There came by a shy little gleaner,Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,Come here—here's a gleaning for you."

Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,And turned all the stubble to gold,And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of eveningDeep crimson and purple unrolled.

The gleaners were busily gleaningThe yellow corn scattered around;The waggons, all heavily laden,Were tracing with furrows the ground.

The farmer stood lazily viewingThe harvesting in of his wheat,His daughters were standing beside him,His faithful dog lay at his feet.

There came by a shy little gleaner,Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,Come here—here's a gleaning for you."

THE GLEANER. (See p. 108.)THE GLEANER. (See p.108.)

He pulled from the waggon an armfulOf corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,Such a great golden treasure it seemed."Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"The farmer soft spake as she passed,And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,And the harvest that must come at last.

He pulled from the waggon an armfulOf corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,Such a great golden treasure it seemed.

"Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"The farmer soft spake as she passed,And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,And the harvest that must come at last.

When Margaret and Mary entered the kitchen on the day on which the children were to learn how to bake meat, they found Mrs. Herbert already there. As usual, everything was laid ready for them. The meat was on a dish, the tins and various utensils were clean and bright, and there was a clear bright fire, while a general feeling of warmth and comfort pervaded everything, which was very agreeable, as it was a cold day.

"You have cleared out the flues properly and cleaned the oven for us, I hope, cook," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh yes, ma'am; it is all as it should be," replied cook, with a satisfied look as she watched Mrs. Herbert open the oven door, glance quickly in all the corners, put her hand inside for a moment to test the heat, then draw it out, and shut the oven door once more.

"That is well," said Mrs. Herbert. "Now remember, children, when you are going to bake meat, the first thing you have to look after is the condition of the oven. If the soot has not been swept away from the back and round about, your oven will not heat satisfactorily, no matter how much coal you pile on the fire; and if the shelves are dirty, that is, if a little syrup from the last pie which was baked in it, or splashes of fat from the last joint, are left to burn on the shelves, the meat will taste unpleasantly, and very likely be indigestible also."

"But we cannot prevent syrup boiling over," said Margaret.

"Perhaps not; but you can scrape off what was spilt before it has time to burn on the shelves, and you can clean out thoroughly, and wash the shelves with weak vinegar and water, to make them fresh and sweet. We very often hear people say they do not like baked meat, because it tastes of the oven."

"Yes, I have often heard them say so," said Margaret.

"Ah! This remark would not be made so frequently as it is if cooks were careful to keep the ovenperfectlyclean. Cleanliness is most important in all cookery, and never more so than with regard to an oven."

"What is that little iron slide which you pushed in when you opened the oven, mother?" said Margaret.

"It is a ventilator, and is intended to let fresh air into the oven, and to allow the smell of the roasting meat and the fumes which rise from it to escape. I shut it because we are just going to put in the meat, and I wish it to remain shut for about ten minutes, so as to make the oven very hot till the outside is cooked."

"I know what that is for," said Mary, hurriedly: "to harden the outside, and make a case to keep in the juice."

"Quite right, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, smiling. "In ten minutes, however, we will push the slide out again, and that will admit the fresh air, slightly cool the oven, and allow the fumes to escape. Always recollect, however, that the oven must be hot. We need a good hot oven for roasting meat."

"Cook has put two dripping-tins here," said Margaret. "We do not want two tins."

"Yes, we do. To use two tins is another way of preventing the taste of the oven which is so objectionable. Usually I should use what is called a hot-water tin for baking meat. That is a tin made for the purpose, with a place inside for holding hot water. I shall not do so to-day, however, because I want to show you how to manage when there is no hot-water tin. See, I lay two or three thick sticks in the larger of the two tins, and put the smaller tin inside the other. Then I fill the bottom tin with hot water. I put this small stand in the uppermost tin, and place the meat on this, and then I put the whole affair into the oven."

"But what is the good of it all?" said Margaret.

"This is the good: when the meat has been a little while in the oven, the fat will melt, and will fall into the dripping-tin."

"I know that," said Margaret.

"Well, then, if we were to let the meat lie in the tin, don't you think it would get soaked in fat? Of course it would, and that wouldn't be agreeable."

"And the hot water: what is that for?"

"If we were to leave a tin containing melted dripping in a hot oven it would get brown, burnt, smoky, and disagreeable?"

"But what has the water to do with the fat burning?" persisted Margaret.

"I will try to explain, if you on your part will try to understand something which is difficult to understand. First of all, what is boiling water?"

"It is water which is so hot that it bubbles all over, and steam rises from it."

"Quite so. If we were using a thermometer, and were to put it into water which was bubbling all over, we should find that the silvery line, or mercury, in the thermometer rose until it came to 212°. We might put a hotter fire under the water, but under ordinary circumstances we should never get the mercury higher than 212°. Under extraordinary circumstances, I confess we could get it higher. For instance, if we were at the bottom of a mine, boiling-point would be two degrees higher, and if we were to put some salt in the water, boiling-point would be four degrees higher."

The little girls listened very attentively while Mrs. Herbert was speaking. When she paused, they looked very solemn, and said nothing.

"Fat, on the other hand, can be made very much hotter: more than three times as hot as boiling water. When heat is first applied to fat, it bubbles, but as it gets hotter it becomes still. As it gets hotter and hotter, it remains still, but it turns dark, and smokes, and smells burnt. This is what would happen to our fat in the tin if we were to let it come in contact with the heat of the oven shelf; but you can see that when water, which never rises beyond 212°, is under it, it cannot burn in this way."

"I see that perfectly," said Margaret, joyfully. "I like to be told difficult things when once I understand them. But, mother, will not the water boil away?"

"Yes; we must watch it, and as it does so, we must add fresh boiling water. It would never do to add cold water, because that would make the fat too cool, and would lessen the heat of the oven also."

"We should have to open the door, though, to see how the water was getting on," said Mary. "Would not that be a pity?"

"It would have to be done in any case to baste the meat," said Mrs. Herbert. "Remember, we can no more dispense with basting in baking meat than we can in roasting it before the fire. If we try to do so, our meat will be spoilt. We must baste every quarter of an hour, and to do this we must lift the meat right out of the oven, and shut the door as soon as possible. If we were to baste the meat while it was in the oven, the latter would become cool, and we wish to keep the heat up the whole time. We should be careful also to shut the oven door gently. If we slam it, we shall force some of the hot air out of it."

"I never saw anything like it," said Margaret. "In cookery there are so many little things to remember."

"That is the case with whatever we learn, my dear little girl, if we try to learn thoroughly. And there is still another point to remember: when we take the meat out of the oven to baste it, we must notice whether it is browner in one part than another, and if it is, we must turn the tin, so that the side which is less cooked may take its turn in going to the hottest part of the oven. You know that one part of the oven is always hotter than another. In the same way, you should turn the meat over once or twice, that it may be equally cooked."

"How long will it have to be in the oven, ma'am?" said Mary.

"If you use the ventilator as I have told you to do, you may follow the same rules in baking meat that would hold good for roasting it: that is, you may allow a quarter of an hour to the pound, and a quarter of an hour over for red meats, and twenty minutes to the pound for white meats. But if the ventilator is not used, the oven would get very hot, and ten minutes to the pound, with ten minutes over, would probably be sufficient, excepting in cases where the meat was very thick and solid."

"And do we make gravy for baked meat in the same way that we make it for roast meat, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Well, I must say," said Margaret, when in course of time the baked meat was dished and set on the table, "that I think baked meat tastes quite as well as roast meat, and it is much less troublesome to cook."

"I do not agree with you, Margaret," replied her mother. "I do not consider baked meat is equal to roast meat. Nevertheless, if it is carefully cooked, if the ventilator is left open, and if the meat is well basted, there is not much difference between the two, and certainly baking is a very convenient mode of dressing meat. Besides this, it is a way which nine people out of every ten must adopt; they have no choice in the matter. Therefore, I hope you will try to remember what I have told you about baking."

"Indeed we will," said both the children.

1. With the set-ting of the sun All the work is near-ly done,And the last up-lift-ed sheaf Brings the toil-ers sweet re-lief.2. Down the nar-row coun-try lane Trails the hea-vy-la-den wain;Men and wo-men, old and young, Singing loud their sim-ple song.3. Now the barn the corn re-ceives—Piled up high the gold-en sheaves;While the jol-ly reap-ers sing Till the ve-ry raft-ers ring.Repeat inChorus.Greet the reap-ers as they come With a wel-come har-vest-home!

1. With the set-ting of the sun All the work is near-ly done,And the last up-lift-ed sheaf Brings the toil-ers sweet re-lief.

2. Down the nar-row coun-try lane Trails the hea-vy-la-den wain;Men and wo-men, old and young, Singing loud their sim-ple song.

3. Now the barn the corn re-ceives—Piled up high the gold-en sheaves;While the jol-ly reap-ers sing Till the ve-ry raft-ers ring.

Repeat inChorus.Greet the reap-ers as they come With a wel-come har-vest-home!

"ON THE SHORE STAND WATCHING.""ON THE SHORE STAND WATCHING."

Father's boat comes sailing,Sailing from the west;On the shore stand watchingThose who love him best.Blooms the gorse so goldenOn the breezy down,Comes a sound of joy-bellsFrom the busy town.In the fisher's cottageMother's work is done,Through the open windowStreams the sinking sun.Cheerily the kettleSings upon the fire,Ticks the old clock loudly,Creep the shadows higher.Just now, in the gloaming,When the boat is in,And the fish are countedWith a merry din,All those five togetherUp the cliff will come,Peacefully and gladly,To their cosy home.

Father's boat comes sailing,Sailing from the west;On the shore stand watchingThose who love him best.

Blooms the gorse so goldenOn the breezy down,Comes a sound of joy-bellsFrom the busy town.

In the fisher's cottageMother's work is done,Through the open windowStreams the sinking sun.

Cheerily the kettleSings upon the fire,Ticks the old clock loudly,Creep the shadows higher.

Just now, in the gloaming,When the boat is in,And the fish are countedWith a merry din,

All those five togetherUp the cliff will come,Peacefully and gladly,To their cosy home.

Come with me now inside the Abbey. We take off our hats here with great reverence, for we are not only in the House of God, but in the midst of the memorials of some of the most gifted of our countrymen. It is Poet's Corner. But we will not linger here; I want you to come right away into the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and as we pass along picture to yourselves how the Abbey looked on Coronation days, when the light from the great stained glass windows fell upon crowds of brave men and fair women, all robed in costumes of state to see the crown of England placed upon a monarch's head. You must try and imagine the moment when, as the Coronation rubric has it, "the Dean of Westminster bringeth the crown, and the Archbishop taking it of him, putteth it reverently upon the Queen's head. At the sight whereof the people with loud and repeated shouts cry, 'God save the Queen!' and trumpets sound, and by a signal given the great guns at the Tower are shot off."

Well, now we are in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and I see you all look at that chair standing by the screen. It is well worth looking at, for it is doubtful whether there is any curiosity in all England to compare with it in interest. It is King Edward's chair, upon which English monarchs have been crowned for manycenturies, and while we stand near it, I shall tell you very briefly about the crowning of some of our kings and queens.

For more than 800 years the coronations of English monarchs have regularly taken place in Westminster Abbey. Duke William of Normandy claimed the throne as lawful successor of Edward the Confessor, and upon the Confessor's gravestone the burly Norman stood to receive the crown of England. There were two nations represented in the throng assembled here that day. Godfrey, Bishop of Coutances, made a speech in French, Alred, Archbishop of York, spoke in English, and then the crowd, some in French and some in English, hailed William the Conqueror as their king. While this was going on inside the Abbey the Norman cavalry were without sitting on their war-horses, ready to quell any disturbance should it arise. They had not long to wait. It seems that they were not aware that their leader was to go through the form of receiving by popular vote the crown which he had already won by his sword, and when they heard the excited shouting inside the building they thought something had gone wrong, and so they set fire to the gates of the Abbey. Then the crowd inside the building were sure there was something wrong without, and they rushed out, only to be trodden down by the Norman horse-hoofs. Only monks and prelates remained within, and the ceremony of coronation was hurried through, while William, for the first time in his life, it is said, trembled from head to foot; and so ended the first coronation in the Abbey of which we have any authentic information.

Nothing of importance marks the coronation of William Rufus. When he perished in the New Forest, within four days Henry I. was in the Abbey claiming the crown, and making all sorts of promises in order to get the thing done speedily. So he was crowned by the Bishop of London, being in too great a hurry to wait for the arrival of either of the archbishops, who were away from London.

In those days, when times were troublous, kings were not so anxious to have throngs of people in fine dresses, and specially composed music and all that sort of thing. They only wanted men with good swords, and as much speed in being crowned as possible, for "delays were dangerous." Stephen was almost as prompt as his predecessor; Henry ate his supper of lampreys on December the 1st, and Stephen was crowned on St. Stephen's Day, December 26th, 1135. At the next coronation, that of Henry II., Norman and Saxon rejoiced together at the prospect of an era of peace. Prince Henry, son of Henry II., was crowned during his father's lifetime, on June 14th, 1170. At the coronation banquet, when his father stood behind him, the Prince remarked, "The son of an earl may well wait on the son of a king." The event took place during the height of the quarrel between Henry II. and Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, whose right it was to put the crown on the royal head. Accordingly Becket excommunicated the Archbishop of York and the assistant bishops who had officiated on the occasion. This led to the murder of Becket, with disastrous consequences too numerous for me to allude to here.

At the coronation of Richard I. there was a grand array of nobles and prelates, who came with the king from his palace to the Abbey and witnessed the ceremony. Ill omens attended the occasion; a bat fluttered round and round the throne at mid-day, and at night (they say) there was a peal upon the bells, of which no one could give an explanation. But the day was also marked by real horrors. From superstitious fears the Jews had been forbidden to witness the ceremony. But at the banquet some of them were discovered amongst the bystanders. They were at once beaten almost to death. The mob began plundering the Jews' houses, and murdering the inmates, and at York and other cities similar scenes quickly followed.

At John's coronation the custom began of having the canopy over the king's head carried by the five Barons of the Cinque Ports. This was in return for their aid to John in his frequent voyages. When Henry III. succeeded, Westminster was in the hands of Prince Louis of France, "the Dauphin" of Shakespeare's play. The king was accordingly crowned at Winchester; but he had a second coronation in Westminster Abbey, on May 17, 1220, having on the previous day laid the foundation-stone of his Lady Chapel, which was to be the germ of an entirely new edifice. All previous coronations were said to be outdone by the feasting and joviality on this occasion.

There was high rejoicing when Edward I. came back from the Holy Land, two years after his accession, and was crowned in company with his beloved Eleanor, the first royal couple who were crowned in the Abbey together. Alexander III. of Scotland did homage on the following day, and in his honour 500 great horses were let loose in the crowd for any persons to catch and keep that could.

Edward I. brought from Scotland the noted stone upon which for centuries the Scottish monarchs had been installed, and had it placed in this oaken chair which still covers it. According to tradition, this stone was the one on which Jacob slept at Bethel, and which by a series of remarkableadventures had been transported successively to Egypt, Sicily, Spain, and Ireland. In Ireland they say it stood on the hill of Tara, and that upon it were enthroned the ancient Irish kings. Fergus, founder of the Scottish monarchy, took the stone to Dunstaffnage Castle, and Kenneth II. (here we get hold of historic fact) placed it at Scone in the ninth century. Wherever it may have wandered, it is unquestionably a piece of sandstone from the western coasts of Scotland, and is most probably (says Stanley) the stony pillow of St. Columba, on which his dying head was laid in the Abbey of Iona. On this stone the reign of every English monarch from Edward I. to Victoria has been inaugurated. Only once has it been taken out of the Abbey, and that was for Oliver Cromwell to be installed upon it as Lord Protector in Westminster Hall.

At the coronation of Edward II. the crown was carried by Piers Gaveston, the unworthy favourite whom it had been the dying wish of Edward I. to have excluded from the court. In 1327, Edward III. (by consent of his deposed father) was crowned whilst his mother Isabella, "the she-wolf of France" (as Gray calls her), pretended to weep all through the ceremony. Of the coronation of Richard II. full details are preserved in the "Liber Regalis," a book drawn up by Abbot Littlington, and ever since carefully preserved by the Abbots and Deans, as it sets forth the order which has been observed in all subsequent ceremonials. Proceedings commenced with a grand procession through the city from the Tower, a custom which was kept up till the time of Charles I. The young king rode bareheaded, and was escorted by a body of knights, created for the occasion, and who, from the bath they took in company before assuming their armour, were styled the Knights of the Bath. The young king was taken out fainting from the long ceremonial just as Sir John Dymote, as champion, rode up to the Abbey gates on his charger, to challenge any who dared to dispute the royal succession. It is the first time we hear of the Champion; but it was an age of knightly revivals, and this was probably one of them.

We next see Henry IV. and Henry V. successively installed on the Stone of Scone; and then comes Henry VI., a child of nine, "beholding all the people about sadly and wisely;" his queen, Margaret of Anjou, was crowned here fourteen years afterwards. The coronation of Edward IV. presents no particular feature of interest. For that of Edward V. all was ready, robes for the guests, provisions for the banquet. But the Tower beheld the "midnight murder" of the only English monarch who never wore the crown. Then with splendid ceremonial Richard III. tried to cover the defects of his title. Six thousand gentlemen rode with him to Westminster Hall on June 26th, 1483, and a few days afterwards there was a very grand procession to the Abbey, when Richard and his wife were anointed King and Queen of England. Amongst the Queen's train was Margaret of Richmond, little dreaming that within three years her son should be crowned here as Henry VII. But this monarch's real coronation had already taken place, when the crown of England was found in the hawthorn bush on Bosworth Field, and placed on Richmond's head by Lord Stanley. The public ceremonial was only a poor display. Not so the next event of this character, when Henry VIII. and Catherine of Arragon were crowned with great splendour, and when for the last time a Roman Catholic Archbishop performed the ceremony. Anne Boleyn's coronation (commemorated by Shakespeare) was a noticeable one, and Cranmer, fresh from sentencing Catherine, performed the ceremony.

Edward VI. came to the Abbey, now a Cathedral, amidst much curious pageantry, and for the first time a Bible was presented to the sovereign.... Mary's procession to the Abbey is signalised by the exploits of a Dutchman, who sat astride on the weathercock of St. Paul's five hundred feet in the air, as the Queen passed. The two Archbishops and the Bishop of London were all in the Tower, so Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, put the crown on Mary's head. On Jan. 14th, 1559, London was wild with joy, as Elizabeth passed from the Tower to the Abbey. The women flung flowers into her lap, groups of children sang welcomes, even old men wept for gladness. The Bishop of Carlisle crowned the Queen.

James I. was crowned in the time of the Plague, so there was no procession. There was a slight hitch because his wife refused the sacrament. She had "changed once from Lutheran to Presbyterian, and that was enough." The coronation of Charles I. was marked by a slight earthquake shock. This was not the only bad omen. The dove of gold on the staff of Edward the Confessor had been broken, none knew how, and had to be replaced. Oliver Cromwell did not venture on a ceremony in the Abbey; he was enthroned, as I have already said, in Westminster Hall.

At the Restoration, Charles II. was crowned "with the greatest solemnity and glory," as the old historian says. The Regalia was all new, to replace that which had been lost during the Commonwealth. The crown was placed on the king's head by the weak and aged Archbishop Juxon, who had attended Charles I. on the scaffold. At the coronation of James II., a hundred thousand poundswere spent over the Queen's robes and jewels, and the procession was omitted to save expense, much to the wrath of the Londoners. As the crown was placed on James's head, it tottered and would have fallen, but for the Keeper of the Robes, who held it up.

The next coronation, that of William and Mary, was delayed two hours by the receipt of the news that James II. had just landed in Ireland. The Queen, being very short, had to be lifted into the chair of state. When girt with the sword and invested with crown and sceptre, the Princess Anne, who stood near her, said, "Madame, I pity your fatigue." The Queen sharply replied, "A crown, sister, is not so heavy as it seems." When the King came to make the usual offering, he found he had no money with him, and had to borrow twenty guineas from a nobleman. Anne was suffering from gout when her turn came to be crowned, and she had to be carried to the Abbey. Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, acted as Lord High Chamberlain. At the coronation of George I., the king knew no English and his ministers knew no German, but they all knew Latin imperfectly, and everything had to be explained to the monarch in that language. The crowning of George II. presents no particular feature of interest; that of George III. was a splendid show, and was marked by a curious incident. Amongst the witnesses was Prince Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, who had been staying in London under the name of Mr. Brown, and had managed to procure admission to the scene of his rival's triumph. George the Fourth's coronation was a splendid ceremony; but the portly monarch found it very exhausting, and whilst the peers were doing homage in succession, he used up pocket-handkerchiefs innumerable in wiping his streaming face, handing them when done with to the Archbishop of Canterbury. His unfortunate Queen, Caroline, had vainly tried to be present at the ceremony, but was repulsed at each of the doors she attempted to enter, and had to drive away discomfited. William IV., to please the political reformers of the period, wanted to dispense with a coronation altogether, and the procession and banquetwereomitted. Our present gracious Queen was crowned in the Abbey, in the flower of her youth, in June, 1838, and the ancient building was crowded with all that was eminent in the land as the crown was placed upon the girlish head of the illustrious lady who for nearly half a century has worn it so faithfully and so well.

Some daisies grew in a green piece of turf just outside the palings of a garden. The grass all round them was soft and fine; they had plenty of room to grow in, and they were near enough to the road to see all that went by. Would you not have thought they were contented?

Little yellow butterflies came and told them stories, little shadowy clouds went scampering over the grass-plot, the pleasant warm sun shone down on their little round faces. And yet they were unhappy with all this.

Through a crack in the palings they had seen into the garden, and it made them all long to be there. Flowers of different kinds grew happily in the garden-beds. Some of them had sticks to lean against and some were trained against the wall.

"Oh, what care is taken of them!" thought the foolish little daisies.

Every day the gardener came and watered these choice flowers. And a stately lady paced the garden walks, and noticed if the flowers grew or faded.

"Oh, if only we could get into the garden!" sighed the daisies, ruffling all their little leaves; "oh, how much happier we should be if we were only growing in there!"

Just then there came running out of the garden a little child with golden hair. Whether he heard what the daisies said I do not know, but it almost seemed as if he did.

"Come along, little flowers," he cried, "would you like to come and live in the garden? See, I will plant you in nicely."

With his soft baby hands he plucked the little daisies from their stalks, sped back with them through the garden gate, and commenced to plant them in the earth. First he made a little hole for each of them in the soft brown mould, then put the rootless flowers in and pressed the earth round tightly.

"It is cold, it is cold," said the daisies.

"I shall have a nice little garden of my own now," said the child, and he ran away contented to his play.

Next day little Harold came to see his garden, and he burst into tears, for the poor little daisies were dead.

And other daisies grew in the grass-plot outside, and the butterflies told tales to them as of old.

Colonel Stuart Wortley says that when he entered the Malakoff, so famous in the Crimean war, he found a cat whose paw had been pinned to the ground by a bayonet that had fallen upon it. He released the poor thing, and took her for two mornings to the doctor to have her foot dressed. The next day he was absent on duty before daybreak, and puss went herself to the doctor's, scratched the tent to be admitted, and when she was let in, held up her foot to be attended to. This cat was very grateful to the colonel, for she followed him about the camp till the close of the war.

In the temples at Kyoto, Japan, is a great bell, which swings in a huge wooden tower. The bell is a large bronze cup, with nearly perpendicular sides and a flat crown; and is sounded by bringing a big beam against the rim. It needs twelve natives to ring it. It used to be rung once a year, but it may now be heard twice or thrice a month. It is 18 feet high, 9-1/2 inches thick, 9 feet in diameter, and weighs almost 74 tons. It was cast in 1633, rim upwards; and the gold that entered into its composition is estimated at about 1,500 pounds. The tone of the bell is described as magnificent, and when struck with the open hand, the vibration may be heard a hundred yards off.

A lady in India sends me some interesting notes about a mina bird which she obtained possession of while travelling in the Presidency of Madras. These birds talk better even than parrots, and this one soon displayed his cleverness. On the day after his arrival he began to make such a noise that it was thought he was hungry, and theayah, or nurse, was told to feed him. He was then heard to say "Mina wants his dinner." After he had had some food he said "Mina wants clean water." He calls out "Ayah" and "Boy," so naturally that at first the servants thought it was their master calling them. One day he created some amusement by crying out "Mina wants his breakfast dinner." It appeared he had already had some bread and milk, and being doubtful as to which meal he ought to ask for, gave an order comprehensive enough to include both meals, so as to make sure of one. He is dainty, and will eat only particular food. One day his curry and rice contained plenty of rice but not much curry, whereupon his dissatisfaction was promptly evinced by a shout of "No curry." He gave evidence of soon becoming an excellent linguist, and had acquired a knowledge of some of the native tongues.

In a greenhouse belonging to the Royal Botanic Society there is a cocoa-plant which has achieved greatness, for it has actually borne fruit, and is, according to Professor Bentley, the first that has done so in England. The fruit gave evidence of reaching maturity and of ripening its seeds. Linnæus called cocoa "Theobroma," by which he meant to imply that it was food for the gods, but Belzoni, writing in the sixteenth century, regarded it as fitter for pigs than for men. Readers will be able to decide this knotty point for themselves, despite the proverbial difficulty of deciding when doctors disagree. Sixty years ago the annual consumption of cocoa amounted to only a quarter of a million pounds, but now it has reached a total of probably not less than twelve millions of pounds.

The great Health Show which was opened in May has already proved itself to be the most prominent feature of the London summer season. It embraces a display of everything even remotely connected with Health, and a more interesting and attractive collection it would be impossible to form. Appealing, as it does, to the taste of all ages, its variety is certainly charming. Nor is it without its educational value, as the "bits" of Old London, the historical costumes, and the trades in operation, abundantly testify. And not the least pleasing circumstance is that those very exhibits which are of an instructive character are the most popular. One sees in different ways that the experience gained by the Fisheries Exhibition of last year has been of immense service to the promoters of the Health Exhibition. The grounds have been decorated and illuminated by night so successfully that the Horticultural Gardens have been transformed into fairyland itself. The lakes and terrace picked out in many-coloured lamps, the lawns festooned with Chinese lanterns, the dazzling brilliancy of the electric light that lords it supreme overhead, the strains of the military bands, all combine to render the grounds of the exhibition the favourite open-air resort of Londoners and visitors during the warm summer nights.

The most novel feature of the exhibition is a street in which have been constructed imitations of several of the most celebrated buildings in Old London. Each has been carefully reproduced from engravings and drawings in Mr. Gardner's priceless collection. The street begins with an excellent imitation of Bishopsgate, one of the City gates, with moss-grown walls, and statues of Bishop William the Norman, and of Alfred the Great and Aldred. On one side of the street will be found such quaint and picturesque buildings as the "Rose" Inn and "Cock" Tavern, the "Three Squirrels," Izaak Walton's House, and All Hallows' Church, Staining; on the other side will be seen, among others, Dick Whittington's House and the Hall of the Holy Trinity Guild in Aldersgate. The street ultimately narrows into Elbow Lane, in which will be observed a number of historical places, such as Gunpowder Plot House, where Guy Fawkes and his fellows concocted their detestable plot; and the curious houses at Pye Corner—which are illustrated on the opposite page—where the Great Fire of London ceased its ravages. The street runs down to London Wall. The ground floor of the houses is occupied by shops, in which the different trades of the old City Guilds are carried on. Perhaps the only thing that spoils the illusion—apart from the unavoidably modern crowds of sightseers—is that the interiors of the houses are connected by a gallery that runs from one end of the street to the other, so that you may enter the "Rose" Inn and come out at All Hallows' Church, orvice versâ.

In the South Gallery will be noticed a number of Model Dairies, which are well worth a visit. Here little folk will see how the trade has been revolutionised, and how in such matters even as milk and butter machinery has to a very large extent replaced hand labour. These dairies are beautifully clean, and the effect is in one case decidedly improved by the introduction of a few stalls occupied by some pretty cows and a little calf, some ewes and two kids, and some queer-looking Zulu sheep, all of which excite much admiration.

The West Gallery is one of the most popular and instructive in the Exhibition. Here a variety of trades are in full operation, in which it is possible to trace an article from the raw to the finished state. In one stand, for instance, may be seen the whole process of mustard-making. The seed may be viewed in thepulveriser, then in thecrusher, then in thesieve, and then being done up in packets of various sizes for sale. The making of jam also affords much entertainment to onlookers. Doubtless the nature of the trade will account for the large crowds who surround the stand where Messrs. Allen's industrious workmen turn out lozenges, and almonds, and chocolate in enormous quantities. Their machines are busy from morn till night. Where all the operations are interesting it is difficult to specify any in particular; but, perhaps, the process of preparing, cutting out, and printing lozenges is as worthy of special attention as any. Elsewhere the mysteries of meat-cutting machines may be solved, and the processes of aërated water making and of soap-making studied with profit. These are but types of the busy life of the West Gallery, which resounds with the clang of machinery in motion, and the hum of hundreds of voices of amused spectators.

In the Western Quadrant will be found an exhibition of waxworks that would have filled poor Artemus Ward's heart with joy. There are two series of figures, representing English civil costumes and military uniforms from William the Conqueror almost to the present day. They have been prepared under the personal superintendence of the Hon. Lewis Wingfield, and may thereforebe relied upon for accuracy in every respect. These series will repay careful study. The civil costumes start with those of two women, a shepherd, and a man of the period of William I. and wind up with samples of the era of George IV. It is impossible here to go into details, but it may be said that costume does not necessarily improve with time, as the dress of the last period is certainly the worst. The military uniforms begin with some suits of armour from the Tower, then proceed to a halberdier of Henry VII., and so on down to the uniforms now in actual use. The West Quadrant should on no account be missed by visitors to the Exhibition. In the Eastern Quadrant will be seen some specimens of present-day attire, chiefly ladies' and children's dresses.

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