"MR. GREGORY PLACED TWO SOVEREIGNS IN BERTIE'S HAND" (p. 98)."MR. GREGORY PLACED TWO SOVEREIGNS IN BERTIE'S HAND" (p.98).
Agnes was weeping silently with joy: no other arrangement could have given her half as much pleasure as going back with her Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair; she could surely pick up some crumbs of instruction in the studio, and then she would always be at hand to help Eddie, and little Agnes did not wish for any greater happiness than that. But Eddie did not seem altogether so well pleased by the arrangement. He did not like a rival, either in affection or talent, and he knew that both his Aunt and Uncle Clair loved Agnes, and also that she was a great deal cleverer with her pencil than himself, though she was very shy and nervous, and distrusted her own powers. However, the arrangement was the only one that seemed possible, and the very next day they all returned to London, Agnes and Eddie going in a four-wheeler with their aunt and uncle to Fitzroy Square, Bertie accompanying his Uncle Gregory to a splendid house in Kensington Gardens, where he was rather coldly received by his aunt and cousins, and informed that, for a time at least, it was to be his home.
It was a long time before Eddie and Bertie Rivers could realise that Riversdale was no longer their home—that they were quite poor lads, dependent on the kindness of their relatives, and that if they wished to win fame and fortune, there was nothing for it but hard work. Bertie was the first to realise the great change in his position. Mr. Gregory was not unkind, but he was stern and cold, and after introducing him to the head clerk (who showed him a corner in the office where he might sit, and explained his work), Mr. Gregory took no more notice of him than of the other lads. After the first day, he found that he would have to go to the City by himself, and return alone; his uncle gave him a second-class season ticket, and desired him to catch the half-past eight train every morning. He also told him where he was to have his dinner, and for the first month desired one of the older clerks to see to him, and pay only a certain sum; then he was to return to Kensington at half-past five every evening, have his tea in the school-room, and read or amuse himself as best he could till bed-time. His aunt, he rarely saw; she was not up when he left in the morning, and always was either entertaining visitors at home or going out to parties in the evening. His two cousins were quite grown-up young ladies, who seldom condescended to notice the little office-boy, as they called him, and two other cousins, about hisown age and Eddie's, were away at Eton. So that poor Bertie would not have had a very lively time, had he not possessed a wonderful capacity for enjoyment, and a perfect genius for finding occupation and amusement for himself. He had undisturbed possession of the deserted school-room, and before long it was a sort of little museum. He had a number of pets; then he begged corks from the butler, and manufactured ingenious flower-pots and stands, in which he grew dainty little mosses and ferns; he made cork frames for some of Agnes' pretty little pictures, and his grandest achievement was a boat that he built and rigged entirely himself. Often in the early mornings he would go for a walk as far into the country as he could, and sometimes, before going home in the evenings, he would have a run in the park, and those were all his pleasures. Mr. Gregory scarcely ever thought of him out of the office; there he always observed every one closely, and he saw that Bertie was quiet, attentive, industrious, and, best of all, quick: he never had to be told to do anything a second time. On Saturdays and Sundays he might go and see his brother, provided he returned in good time, for he dined with the family on Sundays; but Eddie was never invited to Gore House, and Uncle Clair was never mentioned without contempt. But to Bertie, the hours spent in the dingy old house in Fitzroy Square were the pleasantest of his life. He was too happy when he got there to notice that Eddie looked gloomy sometimes, but little Agnes was always sweet and happy, and Aunt Amy's welcome was worth anything.
"How I do wish I could come and live here!" Bertie cried one wet afternoon, when they were all gathered round the fire in Mrs. Clair's old-fashioned parlour. "I should not mind being in the office a bit if I could see you all in the evenings; but it is dull at home!"
"It's dull everywhere at times, dear," Aunt Amy said gently, remembering how very gloomy Eddie often looked. "You must try and make the best of it."
"I do, auntie," Bertie replied; "and I suppose I won't have to live with Uncle Gregory always."
"Gore House is pleasanter than Fitzroy Square, I think," Eddie said, a little crossly.
"And Fitzroy Square is ever so much pleasanter than Mincing Lane," Bertie replied. "Why, if you were in our office, Eddie, I don't know what would become of you! You would have to sit on a high stool all day, copying things into big books, or else copying things out of them. Then you have to add up columns of figures till your eyes ache, and if you are even one wrong, Mr. Wilson seems to know just by instinct. I wonder," Bertie added suddenly, "how many columns I shall have to add up, and how many ledgers fill with entries, before I begin to grow rich?"
"I wonder how many pictures I'll have to paint before I begin to grow famous?" Eddie replied; and then, as Aunt Amy left the room, he jumped up impatiently. "I'll never be an artist, Bert, if Uncle Clair keeps me drawing lines and triangles and cubes. Any one can do them; I want to begin to paint!"
"Then why don't you do just as Uncle Harry says; he knows best!" Bertie replied gravely. "I always do exactly as Uncle Gregory says, no matter what it is; and now it's time for me to go back. Oh, I forgot to tell you something: our cousins, Dick and Harry, are coming home in a few weeks; I'll bring them to see you. It won't be so bad when they come, but it is dull at home these long evenings."
"It does me good to see Bertie: he's always so happy and cheerful," Aunt Amy said, after she had kissed him, and watched him a little way down the street. "I wish, Eddie dear, you would try to be contented and happy."
"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"
"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art, and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember, the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work. Just see how Agnes gets on!"
Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself, and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind, gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie, and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune, and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnesbegged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian, Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites. Then there were pleasant hours in the British Museum, studying rare old prints and illuminations; visits to the numerous other picture galleries; and, best of all, pleasant hours in other artists' studios, where Eddie heard a good deal of discussion and criticism, and thought himself a very important person. Then there were pleasant evenings at home, when friends dropped in, and the conversation was still of art and artists, of "studies," "designs," "models," and other matters of absorbing interest to painters; and Uncle Clair would sit in his big easy-chair by the fire, and talk in his soft, pleasant voice of the picture he was going to paint for the Academy some day, when he got tired of portrait-painting. He would dwell upon his subject lovingly, describing it in minute detail, and then forget all about it, while some one else went and painted it, and won money and fame thereby. Being of an easy temper, and entirely devoid of ambition, Mr. Clair was unable to sympathise with Eddie's impatience; but though not enthusiastic about art, he had a thorough knowledge of its technicalities, and Eddie might have learned much from him if he would. Meantime, Agnes was studying hard and making wonderful progress, but her aunt one day observed that she was growing thin and pale again, and her sight becoming weaker; so the drawing-materials had to be laid aside, except for one hour a day, and then Agnes and Aunt Amy began visiting the picture-galleries too, and walking through the parks, and enjoying the bright, cold, frosty mornings out of doors, while Uncle Clair worked at his portraits, and Eddie too often sulked in the studio; and Bertie went to his office every day, and in spite of all his efforts, felt very dull and dispirited in the cold school-room during the long winter evenings, cheered only by the thought that his cousins would soon be home, and then he nothing doubted they would spend a great deal of their time with him; for of course he would have a good long holiday too.
"Uncle Gregory, may I spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square?" Bertie said one morning before the holidays began; and Mr. Gregory looked at him curiously as he repeated his words.
"Spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square? why? Are you not comfortable at Gore House?"
"Yes, sir; but it's just a little too dull sometimes in the evenings," Bertie replied, very humbly.
"Hum! what do you do in the evenings?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Oh, nothing! Well, you may go to Fitzroy Square if you like, and stay till—let me see—stay till the second of January." Bertie's heart gave a great bound, and his eyes fairly sparkled. "I always give my boys a present at Christmas," and Mr. Gregory placed two sovereigns in Bertie's hand, and positively smiled at him. "I'm very pleased with you, my lad, and when you return we will have a new arrangement. You shall have Dalton's place in my office, to help with the correspondence, and I'll pay you a small salary. You can never begin being independent too soon—and there may be other alterations," Mr. Gregory continued, "but we will speak of them when you return. Tuesday, the second of January, mind, and don't be late. You may go at once if you like."
"Thank you, sir. Good-bye, uncle," Bertie said, with a radiant smile; and ten minutes after he was hurrying towards the Mansion House Station on his way back to Kensington, fairly hugging his two sovereigns. He was beginning to get rich already; never had he quite so much money of his own before, and as he hurried along, he began wondering what he should do with it. "I know," he said to himself, with a triumphant smile, as he leaned back in his corner: "I'll give Agnes ten shillings and Eddie ten, I'll keep ten for myself, and put ten in the savings' bank. Uncle Gregory says that the way to become rich is to save some of everything, no matter how little. Ten shillings won't do much towards getting back Riversdale, but it's a beginning. I hope Eddie has begun to save too." When he reached home, Bertie found his aunt and cousins just going out for a drive, and they all seemed a little surprised to see him.
"What's the matter? is anything wrong?" Mrs. Gregory asked, stopping him in the hall.
"No, aunt; only I've got leave to spend the holidays at Fitzroy Square. Good-bye, aunt; good-bye, cousins," he added hastily, for he did not want to lose a moment.
"Wait a moment, Bertie," Mrs. Gregory said, more kindly than she had ever spoken before; "John will drive you over in the dog-cart, and I must send your brother and cousin their Christmas gifts; and I hope you will enjoy yourself very much. Good-bye, my dear;" and Mrs. Gregory went into the dining-room to order a hamper of good things to be packed for Fitzroy Square, and then she selected from her enormous store of presents a workbox for Agnes, a capital volume for Eddie—though the book had been intended for her own Dick, but it would be easy to get another copy for him—and a knife for Bertie himself, that gladdened his heart for many a day. The truth is, that when Mrs. Gregory saw Bertie, her conscience smote her. She was not really unkind, but very thoughtless; and ever since her boys came from Eton she had entirely forgotten him. Had he been at home all day, he might perhaps have shared in their pleasures; as it was, he scarcely ever even saw them. When he returned from the City they were generally off to some place of entertainment, and arrived home barely in time for dinner; when that was over, they were off again, their mother never being tired of going about with her two handsome lads, while the equally handsome "office-boy" spent his evenings in the solitary school-room. Still, it should be said, she had not wilfully ignored and neglected Bertie, and when she saw how delighted he was to get away from Gore House, she felt naturally ashamed of herself, and resolved to be kinder to him when he came back, for he was really a very good, quiet boy, who never gave any trouble. Meantime she filled a hamper with dainties, packed up the presents, even sent her love to Uncle and Aunt Clair, and a very handsome card; and half-an-hour after Bertie was driving briskly through the park, looking proudly at the hamper and parcel, and wondering if there were so happy a boy in all London that bright, frosty day. Just as he turned into Fitzroy Square a sudden thought struck him: Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair had not invited him, did not even know he was coming, and the fact damped his spirits for a moment. But he laughed off the uneasy sensation. And before long he was flying up the steps; but ere he could reach the knocker, the door swung open, and he was in Aunt Amy's arms.
"My dear, how glad I am to see you, and so are all of us!" she said, kissing him tenderly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise for us, Bertie!"
"I've come for ten days, auntie," he cried: "that is, if you will have me; but I never thought of asking you till I saw the house; but I may stay, may I not?"
"Stay! I should think so. Why, child, I'm delighted!" and Aunt Amy kissed Bertie again, and then bustled out to see after his things; but John had already deposited them in the hall. Bertie forgot nothing but his own personal belongings. "I am so sorry," he cried, "but I've forgotten my things and my dressing-case. I was so excited, I really did not know what was doing."
"I'll bring them over in the morning, Master Bertie," John said, good-naturedly, though he could not help wondering at his forgetting his wardrobe; but that was because he did not know Bertie, who never forgot his friends, or neglected a single living creature that he once undertook to care for.
"What a delightful surprise this will be for Eddie and Agnes!" Mrs. Clair said, when they were alone in the parlour. "They are out for a walk with Uncle Harry. It was only this morning they were saying what gay times you would have at Gore House now your cousins are at home, and that you would not think of us; but I knew better, Bertie."
"Why, Aunt Amy, I've scarcely ever spoken to my cousins: they're always out enjoying themselves; and I was longing to come here. Was it not good of Uncle Gregory to let me come, and give me such a long holiday? and look, auntie, two sovereigns for a Christmas present, and" (dragging in the hamper and parcel) "Aunt Gregory sent these—a workbox for Agnes, and a book for Eddie, and such a knife for me! And it was she told John to drive me over in the dog-cart. And, best news of all, when I go back to the office there's to be a new arrangement. I'm going into Uncle Gregory's private office and am to have a salary; think of that, Aunt Amy! I'm beginning to make my fortune already, and I dare say I'll be rich before very long, then Eddie and Agnes shall have Riversdale; but I think I'll be a merchant always, and perhaps be Lord Mayor of London some day, like Whittington, though instead of having a favourite cat I've only white mice!"
Aunt Amy laughed almost as heartily as Bertie. It was good to see the boy's happy, honest face, and hear his cheery voice. Whatever Bertie Rivers undertook to do he certainly did with all his heart, and that was the true secret of his happiness. While they were still enjoying the idea of Bertie being a Lord Mayor, the door opened, and Uncle Clair, Agnes, and Eddie entered the room, and it was hard to say whether they were more amazed or pleased to see Bertie established there.
Beds and borders which have been very showy and pretty from the latter part of May to the end of July will now have reached their highest stage of perfection. Such plants as geraniums, calceolarias, lobelias, &c., make an exceedingly small amount of growth all through the summer, but so soon as the dewy nights and often wet days of August and September arrive, they start into growth with the greatest of rapidity. This state of things is, of course, almost an infallible sign that the irksome labour of watering can be dispensed with. At the same time, the plants must on no account be allowed to flag from want of water, and this matter needs very careful attention; it will be often found, even after what seems to be a heavy shower of rain, that the earth is perfectly dust-dry half an inch under the surface. This circumstance is a most misleading one, and a valuable plant is quickly lost through neglecting to take necessary precautions.
Whilst making the strong growth just mentioned, it will be very necessary to properly train the young shoots in such a manner as to ensure a neat and compact growth. All decaying vegetation, such as leaves, stems, &c., must be promptly removed, and that before they cause other leaves, &c., to become equally diseased. Nothing looks so excessively deplorable as to see what was at one time a neat bed of plants in a semi-rotten state. When a stem or leaf of a geranium becomes wholly or partly separated, it rapidly decays; hence the great importance of removing such before it becomes a mass of decomposition. It is the same with the fuchsia and many others. Hoeing and otherwise cleaning the surfaces of beds and borders must be carried out where practicable. Weeds and objectionable vegetation of all sorts should be removed to the rubbish-heap at the earliest possible moment, thereby securing a general tidy appearance to the place.
Almost every day will occasion some new operation to be carried out, and all plants having a naturally rambling habit, such as petunias and verbenas, must be strictly kept within bounds by being pegged down. This can be done by using what are known as "verbena-pins," and these can be purchased at a cheap rate from any local seedsman, or may be easily made by converting pieces of galvanised or any thin wire into sizes and shapes identical with small hair-pins. Each shoot must be carefully secured close to the earth with one of these. It must be remembered that the young shoots are very tender, and that the least clumsy handling will destroy them. Hollyhocks and dahlias, and, indeed, all tall-growing herbaceous plants, will require very careful looking after, in the matter of tying and training more especially. Dahlias and hollyhocks are really the supreme ornaments of the garden during the latter part of the summer and throughout the autumnal months. The latter-named, unfortunately, is extremely liable to the attacks of a virulent form of fungoid disease, which rapidly destroys it. We know of no real preventative, and the only plan we can recommend is to select strong young plants, whichare in no degree affected with it, and on the very first appearance of the disease to destroy all those infested.
The rose—that "Queen of flowers"—will, in all probability, require attention; extra strong and gross-growing shoots may be cut back, and train all young growth with the view of securing not only a well-formed specimen, but also a robust growth. As a general rule, the training of roses must be left to a good practical gardener, but we strongly advise all our young friends to pay careful attention to what he does, and to the advice he gives, so that they may themselves at another time perform the necessary operations, with, of course, a considerable amount more pleasure. We may here remark that all young people must never be above taking hints and advice from gardeners, because the power to give such has been almost invariably acquired by long experience, and is given with the best of intentions. And, moreover, few things are more pleasing to a gardener than to see young folk taking a practical interest in his favourite pursuit.
Cuttings may now be made of a great number of plants, and cold frames or shady spots in the garden may be utilised for growing them. As a rule, the separation should be made a little way under the joint. A cutting has been truly defined as a part of a plant with growing appendages at either end, and a space between to keep them sufficiently apart, so that one part shall be in the soil to form roots, and the other in the air to form leaves and stem. They are usually obtained from the young wood, and strike most freely in sand. It is easy to determine whether a shoot be in a proper state for making a cutting: bend it carefully back, and if it breaks or snaps it is in a right condition, and if it bends without snapping it is then too hard. The most general "cut" is a slanting one, but we have invariably found a level one both easiest made and quickest rooted. Whichever is done, let it be done with a sharp knife, and let the cut be "clean," not jagged—this is an important consideration.
The kitchen-gardens of young folk will require but little attention during the month of August, although just the reverse is the case in large establishments. However, all the necessary weeding, raking, and hoeing should be done without fail. Seeds also may be now sown of cress, mustard, and radishes, but they must all be gathered when in a very young state. Seeds of the American Red-stone Turnip or other good sort can be sown in any odd piece of ordinary garden soil. Delicious little turnips will be produced in about five or six weeks very easily, if a small amount of care is given, the chief requirements being water when the weather is dry, thinning-out where they come up very close together, and keeping thoroughly clear of weeds—mere matters of detail, which require but little time to carry out, and which will ensure a very good crop of a most desirable vegetable.
Jemmy was five, I seven—two quaint little people we must have looked, as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.
"We mustn't be idle—the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy, turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded—
"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."
"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?" reasoned Jemmy.
"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and thinking myself a very industrious little woman.
Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the cross-roads, we met Uncle John.
"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"
"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.
"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma—and we're not midges, uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.
"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply, putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.
"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."
"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and we ours.
"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not such sillies as to lose ourselves."
"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.
But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them, some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes, we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been reaped and gleaned.
"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.
"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.
"I don't see them," was the reply.
"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them—them's havin' their harvest," saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.
"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.
"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest folk, if ye go far enough."
"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like a miniature man.
"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.
"Yes," was the child's reply.
"And where are they?"
"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of what would befall us ere long.
"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.
"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign clime.
"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.
"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.
Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to the sun, our faces—ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead, and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling. And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely creatures.
"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed near us.
"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.
Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl—at least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung to each other.
"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.
IN THE HARVEST FIELD. "JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE" (p. 102).IN THE HARVEST FIELD. "JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE" (p.102).
"Wolves don't live in England," said I.
"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Cæsar, felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of terror, as did he.
In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest, just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting up his only friend, his trusty dog Cæsar, at home. Their stealing away on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress, and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Cæsar, broke loose from home, and come to find him; Cæsar's fight with a wolf which followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.
"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling, wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.
"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.
But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery; we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.
And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling, moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril. Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood; now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet, scudding on as before.
On, on, still on—glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William, and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on—whither?
Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now—as in the story of little William—there stretched before us a stream of water. What could we do?
I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we had well-nigh rushed.
Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me, only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon us, like some giant in the gloom.
"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.
"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did, and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."
"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves—how could I when there are no wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.
"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.
"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question—what have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"
"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed it, and so—and so we forgot and were lost."
"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into something like a turban, Ben trotting on before—"Ah, children, little feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown. Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."
HEAD OF BARBASTELLE BAT.HEAD OF BARBASTELLE BAT.
Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed. Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.
Until the time of the illustrious Linnæus the bats had been more or less a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the German name for the creature,Fledermaus, or fluttering mouse, points to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."
Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.
As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood. Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.
In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a "constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats, according to Mr.Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These "chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.
The margined fruit bat—so called from the white border that surrounds its ears—works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds. They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa, and Australia.
Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British bats—the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,—feed upon insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat, which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date, more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their powers.
James A. Manson.
It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."
It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing at the gander, said—
"Goosey, goosey, gander,Whither shall we wander,Up the hill, or through the vale,Or in the pinewoods yonder."
"Goosey, goosey, gander,Whither shall we wander,Up the hill, or through the vale,Or in the pinewoods yonder."
And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied promptly—
"Pinewoods."
And a goose in the distance cried out—
"Make haste then."
Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at both the birds.
"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and