WINDSOR CASTLE.This ancient and splendid pile is a fitting residence for the sovereigns of England. It impresses one with the idea of supreme grandeur and formidable strength, but it has reached its present magnificence by constant embellishments and additions by successive sovereigns.It owes its origin to William the Conqueror, that bold and progressive Norman, who created here a fortified hunting seat, where he and his brave barons could enjoy themselves after the “hunting of the deer” in the wild glades of Windsor forest.The castle stands upon a hill on the bank of the river Thames, twenty-three miles from London, with which it is connected by railway. It is surrounded on all sides, except to the east, by a noble terrace above two thousand five hundred feet in extent, faced by a strong rampart of hewn stone, and having, at intervals, easy slopes leading down to the park.The terrace is a most delightful walk, commanding charming views of the extensive domain and the surrounding country. Everywhere are evidences of royal expenditure, of watchful care and tasteful ornamentation.The park abounds in woodland scenery of exquisite beauty, and it does seem as if the “English sunshine” was nowhere more satisfying or refreshing than in these delightful avenues. The deer roam at will, and streamlets trickle and English violets and other wild flowers blossom, the praises of whose delicate perfumes and beauties have been sung by Wordsworth and Keats.There is a stately walk, three miles long, bordered by double rows of trees, which leads from the lodge to these delightful precincts, and at the entrance stretch away in gorgeous array, the Queen’s gardens, in which very beautiful and rare productions of floral culture find a congenial home.The castle consists of two courts, having a large, round tower between them, and covers more than twelve acres of land, being defended by batteries and towers. The upper court is a spacious quadrangle, having a round tower on the west, the private apartments of the sovereigns on the south and east, the State apartments and St. George’s Hall and the chapel royal on the north.The royal apartments are reached by an imposing vestibule. The first room, the Queen’s guard chamber, contains a grand array of warlike implements, and glittering weapons, and its walls are rich in paintings.The Queen’s presence chamber contains the rarest furniture and hangings, with an array of artistic works by the most celebrated masters.The ball-room is hung with tapestry, representing the twelve months of the year, and upon its ceiling is pictured Charles II, giving freedom to England. There is here an immense table of solid silver.In the Queen’s bed-chamber is the State bed, said to have cost $70,000, designed for Queen Charlotte. The Queen’s dressing-room, hung with British tapestry, contains the closet in which is deposited the banner of France. The same closet contains the tea-equipage of Queen Anne.An elegant saloon is called the “Room of Beauties,” and contains fourteen portraits of ladies who were “most fair” in the court of Charles II. Their lovely faces and rich apparel, quaint and oddly fashioned, make the most delightful and instructive study.The audience chamber contains the throne and is enriched with historical paintings of events in the reign of Henry III. Another guard chamber contains an immense collection of warlike instruments, fancifully arranged, and also the flag sent by the Duke of Wellington in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo.St. George’s Hall, which is one hundred and eight feet long, is set apart for the illustrious “Order of the Garter.”It is superbly decorated with allegorical paintings. The chapel is a fine specimen of the florid Gothic. The roof is elliptical and is composed of stone; the whole ceiling is ornamented with emblazoned arms of many sovereigns and knights of the Garter. The stalls of the sovereigns and knights exhibit a profusion of rare carving. The chapel is the burial place of many royal and illustrious persons; Edward IV, Henry IV, Henry VIII and Charles I having been interred here.
This ancient and splendid pile is a fitting residence for the sovereigns of England. It impresses one with the idea of supreme grandeur and formidable strength, but it has reached its present magnificence by constant embellishments and additions by successive sovereigns.
It owes its origin to William the Conqueror, that bold and progressive Norman, who created here a fortified hunting seat, where he and his brave barons could enjoy themselves after the “hunting of the deer” in the wild glades of Windsor forest.
The castle stands upon a hill on the bank of the river Thames, twenty-three miles from London, with which it is connected by railway. It is surrounded on all sides, except to the east, by a noble terrace above two thousand five hundred feet in extent, faced by a strong rampart of hewn stone, and having, at intervals, easy slopes leading down to the park.
The terrace is a most delightful walk, commanding charming views of the extensive domain and the surrounding country. Everywhere are evidences of royal expenditure, of watchful care and tasteful ornamentation.
The park abounds in woodland scenery of exquisite beauty, and it does seem as if the “English sunshine” was nowhere more satisfying or refreshing than in these delightful avenues. The deer roam at will, and streamlets trickle and English violets and other wild flowers blossom, the praises of whose delicate perfumes and beauties have been sung by Wordsworth and Keats.
There is a stately walk, three miles long, bordered by double rows of trees, which leads from the lodge to these delightful precincts, and at the entrance stretch away in gorgeous array, the Queen’s gardens, in which very beautiful and rare productions of floral culture find a congenial home.
The castle consists of two courts, having a large, round tower between them, and covers more than twelve acres of land, being defended by batteries and towers. The upper court is a spacious quadrangle, having a round tower on the west, the private apartments of the sovereigns on the south and east, the State apartments and St. George’s Hall and the chapel royal on the north.
The royal apartments are reached by an imposing vestibule. The first room, the Queen’s guard chamber, contains a grand array of warlike implements, and glittering weapons, and its walls are rich in paintings.
The Queen’s presence chamber contains the rarest furniture and hangings, with an array of artistic works by the most celebrated masters.
The ball-room is hung with tapestry, representing the twelve months of the year, and upon its ceiling is pictured Charles II, giving freedom to England. There is here an immense table of solid silver.
In the Queen’s bed-chamber is the State bed, said to have cost $70,000, designed for Queen Charlotte. The Queen’s dressing-room, hung with British tapestry, contains the closet in which is deposited the banner of France. The same closet contains the tea-equipage of Queen Anne.
An elegant saloon is called the “Room of Beauties,” and contains fourteen portraits of ladies who were “most fair” in the court of Charles II. Their lovely faces and rich apparel, quaint and oddly fashioned, make the most delightful and instructive study.
The audience chamber contains the throne and is enriched with historical paintings of events in the reign of Henry III. Another guard chamber contains an immense collection of warlike instruments, fancifully arranged, and also the flag sent by the Duke of Wellington in commemoration of the battle of Waterloo.
St. George’s Hall, which is one hundred and eight feet long, is set apart for the illustrious “Order of the Garter.”It is superbly decorated with allegorical paintings. The chapel is a fine specimen of the florid Gothic. The roof is elliptical and is composed of stone; the whole ceiling is ornamented with emblazoned arms of many sovereigns and knights of the Garter. The stalls of the sovereigns and knights exhibit a profusion of rare carving. The chapel is the burial place of many royal and illustrious persons; Edward IV, Henry IV, Henry VIII and Charles I having been interred here.
Among the sad episodes in the illustrated history of English sovereigns, not one is more pathetic or impressive than the story of the two little Princes, sons of Edward IV. This King had an ambitious and unscrupulous brother, called Richard, Duke of Gloucester.
At the time of the King’s death, this man was at the head of an army in Scotland, which was entirely devoted to him, and he felt strong and equal to undertaking any bold and unlawful measure to obtain the crown, which rightfully belonged to Edward’s son, the young Prince of Wales.
Upon receiving the news of his brother’s death, Richard clothed himself and his large retinue in deep mourning and proceeded in great haste to London, taking the oath of loyalty on the way, and making many protestations of interest and affection for the fatherless boys.
The young Prince of Wales received him with many expressions of regard and respectful consideration, as befitted a paternal uncle, and placed undoubted faith in his suggestions; the Duke thus found it an easy matter to direct his movements, and the selection of his counselors and servants. Two of these, who were favorite and loyal friends, he caused to be seized on a frivolous accusation, and they were taken to a distant castle as prisoners. Other measures were taken to isolate him, and in a few days the young King was completely in the hands of the terrible Duke of Gloucester.
From one high-handed act of usurpation to another, assisted by unprincipled, ambitious men, he proceeded, evidently aiming to secure the crown for his own head.
Under pretense of placing the Prince in greater safety, and removing him from persons who might influence him, to the detriment of the peace and welfare of the kingdom, he was conducted, in great state, to the Tower; his uncle assuming the office of Lord Protector of the King.
Upon gaining the entire custody of the royal lad, he sent a large number of dignitaries to the royal mother, to persuade her to allow the other little boy to be taken to the Tower to keep his brother company. The Prince was allowed to proceed thither, and Richard, now having them both at his mercy, determined upon their death.
The Governor of the Tower was, it seems, a man of at least human feelings, and when he was ordered by Richard, “In some wise to put the children to death,” utterly refused to perform so dangerous and horrible an act.
Richard then sent for the keys of the Tower, to keep in his possession twenty-four hours, and gave them, and the command of the Tower for that time, to Sir James Tyrrel, his master of horse.
This man procured two assassins, who proceeded, at dead of night, to the chamber of the sleeping Princes. They lay in each other’s arms, as though they had fallen asleep comforting one another; and the assassins, falling upon them with their ruffian strength, smothered them with the bed-clothes, “Keeping the feather pillows hard upon their mouths.”
When the deed was done, Tyrrel stepped into the chamber, to take a hasty view of the dead bodies, which were then, by his orders, buried at the stair-foot, under a heap of stones.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had no further obstacle in assuming the purple, and was crowned King of England with all pomp and ceremony, and known to unenviable fame as Richard III.
This account has come down to us with all the authority of historical verity, and subsequent evidences of its accuracy have been discovered. The age was characterized by inhumanity of the most barbarous kind, and this crime was in keeping with it.
The English people in this nineteenth century rejoice in a sovereign who is noble in the highest sense; beloved by her subjects, achieving for herself the universal plaudit of a “most humane and gracious lady.”
This ancient edifice is situated on the north bank of the Thames, at the extremity of the city of London.
The antiquity of the building has been a subject of much inquiry, but the present fortress is believed to have been built by William the Conqueror, and garrisoned with Normans to secure the allegiance of his subjects; although it appears that the Romans had a fort on this spot, if a dim tradition can be credited. The building is governed by the “Constable of the Tower,” who, at coronations and other State ceremonies, has the custody of the regalia.
The principal entrance is on the west, and consists of two gates, at which are stationed guards. The keys are kept, during the day, at the warder’s hall, but deposited every night at the Governor’s house. Cannon are placed at intervals around the great wall, and command every avenue leading to Tower Hill.
On the south side is an arch, called “Traitors’ Gate,” through which State prisoners were formerly brought from the river. Near the Traitors’ Gate is the “Bloody Tower,” in which it is supposed the two young Princes, Edward V and his brother, were smothered by order of Richard III.
In the south-west angle of the inclosure were the royal apartments, for the Tower was a palace for nearly five hundred years, and only ceased to be so on the accession of Elizabeth.
The principal buildings within the walls are the church, the white tower, the ordnance office, the jewel office, the horse armory. The church is called “St. Peter in Vincules,” and is remarkable as the depository of the headless bodies of numerous illustrious personages who suffered either in the Tower or on the hill. Among these were Anna Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Catharine Howard, the Duke of Somerset and the Duke of Monmouth.
The jewel office is a strong, stone room, in which are kept the crown jewels, regalia, such as the golden orb, the golden sceptre with the dove, St. Edward’s staff, State salt-cellar, sword of mercy, golden spurs, the golden eagle and golden spoons, also the silver font used at the baptism of the royal family, the State crown worn by her Majesty in Parliament. A large collection of ancient plate is also kept here.
The horse armory is a brick building east of the white tower, adorned with suits of armor of almost every description; but the most striking are the effigies of the English kings on horseback, armed cap-a-pie. The line of mounted celebrities commences with William the Conqueror and ends with George II. Several of the cuirasses and helmets taken at Waterloo are kept here. In the armory are also shown a representation of Queen Elizabeth in armor; the axe which severed the head of Anna Boleyn, as well as that of the Earl of Essex; the invincible banner taken from the Spanish Armada, and the wooden cannon used by Henry VIII at the siege of Boulogne.
The Beauchamp Tower is noted for the illustrious personages formerly confined within its walls.
This is the title of one of the most familiar poems in the English language, but few people know its history.
Most of our young readers will be surprised to hear that the well-known nursery song of “Mary had a Little Lamb” is a true story, and that “Mary” is still living, says an exchange.
About seventy years ago she was a little girl, the daughter of a farmer in Worcester county, Mass. She was very fond of going with her father to the fields to see the sheep, and one day they found a baby lamb, which was thought to be dead.
Kind-hearted little Mary, however, lifted it up in her arms, and as it seemed to breathe she carried it home, made it a warm bed near the stove, and nursed it tenderly. Great was her delight when, after weeks of careful feeding and watching, her little patient began to grow well and strong, and soon after it was able to run about. It knew its young mistress perfectly, always came at her call, and was happy only when at her side.
One day it followed her to the village school, and not knowing what else to do with it, she put it under her desk and covered it with her shawl.
There it stayed until Mary was called up to the teacher’s desk to say her lesson, and then the lamb walked quietly after her, and the other children burst out laughing. So the teacher had to shut the little girl’s pet in the woodshed until school was out. Soon after this, a young student, named John Rollstone, wrote a little poem about Mary and her lamb and presented it to her. The lamb grew to be a sheep and lived for many years, and when at last it died Mary grieved so much for it that her mother took some of its wool, which was as “white as snow,” and knitted a pair of stockings for her, to wear in remembrance of her darling.
Some years after the lamb’s death, Mrs. Sarah Hall, a celebrated woman who wrote books, composed some verses about Mary’s lamb and added them to those written by John Rollstone, making the complete poem as we know it. Mary took such good care of the stockings made of her lamb’s fleece that when she was a grown-up woman she gave one of them to a church fair in Boston.
As soon as it became known that the stocking was made from the fleece of “Mary’s little lamb,” every one wanted a piece of it; so the stocking was raveled out, and the yarn cut into small pieces. Each piece was tied to a card on which “Mary” wrote her full name, and these cards sold so well that they brought the large sum of $140 in the Old South Church.—Our Sunday Afternoon.
“I shall have the nicest kind of a garden,” said Jamie, one morning. “I’m going to make it in that pretty little spot just over the bank. I mean to have some flowers in pots and some in beds just like the gardener; and then you can have fresh ones every day, mamma. I’m going right over there now.”
Jamie started off bravely with his spade on his shoulder; but when, after an hour, mamma went to see how he was getting on, she found him lying on the grass, with the ground untouched.
“Why, Jamie, where is your garden?”
“I was just lying here, and thinking how nice it will look when it is all done,” said Jamie.
Mamma shook her head. “But that will not dig ground, nor make the flowers grow, little boy. No good deed was ever done by only lying still and thinking about it.”
A. DE G. H.
Hurrah! Hurrah! only two days more to vacation, and then!——
If the crowning whistle, and energeticbangwith which the strapped books came down, were any indication of what was coming after the “then!” it must be something unusual. And so it was—for Ned, Tom and Con, who were the greatest of chums, as well as the noisiest, merriest boys in Curryville Academy—were to go into camp for the next two weeks, by way of spending part of their vacation. They could hardly wait for school to close, and over the pages of Greenleaf danced, those last two days, unknown quantities of fishing tackle, tents, and the regular regalia of a camping out-fit. They talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night.
At last the great day dawned—dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language—“We are in for a rattlin’ good time, and don’t want to be togged out.” They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Shore, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.
Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day—cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.
Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed—which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs—untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day’s fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, passed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.
They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that “Camp Trio” was most appropriate.
One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.
“It’s Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us,” said Con, in a ghostly whisper. “Hush!” and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.
“It was the Leviathan, I guess,” said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour! No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.
“Oh, boys, it’s too rich! Why, it was Potter’s old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual—look here!” and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next,stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn’t relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.
“What on airth ye doin’ here; trespassin’ on other folks’ grounds? Mebby ye don’t know it’s agin the law!”
The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.
“Hevin’fun, be ye! Wall, I’ll vow, settin’ in the wet, eatin’ cold rations, haintmyidee offun.” And away he stalked.
The boys looked at each other.
“I say, fellers,” said Con, “a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh breadwouldn’tgo bad—eh?”
The two answered with a hungry look.
“But let’s tough it out over Sunday, or they’ll all laugh at us.” And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.
“I’d rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles,” Tom affirmed, “than put in another such a Sunday.”
They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.
“Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see,You flying aloft in that gone sort of way,Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears,But my deepest emotions I never betray.“I’ve always admired you, wonderful bird,By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon;I tell you ’tis more than a fox can endure,To know that you take your departure so soon.“I snatched a few feathers, in memory of you;I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan;Oh, what a memento to hang in my den!And in very hot weather to use as a fan.“Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth!There’s nothing I would not perform for your sake;If once in awhile I could see you down here,I’d never get tired of the shores of this lake!”“Cheer up, Mr. Fox,” said the duck, flying higher,“The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon;When they get far away, and have time to reflect,They see that it came not a moment too soon.“You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with;You see if I granted that favor to you,’Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough,As I find it convenient, just now, to have two.”Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky.“That’s a very shrewd bird,” said the fox in dismay!“I shall have to look round for my dinner, again,And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day.”
“Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see,You flying aloft in that gone sort of way,Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears,But my deepest emotions I never betray.
“I’ve always admired you, wonderful bird,By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon;I tell you ’tis more than a fox can endure,To know that you take your departure so soon.
“I snatched a few feathers, in memory of you;I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan;Oh, what a memento to hang in my den!And in very hot weather to use as a fan.
“Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth!There’s nothing I would not perform for your sake;If once in awhile I could see you down here,I’d never get tired of the shores of this lake!”
“Cheer up, Mr. Fox,” said the duck, flying higher,“The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon;When they get far away, and have time to reflect,They see that it came not a moment too soon.
“You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with;You see if I granted that favor to you,’Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough,As I find it convenient, just now, to have two.”
Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky.“That’s a very shrewd bird,” said the fox in dismay!“I shall have to look round for my dinner, again,And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day.”
Spring time had come, with its blossoms and birds; and Mrs. Rossiter threw up the sash of the east window, and pushed open the blinds, and drew a long deep breath of morning air, and morning sunshine.
“I think, Bridget,” she said, “that we might venture to bring the house-plants out-doors to-day. There can hardly be another frost, this year.”
“Oh! may I help?” asked little Charley, “I’ll be very careful.”
“On that condition, that you be very careful, you may bring the little ones,” answered his mother.
The work progressed safely and rapidly for awhile. Geraniums, roses, fuchsias, heliotropes, and so following, came forth in profusion, many in bloom, and were placed in rows along the garden borders, ready to be transferred to the beds, for the summer. At last the little ones were all brought by Charley, and only larger ones remained.
“I’ll carry just this one big one,” he said to himself: “I’m stronger than mother thinks I am.” But the pot full of earth, was heavier than Charley had thought it, and before he reached the place to set it down it had grown very heavy indeed; and, glad to get it out of his aching arms as quickly as possible, he placed it on the curb so suddenly, that with a loud crash it parted in the middle and lay in pieces at his feet. Glancing quickly at his mother and seeing in her face impending reproach, he forestalled it by exclaiming:
“Well, that pot broke itself very easily. What’s it made of, any how?”
The mother couldn’t help but smile at this attempted shifting of the blame to the pot, but she answered, in a moment, gravely:
“The pot, Charley, was made of clay; the same weak material from which little boys are made; who, when they forget to obey their mothers, are as likely to meet disaster as the earthen pot.”
Charley didn’t care just then to discuss disobedient boys, so he turned at once to the subject of the pot.
“Made of clay,” he exclaimed, “well, I’d like to see a man make a thing like that of clay.”
“And so would I,” said sister Mary, who, from an upper window, had listened to the conversation.
“And so you shall, if I have no further reminders of this sort, that my children are made of the same unreliable material.”
That afternoon, the three, started for the pottery works. Mr. Sands, the proprietor, kindly received them, and fully explained all his processes. First he pointed out what seemed to Charley a heap of dry hard common dirt; taking a little piece of this he dipped it into a basin of water and then squeezing and pressing it in his hand it soon became soft, and plastic, so that it could be wrought to any shape. He then led the party to another room where a young man was engaged in thus softening large masses. He would first crumble the hard earth into fine pieces; then wet and pack it together into a “loaf,” so Charley called it, and then raising it over his head throw it again with all his might upon the table before him until it became soft and smooth through all its bulk. This, Mr. Sands said, was called “wedging the clay,” and that it was now ready for “throwing” into shape.
“Will it come into shape if you just throw it?” said Charley.
Mr. Sands laughed heartily at this, and answered, “come and see;” and taking up one of the softened “loaves,” to use Charley’s word for them, he led the way to the next room. The young man who had been “wedging” now followed and placed himself at a large wheel which was connected by a strap or belt with a table at which Mr. Sands seated himself.
Different stages in the process of making pots
HOW POTS AND PANS ARE MADE.
Upon the table was another littletable, round and low, and upon this Mr. Sands placed his “loaf.” Then the young man began to turn the wheel and the loaf began to spin round very rapidly. Mr. Sands next pressed his finger right through the middle of the clay, so farming the hole which we always see at the bottom of flower-pots. Then, as it spun round, he worked the clay gradually upwards and sloped it outwards, using both hands, and holding the edges with his fingers and thumbs.
Before Charley could express his surprise, the little roll of clay was changed into a flower-pot. With a square iron tool called aribit was smoothed outside, and then the pot was lifted on a board. One after another followed till a long row was ready and they were carried off to be dried.
“How do you know when to leave off stretching it?” asked Mary of the potter.
He laughed, and pointed to a small iron gauge on the table. As soon as the pot reached this he knew he must leave off stretching it out. This iron is of course put higher or lower according to the size required.
“Now I’ll make you a pitcher, missie,” said the good-natured man, and with the same kind of clay, just rounding it a bit and giving a cunning little pinch to form the spout, he made quite a pretty jug.
“Where’s the handle?” asked Charley.
“Oh, that can’t go on yet, sir! We must wait till the jug is dry, for we could not press it tight enough to make it stick.”
Bread-pans and washing-pans are made in exactly the same way as flower-pots, being moulded by the hand into different forms. When the pots and pans leave the potter’s wheel they are taken, as we saw, to dry, and great care is required to keep them at a certain heat, for if the frost gets to them now they crack and are useless.
“Here’s a comical little pot!” exclaimed Charley, holding up a wee one.
“We call themlong Toms,” said Mr. Sands. “They are mostly used by nursery-gardeners, because they take so little room.”
“How long do they take to dry?” asked Mary, looking longingly at her little jug.
“About a day; so we will leave your jug with the others, and go to the kiln to see how they will be burnt to-morrow.”
The kiln was round, with a big doorway, called a wicket.
The pots and pans are put inside, great care being taken that they should not touch each other, or they would stick like loaves of bread. Pans are first glazed with a mixture of blue or red lead. The fire is burning below, and there are holes to allow the flames to pass upwards amongst the pottery. When the kiln is full the wicket is bricked up and daubed over with road-mud.
“Fancy using such dirty stuff!” said Mary.
“The manure in it makes it stick, just as hair does in mortar. Clay would crack with the heat. So you see, dear, there’s nothing so dirty or so common that it may not be of some use in the world.”
“How do you know when they are cooked enough?” asked Charley.
“I’ll show you,” said Mr. Sands, and he immediately led us to a small door, which opened some way up the kiln.
“This is called the crown,” said Mr. Sands.
It was a flat surface, with four holes which showed the red heat below, and looked like little volcanoes in a good temper.
“Do you see those iron rods hanging like walking-sticks in the furnace?” asked our guide. “Well, those are calledtrials, and at the end of each is a lump of clay and glaze. If the glaze is burnt enough we suppose that the whole batch is done, but we sometimes make a mistake and spoil a lot.”
“What is done next?” asked Charley.
“If they are properly burnt, they are allowed to cool gradually, and are then ready for sale.”
By this time all were pretty well tired, and so they said good morning to Mr. Sands and went home.
“Mother,” said Charley, as they sat down to dinner, “I shall ask how it’s done oftener than ever, now, for I like going over factories. What’s to be the next one, I wonder.”
“Bread,” exclaimed Mary, as she cut a big slice for herself. “Shall it be bread, mother?”
“Yes, if you like, but I propose we go to see the flour made first. So the next place we explore will be a flour-mill.”
E. M. W.
MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.
Take your breakfast, little birdie,—Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow,Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow;Come quite near me;Do not fear me.I can hear your happy twitter,Although winter winds are bitter;Take your breakfast, little birdie.Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie!All night long the snow was falling;Long ago, I heard you calling;Tell me, dearie,Are you weary?Can you sleep, when winds are blowing?Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing?Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!Take your food, and trust me, birdie;Daily food the Father giveth;Bread to every thing that liveth.Come quite near me;Do not fear me.Come each day, and bring your fellow,For your bread, so sweet and mellow;Take your food, and trust me, birdie.
Take your breakfast, little birdie,—Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow,Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow;Come quite near me;Do not fear me.I can hear your happy twitter,Although winter winds are bitter;Take your breakfast, little birdie.
Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie!All night long the snow was falling;Long ago, I heard you calling;Tell me, dearie,Are you weary?Can you sleep, when winds are blowing?Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing?Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!
Take your food, and trust me, birdie;Daily food the Father giveth;Bread to every thing that liveth.Come quite near me;Do not fear me.Come each day, and bring your fellow,For your bread, so sweet and mellow;Take your food, and trust me, birdie.
Do you like accounts of battles? Here is one for you. I shall have to tell of a well-disciplined army, and some hard fighting, as well as of a victory.
The scene is a quiet country district, with fields and hedge-rows, not looking a bit like war and bloodshed, and the time is a summer afternoon, hot, for it is July, and a haze is over the mountains, which rise a little way behind, as silent witnesses of the fray. The sun begins to decline, and as the air grows cooler the army has orders to start. There is a short delay of preparations, and then the warriors pour forth; not in confusion, but in a compact, unbroken column, each keeping to the ranks in perfect order, and never diverging from them. At first the army follows the high road, but ere long it passes through an opening in the hedge, and crosses the field on the other side. Still the soldiers march on, never hindered, never straggling out of place. It must have been a clever commander-in-chief to have trained them into such admirable obedience.
Presently a fortress rises before them—thatis the object of their expedition; rather, it is something within the citadel that they are sent to get, and have it theywill. Not without a struggle, though, for the enemy is on guard, and when he sees the hostile army approaching, he sallies out to battle. He has no idea of surrendering without a fight for it.
The invaders gather up their forces and charge bravely up the hill, and in an instant, hand to hand, or something very like it, the foes are locked together in desperate conflict. Neither have they any guns, but they carry sharp weapons with them, and soon the field is strewn with the dead and dying.
The fight thickens—the issue is doubtful, but not long—the defenders are routed, and the assailants press forward to the citadel. Most skillful arethey, for with neither cannon nor battering-rams they speedily make a breach in the walls, and in they rush, pouring through the street and lanes of the devoted city. Yet they do not destroy it—they do not kill the inhabitants—they do not even stay within the walls so hardly won. In a very short space of time they return as they came, save that each bears a portion of the spoil for which they came. They form in order once again, they march in line, they regain their own quarters, but each one carrying—would you believe it?—ayoung slave.
Ants heading out on an expedition
Yes, the army did not care to conquer the strange city; the expedition was organized solely and entirely that they might steal the young and bring them up in their own colony as slaves. For, through the long influence of evil habits, the race to which these warriors belong have lost their natural powers, and so have now to be waited on, fed, and altogether taken care of by its slaves. With food before them they would starve unless the slaves put it into their mouths.
If they want to change their abode, the slaves must make the new habitation ready, and then carry their masters on their backs to reach it. If the children have to be taken care of, the slaves must be the nurses. In fact,fightingis the one single thing theycando, and that, as we have seen, they do well. As the supply of slaves is necessary to their existence, every now and then they have to go and help themselves in the way we have just seen them do; and though the idea of slavery is abhorrent to every mind, we must allow that they are brave soldiers, and under excellent discipline.
Now, can you tell me who the soldiers are? Go back to your history stories and think. Some old Roman race, perhaps, or the early inhabitants ofBritain, when people knew no better? Or some tribe of savages in America, or the South Sea islands at the present time? Nay, you must guess again, or shall I tell you? Yes, you give it up. Well, then, it is a people “not strong;” small and insignificant, yet wise, for this is what the Bible says, “Go to theANT, consider her ways and be wise.”—Prov. vi:10.
This race of warriors is none other than the slave-keeping ant, (Polyergus rufescens). I do not think you would meet with it in our woods, but in Switzerland and other countries it is common. Huber, who wrote so much about bees and ants, first witnessed an attack near Geneva. I should tell you that the young which they carry off are the larva or young grubs, which, transferred to the nests of the conquerors, soon become ants, and live the rest of their lives in serving them, and waiting on them, as slaves or servants would their masters.
How extraordinary! Do they pine for their own kind? Are they happy in their bondage? We do not know, but as far as we can judge they render a willing and cheerful service, forgetting themselves in what they do for others. Then, of course, they are happy; we need not repeat the question; we are only lost in wonder at this strange and interesting page in Nature’s book.
M. K. M.
I presume most of you have heard of Grace Darling, the brave girl who lived with her father and mother at Longstone light-house. On the 6th of September, 1838, there was a terrible storm, and W. Darling, knowing well that there would be many wrecks, and much sorrow on the sea that dark, tempestuous night, waited for daybreak; and when at last it came, he went to look out. About a mile away he saw a ship in great distress, but the storm was so awful he had hardly courage to venture through it for their relief. His daughter Grace, who was watching the wreck through a glass, could no longer bear to see the poor fellows clinging to the piece of wreck which remained on the rocks where it had been broken, and make no effort to help them. She knew they must be lost. So she implored her father to launch the life-boat and let her go with him to the rescue. He consented, and father and daughter, she taking the oars while he steered, went pulling away for the wreck; and I can fancy how the poor fellows watched the life-boat like a speck on the waters, counting each minute as it neared them, then fearing, as it seemed to be almost lost amid the mountains of hissing and boiling waves, lest it should never come to them at all. But at last they are alongside; the sufferers hesitate not a moment, but jump for the life-boat, and so nine precious lives were saved from a watery grave.
Every one sang the praises of brave Grace Darling. A sum of $3,500 was presented to her as a testimonial, and she was invited to dine with the Duke of Northumberland. She died at the early age of twenty-seven, of consumption.
Now, my readers cannot all be Grace Darling, but they can come to the help of the perishing; those that are weary and ready to die. They can all do something, by working, by little efforts of self-denial, and by praying for those who are in danger of being lost; and then one day they will hear those wonderful words, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me.” A testimonial worth having indeed!
Adam and Eve are my two pet doves,They live in a cot in the maple tree,They coo and coo as other doves do,And I know they are fond of me.Eve is a dear little milk-white dove,Her eyes and feet are of coral red.She wears a quill of gray in her wing,And a small white cap on her head.Adam is bold, and he struts about,In coat and vest of chocolate brown;Eve is as sweet as a dove can be,And Adam will sometimes frown.Adam and Eve are my two fond doves,Their cottage stands in the maple tree,They coo and coo, as other doves do,And often take lunch with me.Mrs. S. J. Brigham.
Adam and Eve are my two pet doves,They live in a cot in the maple tree,They coo and coo as other doves do,And I know they are fond of me.
Eve is a dear little milk-white dove,Her eyes and feet are of coral red.She wears a quill of gray in her wing,And a small white cap on her head.
Adam is bold, and he struts about,In coat and vest of chocolate brown;Eve is as sweet as a dove can be,And Adam will sometimes frown.
Adam and Eve are my two fond doves,Their cottage stands in the maple tree,They coo and coo, as other doves do,And often take lunch with me.
Mrs. S. J. Brigham.
Swinging! Swinging!Up where the bees and the butterflies are,Winging! Winging!Their flights ’mong the blossoms that shine near and far.Ringing, Ringing,Song of the blue-bird and bobolink’s call,Singing, Singing,Up in this beautiful world are they all!Clinging, clinging,In this green shadow, the clematis swings.Bringing, bringing,Hints of strange odors, and dim woodland things.Flinging, flinging,The snow-ball, its white, pretty blossoms on me,Springing, springing,The damask rose climbs to the lattice to see!Backward my hair is floating and swaying,Here o’er the garden-walk softly I sing;Far more delightful, than wearily straying,Is it to dream here, while gently I swing.
Swinging! Swinging!Up where the bees and the butterflies are,Winging! Winging!Their flights ’mong the blossoms that shine near and far.
Ringing, Ringing,Song of the blue-bird and bobolink’s call,Singing, Singing,Up in this beautiful world are they all!
Clinging, clinging,In this green shadow, the clematis swings.Bringing, bringing,Hints of strange odors, and dim woodland things.
Flinging, flinging,The snow-ball, its white, pretty blossoms on me,Springing, springing,The damask rose climbs to the lattice to see!
Backward my hair is floating and swaying,Here o’er the garden-walk softly I sing;Far more delightful, than wearily straying,Is it to dream here, while gently I swing.
Children at the beach
No school! And the beautiful summer days coming so early in the morning, that none of us children ever could get awake to see the sun rise, and staying so long that we grew quite tired of being happy; and some of us, Gracie and Jimmie in particular, were so little, that they couldn’t stay awake through the whole of it, and went off into a nap every day after dinner.
But this was in the city, and when we arrived at the beach we didn’t get tired or cross the whole day long. There were many children at the hotel, and when we came, with our dolls and toy boats, our fishing-tackle and spades, and pails, we made a host of friends immediately.
Reginald and Willie, our older brothers, did not always go with Gracie and Jimmie and me, but made the acquaintance of the men that went out to sea to fish for the great hotels; and they went oftentimes with them, and we used to enjoy seeing the little boats launched; they almost stood on end when they went over the breakers, making us scream with excitement and delight. And as the little fleet grew less and less, and at last disappeared, we girls thought it was a grand thing to have such brave brothers.
I was the elder girl, being ten, and Gracie seven. Our Gracie was a lovely little sister; she had large blue eyes, and wavy brown hair, and was very gentle and obedient, and people called her “Pet,” almost as soon as they became acquainted with her.
Mother had blue flannel suits made for us, and dressed in these, with sailor hats that had little tapping ribbons at the sides, we scurried along the beach, climbed the rocks, or waded out into the salt water.
But we had on our very prettiest dresses in the evening, for the children were allowed to have the grand parlor, and dance to the music of the band until nine o’clock. This was a privilege we older ones talked of continually, and looked forward to all day. We were so dainty, genteel, and good-mannered for an hour, that it impressedeven ourselves; and boys and girls became models of gentleness and polite behavior, and the effect of those delightful evenings has given growth and direction to many graces in our character.