The great traveller-naturalist, Fritz Mueller, tells us that musical contests between two or three rival cicadas—only the males play—often take place. As soon as one had finished his song, another immediately began, then another, and so on all through the night. Another naturalist, Bates, tells that when in the Amazons he used to listen to the cicadas, which began with sunset. The tune began with a jarring sound, and ended in a long loud note, like 'the steam-whistle of a locomotive engine!'

In insects which hum the sound mainly comes from the abdomen. In flies and humble-bees, for example, the 'voice' is caused by air rushing out from the mouths of the air or breathing-tubes. But these sounds are deepened by the vibration of the wings. Those who know something of music will understand what is meant when they are told that the note of the honey-bee on the wing is A; its ordinary 'voice,' however, is an octave higher, and often goes to B and C. From the note produced by the wing, the speed with which it is vibrated can be reckoned. Thus, the house-fly, which produces the sound F, vibrates its wings 21,120 times a minute, or 335 times a second; the bee, which makes the note A, 26,400 times a minute, or 440 times a second!

But, besides insects, there are many spiders and scorpions which may claim to be musical. The instrument of the spider is formed on the same principle as that of the grasshopper—that is to say, by a raised tooth-like edge, which can produce vibrations. Beneath the front of a spider's head there is, on each side, a stout jaw, ending in a long, movable fang, like a claw. Behind this jaw is a short leg, formed like a walking leg, and known as the 'palp.' It is never used, however, for walking, but is carried straight forwards, so that the inner surfaces of its joints are close to the outer surface of the jaw. Now, whenever the 'palp' is moved, it is rubbed against the 'teeth' in the jaw, and this consequently, in many spiders, produces a sound like the humming of a bee! In some spiders which have this apparatus, the sound produced cannot be heard by human ears.

It is to be noted that, whatever the sound produced, its purpose is to serve one of two very different ends. It may be used, as in some spiders, when it is found only in the males, to charm its mate in courting; for she has a very bad temper, and must be approached most cautiously. But in the case of the huge bird-eating spiders, this curious buzzing sound appears to be made for the purpose of frightening its enemies, which, connecting the buzzing sound with the power of stinging, give the spider a wide berth as soon as the buzzing begins! To make itself appear more terrible, the spider raises the fore part of the body and legs high in the air, and thus, partly by this threatening attitude, and partly by the sound, persuades those about to attack that 'discretion is the better part of valour!'

The scorpion hisses. Some describe the noise as like that produced by rubbing the finger-nail over the hairs of a stiff tooth-brush. The vibrating instruments are found in different places, according to the species of scorpion. But the plan of its construction is the same in all, and is like that of the spider. Thus, in some species (as in fig. 4) there are, at the outer side of the base of the great pair of pincers, a number of sharp spinelets, shaped like a tiger's 'fang.' These make up the 'scraper.' Against it the scorpion rubs a number of tubercles, or little rounded bodies, which are seated on the base of the first pair of walking-legs; these form the 'rasp.' The movement of the rasp on the scraper produces the hissing sound. Sometimes the hissing is produced by a similar rasp and scraper placed on the inner surface of the little pincers which project in front of the body, between the two great pincers. In other cases the rasp and scraper are found, the rasp on the top of the base of the little pincer, the scraper on the under surface of the overhanging shield of the body. But, however formed, the noise produced is similar, and appears to be meant to terrify enemies. This purpose is further aided by the habit the creature has, when angry, of turning the poisonous sting at the end of the tail over the back.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.



A TRIFLING OFFENCE.

Noucherivan, King of Persia, had a very violent temper. One day he condemned a page to death for having by accident spilled a little sauce over him while waiting at table. The page, knowing that he had no hope of pardon, proceeded to pour the whole contents of the plate over his master. Nouchirevan, almost forgetting his anger in his surprise, asked the reason of this outrageous act.

'Prince,' explained the page, 'I am desirous that my death should not injure your renown by being undeserved. All nations esteem you as the most just of sovereigns, but you would lose that glorious title were it to become known that you had condemned one of your slaves to die for so trifling a fault as the one which I first committed.'

This answer made such an impression upon the king that, ashamed of his passion, he pardoned the slave, and also tried by his bounty to atone for his contemplated cruelty and injustice.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

12.—CURTAILMENTS.

1. Curtail stiff and strict, and leave a Swiss mountain. 2. Curtail a large country in Asia, and leave the point of the under jaw. 3. Curtail a scooping instrument, and leave to push. 4. Curtail acute and discerning, and leave a kind of mouse. 5. Curtail a raised floor or platform, and leave a horned animal. 6. Curtail an island on the Kentish coast, and leave a Saxon nobleman.

C. J. B.

13.—CONICAL PUZZLE.

The middle letters of each word read downwards give the name of a well-known English poet.

1. A consonant. 2. A price fixed after all deductions have been made. 3. To gaze, to look with fixed eyes. 4. To disperse, to throw loosely about. 5. Kindnesses, good wishes, benefits, favours.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 290.]

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 230.

10.—Valparaiso.

1. V eneration. 2. A nimosity. 3. L inoleum. 4. P aragon. 5. A melia. 6. R azor. 7. A rch. 8. I ce. 9. S o. 10. O

11.—Tar-tar.



THE POTATO.

Amongst our English vegetables, the potato is the most abundant and useful. It is liked by nearly all, and it is indeed a chief article of food in some districts. Other vegetables are largely eaten—cabbages and turnips, for instance—but the potato is in the greatest demand.

We have in the potato an illustration of a plant which belongs to a poisonous family, but has roots (or tubers) very nourishing and agreeable to eat. But if anybody was to eat the berries which follow the showy flowers of the potato, they would most likely be made ill, nor are the leaves wholesome to us, though they furnish food to the big caterpillar of the Death's-head moth.

We have to thank the Romans for bringing into Britain many fruits and vegetables; others, later on, came from France and Germany, or some other part of Europe; but the potato we owe to America. The potato first known in these islands, however, was not the one familiar now; it was the sweet potato, or Batatus, cultivated by the Spanish and Portuguese; it is supposed to have been brought over from the Continent early in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It was a vegetable much liked by those who could get it, and this is the potato of which one of Shakespeare's characters says, 'Let it rain potatoes and hail kissing comforts.'

No one can tell positively who, of the voyagers to America, towards the end of the sixteenth century, it was who came upon the true potato and brought it back to his own country, more as a curious plant than for any other reason. Some have given the credit to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, but it seems more likely that he himself was not the discoverer, but one of his followers, named Heriot. In a book Heriot wrote he exactly describes the potato amongst his finds, calling it 'open-awk,' a name he had heard in America. 'There are roundish roots,' he says, 'some the size of a walnut, some much bigger; these hang together on the other roots, and are good either boiled or roasted.' By roasting he no doubt meant putting them in the hot ashes of a fire. The question of how potatoes should be cooked seems to have been troublesome at first. People dipped them in hot water, and then complained that they were hard, or sticky like glue. Potatoes brought to the table of King James I. are said to have cost two shillings a pound, and for a long while the vegetable remained scarce, perhaps because people did not know the best way to raise a crop as we do now, by planting slices of the tubers. Several of the old books only refer to it as an ornamental garden plant.

Sir Walter Raleigh does appear to have introduced this vegetable into Ireland, at least. Going one spring to his estate at Youghal, Cork, he took some potatoes, and gave them to his gardener, who planted them. Fine specimens had grown up in August, but the gardener did not think the berries were of any good, and told Sir Walter he did not admire the wonderful American plant. 'Then pull it up and throw it away,' said Sir Walter; but when the man saw the potatoes on the roots, he thought differently.

The first place in England where the potato was grown in fields was North Meols, Lancashire, about 1694. For many years the Scotch only grew it as a curiosity, till Thomas Prentice, of Kilsyth, stocked his garden with potatoes in 1728, and distributed them amongst the villages near. Early in the reign of Queen Victoria, it had become abundant, especially in Ireland; but the potato disease or murrain caused great distress in 1845 and later, nor has it ever been got rid of entirely. The potato has been introduced to our Indian Empire, and though it was unpopular at first, the people have since become partial to it.

J. R. S. C.



DOCTOR ABERNETHY'S ADVICE.

Doctor Abernethy, the great surgeon, was famous for his short, pointed sayings and good advice, as well as for his skill as a doctor. One day a gentleman who was accustomed to live in great luxury, and who suffered from gout in consequence of this easy life, came to consult him. He told the great surgeon all his ailments, and how he usually lived, and asked what he ought to do.

'Live on sixpence a day—and earn it!' was the reply of Dr. Abernethy.



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VIII.—THE HIGHEST FLIGHT—SEPTEMBER 5, 1862.

The frequent and successful voyages in balloons at last led scientific men to wonder if the ascents might not be used for solving some of nature's riddles, and so conferring benefits on mankind, instead of being undertaken only as pleasure trips. It was to help answer this question that, in 1862, Mr. James Glaisher began a series of balloon voyages. He was by no means the pioneer in this class of enterprise, for many others—both French and English—had been up with the same object some years before. But as Mr. James Glaisher, with his captain, Mr. Coxwell, went higher than any one before or after, his flight ought to be given special attention.

In order to make careful observations, it was necessary to take a large number of delicate instruments, and these were arranged on a board, which rested its ends on either side of the car. Seated before this narrow table, Mr. Glaisher meant to read the secret of the skies. When all was ready, Mr. Coxwell weighed anchor, and a few moments later the city of Wolverhampton, from which they rose, was almost lost in the vast tract of country upon which their eyes rested.

It was the third ascent these gentlemen had made together, and the wonders Mr. Glaisher had witnessed on the two previous occasions must have been more than enough to lead him to seek for more. He had pierced the densest rain-clouds, and had seen the shadow of the balloon on the white upper surface of the clouds surrounded by lovely circular rainbows. He had peeped through holes in these clouds on to the world beneath, which looked more like a misty picture than real meadows and towns and rivers. Such experiences were more beautiful than any tales of fairyland—because they were true.

But to-day he was to have a new and strange journey. At five thousand feet above ground the balloon entered a mass of rain-clouds, one thousand feet thick, and four minutes later they broke through into sunshine. Mr. Glaisher tried to take a photograph of these clouds from above, but the balloon rose too rapidly and kept turning round. At twenty-one thousand feet (or four miles high) Mr. Coxwell found it difficult to breathe, while it needed a great effort to tilt more sand over the edge of the car. Up and up they sailed—four and a half, five, five and a half miles—and the sky grew more and more intensely blue till it became, at last, almost black.

Even now, at a height of twenty-nine thousand feet, when hoar-frost was forming on the sides of the balloon, and the daring travellers were stung with a cold more severe than that of the coldest winter day, the instruments went on observing the wonders of the atmosphere without themselves being observed. Mr. Glaisher, who had for some minutes found a difficulty in seeing the small marks on his instruments, lay back quite insensible against the side of the car. He had not fainted suddenly. First, he tells us, his arms refused to move when he tried to reach the various instruments. Then, as his eyes fell on Mr. Coxwell, who had climbed into the ring to reach the valve-rope, he tried to speak; but the power of speech was gone, and a moment later he lost all consciousness.

The balloon was still ascending, and, to Mr. Coxwell's horror, he found that the terrible cold had turned his hands black, and robbed them of all muscular power. His position was one of great danger, seated as he was in that slender car miles above the earth, and so numbed by the cold that he could not hold the ropes. He reached the valve-cord at last, however, and, seizing it between his teeth, gave it two or three vigorous jerks. The balloon stopped ascending. Hooking his numbed arms over the ring, he dropped safely into the car. As he did so, he noticed that the blue hand of the barometer stood perpendicular. The balloon had ceased to climb at seven miles high!

His efforts to restore Mr. Glaisher were soon successful, and, by the time the earth was again reached, no ill effects from the wonderful adventure were to be felt.

We must mention six other passengers that took part in the journey: these were pigeons. One was liberated at three miles high, but dropped with wide-open wings like a sheet of paper until denser air was reached. A second, at four miles, was evidently a stronger bird, for it flew vigorously round and round, gradually descending. A third, dropped a little higher, fell like a stone; and another, thrown out at four miles, on the way down, took a comfortable perch on the top of the balloon.

This famous flight of Messrs. Coxwell and Glaisher is still a record. No other balloon has ever ascended to so great a height, and, when a similar attempt was made in France by three celebrated aeronauts, two of them lost their lives at a height of five miles, owing to the rarity of the atmosphere they had to breathe.

The illustration of the scene in the balloon, on page 265, is copied from Mr. Glaisher's Travels in the Air, published by Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., who have kindly given leave for its reproduction.

JOHN LEA.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 259.)

CHAPTER IX.

When Charlie arrived at his home, in an unmistakably ill-fitting suit of clothes and accompanied by a Chinaman, equally badly dressed, he caused great surprise to his family. If he had returned dressed in 'fear-noughts' and a jersey, or even in 'oilies,' they would not have been surprised, but there was nothing nautical about his present attire.

'Well, my boy,' Charlie's father said to him, after Ping Wang had been introduced, 'have you had a good time?'

'Well, not exactly,' Charlie answered, 'but I have discovered that Skipper Drummond is an old rascal, and that he believes he will have no difficulty in swindling you.'

'He is not the first person who has thought that and has lived to find that he has made a mistake. However, you can tell me all about it after dinner. You had better run upstairs and change your clothes.'

After dinner, Charlie related all that had happened to him, from the time he met the bow-legged cook until he came back to Grimsby.

'I suspected that you would have a rough time,' Mr. Page said, when Charlie had finished his story, 'but I never thought that you would meet with so many unpleasant adventures. However, as you have discovered that Skipper Drummond is a dishonourable man, I am not sorry that you went to sea. I don't suppose you will be in a hurry to go again.'

'I want to go very soon,' Charlie replied. 'I want to go to China with Ping Wang.'

'To settle there?'

'Oh, no; simply to recover Ping Wang's family riches.'

Mr. Page and Fred, not knowing whether Charlie was serious or not, made no remark.

'I'm quite sane,' Charlie declared, seeing that they were surprised; 'Ping Wang will tell you about it.'

Ping Wang, thus called upon, repeated the story of his father's death and the seizure of all his property by Chin Choo.

'But how do you know that Chin Choo still possesses the idol with the secret drawer?' Mr. Page inquired, when Ping Wang finished speaking. 'He may have sold it?'

'That is not at all likely,' Ping Wang declared. 'I know that he has had it fixed up in his chief room, and there it will remain as long as the house stands, or until Chin Choo moves somewhere else.'

'And you think that Chin Choo cannot discover that the idol contains precious stones?'

'I am certain of it. My father was a richer man than Chin Choo imagined, and the wealth that the murderer found in our house was more than he had expected. He is quite certain that he has found all my father's wealth. If he were not, he would never think of looking for it in the image.'

'But do you think it possible to get into Chin Choo's house and remove the idol without being discovered?'

'I am certain of it; of course, I shall watch for a favourable opportunity.'

'Well,' Mr. Page said, after a few moments' thought, 'I must think over the matter for a few days before deciding whether I can permit Charlie to accompany you.'

'I wish I could go with them,' Fred joined in. 'I don't desire a share of the treasure. I simply want to go for the experience.'

'But how about your studies?' Mr. Page asked.

'I wouldn't neglect them. I would read hard on board, and as my next examination does not come on for nearly two years, I shall have plenty of time. And when I'm in China I shall be able to study tropical diseases. Medical men are very keen on that, nowadays.'

'Well, if Charlie goes, I see no reason why you should not; but it requires serious consideration.'

'I will share my portion of the treasure with you,' Charlie said to his brother, but Ping Wang objected to that arrangement.

'We will each have a third of what the rubies realise,' he declared, and, in spite of all protests, he insisted that the division of the treasure, if they ever got it, should be made in that way.

Mr. Page listened in silence to their conversation. He was by no means convinced that Ping Wang's story was not an Oriental fiction, invented to arouse sympathy and obtain a free passage home. Now, as it happened, Mr. Page had a friend who was the senior partner of a large firm of Chinese merchants, and had himself resided in China for many years, and he decided, therefore, to question him as to the probability of Ping Wang's story. A day or two later Mr. Page went to London and had an interview with this friend, who confirmed many details of Ping Wang's story, and even came down to Lincolnshire to see the Chinaman in person.

Ping Wang was delighted when he found that the merchant had lived in his country for many years, and could speak his language fluently.

'Ping Wang's story is, I am convinced, quite true,' the merchant said to Mr. Page, when they were alone, 'but his plan is a very risky one.'

'I know, but that has only made them more anxious to go. It is another case of "like father like son." If I had not travelled while young, I am sure I should never have settled down. And the fact that in every place I visited I found scores of Englishmen yearning to return home made me feel that I was a fortunate man to see our distant possessions without being doomed to pass my life in exile. I have sufficient money to keep a home for my children, but I want my sons to be able to earn a living and hold their own by themselves; and I think that, as I have the means to permit them to travel before settling down, they will do well to learn as much as they can of the world outside England. They shall go with Ping Wang. If they help Ping Wang to secure his inheritance, I shall of course be pleased, but I shall be glad for both the lads to gain experience, and I hope they will return in good health.'

A little later Mr. Page told Charlie and Fred that he had decided to allow them to go to China, an announcement which was received with great delight. The next day he went to the shipping agent's, and finding that a boat would start from Liverpool to Hong-kong in twelve days' time, booked saloon passages for Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang.

'To-morrow,' Mr. Page said to his sons and Ping Wang after he had returned from the shipping agent's, 'you must see about your outfit. The time is very short.'



'I think, sir,' Ping Wang said, 'that the clothes I have will be good enough.'

'Would you not like to go in your native dress?'

Ping Wang's eyes brightened.

'Yes,' he answered, 'but you have paid my passage.'

'Don't let that thought trouble you. When you have got back your jewels, you will be able to offer to repay me.'

'You are very generous, sir,' Ping Wang declared.

'Nonsense,' Mr. Page answered. 'You have been a good friend to my boy and have had a rough time since you have been in England. If you carry away a better impression of our country than you would otherwise have done, I shall consider myself repaid for what I have been able to do for you.'

(Continued on page 277.)



THE PARKS OF LONDON.—III.

Happiest of little Londoners are those who are so fortunate as to live near enough to the Regent's Park for it to form their daily playground. To them the wooded shores of the winding lake, with its three long arms crossed by bridges that rock delightfully, must seem like a little world, with mountains, bays, capes, forests, and many more wonderful things, just as in the great world itself. It is filled with so many living things that dwell round the banks of the lake—the stately swans, the many varieties of the duck family that swim and fly and chase each other all day long, the gentle moorhens gliding in and out of the rushes, and the mother vole or water-rat nibbling a juicy bit of grass in the sunshine, or swimming to cover with her babies on her back; and now and again the peace of this little world is rudely broken by the distant roar of a real lion or the shriek of a hungry hyena, which frightens all the smaller animals into silence.

Perhaps no greater benefit ever befell the good folk of London town than when, early in the nineteenth century, it occurred to the authorities to turn the old Royal Park of St. Mary-le-bone into a real people's park. A great many plans were suggested for laying out the ground. One very ornamental scheme was probably rejected because of its expense; in it a fine church was to form a central point, with avenues running from it like spokes of a wheel. The design which was accepted and carried out consists of four oval drives lying like rings inside one another; in the centre of the inside one are the Royal Botanical Gardens. Rare and wonderful treasures of vegetable life are kept there—flowering plants and shrubs, palms, ferns, mosses, water-plants, and trees from many lands, each the object of deep thought and care. From time to time grand floral fetes are held in the gardens, and often on summer evenings Shakespeare's plays are acted in the open air.

The northern side of the park is chiefly given up to the Zoological Gardens; and, indeed, to the world at large, apart from Londoners, Regent's Park often means nothing but 'the Zoo.' Probably it is safe to say that no other park in the world annually attracts so many visitors.

The collection at the Zoological Gardens was begun in 1828, and amongst the first arrivals were the lions from the Tower, for, from ancient days, lions and bears kept the old royal fortress lively. Great sums of money have been spent in securing fine specimens, and now Britons have the satisfaction of knowing that our Zoo is second to none. Amongst recent arrivals at the gardens were two young gorillas from Western Africa, who reached the Zoo in apparent health, but, as has happened on former occasions, after a few weeks the poor things sickened and died. Whether they suffer from the effects of the voyage, or whether the shock of their capture is too great for them, the fact remains that gorillas seem unable to endure the altered conditions of life which most of the other members of the great ape family can put up with.

But, with all the attractions of the Zoo, it would not do to be dependent on it for amusement, for even on Monday, 'the people's day,' it costs sixpence, and many of the park's most frequent visitors find pennies hard to come by. Pleasure has to be sought and found on the various recreation grounds, and, in fine weather, cricket and other games are usually in full swing.

A very favourite walk with many visitors is to Primrose Hill, north-west of the Zoo, which rises two hundred and nineteen feet above sea-level, where the air is usually clear and bright, whilst the view over London is very fine. The hill is the property of Eton College, and is separated from the Zoo by the Regent's Canal, as well as by the Albert Road. Beneath the slope is a fine gymnasium, which still further adds to the attractions of the park, and many fine terraces of houses line the outer circles.

The park takes its name from the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV.

HELENA HEATH.



NEVER CAUGHT IT.

'He is always very busy,' said one man to another.

'Yes,' answered a gentleman who knew the person in question. 'He is so lazy in getting up that he loses an hour every morning, and spends all the rest of the day in running after it.'

An hour lost means an hour which can only be regained by neglecting other work.



RAT-SKINS.

The Japanese are a wonderful people, and their foresight in even the smallest matters is really marvellous. Here is a case in point.

Late in 1904, when the time came to forward the winter outfits for their soldiers fighting in Manchuria, amongst the wadded overcoats and thick blankets were some hundreds of thousands of ear-protectors made out of rats' skins.

Even the military authorities were surprised by these, and wondered where the Government could have found so many rats as to be able to supply their soldiers with such soft and comfortable coverings for their ears.

It seems that two years ago plague was raging along the China coast, and, to keep the disease out of Japan, the quarantine authorities made war against the rats. In all the seaports and larger cities rewards were offered for each rat brought; small boys found this a delightful way of earning money, and the competition at once became very keen.

Every rat was duly registered, and the place where it was caught noted, and if any suspicious germs were found, the building from which the rat came was raided, all the rats in it hunted down, and the place disinfected. So the plague was kept out of Japan.

Meanwhile the rat-skins had not been thrown away; war was even then threatening, and ear-protectors might be wanted.

So the rat-skins were all thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, and made into ear-protectors, and now have proved a great blessing to the soldiers in the field.



THE OLD CLOCK.

None of my early recollections of our pretty little home in England is so clear as that of the old grandfather's clock that stood in the hall. I remember that my mother and father were very fond of it, and when my brother and I once grumbled, saying, 'That old clock is always slow,' my mother reproved us with the words: 'Oh, children, you must not say that, for the fact that it often goes slow when the big hand is going up towards the hour was the very thing that once saved your great-grandfather's life.'

That was the curious thing about the clock. Every now and then, for some reason, the minute-hand seemed to work loose, soon after the half-hour, and, before it reached the three-quarters, it lost five minutes. It might manage to go a whole day without doing this; but sooner or later it always happened, so that the clock could not be relied upon for time.

Of course, we were very eager to hear the story, and, as we sat round the fire that evening, my mother told us the following tale:—

'You know, children, that we have not always lived in England; my ancestors were French, and lived at Chateau Roquefort, in the province of La Vendee. When the great insurrection broke out in the year 1792, my grandfather, Philippe de Roquefort, was one of the leading insurgents against the Republic. For a time the insurrection was successful, and the Republican generals were driven across the Loire. But at last there came a time when Philippe de Roquefort saw that to resist any longer was hopeless, and, as he had a wife and a little son, he resolved that, for their sakes, it was prudent to flee to England.

'They had abandoned Roquefort itself three days before, but the evening before their leaving France, Philippe was obliged to ride over to the chateau (five miles or so from the little town where he and his family, with about a dozen trusty followers, had taken refuge) to fetch some important papers.

'The whole neighbourhood swarmed with Republicans, but, with his knowledge of the country, he reached the deserted chateau safely.

'The whole place had a forsaken air as Philippe entered the hall he knew so well, where all his happy boyhood had been spent; but one familiar object caught his eye—the old clock, which had been too cumbersome to take with them in their flight, and which was still ticking in its accustomed manner. Philippe secured his papers, and was just leaving the chateau, taking a last fond look at his home, when a heavy hand pulled him backwards, and, before he could reach his sword, he was bound hand and foot.

'"We have caught the bird in his own nest," said a loud voice—and the boisterous laughter of several men made the rafters in the old hall ring.

'Philippe saw that he had been captured by five rough Republicans, who dragged him into the middle of the hall and then sat round him, consulting as to his fate. At last they decided that, at a quarter to six by the old clock, he should be shot. They had some time to wait before going back to their camp.

'Philippe gave himself up for lost. The ruffians soon began to jeer at him, and asked if he had any messages for his friends. Then my grandfather lost all his patience, and throwing aside all prudence, cried: "Yes, you villains, if I had my faithful followers here, they would soon make an end of you."

'The men laughed at this, but suddenly a cruel idea struck one of them.

'"Yes," he said, "Monsieur shall have his way"—and, looking up at the clock, he continued: "It is now five o'clock; Pierre, the peasant's son, who lives yonder, shall ride with a message to these devoted followers. Monsieur shall be shot at a quarter to six; but he can write and tell his friends to be here at ten minutes to the hour; they will come and find Monsieur—five minutes too late. We can get away easily enough before they arrive."

'His comrades agreed to this plan, which gave an adventurous tone to their enterprise, and inflicted, as well, extra misery upon their prisoner.

'A scrap of paper and a pencil were given to my grandfather; but, as he was writing, Philippe remembered with joy that the old clock on which his captors were relying had not yet lost its five minutes that day; he had noticed this as he glanced round the hall before his capture; and, therefore, at a quarter to six—the time when, by the clock, he was going to be put to death—it might be ten minutes to the hour by the proper time—if the clock only went wrong for once at a convenient time!

'The peasant-boy, Pierre, was sent with the message, and the men settled themselves down to ransacking the house, exulting over the trick they were going to play.

'The time crept by. As a quarter to six drew near Philippe was bound to a tree, and the men set to work to load their muskets! Had the clock lost five minutes, or not? Every minute of waiting seemed like an hour, and Philippe could not be sure whether the hand had stuck still too long, or not. He thought it had, but could he trust his eyes in such a terrible situation?

'You can imagine my grandfather's feelings during those last few awful minutes! A hundred conjectures flashed through his mind. Suppose the boy never gave the message! or suppose the men were late! or suppose the clock was not slow after all!

'At last the Republicans were ready, and Philippe gave himself up for lost. Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs was heard breaking through the undergrowth. The Republicans hesitated, and, as they stood undecided, ten or a dozen men rode up hastily. They were only just in time; the Republicans fought for a few minutes, but they were taken by surprise, and soon surrendered. Philippe was saved!'

* * * * *

'What a narrow escape, Mother,' we cried, 'and if it had not been for the old clock's habit of losing time——'

'Well, my dear, the story would have ended very differently.'



HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

III.—GARTH AND HIS FRIENDS.[4]

This striking story belongs to the days of the Great French Revolution of 1792. The hero is a young Englishman, the son of Colonel Mainwaring, of the 2nd Dragoon Guards, and at the time the story opens he is on a visit to Paris to his uncle and aunt. Before we narrate one or two striking incidents of his life in France, however, we must say something, very briefly, about the French Revolution, during which so many terrible things were done that it was known as the Reign of Terror. One of the grievances of the people in France was that the power of the nobles had greatly increased, so that they did as they liked. Though they claimed unlimited privileges, yet they refused to take up the responsibilities of their position, and even evaded the taxes which they laid on the shoulders of the people. One unpopular tax was the gabelle, or salt tax, which compelled every person to bring a fixed quantity of salt every year, and made them buy it of certain people who alone had the right to sell, and charged enormous prices. The peasants, too, had to work on the roads for nothing, leaving their farms and little plots of ground whenever they were ordered. They could not earn enough to live on, and what with heavy dues to their lords, and the State interference with trade, they were in a wretched plight, and discontent was widespread. Then famous writers, moved by what was going on around them, wrote strongly against the abuse of power by the nobles and the King, teaching that kings were but the servants of the people. The poor, ignorant, downtrodden peasantry, urged by the selfish trading classes who used them for their own ends, united in a great movement to take away the privileges of the nobles. The serfs flung off the heavy yoke, and went to the worst excesses, burning and wrecking the palaces of their former masters, utterly ruining them and driving them out of the country.

The Commons, or National Assembly as they styled themselves, did not stop when they had introduced reforms that were really needed, but did just as their passion against the aristocrats and the rich dictated. Things passed from bad to worse when the King, who had the right of refusing the proposals of the National Assembly, exercised his right and vetoed (from veto, I forbid) two of their decrees. This made the people furious. All this was new to Garth Mainwaring, as also was the procession of noisy people, marching through the streets to the beating of drums, carrying banners, and howling and shouting at any well-dressed people they met. Garth saw the mob battering at the doors of the King's palace, calling for his Majesty to come out, and when the King, in quiet dignity, stood before them, they ordered him to put on the red cap of liberty, and grossly insulted him and his beautiful Queen and their children.

Garth had felt his blood leap up as he witnessed this, and in his young enthusiasm he longed to fight on the side of the royal prisoner and his nobles. On the evening of one dreadful day, during which the mob had done wild things, as Garth was passing on towards the Rue Saint Honore, he heard a faint voice on his left hand. It came from the figure of a man huddled in a doorway, who had been mortally wounded and was rapidly dying.

'Sir,' gasped the man, in English, 'Sir, save my daughter. Go to her, sir, and give her her father's dying blessing.'

'I will go, sir,' said Garth. 'Will you tell me your name?'

'The Baron de Mericourt. I was in the palace. I got away as by a miracle, but I fell among the ruffians here, and they have done for me. Waste no more time, I implore you. Save my darling Lucile, and tell her her father——' But here, with one more gasp, he died.

Another striking adventure befell our hero at Nantes. It was after he had offered to throw in his lot with Bonchamps, a leader of the loyalists, and donned the white cockade of those whose watch-word was 'for God and the King.' He was asked whether he would make an attempt, as they were to attack Nantes, a stronghold of the 'Blues,' to find out the enemy's position. Of course he agreed; there were no dangers in the path of duty that could deter Garth. He was disguised in a peasant's dress, and carried a basket full of live pigeons, which he was to offer for sale as he journeyed. Nantes was a strong position, strongly fortified and manned by the enemy, yet the brave peasants and loyalists of the Vendee determined to endeavour to take it for the young King (for the unhappy Louis XVI. and his beautiful Queen had been put to death by the influence of the more savage leaders of the Revolutionary party). It was late in the evening when Garth started. It would be nearly midnight before he could reach the city. When he came within two miles of the town he saw a barge, laden with wood, moving slowly down the river. Hailing the old man on board, who was holding the rudder, and allowing the laden craft to drift down with the tide, 'Hola,' cried Garth, 'He! can you give me a lift down to the quay?'

'Who are you?' asked the bargeman, Jules Viard by name.

'A poor chap with a pair of pigeons to sell.'

The man agreed to the request, and Garth sprang on to the barge as soon as it came within jumping distance, and it resumed its slow passage down the river. Presently the vessel was steered alongside the quay, where the good-natured boatman made her fast for the night, sleeping in her himself to save the few sous he would otherwise have had to pay for his bed; but Garth went along on the riverside, as he wished to look about him to learn what he could of the strength and position of the enemy.

As his wooden shoes clicked on the stone paving, he stripped them off and strung them round his neck. The cathedral clock struck the hour of midnight. On and on he went, using his eyes well. He had reached the Paris road, up which his friends of the Vendean army would probably approach, when he saw an immense obstruction. Climbing a tree, the better to look about him, he found that the obstruction was a big redoubt, very solidly constructed. Scaling garden walls and getting behind the redoubt, he satisfied himself that it could be taken from the rear, and being by this time very tired, he lay down under a hedge to sleep till daylight.

The next morning he sold his pigeons to a lieutenant of the National Guard for forty sous, and spent the rest of the day walking about the town with his friend, Viard the bargeman, leaving him at nightfall to begin his return journey. Turning down a narrow passage leading to the river, between two high warehouses, he saw three men, and, as it turned out, men whom he had met before, all enemies to the King's cause. One of them, the Mayor, stopped him.

'Well, my man, where are you going?'

Garth turned his head aside.

'Where are you going?' repeated the Mayor.

'Down to the river, citizen. Came in last night on a barge to sell pigeons.'

'On a barge, eh? Were you molested by the brigands?'

'No, citizen; I joined the barge some two miles up, and saw nothing of brigands.'

The man standing to the left of the Mayor started as he heard the tone of Garth's voice. He looked closely into Garth's face, suddenly pulled off his hat, and with a quick cry, ''Tis the very man!' tried to seize him. Quick as thought, Garth slipped aside, then, before the other two had recovered from their surprise at their companion's strange action, he rushed at the Mayor, threw him over backwards, turned and flung his basket in the face of the other, then wheeled round and ran as fast as the clumsy sabots would allow him, clattering down the passage towards the river, the man behind him shouting, 'Help! a spy—a brigand—help!' Two of his enemies dashed after him, and the Mayor picked himself up and toddled off as fast as his short legs would carry him to call up the nearest guard, two hundred yards away. The National Guard was soon aroused, and the whole garrison was under arms. The dauntless Englishman reached the river. He did not hesitate; pulling off his shoes and flinging them at his pursuers, now only ten yards away, he plunged into the river. A soldier with his gun arrived, pointed his musket at Garth's head, and fired; Garth twisted over and dived, and the bullet hit the water just behind him. Others of the guard came up, fired at his bobbing head, but missed it. On he swam boldly, determinedly; and now the firing has ceased, although he can hear the clamour. His courage and presence of mind had saved him; he was now in a friendly country, and the first man he met was wearing the King's cockade!

But here we must leave our hero, proud that he was an Englishman, and that he afterwards distinguished himself by many deeds of valour, passing unhurt through many dangers, from the worst of which he was rescued by his old friend, Viard the bargeman. How he presently married Lucile de Mericourt, and accepted an appointment at Lisbon, and what became of his friends and foes, is all told by Mr. Rendel in his fine and stirring book, which every British boy who is ready to cheer pluck should read for himself.

JAMES CASSIDY.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] The King's Cockade, by H. Rendel. (Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., Limited, London.)



ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

III.—TALKS WITHOUT WORDS.

Anybody watching a chance meeting in the street between two animals must see that they hold some sort of conversation. By sounds, signs, or both, they 'pass the time of day,' and make remarks. After settling affairs in their own language, they part, either as the best of friends, or, more frankly than politely, saying, 'Well, I hope I shall never see you again!'

Out in the fields, what horse can bear to see another horse, or even a donkey, turned into the next paddock without running up to have a chat with him? Horses that work together are always on speaking terms. Much rubbing of soft noses, pricking backwards and forwards of the ears, with a snort, playful bite, or whinny, is their talk. After much talk of this sort between two splendid cart-horses, standing in harness, I once saw a fine plan carried out. They had been drawing a heavy load, and were quietly enjoying their feed, each from the nosebag dangling at his head. But the corn dwindled and the last grains of it were hard to reach. It was then that a brilliant idea struck horse number one. He lifted his bag to the middle pole, which he used as a prop; but then there was no room for his companion's bag on it. Horse number two, apparently after asking leave, hoisted his own bag even higher still, and, balancing it on his friend's head, fed in comfort. The pair munched peacefully on, and next day I saw them doing the same thing again.

All animals have a language of sound and sign, which they use as intelligently as deaf and dumb men use the means of expressing thought invented for them. Creatures that live in troops are always under the control of a leader, who manages them by word of mouth or by gestures.

Lieutenant Shipp, in his memoirs, tells of a Cape baboon who was so dishonest as to bring his companions to the barracks, to carry off the soldiers' clothes. The thefts became serious, and a party of soldiers were told off to march against the robbers, and to bring back the booty hidden in the caves of the baboons. But the animal warriors were too cunning. They sent out scouts, to watch the enemy's movements, told off about fifty of their number to guard the entrance to the caves, and posted the rest at various points. The soldiers saw the baboons collecting large stones, and the old grey-headed rascal, who had been ring-leader in raiding the camp, was seen giving orders like a real general. At a scream from him they rolled down great stones upon the men, who were forced to retreat.

Comic as the monkey-folk sometimes are, they can make very touching appeals; they plead very earnestly in their wordless way for their own lives, and still more tenderly on behalf of their helpless young. A letter from Demarara thus describes a meeting between a mother baboon and two men with guns. Mr. S—— levelled his gun to shoot her. The animal seemed at once to understand what would probably take place, and appealingly held out in each hand a baby baboon. His friend said, 'Don't shoot.' 'No, I was not going to,' said Mr. S——. So Mrs. Baboon and her family escaped unhurt, the mother showing, it will be agreed, something greater than ordinary instinct.



Something greater? Yes, love; the greatest of all instincts, higher than reason itself. It is when filled with love for her defenceless babe that the animal-mother learns, by many a wonderful makeshift, to appeal to our pity, and forgets herself for its sake. A beautiful instance of this was lately given in the Daily News.

A labourer, going along a lane, met a little robin redbreast. She flew boldly within reach of his hand, almost dashing against his face, and as he passed on tried to hinder him, uttering all the while piercing cries. At last he stopped at a hole to which she kept flying, and found a rat in the act of carrying off one of her nestlings. The labourer was able to kill the enemy by a blow of his stick as it darted across the lane, and the small mother, after hovering with a different and triumphant note over the poor little dead bird, went gladly home.

In countries where snakes abound, the shriek of a bird whose nest is threatened serves as a signal to its winged neighbours, who throng to the spot and drive away, or often kill, the enemy. Sometimes the ways in which creatures communicate are altogether mysterious. An old goose, who had spent a fortnight hatching eggs in a farmer's kitchen, was suddenly taken ill. She left her nest, waddled to a neighbouring outhouse, and persuaded a young goose to go back with her. The young one instantly scrambled into the vacant nest, and hatched and afterwards brought up the brood. The old goose sat down by the side of the nest to die. As the young goose had never reared a brood before, nor been inside the kitchen, the elder must somehow have explained the duties to her, and the younger have understood and accepted the charge.



It seems, then, that want of understanding on our part, rather than stupidity on theirs, prevents a closer understanding between ourselves and the animal creation. Though we are not able to bridge over the gulf separating speechless animals and men, we may at least take care that the dumb prayers of the 'lower brethren' never fall on wilfully deaf ears, or on unkind hearts.

EDITH CARRINGTON.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 269.)

CHAPTER X.

The result of Mr. Page's generosity was that when Fred and Charlie went to a tailor's, Ping Wang ordered a Chinese costume. A week later it was sent home, and when Ping Wang put it on, and permitted his pigtail to hang down, he looked quite a different man. That day the family were sitting talking over the coming voyage when a maid came in.

'A man wants to see you, sir,' she said to Mr. Page. 'He says his name is Skipper Drummond.'

'What a lark!' Charlie exclaimed to Ping Wang. 'Shall we carry him down the garden, and pitch him in the duck-pond?'

'Show Skipper Drummond in,' Mr. Page said to the maid, and as she departed he continued, 'Now, you boys and Ping Wang, go into the conservatory, and wait there until I call you.'

Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang stepped into the conservatory, and seated themselves on a rustic bench, so that they could hear what the skipper said without being seen by him.

'Skipper Drummond, sir,' the maid said, as she reopened the door.

The bullying little skipper had evidently made a strong effort to look respectable. He was attired in a shiny black frock-coat, and had it not been for his brightly-coloured tie, one would have imagined that he was going to a funeral. In one hand he held a tall hat; in the other he carried two stiff-looking black gloves.

'Good evening, sir,' he said, as he stepped gingerly across the room, showing as much respect for the carpet as if it was newly-sown grass.

'Take a seat,' Mr. Page said, and he did so.

'I've come about the Sparrow-hawk, sir,' he said, endeavouring to appear more comfortable than he felt.

'Yes.'

'We've had a grand time, sir. Every voyage the Sparrow-hawk makes she improves. There is not a trawler in the North Sea catches more fish than the Sparrow-hawk. She's a beauty, sir; and every one in Grimsby and Hull knows it. Two of the big fleet-owners want to buy her.'

'I suppose that they did not offer so much for her as you are asking from me?'

'They offered more, sir.'

'Then why did you not accept one of the offers?'

'Because it wouldn't have been acting square with you, sir. I am a straightforward man, I am; and having offered the Sparrow-hawk to you at a certain price, I bide by my word.'

'That is very good of you—very good, indeed. It is not often that I meet with such an honourable business man.'

Skipper Drummond sighed deeply, as if he was sincerely sorry for the fact that there were some men who were very dishonourable.

'My idea was,' Mr. Page said, after a few moments' silence, 'to purchase the Sparrow-hawk for my son, and start him in business as a steam-trawler owner. Perhaps it would be well if I introduced you to him at once.'

'I shall be proud to make the young gentleman's acquaintance. I am not a man to boast, sir; but if any one can produce a man that knows more about North Sea fishing than I do, I'm a Dutchman.'

'Charlie!' Mr. Page called out loudly, and in walked from the conservatory Charlie, Ping Wang, and Fred.

'Good evening, skipper!' Charlie exclaimed, cheerfully.

'Good evening, skipper!' Ping Wang added, equally cheerfully.

Skipper Drummond dropped his hat and gloves, and almost started out of his chair. Evidently he had never expected to see either Charlie or Ping Wang again.

'Have you brought us the clothes which we left on the Sparrow-hawk?' Charlie inquired.

'And the pay which you owe me?' Ping Wang added.

'I thought that you were both drowned,' the skipper gasped.

'And no doubt you are almost sorry that we were not,' Charlie remarked. 'However, we have told my father what a wretched old tub the Sparrow-hawk is. We have told him that she is rotten; that her boilers are worn out; that her gear is not up-to-date; that she has the smallest catches of any Grimsby trawler. We have told him also that you have been keeping down expenses by half-starving your men, and that you are the vilest little bully that ever held a captain's certificate.'

'And they also told me,' Mr. Page joined in, 'that you confessed to one of your men that you were about to sell the Sparrow-hawk for half as much again as she was worth. Let me assure you that you will do nothing of the kind. I would not give half the sum which you ask for her. From the first I suspected that you were a swindler, and it was to obtain proof of it that my son shipped with you as a cook. Have you anything that you wish to say in your defence, or will you go at once?'

Skipper Drummond picked up his hat and gloves, and without uttering a word walked out of the room. He was white with rage, but he dared not express his anger in words such as he would have used on the Sparrow-hawk, for Charlie accompanied him to the hall door, and stood in the porch watching him until he had passed into the main road.

'We have seen the last of him, I think,' said Charlie, when the captain was out of sight; 'and I hope that I never meet another man like him.'

On the following evening the Pages had a much more welcome visitor in Lieutenant Williams, who availed himself of Charlie's earnest invitation to come and see him and Ping Wang before they started for China. In private life he was just as cheery, amusing, and good-tempered as on board ship. He told many interesting stories of his work in coper-catching and arrests for illegal fishing. He quite envied Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang their trip to China.

'Perhaps you will be sent to South Africa,' Charlie remarked. 'That would be much better than going with us.'

'Certainly it would,' Williams declared. 'Active service is the best thing that a man in the navy can desire, but I am afraid that there is no chance of my getting to South Africa. At any rate, I shall go on hoping for foreign service of some sort.'

'If he has an opportunity,' Fred declared, after Lieutenant Williams had departed, 'he will make the most of it, I am sure. He is just the kind of man to do something big, and then laugh and pretend that it was a very easy thing to do. I wish that he was coming with us. However, it's no good wishing. I'm going to have a good long sleep for my last night in the old home. Good night, all.'

Charlie and Ping Wang followed Fred's example and went to bed as quickly as possible. They awoke early, and later in the day reached Liverpool and went aboard the Twilight, which was to be their home for five or six weeks.

* * * * *

The Twilight was a cargo boat which had accommodation for twenty saloon passengers, but she rarely carried that number, as, her speed being but ten knots an hour, most people proceeding to China travelled by a faster and, consequently, more expensive steamer.

Soon after she had left Liverpool, Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang began to wonder where the other passengers were.

'They can't possibly be sea-sick already,' Charlie declared, and then seeing the chief steward he inquired how many passengers they had aboard.

'Only you three gentlemen,' the steward answered.

Fred and Charlie looked at each other in amazement. They had fully expected that there would be all sorts of amusements to break the monotony of their long voyage, and their disappointment was great. However, when they found that in consequence of their being the only passengers each might have a cabin to himself, their discontent quickly passed away. And when they got well out to sea they had plenty of amusements, for the captain had the shuffle-board, deck quoits, and other games brought out, and with the second officer and chief engineer played the passengers.

When the three passengers wearied of deck games, they sat on the poop reading some of the books which they had borrowed from the ship's library. Fred sometimes brought out his medical books, but he obtained more practical than theoretical knowledge that voyage, for the ship's doctor—a young fellow who had been recently qualified and was taking a sea voyage, and small pay in return for his medical services—was completely prostrated by sea-sickness, and utterly useless as a doctor. Fred attended to him, doctored such of the crew as needed it, and successfully set a stoker's dislocated forefinger.

(Continued on page 285.)



MICE ON A SUBMARINE.

The sailors in our submarines have found out a simple device to protect their lives whilst on their 'under-sea' trips. Every submarine that goes to sea takes out a couple of mice. If one of these mice shows symptoms of distress, it is a sure sign that the time for coming to the surface has arrived, and that the air of the closed box needs replenishing from the fresh air.

X.



THE FATHER OF ALL.

Little flower, in meadow bright, With thy raiment sweet and white, Knowest thou who set thee there, Gave to thee a dress so fair, Caused thee from the ground to spring, Such a sweet and tender thing, Sent the rain and sent the sun, Sent the stars when day is done?

Little flower, dost thou not know It was God Who made thee grow, Gave to thee thy lovely dress, Such as kings can ne'er possess; Set thee in thy little bed, Gave thee petals, white and red; Sent for thee the dewdrop bright, Shuts thy blossom up at night?

Little bird, high in the air, Flying here and everywhere, Dost thou know who made thy wing, Gave thee thy sweet song to sing; Brought thee o'er the ocean track, Guided thee in safety back, Caused thee with the spring to come To thy green and shady home?

Little bird, God made thy wing, Gave thee all thy songs to sing; Set thee in the woods and trees, Fanned thy nest with gentle breeze. He it was who brought thee home, Safe across the ocean's foam, To the meadows green and bright, Gave thee songs of sweet delight.



ADVICE THAT SAVED A KING'S LIFE.

A certain Khan of Tartary, making a journey with his nobles, was met by a dervish, who cried with a loud voice: 'If any one will give me a piece of gold I will give him a piece of advice.' The Khan ordered the sum to be given him, upon which the dervish said, 'Begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end.'

The courtiers, upon hearing his plain sentence, smiled, and said with a sneer, 'The dervish is well paid for his maxim.' But the king was so well satisfied with the answer, that he ordered it to be written in golden letters in several places of his palace, and engraved on all his plate.

Not long after, the king's surgeon was bribed to kill him with a poisoned lancet. One day, when the king needed bleeding, and the fatal lancet was ready, the surgeon read on the bowl which was close by: 'Begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end.' He started, and let the lancet fall out of his hand. The king observed his confusion, and inquired the reason. The surgeon fell prostrate, and confessed the whole affair. The Khan, turning to his courtiers, told them: 'That counsel could not be too much valued which had saved the life of your king.'

W. Y.



LIFE IN BOHEMIA.

Bohemia is a land of rugged mountains and towering pine-forests, with other beauties of its own. Not many years ago it was, to most English people, an unknown land; but in these days, when travelling is so easy and rapid, year by year an ever-increasing number of our countrymen find their way to this beautiful country in search of health and pleasure. You have only to cross the strip of silver sea that rolls between our little island and sunny France or misty Holland, and you may then rush on, borne by the fastest of express trains, over the level plains that greet you on landing, on through the beautiful Rhineland and the quaint old towns of Bavaria, till at length you find yourself in this land of enchantment.

Here, surrounded by the mighty forests, and shut in by the mountains, stands the town of Marienbad. Not very long ago it was a lonely village, inhabited during the summer months by peasants tending their flocks and herds on the pasture of the table-land. In winter it was almost deserted, given over to the wild storms that swept the mountain slopes and to the wolves and bears that roamed through the forests.

Gradually the wonderful qualities of its mineral springs became known, and now a crowd of fashionable folk pour into it during the summer, and in every direction trees are being cut down to make way for villas, and buildings of all kinds, which are springing up like mushrooms.

The peasant-life of the people continues wonderfully simple, and it is very amusing to watch this mixing of modern fashionable life with the primitive ways of the villagers.

English boys and girls would, perhaps, not care to go for a ride in the Bohemian waggons, as they are so fond of doing in ours during harvest-time. These waggons are made of a few long, wide planks, nailed together so as to form a kind of huge trough, and strengthened on the outside by cross-pieces of wood. This is placed upon the framework with which the wheels are connected, and then roughly fastened to it. These clumsy vehicles are drawn over the rough mountain roads by teams of patient oxen. On fete days the cattle look very gay, for then they are decked out with ribbons of many colours.

The women of Bohemia work very hard indeed; they help their husbands in all kinds of work. Among other occupations they act as bricklayers' labourers. They run up and down the tall ladders with heavy loads of bricks or mortar, chattering gaily all the while as if life were one long holiday.

The houses are built in quite a different way from ours. First of all a complete skeleton house is set up, made of wood, and, when this is finished, the spaces between the wooden structure are filled in with bricks and mortar. Before the roof is put on, a large green bush is hoisted up as far as the eaves, and there tied to the scaffolding poles. This is supposed to drive away the pixies or wicked fairies, and no one would dare to put the roof on without the protection of the green bush.

The women also do the work of journeymen bakers. The loaves are of the long kind, sometimes jokingly called 'half-yards of bread.' These are carried on the backs of the women. They look very droll with their huge burdens, the loaves poking out in all directions above their shoulders, making a kind of background to their stooping figures.

Most of the people who visit Bohemia in order to take the mineral waters are very stout. They drink them to make themselves thinner, and the difference in their appearance when they arrive and when they leave is very great. They have sometimes to take mud baths, and it is very amusing to watch them going and returning from these. It does not seem to be a very pleasant way of spending a fine summer morning, but they appear to enjoy it all the same.

The Bohemians are very fond of music, and they never fail to greet any new-comers of importance with a serenade on the evening of their arrival.



HOW TOM DRESSES.

AT HOME.

A grimy face, A muddy boot, A broken lace, And shabby suit; With threadbare knee, And dusty coat, And dirty collar Round his throat.

OUT VISITING.

Now see! his face is All aglow; He's tied both laces In a bow; He's combed his hair, He's brushed his suit— There's not a speck On either boot; His collar now Is new and clean— A neater boy I've never seen.

Yet Tom should be, Beyond a doubt, As clean at home As when he's out; For those who dress 'Mid friends to roam, Should dress as well For those at home.

JOHN LEA.



READY!

'What is the use of fagging like that on a hot day?' asked Harold Lock of his brother Frank, who came and flung himself panting on the grass beside him.

'I must keep in training: a fellow so soon gets slack and out of practice if he is lazy,' was the answer.

'Well, being lazy is good enough for me in the holidays,' the elder boy said. 'I should think it pretty hard lines to have to run a mile in this sun.'

'It makes all the difference, though, if you are keen,' Frank told him. 'I want to be the fastest runner in the school, and I don't want to go back and find I am easily beaten in the sports.'

'I don't see the good of it myself,' said Harold, rather scornfully, but Frank only laughed good-temperedly, and began to swing himself on a branch of the tree for change of exercise. If there was one thing he hated more than another, it was sitting still for too long a time.

The same evening the boys were on the platform of the little village station, watching some trucks being shunted from the main line on to a siding. Suddenly there was a loud cry from one of the men engaged in the work as a heavy truck got off the rails, turned over, and dragged another with it. No one was seriously hurt, but the station-master, who was soon on the scene of the accident, turned pale as he saw the obstruction on the line.

'Stop the down express!' he shouted. But the signal-box was a quarter of a mile away, and precious minutes would have passed before he could be near enough for his voice to reach the signal-man. By that time it might be too late to stop the express.

Then, like an arrow, a nimble little figure flew past him. It was Frank, his running powers put to some practical use at last. The station-master followed as quickly as he could. But when at last he came up breathless, he found that Frank had already done his work, and the signal was against the train.

'It's touch-and-go whether we have caught her,' muttered the signal-man, and they all held their breath as the rumble of the train was heard in the distance.

'She's slowing down—she's safe!' gasped the station-master, and he hurried down again, followed by Frank and the signal-man.

But it was only a few yards off the overturned trucks that the express was finally brought to a standstill. The few seconds gained by Frank's speed had saved her. Nothing could have prevented a terrible accident if the signal had not caused the train to slow down just in time.

The passengers crowded round Frank, and thanked him warmly when they heard the story, and a few days later came a more practical expression of their gratitude in the shape of a handsome gold watch.

'So your running was some good after all,' Harold said, and he no longer laughed at his small brother's hobby, but learned to admire the nimbleness of body which, with his ready wit, made him of so much use in an emergency.

M. H.



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

IX.—THE EARS AND NOSES OF INSECTS.

Most of us have a vague idea that what we call the 'ear' is only partly concerned with the work of hearing; but only a few know exactly what a complicated organ the ear, as a whole, really is. The external 'ear' only serves as an aid to the collection of sounds, and the real work of hearing is performed by a delicate organ inside the head. Seals, moles, whales, and porpoises, birds, reptiles, and fishes have no visible ear; yet we know that they are not deaf, though in many the hearing must be dull. In all these creatures the sense of hearing lies inside the head.

But the ears of insects must be looked for in strange places indeed, and, when found, they seem to bear no sort of likeness to what most of us call ears. They may be on the antennae, on the trunk, or on the legs! In the grasshopper, for example (fig. 1), the ear is placed on the abdomen, just above the base of the great hind-leg, so that this leg must be pulled down before the ear can be seen. When this has been done, there will be found an oval drumhead-like spot (figs. 2 and 3); this is the outer surface of the ear. If you had sufficient skill to take away this part of the body, so as to show the inside of this drum, you would find two horn-like stalks, to each of which is fastened a small and very delicate flask, with a long neck. This is filled with a clear fluid, and corresponds to a similar structure within our own ears.

In the green grasshoppers—those delightful sprites of hot summer days—'ears' of a precisely similar structure are found on the fore-leg instead of on the body.

In a little gnat-like insect known as Corethra, common in England during the summer months, the 'ear' takes the form of delicate hairs growing out from the body on a stem, like the teeth of a comb; the base of what corresponds to the back of the comb is connected with a delicate nerve, and this, as in the case of the similar nerve in the grasshopper and locust, makes hearing possible.

Only in some ants and bees, and in some mosquitoes, is the organ of hearing placed on the head. We say on, rather than in, the head, because it is formed by a modification of part of the antennae. A German naturalist, named Mayer, performed an experiment to prove that the hairs on these antennae can be made to vibrate by means of a tuning-fork. Only those hairs which have to do with the production of sound answered to the notes of the tuning-fork, and these vibrated at the rate of five hundred and twelve vibrations per second. Other hairs vibrated to other notes, which were those of the middle octave of the piano and the next above it. Mayer also found that certain of these vibrations corresponded with the notes produced by the 'song' of the female mosquito. Consequently, when she begins to 'sing,' her tune, like the tuning-fork, sets in motion those hairs on the antennae of the male which are tuned to these vibrations. Having once found, by the movement of his antennae, much as a horse moves his ears, from which direction the sound is coming, the male is able to fly at once to his mate. From the accuracy of this flight, Professor Mayer believes that the perception of sound in these little creatures is more highly developed than in any other class of animals.



In our illustration some of these curious 'ears' are shown. Fig. 2 shows the ear of the grasshopper magnified. In fig. 3 this is further magnified to show the V-shaped mark which represents the horny stalks to which we referred, seen through the clear membrane of the drum. The dark border (B) around the drum represents a raised ridge. In fig. 4 we have the antennae of a gnat, some of the hairs of which serve as sound-conductors to delicate nerves lying at their base.



* * * * *

The sense of smell in insects lies mainly in those wonderful organs, the antennae or 'horns.' Scents of various kinds are perceived either through pits, or through peg- or spike-like teeth filled with fluid. The leaf-like plates of the antennae of the cockchafer (fig. 5) have these pits very highly developed. On the outer surface of the first 'antennal' leaf, as also on the edges of the other leaves, only scattered bristles are seen; but on the inner surface of the first and seventh leaves, and on both surfaces of all the other leaves, there are close rows of shallow, irregularly shaped hollows. Their number is enormous—in the males as many as thirty-nine thousand, and, in the female, thirty-five thousand on each antenna. As some of the scent-laden air reaches the surface of these pits, it causes the nerves of smell to be roused, and so guides the beetle to its mate, or to its food, according to the nature of the smell. These pits are so tiny that they cannot be shown on the antennal leaves of the cockchafer shown in fig. 5, but they are there. On fig. 6 a highly magnified section of one of these 'leaves' of the antenna is shown: 'P' is the pit, 'N' is the nerve, and 'S. C.' the sense-bulb of the nerve in which it terminates—the point at which the smell is perceived.



It has been proved that insects which have lost their antennae have no sense of smell.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure on the North Sea and in China.

(Continued from page 279.)

Fourteen days after leaving Liverpool the Twilight arrived at Port Said, and Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang at once went ashore. The Pages thoroughly enjoyed their first glimpse of the East, for Ping Wang, knowing the place, took care that they should see everything worth seeing. After sitting for a time in a big cafe which was crowded with men of almost every European nation, they wandered through the shop district, and out into the Arab portion of the town.

After they had looked at the sights for some little time, Ping Wang suggested that they should have a donkey ride. They had noticed the large, handsome donkeys soon after they landed, but as the passengers from a big P. & O. vessel had come ashore just before they arrived, all the animals were engaged. But when they returned to the busy part of the town they found three donkeys on hire, and the donkey 'boys,' two of whom were elderly men, at once shouted out the names of their animals.

A Port Said donkey sometimes has its name changed three or four times in a year, in consequence of its proprietor's desire that it shall always bear one which is just then popular with Englishmen. You may ride on 'W. G. Grace' in June, and on returning to Port Said in December will discover that the same animal is now called 'Mr. Chamberlain,' or 'Lord Charles Beresford.' The donkeys which Fred, Charlie, and Ping Wang found on hire were named respectively 'Lord Roberts,' 'General Buller,' and 'Krueger.'

Charlie sprang on to 'Lord Roberts's' back; Fred made a rush for 'General Buller,' and left Ping Wang to mount 'Krueger.'

'Let us have a race,' Charlie suggested, when they were getting clear of the crowded narrow streets, and immediately all three urged on their donkeys; but, before they had gone many yards, 'Krueger' began to leave his companions behind.

'This will never do,' Charlie declared, and touched up 'Lord Roberts' with his stick. Fred tried to hurry up 'General Buller.' Neither of the animals, however, appeared to be at all anxious to exert themselves, and they would have lost the race had not the donkey-man, remembering that his English patrons always seemed pleased when 'Krueger' was last, caught hold of 'Krueger's' tail with both hands, and, throwing back his head, pulled as if he were engaged in a tug of war. 'Krueger,' not liking this strain upon his tail, slackened speed and stopped. 'Lord Roberts' and 'General Buller,' evidently fearing that if they continued running they would be treated in the same way as 'Krueger' had been, stopped with such suddenness that Fred was shot over his animal's head into the road, and Charlie only just escaped a similar fate by throwing his arms round his Jenny's neck.

'This is a nice thing!' Fred declared, ruefully, as he pointed to a big tear in his trousers. 'To-day is the first time I have worn this suit.'

Ping Wang condoled with him, but Charlie, who always maintained that his brother thought too much of dress, laughed at his mishap.

'If you had been wearing a serviceable suit like mine,' he said, 'your trousers would not have been torn.'

'May the day never come,' Fred answered, solemnly, 'when I have to take your advice on the matter of dress. And now I think it is about time that we returned to the Twilight.'

'Shall we have another race?' Ping Wang asked eagerly, somewhat disappointed at having been robbed of his victory.

'I've had quite enough racing, thank you,' Fred declared, placing his hand over his knee to conceal the rent in his trousers.

'I haven't,' Charlie joined in. 'Come along, Ping Wang.'

Charlie and Ping Wang whipped up their donkeys, but no sooner had they started than Fred's animal, in spite of its rider's efforts to restrain it, bolted after them, and, overtaking them, ran a dead heat with 'Lord Roberts.' 'Krueger' was last.

When, after a little further exploration of the town, they went back to the Twilight, they were thoroughly delighted to find that she had finished coaling, and that nearly all traces of that unpleasant job had been removed.

They went down to dinner at once, and when they came on deck again they were in the Suez Canal. Fred and Charlie found plenty to interest them in the Canal. They saw several thin brown pariah dogs wandering about the desert in search of food, and once a dead camel came floating by them. Towards evening the Twilight had to anchor for a time, and the three passengers, with the captain's permission, went ashore and gathered flowers and shells to send home.

In the Red Sea there was still more to see. All day long the seagulls—brown with white breasts—hovered around the Twilight. Many other birds came and rested on the ship for hours, and, as the weather was intensely hot, Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang found it very entertaining to sit quietly in their long chairs and watch their pretty little feathered visitors.



CHAPTER XI.

Three days after leaving Suez they saw, for the first time, the Southern Cross, and, on the following morning, they steamed into what, at first sight, Fred and Charlie thought was land, but was simply a wide streak of floating sand which had been blown out to sea during a sand-storm.

At night they were now permitted to sleep on deck—a boon which all three appreciated highly. They took their blankets and pillows on to the poop, and slept with greater comfort than they had experienced for many days, though one night they were caught in a heavy thunder-shower.

One morning, when they went on deck, they found it literally strewn with flying fish. The ship's rats had evidently had a good feed, for many of the fish were gnawed and bitten.

'Would you like some flying fish for breakfast, gentlemen?' the cook said to the three passengers as they stood looking at the stranded fish.

'Are they good?' Charlie inquired, suspiciously.

'First class,' the cook declared; so Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang had flying fish for breakfast.

'I can't say that I consider them "first class,"' Fred said when he had eaten two of them, 'but I am glad that I shall be able to say that I have eaten one.'

'Eaten two,' Charlie said, but Fred ignored the interruption.

'I make a practice of tasting any new dish I come across,' he continued.

'When we get to China,' Charlie said, 'Ping Wang will have the pleasure of offering you puppy-dog pie.'

Ping Wang smiled serenely.

'I don't think that you will find Chinese food so bad as you imagine,' he said. 'Certainly it will be better than what we had to eat on the Sparrow-hawk.'

While they were looking at a heap of dead fish, the captain shouted to them to come over to the starboard side; and on doing so they beheld a shoal of small fish being chased by big ones. To escape their pursuers the small fish jumped out of the water, and were instantly seized by the gulls, a flock of which were hovering around. The gulls had a splendid feast, several hundred of small fish being eaten by them before the Twilight steamed away from the shoal.

It was not long before the Twilight arrived at Aden, where they all went ashore for a short time.

After they left Aden the days were extremely monotonous, for there was nothing to be seen but the ocean.

'I shall be jolly glad when the voyage is at an end,' Charlie declared when they had passed Ceylon without catching a glimpse of it.

'So shall I,' Fred answered, 'but it won't be much longer, and then the fun will begin.'

'I hope,' Ping Wang said, 'that you will not mind being dressed as Chinamen.'

'But, my dear fellow,' Fred replied, 'if we were dressed as Chinamen, we should not deceive any one. Our faces are not at all Chinese.'

'I can alter that by shaving your eyebrows.'

'Very likely, but Chinamen without pigtails would be as absurd as a wingless bird.'

'I will buy two pigtails,' Ping Wang declared, calmly.

'What! Surely Chinamen don't wear false pigtails?' Charlie exclaimed.

'Thousands of them do, but, of course they keep it as secret as do your English ladies who wear false hair.'

'But how do they fix it to their head? Stick it on to their bald pates with gum?'

'Oh, no! Chinamen are never quite bald—at least, I have never met any who are—and the pigtail is fixed to what hair they have. My reason for advising you not to have your hair cut in Port Said was that I wanted you to have long hair by the time we reached Hongkong. I think that it is already long enough for pigtails to be attached.'

Charlie was delighted at the prospect of having to don Chinese attire, but Fred was far from pleased. He had provided himself with an excellent khaki campaigning suit, and did not at all like the idea of its lying idle. However, after some further conversation, Ping Wang succeeded in convincing him that, for the success of their plans for recovering the idol, it was necessary that he and Charlie should pass themselves off as Chinese.

'We shall have to eat our food with chop-sticks I suppose?' Charlie remarked.

'Certainly,' Ping Wang replied.

'Then lend me yours, and I'll start practising at once. I don't want to be starved when I get to China.'

Ping Wang lent his chop-sticks willingly, and having obtained some boiled rice from the cook, Charlie practised getting it into his mouth. It was an easier task than he had imagined, and when he had become proficient, he passed the chop-sticks on to Fred, who at once set to work to become as accomplished as his brother. Long before they arrived at Hongkong, Fred and Charlie found it as easy to eat with chop-sticks as with a knife and fork.

(Continued on page 291.)



ONE WAS MISSING.

Two men once stopped at a French inn, and gave in charge of the landlady, who was a widow, a bag of money, telling her to give it up to neither of them unless they were both together. A little while afterwards one of the men came alone and asked the landlady to give up the money under the pretence that his companion had to make an important payment immediately. The widow had paid little attention to what had been said to her before, and now, forgetting all about it, gave up the bag. The rogue disappeared with it so quickly that the landlady asked herself if she had not made a mistake.

The next day the other man turned up, and made the same request as his comrade had done the previous day, and when the widow told him what had happened, he went into a passion, and summoned her for the loss of his money.

Some one who heard of the poor woman's plight advised her to say that she was ready to bring forth the money on the original terms. She asked the plaintiff to produce his comrade. The argument was found plausible by the court, and as the thief took care not to come back, his comrade had to give up his claim.