W. YARWOOD.



PUSSY'S PLAYMATE.

Many instances of curious animal friendships have been recorded, but not many are stranger than that which a correspondent of the Field relates of a kitten and a peacock in his own grounds. The kitten was a half-wild one, living in the shrubberies near the house. All its brothers and sisters had been destroyed or taken away, and the kitten must have felt very lonely when there were none of its own kind to play with. Being very young and playful, it felt that it must have a friend and playmate of some kind, and it looked round to find one. There was a handsome peacock in the grounds, and pussy admired him very much, and thought she would like to play with him. So she tried to form an acquaintance, and, as the peacock was not half so vain as he looked, she succeeded very well. They were soon so friendly that pussy could rub against him and box his ears with impunity; she even tried to scramble upon his back. He took all her play in good part, and seemed to enjoy it quite as much as she did. Perhaps he was flattered by pussy's admiration, or perhaps he felt a true friendship for his strange companion. Whichever it was, he always looked out for his little playmate, and was evidently pleased to see her.

W. A. A.



STRANGE CHILDREN.

We have all seen instances of the affection and care which most animals give to their helpless or nearly helpless offspring. The cat spends nearly all her day coiled up in some quiet, cosy corner with her family of kittens, and when she leaves them for a few minutes, to stretch her limbs and seek some refreshment for herself, the least squeak of one of her children will bring her back to its side. The hen struts about the farmyard surrounded by her chickens, and at the least appearance of danger the brood runs for shelter under her wings. When the lamb in the field strays from its mother's side she is soon alarmed, and shows her fear by her anxious bleating, which does not cease until the lamb returns to her. And thus it is with nearly every animal, tame or wild. Each gives proofs, if we could only see and understand them, of a wonderful and beautiful love for her young.

This motherly care is not quite like the ordinary friendship which one animal may have for another. A cat and a dog may be good friends all their lives. But, though the cat loves her kittens before all things while they are young and weak, later on, when they are sufficiently grown in size and strength to take good care of themselves, her affection gradually dies away, and she becomes indifferent to their wants. Sometimes she will even drive them away from her.

Another feature of this parental love is what might almost be called its unthinking strength. The mother animal feels her affections so strong that she cannot restrain them, and she often bestows them upon the strangest animals, along with her own young ones, or when she has been deprived of her own offspring. A hen will hatch ducks' eggs, and take the same care of the ducklings which she would have taken of her own chickens. I have heard of a hen taking charge of three young ferrets for a fortnight. They were placed in her nest because their own mother had died, and she took to them at once, and nestled down over them just as if they had been chickens. They were too helpless to follow her about, as chickens would have done, and she had to sit with them almost the whole time. She combed out their hair with her bill, just as she would have preened the feathers of chickens. The ferrets were fed by their owner, and they were taken away from the nest before they were old enough to do the hen any harm.

An even stranger instance of this misplaced affection on the part of a parent has been seen at a railway station recently, according to the newspapers. A cat in the goods shed had three kittens, which she was bringing up in the usual way. Soon after the kittens were born, some of the railwaymen found a young jackdaw, and put it with them. The cat made no objection, but received the bird kindly, and gave just as much care to it as to the kittens. The workmen fed the bird, while the cat took every other care of it, and even washed it, in its turn, with the kittens. The rearing was quite successful, and the bird grew up strong and healthy.

W. A. ATKINSON.



A QUEER ADDRESS ON A POST-CARD.

On Coronation Day (August 9th, 1902), a number of balloons filled with natural gas were sent off from Heathfield, near Tunbridge Wells. One of these balloons was picked up on August 10th at Ulm, in Germany, having travelled the six hundred miles in less than twenty-four hours.

Notice of this fact was sent in German by the finder on a post-card, but he evidently did not understand English, for he copied the wording on the little medal fastened to the balloon: 'Natural gas carried me from Heathfield, Sussex.'

With these words for address, the post-card, after some delay, reached Heathfield, and was delivered to the manager of the Natural Gas Works.

S. CLARENDON.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

14.—DECAPITATIONS.

1. Behead weak, and leave a bar. 2. Behead kept too long, and leave an interesting narrative. 3. Behead a firm hard animal substance, and leave a single number. 4. Behead to agitate, and leave a sea-fish. 5. Behead sudden terror, and leave what we should all do. 6. Behead to melt, and leave a berry.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 339.]



ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 263.

12.—1. Rigid. 2. China. 3. Shovel. 4. Shrewd. 5. Stage. 6. Thanet.

13.—

K NET STARE SCATTER BLESSINGS



THE KING OF THE 'PEELERS.'

About the year 1845, a 'Ragged School,' as it was called, was started in a very poor quarter of London, but so turbulent and noisy were the boys that at last the teachers found themselves obliged to engage the services of a policeman to keep order.

This policeman was himself a 'bit of a scholar,' and had also a love of boys, and he suggested that if he took a class in the school it might be the best way of maintaining order amongst the unruly crew.

The experiment was tried, and proved a great success. The worst and noisiest boys were drafted into the policeman's class, and he somehow tamed them all. More than that, his class was so popular that all the boys wanted to belong to it, and they gave their constable the title of 'King of the Peelers.'

'Peelers,' a name which has been nearly ousted by our slang word 'Bobby.' was derived from Sir Robert Peel, who instituted the police. 'Bobby,' of course, comes from Peel's Christian name.

X.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 287.)

It was early one morning when the Twilight arrived at Hongkong, and the Pages and Ping Wang at once went ashore in a sampan, or native boat, to present a letter of introduction which they had brought from England.

Although it was only half-past six when they arrived at the Hongkong merchant's office, they found the manager, to whom their letter was addressed, already hard at work. He had received, some days before, from the head of the firm in London, notification of the Pages being on their way to Hongkong, and greeted them very cordially.

'I had hoped,' he said, after a few minutes' conversation, 'that you would have been here a day or two ago, for there is a very decent boat starting for Tien-tsin this afternoon, on which you would have been very comfortable. The next one will not be leaving until to-day three weeks.'

'Then let us start this afternoon,' Charlie exclaimed.

'I am quite willing,' Ping Wang said, 'if we can get you and Fred disguised in time.—As we are going to my native village, which is a very anti-foreign place,' he continued, addressing the manager, 'I think that it will be wise to have my friends disguised as Chinamen.'

'If they can act up to their disguise the suggestion is an excellent one,' the manager declared, 'for there are rumours that the Boxers or Big Sword Society are threatening to drive out all the foreigners in the land. If you wish to go on by this afternoon's boat there should be no difficulty about getting your friends disguised in time. I will send for my barber and tailor at once.'

The manager sent for the barber and tailor, and also dispatched a message to the skipper of the boat which was sailing that afternoon, the Canton. The Pages and Ping Wang had breakfast when these orders had been given, and long before they had finished their meal the barber arrived, the tailor following him very quickly. After breakfast the manager took his guests up to his bedroom, and called to the barber and the tailor to follow them. The latter had brought with him an excellent assortment of Chinese garments, and from them Ping Wang speedily selected suitable clothes for his English friends. He also chose, with the aid of the barber, a couple of splendid pigtails. Charlie having paid for the goods, the tailor departed, leaving the barber to begin shaving the Englishmen's heads and eyebrows.

Fred was the first to be operated on, and Charlie laughed heartily when he saw the alteration which the loss of eyebrows made in the appearance of his brother. The barber was a quick worker, and turning his attention to Fred's head, speedily removed with scissors and razor a large portion of his hair. He found, however, that although Fred's hair had been allowed to grow during the voyage, it was not sufficiently long for a pigtail to be tied securely to it. Therefore he sewed the pigtail to the inside of a skull-cap, and placed the cap on Fred's head.

'It is very well done,' Ping Wang admitted, when Fred was fully dressed in Chinese garments. 'If I had glanced at you casually out of doors, I should not have suspected that you were not a Chinaman.'

'But I don't like the idea of wearing this little cap,' Fred protested; 'I shall get sunstroke.'

'When you go into the sun you can wear a beehive,' Ping Wang replied, pointing to several big Chinese hats which the tailor had left for inspection.

Charlie's disguise was completed with even more speed than Fred's had been.

'It's splendid,' Charlie declared, as he surveyed himself in the glass; 'don't you think so, Fred?'

A few minutes later the barber was dismissed, and the four of them returned to the sitting-room, where the skipper of the Canton was awaiting them. He shook hands with the manager and greeted the other three men in Chinese. Charlie was nearest to them, and feeling that politeness demanded that he should say something, blurted out, 'Je ne parle pas Chinese.'

The skipper looked puzzled, and the manager, who was already in a laughing humour, roared, but Ping Wang was very serious.

'I say, Charlie,' he exclaimed, 'do remember that you are not to answer any one who addresses you in Chinese, or we shall be discovered.'

The skipper looked at Charlie in surprise. It was the first time that he had heard a Chinaman called Charlie.

'Two of these gentlemen are Englishmen,' the manager explained. 'What do you think of their disguise?'

'It is excellent. If I had not heard you speak,' he added, addressing Ping Wang, 'I should never have believed that you were an Englishman.'

'I'm not one,' Ping Wang declared merrily; 'I'm a Chinaman.'

'Well, who am I to believe?' the skipper exclaimed in bewilderment.

'They are the Englishmen,' the manager answered, pointing to Fred and Charlie; 'the other gentleman is a Chinaman. But to come to the point, I want you to take my three friends to Tien-tsin. They wish to be undisturbed, and do not want it to be known that they are not Chinamen. Therefore let every one—even the mate—fancy that they are Celestials.'

'I understand. I will have the saloon berths got ready at once. What time will they come aboard? I shall sail about four.'

'Will half-past three be early enough?'

'Half-past three, sharp, will do.'

The skipper departed a few minutes later, leaving the three travellers alone with the manager.

'Let us sit in the verandah,' the manager suggested, and for fully two hours they sat in long chairs chatting together, and watching the busy scene in the street below.

'Would it not be a good idea if we went for a short stroll?' Fred asked, after a time. 'It would accustom us to appearing in public in our Chinese garb.'

'That is a good suggestion,' Charlie declared. 'Don't you think so, Ping Wang?'

'You would be safer here,' said Ping Wang, 'but if you wish to go out, I will come with pleasure. We must not go far. We needn't wear our beehives. We will keep in the shade.'



'We mustn't walk three abreast, I suppose?' Fred remarked, as they quitted the premises.

'No,' Ping Wang answered. 'It will be better to walk single file. I'll walk in the rear, so that I can keep watch on you, and hurry forward if any of my countrymen speak to you. Don't walk fast.'

Charlie stepped into the street, Fred followed, and Ping Wang brought up the rear. At first Charlie and Fred felt decidedly uncomfortable, and fancied that every one who glanced at them had discovered that they were not Chinamen.

(Continued on page 300.)



WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

VIII.—THE CAVERNS OF LURAY.

The United States of America, forming such a huge country, seem to have been provided by Nature with fittings on a similar scale. Niagara, the Rocky Mountains, the big trees of the Yosemite Valley, the wonders of Yellowstone Park and the Mammoth Cave are instances of this, and the caverns of Luray, some eighty miles from Washington, are both in size and beauty not unworthy of their mighty mother-land. They were only brought to light in 1878, although the existence of several small hollows in the neighbourhood had suggested that larger caverns might be found, and it was when actually looking for another entrance into one of the known grottoes that a Mr. Andrew Campbell accidentally came upon this wonder of the world. With an eye to business, the find was without delay turned to profit, and a Company formed which has lighted the caverns with electricity and put staircases and paths for the convenience of visitors, who flock there in great numbers. Some idea of the vast size of the caves may be gained from the fact that the electric wire is three and a half miles long, and that this only illuminates the chief halls and galleries. Each visitor carries a tin reflector to penetrate dark corners and smaller passages.

One curious cavern is called the Fish Market, from rows of fish-shaped stalactites hanging from the roof, looking exactly like bass or catfish hung on a string. Another is known as the Toyshop, from quantities of stalactites twisted into all possible shapes, many of which suggest some well-known plaything. In one place is a huge cascade of alabaster resembling a frozen waterfall, and frequently the walls appear to be hung with curtains and draperies of gleaming white, or tinted with all shades of beautiful colours. In one cavern six curious blade-shaped stalactites are called the Major Chimes. When struck by the hand they give out sweet musical tones, the vibrations of which last from a minute to a minute and a half, and resound to far-distant parts of the caverns. One enormous stalagmite bears the name of the Hollow Column, and measures one hundred feet round by forty feet high. This column shows plainly the overwhelming force of a current of water, as it is pierced from top to bottom, and visitors climb right up inside to explore the great galleries above the Giant's Hall. Learned people say that some time in the days of long ago, when the cave was filled with angry water trying to find a way of escape, the flood forced a passage right through the heart of this huge stalagmite, and on subsiding left a hollow column where it had found a solid one. The 'Tower of Babel' is another wonderful sight, with twenty-two rows of dwarf columns, and from it we pass into the Giant's Hall, where the colossal stalagmites look like monster chess kings and queens standing on pedestals. One of these is particularly beautiful, being white below and changing above to a delicate rose-pink, the colour of the inside of a shell.

One enormous stalactite was taken from the roof, and presented to the Smithsonian Institution at Washington. It weighed a thousand pounds, and was removed with great care. First it was wrapped all over in cotton cloth, every little point being separately packed. Then bits of wood were fitted exactly between the points, and, to prevent any jarring, a wooden case was built round it while it was still hanging from the roof of the cave. Then, resting on a scaffolding, it was sawn from the rock, cautiously lowered, and sent off to its new home.

From marks of claws on the stalagmites, as well as of teeth, it is clear that some of the caverns have been used by huge animals in former times, and many impressions of smaller animals are also found, such as wolves, panthers, rats, and rabbits. These marks are perfectly clear, and they must be of great age, as the stalagmites on which they are found have grown into huge pillars carrying the records of their visitors up with them far out of reach.

In one cavern, known as the Round Room, arrow and spear heads have been found, proving that human beings formerly made use of the caves.

One peculiar feature of these caves are what appear to be limpid pools, though really they are quite dry now. An unfortunate traveller slipped into one of these many years ago, when the pool was not fully hardened, and the impression of his form is still quite clearly seen, whilst the pool, in honour of him, is known as Chapman's Lake.



THE SONG OF THE BROOM.

Dust! dust! dust! dust! Carpet, curtain, window, floor; Right, left, thrust, thrust— Clouds are rising more and more! Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep— Kitchen, parlour, passage, stair; Sweep, sweep, sweep, sweep— That's what I'm obliged to bear! Dust, dust, dust, dust, In the lofty attic found; Dust, dust, dust, dust, In the cellar underground.

Cobwebs, spiders, beetles, flies, Nooks and corners dark and drear, That is where my pathway lies, Month by month and year by year; Buckets, boxes, brushes, boots, Near to me for ever dwell; No one lets me share the fruits Of the work I do so well; Boys and girls will often play In some clean and pleasant room, Making litter all the day, For the poor unhappy broom.

No one shows me gratitude; No one cares a jot for me, For when work is done I'm stood In some gloomy scullery. But no matter! time will come— When my hair is worn away, I shall rest, while some new broom Does what I must do to-day.



ONE MORE CHANCE.

'I want you to look after the new boy, Angus,' said Mrs. Macdonald, the wife of the head master, to her son.

'Oh, Mother, I know that means he is either a molly-coddle or a black sheep. I remember the time I had when you set me on to look after young Smith.'

'My boy, I want your help. I am sure you will not refuse it.'

'Well, fire away, Mother. Let me know the worst,' and Angus put on a resigned look.

'It is Andrews, the boy who has been sent home from India,' Mrs. Macdonald explained. 'He has been brought up so badly. His mother died when he was a baby, and he has been quite neglected, and left to native servants. His father writes that he hopes English school-life will break him of the bad habits he has formed, but I am afraid it will be no easy matter. Of course, I am telling you this in confidence, Angus, but I cannot help thinking of the fight the poor boy has before him, and I want you to understand it and to befriend him.'

'Well, this is a nice treat for me,' Angus said. 'But you know, Mother, you always get your own way, and so I suppose I must do the best I can for him.'

'Thank you, my boy; I knew I could count on you. I want Andrews to have a real chance.'

'How about me, though?' asked Angus, with a smile. 'Perhaps I shall learn his bad habits, instead of breaking him of them!'

'I am not afraid,' said his mother, proudly, as she left him.

A month later Angus Macdonald told himself he had not done much towards fulfilling his promise, although he had faithfully tried.

Andrews was a most difficult boy to deal with. He was untruthful, and seemed to have no idea of honour, and he had a hot, passionate temper. On the other hand, he could evidently be led by his affections to some extent. He liked Macdonald, who had taken his part once or twice when the other boys were bullying him, and he would have done anything to show his gratitude.

'But I cannot stick up for you if you are not straight, Andrews,' Macdonald had told him plainly. 'And you will never get on here unless you act on the square and tell the truth always.'

'Indeed, I will try,' Andrews would say, and within an hour or so he would very likely be detected in some mean, deceitful act, which would make Macdonald inclined to throw up his charge and let him go his own way. Then he would remember he was the boy's only friend, and would make up his mind to give him another chance.

Howard, one of the bigger boys, lost no opportunity of bullying Andrews. He was no friend of Macdonald's, and so he took a delight in making the younger boy show off his worst points.

'Hullo, nigger, keep your hair on!' he said tauntingly one day when Andrews was beginning to get angry about some trick that had been played on him. The words made Andrews furious.

'I am as English as you are; how dare you call me that name?' he cried, and flew at his tormentor, who of course made short work of him. In a moment Andrews was lying on the floor, with Howard ready to upset him if he got up again. But after a time Howard let him go, and he walked away, vowing vengeance in his heart.

The same evening he was in the play-room alone, and he remembered that Howard had received a hamper the day before, the contents of which were packed away in his cupboard.

The temptation was too great. First, there was his love of sweet things; then his long-accustomed habit of never denying himself anything he wanted, if he could get it by fair means or foul. And his lessons in honour had been learnt such a little time that the disgrace and wrong of stealing scarcely troubled him. Finally, he would be doing his enemy an injury, and the thought of revenge was sweet to him.

He had cut some rich plum-cake, and was eagerly devouring it, when Howard came suddenly into the room and caught him in the act.

'You young rascal!' he cried, catching hold of the younger boy and tweaking his ear so unmercifully that he cried out with pain. 'I shall just make you pay for this.'

At the same moment Macdonald appeared in the doorway.

'What's the row?' he asked.

'Why, your precious friend is the row,' Howard said. 'I hope you are proud of him—the little thief! I will leave you to enjoy one another's company,' and he turned away, not sorry to have such a story to tell the other boys.

'Now you see what you have done!' Macdonald said to the culprit, who was hanging his head, remorse having overtaken him. 'How can you hope to keep your friends if you bring disgrace on them?'

'I didn't think,' murmured the unhappy boy. 'Oh, yes, I see now! Of course, you can never speak again to a boy who is a thief. It doesn't matter. I don't care what becomes of me now,' and he turned miserably away.

There was such a forlorn look about him that Macdonald was touched in spite of his anger. There flashed into his mind his mother's words, and also those others from an even Higher Authority—'until seventy times seven.'

'Hold hard, Andrews,' he said. 'I will give you one more chance.'

Then the boy broke down and promised he would never forget his friend's kindness, but would fight hard to win the victory over his faults.

And although he did not succeed without some more falls, he did, to the best of his ability, keep his word, and in the end took an honourable place in the school.



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

IX.—HERR ANDREE AND HIS BALLOON.

On the 7th June, 1896, the steam-ship Virgo sailed from the port of Gothenburg in Sweden with a very distinguished company on board. Rising young engineers, students of the Stockholm Polytechnic, and gentlemen of scientific fame, had engaged themselves as common sailors, so deep was their interest in the object for which the Virgo sailed. The principal person on board was Herr Solomon Auguste Andree, who, with two companions, Dr. Erkholm and Dr. Strindberg, was bent on making an adventurous attempt to reach the North Pole by means of a balloon. The Virgo was therefore steering for the lonely shores of Spitzbergen, six hundred miles south of the Pole. Here the balloon would be inflated to carry Herr Andree and his companions (it was hoped) over the rest of that pathless, snowbound journey. The balloon itself, at present, lay carefully packed in its berth, together with the car and the apparatus for making the necessary gas. It had been manufactured in France a month before, and while on exhibition for four days at the Champ de Mars, had been seen by thirty thousand visitors.

But the very finest balloon in the world could not sail against the wind, and, though on the 27th July it was inflated and quite ready for flight, the north wind blew steadily down from the Pole as though to say, 'You are not wanted here! You are not wanted here!'

Herr Andree and his friends waited patiently for three weeks, and then, as it still blew from the north, he ordered the gas to be let out and the silk bag packed for a return to the south. The captain of the Virgo said that he feared, if they stayed longer, his ship would be frozen in. The shed which they had erected on Dane's Island was left standing for use another time, together with the machinery for making the gas.

Nine months later, on May 30th, 1897, the Svensksund (a ship lent to the expedition by the King of Sweden) landed Andree once more at Dane's Island, and once more he filled his air-ship with gas. This time it had been considerably increased in size, and measured sixty-six feet in diameter, with room for one hundred and seventy-six thousand cubic feet of gas. The globe was made of bands of silk eighteen inches wide, varying in thickness according to the strains it would have to bear. It was provided with two additional valves and an arrangement called a 'rending flap.' This flap was intended to avoid bumping, when, at the end of the voyage, the aeronauts would descend for the last time. A rope, carrying a small grapnel at one end, was at the other end attached to the 'flap.' The moment the grapnel was thrown out and caught in the ground, the tightened rope would tear a large opening in the balloon and let out all the gas instantaneously. If care in construction had been all that was necessary to make Herr Andree's journey a success, then our story would surely have had a happier ending.

Again, as in 1896, the contrary wind delayed the start, but on July 11th it veered round to the south, and though it was by no means a settled wind, Herr Andree decided to weigh anchor. All was ready. A hasty note to the King of Sweden was written by the leader. Farewells were spoken, and the captain leapt into his car.

'Strindberg! Frankel!'[5] he cried, 'we must be off!'

The next moment his two fellow-travellers stood at his side. Each held a knife with which to cut loose three bags of ballast that kept the balloon from rising. It was an impressive moment, and those who stood on that lonely shore to wish Godspeed to the tiny expedition are not likely to forget the smallest detail of the scene. The ballast fell, and the 'Ornen' (as the balloon was named) rose a little way, being still held by three strong ropes. Near each of these a sailor stood with a knife ready to cut the rope the moment Herr Andree gave the word. A little more delay, till the great globe swayed to a favourable puff of wind, and then Herr Andree called, 'One, two! Cut the ropes!'—and the balloon rose into the air, while the quiet shores of the lonely little island echoed the hearty cheers of the company left behind.

From the car of the balloon hung a long 'trailing' rope, which it was Andree's intention to keep always in contact with the earth or water, and by so doing control the direction of the balloon. Between the car and the balloon itself was an arrangement of three sails, which could be trimmed to the wind against the resistance of the trailing rope. The great difficulty in steering balloons has always been that since they travel at exactly the same speed as the wind, there is nothing for sails to react against; but by checking the speed of the balloon (just as the speed of a ship is checked by the water) this difficulty may be got over to some extent.

So Herr Andree dropped his trailing rope, and, as he left Dane's Island, those who had gone to see him off watched the little bubbling wake that was left behind by the rope. Narrower and narrower it grew in the distance till it was no more than a silver line, and the vast balloon above it moved like a grey shadow on the Arctic sky. The three explorers in the car were soon beyond the reach of sight, but the crew of the Svensksund never took their eyes from the air-ship till, sailing in a north-easterly direction at a height of about one hundred and fifty feet, it disappeared behind a range of low hills.

Eleven days later a message was received by carrier pigeon (the fourth dispatched by Herr Andree). It stated that on July 13th, two days after the departure, all was going well. On August 31st a floating buoy was found in the Arctic seas, and contained another message, but as it was dated July 11th it was of less interest than the first.

Since then the explorer and his companions have passed from our knowledge as completely as the silver wake of his trailing rope has faded from the Arctic sea. The efforts made to follow its mysterious path have failed for eight years, and the traveller's fate is another secret locked in these frozen regions.

JOHN LEA.

FOOTNOTE:

[5] Herr Frankel had taken the place of Dr. Erkholm, who had retired from the enterprise.



A STRONG MOTIVE.

Robert Louis Stevenson tells of a Welsh blacksmith who, at the age of twenty-five, could neither read nor write. He then heard a chapter of Robinson Crusoe read aloud. It was the scene of the wreck, and he was so impressed by the thought of what he missed by his ignorance, that he set to work that very day, and was not satisfied until he had learned to read in Welsh. His disappointment was great when he found all his pains had been thrown away, for he could only obtain an English copy of the book. Nothing daunted, he began once more, and learned English, and at last had the joy and triumph of being able to read the delightful story for himself.

A strong motive and a steady purpose overcome the greatest difficulties.

M. H.



DIAMONDS.

A man named John O'Reilly died not long ago in a store near Taungs, in the Kimberley district of South Africa. Few people, perhaps, remember or know that this man began the great diamond trade of Africa.

The story is quite a romance. In 1867 the baby son of a Mrs. Jacobs found 'a pretty pebble' near the Orange River, and brought it to his mother. She showed it to a Boer, who offered to buy it. 'You may have it as a gift,' laughed the woman; 'there is no value in it.'

The Boer thought otherwise, and showed it to O'Reilly, who was then a travelling trader. He took it to Colesberg, and there cut his initials with it on the window of an inn, proving the stone to be a diamond.

It was then shown to the Clerk of the Peace, and finally it reached the Colonial Secretary, and was sent to the Paris Exhibition, where it was sold for five hundred pounds, and established the fact that diamonds could be found in the Colony.

But it was some years yet before people in Cape Colony at all realised the wealth of diamonds which lay scattered at their very feet. A Boer, living at Dutoitspan, found a diamond sticking in the mud walls of which his house was built, and in July, 1871, a man scratched the soil near Colesberg Kopje with his knife, and unearthed a diamond. A town was built round it, which has grown into the modern Kimberley.

So, from John O'Reilly's first diamond of five hundred pounds has grown a great trade, which last year produced diamonds valued at over four million pounds sterling.

There is little doubt that though Cape diamonds were 'discovered' first in 1867, they were known in Africa long ago. Stone and bronze instruments found beside skeletons in the Orange Free State show that pre-historic miners had been at work, and on an old map of 1750 the words, 'Here be diamonds' are written across what is now Griqualand West.



SAD COMPANY IN THE NURSERY.

I found in a nursery corner, A pocket-knife, pen, and a ball, And this was the story they told me, If I can remember it all.

'My beautiful handle was broken,' The pocket-knife mournfully cried, 'When Alfred forced open the clock-face To see if old Time was inside.'

'And look,' said the ball with a shudder, 'I'm scratched in a horrible way, Because through the drawing-room window He carelessly flung me to-day.'

'And worse,' cried the pen in a passion, 'Worse, worse than their troubles a lot! I've been in disgrace, since he used me, For making a terrible blot.'

And then they all cried in a chorus: 'In sorrow we're ending our days, Because Master Alfred is careless, And walks in such mischievous ways.'



THE JUMPING MOUSE.

New Jersey, in the United States of America, still has the name given it when British explorers paid their first visit, but it does not look new at present, and we can hardly believe that a few hundred years ago savages roamed in its forests and woods. Many of its old trees have been cut down, yet some remain to make a pleasant shade, and some curious wild animals are found in its woodlands, which are very plentiful; there is the dull-coloured wood-mouse, which often escapes notice amongst the herbage; the lively, more conspicuous white-footed species; and especially the jumping mouse, the briskest and most amusing of all.

The jumping mouse is a lover of woods or copses, but it comes also to the open ground, where, probably, it is in more peril from bird-foes; and it will visit garden shrubberies, and build a nest for itself in the corner of some zigzag fence. Some people who have watched this mouse have told us how active it is by night, but it may often be seen on a summer's day running home to the nest, with the pouches in its cheeks full of food, to be hoarded up or given to the young ones. It can run with great speed, as well as leap. Now and then a mother mouse may be noticed basking in the sun, her little ones round her, generally keeping near the nest.

Usually, it is only when in danger or frightened that the little creature travels along in its peculiar jumping way. It appears that wherever a jumping mouse is, be it field or woodland, it takes to the thick grass or underbrush, probably because amongst these it finds the food required. But in these places it is in peril from enemies coming suddenly to seize it, and the mouse has a great advantage by being able to leap, and not run through tangled grass.



People have disagreed as to the distance these mice can jump; five or six feet has been stated, but that is beyond the fact. A gentleman who had a tame specimen found that on his parlour carpet it would jump about two feet, though very likely, if in danger, it would have covered a greater distance.

When the sharp frosts of autumn have begun, the jumping mouse looks out for a winter retreat. It is able to dig, and so it burrows down into the earth, when it is not too hard, and scoops itself a nest. Away from observation and sheltered from the cold, it curls round, head, tail, and feet together, eating occasionally from its store, till the spring days rouse it to fresh energy.

J. R. S. C.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 293.)

CHAPTER XII.

Before the three adventurers had gone many yards, a Chinese beggar sidled up to Charlie and begged his honourable brother to bestow a gift upon the degraded dog who addressed him.

At first Charlie did not know whether the man was asking what the time was, or whether he desired to be directed to some place. So he gave a glance round, and discovering that the man was begging he shook his head gravely. The beggar departed, and Charlie inwardly congratulated himself on having done very well. His self-satisfaction was, however, short-lived. He looked round to assure himself that Fred and Ping Wang were following him, and just as he did so a European lady stepped out of a shop, and her parasol, which she was in the act of opening, prodded him in the back. He turned sharply, and the lady, believing him to be a Chinaman, apologised in Chinese. Seeing that she was apologising Charlie quite forgot his disguise, and seizing his skull-cap, raised it. Of course the pigtail came off with it, to the amazement of the lady, who stepped quickly into her trap and drove off.



Fred had the greatest difficulty in preventing himself from laughing aloud, but Ping Wang hurried forward, and taking Charlie by the arm, said in an undertone, 'Come into this shop: you have put your cap on crooked.'

The Chinese shop assistant laughed heartily as he saw Ping Wang arrange Charlie's skull-cap. He saw that Charlie was a European, but, as Ping Wang said later, it was better that he should discover it than some of the street loafers, who would probably have set to work to find out the reason for an Englishman being disguised as a Chinaman.

'We had better go back at once,' Ping Wang said, as they quitted the shop, and they walked to their temporary home without further adventure.

The manager was highly amused on hearing of Charlie's mishap, but when his merriment had subsided he gave the brothers a few words of advice.

'You will have to be very careful indeed when you get away from the treaty ports,' he said earnestly, 'for if people discovered you in Chinese attire, they would think that you were disguised for some evil purpose. Of course, there are some missionaries who wear Chinese dress, but the people know them, and understand their reasons. But you, not being missionaries, would naturally be regarded with great suspicion, and would probably be punished severely—perhaps executed.'

'I will remember what you have said,' Fred answered, 'and I am very much obliged to you.'

'And so am I,' Charlie declared. 'My brother and I will be very careful after to-day.'

The conversation was now changed to home affairs, for the manager, being a thorough-bred Englishman, was anxious to hear the latest news of London.

Soon after lunch they went aboard the Canton, which they found to be a small and poky vessel. The saloon placed at their disposal was very similar to the after-saloons which Charlie and Ping had seen in the North Sea steam trawlers; that is to say, the bunks were round the table.

The trip to Tien-tsin occupied several days, and all on board, except the skipper and his mate, being Chinamen, Charlie and Fred were compelled to speak very little, and then only in an undertone, for fear that they should be overheard. However, they managed to enjoy themselves, as Ping Wang taught them several exciting Chinese games.

'In which direction do you intend to travel when we reach Tien-tsin?' the skipper of the Canton asked Ping Wang, shortly after they had passed Taku.

'Up the Pei-ho,' Ping Wang answered. 'By-the-bye, I suppose you know several boatmen who work up the river?'

'I have a slight acquaintance with a score or so of them, and if you wish to get a passage on one of their boats I dare say that I can manage to choose a fairly honest man.'

'That is just what I do want. Of course it can never do to let him know that my friends are Englishmen. He might refuse to take them.'

'He would take them readily enough; but he would demand an absurdly high price for it; and, possibly, when you reached your destination, he would make known that they were foreigners.'

'That is highly probable,' Ping Wang admitted. 'I am afraid that some one on board is certain to discover that our friends are not Chinamen.'

'Pretend that they are both ill, and that they must on no account be disturbed. Then they will be able to escape being spoken to.'

'That is a very good idea,' Ping Wang declared; but when they arrived at Tien-tsin, and he and the skipper started bargaining with a small cargo-boat owner for passages, it was found that the idea was not so good as he expected.

'I will not take them,' the boatman declared, when he heard that two of his proposed passengers were invalids. 'They will die on my boat, and then their spirits will haunt me.'

Neither Ping Wang nor the skipper of the Canton had thought of this objection—a very natural one from a Chinese point of view.

'But these men will not die,' the skipper declared, hurriedly. 'It is only bad eyes that they are suffering from. They have come from Hongkong with Ping Wang, and, if they are not worried, they will soon be well again.'

For a moment the Chinese boatman was silent.

'I will take them,' he said, at length, 'if my honourable brother, Ping Wang, will promise that if they become very ill he will throw them overboard, so that they shall not die in my boat.'

'I promise,' Ping Wang said, and he had no qualms about making that vow, for Fred and Charlie were in splendid health, and it was very unlikely that they would become seriously ill during the two days' journey up-river.

'It seems to me,' Charlie said, when he heard of the arrangement that had been made, 'that I shall never make a really enjoyable trip on water. My first voyage I made as a cook, and had a bullying skipper to worry me. Then I escaped to what I thought was a mission ship, but it turned out to be a rascally coper. On the Canton I had to pretend that I was a Chinaman, and now, if I get ill, I'm to be thrown overboard.'

'You have told the boatman that my brother and I are suffering from bad eyes,' Fred remarked to Ping Wang; 'but he will see at a glance that there is nothing the matter with them.'

'I have thought of that,' Ping Wang answered, 'and have bought a pair of Chinese goggles for each of you. I wonder that I didn't think of them when we were at Hongkong, for they will make your disguise much more complete. At present your eyes do not look at all like Chinamen's.'

Charles and Fred at once put on the goggles which Ping Wang gave them, and the skipper declared that now, if they did not speak aloud, no one would guess that they were not Chinamen.

'We ought to go at once,' said Ping Wang; and, after shaking hands with the skipper, the three travellers quitted the Canton, and made their way towards the boat.

In less than five minutes the three travellers reached the spot where it was moored. It was a long, heavy boat. The cargo was packed in the middle of the boat, and near the stern was a roughly-made awning, composed of mats and dirty-looking cloth, which had been erected for the comfort of Ping Wang's invalids.

Charlie and Fred walked aboard in silence, and assumed invalids' airs with so much success that the boatman, believing them to be seriously ill, said to Ping Wang, as he passed him, 'Honourable brother, do not forget the promise which you made to your worthless servant—that if the honourable lords with sore eyes get worse you will throw them into the river.'

'Have I not promised you?' Ping Wang asked, haughtily. 'Do you doubt my word?'

The boatman protested, humbly, that Ping Wang's word could not possibly be doubted by his disreputable servant, adding, moreover, that he lived simply to obey him.

The wooden seats under the awning were hard and uncomfortable, and Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were soon tired of sitting there, especially as they dared not talk, for fear of being overheard. Once Ping Wang caught the boatman peeping under the awning. He seized him quickly, and demanded his reason for prying on the sick travellers.

'Noble brother,' the boatman answered, trembling with fear, 'I wanted to see if they were dying.'

'They are getting better,' Ping Wang declared. 'It is a good thing for you that they are not dying, for their father is as rich as a mandarin; and if I had to throw them overboard he would certainly have you executed.'

Ping Wang's romancing had the desired effect. The boatman shook with fear, and, kowtowing before Ping Wang, groaned aloud.

'I shall be glad if they will die in my boat,' he declared, without the slightest intention of intimating that he hoped that Charlie and Fred would die. He was too excited to speak calmly: for, though he dreaded the spirits, he had a greater fear of mandarins.

From that minute Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were left undisturbed. The boatman's four assistants shunned the awning, as if it sheltered lepers, and were apparently greatly relieved when an opportunity occurred for them to go ashore and tow the boat. The boatman remained on board, but, except when Ping Wang addressed him, kept at a respectful distance from the passengers.

(Continued on page 308.)



WHAT KATIE HEARD.

'How very annoying!'

'It is really too bad to have this noisy creature foisted on us just now.'

Katie stood on the doorstep of her aunt's house in a very stiff, pink frock. Her cheeks were red and rosy, for it was a warm summer day, and her feelings were just those of any little girl who is paying her first real visit to an aunt in the country.

The speakers were Katie's two cousins, Janet and Clare, and the words came very clearly through the curtains and open windows, as Katie stood there, wondering whether the bell had really rung, or whether she had better give it another tug. She saw her own reflection in the shining bell-handle, and it had gone crimson all at once.

Poor Katie! Mother had told her she would be expected, and this was what her cousins thought about her!

Was it not a dreadful state of affairs for a small girl at the beginning of her first visit? Katie shut her mouth tight, and clenched her small, hot hands, in a desperate effort to look just ordinary. It was very hard to be brave. She would have liked to run away, but she knew that would be cowardly. Her cheeks kept growing hotter and hotter. It was mean, she had always heard, to listen to things that were not intended for one. Plainly, there was only one course: to go right on, and not let anybody know that she had overheard those dreadful, unkind words.

The waiting and the silence was almost too much. The girls' voices died away in the room; a bee was buzzing in a foxglove bell at her elbow, and some cows went quietly up the lane past the green garden-gate. Then, all at once, the door flew open, and tall Janet and fair-haired Clare stood before her.

'You dear child, have you come all alone? How tired she looks, Clare!'

'Katie, Katie, haven't you got a kiss for your own Clare?'

There was quite a chorus of greetings as they ushered puzzled Katie into a bright room where her invalid aunt, wrapped in a shawl, and rather pale, lay on a couch, holding out both hands to welcome the visitor.

'Oh, dear,' thought Katie, 'I don't know how they can pretend to be so kind!'

She stood there in the midst of them all, awkward and silent, an honest-hearted little girl, obliged to act a most untruthful part. Try as she might, her kisses were but cold ones. She would have liked to push them away, and to cry out: 'You don't love me, really; you said I was a noisy creature! Let me go home.'

It was worse when her kind, suffering aunt took her in her arms, and said she was 'Oh! so glad to have her to stay!' Katie felt such a mean, horrid little girl. She did not know which way to look or where to hide her hot cheeks.

In the middle of the window, a large green parrot was clawing at her perch.

'This is Polly,' said Janet, passing a hand under the great creature's wing. 'The people next door are going away, and they have sent her to us till they come back.'

Here Polly interrupted with a long, loud screech, so that everybody had to put their hands to their ears.

'We rather like her,' said Clare, when she had finished, 'but oh! she is so noisy! Come and stroke her, Katie!'

So that was the 'noisy creature!' Katie's troubles all vanished at a stroke; and before Clare and Janet could ask what was the matter, she was sobbing out all about the silly mistake to her kind aunt.



ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.

Tim Sullivan started from the town with a heavy heart, but as he left the smoke and noise behind him, the pleasant sunshine and fresh autumn breeze soon began to work a change in his spirits. It was good to see green fields again, and he wished he could walk on and on, and never return to the town life he disliked so much.

After all, what was to prevent him? His uncle had been reproaching him that very morning for his idleness at school, and had told him he would never be worth anything in the office.

'It is high time you were beginning to be of some use,' he had said. 'I did not bargain to keep you for nothing when I took you in on your father's death.'

And poor Tim knew it was hard on his uncle to have this addition to his large family. He really did try to get on at school, but it was no good. He could not learn, and the harder he tried the more stupid he seemed to grow.

Before the death of his parents, when he lived such a happy life on the little farm in Ireland, it was not so noticeable that he was not quite like other boys. Lessons were not held of much account there, and no boy of his age could have been more useful than Tim in all farm, field, or garden work; so that it was a new experience for the poor boy to be taunted with his uselessness and stupidity, and it caused him great unhappiness.

As he trudged along, a familiar grunt suddenly made him feel he must be in old Ireland again. He looked round and saw a pig rooting in the ditch by the side of the road.

'Has he got astray?' he asked a man who was breaking stones close by.

'Likely enough,' was the answer. 'Farmer Smale's man was driving home pigs from market yesterday, and I thought as he passed he was getting a bit old for work—and pigs are uncommon difficult to drive too.'

'Not if you know the right way to set about it,' said Tim. 'Instead of holloing and shouting and beating it with a stick, you should just stoop down and catch the eye of the cratur, and sure he will go the way you want.'

The man grinned. 'You're from the Ould Counthry—no need to tell me that, my broth of a boy!'

Tim nodded, with an answering twinkle in his eye.

'If you tell me where Farmer Smale lives, I will drive this pig there,' he said.

The directions were given. Tim soon had the pig before him, and all his troubles were forgotten in an occupation which reminded him of old times.

'Perhaps doing the farmer and the pig a good turn will bring me something good,' he thought.

There was a tremendous grunting in the farmyard when the wanderer rejoined his companions. Farmer Smale came out, followed by his wife, to see what was causing such a commotion.

'Well, you are a smart boy,' the farmer said. 'You must come in and rest and have some tea, for pig-driving is a tiring business.'

'It's not tired I am, sir. I only wish I had a chance to drive pigs every day. You will not be wanting a boy to help on your farm, will you, sir?'

'Why, my lad, you don't look cut out for hard work,' the farmer said, for Tim's stunted growth, and the large head, out of proportion to his small body, made him look less strong than other boys.

'I can work hard with my hands,' he said. 'It is only lessons and figures which bother me.'

'Well, I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad. Besides, I could not take a boy I knew nothing about, even if he was kind enough to bring home my pig.'

Tim's face fell. He looked bitterly disappointed.

'Have you no people of your own, my dear?' asked Mrs. Smale, and Tim thought she had the kindest face he had ever seen.

'Now, missus, you go in and get tea ready for this little chap,' her husband said.

He wanted to have her out of the way, for he knew how soft-hearted his wife was. She never could turn away a tramp or a beggar from her door; she gave food and shelter to all stray dogs and cats, and a blackbird in a cage outside the window bore witness to her kind nature. She had rescued a nest full of fledglings from some cruel boys and had tried to bring them up by hand. Only one survived, and although she had set it free when it was old enough to take care of itself, it often flew back to its old home, the door of which was always left open.

While they were having tea, Mrs. Smale drew from the boy all his sad little story, and of course she wanted the farmer to give him a home.

'Will Ford is getting old, and needs some help in attending to the animals,' she said.

'I had a lot to do with cattle on Father's farm,' Tim broke in eagerly, 'and I know all there is to know about pigs, though I am no scholar.'

The farmer smiled. 'I suppose I shall have to give you a chance, sonny, as the missus has set her heart on it. But I must see this uncle of yours. Perhaps he may object.'

'He will be glad to get rid of me,' Tim said.

His words proved true, and before a week had passed Tim was settled in his new home. He worked with a will, and liked his work, because he felt he was at last of some use in the world instead of being a burden to others.

And the pig that had led him to such a happy position received such a special share of attention that he grew fatter and bigger than any of his fellows.

'One good turn deserves another,' Tim would think. 'The pig got me this job, and sure and I am paying him back for it.'



THE FOX'S SERENADE.

Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. All the stars are flinging Bright blue beams above me, As I'm sweetly singing How I dearly love thee. Here I'm waiting; is it any use? Little Goose, More than words can tell I love thee dearly, More than tongue can tell—or very nearly.

Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. The shadows cling together, The moonbeams give sweet kisses; How I wonder whether We shall know such blisses. To my mother you I'll introduce, Little Goose. She will greet you with a smile so cheery, Like a mother kind—or very nearly.

Little Goose, I love thee, little Goose. Hark, the farmer's coming With his ugly rifle; So I must be roaming, For I dare not trifle: And the watch-dog he will now unloose, Little Goose. Some night in the future I'll come really, Make you all my own—or very nearly.



THE COW-TREE.

One of the very remarkable trees of South America—a region notable for its natural-history wonders—is that called the cow-tree. It receives that name, not because in its shape it is at all like a cow, but because, at certain seasons, it yields an abundant supply of milk. It grows in hilly districts, usually where very little moisture is to be had for several months of the year. This makes it more singular that a plentiful flow of milky fluid will come from the trunk, on boring into it deeply, though the branches look dried. It is believed that most milk is got when the tree is tapped about sunrise, or when the moon is nearly full. If the milk is put aside for a time, a thick cake forms upon it, under which is a clear liquid. Some of it kept in a bottle, well corked up, was once preserved for several months. The cork, on being extracted, came out with a loud report, followed by a bluish smoke; the milk was a little acid, but not disagreeable to taste.

A grove of cow-trees is a grand sight, for the species grows to a great height, and the trunk may be fifty or more feet without a branch; near the top the branches cluster together, displaying tough and ribbed leaves. Many of these leaves are ten or twelve inches long. The tree bears fruits of moderate size, each containing one or two nuts, which are said to have the flavour of strawberries and cream. From the bark of the tree, soaked in water, a bread has been made, which proved nearly as nourishing as wheaten bread.



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

X.—HOW INSECTS MAKE SILK.

Of all the marvellous things of which the lower creatures are capable, certainly one of the most wonderful is their power of spinning threads of the most beautiful fineness, some of which we know as 'silk,' while for others we have no special name.

Though insects are—at least, from our point of view—the most important of the world's spinners, yet they are not the only creatures who possess this secret, for the spiders and mussels and the pearl oyster have also shown themselves very wonderful spinners.

The purposes for which the fine thread is spun are very different. Caterpillars use it chiefly as a means of providing a warm covering while in the chrysalis stage: so also do some beetles. The spider uses its silk to build cunning traps for unwary flies. The mussel lying below the surface of the sea employs its power as a spinner to construct a cable, which, being fastened to the rocks on the sea-bed, prevents the otherwise helpless mussel from being washed away.

In the silkworm (fig. 1) the silk is produced by certain peculiar structures, tube-like in shape, known as the silk-glands. The silk is created in a liquid form in the inside of the silk-gland, and, becoming mixed with a kind of gum, is forced through a sort of mechanical press, from which it comes through the mouth in the form of the delicate threads which we know as 'silk.'

This silk is used by caterpillars for various purposes, and varies much in quality: that spun by silkworm caterpillars is much prized by man. The caterpillar uses it to form a case for the protection of its body when turning into a chrysalis, from which it will emerge later a full-grown moth.

When spinning, the caterpillar begins by sending out the end of a thread which is quite soft and sticky. This immediately sticks to the object to which it is attached. This done, every movement of the caterpillar's head draws a fresh piece of the silk thread from its mouth. When spinning a cocoon, the thread is made to form a long, oval, egg-shaped case around the body of the caterpillar. But sometimes, as in the case of those caterpillars which live in companies, it is used to form a sheet or tent within which the tent-makers dwell. Other caterpillars use the power of weaving silk as a means of escape from enemies. When in danger they let themselves down on to the ground by attaching the end of a thread to a leaf or twig, and then dropping off, leaving the thread to be drawn from the mouth by the weight of the body as it falls.

Under the microscope each thread of silk is seen to be double: the total length of the thread when unwound from the cocoon is over a thousand feet. Over four hundred different kinds of silk-producing caterpillars are known.

The spinning glands of the spider are placed at the tail end of the body, but the threads spun therefrom, though strong, are of little use for commercial purposes. Silk fabrics have, however, been made from spider webs, but these are only curiosities.

The silk, or, as we may call them, the spinning glands, consist of from two to four pairs of organs, or 'spinnerets,' placed together in a small cluster. The threads which they form are made, as in the case of the silk of the caterpillar, of a sticky fluid, which, when drawn out through the tiny holes of the spinnerets, and exposed to the air, form fine threads, and these combining together form the silky thread with which we are familiar.

One of the principal uses of the silk threads is to form nets to catch small insects. These nets are often—as is the case of the garden spider, for example—very beautiful. In their construction the greatest skill is shown. The method is briefly as follows: First of all a large five-sided frame is formed; then long threads, which are rather like the spokes of a wheel, are added. These harden at once, and to them are attached the cross-threads, which form the delicate network of the complete web. But if the web be examined with a strong magnifying glass, there will be found, among the network, a number of threads bearing little drops of a sticky substance (fig. 2). These are made by special glands, and differ from the ordinary threads in that they do not dry on being exposed to the air. They serve the purpose of bird-lime—that is to say, they are there to aid in entangling insects which fly up against the web. Having spread his net, the spider returns to a little shelter woven on the under side of a leaf. Here he waits for his victims, holding in one of his claws a long, delicate thread attached to the web, so as to serve as a means of communication with the trap, the vibrations set up by the struggles of the captive giving warning by shaking the communication cord! He then rushes out, if the victim be small, and throwing himself upon the wretched prisoner, sucks him dry and cuts away the web so as to release the empty carcase. Should a wasp or bee happen to be caught, the proceedings are much more cautious, and the spider himself often proves the victim.



Spiders when small often use their spinnerets much as the witches of old were supposed to use a broom-stick—that is to say, as a means of travelling through the air. Turning the end of the body upwards they force out a few threads, which, caught by the breeze, are blown away, and so a number of long threads are rapidly drawn out, sufficiently long at last to carry the spider itself with them. When too heavy to fly, they sometimes send a thread adrift and wait until it catches in some projecting bough; this done, they make fast the end to the bough or leaf on which they may be resting, and climb along this tight-rope to build a new home.



The floating threads formed by broods of small spiders are sometimes very numerous, and cover everything: they are especially noticeable in hedges, and are one of the causes of what is called in the country 'Gossamer.'

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 303.)

CHAPTER XIII.

The journey up-river was a very tedious one, and promised to be longer than Ping Wang had expected, for, as soon as darkness came up, the boat was moored for the night near a riverside village. The boatman declared, in a very humble tone, that he dared not go any further until daybreak for fear of being attacked by pirates.

On the following morning, at daybreak, the journey was resumed, but before the travellers had covered two miles, while the mist was still hanging over the river, Ping Wang noticed a boat rapidly overtaking them. It was a long, narrow craft, paddled by eight men. Another man knelt in the bows, and two more stood up in the stern. The latter were armed with old-fashioned rifles.

'Pirates!' the boat-owner shouted in terror when he had glanced at the pursuers, and instantly there was a panic among his men. One of them dived into the river and swam towards the bank; but the other three, who could not swim, ceased rowing, and hid themselves among the cargo.



'Make the cowards row,' Ping Wang commanded the boat-owner, but without any result, for the man was himself terror-stricken.

'Hasn't the wretched man got any weapons aboard?' Charlie said aloud.

Ping Wang translated Charlie's question, and the boat-owner answered promptly, 'Your miserable slave has one gun, which does not belong to him. He is taking it to a mandarin. Your wretched servant does not know where it was bought.'

'Never mind about that,' Ping Wang declared, guessing at once that the fellow had a rifle which had been stolen from some European. 'Bring it here at once.'

The boat-owner produced quickly a long bundle of cloth, and from the middle of it pulled out a rifle.

'A Lee-Metford,' Fred exclaimed, as he snatched the rifle out of the man's hand. 'Where is the ammunition?'

'Here it is,' Ping Wang said, as he burst open a box and displayed several packets of cartridges.

'That is splendid,' Fred declared, as he opened a packet. Like many London medical students, he had become a Volunteer, and was, moreover, a good shot. Having placed the open packet of cartridges beside him, he took up the rifle, and, after loading it, raised it to his shoulder, but did not yet fire. 'I won't shoot,' he said, 'until I am sure they mean to attack us.'

He had not long to wait before receiving proof of the pirates' intention. The boat was approaching fast, and when it was about a hundred yards from them, the pirates fired. Their rifles made a tremendous noise, and the travellers' boat was hit about an inch above water.

'That is enough,' Fred declared, and, placing his left foot on a seat and resting his left elbow on his knee, he took aim and fired.

'Good shot, Fred!' Charlie cried, as one of the pirates who had fired on them fell forward, wounded, among his comrades. The pirates had evidently not expected such a reception, and the result of Fred's shot filled them with dismay. They ceased rowing, and took counsel for a few moments.

'Look out, Fred,' Charlie said, 'there is a man in the bow with a breechloader. He's aiming at you.'

Just as he spoke the man fired, and the bullet whizzed perilously near to Fred's head.

'Get under cover,' Charlie begged, but Fred replied calmly, 'I can do best where I am.'

Again he fired, and this time he smashed the blade of an oar.

Finding that no one was hit by that shot, the pirates took courage, and the three men with guns fired simultaneously, but without doing any damage.

'I'll give them the magazine,' Fred said, and fired eight times in quick succession. How many men he hit they never knew. Charlie and Ping Wang saw five men throw up their arms, while a sixth, who fell overboard, made such frantic efforts to save himself that the boat capsized.

'Now row,' Ping Wang shouted, and, pulling the three boatmen from their hiding-places, pushed them back to their oars. Seeing that all danger was gone, the men smiled happily as they resumed work, and were not at all ashamed of their recent cowardice.

Charlie turned to his brother. 'Fred, I am awfully proud of you—you have saved our lives! I wish I had joined the Volunteers. But, I say,' he continued, 'put on your goggles, or the boatmen will see that you are not a Chinaman.'

'They must have found that out some minutes ago,' Fred answered, 'for we have been talking ever since we saw the pirates.'

'Perhaps they did not notice it,' Ping Wang suggested; but he soon discovered that this was not the case.

While Fred, from force of habit, was cleaning the rifle after using it, the boat-owner approached the travellers, and said to Ping Wang: 'The foreigner shoots very straight in spite of his sore eyes.'

'He has saved your life,' Ping Wang replied, sharply. 'If he had not shot the pirates, they would have killed all of us.'

'That is true, honourable brother. I and my men are full of gratitude.'

'Then you must all vow not to tell any one that he is a foreigner.'

The boatman considered the matter for a few moments. 'We will promise. We will take an oath,' he declared at length. He lighted a piece of paper, and, as it burned to ashes, he expressed the hope that, if he told any one that the two men with goggles were foreigners, he might also be totally destroyed by fire. The other men took the oath in the same fashion.

'Will they keep it?' Charlie inquired, when Ping Wang had made known to Fred and him the nature of the oath.

'I cannot be sure of it,' Ping Wang said.

'I will keep this rifle until we reach the end of our river-trip,' Fred declared.

Shortly after the sun had set, the boat arrived at the place where Ping Wang had decided to land.

'The foreigners and I will not land until daybreak,' he said to the boat-owner. 'Moor the boat. It will be safer for us to begin our journey by daylight,' Ping Wang said to Charlie and Fred, after telling them that they were to remain on board until the morning. 'I have not travelled by the road we are going to take since I was a small boy, and consequently it is not familiar to me. There is another road which leads to Kwang-ngan, but it is more frequented than the one by which we are to travel. Our road is a round-about one, and rarely used since the shorter road has been made. I hope that we shall meet very few people.'

'How far shall we have to walk before we reach the first village?' Charlie asked.

'About five miles; and Kwang-ngan is six miles beyond that.'

'Then we shall be there to-morrow night, I suppose?'

'I hope so. By-the-bye, do you feel hungry?'

'Very,' Charlie answered, speaking for Fred as well as for himself.

'Then I'll ask the boat-owner to sell us a couple of ducks I know he has on board.'

Ping Wang returned to his friends presently, holding in his hands two well-cooked ducks.

'We shall soon polish these off,' Charlie said, as he, Fred, and Ping Wang took their seats under the awning, with the ducks on a big wooden plate on their knees.

'Your appetite always was enormous,' Fred remarked. 'But I was thinking whether we ought not to save one of them. Ping Wang, shall we have any difficulty in obtaining food to-morrow?'

'I don't think so,' Ping Wang replied. 'However, it would be a good thing to save one of the birds until the morning, so that we may have a good meal to start the day.'

One duck was therefore kept, and the other eaten. Ten minutes after the meal, Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were sound asleep, with the duck near them on the wooden dish in which it had been served up. When they awoke at daybreak the dish was where they had left it, but the duck had disappeared.

'This is serious,' Ping Wang said. 'One of the boatmen must have stolen it. I will ask them.'

He did so; but the men promptly vowed that they had not stolen the duck. They did not appear at all surprised, however, when the accusation was made; and Ping Wang concluded that they were not speaking the truth.

'As you have stolen the duck,' Ping Wang continued, sternly, 'you must return to me the money which I gave for it.'

'Would my honourable brother rob his slave?' the boat-owner asked, in alarm.

'Yes. If you cannot give me the duck, I must have back the price I paid for it. If you cannot give me the money, I will keep the rifle which the foreigner is holding.'

This decision alarmed the boat-owner. 'Honourable brother,' he said, after a few moments' silence, 'I will search for the duck: perhaps it has rolled off the dish.'

He searched in what appeared to Ping Wang to be very unlikely places, and found the missing dainty in a basket on top of the pile of cargo.

'The rifle shall be given you,' said Ping Wang, and then turned to speak to Charlie and Fred. 'We had better breakfast on shore,' he said; 'let us land at once.'

Ping Wang handed over the Lee-Metford to the boat-owner, and the three travellers stepped ashore, thoroughly glad to get out of the boat.

(Continued on page 317.)



ENCOUNTERS WITH LIONS.

The accounts which travellers and hunters sometimes give us of their encounters with wild animals are often very interesting, not only because they are exciting, but also because they show us the habits of the various animals, and the effects which are produced upon the human brain by these sudden and unusual attacks.

Mr. Moffat, the missionary, describes the very strange behaviour of a lion which caught a native asleep. The man was returning home from a visit alone, when, tired with his walk, he sat down to refresh himself by the side of a pool, and fell asleep. He awoke with the heat of the sun, and found a lion crouching scarcely more than a yard from his feet. He sat still for a few minutes, and tried to think what he ought to do. His gun was lying a little distance away beyond his reach, and he moved his hand towards it several times. But whenever he did so, the lion raised his head and uttered a loud roar. So long as the man remained quite still, the lion did not molest him. The day and the night passed, and neither the man nor the lion moved from the spot. At noon on the following day the lion went down to the pool for a drink, watching the poor man all the while, and then returned to its former position. Another night passed, and again on the following day the lion went for a drink. On this occasion it was alarmed by some noise, and made off to the bush. The poor native crawled to his gun, and then crept down to the pool to drink. His toes were so scorched by the heat of the rock that he could not walk. Fortunately, he was discovered by a person passing, and was rescued. He lost the use of his toes, however, and he was a cripple for the rest of his life.

Livingstone once nearly lost his life in an encounter with a lion in South Africa. He had gone out to shoot one of a troop of lions, in order to frighten the rest away from the village. After the natives who were with him had allowed several to escape, Livingstone shot at one about thirty yards off, and wounded it. He was quietly re-loading his gun, when he heard a shout from one of his attendants, and, looking up, he saw the lion springing upon him. It caught him by the shoulder, and shook him as a dog shakes a rat. The shaking seemed to deprive him of his sense of feeling, and he felt neither pain nor alarm, though he knew quite well what was happening. The lion growled all the while, and placed his heavy foot upon the doctor's head. At this moment one of the natives had courage enough to fire, and, though the shot failed, the lion's attention was drawn to the native, and it rushed upon him and bit him in the thigh. Another native tried to spear it, and he in his turn was attacked, and bitten in the shoulder. But this time the lion was exhausted by its wounds, and fell down dead.

Not long ago a Government ranger in the Transvaal had a fierce struggle with a lion, which was reported in The Field. He was riding homewards alone, having left his companions behind, when he heard his dog bark at something near the path, and saw a lion crouching near him on the right side, ready to spring. He turned his horse quickly and the lion missed his spring, but the ranger was thrown from his horse. No sooner did he touch the ground than another lion pounced upon him from the opposite side, while the first ran after the runaway horse. The second lion seized him by the right shoulder, and dragged him quickly along the path, his back and legs trailing along the ground. The animal growled and purred like a cat with a mouse, but in very much louder tones. The poor ranger was greatly distressed, both in body and in mind, and it was not until the lion had dragged him about two hundred yards that he remembered that he had a sheath-knife at his belt. As the lion stopped at the foot of a large tree, he drew his sheath-knife with his left hand, and stabbed the animal twice in the right side. The lion jumped back, and in a few moments he turned and walked away, growling and moaning as he went. Meanwhile, the ranger climbed a tree, and tied himself to a branch, lest he should lose consciousness and fall off. There he was found by his companions, and conveyed to the nearest hospital. The body of the lion was afterwards discovered not far away. Its heart had been pierced by the blade of the sheath-knife. The lion was an old male, and its empty stomach showed that it had been rendered unusually fierce by hunger.



PHILIP WOOD AND SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN.

'Be off, I tell you! We want no loiterers here!' said a workman, roughly pushing away a country lad who was gazing with deep interest at the busy crowd of people engaged in the rebuilding of St. Paul's Cathedral.

This famous church, destroyed by the Great Fire in 1666, was now—some three years later—being restored under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren.

'I am not loitering, sir,' answered the lad humbly. 'I have come up from Suffolk to seek work. I can carve, and I can——'

'Be off, I tell you!' harshly interrupted the foreman; 'we want no hedge-carpenters here! Here comes the master. Be off, or he will make short work of you!'

The master, no less a person than the great Sir Christopher himself, now came up, and catching sight of the lad, said sternly:

'Who is that youth? Has he business here? If not, bid him begone, for lookers-on hinder the work.'

'Just what I was telling him, your honour,' said the foreman, scowling at the boy. 'He has come to look for work, he says, but I told him we wanted no country bumpkins here.'

Sir Christopher cast a searching glance at the boy. 'What sort of work can you do?' he asked.

The boy, Philip Wood, by name, was much flustered at being addressed by the great architect himself, and hardly knowing what he said, he stammered out, 'I am very fond of carving, sir.'

'Carving—umph! What was the last thing you carved?' asked Sir Christopher.

'The last thing was a trough, but——' and Philip was about to describe the group of roses and columbines he had made for the Squire's chimney-piece, but was interrupted by a scornful laugh from the foreman.

'A trough! and he to seek work on St. Paul's! Let him return to his swine.'

Sir Christopher joined in the laugh. Then, seeing the crestfallen look of the boy, he said, half-scornfully, 'Troughs! Well, then, you have seen pigs. Suppose your carve me a sow and her little ones; that will be in your line. Bring it me here this day week.'

He walked away, and the workmen burst into loud laughter as they hustled Philip out of the yard.

He, poor fellow, was utterly cast down at this mocking suggestion of Sir Christopher's, and hurrying back to his attic he flung himself on his bed and burst into tears.

Some hours later, his landlady, a motherly old soul, who pitied the friendless lad, toiled up the attic stairs with a basin of broth for him, knowing that he had had no food that day.

'Highty-tighty!' she said, going up to Philip and putting a kind hand on his shoulder. 'What's amiss? What's wrong to-day may prove right on the morrow, so never fret, lad.'

Philip could not resist her sympathy, and she soon got from him the story of his reception by Sir Christopher, and how the great architect had scornfully told him to go and carve 'a sow and her little ones.'

'It was all my own fault,' continued the boy. 'I was so confused, I never told him of the bedstead I had carved for the Hall, nor of the mantel-shelf, but I blurted out about the trough, and then he bade me "carve a sow,"' and Philip turned red at the remembrance.

'He said that, did he?' said the woman eagerly. 'Then do it, and show your skill. Sir Christopher bade you come again, and he will not refuse to see you. Set to work on the sow, and mind she is a good one.'

Encouraged by these words, Philip got up, drank the broth, and, feeling cheered by the food, took his last crown-piece, bought a good block of wood, and returned to his attic.

He worked at his wood block from morning to night for the next week, hoping—aye, and praying earnestly—that he might turn out something that the master would not despise.

It was finished at last, and pronounced by the landlady to be 'as like a sow as one pea is like another.' So, hoping much and fearing more, Philip took his group, carefully wrapped in an apron lent him for the purpose, and made his way to the Cathedral yard.

'Hallo! here comes our young hedge-carpenter,' exclaimed the foreman, as Philip passed the gate. 'What's he got so carefully wrapped up? Another trough, I take it. Let's have a look at the treasure,' and as he spoke he reached towards the bundle.

But Philip would not part with it. 'No,' he said firmly. 'Sir Christopher set me the task, and he shall be the first to see it.'

Before long Sir Christopher appeared, and, seeing the boy standing humbly waiting by the gate, he called to him, and, taking the bundle from Philip's hands, slowly unwound the wrapping. There, to the very life, was a fat old sow, with nine little piglings grouped about her in every possible attitude.

Sir Christopher looked long at the group, saying never a word, whilst poor Philip grew hot and cold with terror. He hardly knew if his work were good or bad; he only knew that he had put all his heart into it, and tried to do his very best.

At last the great man spoke.

'It is good! very good!' he said firmly. 'I will keep it and give you a guinea for it, and I engage you, young man, to work on this building. Attend at my office to-morrow forenoon.'

Philip bowed low; his heart was too full to speak, and Sir Christopher continued:

'I fear I did you some injustice a little time back, and for this I am sorry; but a great national work is entrusted to my care, and it is my duty to see that no part of the work falls into unskilful hands.'

* * * * *

So the country lad, Philip Wood of Sudbury, accomplished his ambition, and found regular work on St. Paul's Cathedral.

Those people who care to study the old parchments, still preserved, on which the building accounts of the Cathedral are kept, may read that large sums of money were from time to time paid to Philip Wood (or Haylittle as he was called after his marriage, when he took his wife's name), 'for carved work in the cathedral church of St. Paul.'

S. CLARENDON.



THE TWO DOLLS.

I have a doll, an old, old doll, The playmate of many years; I've danced around with her in my smiles, And hugged her tight in my tears.

And I've a doll, a new, new doll, 'Twas given me yesterday; Dressed out in silk and beautiful lace, Ever so bonny and gay.

One is battered and scratched and grey, The other has hair like gold; But much as I love the new, new doll, Better I love the old.



GEMMAL RINGS.

Rings, from a time very far back, have been worn as ornaments on the hands, and given by people to each other as tokens of affection or as a sign of power. The oldest rings known were very large and cumbrous, and they were adorned with stones, sometimes flattened to make seals on wax or clay. The gemmal ring, as it is called, is an old kind, probably several centuries old, and rings of this sort are not made now. From what we know about them, it would appear the first ones were of French work, that nation being long remarkable for skill in contriving curious jewellery. Some may have been made in Italy, and even in our own land rings have been dug up from the earth, where they were hidden away with other valuables, or perhaps occasionally buried with those who had worn them.

A gemmal ring has a double row of hoops, locked within each other like the links of a chain. One edge of each ring is flat, so that when one is slipped over the other, the gemmal looks like a single ring. While opened out, two persons can put a finger into the hoops, and this fact gives the origin of the old name applied to them, though it has somehow got a little altered. 'Geminal' was the proper spelling, coming from the Latin geminus (a twin), because such a ring is twin or double. Of course, owing to its form, a gemmal ring was valued as a love token; and at one period it was often used as an engagement ring, or even as a marriage ring. It is supposed that some gemmals, which have one ring gold and the other silver, were made for wedding rings, the gold being for the wife and the silver for the husband. There are gemmals still existing which are adorned with precious stones, and some have singular devices on their sides. One found at Horsleydown, in Surrey, had on each of the two parts of the ring a hand, draped, and holding half a heart; when the ring was closed, the hands appeared joined, holding a whole heart between them. Other rings had mottoes in French or English.

The word 'gemmal' was formerly applied to other objects besides rings. Thus we have in Shakespeare a mention of the 'gemmal bit,' some sort of double bit for a horse.

J. R. S. C.



WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IX.—THE GROTTO OF LA BALME.

The worshippers of Buddha and Brahma have not been alone in taking advantage of caverns to build temples and religious houses, for in Dauphine, in Eastern France, we find the magnificent grotto of La Balme used for the same purpose. The builders of the West have not, however, taken the same trouble over hewing out the solid rock as did their Eastern brethren, but have contented themselves with building in an ordinary way a handsome church in the mouth of the cave. The cave is of great height, being more than a hundred feet to the roof, whilst the breadth at the entrance is sixty-five feet.

In reality the building consists of two chapels placed side by side, with rooms for the clergy and a belfry. The effect of the white building against the dark arch of the cavern, surrounded by a frame of rich green creepers, is very fine. Masonry has also been used to support the cliff to the right of the church. A broad causeway with parapets leads into the cave, and down each side rushes a stream, which comes from the recesses beyond.

On entering the cavern the roof soon becomes lower, and we soon find that the single cave divides into two long galleries. Taking the one to the left, we come into what is called the Grotto of Diamonds, in which the water oozing through the rocks has left a crystal sediment which sparkles like diamonds when light is flashed over it. Small rock basins form a ring, and, pouring water from one to the other in tiny cascades, have also crystallised into beautiful forms which reflect and multiply the gleams of light.

We follow a rocky ledge edged with a fringe of stalactite drops about six inches long, and then creep along a dangerous path with dark depths on either side. This leads downwards to a tranquil lake which reflects our lamps and torches.

On our return we take the gallery to the right, and come across a curious stalagmite (called the Capuchin Monk), wonderfully like a human being about six feet high. All around are stalactites and stalagmites of every possible form, and we long to do a great deal more exploration of the endless rock passages branching on every side. But, alas! they are too dangerous, owing to the endless crevasses of unknown depth which cross and recross the rocky galleries, where a slip probably means a horrible death.



As long ago as the time of Francis I. of France, who reigned in the sixteenth century, two criminals condemned to death, were, by order of the King, offered their lives if they explored the Grotto of La Balme to its extreme limits. No record seems to have been kept whether they accepted the offer. Possibly they preferred a certain and speedy form of death to long sufferings in the darkness and terrors of the gloomy cavern.

HELENA HEATH.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 311.)

As soon as the travellers had landed, they set out on the road to Kwang-ngan, eating the second duck as they went. They understood perfectly that they were about to begin the most dangerous part of their journey.

'Don't appear surprised at anything you see or hear,' was Ping Wang's sensible advice, 'and remember that an exclamation from either of you would probably lead to its being discovered that you are not Chinamen.'

Charlie and Fred promised not to forget what he had said.

When they had trudged about three-quarters of a mile they joined the main road to the village for which they were bound, and from now onwards at every few yards they met a Chinaman.

The Pages thoroughly enjoyed the novel scene. Chinamen of almost all stations of life seemed to be using that road. One moment they would see a pompous-looking man riding on a sturdy, shaggy pony; the next, a dandy being carried in a palanquin. Coolies with a long pole across one shoulder, and a basket or bundle hanging from each end, hurried past them at a shuffling kind of run. Heavier loads were carried on poles, which rested on the shoulders of two coolies. Occasionally some pedestrian would make a friendly remark to the three travellers, and when that happened Ping Wang replied in the most genial manner.

When they had been on the tramp for about an hour and a half, Ping Wang looked round, and seeing that no Chinamen were near, said, as he pointed to a square-looking object in the distance, 'That is Su-ching, our first halting-place.'

After this the three friends were compelled to remain silent, so constantly were they meeting people, and the nearer they drew to the town the more numerous did the people become. The town was enclosed by a brick wall, and from a distance looked able to withstand the attack of any enemy; but a closer inspection showed that the defences were practically worthless, and that the town could be quickly destroyed by modern guns. In some places the walls had crumbled away. Some of the guns were so old and rusty that to have fired them would have done more harm to the gunners than to the enemy. But most of the guns were dummies—wooden things, mounted to give a formidable look to the place.

'Will there be any difficulty about getting into the town?' Fred whispered.

'Oh, no!' Ping Wang replied. 'We will enter by that gate facing us. There will probably be some soldiers there, but they won't interfere with us.'

Ten minutes later Ping Wang and the Pages arrived at the open gate, near which were some half-dozen dirty rascals playing some Chinese game. They were soldiers, but so interested were they in their game that they did not even glance at the people passing in and out. Ping Wang told Fred and Charlie, later, that these imitations of soldiers usually passed their time in that fashion.

Once in the town Charlie and Fred felt that they were comparatively safe, for it seemed that among the large population they would escape notice. No one appeared to suspect that they were not Chinamen, and Ping Wang, who had recently been regretting he had induced the Pages to take part in such a dangerous enterprise, became convinced that they would reach the house for which they were bound without any difficulty. The reason for entering the town was to discover from a cousin of his, who resided there, if Chin Choo were still alive. He knew that it was a risky thing for him to do to bring the Pages into the town, but he was convinced that to have left them by themselves outside would have been far more dangerous.

'In a few minutes,' he said, quietly, 'we shall arrive at my cousin's house. He is a Christian, and will not let any one know that you are Englishmen. He will give us a meal, and then we can start off refreshed to Kwang-ngan.'

But before they had gone another fifty yards, and just as they were passing a big building, which Ping Wang whispered was the residence of some high official, some twenty Yamen runners, or policemen, suddenly rushed out of the courtyard and seized the three of them. The men were armed with swords, and to have resisted would have been madness. Ping Wang indignantly asked to be told why they were treated thus, but got no reply. Charlie and Fred had the good sense not to utter a word, for, although they believed that it had been discovered that they were Europeans, they were determined not to convict themselves. With unnecessary roughness they were hurried into the courtyard from which their captors had sallied, and before long a mandarin came out of the house to inspect them. He was not attired in his official clothes, and did not come within twenty yards of the prisoners, but after a glance at them made some remark to the leader of the men who had captured them, and then returned indoors.

Ping Wang was still ignorant of the cause of their arrest, but, as no cries of 'Foreigners!' had been raised, he knew that it had not yet been discovered that Charlie and Fred were Europeans. Once again he demanded to be told why they had been arrested, but, instead of replying, the leader raised his bamboo cane menacingly. As Ping Wang had no desire to be beaten, he made no further efforts to solve the mystery of their arrest. His sole anxiety now was as to what would be done to them. That they were supposed to have committed some crime he guessed, and that they would be punished, although they had not been tried, he was also sure.

Without any delay, Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were marched out of the courtyard, and through the streets, until they came to a large building, which Ping Wang recognised with dismay as a prison. But, with a thrill of hope, he found that they were not taken into the prison, but marched round the wall until they came to a spot where there were half-a-dozen wooden collars lying on the ground. These wooden collars are very much like the old English pillory, with the exception that the person who has to wear the instrument is not placed on a platform, but stands or sits on the ground.

Charlie and Fred did not recognise the instruments of punishment, and, when they were suddenly flung to the ground, they imagined that they were about to be executed. As they felt the collars tighten round their necks, and had their hands pushed through two holes lower down on the wooden board, they came to the conclusion that they were to be tortured to death. But when they found that nothing more was done to them they turned their heads—as far as their wooden collars would permit—to see how their companion was faring. Then, seeing each other, they understood the nature of their punishment.

The Chinamen, having chained the wooden collars to the prison wall, departed, leaving the three prisoners to the tender mercies of any passers-by.

'Now they are all gone I must speak,' Charlie exclaimed. 'How long will they keep us in these things?'

'I haven't the faintest idea,' Ping Wang answered.

For fully half an hour they did not speak a word. Scores of people passed them during that time, but very few took any notice of them, for it was by no means an unusual sight to see prisoners there. Two or three chaffed them, but no one molested them. Their first tormentors were two boys, who walked up and down in front of them, pulling their noses as they passed; but, fortunately, an official, whose duty it was to pay periodical visits to men in their position, came in sight, and the young rascals fled in alarm.