Eliza, who was Mr. Baker's housekeeper, watched me with evident enjoyment, and before the plate was empty she rose to replenish it. I felt thankful that Providence had guided me to Mr. Baker's door, and devoutly hoped that I should not be turned away that night. I realised instinctively that these were the sort of people who would not turn a dog from their door if he needed succour, and by the time I had finished my meat, and had begun to eat a large portion of apple tart with a great many cloves in it, it appeared certain that there was shelter for one night, at least. At last I finished the last piece of thick and rather heavy piecrust, and sat waiting to see what would happen next.

'Now,' said Eliza, 'I should think the next thing ought to be to clean yourself.'

'I should like it immensely,' I answered.

So she led me to a wash-house behind the kitchen, and brought a large bowl of enamelled iron, filling it with very hot water. A cake of yellow soap and a jack-towel were provided, and taking off my jacket and waistcoat, I enjoyed a thoroughly good wash.

'Let me see what I can do with those,' said Eliza, taking my jacket and waistcoat, and when she brought them back as I dried my hands they certainly looked a little less dusty. She lent me a hard brush to brush my knickerbockers, stockings, and boots, and although there were several rents in my jacket, I began to feel something like a respectable member of society again.

'Now,' cried Eliza, regarding me with evident approval, 'suppose you come and see Mr. Baker.'

She led me to the room where I had seen her, earlier in the evening, draw down the red blind, and he was seated in an arm-chair with a wooden pipe in his mouth.

'Sit down,' he said, and nothing loth, for my legs still ached painfully, I took a chair by the door. 'Now,' he continued, 'how did you get yourself into such a state, and how is it you are wandering about the country alone?'

'I ran away,' I answered, and Mr. Baker looked towards the door, which Eliza had left half open.

'Eliza,' he exclaimed with a kind of chuckle, which seemed to confirm the assurance that I had found a sympathetic listener—'Eliza,' he shouted, 'the youngster's run away.'

'Has he, though?' said Eliza, coming to the threshold, where she remained standing.

'From school?' he asked, and sliding down farther into his chair, evidently prepared to enjoy my story, while Eliza stood in the doorway with her arms folded. I told it from the beginning. Every now and then Eliza would interrupt with an expression of sympathy, and Mr. Baker slapped his knee when I told him how I had thrown the hair-brush at Augustus. When I came to the end, having described the day's adventures, the sale of my watch and chain, with the theft of the fifteen shillings by the tramp, Mr. Baker shook his head, and looked into Eliza's pleasant, plain face.

'Now,' he said, 'the question is what's to be done with the youngster?'

'Supposing you got to London,' she suggested, turning to me, 'what did you think of doing?'

'I know I could do something,' I answered confidently.

'Still,' said Mr. Baker, 'you have not done much good for yourself to-day now, have you?'

'No,' I was compelled to admit, 'not to-day.'

'And you have no money left?' cried Eliza.

'When I get to London I am going to find some work to do,' I assured her; but she shook her head, and smiled a little sadly.

'Come to think of it,' said Mr. Baker, 'this Turton is about your only friend.'

'I don't call him a friend,' I answered.

'Anyhow,' exclaimed Eliza, 'it is too late to do anything to-night.'

'I suppose you can make the boy up a bed somewhere?' said Mr. Baker.

'If you ask my opinion,' she replied, 'the sooner he's inside it the better.'

'Yes; and directly after breakfast to-morrow morning,' he said, 'I shall drive the youngster back to Castlemore.'

'Not to Mr. Turton's!' I cried.

'What else do you think I can do with you?' he asked, as Eliza went away to prepare my bed.

'I would sooner do anything—anything,' I said, 'than go back.'

'I dare say you would,' he answered. 'Only you see there is nothing else to be done. I can't say I believe in boys running away, but still you seem to have been badly treated, and if you had a home, I don't say that in the circumstances I would not see you to it safe and sound. But you have not; and the consequence is that it is my duty to take you back. And,' he added, solemnly, 'however severely he treats you it won't be half so bad as what you would meet with if I let you go your own way.'

I could find nothing to answer. With all his kindness, Mr. Baker seemed to mean what he said, and I realised that a remonstrance would be only waste of words. Besides, I am afraid I was become cunning in my efforts at self-preservation, and if I said nothing, I certainly thought the more. My sleepiness seemed to have left me, and all my wits were at work. If I could prevent him, I determined that Mr. Baker should not take me back to Ascot House, although as yet I had not the remotest notion how to hinder his purpose.

One thing appeared certain. He was only to be defeated by strategy, and not by force. As I looked at his large fist resting on his arm-chair, I knew that if I attempted to resist I should be as powerless in his arms as I had been in those of the tramp. Presently Eliza re-entered the room to say the bed was ready, and when I arose Mr. Baker held out his arm to shake hands, causing me to feel not a little shamefaced. My friend seemed to have become an enemy. He had treated me kindly, and, indeed, still intended to do what he considered best for me, while my chief aim was to oppose him. But to have said right out that I would not go back to Castlemore would have defeated my own ends, so that I put my hand in his, received a cordial shake, and then followed Eliza upstairs. She carried a candle, which she set down on the washing-stand, and I saw that I was in a small room, extremely cool and clean, with one window, in front of which stood a muslin-covered dressing-table.

'Now tumble in quick,' she cried, 'and I will come to take the candle.'

(Continued on page 58.)



A NOVEL RAIN PROTECTOR.

One day, some years ago, a number of people were travelling in Ireland by coach. The day turned wet, and threatened to continue so till night. The moment the coach stopped, one of the outside passengers, who was without an umbrella, rushed into an ironmonger's shop and came out with a grid-iron in his hand. All the other outside passengers thought he was mad, but he wrapped himself in a large cloak, which covered his cap and most of his face and came down to his feet, and seated himself on his gridiron in the middle of his seat. In a couple of hours it was seen what he meant.

While the other passengers were sitting in pools of water from the dripping of the umbrellas, he was sitting high and dry above the seat on his gridiron; all the water ran under it, and when they got to their destination, the man on the gridiron was as dry as a bone, whilst the other outside passengers were soaked to the skin.

W. YARWOOD.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

3.—PIED CITIES.

1. S, B, T, U, R, C, A, E, H. 2. N, O, U, E, R. 3. R, W, I, B, N, S, U, K, C. 4. E, T, U, A, B, S, P, D. 5. G, I, N, T, O, A, S, A. 6. C, O, F, A, S, S, A, N, N, C, I, R. 7. N, A, B, S, E, E, R. 8. G, U, P, E, R, A. 9. A, P, A, S, O, V, L, R, A, I. 10. T, E, N, S, A, N.

C. J. B.

4.—GEOGRAPHICAL ENIGMA.

To gently walk, to move with ease; An edge, or margin, if you please: Combine the two, and you will find The home of persons great in mind. A spot of northern English ground Near which a mighty poet found A still retreat: a teacher sage, And lady honoured in her age, Were dwellers in this district too, And all its wondrous beauties knew.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 98.]



ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 30.

1.—Honduras.

1. Hymettus. 2. Otranto. 3. Newlyn. 4. Donnybrook. 5. Ujiji. 6. Roanoke. 7. Assam. 8. Shanghai.

2.—Hiawatha.

1. Taw. 2. Haw. 3. Hat. 4. Whit. 5. Thaw. 6. Haha. 7. What. 8. Wit.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 55.)

I hurried out of my clothes as soon as Eliza had closed my bedroom door, although I did not turn into the inviting bed until I had bathed my feet, which were already slightly blistered. Then I lay down, having a difficult task to keep my eyes open until she came to take away the candle. To my surprise, Eliza bent over the pillow and kissed my forehead, thus making me feel more guilty than ever. It seemed a poor way to repay the kindness I had met with at her hands and Mr. Baker's, to run away during the night, although unless I did this it appeared certain that I should be taken back to Turton's the first thing after breakfast the next morning. Concerning such a calamity I felt desperate, and I believe there were few things I would not have done to secure freedom.

It was not that I feared any tremendous punishment, for I had never known Mr. Turton raise his hand to a boy, and my treatment could scarcely be worse than that which I had met with to-day. But it was the idea of the shame and degradation of being hauled back, of the jeers of Augustus, and his telling the other fellows on their return. Indeed, I was incapable of reasoning; I simply felt that any fate would be preferable to a return to Castlemore, and the only alternative seemed to be flight for the second time.

At present I could not tell whether even this would be practicable, although at the best I perceived that there would be many difficulties to overcome—Tiger not being the least. I had no idea whether Mr. Baker gave him the run of the premises at night, although this appeared extremely probable, or whether he was on the chain, and, if so, where. Whatever I did must be under cover of darkness, and the nights were short at this season. I knew that a farmer's household would be early risers, and that in fact there was little time to spare.

As I lay in bed, I could hear voices downstairs, and guessed that my own affairs were under discussion. I remembered a tale I had read of some travellers who were lost on a mountain, and in spite of their terrible weariness, feared to lie down in the snow, knowing that if they once fell asleep they would never again awaken in this world. My case seemed rather like theirs, although I lay in a comfortable feather bed. How delightful it was, how cool and fresh the linen sheets, how willingly I could have closed my tired eyes and fallen asleep! But in that case I feared that I should be lost. I certainly could not feel sure of waking before daylight; indeed, I felt I could sleep for a week, whereas, long before dawn, I had to put a considerable distance between myself and Mr. Baker's farm.

Afraid of closing my eyes in spite of myself, I sat up in bed, anxiously waiting for the voices to cease, for until it became safe to open my window, and ascertain what was underneath it, I could not tell even whether escape were possible. The window was the only hope! The house was so small that I could not imagine myself opening the door, going downstairs, and finding a way out without disturbing its inmates. If the window was not too high, and the ground was fairly clear beneath it, I might be able to get away, but otherwise there seemed no alternative to an ignominious return to Castlemore to-morrow morning.

At last the voices became silent. I heard a key turned and bolts shot home into their sockets, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the shutting of first one door, then of another, followed by total silence. Getting out of bed about a quarter of an hour later, I walked about the room, and going to the washstand, sluiced my face in the basin to make myself more wakeful. Again I sat on the bed for what seemed a long time, until a clock downstairs struck the hour of midnight. Now, I thought, Mr. Baker and Eliza must be asleep, and groping for my clothes, I began to dress with all possible speed. As I rose from lacing my boots I trod on a loose board, which creaked so loudly that I felt certain it must be heard throughout the house. Lest any one should be aroused, I got quickly into bed again, dressed as I was, but although I lay there some time I heard no sound. Creeping cautiously across the room, I moved the dressing-table, and then, with the utmost care, drew up the green cotton blind. The moon shone brightly, almost at the full, but this might be either an advantage or a drawback. At least, it served to show my surroundings, and, before opening the window, I stared through the panes for some minutes. The house consisted of only one story above the ground floor, and the rooms were by no means lofty. My window overlooked what was evidently a fair-sized kitchen-garden, surrounded by a low hedge, beyond which I could see nothing but fields.

Now, if it happened that Tiger was chained, and I could succeed in reaching the garden, I determined to give up for the present every thought of gaining the road to London or anywhere else. I would simply get through the hedge at the earliest moment lest any one should detect me in the bright moonlight, then make a straight dash across country. By this means it promised to be far easier to avoid pursuit than if I followed any kind of road. Being fully dressed, with the exception of a hat, which did not seem to matter, I cautiously pushed up the lower half of the window and leaned forward to survey the ground. Immediately below me lay a bed about two feet wide, with flowers growing in it and one or two standard roses. I saw that the distance would not be too great to drop, and, anxious to lose no more time, I climbed out to the sill, crouching there a minute with alarming thoughts of Tiger. But all was perfectly still; one or two birds began to rustle in the leaves of the ivy which seemed to cover the back of the house, that was all, until turning round on the narrow sill, I heard the jangling of a chain. Peering forth once more, however, I could see no sign of a kennel, so that it seemed probable that Tiger was secured at the side of the house or in the front. Placing my hands on the sill, I gradually lowered myself until I hung by the fingers, then the next moment I dropped all of a heap, but without making much noise, on to the bed, the only damage being a scratch on the left cheek from a thorn on one of the standard roses.

Finding my feet at once, I made for the hedge, scrambling through it as Tiger began to give tongue. Turning to the left on the other side, I ran with all my might until I floundered into a wet ditch. Over a second hedge I scrambled, across a meadow with sleeping cows and calves, which rose at my approach, looking rather ghostly as they crowded together in a bunch. I clambered over gates, floundered into other ditches, and presently found myself entering the completer darkness of a wood, on the other side of which came a park, then more fields, until I began to pant, and to think that Mr. Baker's farm was sufficiently far behind for safety.

How long I had been running I have no idea, but the moon was fast sinking towards the horizon, and, before it disappeared altogether, it seemed advisable to find a place where I might secure some much-needed sleep. In a large field I espied a wooden shelter—intended, no doubt, for cattle—and open at one side. This being empty I entered, and was fortunate enough to find a goodly heap of dry clover in a corner. Spreading this out over the ground, without more ado I threw myself, just as I was, at full length upon it, too weary to think or to do anything but fall at once asleep.



CHAPTER VIII.

I must have slept for many hours in the shed, for, when I opened my eyes, the sun was high in the sky. I think it must have been past ten o'clock, and it took some minutes before I could succeed in determining which of my recent experiences were real, and which the result of dreams. Little by little I began to put together the circumstances, which had occurred since yesterday morning, in their proper order, and my cheeks tingled with shame as I tried to imagine the feelings of Mr. Baker and Eliza when they discovered my flight. They had treated me with genuine kindness, and it must appear that I had repaid them with the basest ingratitude; while yet I cannot pretend to have repented of my flight from the farm-house, for I knew that, in similar circumstances, I should act in the same way.

At first I felt tempted to lie down and go to sleep again, but this might be to run no little risk. It was impossible to decide whether I was still on Mr. Baker's land or not, for, although I had covered some miles last night, there was no proof that I had run in a straight line, and it seemed quite likely that I had described something resembling a circle.

So I rose and stood gazing down at my legs, which now bore no traces of the brush which Eliza had lent me after supper. My boots were completely coated with mud as the result of the ditches into which I had floundered in my headlong flight, my stockings were splashed, and even my knickerbockers were freely covered with dry mud.

On stepping out from the shelter of the hut, the sun shining full in my eyes reminded me that I had not put on my hat, and, entering again, I looked about for it for a few seconds before remembering that it had, of course, been left behind at the farm-house.



As I crossed the field, the situation seemed peculiarly depressing, and it was impossible not to contrast it with my circumstances at the same hour yesterday. It was one consolation that nobody could rob me to-day, for I had not a penny in my pocket. Every one of my limbs seemed to have a separate ache, and although I had not been accustomed to very luxurious fare of late, I felt a great longing for breakfast.

Although my confidence in the good fortune awaiting me in London had been somewhat shaken since I left Castlemore, I still determined to set my face in that direction. Where else could I go unless I returned to Mr. Turton? An unthinkable proposition. Making my way towards a black five-barred gate, I rejoiced to see a lane on the other side of it, and, without a notion of my locality, I thought it better to turn to the left. The lane, a mere cart-track, led to a wider road, prettily undulated, and, for half a mile or so, entirely deserted. The first person I saw that morning (it must have been about half-past eleven) was a young man of about three-and-twenty years of age, engaged in mending a puncture in his bicycle-tyre. The machine was turned wheels upwards, while he stood pressing the punctured portion of the collapsed tyre between two pennies. From curiosity, and the desire, perhaps, to be near some one for a few minutes, I stopped, while he chalked the patch, stooped to replace the outer covering, and then, turning the bicycle right way up again, took off the pump.

(Continued on page 69.)



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

II.—M. CHARLES AND HIS PARIS BALLOON.

News, like sound, travels fast; and the applause which greeted the ascent of the Montgolfier balloon at Annonay had hardly ceased when it seemed to reach the ears of the people in Paris, and put the whole town in quite a flutter of excitement. Some of those who had been present at the great experiment wrote an account of it to their friends in Paris, who at once began to make arrangements for inviting the Montgolfiers to send up another balloon from the capital. But these arrangements took too long to satisfy the impatience of the people of Paris, and they were better pleased when M. de Saint-Fond opened a subscription to pay expenses for a separate experiment.

No one in all France had heard of the event at Annonay with more interest and delight than a certain M. James Alexander Caesar Charles, a young and clever scientist who took great pleasure in showing people the wonderful things he had discovered. When Franklin brought lightning out of the clouds with a kite, M. Charles followed the road thus pointed out to him, and soon found new wonders which he had a great talent for explaining. Thus, though he might not be a great original discoverer, he was quick to see in what direction truth lay, and was able to lead those who were less learned than himself. What wonder, then, that the people of Paris were full of expectation when they heard that M. Charles had put away his electrical studies to devote his attention to balloons? Sufficient money having been collected he set to work with the assistance of two brothers named Robert, and constructed an 'envelope' of silk, which, when filled, would make a balloon twelve feet two inches in diameter. This was very small when compared with the giant of Annonay, but the gas that M. Charles was going to use would make it thirteen times stronger. 'You see,' said he, 'the air that the Montgolfiers use is twice as light as the atmosphere. I shall use inflammable gas' (as hydrogen was then called), 'which is fourteen times lighter; though to retain this it will be necessary to paint the silk with rubber dissolved in turpentine.'

But if the gentlemen who sat around the platform at Annonay had gathered to see this baby balloon inflated they would have grown very weary, for it took nearly four days. Every morning outside Charles's house a notice was hung up to inform the eager crowds how the wonderful little giant was growing; and at last it became necessary for mounted police to protect his door, so great was the crush. Then, on the twenty-sixth of August, though the balloon was not quite full, it was decided to carry it to the Champs de Mars, the open space from which the ascent was to be made. There the filling could be completed. But as not even a king, travelling in state, would be likely to draw such excited throngs as this balloon, arrangements were made for moving the silk bag in the middle of the night. First, all the tools which would be required at the launching were sent in advance; then, at two o'clock in the morning, the procession set out. A strong body of mounted soldiers accompanied the waggon on which the half-filled balloon was placed, while in front of it marched a body of men carrying torches. The journey was only two miles long, yet in that short distance the cavalcade was greeted with enough applause to satisfy the most ambitious. All vehicles encountered en route were drawn aside, and the drivers doffed their caps as they watched it pass. As the balloon swayed solemnly from side to side, an imaginative on-looker might have fancied that it was acknowledging these respectful salutations.

In due course the scene of action was safely reached and the filling process continued. As the gas had to be made from sulphuric acid and iron filings, it naturally took some time, but when the clocks of Paris were striking five on the evening of August 27th, 1783, Charles's cloud-cruiser was ready for the voyage. The bells had hardly done chiming when a cannon-shot was heard. It was the signal for departure. The thousands of spectators heard it with a thrill of interest, and as its echoes reverberated over Paris, the watchers of the high towers of Notre Dame, and the military school, directed their telescopes to the Champs de Mars. One of the guests was Stephen Montgolfier, for though Charles might add improvements to others' inventions, he always acknowledged to whom the first honour belonged.

In spite of the heavy rain that was falling, the balloon shot into the air with great rapidity, and in the space of a minute or two disappeared behind a cloud. The moment it vanished another cannon was fired as though in farewell, but the watchers (richly dressed gentlemen and fine ladies) regardless of the weather, continued to keep their eyes upon the clouds, and were surprised to see it once more, far above them, sailing in the direction of Gonesse, fifteen miles away. Here in a field it settled, three-quarters of an hour after leaving Paris, and—met its doom. The country people, imagining it to be a large and unknown bird, approached in fear, until one, bolder than the rest, stabbed it with a pitchfork, when the sighing sound, made by the out-rushing gas, only confirmed their conviction that it was endowed with life. In vain did the village cure try to dissuade them, and when at last the silk bag lay flat and 'lifeless' on the ground, they tied it to a horse's tail and set him galloping through the field. With wild excitement they followed in chase, till hardly a shred of poor M. Charles's carefully-built balloon remained to be trodden on.

When the country folk were so ignorant as this, we can hardly be surprised to read that the Government soon found it advisable to make Montgolfier's discovery widely known, so as to allay 'the terror which it might otherwise excite among the people.'

JOHN LEA.



MY GARDEN CONCERT.

I hear a splendid concert in my garden every day, When the breezes find by grove and lawn some instrument to play; They shake the shiny laurel with the clatter of the 'bones,' And from the lofty sycamore draw deeper 'cello tones, And giving thus the signal that the concert should begin, The brook beside the pebbled path strikes up its mandoline.

Then all the garden wakes to sound, for not a bird is mute: The robin pipes the piccolo; the blackbird plays the flute; While high upon a cedar-top a thrush with bubbling throat Lifts up to this accompaniment her clear soprano note.

Then by-and-by there softly sounds, beside some flowering tree The oboe of the dancing gnat, the cornet of the bee. Such tiny notes—and yet with ease their cadence I can trace, While over-head some passing rook puts in his noisy bass, Or from a green and shady copse, a daisied field away, I hear the jarring discords of a magpie and a jay.

The Wind conducts the orchestra, and as he beats the time The flood of music sinks and swells in melody sublime; Till, when the darkness deepens and the sun sets in the West, They all put up their instruments and settle down to rest; And when I seek my slumber, like the daisy or the bird, My rest is all the better for the concert I have heard.



THE LEGEND OF HELFENSTEIN.

A German version of an old story.

In former times there ruled at Olmuetz, in Moravia, a Duke who allowed himself, when in anger, to do many cruel things. One day, Bruno, his falconer, came trembling before his master and announced to him that the finest of the falcons was dead. When the Duke heard this, he flew into a passion, and commanded his servants to chastise the man severely. Bruno, however, succeeded in escaping the intended punishment, and hid himself in the thick forest which extends from Olmuetz to the Oder valley. There he lived by hunting, and occupied himself with charcoal-burning.

It happened one day that as Bruno, armed with bow and arrow and battle-axe, was going through the forest, he suddenly heard the well-known hunting-cry of the Duke. He quickly hid himself behind an oak-tree, in order that his master should not discover him, and saw, to his horror, that his master was pursued by a wild bison. The Duke would have lost his life, if Bruno, with his battle-axe, had not courageously attacked the furious animal and given it a mortal wound. Deeply touched, the Duke thanked the deliverer of his life for his proved fidelity, and bade him ask any favour he pleased.

Bruno did so. He asked to be allowed to possess as much land as he could encircle with the skin of the dead bison. Smilingly, the Duke promised to grant the request.

The falconer began to cut the skin into small strips, and with them encircled the whole hill upon which he had saved his prince's life. The Duke was highly pleased with this proof of Bruno's cleverness as well as courage, made him into a knight, and put him in a position of honour at his court. Bruno became dearer to his master every day, and rendered him many and great services. In later times he built a castle on the hill, which, in memory of the Duke's deliverance, he called Helfenstein.

W. Y.



CHASED BY SEAGULLS.

Seagulls are a very distinct tribe of birds, mostly lovers of the sea, yet from time to time showing themselves inland. They look larger than they really are, owing to their having a quantity of down and feathers, the wings being also long and the head large. They are equipped with a strong and straight bill, by means of which they devour a great variety of food. They will occasionally go out to sea hundreds of miles from land, but they are not welcome sights to the mariner, for he usually regards them as signs that bad weather is approaching. The most familiar species is the common seagull, white and grey, with greenish legs.

One of the peculiarities of the seagull is its habit of dashing in parties after any object that attracts its notice. This now and then furnishes amusement to men and boys who are strolling along the Thames banks or bridges. Supplying themselves with bits of bread or fragments of meat, they fling these upon the river, and watch the birds eagerly pursue the food.

Seagulls will also give chase to birds of other species they may come across. Not long ago the Cunard steamer Campania, from New York, was nearly due south of Nova Scotia, when the look-out observed a bird close at hand flying rapidly. In fact, it went faster than the ship, which was then moving twenty-four statute miles an hour. A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive, but could not make enough speed to catch it. At length the bird settled upon the deck, wearied, and proved to be a fine specimen of the snowy owl.

The snowy owl is a species chiefly found in the Arctic Circle, especially about Greenland and Iceland. It is a hardy bird, and has its nest among the rocks. The bill is hooked like a hawk's, having round the base a few stiff feathers. Its plumage is snowy white touched with some brown.

J. R. S. C.



THE CAPTAIN AND THE INVALID.

A fine instance of moral courage occurred not long ago at a small seaport. The captain of a little passenger-boat, a tall, sun-browned man, stood on his craft superintending the labours of his men, when the boat train came in, and about twelve minutes after, a party of half-a-dozen gentlemen came along, and, deliberately walking up to the captain, thus addressed him:—

'Sir, we wish to go by this boat, but our further progress to-day depends upon you. In the train we have just left there is a sick man, whose presence is extremely disagreeable to us. We have been chosen as a committee by the passengers, to ask that you will deny this man a passage on your boat; if he goes, we remain here.'

By this time others had come from the train.

'Gentlemen,' said the captain, 'I have heard the passengers through your committee. Has the invalid any representatives here? I wish to hear both sides of the question.'

To this unexpected inquiry there was not a single answer. Without a pause, the captain crossed to the car, and, entering, beheld a poor, emaciated, worn-out creature, who was obviously very weak and ill.

The man's head was bowed in his hands, and he was weeping. The captain advanced and spoke kindly to him.

'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B——, sir, and my journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'

'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger for the trip.'

By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision of the captain, before engaging their passage.

A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a parent.

Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'

But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.

In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest, with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a lesson—that they felt humble before him, and they asked his forgiveness.

W. Y.



BOUQUETS.

Buttercups and daisies, Violets and May, Pimpernels and cowslips, Make a sweet bouquet. Not a rose among them; Nought the garden yields. Yet a lot of beauty Taken from the fields, Gathered in the sunshine, Through the happy hours— What a sweet bouquet, dears, Made of simple flowers!

Patience and forgiveness, Kindness to the weak; Willing in our labour All the happy week; No exalted actions Striving after praise, Yet a lot of beauty From life's lowly ways, Gathered through the day, dear, By the heart that heeds— What a sweet bouquet, dear! Made of simple deeds.

J. L.



McLEOD OF CLERE.

Founded on Fact.

I.

The moonlight lay in soft brilliance over the land of Burmah. Its rays pierced the small slit windows in the cell of the fanatic An-we-lota, and lighted up the fierce faces of the dacoits and desperate men, who from time to time stealthily entered, until a close-packed band had collected. Near and far a message had reached these malcontents that an attack would be made on some of the British outposts scattered here and there over the newly conquered territory, and held by English officers and a brave force of Sikhs and Pathans.

'We are as nothing,' said An-we-lota; 'these Ingalay' (Englishmen) 'have taken our country, and are now setting up their camps everywhere among us, for these men to spy on us. They say the glorious King Theebaw is dead. Know we not well that he will come again and reign over us? I am myself possessed of magic power. I have swallowed the all-powerful mercury, which makes me proof against bullet and steel, which turn to water as they touch me. Have I not also the coins of invulnerability bound in the flesh and blood of my arm?' and the fanatic stripped up the sleeve of his yellow robe and showed his bare, skinny upper arm, where the edges of buried coins were visible in deep cuts. 'I am king as well as priest; I am the Prince Setkia Muntna, who was drowned in the Irrawaddy seventy years ago. I have come to life again—behold, I am he.'

Dusky hands were raised in salutation, and one evil-looking warrior stepped forward: 'I am also proof against bullets. Was I not Theebaw's chief "Boh"?' (head warrior). 'I am ready to lead any expedition against these robbing English. See, we are all armed.'

The moonlight flashed on the murderous-looking 'dah' knives raised for an instant from the folds of the garments of the assembled men.

'Our first attack,' said An-we-lota, 'shall be on the Sardu Station. Our scout, Al Met, has brought word that much of their force has been called away to quell the Wahs. Our attack shall be swift and sure, and with our band here we shall outnumber them, and exterminate the whole while they are sleeping. When shall we start?'

'No time like the present,' was the cry, and the dahs flew out again and were uplifted.

In a few minutes the cell was emptied, and the stealthy march began, by rock and jungle and secret paths, to the doomed outpost station.

The hours passed, and the early morning light showed pale on the blazing huts of Sardu Fort, and on dead and dying scattered about. Where the dead were thickest lay a young English officer gasping, 'Inez, my darling, we shall meet again soon, and our little son——'

Close at hand lay the fanatic, An-we-lota, dead, his magic coins and mercury-fed body no proof against British steel.

From the distance there came the tread of a returning force—too late!—and in the deepest shades of the jungle a native woman, with horror-stricken face, pressed forward through tangle and thorn, with a living, wailing bundle clasped close to her breast.

How many days she spent in weary wandering over well-nigh a hundred miles of jungle and plain, helped by log-boat up strange waters, ever heading for the homes of her people, the Karens—a bourne she was never to reach—who can say?

* * * * *

It was early morning. The first faint streaks of dawn were chasing the night shadows from hill and valley. Early risers in a little jungle village far distant from Fort Sardu shivered as they rose from their sleeping-places, and pushing aside the curiously woven mats, hung from the eaves of the sloping roofs, descended to the waking world outside. The native dogs howled hideously as they were unceremoniously driven from the still smouldering embers of last night's fires.

Maung Yet, one of the first astir, twisted the folds of his waist-cloth closer round him, and looked forth upon the morning. The rising sun was turning into gold and bronze the ripening paddy fields close at hand, glorifying the reed roofs of the native huts under the feathery palms, and gilding the distant belt of jungle, stretching away to the horizon.

The huts of the Tounghi tribe were raised breast-high on stout posts, as protection against wild beasts and snakes. Many dark-skinned natives moving around in busy preparation showed that the labours of the day would be beginning early.

It was the time of the Burmese harvest, and the first of the ripe paddy fields would be gathered in that day. Already might be heard the hoarse voice of crows, and the screams of hundreds of bright-hued parrakeets, descending for their feast on the precious grain. At the sound, many of the village youths ran up quickly, and with cries and rude bird-clappers scared the birds away, only to set to work again at some more distant spot.

Many and various were the sounds echoing around Maung Yet, and ever and anon he seemed to distinguish from among them a sound like a human cry. Once more it came, and Maung stood keenly listening. Yes, a cry for help, certainly, and a dog's strange, shrill bark, too—and both from the far-off jungle. Maung Yet trembled. Was it the cry, perchance, of some robber luring him to destruction, or was it really a fellow-creature's cry for help?

The Burman, like all his race, was very superstitious, and avoided the jungle as being haunted; but his heart was kind. Arming himself with his primitive sickle, he beckoned to Lan Wee, his young brother, who was squatting on the ground eating a huge mass of rice, and set off at full speed towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, attracted onward against his will by the voice of misery. The youth followed him closely, his eyes wide open with fear, as they neared the dreaded jungle. In its dark shadows who could say what dangers lurked? They pressed on, however, through trails of prickly foliage, clinging undergrowth, and fallen timber, which lay like so many traps for unwary feet. The cry had sunk to a moan, but the dog's whine was shriller and more urgent as they neared the end of their quest.

Both Burmen were tattooed over breast and shoulders with a glorious blazonry of red—a decoration performed with religious rites as a protection against 'evil spirits.' Few Burmen would face the jungle unless thus fortified. Maung felt a few qualms even in spite of his tattoo, but invoking the 'aing-sohn' (the good spirits), he and his young companion, breathless and panting, struggled on, and came to what they sought at last.

Half resting against a fallen tree-trunk lay an apparently dead native woman, reduced to almost a skeleton. Her bare feet told of long, rough journeying, and from wrist to elbow of the left arm was a half-healed wound, such as Maung Yet knew well the keen 'dah' could leave. From her neck was slung a baby, and standing fiercely on guard, a lean, whitish dog.

With the curious canine instinct, divining rightly friend or foe, the dog allowed the approach of the two Burmen. Maung knelt and raised the prostrate woman; the weak head fell heavily on his shoulder, then stirred uneasily, the eyes opened, and the dying lips tried again and again to find utterance. Broken words at last whispered faintly over and over again, 'Bebe Ingalay—Mah Kloo! Thakin Missee Bebe!' Then the wasted hands tried to remove the baby. Maung understood, and signed to the youth to lift it from her neck. The movement woke the child, and it uttered a thin cry. The sound roused the flickering life of the dying woman for an instant; with a last movement she lightly touched the wee dark head, smiled faintly, and died.



A shallow grave was hastily dug. A pouch in the tattered garments contained a few coins of money and a curious small gold cross. Maung Yet touched his tattoo anxiously as he took the latter: it must be, he thought, some strange charm. Then he placed the coins in the mouth of the dead woman, in the belief that this provided ferry-hire over the death river, and he and Lan Wee lifted the woman into the grave. Then, with all speed, the two Burmen left the hated jungle, carrying the tiny infant, the lean dog following closely.

(Continued on page 78.)



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 61.)

The cyclist was a good-looking, short, but well-built man, clad in a light, home-spun suit, with knickerbockers and a Panama hat. On the frame of his bicycle was an ordinary mackintosh haversack, and, strapped behind the saddle, a paint-box, a folding sketching-stool, and a good-sized sketching-block. Fixing the pump, he knelt down to inflate the tyre; but the pump was rather small, the sun was hot (as I felt, having no hat), and the man seemed soon to weary of his job. He had glanced once or twice in my direction, and now he rose, blew out his cheeks, and cried: "Hi, boy! do you want to earn a copper?"

'Rather!' I answered, thinking of breakfast.

'Just pump up this tyre for me, then,' he said; and, going down on my knees by the roadside, I began to pump with a will, while he took out a pipe and began to fill it. 'Think that's all right?' he asked, as I rose to my feet.

'It feels pretty hard,' I answered.

'Well, here's twopence for you,' he cried.

'Thanks, awfully,' I said, putting out my hand.

Holding his machine, on the point of wheeling it into the middle of the road, he paused, staring into my face.

'Where are you bound for?' he inquired.

'London,' I replied. 'Can you tell me which is the road?'

He stared again for what seemed a long time, and it was evident that I caused him a little perplexity.

'Of course,' he muttered, half to himself; 'it must be the holidays just now.'

'They began last month,' I answered.

'Yet I am sure you are running away,' he cried.

Somewhat alarmed, in consequence of my recent experiences, I thought it time to get on my way.

'Don't be in a hurry,' he said. 'I think you and I ought to have a little talk.'

'I want to get along,' I retorted.

'Where to?'

'To get some breakfast,' I replied.

'Hungry, eh?' he asked.

'A little.'

With that he looked at his watch; then, saying that it was nearly twelve, he took from a side pocket of his jacket a tin case, packed with tempting-looking sandwiches.

'Just put yourself outside those,' he said, handing me the tin.

'But—but,' I suggested with an effort, 'won't you want them?'

'I am all right,' he said, with a laugh; 'you needn't bother about me. Sit down and start.'

Needing no further persuasion, I sat down on the grass by the way-side, and steadily emptied the sandwich tin. Before this was accomplished, however, he produced a flask, pouring some of its contents into a small cup which fitted on to one end. It seemed to put fresh life into me.

'Feel better?' he inquired, as he replaced the flask in his pocket.

'Ever so much,' I answered.

'Well, then, suppose you tell me all about yourself.'

'I would much rather not,' I insisted.

'Why?'

'Because you—you might try to take me back!'

'Think for a moment, and don't be stupid,' he said. 'How can I take you back if you don't tell me where you have come from? Besides, you would be as much as I could carry with my bike, you know. So fire away,' he added, and I sat on the grass and once more told my story from the beginning, except that this time I omitted to mention Mr. Turton's name or address.

'When you reach London,' he asked after I had become silent, 'what are you going to do?'

'Other fellows have been able to do things,' I answered.

'But, you know,' he said, with a kind sort of smile, 'you have not even got a cat.'

'I believe I shall be all right if only I get there,' I persisted. 'If you would not mind telling me the way to the main road.'

'Well,' he said, 'all roads lead to London.'

'Any one will do for me,' I answered, and upon that he wheeled his machine into the middle of the road.

'Ever ridden on a step?' he asked.

'Rather!'

'Then get up behind me, only don't upset my baggage.'

He mounted as he spoke, and in a second I was standing on the step behind him. In spite of the circumstances, I thoroughly enjoyed that eight miles ride, and felt sincerely sorry when it ended. Now we coasted down a hill, now we both dismounted to walk up one, and, after one such walk, my companion stopped, unfastened his haversack, and took out a cloth cap.

'Think you could wear that?' he asked, and, trying it on, I found it was only slightly too big.

'Thank you most awfully,' I said as we rode on again, and then we did not stop until we reached four cross-roads. Seeing the word 'Polehampton' on a finger-post, I perceived that I had returned to the road from Castlemore to London, which I had left to cross the fields in my futile endeavour to avoid the tramp. It was true that I had made a fairly wide circuit, for my new friend told me I should still have five miles to walk to Polehampton.

'I am immensely obliged to you for the lift and—and everything,' I said, as he seemed to be on the point of starting. I felt extremely reluctant to part from him.

'That is all right,' he answered, thrusting his hand in his knickerbocker pocket. 'This may help you on your way.' He put something into my hand as he pressed it, then, without another word, mounted his bicycle and rode away. Opening my hand, I found five two-shilling pieces. For the next few yards I did not see things very clearly, for I felt too thankful.

After looking back once or twice until he was out of sight, I set out in a business-like manner to walk the five miles to Polehampton. The events of the morning had filled me with fresh courage, and now that my face was once set towards London, earlier hopes began to reawaken. I should have liked to know my companion's name, to keep in my memory with that of Mr. Baker and Eliza, but I never saw or heard of him again. Still, I have not forgotten him or the good turn he did me, and I wish that this story might come into his hands to show that I am not ungrateful.

Having passed through so much in a short time, I was inclined to expect every mile to bring forth its own peculiar adventure, but Polehampton came into sight without any remarkable occurrence. I scarcely enjoyed the walk, as my legs ached more than ever, and I rested many times by the roadside.

To-day being Friday, I determined, on the strength of my ten shillings, to look for a cheap temperance hotel, or some place of the kind, and make a bargain with the proprietor to stay over Saturday and Sunday. This would give me time to rest and make myself a little more presentable, because, in my present muddy condition, I knew that it would be impossible to obtain any kind of work.

For that was what I intended to do. Instead of hoping to reach London in six days, as at first, I would try to earn a little money by the way, because I perceived that it would be no use entering in such a condition as I was at present.

Polehampton appeared to be even a smaller place than Broughton, and by no stretch of imagination could it be described as a town. Still, it felt pleasant to see a few people about; and noticing a clean-looking whitewashed cottage, with a few bottles of sweets and ginger-beer in the window, I entered, sitting down on an empty box while a white-haired, round-backed old woman opened a bottle of ginger-beer, and a spaniel came from a back room and began to lick my hands. Having paid my penny, I sat sipping the ginger-beer, when it occurred to me that it would be a capital place to lodge, if only the old woman would take me.

'I say,' I exclaimed, 'do you know where I could get a lodging?'

She looked a little suspiciously at my muddy legs.

'For yourself?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'How long for?'

'Till Monday morning,' I answered. 'You see, I want to know how much it would cost for a bed and food until then.'

'That is three nights,' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is a small room I might make up a bed in, on the floor, if that would suit you, and there will be a joint of pork for Sunday.'

'To-day's only Friday,' I hinted.

'There is a bit of cheese and a bit of bacon,' she explained. 'Till Monday morning, you say? I should not think five shillings would hurt you.'

So I gave her five shillings, thus leaving only five and a penny in my pocket; but so sorely at that moment did I feel the need of rest that I did not hesitate. The old woman—Mrs. Riddles—lived alone with her old brown spaniel. There was a room behind the shop, which served the purpose of a kitchen, a sitting-room, and a wash-house. In one corner stood a step-ladder, leading to one bedroom and a kind of cupboard, without either window or fireplace, or any furniture but one bottomless chair. This I discovered was intended for my own use, and, indeed, so long as I might lie down in it, I cared about little else.

After an early supper, consisting of bread, some very fat cold streaky bacon, and cheese, Mrs. Riddles put a sofa-cushion, a pillow, two thin blankets, and a sheet on the cupboard floor, and advising me to leave the door open for the sake of air, retired to her own room. It was a vastly different kind of bed from that which had been given to me by Eliza at Mr. Baker's farmhouse, but at least it did not prevent me from sleeping the moment my head touched the pillow. I did not reopen my eyes until Mrs. Riddles brought me a can of cold water and a basin, with soap and a towel, on Saturday morning.

'It is seven o'clock,' she said, 'and breakfast is ready when you are.' For Mrs. Riddles' credit I must confess that I have seldom enjoyed a breakfast more. It consisted of dry bread, oatmeal porridge, and coffee. Oddly enough, the coffee was delicious, and the porridge was equally good, so that, thoroughly refreshed by a long night's sleep and an ample breakfast, I brushed my knickerbockers, cleaned my boots, and went forth into the main street of Polehampton feeling fit for anything that might happen.

(Continued on page 74.)



THE GENEROUS BAKERS!

A deputation of a guild of bakers once presented themselves before the chief magistrate, asking for permission to raise the price of bread, which in those days was regulated by the corporation. When the time came for leaving, one of the deputies dexterously left upon the table a bag containing six hundred pounds in money. Some days afterwards they came again, fully believing that the purse had pleaded very powerfully for them. But the magistrate said to them, 'Gentlemen, I have weighed your reasons in the scales of justice, and have not found them of sufficient weight. It has not seemed just to me to make an entire town suffer by an advance so ill-understood. Besides, I have had distributed between the two hospitals in the town the money which you left me, not doubting that you would wish it to be put to such a use. I also believe that, being rich enough to make similar alms, you cannot be losing in your trade as you say.'

W. YARWOOD.



AFFECTIONATE EAGLES.

A True Anecdote.

A man working on a farm one day saw an eagle fluttering over the barn-yard, no doubt meaning sooner or later to swoop down in search of prey. He determined to save his chickens, and fetching a gun, fired at the would-be robber. But he only succeeded in hurting its wing. Instead of falling to the ground it flapped about in the air in a helpless sort of way, uttering loud cries of pain.

The man was just going to fire again when he noticed another eagle coming up in the distance. It was evidently the mate of the one he had wounded, for it came straight to its rescue. Seeing that the first eagle could not fly away itself, the new-comer seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws, and, half carrying it, helped it to fly slowly away to the mountain-side, where it put it down, as it thought, in a safe place. For a whole week the men on the farm saw it, day after day, carrying food to the disabled bird. It would have been quite easy for them to have killed both the eagles during this time; but the farmer forbade his men to molest them in any way, because he was so pleased at the affection and courage the one had shown on behalf of the other. After a time the wounded eagle got well, and they both flew away.



STEEPLE-CLIMBERS.

Cleverness or skill in doing some particular thing has been noticed to recur in families, and steeple-climbing is one example, we are told. At Nottingham there was a family named Wootton, members of which had for centuries the reputation of being daring steeple-climbers, not for adventure, but in the way of business. Such persons were also called steeplejacks, and they were paid liberally for their exploits, as they deserved to be.

Robert Wootton, who lived in the time of King George III., was famous for repairing steeples and spires without using a scaffold; he did his work by the help of ladders, hooks, and ropes. When he repaired St. Peter's spire, Nottingham, in 1789, having finished his work, he beat a drum at its top, thousands of people looking on. Another of the Woottons undertook the perilous task of ascending the spire of St. Mary's, Manchester, which was very lofty. By a tremendous wind the ball and cross had been bent down, and looked dangerous. This steeple-climber raised ladders one after the other, assisted by blocks and ropes, and secured each in succession to the stonework with clamps. When he got near the top of the spire the work became more difficult, and the spectators anxiously watched him as he fixed the last ladder. Having accomplished this feat, Wootton stepped from the ladder on to the crown or pinnacle of the steeple, and stood quite upright, with his hands free. Then he raised a cheer, which was responded to by the crowds below. More extraordinary still, one of these steeple-climbers is said to have performed the feat of standing upon his head on a steeple's top; but there is some doubt about the story.

J. R. S. C.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 71.)

CHAPTER IX.

It was agreeable to think that I had nothing to do, and with my hands in my pockets I turned to the right, strolling towards the railway station, a few yards from which was a level crossing. The station yard and booking office stood on the left, and before the entrance were one or two old-fashioned-looking cabs; one in particular I noticed, having a body like a small stage-coach and yellow wheels.

As I hung about the doorway it was alarming to realise that in spite of my two days' journeying, and of all the accompanying dangers, I might take a ticket and reach Castlemore in little over half an hour, and that consequently any one else could travel from Castlemore to Polehampton in the same short time. But it was easy to persuade myself that nobody would feel the least desire to travel a yard on my account, although I denied myself the pleasure of going on to the platform. Leaving the station yard, I turned towards Mrs. Riddles' cottage again, and passing this came to a standstill in front of a few shops on the opposite side of the way. One was a butcher's; next to the butcher's was a grocer's, and in its window I saw a card:

'ACTIVE LAD WANTED.'

I read, and as I stood gazing at the card, a short, red-haired man came to the door, rubbing his hands and looking smilingly about him.

'Do you want a berth?' he asked, after he had eyed me once or twice.

'I don't know,' I answered.

'A stranger here?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Ah, well,' he answered, 'even if you wanted a job, I could not take you without a character. But Mr. Raikes, at the Home Farm down the road, would take any one this morning. He has got his large field of hay down, and it will probably rain before Monday. If he does not get it carried to-night, as likely as not half will be spoilt.'

With that he re-entered his shop, while I strolled on at first aimlessly down the street.

I began to wonder how far it was to the Home Farm. A day's hay-making seemed to be a kind of play, and if one could be paid for such amusement, so much the better. For now that I had paid Mrs. Riddles I had only five shillings, and when once I started again they would not go very far. I had sufficient forethought to return to the cottage and ask for some luncheon to put in my pocket; then, armed with a slice of bread and a chunk of the fat bacon from which I had supped the previous night, I set out for the farm.

There was a large field adjoining the road, with an open gate. At the farther end, two carts were being loaded, but nearer the road, several men and women were busily making the rows of hay into cocks. Close at hand stood a tall, sparely built farmer with a cane in his hand and a fox-terrier by his side. He seemed to be trying to hurry everybody along, and there was an air of bustle and haste about the whole scene. Although the sun shone hotly, threatening clouds were coming up, and it would require a hard day's work to get all the hay carried by nightfall.

'Here, youngster!' he cried, as soon as he saw me, 'do you want a job?'

'Yes, please,' I answered.

'Fire away then. You will find a fork against the hedge. Go and join those men,' and he pointed to the haymakers with his cane. Taking the fork, I ran across the field and set to work with a will. But the sun shone fiercely, and when twelve o'clock came I would gladly have lain down in the shade of the hedge. The moment we had finished dinner the farmer urged us to work again, and so we kept at it through the afternoon, until the last load was carried at seven o'clock and we all drew round the farmer for our money. He gave me a shilling for my day's work, and I confess I walked back rather proudly to Mrs. Riddles' cottage, feeling that I had made a beginning and earned my first shilling.

There was no difficulty about sleeping that night. The bells were ringing for service while I dressed the next morning. Having made my appearance as decent as possible, I walked across some fields to a small church. On the way home to dinner I noticed a stream which looked extremely tempting. Mrs. Riddles had spread a clean but much-darned tablecloth, and the roast pork was ready. During the meal, the rain, which had been threatening since yesterday, began to fall, but when it ceased at half-past three I borrowed a towel, and ran across the damp fields to the river and soon plunged in.

The swim was delightful, and having partly dressed again, I sat on the bank and washed my socks, which I carried home in my hands. On the whole it was a good day, although the wet which set in again towards the evening made me anxious about to-morrow. If the rain continued, all my plans would be upset. I had determined to sleep out of doors for the next night or two, thus eking out my money, but I could not very well sleep without shelter unless it were fine and dry.

Unfortunately, Monday proved to be a drizzling morning, so that instead of setting forth as I had intended before eight, I hung about the door of the cottage, hoping the weather might improve. Towards ten o'clock, the rain began to cease, and looking inside the back room I said 'good-bye' to Mrs. Riddles, who inquired in which direction I was going.

'To London,' I answered, and this was the first sign of curiosity she had betrayed concerning either myself or my destination. She was a very old woman and somewhat deaf, treating my presence entirely as a matter of course.

However, I bade her good-bye, and was on the point of stepping from the shop into the small front garden, when instinctively I sprang back and shut the door.

To my horror I had seen Mr. Turton and Augustus walking along the middle of the road, each carrying an umbrella; Mr. Turton had an anxious expression on his pale, bearded face. As I crouched, peeping between the bottles of sweets in the window, I saw them pass the gate and come to a standstill. They had the manner of persons on the look-out for some one, and it seemed impossible to doubt that the some one was myself.

I confess that I felt surprised. Why should Mr. Turton want me back at Castlemore, unless, indeed, for the sake of taking revenge for my flight? At least, I could conceive no other reason, and while feeling deeply thankful for my narrow escape, I determined to spare no effort to make this effectual. That Mr. Turton should have hit upon my precise locality did not appear very remarkable.

These thoughts passed through my mind in far less time than it takes to set them down on paper. I remembered that my friend on the bicycle had said that all roads led to London, and now the idea occurred that the best way to evade Mr. Turton and yet to attain my purpose, would be to make a dash across to some other main road, keeping almost paralled with my pursuers.

After appearing to hesitate in the middle of the road, only a few yards from my hiding-place, Augustus and his father approached the door of the opposite butcher's shop, presumably with the intention of inquiring whether a boy of my description had been seen in the place. I regretted now my short conversation with the grocer, who had nodded to me in a friendly way as I came home from church on Sunday, and no doubt had seen me enter Mrs. Riddles' cottage.

If he directed Mr. Turton thither, I was lost, unless I could succeed in leaving Polehampton before the Turtons came out again. Now, close to the station yard was a lane, which led I knew not whither, but at least it could be reached without passing the opposite shops. Opening the door, as Mr. Turton left the butcher's and entered the grocer's, while his back and his son's were towards me, I made a dash through the garden, turned to my right, nor looked behind until I had reached the other side of the street. Then to my alarm I saw Mrs. Riddles standing at her door, which I had just left, while Mr. Turton and Augustus were hurrying across the roadway towards her. Fortunately they seemed too excited to look about them, so that I guessed that the grocer had set them on my track.

Taking to my heels I sped down the lane, soon leaving the few cottages behind and finding myself between low hedges with wheat growing on one hand and sheep-turnips on the other. A short distance ahead, I saw a butcher's cart on the point of leaving a cottage door.

'Are you going straight on?' I cried to the boy, only a little older than myself, who was driving.

'What if I am?' he demanded.

'You might give me a lift, that's all.'

'Oh yes, I dare say!' he answered.

'I will give you sixpence,' I said.

'Up you jump,' he exclaimed, and the next instant I was seated by his side, clinging to an iron railing on the top of the cart.

'How far are you going?' I inquired.

'Only to Hincham—about two miles,' he answered. 'I have got to fetch a calf.'

Two miles would be better than no start at all, for I felt certain that Mr. Turton would follow me. Mrs. Riddles had seen the direction I had taken, and he might hire one of the railway-station cabs to overtake me. Fortunately, the butcher's boy drove at a smart pace—faster, I thought, than any cab; but when we reached Hincham and I paid his sixpence and alighted, I scarcely knew what to do.

My experience on leaving the road for the fields on the first day had not been encouraging, so without much notion of where I was going, I determined to push along the lane for some distance, keeping a frequent look-out in the rear. Turning at intervals to look back along the straight, level lane, I walked on for a few miles, while the rain continued to hold off and the sun came out again. Stopping once more to make certain there was no pursuit, I saw to my dismay a vehicle rapidly approaching.

Recognising it as the queer-looking fly I had noticed on Saturday in the railway-station yard, I felt no doubt that it contained Mr. Turton and Augustus. The driver turned and stooped down towards the off-side window, as if to speak to them, while the next instant, a head being thrust out, he pointed in my direction with his whip.



Now what was I to do? It seemed that although they might be able to see that I was a boy, the distance was too great to enable Mr. Turton to recognise me, with any certainty, as his runaway pupil. Fortunately, the lane began to wind to the right a few yards ahead, and taking to my heels, I was soon out of sight of the occupants of the cab.

A few yards further still, the lane bent again, and more sharply, so, seizing the opportunity, I climbed over a gate on the left into a large meadow, which contained a great many sheep and cattle.

(Continued on page 85.)



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.—HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

When we come to examine the methods by which the more lowly creatures take up their food, we cannot but feel astonished at the marvellous number of contrivances by which this is done. To bring home this fact, let us compare the methods of feeding of two of our commonest insects with those adopted by another and very different group of animals—the Mollusca, taking the common snail as an example.

By the butterflies and moths the food is taken in a liquid form—honey procured from flowers—by means of a most marvellously complex 'tongue' or 'proboscis.' This organ, when not in use, is coiled up so as to be out of harm's way, but when the creature desires to feed it can be extended with wonderful rapidity. Its length is astonishing: in many cases, as in some of the hawk-moths, it attains a length of four to five times that of the body, and in some species it may be as long as ten inches! The general shape of this tongue you will see in the figure marked A, which shows what the tongue is like when seen under the microscope.



Carefully examined by the aid of a microscope, this tongue will be found to be made up of two separate tubes lying side by side, and, as each tube is grooved along its inner side, it follows that when the two separate halves are brought together, a third tube lying between the two outer ones is formed. So closely do these two halves fit when closed that this middle tube is perfectly air-tight. This union is secured by a number of hairy projections which interlock, much as one's clasped fingers interlock. Only the middle tube is used for the passage of the honey, the side tubes being used, as some think, for breathing purposes, while others hold that they serve to help in pumping up the fluids into the mouth. By this interlocking contrivance the tube can easily be opened and cleaned, should the passage become blocked by solid particles.

Delicate as this wonderful 'tongue' appears to be, it is in some cases capable of inflicting wounds on the tissues of the food plants. A species of moth, for instance, causes considerable damage to crops of oranges by inserting its trunk through the peel so as to suck the juices of the enclosed pulp. The sucking action is performed by means of a small bag inside the head, the size of which can be alternately increased and decreased by the action of muscles, thus causing a pumping action.



It will probably surprise many readers of Chatterbox to learn that this wonderful tongue is by no means always found in butterflies, for there are many species which have no mouth, and take no food whatever after they emerge from the chrysalis stage. They simply live long enough to lay their eggs, and then die!



The tongue of the fly is every bit as wonderful as that of the butterfly. Strictly speaking, perhaps it ought not to be called either a tongue or a proboscis, for it is really a spout-like mouth bent upon itself, and furnished at its end with a curious pair of flaps or lobes. You may get an idea of what it is like if you imagine the spout of a teapot to turn downwards at first instead of upwards, and then picture the spout turned sharply forwards near its middle. The body of the teapot corresponds to the fly's head; the end of the spout would correspond to the mouth of the fly. On each side of this mouth there will be found in the fly a pair of ear-shaped flaps or lobes, and these play a very important part. Each flap or lobe (see fig. B), where it joins the mouth, contains a long tube, and this tube gives off, along its outer side, about thirty smaller tubes, which are open below. Now, when the 'tongue,' as it is called, is extended, as in feeding, a copious flow of saliva is sent down the long tubular mouth into the tube of each flap, and when this is full the liquid escapes into the smaller tubes, and as these are open below, it flows out, of course, on to the food. Let us imagine this to be sugar. The saliva meets the sugar, and the syrup which is of course formed is then drawn up along the same channel as that by which the saliva came down. New surfaces for the saliva to work upon are constantly exposed by means of some fifty or sixty exceedingly tiny 'teeth,' which, by the aid of the microscope, will be found at the opening of the mouth, just where the tube-bearing flaps join it. The two rod-shaped, hairy organs at the base of the 'tongue,' in the illustration, are organs of touch, and not part of the 'tongue' proper.

(Concluded at page 109.)



THE ELEPHANT AND THE CROCODILE.

A Fable.

An Elephant and a Crocodile were once standing beside a river. They were disputing as to which was the better animal.

'Look at my strength,' said the Elephant. 'I can tear up a tree, roots and all, with my trunk.'

'Ah! but quantity is not quality, and your skin is not nearly so tough as mine,' replied the Crocodile, 'for neither spear, arrow, nor sword can pierce it.'

Just as they were coming to blows, a Lion happened to pass.

'Heyday, sirs!' said His Majesty, going up to them, 'let me know the cause of your quarrel.'

'Will you kindly tell us which is the better animal?' cried both at once.

'Certainly,' said the Lion. 'Do you see that soldier's steel helmet on yonder wall?' pointing at the same time across the river.

'Yes!' replied the beasts.

'Well, then,' continued the Lion, 'go and fetch it, and bring it to me, and I shall be able then to decide between you.'

Upon hearing this, off they started. The Crocodile, being used to the water, reached the opposite bank of the river first, and was not long in standing beside the wall.

Here he waited till the Elephant came up. The latter, seeing at a glance how matters stood, extended his long trunk, and reached the helmet quite easily.

They then made their way together back again across the river. The Elephant, anxious to keep up with the Crocodile in the water, forgot that he was carrying the helmet on his back, and a sudden lurch caused the prize to slip off and sink to the bottom. The Crocodile noticed the accident, so down he dived, and brought it up in his capacious mouth. They then returned, and the Crocodile laid the helmet at the Lion's feet. His Majesty took up the helmet, and addressing the Elephant, said:—

'You, on account of your size and trunk, were able to reach the prize on the wall but, having lost it, you were unable to recover it. And you,' said the Lion, turning to the Crocodile, 'although unable to reach the helmet, were able to dive for it and save it. You are both wise and clever in your respective ways. Neither is better than the other.'

MORAL: Every one has his special use in the world.

H. BERKELEY SCORE.



McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Continued from page 68.)

There was much excitement in the Tounghi huts when the story was told, and Maung Yet's wife took possession of the 'Bebe Ingalay.' Much talking and gesticulation, too, among the mothers of the tribe over the white skin of the little stranger. Frail and weak, he seemed at first inclined to slip away from his adventurous life, but Mah Soh had a big motherly heart under her dark skin, and loved Bebe with a great love, and tended him with all the care she knew.

Thus, in spite of strange food and surroundings, the little one throve. His dark eyes took in the brightness of sunshine and moonrays, he slept on his red sleeping-mat under the shade of gorgeous blossoms, waking to the sound of water and the scream of red and green parrakeets, and his tiny hands were raised, with coos of excitement, to catch these bright-hued creatures flitting from branch to branch above him. There he heard the cries of the boys as they goaded the lazy oxen to pull the clumsy carts faster as they came laden from the steaming paddy fields. Bebe learned to love even the pye-dogs which congregated under the huts, and would let him touch them. He loved Mah Soh the best, of course, but almost as much his own white dog, who guarded Bebe jealously, and gave alarm if any evil threatened him. Bebe soon learnt to twist his tiny fingers in the dog's metal collar to keep him near.

When the rice was all gathered, the paddy boats were laden and shipped down the river to the market at Rangoon. Then quieter days began, and Mah Soh, dressed in her best on gala days, would stand at the hut door and chat to the neighbours in their curious musical language.

'How could the Bebe Ingalay have got into the jungle?' 'It was the woman who had died who had brought him there.' 'Did she not call herself Mah Kloo, and had not Maung thought she was a Karen woman?' 'Yes, that was so, but Bebe could not have been her child; had she not said he was Ingalay?' 'It must have been sad for a "Mem" or a "Thakin Ingalay" to lose him.'

Ah, it was hard to understand, and there was the queer charm the woman had, but it and Bebe had brought good fortune—never had Maung Yet gathered in a better harvest. And the little subject of all this talk, dressed like a Burmese baby in Mah Soh's arms, heard all, and understood nothing, not knowing how all-important it was to him.

The rainy season was unusually severe that year, and came all too soon; then fever broke out in the jungle villages—it came to Maung Yet's house, and Mah Soh was one of the first to die. Bebe cried, and when no one knew, he crawled to her. They took him away when they found him there; he lay hot and restless on his sleeping-mat, for he too had taken the fever. Maung Yet was a sad man that day, and he and his fellows talked much of the trouble. They said the evil spirits must be angry, and some dread thing would happen if the white baby died. Had they not tied round its neck the metal charm, and it had worked no cure yet? Then one told of a camp of white men, Thakins (captains) and native soldiers, who had raised many tents and huts by the big lake: would it not be wise to take Bebe to them?

Maung Yet resolved to do so; they would start at moonrise. Wrapped in cloth and skins tenderly by the women, Bebe was placed in the tappa (a Burmese basket of creel-shape), and slung over Maung's shoulder. They paced rapidly through the night, he and his fellows, until at sunrise they saw the shining of Lake Ownwi, and later the sentries and huts of a camp, and knew that their wandering was nearly ended.



II.

It was the first day of the summer term, at Oakwood Preparatory School, and the head master, Dr. Rayne, was interviewing in his study various parents bringing new boys, all of the latter more or less subdued by so august a presence.

A ring had heralded a fresh arrival, and the butler announced 'Captain Ferrers.' A middle-aged man, bronzed and tall, and followed by a dark, handsome boy some ten years old, entered, and was warmly greeted by Dr. Rayne, who, grasping him by both hands, exclaimed: 'Welcome back to England, Ferrers! It is good to see you again. I got your note, and am most interested—this is your little charge, of course—glad to see you, my little man.'

'Yes, this is Paul. I have been telling him a lot about my old days here, and how I was one of your first boys. I have to hurry away to-day, and would like a few words with you first. Paul could perhaps——'

'I will give him into my daughter's hands. New boys are her special function. Come with me,' and a kind arm was passed round the boy's shoulders.

'Shall I see you again?' The child's big, dark eyes were turned wistfully to Captain Ferrers.

'Oh, yes, dear boy, and you can show your dog to Miss Rayne; it is waiting outside.'

'Now for our chat,' said Dr. Rayne, returning. 'I want to hear all you can tell me about this child. He is a fine boy truly.'

'And a fine character, too, proud and passionate, but affectionate and honourable to a degree; among natives he has often helped me by his fearless truth and sense of right. It is more than nine years since he came to me. I was at the time newly arrived at Fort Caidman, one of the stations in the Shan Highlands on the China-Burmese frontier. As you know, my men are all Sikhs and Pathans, and only I and my fellow-officers were British. One morning early, my man came to me saying that some natives wished to speak to me. I went directly. I found they were Tounghis, a friendly people a long way from my station. The spokesman carried a tappa (a native carrying-basket) over his back, and in it, wrapped in a blanket, a child apparently about a year old, dying, as far as I could see. It was brown with exposure, and its cheeks and eyes bright with fever. I took it for a native infant, but the man assured me by an interpreter that it was white. His story was rather involved, but I gathered that he had received the child from a dying woman in the jungle—a "Karen" he called her. It was moons ago, and how the woman had got it he did not know—she had said "Bebe" and "Ingalay" and had died. Yes, she had said "Mah Kloo," which must have been her name. These Burmese women generally have the prefix "Mah," and so this was little clue. They call anything white "Ingalay" (English) as a rule, so that also is no guide. I thought possibly the child might be half-caste, but feel sure now he is pure European, more suggestive of Spanish or Italian blood, I think. However, I am going from my story. I hesitated what to do, but the man was in such trouble, and so insistent, repeating over and over the necessity of propitiating the "good spirit," that I called my wife, and she decided we must take the little waif, or it would die in the basket.

'For many days it seemed only just alive. My wife was doctor and nurse, however, and we managed to pull him through, and in a few months he was a beautiful walking and talking boy, the pet of the whole station; and while my wife lived, he was her bright, happy shadow; his black head, with a curious white lock (possibly from some bad cut), was always cuddled close against her shoulder, and how she loved him! But she died some months ago, and I gave up my outpost work for a time, with a year's leave, and have come to England until my next billet is fixed. We named the boy "Paul" after myself, and have given him the surname which was with difficulty made out on the brass collar of a dog which came with him—the name of "Fife," presumably that of its former master. I seemed to gather from the man that the dog had been found with the child, but cannot be sure. It is a breed I do not know. Inquiries and advertisements were of no avail—no white child seemed to be inquired for, and we had so little to go upon, as you see. And now he must be educated, and there is no one else in the world I can turn to so surely, or leave him with so thankfully, as you, Dr. Rayne.'

Dr. Rayne thanked him for his confidence, and they went back to see Paul again. Mary Rayne, the Doctor's bright-faced daughter, was making friends with little Paul, who sat on the floor, his arms round his dog's neck. The Captain stooped, and lifting the boy, kissed him tenderly. 'Good-bye, dear old man; you will be happy, I know, and get a clever boy, besides lots of football and cricket. I will take care of "Boh," and we will have no end of a good time in the holidays.' As Captain Ferrers spoke he slipped a thin chain into the dog's collar, and led him away. Pressed against the window a little lonely boy, with clenched hands, trying to keep back the tears that would come, watched those he loved best disappearing down the long drive.

(Continued on page 82.)



McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Continued from page 79.)

'Hullo, new kid, what's your name?'

'Paul Fife,' said the newcomer, who had just been left by Dr. Rayne in the school playground, where boys of all sorts and sizes, from ten to fourteen, were congregated, newly arrived from home and holidays, and while they waited for the tea-bell, were inspecting the 'new boys.'

'Oh, "Paul," what a jolly name. "Paul Pry," "Poll parrot," "Polly put the kettle on." Well, Polly, and where do you come from?'

'Let him alone, Briggs,' said the school captain (a pleasant-faced, tall boy). 'Dr. Rayne asked me to look after him a bit. I say, though, young 'un, call yourself "Fife," that's quite enough; we don't have Christian names here, you know.'

'Well, Christy, you needn't punch my head, I don't want to harm the infant,' cried Briggs. 'He can tell me where he comes from, anyhow—can't you, new kid?'

'I lived at Fort Caidman, in the Shan States—Burmah, you know.'

'And what can you do, play football and cricket?'

'No, I have not really played them, but I want to. There were no white boys besides me, but I can shoot, and ride, and row, and fence, and throw darts.'

A group of boys had gathered round—little Paul tried not to feel shy.

'Where did you row?' asked one; 'was there a river?'

'Not near, but there was a big lake like a sea—the Inthas live there. They are called lake-dwellers, and their huts stand on the top of the water—Uncle Ferrers took me to their huts sometimes. The Inthas row so funnily, partly with their legs. They can row, oh, so fast, and fish, and hold an umbrella, all at the same time!'

'Oh, I say, that must be a cram, anyhow. Tell the infant he must not tell lies, Christy.'

'I don't, and I won't tell you things if you say that,' and the child drew himself up haughtily and turned away, clenching his small brown fists.

'It is a shame, you chaps,' said Christy. 'I know he has come from some queer place in Burmah.'

'Did you see his hair?' said Fane. 'It's as black as a coal, and just in one place is a white streak—he is a regular magpie. Hurrah! there's the tea-bell.'

'Oh, I have heard my mother say some one she knew had a lock of white hair—it looks rather jolly,' rejoined Christy. 'I say, little piebald, don't mind our ragging. I'm awfully hungry, and I dare say you are. There is cold beef always for tea first night of term—worth having, I can tell you. Come along with me, and I will show you where to sit.'

* * * * *

Paul soon began to feel more at home as a small unit in the hundred boys at Oakwood.

'Wonderful at mathematics and no idea of classics' (was the verdict of the masters), 'but can talk Gramouki and Pushtan dialects like a native.'

'No good at football and cricket, but promises well,' said the boys, 'and can climb and jump anything, and use his fists, too.'

Ten days had passed, and Dr. Rayne, at work in his library, was disturbed by a knock, and the matron entered.

'I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is about that new little boy, Paul Fife. I cannot get him to eat his dinner properly; he seems hungry at first, and then leaves off—later, I look at his plate and it is cleared. I find from some of the boys that he puts the greater part of the meat in his pocket, and, I suppose, throws it away. I thought I had better come to you.'

'Certainly; send Fife to me.'

A timid step, and the small boy came shyly in.

'Come here, little man,' the Doctor called, pleasantly. 'I want to talk to you. You are not too big to get on my knee. No, I thought not. You see, you are one of my little boys now, and we all want to be as happy as possible. You are very thin; do they give you enough to eat?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' the child pressed his hands nervously together.

'And you like what you get, I hope. We have not Burmese and Indian cooks, you know.'

'Yes, I like it all, thank you.'

'And yet Miss Owen tells me you do not eat your dinner, but pocket it—I hope you don't waste and throw away good food, Paul.'

'No, sir—indeed, no,' the boy looked up earnestly.

'Then see that it doesn't happen again, for I don't want to punish you.'

'Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?' and to the astonishment of the doctor, the child covered his face, and his whole body shook with sobs.

'Control yourself, dear boy. No, I cannot allow such crying, you will make yourself ill. That is better. Now tell me anything in confidence, and I will see what can be done.'

With an effort Paul gradually quieted, and then said: 'Yes, I will tell you; please—please, I didn't mean to be naughty, but I do love Boh so much. It is my dog; you saw him, and Uncle Ferrers took him away. I don't know how he got loose, but several days ago he came running up to me in the cricket field—he was so thin, and his ear was torn—I was eating my lunch bun, and I gave him all I had left. He just gobbled it. When some of the fellows came up, I sent Boh off, and he ran into the wood, but each day I whistle, when I can get by myself, and he comes; he is thinner than ever, so now I eat only part of my dinner even if I am hungry, but I save nearly all the meat for Boh. He is the oldest friend I have, for Uncle Ferrers says he came with me. He looks often as though he could speak and tell me whose little boy I used to be. Please, sir, I can do quite well with half a dinner, if he may have the other.'

Dr. Rayne stroked the smooth, dark head, deeply touched by the boy's story. 'There,' he said, 'come with me, and let us see about this dog.'

So hand in hand child and master passed through the big school buildings, and out towards the breeze-swept cricket ground.

'It is a curious name for your dog,' said the Doctor; 'how do you spell it, B-e-a-u?'

'Oh, no, sir, B-o-h—it is Burmese. It means "head warrior" or chief fighting-man. Uncle Ferrers' Sikhs and Pathan soldiers called him that, because whenever he fought with the pye-dogs or other dogs, Boh always won. May I call Boh now?' (for they had reached the high ridge near the wood).

'Yes; I only hope he is still there.'

'Boh! Boh!' the clear voice shouted, and then followed endearing words of Eastern dialect. A few seconds, and a joyful bark announced the delighted animal, who leapt up rapturously, his paws on the shoulders of his little master. The boy's eyes shone as he raised them to Dr. Rayne, fearlessly, but the voice trembled as he urged: 'If I might just see him now and then, we should neither of us mind so much.'

'You shall, I will see to it. Now, bring Boh round to the stables, and John shall find him a kennel and a good dinner. There, there, I didn't want so many thanks, dear boy; I wish I had thought of it before. Now, off to your form master, and I shall expect no more complaints from Miss Owen.'

So Boh also became a member of Oakwood, and a letter was dispatched at once to Captain Ferrers relieving his mind as to the missing dog, who had found his way through so many miles of unknown country safe to his happy owner.

(Concluded on page 90.)



WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

III.—THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

In the State of Kentucky, in the United States, not far from Louisville, is a table-land formed of limestone, perforated with holes like a sponge, down which rain rushes with great force. Far below run rivers, and there are also still, deep lakes partially fed by the water from above; and, as might have been expected, here also are the most wonderful caverns in the world. It is said that to explore all the halls and galleries communicating with each other, and connected with the Mammoth Cave alone, it would be necessary to walk or climb one hundred and fifty miles. This may well be believed when we hear that the cave contains fifty-seven domes, eleven lakes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, and two hundred and fifty-six avenues, besides thirty-two pits or abysses, and a Gothic church.

The great Mammoth Dome is over four hundred feet high, and light comes in from above through holes which, at such a height, look like stars shining in a dark sky. One of the chief lakes is called the Dead Sea, from its stillness and gloom, and when light is flashed over it from above it is wonderfully impressive, with its surrounding fringe of gleaming stalactites.

A terrible abyss is known as the Bottomless Pit, the depths of which have never been sounded. On one of its sides rises a huge crystallisation in the form of a spinning chair, which gleams out from the surrounding blackness, and is called the Devil's Chair. This appalling chasm is credited with various terrible tales. One is of two young lovers who hid in the Mammoth Cave, but finding themselves pursued, tied themselves together with the girl's girdle, and jumped into the abyss. However misguided and foolish we may think these young folk, we can have nothing but pity for two runaway slaves from Alabama, who, after horrible sufferings and privations in the swamps and forests, hoped to have found a resting-place in the great cavern. Alas for their hopes! before long they heard the voices of their pursuers, the cracking of their heavy whips, the baying of the bloodhounds which had tracked them to their refuge. Further and further they retreated in the darkness, only to hear the dreadful sounds draw nearer and nearer, until they found that they could go no further, as they had arrived at a small rocky platform overhanging the Bottomless Pit. Before was certain death, though it was hidden in the horrors of mystery and darkness; behind were the terrors of a death of protracted agony, as a warning to other fugitive slaves! One second's hesitation, and then, as their captors reached out to seize their prey, the despairing men leapt from the rock into the awful pit.

One very singular cave is known as the Church, and is curiously like the crypt of an English Cathedral, such as Gloucester or Canterbury. It is very nearly the same size as the latter. Here stalactites and stalagmites of colossal size have joined to form pillars, united by Norman arches, with wonderful effect. Religious services have often been held in this veritable 'temple not made with hands.'

Indian mummies have been met with in parts of the cavern, proving that it was known to native tribes in past ages. The skeleton of a mastodon, an extinct form of elephant, stands in one of the great halls, and a few live creatures still inhabit the gloomy depths. A cave-rat as large as a rabbit was caught, which, although it had very bright eyes, was quite blind when taken from the cave; but after a month's experience of daylight it gradually began to make use of its eyes. Various kinds of eyeless fish and crabs live in the dark waters, and a live frog was seen wearing an unhappy expression of countenance.

The slow rate at which stalagmites grow has been tested in this cavern by a lantern which was dropped in 1812 and found cemented to the floor in 1843, since which its upward progress has been carefully watched. The Mammoth Cave contains immense quantities of nitre. During the great American Civil War, most of that used was found here, and as gunpowder contains two-thirds of nitre to all its other ingredients, these caverns were of great value to the nation. The Mammoth Cave is now private property, belonging to Dr. John Crogan, who gave ten thousand dollars for it.