Right through the caverns, a distance of nearly two miles, a rough path has been made which is fairly dry and clean, but on either side are rivers and banks of mud, so that it is well to be careful and watch the way. Once as we went along we heard behind us a splashing thud, and, turning, beheld a portly Belgian floundering on his back in the mire, whence he presently emerged, coated with mud, looking rather like a hippopotamus. No rule of silence could avail to stifle the peals of laughter that rang through the grotto, and we had the less scruple in enjoying the fun because any one of us might at any moment have the happiness of similarly amusing his or her fellow-creatures.

Our merriment ended before the wonders of the 'Hall of Mystery,' where the electric light travelled round to show 'The Mosque,' standing out in glittering points of light; 'The Curtain,' a veil of gleaming lacework in stone; and 'The Alhambra,' furnished royally with every combination of diamond-like crystals. It would be easy to invent names for most of the objects, for shrines, pulpits, thrones, and such-like are everywhere carved, of dazzling whiteness and richness of design.

Next we enter the gloomy magnificence of the 'Hall of the Dome,' where the roof towers up two hundred feet into the darkness. As we ascend the steep path we turn and see below the gleam of water. This is the subterranean river Lesse, the architect of these gloomy grottoes, which until some forty years ago had heard no voice save that of the water hammering and chiselling the rocks at its own sweet will. Legend declares these stately halls to be the palaces of the little Brown Dwarfs, who, issuing from their homes at night, by counsel and more practical aid enabled the early builders to produce the wonderful edifices of Bruges, Ypres, and other Flemish cities.

Still we go on, up and down through grotto after grotto of marvellous beauty; sometimes along the banks of the shadowy river, reflecting in its depths the fairylike beauties of roof and wall, then up high, narrow ridges or down into the depths of inky blackness, until at last we find ourselves in the 'Hall of Embarkation.' Here a small wooden platform projects over the river, and near it are a number of large boats capable of carrying all our party. The boats push off, all lights are extinguished, and the sensation of total darkness in such conditions is more weird than pleasant. We are told that the water is of unknown depth, and it takes some confidence to repress thoughts of collisions and perils by water of various kinds.



The boats move on in solemn procession, and soon a tiny speck of light appears, and grows gradually larger and brighter. By degrees the light pervades dimly roof, walls, and transparent water, and then, all in a moment, a flood of glorious sunshine gleams through the lofty portal which we are approaching. Behind us fringes and bosses of stalactite are tinged with the warm glow, and stand out in bold relief from the darkness; before us the banks are green with grassy slopes and waving trees; below us the river dances along in the sunlight as if full of joy at escaping from prison, and we too share its happiness as we float back into our every-day world from the gloomy glories of the Grottoes of Han.

HELENA HEATH.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 107.)

For the next hour I felt extremely miserable, but, remembering that I should, in all probability, see Jacintha to-morrow, I began to wish it were possible to do something to improve my appearance for the occasion. For not only were my clothes in a far from satisfactory condition, but the soles of my boots were full of holes, so that one stocking touched the ground.

There was nothing to do but wander about and look at the chickens until I was summoned to supper, which consisted of bread and very strong cheese.

On being shown to the bedroom, I found that it contained two beds, in one of which a small boy was already reposing. Although he seemed to watch me with considerable curiosity, he made no attempt at conversation; but it was a very noisy house, and I found it impossible to get to sleep for some time.

When my room-fellow awoke me at about six o'clock the following morning, the sun was shining brightly into the shabby room, so that this promised excellently for the day's tramp. I said my prayers, and having washed, dressed, and partaken of a somewhat scanty breakfast, wondering, as I ate, what had by this time become of Patch, I set out, at a little after half-past seven, in the direction of Hazleton.

Presently, passing through a village, which seemed to be on the outskirts of the town of Hazleton, I bought two penny sausage rolls at a small baker's shop, and asked for a glass of water. As I walked on, eating the rolls, it soon became evident that the town was close at hand. At intervals I passed large houses, standing in their own grounds, and carefully I read the names on their gate-posts, lest one should be Colebrook Park. The path, which had been almost indistinguishable from the roadway, was now asphalted, and I stopped to read a notice board concerning vagrants, wondering whether I ought to be reckoned under that denomination. I do not know whether the sun had affected me—for it shone with brilliant force that morning—or whether I was tired after my ten miles' walk without much food, but as I drew near to Hazleton, which I had formerly felt so anxious to reach, my usual spirits seemed to forsake me, and, if it had not been for the necessity to return the locket, I think I should have passed on my way without making the least attempt to see Jacintha again.

I seemed to have lost pride in myself, so that it became difficult to keep up much hope. Perhaps it might be possible to get the locket safely into Jacintha's hands without seeing her, especially if there happened to be a lodge at the entrance to Colebrook Park, when I might leave the trinket with the lodge-keeper.

With the object of making up my mind, I lay down on the wide border of grass on one side of the road, thankful for the shelter of the hedge. It was about half-past twelve, and several carriages passed as I lay there, as well as a few bicyclists. But now the straight, wide road was clear; no one was in sight, either to the right or to the left, until, from a gate a hundred yards away, in the direction of the town, a girl on a bicycle came forth, and I knew at once that she must be Jacintha.

She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, and a white cotton frock, and was sitting very upright as she turned and coasted on her free-wheel machine down the slight hill towards me. For an instant I thought of turning away my face, so that, even if she remembered it, she should not recognise me; but she looked so bright and pleasant an object in the middle of the sunny road that, on the impulse of the moment, I rose to my feet, crossed the margin of grass, and lifted the cloth cap which had been given to me before I reached Polehampton.

Jacintha was off her machine at once. 'Why,' she cried, 'you are the boy who ran away!'

'My name is Everard, you know,' I answered.

'But I thought you said you were going to London?' she suggested.

'So I am.'

'It is not the nearest way from where you were to come through Hazleton,' said Jacintha.

'You see,' I explained, thrusting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket, 'I came to bring back your locket,' and I held it out towards her in the palm of my right hand.

'My locket?' she said, gazing at it while she held the handle of her bicycle.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I found it on the path just by the hedge where you were standing.'

'But I did not bring a locket with me from London,' she exclaimed, and I felt immensely disappointed.

'Isn't it really yours, then?' I asked.

'Of course not,' she returned. 'How can it be if I didn't bring one?' and then she removed one hand from the bicycle, and took the locket from my palm, which I wished had not been so extremely grimy. 'I think it is very pretty,' she continued, 'and I believe it is gold.'

'Oh, it is gold right enough!' I said, 'because it has a hall-mark. It is eighteen carat.'

'Have you come out of your way just because you thought it was mine?' she asked, giving me back the trinket.

'It was not very far,' I persisted.

'Rather nice of you, though,' said Jacintha.

'If it comes to that,' I answered, 'you were rather nice to me that day. Some girls would have given me away, and then I should have been back at Ascot House before now.'

As I was speaking, she took a small gold watch from her pocket.

'I must not be late,' she cried, 'because both Dick and I were late for breakfast.'

'Who is Dick?' I asked, as she put away her watch.

'Dick is my brother,' Jacintha explained. 'He only came down yesterday. Dick's a year older than I am. I really ought to go,' she added. 'If my uncle were to see me talking to you he mightn't like it.'

'I suppose,' I cried a little angrily, 'he would think I was begging?'

'At all events,' said Jacintha, candidly, 'he would be rather surprised, you know. Because you do look most tremendously dirty—just as if you were a regular tramp—and yet your face would be all right if it were only washed and you had your hair properly cut.'

I felt that my cheeks were growing red, and for the moment I was tempted to make an angry retort, although, remembering what I owed to Jacintha, I simply held out my hand and muttered 'Good-bye!'

'Oh, you mustn't go on yet,' she exclaimed. 'I want to hear all you've been doing. I must go in now, but please promise to wait till I come out again. I won't be long.'

'I am not in a hurry,' I admitted.

'Only don't stay here,' she said. 'Wait till I am out of sight, and then follow me until you come to our hedge. Right in the corner you will find a place you can get through, and nobody ever comes to that field. You get through the hedge and stay till I come back.'



CHAPTER XIV.

I stood in the road while Jacintha mounted her bicycle and rode up the slight hill to the gate, when she looked back and waved her hand as she turned into the grounds. Having waited a few minutes, I followed her directions, found the weak spot in the hedge, scrambled through, and at once sat down on the grass.

I saw I was in a remote corner of a large field, in which a few Jersey cows were grazing. But this was not quite an ordinary field, as it contained a good many foreign trees with iron railings round them. It was more like a park. In the middle stood a small mound, looking as if it had been made artificially, with a kind of arbour on the top overgrown with some sort of creeper and shut in by trees.

The time seemed to pass very slowly, but at last I saw the flash of Jacintha's white dress in the sunshine as she walked rapidly towards my corner, the house not being visible from where I sat. To my vexation, however, she was not alone. A few yards behind came a boy of about my own age and size, with a straw hat on the back of his head, a red-and-blue blazer thrown over his white cricket shirt, and his hands thrust in the pockets of his flannel trousers.

While Jacintha tripped quickly over the grass, her companion, who, no doubt, was her brother, seemed to follow far less cheerfully. I could not help thinking there was something unwilling, almost resentful, in his manner, so that I felt prepared to pay him back in his own coin. Although I might look as dirty and as much like a tramp as Jacintha had suggested, I was not going to stand any nonsense.

When they reached the arbour they came to a standstill and seemed to be holding an argument, until, a few minutes later, Jacintha tossed back her long hair and set forth at a run in my direction, whereupon I went to meet her.

'You didn't mind my bringing Dick?' she suggested, looking doubtfully into my face.

'Have you told him, then?' I asked.

'I told him yesterday,' she said. 'I mean I told him about seeing you in the wheat-field, and your running away from school, and when I just had time to whisper that I had met you before lunch, he said I must not come; but I told him I had promised, and then he said he would come too.'

By this time we were within a few feet of Dick, who looked all right, although he seemed to think a great deal of himself. He was fair, like Jacintha, and he did not take his hands out of his pockets, so I put my hands into my pockets also, and stared at him as hard as he stared at me.

'Dick!' cried Jacintha, 'this is Everard.'

'Well, look here,' he answered, 'if you don't want to be collared, you had better come in, instead of standing out here all day.'

(Continued on page 125.)



CUBAN LIZARDS.

The Cuban anolis is one of a large family of lizards, all of which are confined to America and the West Indian islands. This family is nearly related to that of the iguanas; but whereas some of the iguanas attain a length of five or six feet, the anolis is always small. It is a remarkably active little creature, and often singularly beautiful, offering a striking contrast to the ugly and sluggish horned lizards of North America and Mexico. It is usually rather more than a foot long, and its general colour is a beautiful green. It has a white throat, and a white band passing over each shoulder and for some distance along each side. The little creature has the power of puffing out its throat, and distending it till it looks like a ball upon its neck. When it is irritated, angry, or alarmed, it invariably blows out its throat in this way, and tries to frighten its enemy by this means. Most of these lizards have also more or less power of changing their colour, like the chameleon, and, indeed, a few of them can out-rival the chameleon in this respect.

A striking peculiarity of this lizard is the structure of its toes. They are rather long, and furnished with sharp hooked claws, and the last joint is swollen out into a kind of pad. At first sight we should be inclined to think that these little swellings near the tips of the toes would be rather an inconvenience to the anolis, by impeding its movements. But a closer examination shows that these curious growths have a use. They act to some extent as suckers, and enable the anolis to climb the perpendicular faces of rocks, or even to hang from the under side of a branch.

The males of these little lizards are often very quarrelsome, especially at certain times of the year, when two of them rarely meet without having a fight. They fly at each other furiously, rolling over and over, and biting savagely. These fierce battles generally end in one of the combatants losing his tail, for in these lizards, as in many others, the tail is not very strongly attached to the body. The victor sometimes makes off with the tail of his foe in his mouth, and sometimes he even devours it. The loss of his tail is a great blow to the vanquished anolis, for he seems to have a great pride in it. When he is deprived of it, he accepts defeat at once, and though he recovers from the injury without much trouble, he is generally but a timid and crest-fallen creature afterwards. He seems to look upon the loss of his tail as a disgrace—very much, perhaps, as a regiment of soldiers regards the loss of its colours.

Another pretty little Cuban lizard is the chameleon-eyed lizard. It is of a brownish colour spotted with white, especially about the head. It has many resemblances to the anolis just described, being small, slender, and active. Both frequent trees, thickets, and rocky places, where they run and climb with such quickness as to be sometimes easily mistaken for birds hopping to and fro. The numerous tropical insects are their usual food, varied occasionally by berries and fruits.

W. A. ATKINSON.



A MOTHER RABBIT'S COURAGE.

A True Anecdote.

Not long ago a gentleman heard of a remarkable fight between a stoat and a rabbit; he gives an account of it in the Field newspaper. His gardener was walking in an orchard when he heard a scuffling and squealing on the other side of a hedge. He looked over, and to his great surprise, saw a rabbit in close pursuit of a stoat. Just as they reached the hedge the rabbit caught up with its enemy, but the stoat hid in the hedge for a few seconds, and then ran along it swiftly, escaping the rabbit's notice for a few minutes. Then it rushed out into the field again, some thirty yards from where it had entered the hedge. Its object soon became clear. 'It pulled a young rabbit out of a bunch of grass,' says the writer, 'and began to drag it to the hedge. When the old rabbit turned and saw the stoat it went for it again, and jumped on it and bit it in the most infuriated manner, driving it away from the young rabbit, and running it squealing with terror into the hedge, where they both eventually disappeared.' It is sad to learn that this brave attempt of the mother rabbit to save her young one was in vain; the little bunny was dead when the gardener picked it up a few minutes later.

Stoats will often pursue rabbits across country for very long distances, going steadily on and following the track by the power of scent alone; but it is very seldom that a rabbit will show such courage as to turn the tables and attack its foe.



MAGIC RODS.

The people of the olden time had great faith in the powers of magic rods and wands. Not only was this the fact amongst the Greeks and Romans, but the belief was found in our own country not so very long ago. Certain trees were famed for their magical virtues, because they were supposed to be the home of some spirit, and rods cut from them were said to have wonderful powers. The belief survives in the conjurer's wand, which, as we all know, does marvels when waved to the sound of 'Hey presto!'

To the pretended wonder-worker of the past, his rod was a most important thing, for by its help he accomplished marvels, or at least pretended to do so. There is a story told about a man who had seen a magician produce water by means of his rod. Getting hold of the rod one day, he thought he would supply his house with water by its aid. He said to it, 'Bring water.' Soon the wand rushed to and fro with big pails, but when the floors were getting flooded, he thought there was enough water, and told the wand to stop. He did not know the word of command, and so the wand went on just the same. In his rage, he took a chopper, and cut the wand in two, but instead of stopping it brought twice as much; a double lot of pails appeared, and at last the torrent of water washed away the house of the meddlesome man.

The magic rod or wand has had several names given to it. A common one was that of 'divining rod.' By the Germans it was called the 'wishing rod,' or 'wishing thorn,' which points to the fact that it was often cut from the blackthorn or sloe. It was supposed that the person who could use the magic rod most successfully was the seventh son of a seventh son, if such a person could be found. The wand, too, should not be cut from very old wood, but it must be more than a year old. Some folk said that the twig chosen to make this rod ought to be one upon which the sun shone both in the morning and afternoon. Again, the magic rod was not simply a straight piece of wood; it had to be of a particular shape—that of the letter Y. When using it, the hands grasped the two arms, so that the unforked part pointed outwards. In houses about the West of England, people will show visitors magic or divining rods, cut many years ago, and now carefully kept as memorials of the past.

These rods had various uses. They were not only supposed to show where metal was hidden, or springs of water might be found, but one brought to a person ill of fever might cure him, though he had to pay whatever was asked for it, and make no objection to the price. In some countries, men believed that a magic rod might be got to point the direction in which a lost person had gone.

The Chinese, ages before the Westerns knew them, had their magic rods, and generally cut them from fruit-trees, the peach being often chosen. But in Europe, the hazel or cob-nut tree stands at the head of the list of the trees favoured. German farmers formerly cut a hazel rod in spring, and when the first thunder-shower came, they waved it over the corn that was stored up, believing that this would make it keep sound till it was wanted. Next to the hazel in importance was the rowan or mountain ash, a tree always associated with the pixies and fairies; magic rods were frequently made from it, and also little crosses, which, if put over the door, were supposed to bring good fortune into a house. Another tree furnishing such rods was the willow, and another was the apple; one carefully avoided was the elder.

J. R. S. C.



OUR PUSS.

She came with the evening shades, At the close of a winter day, And her manner implied, As she trotted inside, 'I am here, and have come to stay.'

Where she came from nobody knows, And no one has claimed her yet; But she made so free, It was easy to see That she had been somebody's pet.

Now the homeless waif on our hearth Gives a homelike look to the place; With her warm grey fur, And her satisfied purr, And content in her comely face.

She has all the craft of her race, Though she does not look like a thief, For she climbed of late Up to Charlie's plate, And calmly ate some of his beef!

But we all have our little faults, And well will it be with us If, when ruin impends, We can win new friends, Like our gentle and brave stray puss.



THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

'What a shame it is, Hugo, that when your father is giving the whole class this splendid treat in honour of your recovery, you yourself should be the only boy absent.'

Hugo laughed somewhat sadly. 'Yes, I should like to be going, but the doctor says that I must not walk much before Christmas, and no one wants to spend three days in the woods in the middle of December. I should have liked the chance of catching a swallow-tailed butterfly for my collection.'

'I will try and get one for you,' answered Franz, 'though they are scarce this year. But what is this? How did you get your medal back?' as he picked up a silver disc from the table.

Hugo had won this medal a year before for a Latin composition for boys under fifteen, and when Baron Rosenthal's beautiful collection of coins and antique silver had been stolen, the medal had gone too.

'A friend of Father's saw it in a Berlin curiosity show among a lot of coins, and he sent it back to me.'

'And the coins—were they also your father's?'

'He has gone to Berlin to look at them, and he will be back to-night. But all coins are not easy to recognise. If it had been any of the silver boxes or cups he would have known his own at once.'

'And none of these have been traced?'

'No, not one. My father thinks they have probably been sold in some foreign country—America, perhaps, or England. But see, he left this money for you, so that you can let me know what you are doing. Then you can send me a long cypher telegram every day from the station on the Observatory, and it will give me something to do to translate it,' and he handed Franz some silver.

During his illness, Hugo had occupied himself in inventing a most elaborate cypher, which was the envy of the whole school. Not even the masters could read it, and it was an endless source of amusement to himself and Franz, who alone was in the secret.

'All right!' answered Franz; 'I will send you three telegrams, and catch you three swallow-tails too if I can manage it.'

As he went out of the room, his school-fellow looked wistfully at the pair of crutches that stood beside his invalid's chair. He was the only son of a very rich German nobleman, and six months before he had been nearly killed in a railway accident. When he began to recover, the Baron had promised to give a special treat to his son's class in honour of the event, and now that the time for the annual excursion had arrived, he was paying all expenses for the boys to remain three days in the forest instead of, as was usual, only one. It is the custom in German schools for each master to take his class for a long day's expedition into the country during the summer, in which he is supposed to open their eyes to the beauties of nature and the wonders of the botanical world; and the Baron, who was a very wealthy man, had caused this privilege to be extended that year. But now his son was unable to enjoy it, and this use of telegrams was a suggestion of his father's to prevent his being too depressed by the thought of his disappointment.



* * * * *

At five o'clock on the following morning there was a very cheerful party of boys waiting at the station for the little hill-climbing train that was to take them into the heart of the Black Forest. The master, Herr Groos, was also in the best of spirits, in spite of his failure to make any of the boys listen while he explained to them how the train was enabled to climb a hill. The boys, with their yellow caps, which was the distinctive colour of their class, and their butterfly-nets, botanical presses, and green specimen-cases, were much too excited to listen to him.

At last the train arrived, and they all filed into an open third-class carriage, whose only other occupants were two strangers, a tall and a short one, also armed with butterfly-nets and enormous green cases.

'Did you see Hugo yesterday?' inquired Herr Groos of Franz, who was sitting next him.

'Yes, sir; I was there a long time. He wished he was coming with us.'

'Well, we all wish it too,' said the master heartily. 'What does he do with himself all day? Invent more cyphers?'

'No, sir, he does not mean to invent a new one,' answered Franz, laughing, 'till some one has solved the present one. I am to send him a long telegram in it every day.'

'What is that?' asked the short stranger, good-humouredly. 'I did not know there was such a thing as a cypher that could not be solved.'

'One of my pupils has invented one that no one has solved yet,' answered Herr Groos proudly.

'He should let me see it,' laughed the stranger. 'I would undertake to read it in half an hour.'

Then the master and the two strangers began to talk sociably together, and the conversation drifted to a discussion on the best place in the locality for the capture of butterflies, especially swallow-tails.

Franz listened attentively, for he was firmly resolved that he would not return without at least one specimen to adorn Hugo's collection. Herr Groos was of opinion that the Kuehberg was the best place for them; but the strangers said, 'No, for every one found on the summit of the Kuehberg there are at least three on the sunny slopes of the Hirsch-felsen on the opposite side of the valley.'

But at last the train journey came to an end, and the boys arrived at the little inn which was to be their head-quarters. There they were soon devouring rolls and hot coffee, almost faster than the inn-keeper and his good-tempered wife could bring them out of the kitchen. Then, with their pockets and knapsacks full of rolls and German sausage, they started on their first day's expedition to a little lake at the foot of the Kuehberg. It was a lovely walk, and as they passed now under the cool green pine-trees, and now along sunny slopes where the cows, with their tinkling bells, were almost buried in sweet-scented flowers, both botanists and butterfly-hunters were busy. Finally, after two hours' walk, they reached their halting-place at the edge of the forest lake.

(Continued on page 130.)



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 119.)

Jacintha led the way up a path on the mound, and we all entered the summer-house, which was quite large, with seats round the sides and a table in the middle.

'Have you got the chocolates, Dick?' she asked, and at the same time began to unload her own pocket, which contained a bag with some preserved apricots in it, two oranges, and two pears. 'I often bring my dessert out here,' she explained, 'only to-day Auntie said she hoped I should not make myself ill.'

'Mind you don't,' said Dick.

'Have a pear, Everard,' she suggested, and accordingly I took one. 'Uncle has just started out with Auntie in the motor-car,' she continued, 'so I want you to begin at the beginning and tell us everything, you know—just everything.'

I looked at Dick, who was pinching an orange so as to make a hole in it to suck the juice, but he did not speak; so, having eaten a preserved apricot, I sat down next to Jacintha, wishing she had not so hastily drawn away her white skirt, and began.

I cannot accuse myself of speaking a word that was not true that afternoon, but it must be confessed that the chief object was to impress Dick with the conviction that I was not what he might easily take me to be. Accordingly, I glossed over the character of Aunt Marion's household, and dwelt upon the wealth and importance of Captain Knowlton. I brought tears to Jacintha's eyes when I told her of the loss of the Seagull, of his death and the difference in my treatment at the hands of Mr. Turton; but what seemed to have the greatest effect on her brother was the story of my encounter with the tramp who stole my money, and the other events of my journey.

'Still,' he said, being the first to speak when I ended the story, 'I don't see what you are going to do when you get to London.'

'Neither do I,' cried Jacintha.

'Oh, I shall do something right enough,' I answered with all the confidence I could assume.

'I tell you what I believe,' said Dick. 'I believe Captain Knowlton is not dead after all. You see if I am not right. You don't know really that he was drowned.'

'If he were not,' I answered, 'he would have sent a telegram, because he would know the Seagull had been reported lost.'

'Still, you cannot tell,' Dick insisted, 'and if I were you, as soon as I got to London, I should go to his rooms in the Albany.'

But this was a point I had already considered.

'You see,' I said, 'very likely Mr. Turton has been there and told them to keep me——'

'I did not think of that,' Dick admitted. 'Still, I don't see what you will do in London. And, of course, I live there, though I'm going to a crammer's at Richmond next term.'

'Everard was going to be sent to Sandhurst, too,' said Jacintha quietly.

'What a lark,' he exclaimed, 'if Captain Knowlton should turn up, and you should be there at the same time.'

But this was more than my imagination at the moment was capable of. I felt very, very far from going to Sandhurst, and, indeed, a kind of sense that Dick and Jacintha belonged to a different world from mine was fast growing upon me.

'I say,' said Dick, presently, for his manner had now become all that I could desire, 'how much money have you got left?'

'One and twopence,' I answered, and he looked solemn at that.

'But still,' cried Jacintha, 'you forget the locket.'

'Why, of course, there is the locket,' said her brother; 'let us have a look at it, Everard.'

I took it from my waistcoat again, and holding it close to his nose, Dick at once looked for the hall-mark.

'It is gold right enough,' he added.

'You can sell it for quite a lot of money,' urged Jacintha, 'because you picked it up, and you can never find the real owner. I should think you would get a good deal for it.'

'If you don't mind my saying so——' began Dick, and pausing, he looked into my face.

'Cut along,' I said.

'Well, if you took it to sell, the chap might—he might think you had stolen it.'

'You see,' said Jacintha hastily, 'we could take you to the bath-room, and Dick could lend you some of his clothes; but Auntie would be certain to find out, and Uncle has kept Mr. Turton's card, and he said that if he saw you he should take you back to Castlemore.'

'Can't go back,' said Dick, in a tone of authority. 'I know!' he exclaimed, after a thoughtful silence.

'What?' demanded his sister.

'Look here, Everard,' he explained, 'there is a good shop in High Street, Foster's, where my people buy things. I know old Foster—a decent sort of chap. If I were to take the locket——'

'What would you say when he asked you where you got it?' asked Jacintha.

At that we all stared into each other's faces, and I felt disappointed at the suggestion. For I had judgment enough, after my experience in selling my watch and chain, to see that in my present untidy condition I could not myself deal with the trinket to the best advantage. A respectable jeweller would probably decline to buy it at all, whereas a less honest dealer would not give me a third of its value.

'I have it!' cried Dick, after a few minutes' pause. 'You drop the locket on the floor, Everard,' and with a glimmering of his purpose, I took it again from my pocket and let it fall on to the boarded floor of the summer-house. He immediately stooped.

'Now,' he said, 'I can tell old Foster I have picked up a locket and that I don't know whose it is, and I want to sell it. I will get my bicycle and ride into the town at once; but look here, old chap,' he added, taking my arm in quite a friendly way, 'you had better not wait here. Just hang about outside in the road, and don't let them see you if they come back first in the motor-car. I say, Jacintha, it will look better if you come to Foster's too.'

'It's awfully good of you,' I answered as we all went down the slope. 'How much do you think I shall get?'

'I should think you might get twenty-five shillings,' said Dick, as if he knew all about it.

'I wish I might,' I cried.

'Well,' he insisted, 'you get into the road and keep dark a bit, and we will scorch into the town like anything.'

With that they both set off across the field while I scrambled through the gap in the hedge, and returned to my former position on the grassy side of the road, lying down and waiting expectantly to see Dick and Jacintha ride out through the gate; and with the prospect of obtaining possession of twenty-five shillings, it really began to seem as if the foundation of my fortune had been laid.



CHAPTER XV.

A very few minutes later Dick rode through the gate followed by Jacintha, who raised an arm as she turned to the right, pedalled up the slight hill, and soon disappeared as she began to descend on the other side. Rising to my feet I had waved my arm in return, and I was strolling about the grass beside the road, already impatient to see Dick and Jacintha returning and to learn the full extent of my wealth, when I heard a motor-car panting along the road.

A glance showed that it was driven by the man who had accompanied Jacintha that morning she spied me in the corn-field, and a few moments later he steered the car into his gate. It seemed a long time before I saw the head of Dick and then of his sister appear above the crest of the hill. Dick, in his eagerness to reach me, pedalled all the way down.

'I say, Everard,' he exclaimed as soon as he reached me, 'how much do you think?'

'Did you get the twenty-five shillings?' I asked.

'Two pounds——' began Jacintha, dismounting from her bicycle.

'Let me tell him,' cried Dick. 'Two pounds three and sixpence,' he added with an air of triumph.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, as he took a purse from his jacket pocket.

'Not so bad,' he continued, 'is it? You see I told old Foster he must give a tip-top price, and of course he knows me. At first, I thought he was not going to buy the thing at all; he said he didn't know whether my uncle would like it, and all that.'

'And he said we ought to have bills printed to say it was found,' added Jacintha.

'But I talked him out of that,' said Dick, 'and here is the money,' he continued, counting out the two sovereigns, a half-crown and a shilling.

'Mind you don't lose any of it,' suggested Jacintha.

'No fear,' I answered.

'I say, where are you going to sleep to-night?' asked Dick.

'Oh, well,' I replied, and I am afraid that my newly acquired wealth made me a little proud, 'I dare say I can find an hotel in Hazleton.'

'Do you think they will take you in?' said Dick.

'I wonder whether we shall see you in London,' cried Jacintha, 'because we are going home next week.'

'And I say, Everard,' said her brother, 'take my word for it, I should not be a scrap surprised if Captain Knowlton was rescued after all.'

'Dick,' suggested Jacintha, 'don't you think we ought to go in to tea?'

'Perhaps we ought,' he admitted. 'Well, good-bye,' he added, and with that he held out his hand. When I shook Jacintha's a moment afterwards, I wished once again that my own hands were cleaner.

'Good-bye,' she cried. 'I am glad the locket was not mine,' and then they both re-mounted their bicycles, rode up the hill, waved their hands once more, and disappeared from my sight.

In spite of the possession of the money for the locket, a sense of depression fell upon me. I had grown quickly friendly with the pair, and they seemed to bring me back to the life which I felt more acutely than before I had lost for ever.

(Continued on page 134.)



A LESSON IN STEERING.

It was a perfect day for the water, and the Fletcher boys, with a good supply of sandwiches, meat-patties and ginger-beer, had gone off for a day's boating. Their sister Daisy thought it was very hard lines to be left at home, but Mrs. Fletcher would not allow her to go unless a boatman were in charge.

'The boys know what they are about, and I feel fairly happy about them,' she said, 'but I cannot let my little daughter run any risks.'

This was disappointing, though the real grievance lay in the fact that the boys did not seem very anxious to have her. They were very fond of their sister, but, of course, they said there were times when a girl was 'a bit in the way.'

So Daisy wandered down to the pier, feeling rather forlorn, and longing for the time when the boys' boat would come in sight.

Old Steve Tucker was sitting on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe, when Daisy came along.

'Fine day for a sail, Missie,' he said, and indeed the dancing blue waters of the bay looked most inviting.

Then Daisy poured out her troubles, and the old man shook his head in sympathy.

'I wonder now if you would be allowed to come along with me in my little sailing-boat?' he suggested.

'Do you mean it?' Daisy cried. 'Oh, you good old Steve! I will run home and ask Mother this minute.'

'Right you are, Miss Daisy! and I will just go down and put the Mary Jane ship-shape.'

Daisy soon came flying back, having gained the desired permission.

Soon the little boat was dancing over the waves. The breeze filled the sail, and they made such speed that the houses on the shore fast dwindled behind them. Old Steve showed Daisy how to manage the sail and then gave her a lesson in steering. At first the sail slackened and the boat wobbled a little, but his pupil soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind and steering a straight course.

'Oh, I am enjoying myself!' she cried. 'This is ever so much better than going with the boys, because they always want to manage the sail and the steering, and I never have a chance of learning anything.'

'Well, Missy, you shall come out sailing with me a few times, and I will soon teach you all there is to know about a boat.'

'And then they will not be able to refuse to take me because I am no good, will they?'

'No fear, Missy! You will soon know as much as the young gentlemen—and I do believe that is their boat just ahead.'

'So it is,' cried Daisy, in great excitement. 'Now we will race them, Steve, and give them a surprise.'

'Ship ahoy!' called Daisy as they flew past, and her brothers were indeed astonished to see their sister steering the boat like any old salt. After that they never said that a girl was 'a bit in the way.'



THE GIRL WHO DID NOT RUN AWAY.

A little French girl only seven years old, named Eudoxie, was playing with tiny Philomene in a field, when the young child made two stains on her pink pinafore.

'Mother will scold,' thought the little maid, and trotted off to the river to wash them out.

A plank stretched out from the bank to make it easy for people to draw water, and on this Philomene stepped, but she did not know how rotten it was. Before she could touch the water there was a splash, and the little girl was in the river.

Eudoxie heard her cry out, but did not run away as some children have been known to do when a companion was in danger. She ran at once to the bank, and caught her little friend by the foot, nearly losing her own balance in doing so.

Though Philomene, all wet and breathless, was a heavy weight for Eudoxie, still she managed to drag her on shore, kiss her, and try to console her.

But poor little Philomene was frightened at the idea of facing 'Maman' after her scrape; she must have been rather a scolding mother, as the little girl was afraid to go home in her wet clothes.

So Eudoxie partly undressed in the sunshine, and wrapped her in her own frock, while she ran to beg a change of clothes from the sharp-spoken Madame.

The mother asked why they were wanted.

'Promise not to scold, and I will tell you,' said the child. The promise was given, and Eudoxie told the adventure. 'It was not Philo's fault,' she said.

'Oh, then! my wicked, naughty, precious, darling Philo! take me to her,' said Madame.

Poor Philomene was sitting smiling in the sunshine when the two reached her, Eudoxie with her garments, the mother with tears and kisses all waiting to be showered on her tiny daughter.

Some one told the story in Paris, and many people were pleased with Eudoxie's presence of mind, and the French Humane Society presented the brave girl with a medal for saving the life of her friend.



THE HARDEST WORK.

A Fable.

A famous Persian king once called around him all the wisest men in his kingdom, and put the following question to them: 'What is the hardest work in the world?'

Some answered one thing and some another, but it was thought that still harder work might exist.

At last a sage came forward and said, 'I have lived many years and seen a great many things. I have come to the conclusion that the hardest work in the world is to be forced to do nothing at all; and no one can spend the whole day without doing something or other.'

The king, anxious to prove the truth of it, tried his best to find out whether this were so or not, as did also his courtiers, but they were obliged to own that what the sage had stated was the truth. Hence the proverb: 'No work, the hardest work.'



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

6.—DOUBLETS.

Changing one letter at a time, in as few steps as possible, make

1. Cat into Dog. 2. Yes " No. 3. Will " Won't. 4. Pony " Cart. 5. Dry " Wet.

7.—ARITHMOGRAPH.

A Short Proverb.

1.—9, 10, 12, 11, 8. A French city. 2.—9, 7, 10, 12. A delicious fruit. 3.—12, 10, 8, 9. A kind of file. 4.—3, 2, 4, 5. To turn in different directions. 5.—12, 11, 9. To tear, to cut asunder. 6.—1, 2, 10, 5. Close at hand. 7.—1, 2, 5, 3, 4, 8. Organs of sensation. 8.—8, 9, 10, 11, 1. A country in the south of Europe. 9.—8, 9, 10, 1. A very short space. 10.—6, 5, 11, 9. To fall in drops.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 167.]



ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 98.

5.—Evangeline.

1. Nile. 2. Lean. 3. Liege. 4. Veal. 5. Vile. 6. Nail. 7. Geneva. 8. Nave. 9. Gain.

ANSWER TO PICTURE PUZZLE ON PAGE 28.

This picture contains the key to itself in the letters which are found on the walls, the corner-stone, and the gateway—I, C, U, S, X. If these letters are named in the order given, they form the sentence 'I see you, Essex,' which Queen Elizabeth is said to have written on a wall or a window of one of her palaces, as a warning, or perhaps an encouragement, to Lord Essex.



THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

(Concluded from page 124.)

Though it was still only eleven o'clock, the boys were quite ready for dinner when they reached the lake; and when it was finished and they had hidden the rest of their provisions in some bushes, Herr Groos gave them leave to amuse themselves as best they chose till he sounded his horn to collect them for another meal at four o'clock. He himself was going to take charge of a botanising party on the Hersch-felsen, and a junior master was to superintend those who wished to fish in the lake; but Franz decided to join neither party, as his one idea was to catch a swallow-tailed butterfly for his friend. At last, finding no one with a similar ambition, he started on his quest alone.

'I will try the Kuehberg first,' he said to himself. 'If we should meet the strangers again, it would be fun to prove to them that Herr Groos was right and they were wrong.'

It was very hot as Franz toiled up the mountain-side, and when at last he reached the place where his search was to begin, he lay down panting under some trees at the edge of the wood. On the opposite slope he could see the yellow caps of his comrades, and the tall figure of Herr Groos; but where he himself was all was solitude and silence. After a few minutes' rest he rose, and having filled his cap with some delicious berries, sat down, almost buried amongst the cool, green plants, to enjoy them. They were soon finished, but he was still too lazy to move, and rolling himself down till the cranberries nearly met above him, he fell fast asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of voices, and, thinking it was some of his schoolfellows, he lay still, meaning to surprise them. He was so well hidden that he knew he could not be discovered unless he moved. Then he realised that it was not his comrades, but the two strangers from the train.

'Look at all those boys over there,' said the tall man. 'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent. If they had chosen to spend the day up here it would have upset our plans nicely.'

'Are you sure, though, that they are all there?' asked the other, doubtfully. 'There were thirty-two in the train, and I can only count twenty-five yellow caps now.'

'You are right, Schmidt,' answered the tall man, after a short pause. 'And who can tell where the others may be?'

'Not I! We must put off our digging till we are sure that they have all gone away for the night.'

'We shall miss the American boat,' said his friend, angrily, 'and all because of a pack of schoolboys!'

'Not necessarily. If we return to Freistadt by the nine o'clock train instead of by the five o'clock, we ought still to catch the steamer at Hamburg. That is the worst of taking things from a well-known man like Rosenthal. He makes it unsafe to dispose of a single recognisable thing in Germany. We were lucky to get rid of the coins, even.'

'And a mere nothing we got for them,' replied the grumbler. 'Are you certain you remember where we buried the rest of the collection?'

'Under this stone here, by the big tree, and it has evidently never been moved since we left it. See, the cranberries are already beginning to grow round it.'

'Which shall we take this time? I wish we could get the stuff all sold and done with!'

'So do I! but we cannot take too much to one country. If we make a good haul in America, we will return, and try and see what we can do in England with the rest.'

'If we cannot dig now, what are we to do?' asked the tall man, disgustedly.

'We must go on to the Observatory, and pass the time there. There is nothing else to be done.'

When they had quite gone, Franz raised himself slowly. There was the great stone, just as the short man had said, and underneath it were evidently most of the treasures stolen from Baron Rosenthal. What was the best thing to do? If he dug the treasures up and hid them elsewhere, they would be safe, but then the thieves would probably escape. If he went straight back to Freistadt by train and warned the police, Herr Groos would think he was lost, and there would be such a hue and cry in the woods that the strangers would probably hear of it and have their suspicions aroused.

Then an inspiration came to him. He would telegraph to Hugo in cypher, and then, even if Baron Rosenthal himself were not there, Hugo would have the sense to arrange matters. It took him some time to concoct his telegram, and put it into cypher. It ran as follows:—

'A tall man in grey and a shorter man in brown, with butterfly nets and big specimen cases, will reach Freistadt station at ten-thirty. Have them arrested, as their cases contain some of your father's silver, and the rest is hidden in the woods.—FRANZ.'

Visitors were always allowed to use the telegraph at the Observatory on the top of the hill, and so he decided to go there at once and send off his message. Then a fresh danger occurred to him. The two strangers were going to the little inn by the Observatory. If they chanced to see his telegram, or even asked to look at it, he would arouse their suspicions if he declined to show it, and yet, if the short stranger were as clever as he professed to be, he would probably decipher it and learn everything. So he wrote a companion message, using some of the same words and figures as in the cypher one, but arranging them so that they could not possibly be translated to make sense.

When he arrived at the top of the hill, he found the two strangers, as he had expected, sitting at a little table outside the building.

'Hallo, youngster, have you caught your swallow-tail yet?' inquired the tall one.

'I have not even seen one,' replied Franz, truthfully. 'I am afraid they have all left the Hirsch-felsen since you were there. I gave it up at last and came on here to send a cypher telegram to my friend.'

'Ah! the cypher!' said the fat man. 'Show me what you are going to say, and I will warrant myself to read it.'

'Very well, but be quick, for I want to send it off,' replied Franz, seeing that this would disarm suspicion.

He gave the strangers the copy he had specially prepared for them, and, to his surprise, the stout man did manage to read it, though, naturally, he thought nothing of its contents. Then Franz took the real telegram to the clerk at the Observatory, who dispatched it carefully, though he chaffed Franz a good deal about the enormous importance of a message that required to be sent so secretly.

When he rejoined his companions by the lake, just in time for the afternoon meal, he was well teased by them because he was the only boy who had no important find to announce. Then followed a merry walk back through the woods, then supper, and then bed, and through it all Franz never had a chance of a private talk with Herr Groos.

The next morning the boys were still at breakfast when the early morning train came creaking into the station, and the first person to come towards the inn was Baron Rosenthal.

He shook Franz warmly by the hand. 'Thanks to you, my boy,' he said, 'the thieves are in prison. It only remains for you to show us where the rest of the silver is hidden.'

The other boys gazed at Franz in surprise, but he was not long in telling the whole story, and explaining how it was that he had been the only boy who had had no time to collect specimens. Half an hour later the whole party started for the Kuehberg, with Franz to guide them.



Afterwards, when the winter came, and the boys of the class discussed the great summer excursion, they always agreed that the most exciting part of it had been the digging for Baron Rosenthal's treasures under the pine tree. Not a few of them also, though without success, tried to invent a cypher that should rival the famous one which had proved of such real and unexpected value.

A. KATHARINE PARKES.



THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER.

Amongst our water-loving birds there are few that can rival the great Northern Diver. He is strong of wing, with remarkable legs and feet, and a body so formed that it can take in a wonderful amount of air. He is a beautiful bird, too, and a glance at him gives you the impression that he is very knowing—as is, indeed, the fact. He has not a tuneful voice, for he does not belong to the singing birds, but he utters a plaintive and wild cry, which seems to suit the regions that are usually his home. For, though the species does not keep entirely to the cold northern regions, where summer is brief and winter is long, they are his chief resorts, and their loneliness seems to suit him. He has often been seen along British shores, in the Firth of Forth, for instance, and upon the coast of Wales and Ireland. But if you wish to see the great northern diver in abundance, you must go beyond the Hebrides, towards Labrador, Iceland, and Spitzbergen. Nature has provided the bird with the means of obtaining a great amount of animal heat, which enables him to bear comfortably the intense cold of arctic regions.

A solitary specimen often attracts the notice of those on board passing ships. They observe on a headland this tall, gaunt, white-breasted sea-bird, motionless, it may be, yet looking round sharply with his keen eyes. Is he thinking of the family cares of the last season, or considering where the next meal is to come from? Suddenly he moves and darts towards the sea, into which he plunges. Two or three minutes after, he reappears many yards away. He has probably been fishing. He seems to know before entering the water what the fish are doing, and the formation of his body and limbs makes him a capital diver. It is the habit of the Northern Diver to seek out especially the shoals of herrings and sprats, of which both young and old birds consume great quantities. There is only one brood yearly, the young birds hatching during the brief summer of the far north.

The bird's head and neck are black, the bill being strong and pointed at the tip. The breast is white, but the back, tail, and legs are black, with scattered white spots; its feet are webbed. Though his wings are short, and his body appears heavy, the Northern Diver can fly powerfully and swiftly, owing to the strength of his muscles. The body, too, is smooth and rounded, adapted either for swimming or flying. Another name for it is the Immer, or Immer Diver.

J. R. S. C.



ENCOURAGEMENT.

Be as encouraging as you can. There is no end to the good sometimes done by a few kindly words.

When Sydney Smith was a boy at school, a visitor found him one day, in the play-hour, poring over a lesson-book. 'Clever boy!' said the stranger, as he bestowed a shilling upon the young student, 'that is the way to conquer the world.'

This bit of encouragement brightened the neglected boy's life like a ray of sunshine. That kind man was not forgotten by Sydney Smith, who was never weary of praising his deed. Little dreamed the stranger, as he went his way, of the great good effected by his pleasant words. The lad whom he had encouraged rose soon afterwards to be prefect of his school, and, as we know, became in after years a very distinguished man, and possibly the first real start he had in life was this little piece of encouragement.

E. D.



TRAVELLERS' TALES.

They say there is a country where snowstorms never fall, And sliding is a game they never knew: They never saw a lake Paved with ice that wouldn't break— I would rather stay in England, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the bright sun never sets, But still continues shining all night through; And you needn't go to bed, For there's always light o'er head— That's a country I should like, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the people all talk French— I can't imagine what they ever do! For who amid their chatter Could understand such patter? I should answer 'Speak in English,' wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the women cannot walk, And everything is made out of bamboo, And the people's eyes are wee, And they live on rice and tea— I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the elephants are wild, And never even heard about our Zoo; And through the woods they roam Like gentlemen at home— I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

F. W. H.



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 127.)

After a few minutes' useless waiting, and wishing that I might have accompanied Jacintha and Dick into the house, I turned my back towards Colebrook Park and set out in the direction of the town, which I entered by a steep hill. The hill brought me into the middle of the High Street, at about half-past four in the afternoon, and my attention was soon absorbed by the fresh surroundings. In the street was a constant stream of well-dressed persons, there were good shops, many carriages, and I stood at the corner wondering which way to turn. Every now and then I put my hand into my pocket to make certain the money was safe, and at last I began to feel a certain sense of recklessness, as if I had now the power to launch out into extravagance. To tell the truth it seemed difficult to be in possession of such a sum without immediately looking out for something to buy, and indeed there were several things I could have added to my stock with advantage.

On the left I came to the railway station; the line passed over the road, and beyond it the High Street sloped steeply upwards. At the top of the hill I saw some public baths. Noticing on the opposite side of the way a large shop with cheap clothing in the window, I entered and made my first purchase, which consisted of a pair of stockings and some shoes—of brown canvas, because these were the cheapest. Carrying my parcel, I entered the baths, and came forth feeling much cleaner and more presentable.

I next treated myself to an egg for tea, with ample bread and butter and a cup of cocoa, and then I thought it high time to seek a place in which to sleep. In speaking of an hotel, I had in my mind a Temperance Hotel, although I had not entered into details before Dick; but, as I walked away from the tea-shop, exploring small streets, I passed a tailor's, where a man was seated cross-legged on a board, busily stitching. In the window was a card bearing the inscription, 'Bedroom to let to a single man,' and then a happy idea occurred to me.

My clothes were sadly in need of repair, my jacket being torn and stained, and my knickerbockers requiring a patch on the right knee. Now, I thought, if I engage a bed at the tailor's, he might consent to repair my suit while I occupy it. So I opened the door and entered the warm, moist air of the shop, with an inquiry about the bedroom, whereupon the tailor gazed at me doubtfully a moment and shouted for 'Emma!'

She was a pleasant-looking woman with a baby in her arms, and a second child clinging to her skirts, and she also seemed to regard me suspiciously.

'I want a room for one night,' I explained, and then she glanced at her husband.

'Got any money to pay for it?' he demanded.

'Rather,' I said. 'I can pay you first if you like.'

'Well, that is what I should like,' he answered. 'Show the room, Emma.'

She took me upstairs to a clean but poorly-furnished room, for which she demanded a shilling, but after some conversation she agreed to supply me with a good breakfast the next morning for one and ninepence. With this offer I closed, and then, having given her one of my sovereigns, she took me downstairs again to ask her husband for the change. When I had counted this, I broached the subject of my clothes, suggesting that I would go to bed at once if he would put them in good order by to-morrow morning. We made a bargain for two and sixpence, and this sum I paid also; then I turned into bed as soon as Emma had prepared the room. But for some time I could not feel inclined to sleep, lying there thinking of the time I had spent with Dick and Jacintha, and trying to decide about the future.

Before closing my eyes I came to one determination. The first thing to-morrow morning I would walk to the railway station and inquire the cost of a third-class ticket to London. With so much money in my pocket, it seemed folly to walk the rest of the distance, and the sooner I reached my destination the sooner I should begin my real career.

My last waking thought that night was of Captain Knowlton, but in spite of Dick's hopefulness it seemed impossible to believe that by any chance my friend could be still living. For a few moments I exercised my imagination, I built air castles, and pictured his reappearance on the scene. I saw myself again at some other school, mixing once more with the fellows on an equality: I saw myself going in due course to Sandhurst, with Dick as my companion; I saw myself a guest at his house during the holidays, discussing with Jacintha the experiences through which I was at present passing. Whether or not I was awake when I fancied these things, or my last thoughts melted into dreams, I have not the remotest notion, but I knew nothing else until Emma knocked at my door at eight the following morning, laying down my clothes outside, and then all the pictures my imagination had painted appeared unreal and extremely tantalising.

There was a small looking-glass on the bare wooden dressing-table, and by its aid I saw that the tailor had given me good value for my money. Feeling quite respectable with the new stockings and shoes and the renovated suit, I determined to improve matters further by accepting Jacintha's hint and having my hair cut.

During breakfast I realised that the day was Saturday, and that if I travelled to London, it would not be practicable to take any steps towards finding employment until Monday. As I was at present in cheap and comfortable quarters, it seemed judicious to remain over Sunday, especially as there would be a chance of seeing Dick and his sister once more before I left Hazleton.

Having made a satisfactory arrangement with Emma, I went to the nearest hairdresser's; and afterwards bought for two and fourpence a white flannel shirt with a collar attached. Then, turning my steps to the railway station, found that the price of a third-class ticket to London was five shillings and threepence, and that there were several trains during the morning.

When I had returned home to change my shirt, I wandered along the road in the direction of Colebrook Park, but passed the lodge gates several times without the satisfaction of seeing any sign of Jacintha or her brother. Later in the day rain began to fall again, and continued until bedtime, throughout the night, and through the whole of Sunday, so that I only went out to church in the morning, and spent a far from unpleasant afternoon listening to stories from Emma's husband. It appeared that he had been a soldier, and passed through an Egyptian campaign, to the success of which, according to his own account, he must to no mean extent have contributed. In the evening I went again to the church a few doors off. On Monday, seeing that the sun was shining, I determined to make one more effort to see Dick or Jacintha before setting out to London. The walk to Colebrook Park, where I hung about for an hour or more, proved again entirely unavailing, however, and turning towards the railway station, I changed another sovereign for a ticket, and reached the platform ten minutes before the half-past eleven train was due.



CHAPTER XVI.

While waiting for the train, I took the opportunity to count my money, and finding how rapidly it had diminished, almost regretted the determination to travel luxuriously by the railway, instead of walking the rest of the distance to London. But, on the other hand, it appeared highly desirable to present a respectable appearance when at last I began to look for work in earnest. I had learned enough since leaving Castlemore to understand that it would not do to be too particular as to the nature of such employment, but that it could be possible to search in vain scarcely seemed to me likely.

There being few passengers, I entered an empty third-class compartment, and began to eat some meat patties which I had bought on the way from Colebrook Park. At the first stoppage a middle-aged woman entered the compartment, taking a seat by the farther window, but at Midbrook, about three-quarters of the way to London, we were joined by a man, who lowered himself gently into the seat facing my own, with his face towards the engine.

He looked sixty years of age, or perhaps somewhat older, and had one of the most benevolent-looking faces I had ever seen. He was clean shaven, and he wore a tall black hat. His long frock coat was made of shiny black cloth, with a waistcoat to match, and grey trousers. He exposed a large amount of white shirt-front, and wore a neatly-tied narrow black bow; indeed, he looked noticeably neat and well-brushed from top to toe.

But, although he was so well dressed that I felt surprised at his travelling third-class, he had the appearance of a highly respectable, old-fashioned butler out for a holiday, rather than a gentleman. A pair of double eye-glasses hung from a broad black ribbon, and he sat with both hands resting on the knob of his umbrella as he gazed benevolently into my face.

'I wonder,' he suggested, soon after the train had restarted, 'whether you would object to changing sides with me?'

'I don't mind at all,' I answered.

'A great pity,' he continued, 'to put up the window on such a lovely warm day, but I am a great sufferer with a tickling in my throat, and anything of a draught—thank you, my lad, thank you,' he said, as I took the seat which he had left.

Resting his umbrella by his side, he took a small packet from his waistcoat pocket, and helped himself to a lozenge. 'May I offer you one?' he said, holding out the packet in a somewhat shaky hand. 'You won't find them at all unpleasant.'

As I noticed the smell of aniseed, I accepted the offer at once. He seemed to speak as if I were a man rather than a boy of fifteen, and no doubt I felt flattered. But his voice was scarcely in accordance with his general appearance, and it was easy to detect a note of ill-breeding.

(Continued on page 138.)



THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 135.)

Before we reached the next station, the old gentleman made several remarks about the condition of the crops, the beauty of the country, and the unusual quantity of rain that had recently fallen, and when presently the train stopped again, and the woman at the farther end of the compartment rose from her seat, he put out a hand to open the door, though he nodded without raising his hat when she turned to thank him from the platform.

'Now, I wonder,' he said, when we were on the way again, 'if you are able to oblige me?'

'How?' I asked.

'I want two shillings and sixpence or sixpenny-worth of coppers for a half-crown piece.'

'I think I can do that,' I answered, thrusting a hand into my pocket.

'You may think it strange that I should ask you,' he suggested.

'Not at all.'

'But,' he continued, 'I hadn't time to get change, and I want a paper at the next station.'

Bringing out a handful of silver, I gave him two shillings and a sixpence, whereupon he handed me a half-crown in exchange.

'It looks like a new one,' I remarked.

'I trust it may bring you good fortune, my lad,' he answered. 'Though, in one respect, you certainly seem to be well provided for already.'

I suppose I smiled with satisfaction.

'But,' he continued, 'never forget one thing. Money is the root of all evil—the root of all evil.'

'Do you live in London?' I asked presently.

'Yes,' he replied, 'although it does not agree with my delicate throat. But we cannot choose where we would wish to live.'

'I wonder,' I said, a little hesitatingly, 'whether you could tell me where to find a lodging?'

'Ah,' he cried, 'you may be sure of this! If I can assist you in any way I shall be very happy—very happy indeed. Of course it is to some extent a question of what you are prepared to pay.'

'I must not pay much,' I said, 'because, you see, I may not get anything to do just at present.'

'So you have come to London to try your fortune?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I only want just a bedroom.'

He was looking up at the rack over my head.

'Your luggage is in the van?' he remarked.

'I have no luggage,' I answered, realising that this must appear a somewhat serious drawback.

'May I inquire how much money you possess?' he asked.

'A little over a pound.'

'Ah!' he cried; 'and that is to be the beginning of a fortune, we will hope. I have always taken a great interest in young men,' he continued. 'Now, let me see what we can do. I live with my son and my daughter-in-law, and it is just possible she might accommodate you, if you would like to come with me when we get out of this train.'

'I should like it very much indeed,' I answered, congratulating myself that I had not been backward in asking his advice. I felt no shadow of doubt concerning his good faith. He looked so entirely respectable that I should have gone anywhere at his bidding. So, when the train stopped at the London terminus I walked by his side through the booking-office, out of the station-yard, and took a seat on an omnibus without an instant's hesitation. I noticed that he had a way of turning his head very quickly, almost as if he were looking out for some one, and I thought it nice of him to insist on paying my fare. We took two omnibuses before we alighted at the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone Road, when, holding my arm in a most friendly manner, he led me in the direction of Lisson Grove, although at the time I had no idea whither we were going.

After passing through one or two quiet squares and dingy streets, we reached one which looked more dingy still, with its rows of narrow, high terrace houses, a number of unkempt children playing about the road, and a fish-hawker bawling by the kerb. At one of the dingy-looking houses my companion stopped, taking a latch-key from his waistcoat pocket; but as soon as he opened the door a woman came out of a room, standing with her arms akimbo in front of him, while I brought up the rear.

She was tall, like the old man, but her face was red and puffy, while a wisp of fair hair fell untidily over her forehead. She wore a dirty-looking dress, with several buttons missing, their places being supplied by pins.

'Who's the kid?' she asked, and it was impossible to imagine that she felt pleased at my presence.

'A young friend I happened to meet in the train,' he answered in a curious tone. 'This way, my lad,' he added, 'this way,' and, stepping past the woman, he opened a door of a back room. 'Just sit down for a moment till I come back,' he said, although there was nothing to sit upon but a bed.

Closing the door, he went away, and I heard him entering the front room. I suddenly became the prey of all manner of anxious feelings. The house itself was close and stuffy, with a curious odour as of some pungent acid. I did not feel favourably impressed by the appearance of the woman. But when a few minutes had passed the sound of voices reached my ears, although it was impossible to hear the words with any distinctness. Knowing that the old man was in all probability discussing me with the woman who must be his daughter, I did what I may safely say I had never attempted before in my life. Overcome with eagerness to learn what was being said concerning myself, I stole towards the door, opened it, and played the eavesdropper.

Even now I could not make out half their meaning, and what I heard only served to perplex and frighten me.

'I tell you he is just what we want,' said the man, and the only word I could catch in the woman's answer was—'Risk!'

'An open-faced, honest-looking boy,' he continued. 'You have only to look at him a second to feel you can trust him. Dress him properly, and he is as good as a fortune.'

If it had seemed possible to dart along the passage and out through the front door, I should have done so, but my knees were shaking under me; and, hearing fresh movements in the next room, I drew back and reclosed the door. A few minutes later the man returned.

'Come this way,' he said, and I followed him into the front room. 'My daughter, Mrs. Loveridge,' he continued, 'does not like strangers, but I have persuaded her to treat you as a member of the family——'

'But if you would rather not!' I cried, looking up into her face.

'We are not rich people,' he said, entirely ignoring my outburst, 'but what we have we are willing to share—now, no one can say fairer than that. You give up what money you have got in that pocket of yours, and, when you have taken it out in board and lodging, we will see whether we can't manage to find you some useful work to do. So hand out, my lad!'



CHAPTER XVII.

Although he had looked so benevolent in the train, I had already begun to fear this urbane old man far more than I had previously feared the tramp at Broughton. With an uncomfortable feeling that he had got me in his power, I could see no way of quickly getting out of it. To refuse to hand over my money was out of the question, although, with an appearance of kindness, he gave me back the particular half-crown which I had changed for him in the train.

The next few hours went by wretchedly enough. Mr. Parsons (for that I learned was his name) did not leave me for a moment alone, and there was nothing to divert my thoughts from the extremely disagreeable situation. I could see no sign of any kind of book; and, indeed, the only form of print in the house seemed to be half of an old newspaper. At about half-past eight, Mrs. Loveridge began to prepare for something resembling a meal by placing on the table, without a cloth, a piece of bacon, and some bread and cheese. When it was supposed to be ready I made the acquaintance of Mr. Loveridge, a small, pale-faced, dark-haired man, with one leg shorter than the other. He wore a boot with a very thick cork sole, and walked with crutches. Mr. Loveridge scarcely opened his lips, but greeted me with a long, keen stare. Although I did not feel the least appetite, I made a pretence of eating.

After supper, we all sat round the table, just as it was, while the men smoked, and talked in a jargon which it was impossible to understand.

'Better put the kid to bed,' said Loveridge, presently; and, indeed, I was beginning to feel exceedingly curious as to my sleeping quarters.

Rising from her chair, Mrs. Loveridge led the way upstairs to the top of the house, where she opened a door and said that was to be my room.

'Can I have a candle?' I asked.

'No, you can't,' she answered. 'And you needn't be afraid. We always lock the front door and take out the key, and sleep with one eye open in this house.'

With that she went downstairs and I shut the door. The window had neither blind nor curtains, and the room was almost dark. I could, however, distinguish a bed on the floor, and suddenly I remembered the last and only other time I had slept in a bedroom without a bed—at Mrs. Riddles', at Polehampton—and sincerely wished myself back in that cupboard, despite its nearness to Castlemore. I prayed earnestly to God to watch over me, for I knew instinctively that I was in some great danger. I felt that I had fallen among thieves—if these people were not thieves, what could they be?

I reproached myself for having been so easily deceived by Parsons, and determined to make my escape at the earliest opportunity. The hint in Mrs. Loveridge's parting words had not been necessary to convince me of the uselessness of trying to get away during the night, so I lay down on the mattress and the blankets (there were no sheets) and tried to make up my mind how to act. I could not believe that the object of Parsons in bringing me to his house had been merely to obtain the small sum of money I possessed. Yet he appeared eager to detain me, and he had persuaded his daughter of the need for such detention. It seemed to follow that he meant to make use of me in some way—some undesirable way, no doubt. In vain I racked my brains, before I fell asleep that miserable night, to see through his design. But I realised that my situation had become worse than ever, and it seemed difficult to imagine that only yesterday I had been the companion of Jacintha and her brother. I determined to do my utmost to disguise my suspicions, to exercise patience and—for once—judgment, and to await a favourable opportunity with all the courage I could muster.

(Continued on page 146.)



WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

V.—THE ROCK TEMPLES OF INDIA.

Perhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is, with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people. We have to remember that this population is made up of many different races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various parts. India is above all things an old country. Its sacred books, its temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may account for the likeness between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new subjects.



The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha, though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves largely of the many natural caverns with which the rocks of India and Thibet abound.

At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall, with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers might have been worse off.

Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.

One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns, though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals, either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.

The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.

HELENA HEATH.



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

III.—THE SIMPLON ROAD.



In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his troops many hundred years before.

This road of Napoleon's—still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in Europe—was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres) along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.

How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain, would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.

* * * * *

Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.

'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'

'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey in less than an hour by rail.'

'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel, boxed up in a stuffy train?'

'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour, smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country, and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel is twelve miles long—the longest railway tunnel in the world.'

'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an explanation from some one.

A Swiss gentleman—speaking, however, most excellent English—enlightened the lad.

'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'

'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in future?'

'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the peasants—they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so greatly diminished.'

'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard of them.'

'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow, and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the snow.'

* * * * *

Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.

S. C.



THE BAT AND THE BALL.

'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball, While mounting to the skies; 'I know I shall have such a fall After this dreadful rise. I speak no ill of any one, However they provoke, But many things the Bat has done Are something past a joke.'

'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,' The Bat exclaimed with glee, 'But yet he never says he owes His rise in life to me. No, no, that's not his way at all; And though I do my best, His graceless growls at every fall Are something past a jest.'

JOHN LEA.



WITHOUT A HEN TO BUY STAMPS.

A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in Somaliland.

He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without a letter.

'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'

A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.

X.



MAY DAY.

The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.

Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.

On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they would want.

'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.

'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'

'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,' May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon for my flowers.'

May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.

'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody will miss the ribbon.'

'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this would be quite useless.

How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some plan.

However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.

'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice said.

'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always so kind to us.'

So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help her.

'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice promised, as she kissed her good-bye.

It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.

'You have been a good, industrious girl,' she said to Alice. 'Now you must come in and have some cake and milk, and I have a few little scraps of finery your mother may like for her patchwork.'

She brought a bundle of pieces of bright-coloured silk, and among them Alice saw, with delight, a length of lovely green ribbon.

Her eyes shone with excitement as she thanked Mrs. Stevens.

'Do you think, ma'am, we might use that beautiful ribbon for our garland? It would still do for Mother's patchwork if we ironed it afterwards.'

Then Mrs. Stevens had to hear all the story of May's wish and her sister's fears for her disappointment. She gave Alice leave to go through their orchard on her way home, and to pick as many of the wild jonquils—'White Sundays,' the children called them—as she liked. So Alice was a happy girl, and, although she saw by the tears on little May's cheeks that the child had cried herself to sleep, she knew how glad her waking would be.

Alice was awake at daylight to weave the garland and arrange the bunch of flowers on the pole. When all her preparations were finished, she roused May and told her that it was May Day and she had a delightful surprise for her. She brushed the little girl's golden hair till it shone, and put on her best white frock, and then, looking from the window, saw some other children coming to meet them.

'Run off, dear,' she said; 'I will follow with your garland.'

She just had time to slip on a clean pinafore, and then hurried after her down the hill.

'Oh, how lovely!' cried May, when she saw the green ribbon; and she was so excited she could hardly stand still while she held the garland and Alice tied it on.

The other children were full of admiration, and May's happy little face, with the hug she gave her kind sister, quite repaid Alice for her hard work the evening before, and for getting up with the sun to prepare for a joyful maying.

M. H.



NOT THE SAME THING.

At a college in Cambridge there was once a master who was extremely fond of figs. He watched his fig-tree very closely and tenderly, for he held that in the existence of a fig there was but one fit and proper moment at which the ripe fruit should be eaten. To eat a fig either before or after that supreme moment was, said the master, a neglect of an opportunity and a sad mistake.

One year, for some reason, the tree produced only one good fig; and one day the master's examination of this solitary fruit led him to the conclusion that it would be at its best on the day following. Then he did an exceedingly foolish thing—considering that there were undergraduates about! He wrapped his precious fig in a piece of silver paper and labelled it 'The Master's Fig!'

At what he judged the exactly right moment of the next day the master went to the tree, anticipating a brief but exquisite pleasure. Alas! the fruit had vanished, and the empty branch bore a label with these words; 'A Fig for the Master!'

H. J. H.



INVITATIONS.

The daffodils are nodding; There's a swaying of the trees; The playroom window rattles To the fragrant summer breeze. There is sunshine in the garden, And the bees are all a-hum. Oh, hark, the invitation: 'You must come, come, come!'

The butterfly is glancing On his wings of golden hue; Ah! see where now he loiters O'er that bed of pansies blue; A moment since he hovered At this very window-pane, To see if we were coming To the garden and the lane.

Hats! hats! for those who want them; Boots! boots!—oh, lace them, do! Fling open doors and windows, To let the sunshine through! When birds and bees and blossoms Invite us out to play, Oh, who could well refuse them Upon so bright a day?

JOHN LEA.



JAPANESE PLUMS.

Plums, especially if pickled, are a favourite ration of the Japanese soldiers. These plums are said to be such marvellous thirst-quenchers that if you have once tasted them the mere recalling of their name is sufficient to allay the severest thirst.