On the right of the Serpentine towards the north, a wide slope of grass and trees above the water has been fenced off for the benefit of the Peacock family, and these are objects of great interest to admirers of all ages. The males come in for most attention, owing to their beauty. It is a very droll sight to see Mr. Peacock, with gorgeous tail and crest fully outspread, his richly coloured breast and neck gleaming in the sunlight, bowing, strutting, and scraping before the peahen whom he admires. On this same ground moorhens and other shy aquatic birds make their home in bush and sedge, from time to time crossing the open grass, evidently aware of their safety, but taking little interest in the lookers-on.

Memories of the past have very much to do with this oldest of the national parks. The Serpentine recalls to us one of London's lost rivers, the Westbourne, the current of which still helps to swell its volume of water. Rising in the Hampstead heights, and passing the villages of Paddington and Kensington, this stream flowed through and often overflowed the pleasant Manor of Hyde, which then belonged to the rich Abbey of Westminster, and from which the present park takes its name.

Good Queen Bess thought her own amusement and that of her courtiers of more importance than the enjoyment of the common folk, and filled the park with antlered stag and timid deer, while for many a long day the merry 'toot, toot' of the hunter's horn echoed amongst its glades, until merriment vanished before the grim tragedy of King Charles's execution in 1649. Then for twenty years and more the stately avenues were quiet and peaceful, and little children played beside the river until Cromwell died and Charles II. 'came to his own again.' Nothing less than turning the park into a race-course would content the new king, and the enclosure echoed with the sound of galloping horses, whilst an army of men with pick and shovel cleared and cut out the circular drive now known as Rotten Row, a name which is supposed by some to be a corruption of the French 'Route du Roi' (King's Way).

North-east of the park, close to where the Marble Arch now stands, was a plot of ground connected with more horrors than could be found elsewhere in England. This was the site of the famous Tyburn Tree—London's hanging-place in the days of old, when even a child might be hanged for stealing a few pence. Many a procession of carts came from Newgate in the City, laden with men, women, boys, and girls, followed by an excited crowd eager to watch the execution. Round the gallows galleries were erected and let out at high cost to fashionable folk—fine ladies and gay gallants all ready for the show. Happily humanity has made progress in the last century, and such dreadful sights have long been done away with.

William III., like most of his Dutch relations, was a great gardener, and cut quite a large slice out of Hyde Park to improve the gardens of Kensington Palace, where he and Queen Mary made their home. At the same time he made a great many improvements in the actual park, although for the Serpentine we have to thank Queen Caroline, wife of George II.

Since then Hyde Park has always been the playground of the rank and fashion of the United Kingdom, and nowhere else in England can such numbers of magnificent carriages and horses be seen as here in the season. The alleys bordering the drives are filled on summer afternoons with thousands of well-dressed people—many perhaps admiring the splendid clumps of rhododendrons, which form one of the sights of the park in early summer. The rich, too, are not the only people who appreciate this national playing-place. Thousands of poorly-clad women bring their white-faced children from crowded courts and alleys to enjoy the fresh air, and unlimited room in which to play.

Turn where we will, Hyde Park is, in our times, a scene of peaceful rest both of body and mind for weary citizens. Yet matters far less suitable to its beautiful surroundings have often disturbed its peace. In the days of duelling, the north side beneath the trees was a favourite place of meeting. Here on a Sunday in 1712, the first Duke of Hamilton, a statesman who could ill be spared by his country, engaged Lord Mohun, and both adversaries were carried dead from the field.

As we stand on the bridge, looking down and watching the quiet water, with all its living things, and the rabbits in their corner, it seems hard to believe that we are in the midst of a maze of human dwellings, and that miles and miles of busy streets surround us. But pause and listen awhile, and you will hear, above the music of the birds, the ring of voices and echoes of children's laughter, above the dull hum of well-hung carriages and pattering of horses' feet, a never-ending roar—the sound of the greatest city the world has ever seen. All round us, shut off only by a little space of grass and trees, lie its pleasures and its miseries.



SERVED HER RIGHT.

Founded on Fact.

Not long ago there was a story told of a young girl whose kindness to an old man brought her a great reward. She was in the crowd upon the occasion of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee, and observed a rather shabbily dressed old gentleman who appeared to be ill. Taking him by the arm, she made a way for him through the dense throng of people, and got him safely into a quiet street. There he explained to her that he had a weak heart, and that he had foolishly ventured out sight-seeing, but the excitement and the closeness had made him faint. He thanked the girl warmly for her help, and asked for her name and address, which she gave him.

A few years after this little adventure, the girl received a letter in a big blue envelope. It was a communication from a lawyer, who informed her that the gentleman whom she had so kindly helped on Jubilee Day had died, and had left her by his will the greater part of his large fortune.

There is another story rather like this, but about a different sort of girl. A gentleman happened to read the above tale out of a newspaper as he sat with his family at breakfast. His little daughter, as she listened to her father, thought how nice it would be if she could win a fortune thus easily. So the next time she saw an old man shivering on the brink of a crossing, she went up to him, and, with a sweet smile, said in her politest tones: 'May I have the pleasure of assisting you?'

But the man chanced to be a cross-grained old fellow, and, thinking that the girl was making fun of him, he brandished his stick at her, whereupon, in a great fright, she ran away as fast as she could.

I think you will agree with me that the little girl quite deserved this rebuff, because of the unworthiness of her motive.

E. DYKE.



THE FLOWER-GIRL.

'Fine window-plants! Who'll buy?' shouted the man with the flower-laden donkey-cart; but it was Mary, his daughter, who did most of the selling. She stood on the edge of the pavement, a plant in each hand, and smiled at the passers-by, and few could resist the pretty picture she made. They would stop and admire the flowers even if they could not afford to buy, and Mary had smiles for all, though perhaps the brightest were kept for those who made a purchase.

And yet the girl's heart was heavy, and tears lay very close behind the smiles. Trade had not been very brisk of late, while illness in the home had made the expenses heavy. Her favourite little brother was still ailing, and seemed to make no progress. The doctor had said he needed change of air and nourishing food; but how could the doctor's orders be obeyed when money was so scarce?

The morning was getting on, and still the cart had not lost much of its load. Smiles were more difficult to manage as the hope of being able to take home something dainty for Dicky's supper grew less.

A lady with her little boy had just passed, but looks of admiration were all they gave. In the distance an old gentleman appeared, and he was even a more unlikely customer. He peered through his spectacles, and seemed too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to spare attention for anything else.

As he was passing the cart he slipped, and would have fallen had not Mary put out her arm quickly to steady him. But, alas! in doing so the flower-pot she was holding fell, and lay in fragments on the pavement, with the delicate blooms of the azalea quite ruined.

'Thank you, my dear,' the gentleman said. 'It was kind of you to come to an old man's help.' But he did not notice the broken flower-pot, and passed on, while Mary gazed in dismay at what meant a loss they could so ill afford.

'Run after him, my girl,' her father said. 'Tell him he must pay for that flower. A fine thing to come damaging other folk's property, and to slip off without a word!'

But at that moment a girl came hurrying along the pavement. 'Oh,' she cried, 'I saw what happened. That is my grandfather, and he is nearly blind. I must overtake him, and I am sure he will come back and repay you.'

Mary watched anxiously, and when they arrived, the old man leaning on the girl's arm, her spirits rose again.

'My grand-daughter says I always get into mischief when she leaves me for a minute,' he said, smiling. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a few coins. 'Will this make good the mischief I have done?' he asked.

'Oh, sir, it is too much,' Mary said. 'The price of the flower was only eighteen-pence.'

'But I must pay for my rudeness in running away without apologising, and you can buy a ribbon for yourself with the extra money.'

'I shall get something a great deal more useful than that,' she said.

'You seem to be a sensible young woman for your age. I wonder what this useful purchase will be?'

'Something to make my little Dicky strong,' Mary said softly.

'And who is Dicky?' asked the pretty grand-daughter; and she looked so sympathetic that somehow the whole story came out, for Mary's heart was full, and words came readily in response to this touch of kindness.

'I shall call and see him,' the girl promised, when she had inquired where Mary lived. And so the misfortune of the broken flower-pot turned out to be the best bit of good fortune Mary had ever enjoyed. Not only did her new friend come laden with delicacies for the invalid, but she interested herself in having him sent with some other children for a month to the sea-side. And when Dicky returned, brown and rosy, and full of life and spirits, Mary felt she could sell her flowers with a smiling face again, and look forward to the future with a light heart.

M. H.



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

V.—LORD MASSEREENE'S IMPRISONMENT.

'Truth is stranger than fiction,' says a very old proverb, which is certainly illustrated by the following tale of an eccentric nobleman's life.

Lord Massereene was born in 1742, and in due course sent to Cambridge University, where, however, he learnt next to nothing except how to row on the river, and this he did to perfection.

On coming of age, he started off to do the 'Grand Tour,' as it was called—a leisurely visit to the various capital cities of European countries. This was a custom much in vogue amongst the young men of the wealthier classes a hundred years ago. Our young friend, however, went no further than Paris, for that fascinating city was too much for the foolish fellow, and he spent his money right and left, till he was almost penniless. He then fell into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer, a native of Syria, who put before him a plausible tale of how easy it would be to make a fortune by importing salt from Syria to France. Lord Massereene, in the hope of regaining the money he had wasted, invested all he could lay his hands on in this wild scheme, and of course, as it was a fraud, lost every penny.

The next misfortune that happened to him was an arrest for debt, and he made acquaintance with the inside of 'La Chatelet,' one of the largest prisons in Paris. He could, however, have satisfied his creditors, and been released from prison, had he been willing to allow his estates to be charged with his debts; but this he persistently refused to do.

There was at that time a law in France permitting debtors who had suffered twenty-five years' imprisonment to be allowed to go free, with all their liabilities discharged, and this extraordinary young man actually decided to do this, and to settle his debts by undergoing a quarter of a century of prison life!

Beyond the inability to leave the prison, Lord Massereene seems to have suffered at first but few privations, for cheerful society was not denied him, and he managed to woo and wed the daughter of one of the principal officials of the place.

A plan of escape was at length made, and as the young lady's father was able and willing to help in the matter, it was very nearly successful. But not quite! For, just as Lord Massereene was leaving the door of the prison to enter the carriage which was in waiting for him, he was arrested, and taken back to the prison. It appears that the Governor's suspicions had been aroused by seeing a carriage and pair loitering about the gate. As soon as he had caught the escaping prisoner, he ordered him to be lodged in the dungeon, a gloomy cell, below the Seine, on which Le Chatelet was built.

Lord Massereene now knew all the rigours of a French prison. He was left to languish in damp and darkness, with no companions but the rats, and only the coarsest food.

When at last the twenty-five years were ended, and his release came, he was indeed a pitiful object: gaunt, yellow, with a long unkempt beard reaching below his knees.

But his wife had remained constant to him, and together they set out for England. On landing at Dover, Lord Massereene was the first to step on shore, and falling on his knees, he exclaimed fervently,—

'God bless this land of freedom!'

* * * * *

He lived nearly twenty years in the enjoyment of the estate for which he had suffered imprisonment for so long, and died in 1805.



THE SAGO-TREE.

Sago is made from the pith of a tree-trunk. This tree—the sago-tree—is a kind of palm, like the date-tree and the cocoanut-tree. It is found in the East Indian Islands, where it gives food to many thousands of people, particularly in the large island of New Guinea, where a great part of the population is almost entirely dependent upon it.

The sago-tree grows in swampy places, either by the sea or in little hollows by the hill-sides. It is thicker than the cocoanut palm, but it does not grow quite so tall, being about thirty feet high when full grown, and perhaps twenty inches in diameter. What looks like the root of the sago-tree is really a creeping underground stem, from which a spike of flowers grows up when the tree is about ten or fifteen years old. For some years, while the plant is young, the upright growing stem is covered and completely hidden by very large spiny leaves. These are rather like enormous feathers, of which the centre stems, or midribs, corresponding to the quill of the feather, are from twelve to fifteen feet long, and, in their widest part, as thick as a man's leg. They are used like bamboo by the natives, for building houses, and also for making the roofs and floors of houses that are built of other kinds of wood.

The bases of the midribs widen out and wrap round the stem like a kind of sheath, as almost all leaf-stalks do to some extent. But the sheaths of the sago-tree are so large that, when they are broken off and trimmed, they are like large baskets or troughs—wide in the middle, where they have grasped the stem, and narrow at the ends, where they have joined the tree or are rolled up to form the midrib of the leaf. It is interesting to remember this, because the natives actually use the sheaths as baskets and troughs.

The hollow stem of the growing sago-tree is not more than half an inch in thickness, and it is filled with a light, pithy matter, from which 'sago' is made. This pithy matter varies in colour from a rusty tinge to white, and is rather like the eatable part of a dry apple. Strings of harder, woody fibre run through it like straight veins, and these are of no use for making sago. The pith is best for use when the tree is full grown and just about to flower, and it is then that the natives cut it down.

The tree is cut close to the ground, and, as it lies on the soil, its leaves are cut off, and a portion of the bark is shaved away from the upper side of the trunk so as to lay the pith bare. A native takes a club with a sharp stone in the end of it and beats the sago-pith with it. By this means he breaks up the fibres and the pith into little chips, taking care that they are kept within the trunk. From time to time these chips are loaded into one of the sheaths of the midribs, and carried away to be cleaned. The beater continues to break up the pith until there is nothing left but the hollow tree-trunk.

The sago is separated from the fibres in the pith by the aid of water. The natives take two sheaths of the sago-plant and make them into water-troughs. They set them up upon little frames, one sheath a little higher than the other, with one of its narrow ends projecting like a spout over the lower sheath. A kind of net-like bark or skin, obtained from the cocoanut tree, serves as a strainer or sieve, and is stretched across the upper sheath or trough. They empty the broken pith into the trough above the strainer, and pour water upon it. The soft part of the pith is a kind of starch, which dissolves in the water, and so flows through the sieve and down the spout into the lower trough, but the fibres are held back by the sieve. In order to get all the sago-starch out of the pith, the sago-maker kneads and squeezes the pith until nothing but fibre remains. This is waste, and is thrown away. When the sago-laden water falls into the lower trough it rests awhile, and the sago sinks into the bottom of the sheath as a soft reddish sediment, while the clear water rises to the top, and by and by trickles over the end of the sheath. When this trough is nearly full the sago-starch is taken out, made into rolls, and wrapped in the leaves of the tree.

The sago thus prepared is known as raw sago, and is used by the islanders without being further refined. They boil it in water, and eat it with fruits and salt, or they bake it into cakes in a little clay oven. When these cakes have been well dried they will keep for years; a man can make in a few days sufficient sago-cakes to last him a whole year. It has been calculated that a single tree will produce about eighteen hundred of these cakes.

The sago which we use for our puddings is made by refining the raw sago. When our grandfathers and grandmothers were young, the best raw sago used to be mixed with water and rubbed into small grains before it was sent to Europe. At the present time the sago, after being moistened, is passed through a sieve into a shallow iron pot, placed over a fire, and in this way the round pearly sago which we use is produced. As this sago is half-baked in this operation, it will keep for a very long time.

The Malays call the sago-tree the rumbiya and its pith sagu from which word we get our name sago. We have here an instance of a Malay word which is in daily use in the English language.



FAITH AND SIGHT.

A little story is told which helps to show the difference between faith and sight.

The master of an infant school told a boy to move a stool in such a way that he was not seen by the little ones himself. Then he taught them this lesson.

'You cannot see any one moving the stool; is it not alive?'

'Oh, no, sir! it never was alive. Some one must be moving it.'

'But you cannot see anybody; perhaps it moves itself.'

'No, sir; though we don't see anybody, that makes no difference. It cannot move itself.'

Then he told them of the moon and stars, which, though we see no one move them, certainly do move, and no one could do it but God, whom we do not see.

'Yes!' they said; 'it must be God.'

'But then we cannot see Him.'

'Please, we must believe that it is He.'

'You do believe it, then?'

'Yes sir.'

'Then this is Faith.' He added: 'If you have little faith, what will you do then?'

'I will shut myself up in a corner,' said one little mite, 'and pray for more.'



INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VI.—HOW INSECTS WALK.

Grown-up insects seem to be very short of legs compared with many of their distant relatives. Thus, while no member of the insect tribe—when grown up—has more than six legs, the Centipede or the Millipede may, as their names imply, possess a far greater number—as many, indeed, as two hundred and forty-two! But there is one curious likeness between the legs of the insects and those of their relatives—the number of pairs of legs is always odd. The insect has three pairs; the centipede and millipede have a very variable number, ranging from fifteen to one hundred and twenty-one pairs!

We have seen how wonderful the foot of the fly is, with its two sticky plates for smooth surfaces, and its two claws for rough ones. The Honey-bee has very similar feet, but the two plates are joined to form one! As in the fly, when climbing rough surfaces the flat plates are raised up, and the claws used instead; but when a smooth or slippery place has to be crossed, the claws are pulled backwards and the plates are brought down.

The legs of insects vary much, according to the purpose for which they are used. Thus, the Gnats, which spend the greater part of their time on the wing, have long slender legs, suitable for breaking the shock of alighting. Whilst in other insects the legs are used for all kinds of work, such as seizing prey, carrying it, climbing, digging, and so on. When this is the case the legs are provided with spines, or bristles.

In the Mole Cricket (fig. 1) the fore-legs are very strong, being short and broad, and ending in a broad comb-like plate, which is used for digging. They are very like the great digging paws of the mole.

The exact way in which insects walk is not easy to describe, and much study has been given to this most puzzling subject. Many devices have been adopted to make the insect draw a map of its course. In one instance the legs of a slow-walking beetle were painted, and the insect was then made to walk upon a clean sheet of paper; the track made by each leg being distinguished by the use of a different colour.

From this and other experiments it appears that there are always three legs in motion at the same time, or nearly so; meanwhile the remaining three legs support the body. First (as in fig. 2) the left fore-leg steps out, then the right middle-leg and the left hind-leg. Then the movement is taken up by the legs of the opposite side of the body, and so on.

If the movement of the legs in the six-legged insects is difficult to find out, what shall we say when the centipede (fig. 3) and millipede come to be examined? These, though not insects, are nearly related to the insects, and since they are common in our gardens, must be referred to here.



According to the lines of a humorous poem, the centipede was said to have been—

'Happy till One day a toad, in fun, Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?" This raised her doubts to such a pitch She fell exhausted in the ditch, Not knowing how to run.'



The last pair of legs in the centipede and millipede are never used for walking, and are generally much longer than the rest. In a South American species they are provided with delicate nerves, and are used as antennae or 'feelers,' so that the animal is armed with organs of touch at each end of the body! In one kind of millipede, in the male the last pair of legs has a sound-producing apparatus, consisting of a ridged plate, which, by being rubbed against a set of tiny, bead-like bodies set in the surface of the last shield covering the body, produces a peculiar noise.



Centipedes and millipedes generally shun the light, and hide under stones and in crevices during the day. But there are some which love the sunlight. These kinds are remarkable for the great length and slenderness of the legs, which they part with readily when handled! Most of these long-legged species are brightly coloured with black and yellow stripes or spots. In their native haunts these creatures may be seen darting about after their prey in the sun, heedless of the notice they attract by reason of their pretty colours. Few birds or beasts would think of eating them, for these creatures have a providential instinct which tells them that the gaudily-coloured animals are generally very nasty to the taste!

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



THE MAN WITH THE GLASSES.

So common is short-sightedness nowadays that military officers, and sometimes private soldiers, are allowed to wear spectacles. Formerly this was not the case. Where, by special permission of the authorities, exceptions had been made, the unfortunate wearers of glasses in the army came in for the ridicule of their comrades.

At the time when the French were fighting the Algerian chief, Abd-el-Kader, there was in a battalion of foot-chasseurs a spectacled adjutant named Duterbre. His companions made great fun of him. A man who wore glasses could not, in their opinion, be much of a hero. One day Duterbre, engaged in a reconnoitring expedition, was slightly wounded, and taken prisoner by the enemy. He was brought before the Arab chief. The remainder of the French force had, in the meantime, taken refuge in a walled enclosure close by.

'Go to your companions,' said Abd-el-Kader to Duterbre, 'and tell them that their lives shall be spared if they will surrender. Yours, in that case, shall be spared also. But if they refuse to surrender, I will utterly exterminate them, and I will have you beheaded. And understand this clearly: I send you to your people on one condition—that whether or not they accept my terms, you are in any case to return to me. Do you accept my conditions?'

'I do,' replied Duterbre.

Duterbre left the Arab camp, well aware that his only chance of life lay in the surrender of his battalion. If the French soldiers resolved to fight on, he was bound in honour to go back to death.

Duterbre returned to his companions. He had always been a man of few words, and he said very little on this occasion. But what he said was to the point. It was this: 'Chasseurs! If you do not surrender, the Arabs are going to cut off my head. Now die rather than yield, every one of you!'

Then the brave fellow turned his back, and went straight to the Arab camp, with the message that the French refused to surrender.

The chief carried out his threat. The adjutant was beheaded, and his head—spectacles and all—was carried round the camp upon a pole for public exhibition. None could say that it was not the head of a brave man.

E. D.



WHAT AM I?

No one can be pleased with me, I am dark and dull to see; Those whom money troubles tease Hate me, for I spoil their ease.

Welsh am I, and English too, Scottish, in another view; Wide and narrow, small and great, Dreary, too, and desolate.

Let him think of me, who eats Marmalade, and other sweets; Full of work am I, and wealth, Though too closely packed for health.

[Answer on page 230.]



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 203.)

CHAPTER III.

'What I am going to tell you,' Ping Wang began, 'is purely a family matter. It is the reason why I left China. My father was the mandarin of Kwang-ngan, and although he did not become a Christian, he was very friendly with the English missionaries, and when I was quite a little boy he asked them to teach me all the things which English boys were taught. When I was ten years old I was sent to a school at Hongkong, kept by an Englishman, and I remained there until I was eighteen. That, of course, accounts for my speaking English fairly well. When I was eighteen my father sent for me. But I found Chinese manners and customs were not pleasing to me after so many years among English people. Therefore I asked my father to permit me to return to Hongkong and become a merchant. He was considering the matter, and I believe that he would have given his consent, when he was seized by Chin Choo's orders and executed. He was unpopular with the authorities at Peking. The mandarin of every town has to squeeze as much money as he possibly can out of his people and send it to the authorities. My father was a kind-hearted man, and as he did not squeeze his people so much as most mandarins, he did not send so much money to the Imperial coffers as the authorities wished. Twice they reprimanded him, and Chin Choo, who lived at Kwang-ngan, hearing of this, went to Peking and asserted that my father retained for his own use the greater part of the money which he had squeezed out of the people. The high officials believed this false tale, and, having received bribes from Chin Choo, empowered him to have my father executed and succeed him as mandarin. My mother and brother were also killed, and our house burnt to the ground. Fortunately for me I was not in the town at the time, and hearing what had taken place I started off at once for Hongkong. Of course, it was useless for me to attempt to get Chin Choo punished, for such events are of frequent occurrence in parts of my poor country. So, having a little money, which I obtained by selling some jewellery which I possessed, I took a passage to England. What has happened to me since I have already told you.'

'It is a very sad story,' Charlie declared, feelingly; 'and I am exceedingly sorry for you. But what surprises me is, that after having suffered so much in your native land you should think of returning to it.'

'I will tell you my reason. Chin Choo confiscated all our property, but I hope to be able to recover a very valuable portion of it. Before our house was burnt to the ground, everything that it contained was removed to Chin Choo's residence. Among those things was a large brass image of Buddha. If I can recover that I shall be a rich man!'

'But brass images of Buddha are not very valuable.'

'That one is, because it was my father's safe—a receptacle for his very precious rubies. He made the idol himself, and no one but he and I knew how to open it. Chin Choo will never discover the secret, or guess that the idol contains anything. Therefore I wish to return to my native place in disguise, and obtain that idol by some means or other. If I succeed in obtaining it, I shall be a rich man.'

'I should like to go with you,' Charlie exclaimed.

'I wish you could,' Ping Wang answered, eagerly. 'I can read character well enough to know that you are not what you pretend to be. You have come to sea for novelty or curiosity, but not for necessity. If you accompany me to my native place, I promise you that if I recover my father's idol I will repay you all the expense to which you have been put, and give you some of the precious stones.'

'I wasn't thinking of the stones, but of the adventure and experience. If my father raises no objection, and will supply me with the necessary money, I will go with you gladly.'

Ping Wang was delighted, and Charlie added to his high spirits by confiding to him the reason of his being aboard the Sparrow-hawk.

'So your father is the man whom the skipper hopes to swindle!' Ping Wang exclaimed, and went off into a fit of laughter.

'Stop that row!' the skipper shouted, coming aft. 'Can't you find any work to do? I'll have no loafers aboard my boat. Here, you Chinee, you get for'ard, and trim the lamps.'

Ping Wang rose to obey.

'Hurry up!' the skipper growled, and kicked him.

In a moment Charlie was on his feet. 'You wretched little bully!' he said to the skipper. 'If you ill-treat that man again, I will knock you down.'

'You dare to threaten me on my own ship!' the skipper shouted, white with rage. 'I'm the skipper, and I'll let you know it. I'll clap you in irons if you give me any of your back answers.'

'Why not try kicking me instead?'

'I'll give you in charge for mutiny when we get back to Grimsby.'

'I shouldn't be in a hurry to enter a police-court, if I were you. Prosecutors are sometimes asked unpleasant questions.'

The chief engineer at that moment came up from the engine-room.

'Skipper, I want a word with you,' he said.

'Right you are,' the skipper replied, and walked over to him, well pleased to bring his argument with Charlie to an end. Charlie was not really a very formidable opponent for a grown man, but Skipper Drummond, like many bullies, was a great coward.

Charles, left alone, resumed his seat on the ropes and, forgetting for a time the skipper's existence, spent a pleasant half-hour in thinking over the story which Ping Wang had related to him.

About three hours after the quarrel, the Sparrow-hawk arrived at the 'Dogger,' a submarine bank, the nearest point of which is about sixty miles from England. It is one hundred and seventy miles long and seventy miles broad.

'We shall shoot in an hour's time,' the mate said to Charlie, 'and you must give us a hand.'

'Whom are you going to shoot?' Charlie inquired, jokingly.

'I know whom you would like to shoot—the skipper. He has taken a dislike to you, and tells me that you are the biggest scoundrel he ever had aboard.'

The mate smiled as he spoke, and added, after a few moments' interval: 'The skipper is a queer customer, and, if you take my advice, you will do all you can to please him. Anyhow, he says that you are to give a hand when we shoot and when we haul the trawl.'

'I am to be fisherman as well as cook. Is he going to pay me double wages?'

'You had better ask him. Got a mug of tea handy?'

Charlie had, and he gave it to him.

'We shall want tea again after shooting,' the mate said to Charlie as he replaced the mug on the hook.

Leaving the big kettle on the stove, Charlie went out to witness the preparations for beginning fishing, and was just in time to see the men anchor a small buoy, fitted with a light and a flag. This was anchored so that the Sparrow-hawk, by keeping it in sight, should not wander away from the fishing-ground. They were in about twenty-six fathoms of water, and, if they lost sight of the buoy, they would probably steam into deeper water, and the net would then be unable to reach the bottom. By day the fishermen keep within sight of the buoy-flag; by night they watch the buoy-light. In fishing fleets, when some twenty or thirty steam trawlers belong to one firm, an old smack called a 'mark-ship' is anchored on the fishing-ground. It can be seen for many miles in daylight, and by night its whereabouts is made known by rockets fired from it. But 'single boaters,' such as the Sparrow-hawk, have to rely upon their own little flag and light-buoys.

When the Sparrow-hawk had anchored her buoy she steamed off, and, punctually at five o'clock, 'shot her gear,' or, in plainer language, lowered her big triangular fishing-net. This having been done without a hitch, the men had their tea. Charlie took his in the galley, having determined to spend as little time as possible in the foc's'le. He had discovered that the crew of the Sparrow-hawk was composed of the black sheep of Grimsby and Hull. They were men whom no decent North Sea skipper would have had on his boat. On nearly all the trawlers working out of Yarmouth, Grimsby, and Hull, the men are fine, manly, thoroughbred Englishmen, facing danger fearlessly and uncomplainingly year in and year out. Drunkenness is almost unknown among them, and bad language is rarely heard. If Charlie had been on almost any other boat than the Sparrow-hawk he would have thoroughly enjoyed sitting at the foc's'le table, having a chat with the men. But to save a few pounds the skipper had engaged, at low wages, men who were known to be bad characters, and who could not, therefore, get a job on any other trawler. Skipper Drummond had himself been discharged for drunkenness by the owners of a fleet in whose employ he had been for some years. Where he got the money from to purchase a trawler was a mystery to most people, although it was discovered later that a betting-man was in partnership with him.

Charlie, being satisfied that the skipper intended to make an attempt to swindle his father, was anxious to get back to Lincoln as speedily as possible to make known what he had discovered. He had forgotten to ask the bow-legged cook how long the Sparrow-hawk would remain at sea, and could, therefore, form no idea of when he would get home.

(Continued on page 218.)



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 215.)

While Charlie was regretting his ignorance of trawlers' movements, Ping Wang appeared at the galley-door.

'Well,' Charlie said, 'has the skipper said anything more to you?'

'No,' Ping Wang answered, smilingly; 'I believe you have frightened him. But he will pay you out somehow or other.'

'I hope, for his own sake, that he won't attempt to, for I hate the little fellow already, and if he interferes with me unnecessarily I will give him a sound thrashing.'

'He is very strong,' Ping Wang remarked, warningly.

'Can he do this?' Charlie asked, catching hold of a bucket full of water and holding it easily at arm's-length straight from the shoulder.

Ping Wang made no reply but gazed at Charlie in astonishment. Charlie was slightly built, and Ping Wang had no idea that he was so strong. But he had gone in for a course of physical development exercises before coming to Grimsby, and was in fine condition.

'If the skipper thinks, as I did, that you are not very strong,' he said at last, 'he will be very surprised.'

'Well,' Charlie said, rather pleased at the astonishment he had caused, 'let us forget him for a time. When do we return to Grimsby?'

'In three or four days.'

'So soon? I thought we were out for three weeks, at the least. I had an idea that steam trawlers always remained out for three weeks.'

'Boats belonging to the fleets do. A steam carrier collects the boxes of fish from them every morning, and carries them off to London. But single boaters have to take in their own fish to Grimsby, and therefore they have to run in every few days, or else the fish wouldn't be fresh.'

'Then I shan't have to endure the skipper for as long as I expected.'

'You'll have to endure him for seven or eight weeks, I'm afraid. When we run in just to land fish we are not allowed to quit the ship. After unloading we sail as soon as possible.'

'But do you mean to say that he can prevent my leaving the ship at Grimsby?'

'I believe he can. You see, if men were allowed to leave whenever they liked, the fishing industry would soon be upset.'

'I didn't think of that. However, I will get a substitute if possible. There will be no objection to that, I suppose?'

'I don't know. The skipper is a curious kind of fellow, and he may refuse to let you go, so that he may have the pleasure of bullying you. Why don't you pretend that you are ill? He would put you ashore very soon then.'

'I don't like the idea of getting out of an unpleasant position in that way. By-the-bye, how do you pass the time away before hauling the trawl?'

'Some of the men turn in, and others play cards or draughts. Do you care about draughts?'

'Oh, yes, but I won't go down in the foc's'le to play.'

'I will bring the board up here if it is not being used.'

Ping Wang hurried away, and returned in a minute or two with the draughts.

'They are having a sing-song in the foc's'le,' he said. 'The skipper is there, and is a little bit the worse for drink.'



CHAPTER IV.

Charlie won the first game at draughts, and they had just begun a second when the skipper suddenly appeared at the galley door. His face was flushed, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

'The galley is not the place for playing draughts,' he said, and with his hand swept the pieces off the board.

Charlie and Ping Wang made no remark. It was plain to them that he had paid that visit for the sole purpose of bullying them, and they were wondering what his next complaint would be.

'I want a mug of tea,' he said, seeing that the kettle was not boiling.

Charlie put the kettle on the fire at once.

'That's the result of playing draughts when you ought to be at work,' the skipper growled. 'I always want some tea at this time.'

'In future it shall be ready, sir,' Charles replied, calmly.

'Future—eh?—I want it now. What's that Chinee doing here?'

'I thought you noticed that Ping Wang was playing draughts with me.'

'You're not paid to think. I do that for all the crew.'

Then the skipper turned his attention to prying into the pots and pans, to see if he could discover anything which would give him an opportunity to find fault. To his evident annoyance he did not succeed in discovering anything, for Charlie had done his work thoroughly, and the cooking utensils looked much cleaner than when he entered on his duties.

In a few minutes the tea was ready, and as soon as the skipper tasted it he made a grimace, and exclaimed, 'Beastly wash!—Do you hear?' he exclaimed, finding that Charlie did not speak. 'It's wash!'

'It is made in exactly the same way as the other tea you have had during the day,' Charlie declared.

'Then I must have drunk wash before. But I won't drink this. Here, Chinee, you drink it.'

'Me no want any, skipper,' Ping Wang answered.

'Don't want it, eh? What does that matter? Drink it at once.'

Ping Wang shook his head, and the skipper immediately flung the contents of his mug full in the Chinaman's face. The tea was very hot, and with a cry of pain Ping Wang ran at his tormentor. Stepping backwards quickly, to avoid him, the skipper stumbled over the weather-board at the entrance to the galley, and fell heavily on to the deck.

The mate, who had been pacing the deck, ran to pick him up. 'What's the matter, skipper?' he asked.

'That Chinee has knocked me down,' the skipper declared.

'He did nothing of the kind,' Charlie declared, and related to the mate exactly what happened.

'You'd better get an hour or two's sleep before we haul,' the mate said to the skipper, and, taking his arm, led him away.

'I think we had better turn in also,' Ping Wang said, and Charlie at once went forward with him.

The other men were already asleep. The ventilators were all closed, and the foc's'le was so close and stuffy that Charlie thought, at first, that he would have to go on deck again. But, being very tired, he determined to stay where he was, and clambered into his bunk. He slept soundly, in spite of the bad air, until Ping Wang aroused him. It was a quarter to eleven, and the men were donning their oilskins, with a view to hauling.

'You had better put the kettle on,' Ping Wang said to Charlie; 'all hands will want tea before they turn in again.'

Charlie, wearing his oilskins, went to the galley at once. As he passed along the deck he shivered, for a breeze had sprung up, and the air struck cold, after the stuffiness of the foc's'le.

(Continued on page 226.)



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HEAD GARDENER.

'We must not forget the gardener,' says a visitor, describing Walmer Castle at the time when Wellington was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. This gardener, a fine-looking, elderly man, was at the battle of Waterloo, and when his regiment was disbanded, the Duke offered him the post of head gardener at Walmer Castle.

The good fellow objected, for, to use his own words, he 'did not then know a moss rose from a cabbage,' but the Duke was determined, and, as a soldier, the man could but obey orders. 'But now,' he said to the visitor, 'I get on pretty well.'

'And like it?' he was next asked.

'Oh, yes.'

'But suppose war were to break out—would you be a soldier again?'

'Why, that must depend on the Duke: if he said I must go, of course I must.'

'How did you manage when you first came here?'

'Why, as well as I could. It was rather awkward.'

'Perhaps you studied hard—read a good deal?'

'No, I didn't read at all.'

'You looked about you, then?'

'Yes, I did that.'

'And now you get on very well?'

'Why, yes; but I am plagued sometimes: the names of the flowers puzzle me sadly.'

'And what does the Duke say to that?'

'Oh, I have him there,' said the soldier gardener, 'for he doesn't know them himself!'

The visitor also stated that the garden abounded in flowers—not rare ones, but rich and luxuriant, with a well-kept lawn, in the midst of which was a lime-tree, which the Duke always declared to be the finest he had ever seen.

The experiment of turning a soldier into a head gardener seems to have been quite successful.



TWO MEDALS.

A little English schoolboy was sauntering along the quay, looking rather bored. It was a picturesque scene—this port of the Black Sea—with the varied craft in the harbour, and the varied nationalities represented by the groups of men who chattered and gesticulated, or lounged and slept in the sunshine.

But what, he thought, were the summer holidays without cricket? Of course, it was jolly to be with his people again, but Dick did wish they lived in England. The boys at school had envied him because his journey home would take him through the unrestful Balkan territory, and he might have all manner of adventures. It was very hard that there had been none, though the train after his had been held up, and had not got through without some fighting.

He reached the end of the stone pier, where half-a-dozen men were leaning over a low parapet.

'What is your pleasure, little Milord?' one asked him. This was their nickname for the boy, who had been a favourite with them since he had learnt to order them about in their own tongue when not much more than a baby.

'My pleasure is a cricket match,' he answered, 'and as far as I can see it is a pleasure I shall have to do without.'

'Would not little Milord like to fish?' asked another. 'See, one already is trying his luck,' and he pointed to a boy about Dick's age sitting on the parapet with his line in the water below.

'A foolish place to try, with the current running as strong as it does round the end of the pier,' Dick said. 'He is not likely to get a bite there.'

Even as he spoke the boy jumped up suddenly and turned round. No one saw exactly how it happened, but he missed his balance, and with a scream fell into the water.

For a minute Dick waited. He was such a little chap, and of course one of those big men would jump in after the boy. But no! they stood staring at each other with terrified faces, and never moved.

Then over the wall went Dick into the water beneath. The boy had risen, and he struck out for him, reaching him easily enough, for the current carried him. It was getting back which was difficult.

The men at the pier-head ran about and shouted in a frantic way. 'A boat!' shouted one. 'A rope!' called another; while a third wrung his hands and moaned, 'They are lost! they are lost!'

And Dick battled and battled against the current with the dead weight of the boy hindering him from making any perceptible way. It never even occurred to him that by letting his burden go he might at any rate save himself. And his English pluck came to his help. He wouldn't be beaten. He just had to get to land somehow, and he must not let himself think of anything else. The men, too, had at last found a rope and were flinging it to him. If only he could get near it! Once it was just within his grasp, but he was beaten back again. Then, with a final tremendous effort, he struck out again and reached it, and held on like grim death, though the singing in his ears and his struggling, panting breath warned him his strength was nearly exhausted. By this time, however, a boat was nearing them, and soon the boys were on land, though the lad Dick had saved was with difficulty brought back to consciousness.

Dick himself was rather white and limp, but otherwise not much the worse for his adventure.

'Why didn't one of you go in after him? I gave you a chance,' he said to the men.

'The water was too cold,' muttered one.

'Too deep!' said another.

'Too dangerous!' growled a third.

And the small schoolboy shrugged his shoulders and went home, to be made a great fuss over by his mother and sisters, which he thought absurd; but he liked the quiet look of pleasure his father gave him when he came in after hearing the news in the town, though he only said, 'Good business, my son!'

And although he is very shy of showing them, I think Dick is rather proud of his two medals: one of the country where the courageous act was performed, and that other of dull bronze which the Royal Humane Society presents to England's brave sons and daughters.

Dick thought it took far more courage to walk up and receive this medal amidst the cheers of the boys and their gay company on Prize-day, than it did to jump in to the rescue of the boy in the Black Sea.



ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

I.—INSTEAD OF A HAND.



The wonderful contrivances by which animals manage to do beautiful work without tools, to walk without feet, to fly without wings, to talk without a voice, and to make their wants known not only to each other but to their human friends, without understanding or speaking human words, would fill a large book. No creature boasts of a hand like our own; even that of the monkey, though his fingers resemble man's, has a thumb which is nearly useless. The American spider-monkeys prefer to use their long tails as hands, plucking fruits with the tips and carrying them to their mouths. The elephant uses his nose as a hand (for his trunk is nothing else but a long nose), and with this makeshift hand he can pick up either a heavy cannon or a sixpence from the ground. The horse uses his tail as a hand to drive off flies which he cannot otherwise reach. On board ship a hen was once seen to use her neck as a hand. She and the other fowls used to quarrel over the laying-boxes, and though the nests looked all alike to a human eye, this hen coveted one special box, and would lay nowhere else. One day her master took the china nest-egg out of the box and put it into another one, to see what she would do. He watched her through the chink of a door, and saw her hunt till she found the egg, curl her neck round it like a big finger, lift it thus, and carry it back to the old box, where she sat on it in triumph.

Stories of rats who have been seen to carry off eggs, embracing them by their tails, are common enough, and everybody has watched animals of different kinds using their mouths to carry things from place to place. Not only lions, tigers, wolves, and bears carry their young in this way, but rabbits, squirrels, mice, and many other creatures. The mother-whale tucks her little one under her huge fin, using it as a hand and arm in one; in time of danger she carries him off thus at the risk of her own life from under the very harpoons of the whalers.

All young animals have an instinct which prompts them to run to their parents for protection when frightened, trusting not only in the older and wiser heads, but in the faithful hearts which have never failed them. Though sheep, cattle, deer, and such-like, have no notion of using their jaws as hands, or of lifting their little ones, many of the young will use their limbs to cling to those who are stronger and swifter than themselves. The four-footed elders will perish rather than desert the youngsters, and will, if possible, contrive to beat a retreat, helping along the weaker ones as best they can.

A very touching story of the devotion of deer to their fawns comes from America. While two men were riding along a creek in California, they saw, some distance ahead, a doe and her fawn drinking from the river. The bank was very steep, and the river deep at that point. When the deer saw the hunters they were startled, and in trying to turn, the little one lost its balance and fell into the creek. The water was running very swiftly, and of course the fawn was carried down-stream. At this the poor mother seemed to lose all fear of the men, and ran wildly along the bank, trying to reach her little one with her head, but in vain. She next ran forward for a short distance, plunged in, steadied herself by planting her feet firmly among some rocks, and waited. Presently the fawn was washed against her, and, as it was being swept by, caught hold of its mother, stretching out its forelegs and clasping her neck, much as a little child uses his arms in clinging to his nurse. The doe then carefully stepped ashore with her precious burden. She lay down beside the baby deer, and, although the hunters were not thirty yards away, she licked and fondled the little thing till it rose to run, when she too sprang up, and the pair trotted off unharmed to the woods.



Many birds use their wings as arms and hands when flight will not serve their turn. A partridge was seen to hustle and drive her little troop of chicks into the shelter of a rabbit-hole with her wings, out of the way of a hawk whose shadow had fallen on the grass at their side. Here she kept them prisoners till all was safe.



The lesson to be drawn from such stories is that even wild, untaught creatures do not use their limbs in a senseless way as parts of a machine, without thinking, but are able to turn them to a variety of uses in times of difficulty. We shall, of course, find that tame animals such as the horse, dog, and cat act more wisely in such ways than their wild relations. The dog, for instance, turns his rough idea of using his mouth for carrying food or young ones, to fetching and carrying for his own benefit or his master's. A handsome brown spaniel lately noticed that his mistress, in carrying a bowl of water, upset some of the contents on the floor. Off dashed Master Jack, intent on 'making himself generally useful,' and quickly returned with the house flannel from the kitchen. This he laid beside the pool, with an intelligent, uplifted look which said, 'There! wipe it up.' Did not this sensible fellow's mouth become a splendid makeshift hand, and his glance an excellent speech?

EDITH CARRINGTON.



THE PITCHER-PLANT.

The leaves and flowers of plants often grow into very strange shapes. The flowers of various kinds of orchids are very remarkable for the peculiar forms which they take. Some of them have a great resemblance to bees, flies, or butterflies, and this resemblance is at times so great that we wonder whether it is only an accidental likeness, or whether it serves some useful purpose. One of the oddest shapes which any plant takes, however, is that of the leaves of the pitcher-plant; and in this case naturalists, who have studied the plant carefully, are able to show us that the strange shape of the leaf really serves a purpose.

The pitcher-plants are most abundant in the islands of Borneo, Java, and Sumatra, and in the Malay Peninsula. Though not so plentiful elsewhere, they are also found in Ceylon, Madagascar, the Moluccas, and one or two other places. The plant is a kind of creeping or climbing shrub which runs along the ground, or climbs up other shrubs and short trees. It seems to thrive best upon the mountaintops, and the summits of the mountains of Borneo are often gaily decked with it.

There are thirty or forty different kinds of pitcher-plants, varying in size a great deal. But the strange thing about all of them is that the ends of their leaves are shaped like pitchers, or perhaps it would describe them better if we said they were like jugs with lids. It is from this peculiarity that the plant takes its name. The leaf is the shape of any ordinary leaf until it reaches its point, where it is drawn out into a long stalk or tendril, at the end of which is the jug or pitcher, which, you must remember, is formed out of the leaf itself. Each plant has its own shape of jug, and the jugs vary in size a good deal. Some are long and slender; others are broad and shallow. Some are tiny jugs only an inch deep, while others are perhaps twenty inches deep. Their colour is green, but the mouth of the jug and the under side of the lid, which is always open, are spotted with red or purple, somewhat like a flower.

Not only do these strange leaves look like jugs, but they are also used as jugs. Each of them contains a little supply of water, varying with the size of the jug from a few drops in the smallest, to as much as two quarts in the largest of them. Thirsty travellers have sometimes quenched their thirst from these natural jugs, when no other water was to be found. Though the water itself is palatable, it is a little warm, and it is always full of insects.

If any one were to watch one of these jugs of the pitcher-plant for some time attentively, he would soon find that it served as a trap for flies and insects. One by one the little creatures alight upon the outside of the jug, and creep into the open mouth, and few or none of them ever return. They slip into the water at the bottom of the jug and are drowned.

If we examine a jug carefully, in order to learn why the insects enter it, and how it is that they cannot get out again, we shall be surprised at the clever way in which the trap is made. The mouth of the jug has a thick ring round it, which makes it firm, and keeps it always open. The lid stands over this mouth, and seems to be always raised a good deal, so that insects and flies may enter freely; but it covers the mouth in such a way as to prevent anything from falling accidentally into the jug from above. The underside of the lid and the mouth of the jug are often gaily coloured, so as to attract insects, as brightly-coloured flowers do. Some of the jugs even make a little honey, which, forming just inside the mouth, attracts insects by its scent. Within the jug, just below the mouth, there is a row of stiff hooks, which have their points turned inwards towards the bottom of the jug. Below the spikes the sides of the jug are so smooth and slippery that few insects could stand on them.

It is easy to see how the trap works. Insects are attracted to the pitcher by the bright colours of the lid or the scent of the honey. They creep into the mouth, and crawl between the hooks, whose sharp points are set the other way, and they step upon the smooth and slippery inside of the jug. In another instant they have slipped into the water at the bottom of the jug. Do what they will, they cannot climb up the slippery sides of the pitcher, or pass the row of sharp hooks, whose points are turned against them. They are caught.

Now all this is very strange and wonderful, and it makes us wish to know why Providence has given the plant this clever machinery. We cannot help asking ourselves why the pitcher-plant entraps these insects. I am afraid that you would hardly be able to answer this question for yourself, however carefully you might watch a pitcher-plant. Indeed, it is only a few years since clever men, making careful experiments, were able to find out the real truth. The fluid at the bottom of the pitcher digests those insects, and the pitcher-plant feeds upon them. Just as the juices of our stomach dissolve meat, so that it may pass into the blood and nourish us, so the fluid in the jug of the pitcher-plant dissolves the flesh of the insects which fall into it, and makes that flesh fit to nourish the plant. This strange plant lives, in part at least, upon flesh; and all the clever mechanism of its jug is used simply to get a meal.



ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO.

As through the busy world you go, Remember this is true, That though one seems a little thing, Yet one and one make two.

The task one could not do alone, Is done with help from you, For though you are a little one, Yet one and one make two.

The thread that's rolled the reel around, That baby's hands can break, When with it other threads are bound, The strongest rope doth make.

The rope thrown by some helping hand, And drawn the waters through, May bring a drowning man to land:— So one and one make two.

The minutes grow into the hours, The hours into the day, The days to weeks, to months, to years, And thus time flies away.

And deeds of good by children done, Though small they seem to you, May grow into a mighty sum, For one and one make two.



CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VI.—THE GIANT AND ITS ADVENTURES.

Two hundred needlewomen were busy for a month making the 'Giant's' coat. It contained twenty thousand yards of white silk, of double thickness, at six shillings a yard, and when finished measured ninety yards round and sixty yards in height. When it was filled it held 6098 cubic yards of gas. M. Nadar, its master, introduced it to the people of Paris in the hope that the money they would pay to see it would enable him to carry out his experiments with flying machines. On October 4th, 1863, the Giant was ready to make its first voyage in the clouds, and nearly five hundred thousand people assembled to see it start.

It was like a cottage made of wicker-work, and mounted on small wheels. In two of the four walls there was a door with two small windows each side of it, and inside there was a little world of wonders. The 'cottage' was only fifteen feet long, twelve wide, and eight high; but it was divided up so carefully by thin partitions that there was room for a small printing-office, a photographic department, a refreshment-room, a compartment for the captain's bed and passengers' luggage, and another at the opposite end, with three beds in it. Outside all this, but inside the walls of wicker-work, was an inflated rubber lining, so as to prevent it from sinking if, by any mischance, the 'Giant' should fall into the sea. Thus, according to circumstances, the building could be either the car of a balloon, a ship at sea, or a caravan being drawn by horses upon the wheels already mentioned along a country road. From the inside a narrow stairway led on to the roof, or deck.

When all was ready, M. Nadar, leaning from the deck, gave the word. The ropes were let go, and the Giant rose solemnly towards the sky. Fifteen voyagers waved their hats and handkerchiefs over the bulwarks, returning the greetings of the crowd till carried beyond sight and hearing.

Though the launch was a success, the poor Giant had been served very badly by some careless persons, all unknown to those on board. The pilot, a clever aeronaut, named Godard, was a little surprised that very soon after leaving the ground he had to begin throwing out ballast, to stop them from sinking. This went on for some hours, and when darkness had fallen, and all the world had disappeared, it became clear that the balloon must descend. They had attained a height of many thousand feet. It was nearly nine o'clock, and supper on deck was over, when Godard, finding that the descent was becoming too rapid, called out, 'Hold to the ropes!'

Every passenger seized some portion of the ropes, so that the shock of contact with the earth might be somewhat lessened. Down came the Giant, a great deal more swiftly than it had risen; and the last bags of ballast were emptied over the side with little effect. The blow was tremendous, and the wonder is that the passengers escaped with their lives. An inquiry was held, and the Giant itself was proved blameless. The valves for allowing the escape of gas had never been properly closed! Thus, from the very moment when they left Paris, the gas was pouring out at the top; and it was only through the enormous quantity used that they succeeded in rising at all.

A fortnight later M. Nadar was ready to sail again. This time the Giant had nine passengers, who were destined to make an eventful voyage. Anchor was weighed in the evening, and very soon, at a great height, all eyes were turned to watch the beautiful sunset. As the shadows of night gathered round them, however, more than one traveller looked anxiously at the gigantic ball above. Supposing anything should go wrong with it! It looked such a tremendous distance down to the earth.

When day dawned again at last, after a night during which no one had closed his eyes, they found themselves hanging over the fens of Holland, many miles from Paris. Fearing that the wind might carry them out to sea, they agreed to descend. But, on reaching the lower air, the huge balloon was caught in what proved to be almost a hurricane. It drove them towards the ground at a long angle, until, like a falling kite, the Giant struck the earth head foremost, dragging the car behind it at a terrible speed. The travellers hung on for dear life. Again and again the car struck, and rebounded thirty or forty feet into the air. With the first blow the valve-rope was jerked beyond reach, so that it became impossible to let the gas escape.

Mile after mile they tore through the country, crashing into trees, and scattering herds of cattle right and left. All the anchor-ropes, dropped one after the other, had been snapped like thread, the last catching in the roof of a cottage, and tearing it open before giving way. Then, to the horror of the passengers, a railway-train appeared a short distance ahead, spinning along at great speed. A collision seemed inevitable; but with one united effort they shouted to the driver. He heard them, and reversed his engine, and the next moment they whirled by, dragging telegraph wires and poles after them. And now a hero came to their rescue. Jules Godard, the pilot's brother, after many fruitless attempts, climbed into the network and secured the valve-rope. The gas was now slowly discharged, and before the bag was empty the passengers had either jumped or been jolted from the car, bruised and shaken, but happily without loss of life.

After making such a wonderful name for itself, the Giant took a short sea voyage on board a real ship, and crossed the Channel to England, and, blown out with harmless air, hung under the great glass dome of the Crystal Palace for visitors to admire. After this it made only one or two more journeys to the clouds, and ended its career as a poor captive balloon in the gardens of Cremorne.



AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 219.)

Much to his relief, Charlie found that the galley fire had not gone out.

'I kept it going, cook,' a grimy young trimmer declared. 'It would have gone out long ago if I hadn't looked after it. And I've filled the kettle for you. Got a bit of grub to give me?'

Charlie took out a chunk of bread, dabbed a spoonful of marmalade on top of it, and gave it to the lad.

'Any time you want anything done, I'll do it,' the trimmer declared, and departed.

As there was nothing to detain Charlie in the galley he went forward to assist in hauling. The skipper was on the bridge; the mate was working the donkey-engine, which was fast drawing in the long wire ropes attached to the net, and the deck hands stood at the starboard-side gunwale, watching for the net to appear. An electric light was hung up at the bridge, so that the men could see to do the work they had in hand. For a moment or two Charlie stood at the foot of the bridge, waiting for the skipper or the mate to tell him what to do.

'Stand here,' Ping Wang said, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

Charlie nodded his head and took up his position about three feet away from the Chinaman. Soon the net appeared above water, and the men, bending over the gunwale, grasped it with their hands, and, tugging all together, pulled it slowly but surely upwards.

'Where are the fish?' Charlie asked, surprised at seeing none in the part of the net at which they had been tugging.

'For'ard,' Ping Wang answered, and as he spoke the donkey-engine started panting and puffing, and the part of the net to which the Chinaman had pointed was now raised high above the gunwale. It resembled a huge cooking-net which had been lifted out of a gigantic pan. It was crowded with fish, and as it was pulled in and suspended over the pound made on the deck, the very small fish, mostly dead, fell through. Others, with wide-opened mouths, were caught in the meshes. A fisherman now stepped under the dripping net, untied it at the bottom, and sprang quickly aside as the catch of fish fell with a thud into the pound.

'What a mixture!' Charlie exclaimed as he gazed at the fish jumping, wriggling, and sliding about in the pound. 'What are they?'

'Cod, plaice, haddock, and turbot,' Ping Wang replied, but he only named a few of them. The catch included also ling, sole, whiting, dab, gurnet, oysters, crabs, whelks, cat-fish, star-fish, and a large amount of ocean scrapings.

Charlie stood watching the struggling mass, deeply interested, but Ping Wang whispered to him, 'Come away, or you'll have the skipper at you. We are going to shoot now.'

Charlie bestirred himself at once, and assisted in shooting the gear. When that had been done without a hitch, the work of sorting, cleaning, and packing the fish was begun. Three men stepped into the pound, trampling on the fish until they had made a clear space for their feet.

'Give a hand there, cook!' the skipper shouted, and Charlie stepped into the pound. He had not the heart to tread on the still living fish as the others were doing, and in his anxiety to avoid hurting them, he slipped and fell against the gunwale, his sou'-wester falling overboard. The other men stopped work at once, and looked at him in a by no means friendly way. The skipper abused him loudly and fiercely.

'It was my own sou'-wester,' Charlie declared, unable to understand why the skipper should be so excited over the loss.

'Then why don't you jump overboard and save it? We will fish you up next time we haul.'

The men laughed heartily at this grim joke.

'Take the skipper's advice, mate,' one of them said. 'I want some new boots badly.'

'It is thought a bad omen if a fisherman's sou'-wester is blown overboard,' Ping Wang explained in a whisper, whereupon Charlie laughed loudly at the superstitious idea.

'Stop that row,' the skipper shouted, 'and start cleaning the fish.'

Charlie took out his clasp-knife, and seized a plaice.

'Don't cut that,' Ping Wang warned him. 'Put the plaice in the box just as they are.'

Charlie hesitated, for the fish was not yet dead, and he did not like the idea of packing it away while it was alive.

'Here, stow it away,' a fisherman growled, and snatching it out of his hand flopped it in the box and smacked a dead fish on top of it.

The plaice were the only ones which had not to be cut open. As each fish was cleaned it was tossed into another pound, and when the whole of the catch, with the exception of the plaice, oysters, whelks, and the useless fish, were in this, the hose was turned on to the silvery mass.

When the fish had been thoroughly cleansed with water, they were packed away in boxes, which were at once stowed away in the hold between layers of ice.

Charlie was not required to assist in the work in the hold, and therefore he hurried to the bucket, on which was painted 'All hands,' and indulged in a wash. He was fortunate in being first, for fresh water is not plentiful on a trawler, and one bucketful has to suffice for the whole crew.

From the bucket, Charlie went to the galley and made the tea. Every one, from the skipper to the ship's boy, had a mugful; some had two. The North Sea fishermen are inveterate tea-drinkers.

Having drunk their tea, the men threw off their oilies and turned in again with all their clothes on.

'It isn't worth while undressing,' Ping Wang said to Charlie. 'In about three hours' time we shall have to turn out again. If you don't undress you will have a little longer time to sleep.'

Charlie did not undress, and consequently he was ready to start work at once when the time came. He put on a peaked cap in place of his lost sou'-wester.

'Don't forget the tea, cook,' one of them said to Charlie as he climbed up on deck. 'Let's have it before we start hauling.'

Thanks to the trimmer the kettle was boiling, and Charlie was therefore able to bring the men mugs of hot tea in less than five minutes from turning out.

'Cook is one of the right sort, after all,' one of the fishermen declared as he returned his empty mug to Charlie, and the others assented by nods and grunts. But before long Charlie was again in hot water. As he was assisting to haul in the net he sneezed loudly. In a moment one of the fishermen placed his big, dirty hand over his mouth and effectually prevented him from sneezing on the net again.

The skipper, looking down from the bridge, broke into loud abuse.

'What harm is there in sneezing?' Charlie answered, angrily.

'None of your back answers, or I'll clap you in irons.'

'If you do, you'll have to pay for it dearly when we get back to Grimsby. I insist upon knowing what harm I have done.'

'It is thought very unlucky to sneeze on a trawl,' the mate explained quietly, anxious to save Charlie from any further bullying. 'It is supposed to bring bad luck to the trawler. Now, grab hold of the net.'

Charlie again tugged at the net, and, when the catch was emptied into the pound, it was found that it was an exceedingly small one.

'That comes of having you aboard!' the skipper declared, pointing at Charlie.

'I don't see how my sneezing could have affected this catch,' Charlie answered, 'considering that it was almost on board when I sneezed.'

'But how about your sou'-wester last night? That was what ruined this catch, and your sneezing will spoil the next one.'

Charlie laughed openly at this prediction, but it was rather unfortunate for him that, when the next haul was made, it was found that the catch was still smaller than the previous one.

'I told you so!' the skipper declared, white with rage.

'It is a coincidence,' Charlie replied, calmly. 'If I sneeze on the net now you will probably have a fine catch next time.'

'No back answers. Don't you try to teach me anything. Get away to the galley at once, and be careful what you do.'

Charlie returned to the galley, hardly knowing whether to be angry or amused. It was very galling to have to submit to the abuse of an ignorant, blustering fellow like the skipper, but, at the same time, he could not take the man's superstition seriously.

'I would not have believed, unless I had seen the skipper, that it was possible for there to be such a superstitious Briton living at the end of the nineteenth century,' Charlie said to the mate, about half an hour later.

'Oh, there are many like him in the North Sea,' the mate answered, 'and all the arguing in the world won't convince them of their foolishness. After a time you will not find his ignorance and superstition amusing. However, what I want to say to you is this: the men in the foc's'le declare that the grub isn't well cooked, and that you haven't given them plum duff yet. You must let them have it to-morrow.'

'I will,' Charlie declared, as if plum duff were the easiest thing in the world to make.

When the mate left him, Charlie took out the bow-legged cook's written instructions to see what ingredients were necessary. His idea was to make and boil the pudding that evening, so that, if it turned out a failure, he would have time to make another one. If it proved to be a success, he would be able to warm it up on the following morning. But, just as he began to read the recipe, he noticed that the fire had burnt low and needed instant attention. In his anxiety to prevent it from going out, he put down the flimsy little book and began shovelling coals on the fire. While he was doing that a gust of wind swept through the galley, and carried the recipe-book out through the porthole and into the sea.

Charlie, gazing out at it, saw it float for a moment or two, and then lost sight of it.

'Well,' he muttered, ruefully, 'I don't know how I am going to make plum duff now!'

(Continued on page 238.)



THE TRUMPET AND THE DRUM.

Said the Trumpet to the Drum: 'Less noise, good fellow! come! For nobody can hear My voice, when you are near.'

'Boom! boom!' the Drum replied, 'The fault is on your side; You blow with such a sound That my poor voice is drowned.'

And after that, all day They blew and boomed away, In contest so absurd That neither could be heard.

Now, when you want to speak, O children, never seek To drown in noisy tone All voices but your own; But learn to shun in life The Drum and Trumpet's strife.



JIM'S SHOWER-BATH.

The kitchen was very hot, and Aunt Christy, the old black cook, was very busy. With her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her cap all awry, she bustled about, hurrying the slow movements of the girls who were her helpers, and scolding the four little dusky children whenever they got in her way. She declared that they were all as full of mischief as they could be, and that there was not a pin to choose between them. But if one of the four did happen to be worse than the others, that one was certainly Jim.

Jim was nearly seven; his young mind was full of eager questions; he wanted to know the reason of everything, and it was really because he was so curious and prying that Aunt Christy thought him worse than the rest.



On that morning he poked about the kitchen, opening baskets and peering into dishes, until his eyes fell upon a large bright pail, which was set upon a stand too high for him to reach.

'That's a new pail. Why's Aunt Christy got a new pail? Wonder what's in it? I will see.'

So said Jim to himself; and when he found that, even by standing on tiptoe, he could not reach, the little rascal trotted off for his three-legged stool, mounted on that, put his chubby arms as far as they would stretch round the pail. A three-legged stool, however, is but a treacherous support, and this Jim found to his cost. As he stood there, it slipped from under his bare feet, and the pail, which was full of warm water and vegetables, suddenly overturned.

Poor Jim got a terrible drenching; it was lucky for him that the water was not very hot, or he would have been sadly scalded. As it was, a big turnip hit him on the head, and the handle of the pail hurt him. Wet and bruised he crept away, a sadder and a wiser boy, inwardly resolved to have nothing more to do with things which did not concern him.

C. J. BLAKE.



WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

VII.—THE CLIFF-DWELLERS OF NORTH AMERICA.

If you take a map of North America, and trace the line of the Rocky Mountains downwards, you come to the State of Colorado, with New Mexico and Arizona lying below; and if you tried to explore this country you would find yourself in a perfect network of mountains. In Colorado there are magnificent snow-peaks, with richly wooded valleys lying between them, whilst in New Mexico and Arizona the land is much more bare, mountain ridges, often covered with stones and pebbles, dividing flat table-lands of great extent.

Common to all three States are wonderful gorges, or splits in the cliffs, of immense depth. Sometimes from below one can hardly see the sky between the precipices; at other times the gorge may open out into quite a broad valley; but, whether narrow or wide, we may be quite sure that wherever there is a canyon (as these rock-splits are called in Western America) there will be a river running down it.

One of these rivers, named the Colorado, travels for more than three hundred miles along a channel of its own cutting, never less than a mile below the level of the surrounding country. If we remember that we take from fifteen to twenty minutes to walk a mile, and then fancy that mile standing on end like a pole, we may get some idea of what the cliffs are like in these canyons.

The currents of the mountain rivers, like those of all waters flowing from high lands, are very strong and swift; and when the snows are melting, or after heavy rainfalls, the force of the stream is enormous. The result is that the channel is worn deeper and deeper, whilst the cliffs at the side are eaten away in places. The hardest rocks remain in jagged points and ledges, and the softer parts are in time washed away, leaving caverns of all shapes and sizes.

The kind of people who lived in this country of highlands and canyons were tribes of American Indians, whose food was chiefly found in hunting, and whose main interests lay in making war upon their neighbours. Some tribes were strong, and others weak, so that by degrees the powerful folk drove away the less warlike people from the rich hunting-grounds and wooded country into the barren rocks. Now, if these hunted tribes were to exist at all, it was clear they must find some means of protecting themselves; thus it may have happened that scrambling up the cliffs one day to avoid their foes, some fugitive Indian came into one of the dwelling-places hollowed out in bygone ages by the river which roared below. What joyful news he would carry home to his friends when he ventured to go back to them! Shelter from rain, and snow, and wind! Homes easily defended from marauding foes! What a new life of ease for the persecuted people! One by one families would climb the cliffs, until at last a great population looked down from their eyries in certain gorges of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, where only eagles or mountain-goats might be supposed to dwell.

The table-lands above the ravines were, as a rule, fairly fertile, and the Indians were able to grow maize, or Indian corn. When they were obliged to give up the roving life of hunters, animal food must have become a scarce luxury.

Being an industrious race, they were not long content to live in the rugged caverns as nature made them, but with wonderful labour built walls, floors, and roofs, to make their homes more comfortable, and to keep out the icy winds which howled up the canyons. The marvel is how they reached their homes, which are often at great heights; and one shudders to think of how many stray babies, clambering children, and nervous folk of all ages, must have stumbled and fallen over the rocky platforms to certain death. Every drop of water, every bit of fuel, and all food of every kind, must have been carried up those awful precipices, usually on ladders placed from ledge to ledge, and drawn up after the climber. That any people should choose such dwelling-places shows how unsafe life down in the plains must have been, and later on we will try to see how far the Cave Indians contrived to secure peace and comfort in their cliff houses.

HELENA HEATH.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

10.—OBLIQUE PUZZLE.

Each word is one letter shorter than the one before. The initials, read downwards, give the name of a South American city.

1. The highest degree of respect. 2. Bitter hatred. 3. A common and useful covering for the floor. 4. A model of excellence. 5. A woman's name. 6. A sharp instrument. 7. A curved structure. 8. Congealed water. 9. An adverb. 10. A vowel.

C. J. B.

11.—CHARADE.

My first is thick and dark; my second is connected with the sea; my whole is an acid concrete salt, or some one keen and irritable.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 263.]



ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 195.

9.—1. Wellington. 2. Marlborough. 3. Nelson. 4. Blake. 5. Shakespeare. 6. Tennyson. 7. Scott. 8. Dickens. 9. Elizabeth. 10. Victoria.

ANSWER TO 'WHAT AM I?' ON PAGE 214.

Dun-dee.



DECEIVING THE HORSE.

An omnibus, in the course of its journey, had to be taken up a long and toilsome hill. Frequently passengers, out of pity for the poor horse, would get out at the bottom and walk up a part of the way, so as to lighten its load. In time, the sagacious beast got to expect this, and would sometimes stop of its own accord, as if to let them descend from the vehicle.

One day, a gentleman, travelling up the hill for the first time in this conveyance, was much annoyed by the conductor frequently opening the door, even when no one wanted to get out, and banging it close again.

He inquired of the man what he meant by such conduct, when it was explained that it was done to deceive the horse, which, each time the door was banged, thought another passenger had alighted, and pulled away with more will in consequence.

H. B. S.



THE TEETH OF HYENAS.

Hyenas have stronger jaws than any other animals in the world. They have a large tooth at each side of the upper jaw, which bites against the keen edge of a tooth like it on the lower jaw, thus forming a pair of shears sharp enough to cut paper and strong enough to crack the thigh-bone of an ox.

Hyenas live entirely on meat. A lion, on the contrary, eats a large quantity of fresh grass when it can get it, and in captivity will lap milk from a pan with as much greediness as an ordinary pussy.



THE GATE-KEEPER OF RAMBOUILLET.

It is difficult for Englishmen to realise the intense devotion which Napoleon the First inspired in the hearts of his French soldiers. Ambitious and utterly careless of human life as he undoubtedly was, these men overlooked all this in their admiration for the victorious General.

As a rule, Napoleon certainly behaved as the Father of his soldiers, and seemed to feel both with them and for them. Here is an account of the way he cheered an old 'Sapeur' whom he find lying in the ward of a military hospital.

'How now, my friend?' said the Emperor, halting at the soldier's bedside. 'You are one of my Sapeurs, I see! I thought that regiment prided itself on never being ill?'

'I am not ill, your Majesty!' said the soldier, proudly, as he saluted his chief; 'but the doctor wants me to have my leg cut off, and I do not wish it.'

'Why not?' asked Napoleon. 'Are you, who have faced death so often, afraid of an operation of a few minutes?'

'Afraid, Sire!' said the man, with a quiet smile. 'Fear is not a disease that attacks Sapeurs, as your Majesty knows; but if I change my leg of flesh for a wooden stump, I shall never be able to return to the regiment, and I would rather be buried entire than bit by bit.'

'Where were you wounded?' asked the Emperor.

'At Wagram, Sire.'

'Have you received your medal?'

'No, Sire,' said the soldier, eagerly. 'I was in the ambulance when you distributed the medals.'

'Suppose I were to give you the medal now?' said Napoleon, looking fixedly at the soldier.

'Oh, Sire!' said the man, almost leaping up in his delight. 'I should be quite well then, I know.'

'Well, then, I give it you,' said the Emperor: 'but on one condition: you must let the surgeon cut off that leg.'

'Just as you order me, Sire; if you wish my head cut off I am ready! Only I can never serve you again, if I have a leg off.'

'How do you know that, you foolish fellow?' replied the Emperor, smiling. 'Make haste and get well, and I appoint you gate-keeper of my castle of Rambouillet.'

The soldier said no more. His heart was too full of joy and gratitude, for that was indeed a post of honour.

Some months later the Castle of Rambouillet had a new gate-keeper, an old wooden-legged sergeant of Sapeurs, wearing the coveted medal on his well-brushed uniform!

X.



THE CASHMERE STAG.

India is rich in animals of the deer kind. To name only a few, there are the Sambur, the beautiful Axis Deer, the small, but fierce, Hog Deer, the Rusa Deer, the Bahrainga Deer, and the noble Cashmere Deer. The habits of these animals are exceedingly varied. Some live upon the hills, while others frequent the low lands and the jungles, and are never seen upon the higher ground. Several of the species are nocturnal, and are so rarely seen in the daytime that any one might think they were scarce animals, although they are really very common.

The Cashmere Stag or Deer is one of those which live on the high lands, upon the slopes of the mountains of Cashmere, Nepal, and the countries to the north-west of India. It prefers forests and well-wooded country, in which it finds shelter and seclusion. It rarely descends to the lower and more open country, and it is in fact so retiring and alert that it is seldom met with. By day it hides itself in the woods, but in the early morning it is tempted forth to drink at the lakes and pools which lie upon the skirts of the forest. It changes its pasture-grounds with the seasons, climbing the mountains in summer, probably to enjoy the cool, fresh air of the upper regions, and returning to lower ground in winter in search of food.