The story recalls another. A Scotch farmer's son amused himself one year during the summer vacation by sitting on a gate and blowing thistledown about. The natural consequence was a fine crop of thistles. When, the following summer, Master Thomas came home for the holidays, his father took him to the field. 'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my lad,' said the farmer. 'Just pull up all these thistles for me.'

As Thomas bent over his wearisome and prickly task, he said ruefully to himself, 'If I had not scattered that thistledown, I should not have had to do this!'

We are always sowing and planting something in our lives. What shall it be? Apples, or thistles?'

E. DYKE.



AN INTRUDER.

The Leslies had taken a house on Dartmoor for the summer holidays, and when they arrived and found it was a small farm their delight knew no bounds.

Cook was very glad that they would be able to have plenty of milk, cream, and butter, eggs and poultry, for there were no shops in that desolate region, and she could not provide breakfasts and dinners out of nothing.

Janet, the eldest girl, clapped her hands when she saw the chickens running about the field in front of the house, the sheep and cows a little farther off, and beyond, on the moors, the dearest little black ponies, with shaggy coats and long manes and tails. From the window she saw a girl crossing the field towards a gate where two big lambs were bleating their loudest and trying to wriggle through the bars. She rushed downstairs and across the field and found that Kate, the farmer's daughter, was carrying the tame lambs their supper.

'Why do you feed them and not the others?' Janet asked?

'The other lambs have their own mothers to feed them,' Kate told her; 'but these two are orphans, so we have to bring them up by hand.'

'Oh, what dears they are!' Janet cried, as they began to jump and frolic about her and about Kate, in eager expectation of their supper.

Then Kate filled a bottle with warm milk and tied the finger of a kid glove over it, through which the lambs sucked eagerly in turn, each trying to get a bigger share than his brother, and needing some quite severe pats to keep them in order. A little corn was given them as a second course, and, when nothing more was to be had, they gambolled away and joined the games of the wilder members of the flock.

'Now I must call the calves,' Kate said. 'Will you carry the bottle, because I shall want both my hands free?'

Janet could not quite understand this until, after a call by Kate, six calves came galloping up from a distant part of the field. She held out her fingers, and the nearest calves took them in their mouths, and so she ran towards the farmyard, a calf clinging to each hand and the others following close behind. Here she had two pails of milk, and with one hand in each let the calves find her fingers and so lap up the milk.

'What greedy things!' Janet cried. 'How they shove and push! You are clever to let each get his proper share.'

'They are just like children, and want some training and scolding to make them behave properly,' Kate said. 'That big one is a most masterful creature, and sometimes he upsets the pail and nearly upsets me too.'

The next morning Janet had proof of this. She was in the kitchen, watching Cook make some pastry, when in through the door a great creature bounded, knocking over one chair, and thrusting his head into a large bowl of milk which was standing on another. The milk poured over in a white flood on the floor. Cook screamed, and brandished her rolling-pin.

'It's a great, fierce bull!' she cried. 'Oh, Miss Janet, run for your life while I chase him out of the kitchen!'

'Nonsense, Cook,' Janet said, catching hold of the frightened woman's arm; 'it is only the masterful calf, and I think it is very clever of him to find his own breakfast!'



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 263.)

The watcher at the fete had made no plans. His ideas did not develop quickly, but one thing was certain: here was a chance ready to his hand. Only an old woman, evidently rheumatic, was with Estelle. If she had no other protector, his course was easy. Yes, it was well that the Prefect and his son were there. It prevented the man from being in too great a hurry. He must mature his plans. To further the process, he crept up under shadow of the trees, to the side of the shed near to which the party were seated. Jack's selection of places enabled him to get close enough to hear every word that was said. Bitter was his disappointment. It had been the joy of Julien to find that the conversation could be conducted in French, of which language the watcher possessed but a slight smattering. He had picked up enough, however, to learn that Estelle would be at the fete the next day; but at what hour, or with whom, he could not understand. The probabilities were in favour of the old lady being the child's sole protector; the boy, even if he did accompany them, need not count. He could be made short work of.

Julien was by no means the only suitor who pressed for the honour of dancing with Estelle. No less a person than the village doctor himself came to beg her to tread a measure with him in the quadrille which was just forming. They might make up a select little party of their own. Mrs. Wright, smiling, but firm, said the little girl was not equal to the exertion, and begged the doctor not to undo all the good he had done during the many months of illness and delicacy by urging her to over-exert herself now. So the good man, putting his annoyance in his pocket, joined the group, much to the anger of Julien. Julien did not care for the doctor's jokes, and disliked his engaging Estelle's attention, and plaguing her with compliments. As he had promised himself the pleasure of meeting Estelle next day at the fete, he was not sorry that Jack's return broke up the party.

Estelle could scarcely sleep that night from excitement. It had been a delightful evening, and there was all the pleasure of the next day to look forward to. She had not seen the shadow so close to her at the shed; neither had Jack. The shadow kept dark in dark places. It was quite possible that the man had not seen Jack. The coming of the doctor had caused a little stir, and fear of detection had made the shadow draw back, out of sight of the little group. When he stood forward again to watch Mrs. Wright and the little girl move away, it was impossible to distinguish in the crowd who belonged to whom.



CHAPTER XV.

The next morning was not brighter and clearer than Estelle's face as she flew about, helping Goody to make everything ready for their early dinner, specially early that day, as they were to set off for the fete as soon as it was over.

'Julien Matou is going to show me the celebrated elephant, called "Napoleon,"' announced the little girl, as they were about to start. Mrs. Wright was casting a careful eye round the room, to see that all was as it ought to be before she left.

Jack looked up sharply. 'There must be no wandering away from me or Mother, Missy,' he said, almost sternly. 'Julien Matou is but a boy, and cannot look properly after you.'

'He says he can,' replied Estelle, dancing along in front of Jack and Goody, as they descended the steep path to the village. 'He says there is so much to see, and when you are tired, he will take me. But I would rather go with you.'

'You see, Jack,' said his mother, as the little girl ran too far in advance to hear, 'your fears about the child last night did not come to anything. I don't know why we should be so very particular to-day. Every one in Tout-Petit knows her, and she is not at all likely to come to harm among them.'

'Right enough,' returned Jack, quietly; 'that is, as far as our own people go. But you forget, Mother, this fete brings strangers and loafers who may be most undesirable. I am glad, and—I must confess it—very much relieved to find that yesterday evening passed off without any mishap. I looked in your direction several times, and was glad to think you had the doctor, M. le Prefet, and Fargis close to you.'

Mrs. Wright laughed. 'I can't help it,' she said; 'it sounds as if we were threatened with some terrible accident; what these French call "un coup de main," and as if only having our friends with us prevented it.'

Jack made no answer.

'You're not angry, are you, my son? I don't want you to worry yourself and us by fancies. That's all. Let the child enjoy herself.'

Jack merely said, 'All right, Mother; I understand.' He was walking very straight and still; his head in the air, his shoulders squared. Mrs. Wright looked up at the set face so high above her, and was sorry she had spoken. Jack smiled as she put a caressing hand on to his arm, though the look in his eyes did not satisfy her. He called Estelle back to him as soon as they came upon any stragglers from the fete, and took her hand in a way that neither his mother nor the child ventured to resist.

Estelle was too much interested to think anything about it; indeed, she preferred the security of his presence.

As they approached the fete, the noise of the revellers grew louder, and soon they came upon the bonfires, where joints of meat, fowls, and geese were being roasted on spits. The children and young men were offering assistance, or dashing about amidst a din of voices. A little further on, a booth, with hot fried potatoes cut in slices, had a crowd round it.

They were by this time near the great streets of booths, up and down which the majority of the people strolled; some buying articles long wished for, but unobtainable at any other time; some eagerly visiting every show in succession; other shooting at targets for prizes—clay pipes and piles of thin hardbake in the shape of a cornucopia, five to each successful shot, or bags of nuts.

Julien Matou met them at the shooting range, which was at the first booth. He wanted Estelle to walk with him, that he might show her all the sights that interested him. Jack, however, would not let go of her hand, and the four had to walk more or less abreast when the pressure of the passers-by permitted. He did not object to plunging into all the fun of the fair in a moderate way. There were the mountebanks, and the dancers, and the driving team of fleas and the little dogs that acted a play.

Finally, to Estelle's delight, they reached the circus. Here Jack secured good seats, and for the next hour she and Julien were enchanted with the riding, the driving, the clown; and lastly the performance of the great elephant which shot the gun—a mortar which produced an explosion quite startling for its size. This wound up the entertainment, though Estelle would have liked it to continue indefinitely. She felt quite depressed as she followed the rest of the crowd leaving the marquee, and heard the men proclaiming that the next performance began at eight o'clock.

She had been charmed with everything. As they forced their way through the noisy crew, and Jack saw that the streets of booths were full of an increasing number of persons more or less excited, he proposed to take the other way back. Passing between two booths, they came out at the back of the rows, where it was comparatively quiet. It gave them greater space to move, but it was not pleasant walking. Every now and then they came across piles of dingy straw, or a bundle of old rags, or odds and ends of soiled draperies, which had become almost too worn out to use, or wooden cases which had seen many journeys, and were overflowing with shavings and paper. This was indeed a contrast to the life and brightness on the other side.

Here was a man who had sold them some chocolates in the most smiling, obsequious manner; now he sat huddled up on a wooden case, eating something out of a grimy, but gaudy cotton handkerchief. At his feet were two thin, miserable-looking children, both dressed as acrobats. Out of the grimy handkerchief he handed them some indescribable mess, which they seized eagerly, and ate hurriedly. A little further on, a woman, wrapped in a big shawl, was scolding a small girl; she was one of the children soon to appear in the fairy scene of the play, which was being acted in the marquee they were passing. The child looked forlorn enough as she stood sobbing and shivering in her airy muslin dress, her arms and neck bare, and her feet shod with the thinnest of white shoes. 'They have stolen my bright franc,' she sobbed. The woman gave her an angry shake, and it went to Estelle's heart to see how the thin, meagre little body shrank together after it. A tiny boy in a bright yellow and red costume, with yellow cap and bells, watched the scene; he had a puckered little face, down which the tears were washing off the paint. His little soul was full of anger against the persecutor of his sister, but he was too tiny to defend her. All he could do was to choke down his wrath like a man, and comfort her when they should be alone again.

The scene was too much for Jack. He could not go by and let the helpless suffer. Dropping Estelle's hand for a moment, he went up to the woman, holding out some coins in his hand.

'How much has the child lost?' he asked sternly.

'It is a new franc that a good lady gave her. She should have brought it to me!' screamed the woman. Then catching sight of the glitter of silver in the sailor's hand, she cried in altered tones, 'but, Monsieur, you see she is but a child, and though I must not let her lose things—— '

'I didn't lose it—it was stolen,' sobbed the child.

'Well, here's your franc,' said Jack, interrupting some exclamation which the woman was about to make. 'Now let the child alone.'

He was slipping some coins into the hands of the children also, when a cry from Estelle made him turn hastily.

(Continued on page 274.)



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 271.)

Interested in the miserable children, Estelle had moved a little away from the rest of the party. She wanted to speak to the brave little boy, and to give him some bonbons for himself and his sister. The little bag was in her hand, when she saw a dingy curtain on her left pushed aside. A face looked out at her. In a moment her dream came back: there were the curtains, wrinkled and dingy. Between them peered the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had rushed—the face of Thomas! He grinned in recognition of her; he nodded, and, thrusting open the curtains, came out into full view. Estelle's eyes opened wide with terror. There was something in the man's expression which appalled her. Greed; an eagerness he could not conceal; a cunning smile which was made more terrible by a stealthy movement towards her. For a moment Estelle was paralysed. Jack's back was turned; his attention taken up by the scene he had witnessed. Julien Matou stood with his hands in his pockets, watching it too. Mrs. Wright had gone on; she wished Jack had not brought them this way, but, since he had, there was nothing for it but to hurry out of it as quickly as possible. For the time Estelle was alone. Thomas was nearer to her than any of her friends, and she was incapable of even crying out for help.

'You here, my little lady?' whispered Thomas, stretching out his hand. 'Come along with me. I will save you.'

Though she shrank back, she yet managed to summon up courage enough to push his hand away.

Thomas had no time to lose. Estelle must be seized, and he had hopes that those behind him would back him up. Fargis would not dare to refuse, he argued. Had he not come to this outlandish place on purpose to get employment from him? The skipper had proved to be very unwilling, and they had come to no terms. Now, however, there were golden reasons for gaining his consent to anything. Once in possession of Estelle, he could make his own bargain with Lord Lynwood. How high his hopes had been when he and the Dutchman had carried off the orchid! The Frenchman had failed them, but they had managed to get it by boat to the nearest port, and, unsuspected by the police authorities, had reached Holland safely with the unique plant. He had been 'done' over that business, had received but half what he expected. Was it his fault that the paper did not mention where the plant was discovered? The orchid itself was of immense value, and the sum paid to Thomas, for his share in its capture, was by no means a despicable one. Like most ill-gotten gains, however, it had not remained long in his pocket. Driven by necessity, unable to return to his own country, and not knowing where else to turn, he determined to go to Tout-Petit, and seek assistance from Fargis, as his ally had once advised.

He had no money left to pay his way there, but accidentally hearing that a caravan, consisting of a circus, mountebanks, and the usual paraphernalia of a fair, was about to start for Tout-Petit, and that a strong man was wanted in the circus troupe, he offered his services, and was accepted.

But times had changed since the Dutchman, Thomas's former fellow-conspirator, had known Fargis. The past had been effectually buried, Fargis hoped; the last spark of it was the help his smack was intended to give in the conveying away of the orchid. Thomas's many delays in securing the plant had frustrated this plan, but Fargis had done his best. He considered all indebtedness wiped out henceforward. He received Thomas ungraciously, therefore, and beyond a vague promise that he would speak to some other skippers, Thomas had no satisfaction from his visit. Gloomy, and not a little resentful—for he had come far on what he considered his friend's misrepresentation—he wandered aimlessly towards the Fontaine des Eaux. Too busy all day to get away, it was only when the afternoon was far advanced that he managed to go down to see Fargis. The dancing had, therefore, begun before he reached the valley. Strolling up towards the booths, he watched the dancers with a sort of inward anger because people could be so happy when he was so wretched. All at once he caught sight of the group in the shed. His first indifferent glance changed into a look of astonishment. He had not heard of the loss of Estelle, never having dared to write home to his broken-hearted mother. He stood staring, puzzled to behold Lord Lynwood's daughter among all these peasants.

How did she get there? Who were her companions? Why had she been sent from home? His brain worked over the riddle as he lingered under the shadow of the trees and gazed at the well-known face of the child. He found it a hard nut to crack. Suddenly his Dutch friend's question in the cave, just before their rush to save the box with the orchid, recurred to his memory: 'Is not the Earl's daughter an heiress?'

She has been stolen, then! For a moment Thomas was 'struck all of a heap,' as he would have expressed it. He was blinded by the flash that seemed to reveal to him what had happened.

Creeping up closer, he listened to what the group of strangers around the little girl were talking about. To formulate any plans on the spur of the moment, even to take in what this amazing discovery might mean to him in his fallen fortunes, was beyond the power of Thomas's slowly working brain. He must have time to think. He must find out how the land lay. And meanwhile, it would not be wasting precious time if he set himself to find out who were Estelle's protectors; where they lived; what facilities their abode offered for approaching the child; and how he could bring the brilliant but hazy notions now throbbing through his head into something more than mere dreams. His only clear ideas at present were, that the Lady Estelle de Bohun was certainly a great heiress; that the Earl would pay any price, probably, to get her back; and that he, Thomas, must be the important medium through whom this good fortune must be brought about. Thomas, too, would be sure that well-lined pockets did not fail him this time. He had had his lesson in sharpness.

Beyond this point he had not had time to go. Nothing turned up next day to help him, till the early stragglers appeared at the fair in the morning. He was on the alert. He looked and found faces he had seen on the previous night. He managed to get up a talk with one and another, during which it was easy to learn a good deal on the subject of the little waif. Before he saw Estelle again, he found that she lived in the Caves of the Hospice de la Providence; he discovered that Jack was a fisherman, and was often away in the boats, sometimes for several nights together. At such times no one remained on guard except the old woman—by which term he meant Mrs. Wright. He also found out that Estelle had not been stolen. He heard the story of her loss of memory concerning certain vital points, and of the doctor's prophecy that some little thing would, without doubt, reveal the missing link, and restore her powers of recollection. This he was rather sorry to hear. It would have been better if she had remained ignorant till he had made his own terms with her father. However, she was but a child, and could be suppressed. He could see to that.

He saw clearly that the most difficult obstacle to the whole of his somewhat indefinite scheme would be M. le Geant (Mr. Giant), as the villagers smilingly called Jack. The giant was not a giant to no purpose. He would show fight. There was absolutely no doubt about that. He must, therefore, be away whenever it suited Thomas to act. But—and Thomas thought a great deal over that but—would it be possible to come to some sort of terms with Jack? They might share and share alike. Thomas was quite willing to do that, provided the sum agreed upon was large enough. If he refused, and if Estelle were unable to give an account of herself—that is, if the little something did not occur which should assist her memory—Thomas considered his course clear. Neither her name nor her belongings would be revealed. Jack could not take any steps towards restoring her to her family if he did not know where her home was. Thomas preferred to manage the whole business single-handed. The orchid had been a lesson to him against trusting any one with his secrets. He had come off second-best. Another time it might go even worse with him. No, he would be his own master in this matter.

Careful as his watch was on the crowds surging through the long street of booths that day, he had missed Jack and his party. The tears of the dancing girl, and the loud voice of the woman, he scarcely noticed till they ceased suddenly. The silence aroused his curiosity as the noise had not done. Peeping through the curtains, he saw to his delight and amazement that the child he so longed to seize was standing close by, alone and unprotected.

The golden egg lay ready to his hand. He would be a fool not to take it. His eye wandered for one doubtful second to the broad back of the stalwart sailor. Could he manage it before that giant turned round? It was worth trying. Oh, if he could only get hold of her without her screaming! Possession was nine points of the law!

(Continued on page 286.)



PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

IX.—SOME FROG NURSERIES.

We do not generally expect such apparently dull and stupid creatures as fish and frogs to have any very deep parental feelings, yet we shall see presently that, among the fishes, some are most exemplary parents. And so it is, also, among the much-despised frogs and toads, and some of their near relatives. Indeed, I should have to write a very long chapter if I were to set myself to relate at length every case that is known of this kind. It must suffice to take a few of the more striking instances. But, before I begin, let me ask you to try and recall some of the main facts with regard to the care for the young displayed by the common frog. This animal, you will remember, formed the subject of the first article in this series, wherein it was pointed out that the eggs were laid in huge masses and left to hatch. Beyond seeking out a suitable place for the eggs, no further trouble is taken by the frog, and it is on this account that so many hundreds have to be laid. There must be enough to be eaten by prowling ducks, and enough to hatch into tadpoles, of which, again, there must be enough to be eaten by hungry animals of all sorts, and enough to grow safely into frogs.

This waste of life is, however, avoided when the parents take charge of their eggs, and, in consequence, there is no need to provide so many.

Let us begin with an example or two of nest-building frogs. One of the simplest of these nests is that of a South American frog known as the Ferreiro, or 'Smith,' from the remarkable call which it makes during the spring—a call resembling the sounds made on a smith's anvil. Its nest is made by the little mother of the family alone, who, from the bottom of some shallow pool, scoops out a little basin, using the displaced mud to form a wall or rampart, some four inches high, round the pit, and employing her hands to smooth the inside of the wall, much as a mason uses a trowel. After the nest is ready, she lays therein a few eggs, and then retires with her mate to some secluded spot to watch over her treasures!

Another little group of South American frogs—the 'Phyllomedusa' frogs—lay their eggs to the number of about a hundred, in 'pockets' formed by bringing the edges of a leaf together. Into this 'pocket' the eggs are dropped by the mother; the jelly-like coat with which the eggs are covered serves to hold the pocket together.

Some frogs build 'foam' nests. Thus, a little frog that lives in the West Indies glues her eggs on to a broad leaf, and covers them in a mass of foam. Similarly, the 'banana-frog' of Malacca lays its eggs in a leaf, and surrounds them with a mass of yellow froth (which afterwards becomes steel-grey) as large as a cricket-ball. Herein the eggs develop, until at last the tadpoles emerge and drop into the water below, as in the case of the other frogs who attach their eggs to leaves. A Japanese frog, closely related to the species just described, lays its eggs in a hole in the ground, and then covers them with a mass of froth and air-bubbles formed by working up a sticky slime with its feet until this mass, too, is as large as a cricket-ball!

But many frogs carry their eggs about them. The South American Goeldi's frog carries its eggs on its back, the skin of which on each side is raised up to form a wall holding the eggs in position. A near relative of this species—the pouched frog—has carried this device further, so that the walls meet each other above the eggs, and form a most wonderful pouch. Until lately, it seemed impossible to account for the presence of the eggs in such a strange place, but it is now known that they are placed there by the frog-mother's mate.



In another case—that of a kind of toad which is common on some parts of the Continent—the father of the family winds the eggs in 'chains' around his hind legs, and sits with them, during the heat of the day, in some shady place, emerging with the shade of evening to bathe his growing brood in dew.



A little frog met with in the Seychelles carries its little ones about on its back, much as a duck will carry its ducklings. But the curious Surinam toad of South America has improved on this arrangement, and lodges each little one in a little pocket in the skin of her back!



Lastly, and strangest of all, we have a species—again a native of South America—in which the father carries first the eggs, and then the young tadpoles, in a pouch in his throat! This pouch, in the early part of the year, serves as a voice-organ, or, rather, as a musical organ, for when filled with air it is capable of making a sound which has been likened to that of a little bell. Later, he places the eggs therein, and, as these grow, the pouch increases in size, finally extending down each side of the body, beneath the skin, as far as the hind legs.



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



THE GRUMBLING ROSE.



'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud, That close against my window lattice leans, 'But April is as false as he is fickle, And there's never any knowing what he means. He loitered just before me with a whisper Of mischief much too cunning to detect; But when I peeped with wonder at the garden, It wasn't what he led me to expect; For the rain fell fast On a rude and chilly blast, And it wasn't what he led me to expect.'

'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud, As April softly sighed a fond adieu; 'But after all, I'm sorry you must leave me, For May's a month I dread much more than you. She prates of all the wonders of the summer; She promises—but only to betray, And those who tell the truth about the spring-time Are never complimentary to May; And e'en a baby Rose Can be pardoned, I suppose, For feeling some anxiety in May.'

And thus through all the months of happy summer This foolish Rose no cause for pleasure found, And when the winds of autumn swept the garden, They scattered all her petals on the ground. Oh, let me urge this on you—to remember That no one should enlarge upon a wrong, For those who spend their time in idle grumbling Will find there's not a moment for a song, And sadly they'll recall, When the autumn shadows fall, The summer that was worthy of a song.



'AS YOU PLEASE.'

In the ancient times there lived a wonderfully wise man, of whom it was said that he could answer correctly any question put to him. There was one, however, who thought himself clever enough to outwit the sage. This man took a poor, captive bird, and clasped it so closely in his hand that only the head and tail were visible.

'Tell me,' said he to the renowned guesser of riddles, 'is the bird which I hold in my hand alive or dead?'

If the answer were 'Dead,' thought this artful plotter, he would just open his hand, and let the bird fly; if the answer were 'Alive,' he would with one little squeeze crush the poor bird to death.

But the wise man proved himself equal to the occasion, and replied, 'It is as you please.'

Each one of you holds within his or her grasp the fair bird of life. Which is it to be? A blessing or a bane? It is 'as you please.'



THE PENGUIN.

There are several kinds of penguins, and several different names have been given to the same kinds, so that the number of names is rather bewildering. We hear of the Great Penguin, the Grey Penguin, the Cape Penguin, the Jackass Penguin, and several others; but, as they are all very similar in most respects, we will not trouble much about the kinds, but learn what we can of the habits and peculiarities of penguins generally.

These birds live mostly in the cold countries, especially islands, near the South Pole. They are aquatic birds, spending much of their time in the water, and living upon the fish which they chase and catch in the sea. For this reason they congregate upon the rocky shores, where they may be seen standing in thousands, like regiments of soldiers. Their webbed feet are placed very far back, close to the stumpy tail, and so the long body has to stand very straight up in order to balance itself. This gives them a very odd, man-like appearance. Their wings are small and narrow, and look more like flappers, or stunted arms, than wings. They are not covered with feathers, but with stumps, which look more like bristles or scales, and the wings appear to be set on to the body almost the wrong way about. They are not of the smallest use for flying, and the penguin never attempts to do that; but when it takes to the water, the wings are seen to be admirably formed and placed for swimming.

The penguin is lighter than the water, yet it swims with its body below the surface, never at any time having more than its head out. It is enabled to do this by the peculiar shape of its wings, which will carry it down and forwards, as the wings of air-birds carry them upwards and forwards. So well fitted for swimming are these curious wings that the penguin is more than a match for most fishes in their own element. When chasing its prey, it comes to the surface with a spring, and dives again so quickly that it is almost impossible to distinguish it from a fish leaping in the air. How confident it feels upon the sea may be imagined when we learn that Sir James Ross once saw two penguins swimming calmly along a thousand miles from the nearest land.

The penguin is an enormous eater. It has a very long stomach, which reaches to the lower part of the body, and is capable, in the case of a large bird, of holding more than two pounds of fish. The largest kind of penguin may be from three to four feet tall, and will weigh about eighty pounds. This is only about half the weight of a well-developed man, so that you may judge the capacity of the penguin's stomach by doubling it and comparing it with a man's. The bird, like many other birds, appears to swallow pieces of stone to help it to grind down its food, for Sir John Ross found ten pounds of granite and other kinds of stone in the stomach of a penguin which he caught—no light weight for such a bird to carry about.

On land the penguin uses its wings as fore-legs, and crawls or runs on four feet, as it were, so quickly that, on a grassy cliff, it might be mistaken for some kind of quadruped. Living in regions which are rarely visited by man, these birds have not yet learned to dread him, but often stand still until they are knocked down with a stick. They are very courageous. A naturalist tells us how he attempted to stop one as it was going down to the sea. He intercepted it, but the bird fought him and drove him backwards step by step. Every step the bird gained it kept, standing up erect and fearless before the naturalist, and continually rolling its head from side to side. Nothing short of heavy blows, he tells us, would have stopped it.

The penguin lays one egg, of a whitish colour, about twice as large as a goose's egg. It is said that the female bird hatches its egg by keeping it close between its legs, and that if it be disturbed at this time, it will carry its egg away with it. While the female bird is hatching its egg, the male goes to the sea to catch fish for them both; and, when the young one is hatched, both parents go to sea and bring it food. They do this so well and so unselfishly that the young bird grows quite fat, and is scarcely able to walk, while the old birds themselves become thin. The young bird takes its food in a very curious way. When its mother has just returned from the sea, she stands up over her little one, and makes a great noise something between the quacking of a duck and the braying of an ass. After that has gone on for a minute or so, she puts down her head and opens her mouth, and the young one thrusts its beak in and takes out its food.

Living in such cold countries, and spending so much time in the cold water, the penguin needs to be well protected from the cold. And so it is. Its short feathers are closely packed, and form a water-proof coat. Under the skin there is a thick layer of fat, which helps to keep out the cold; and, as we have already seen, the penguin eats enormous quantities of food, much of which is no doubt used up in keeping the bird warm. Some people tell us that the penguin's flesh is not disagreeable to eat, while others say that it is far too oily to be pleasant. In Newfoundland it used to be burnt upon the fires in place of wood. The flesh is, indeed, so oily that in some places a lamp is said to be made by sticking one end of a piece of moss into the body of a dead penguin and lighting the other. The penguin's body serves as an oil-vessel, and the moss as a wick.

W. A. ATKINSON.



CUTTING IT DOWN.

Those who follow their friends' advice in everything soon find that they have to obey a good many different masters. A man was once setting up in business as a hatter, and he consulted all his acquaintances as to what he should set up as a sign outside his shop. He proposed 'John Thomson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,' with the sign of a hat. But the first friend he asked suggested that the word 'hatter' was not wanted, because the rest of the sentence showed that Thomson was a hatter. So 'hatter' was struck out.

The next remarked that 'for ready money' was unnecessary; few people desired credit for articles such as hats, and, in any case, the hatter would know best whether credit could be given. Another omission was therefore made.

The third friend declared that nobody cared to know who made the hats, so long as they could be bought. Accordingly, the sentence was cut down to 'John Thomson sells hats,' with the sign.

But the last friend who was consulted objected to the words 'sells hats.' 'The sign of the hat,' he said, 'will show your business; and nobody expects you to give the hats away.'

Thus, by following the advice of all his friends, the hatter cut down his announcement simply to 'John Thomson,' with the sign of a hat.



'A WILL OF HER OWN.'

Rosa was a Swedish girl. She had so often heard people say, 'Rosa has a will of her own,' that she began to think it rather a fine thing, and when people think it is rather a fine thing to be naughty, trouble is sure to follow.

One beautiful summer day Rosa's mother said to her: 'Put on your Sunday frock, Rosa, and take these eggs to your grandmother. You may stay to tea, and play a little; but you must be back by seven o'clock.'

This pleased Rosa, for she was not often sent alone to her grandmother's, although she lived quite near. Soon she was ready. She looked very smart in her scarlet petticoat, bright apron, and white blouse, and started off proudly with her little basket of eggs.

Her grandmother was a beautiful old lady with gold spectacles and enormous white cap. She thanked Rosa for the eggs, gave her delicious tea with strawberries, cream, and cakes, and then said, 'You can play in the garden until the bell rings. Only do not go near the river.'

'Thank you,' said Rosa, meekly, and walked away.

When she had shut, the door, she gave her head a little toss and her shoulders a little shake, and said: 'I only said "Thank you," not "Yes, thank you," for I mean to go near the river. There is nowhere else to play. Mother always lets me go by the river, so why should Grandmother forbid it?'

Now, the stream where Rosa generally played was only a tributary, and was not nearly so deep and wide as the main river where she now was. Rosa stood on the bank watching the great pine-trunks, which, in Sweden, are always floating down by the rivers to the sea. The woodmen cut the trees down, mark them, and let them float where they will, and the owners claim the logs when they reach the Baltic. Rosa and her brother Rolf used to jump on these trees sometimes when they struck near the shore, float down the stream a little way, and then jump off again. It was always a dangerous game for children to play, but much more dangerous on the large river than on the little tributary.

After a few minutes Rosa saw three large trunks, firmly bound together, coming close up to her.

'What a lovely boat!' she cried. 'Oh, but I have on my best clothes!'

Rosa loved her clothes—but she loved floating on the river more; with a skip and a little jump, there she was, perched like a bird on the tree-trunks, floating away in the middle of the stream, with her scarlet petticoat held out for a sail.

'Oh! how lovely,' she said to herself. 'I am going ever so much faster than in our stream, and how far away the banks seem. I am like a big steamer in the middle of the sea itself.'

For some time Rosa thoroughly enjoyed it. Then she became a little bit afraid, though she was too proud to admit it, even to herself. There was nothing on either side of the river, but deep pine forests that she did not know. There was no sound but the rush of the river; and she wished her little boat would go near the bank. Perhaps it would catch on that bit of rock sticking out. No, the river gave it a wicked tug and swept it round the point with a triumphant gurgle. Could Rosa catch an overhanging tree? She tried to, but the effort nearly jerked her into the water, and left nothing but a few crumpled leaves in her hand.

The thought of falling into that dark, cold water thoroughly frightened her, and she now quite forgot even to pretend to enjoy herself. She firmly stood on the logs, shutting her eyes tight, so as to try to forget her fears.

Then a distant roar suddenly made Rosa scream with terror. 'The waterfall! oh, the waterfall!'

Her father had told her of the great waterfall somewhere on the river. She must be getting nearer and nearer to it every second. She looked desperately to the banks; they seemed ever so far away, and the current was swifter than ever, and looked dreadfully hungry and cruel.

'It will go quicker and quicker,' she thought, 'and the noise will be louder and louder and louder, and there will be the edge, and then—— '

But Rosa never got any further; there was a jerk and a jar; the logs ran into something with a bump and Rosa felt herself thrown off them on to some hard, firm surface. She lay quite still for some time, for the noise of the waterfall thundered in her ears, and she felt she must hold on for dear life.

When at last she looked up, to her surprise she found herself on a tiny beach, lying half in the water. She jumped to her feet, meaning to run home as fast as she could; but she found that was impossible, for she was on a little island just a few yards from the edge of the waterfall.

At first she could not think of anything but how glad she was to be on dry land; but that feeling did not last long. She was soaking wet, and very hungry; the weather had changed too—it was raining a little, and the wind sighed through the great forest trees, making them creak and groan.

All that Rosa could do was to make a poor little supper of a few wild strawberries and beech-nuts, which grew on her island, rest against a tree, and try to sleep. She woke early the next morning (for Swedish summer nights are very short), and after eating some more strawberries and beech-nuts, ran about in the sunshine to try to get warm.

Suddenly she spied a pair of little black eyes looking at her through the leaves. It was a squirrel, very surprised to see a little girl in a scarlet frock running about his island. He began to chatter to her, and Rosa felt happier now she had a companion. She was so taken up with watching him running up and down the trees, hunting for breakfast, that she jumped when she suddenly heard a cry of 'Rosa, Rosa!' being shouted behind her. It was her father on the mainland. She was so pleased to see him that she nearly cried for joy. She could not get to him, however, and it was some time before a boat could breast the current and rescue her from her island.

Rosa was so pleased to be at home that she almost forgot how naughty she had been, until her mother told her what a terribly anxious night she and her father had had, and that they had not been to bed at all. That made Rosa more sorry than her own unpleasant experiences had done; and one result of her adventure was that she gave up thinking what a fine thing it was to have a 'will of her own.'



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

IX.—A TALE OF A TUB.



It was a fine June afternoon in the year 1806, and two boys, aged twelve and thirteen, were strolling idly along the muddy shore of the Thames by Millbank. There was no Embankment there then, nor indeed for many years later, and so many strange things, thrown out from incoming ships, were cast up by the tide on this side of the river, that it was the favourite resort of the boys of the neighbourhood, especially as there was a rumour that pearls had been found in several places on the muddy foreshore.

This, however, must certainly have been romance on the boys' part, though it was firmly believed in by most of the younger lads—our two friends, Tom and Roger, being among the number—and they were to-day walking with their eyes fixed on the mud, in hopes of finding treasure, till Roger raising his head, exclaimed hastily—

'I say, Tom, look there!'

'Where?' inquired Tom, gazing across the river.

'No, not there!' said Roger, pulling his brother's sleeve to make him turn round. 'Over there!' and he pointed down the river where a little crowd was assembled by the side of the water.

'Let's go and have a look!' declared Tom. Away scudded Tom and Roger, eager to miss nothing of what might be happening. The sight that had drawn the crowd together was a fool-hardy young carpenter, who, for a wager, had undertaken to row himself in a washing-tub from Millbank to London Bridge.

'Will he do it, Tom?' asked Roger anxiously, as he looked at the sturdy young carpenter, who was just about to step into the big tub which a friend was holding steady for him.

'He may,' cautiously answered Tom. 'The river is smooth enough to-day, but I should not care to be in his boat when he gets in the whirl of the bridges; that tub will spin round like a tee-to-tum.'

The carpenter now took off his coat, and throwing it to his friend said jokingly, 'It's yours, if I don't come back to claim it.'

'You will come back, right enough,' said his friend, as he handed him a pair of sculls. Then with a cheer from the crowd—in which Tom and Roger heartily joined—the tub was started on its adventurous voyage.

There was intense stillness on the part of the crowd as the tub went rolling uneasily along, but in a minute the tension was relaxed, as across the water came the notes of 'There was a jolly miller,' sung with calm unconcern by the voyager in his strange craft.

'He will do it!' said Roger excitedly. 'It's not the first time he's sailed in a tub, I feel sure, and if he keeps his head at the bridges he will do it.'

'Let us hurry to London Bridge; we shall hear if he has got safe, even if we are not in time to see him land,' said Tom.

'All right,' answered Roger, and off ran the two. They knew all the short cuts through the City, and by dint of hard running they actually arrived on the scene before the final act.

'There he is! there he is!' shouted Tom, 'and he is still singing. What a plucky fellow he must be.'

There in the middle of the water was the tub, sure enough; but the worst part of the journey had still to be done, for the tide swept very swiftly under the narrow arches of London Bridge, and the tub spun round and round till it seemed at one time that it would never make the land.

'It will be swamped!' cried impulsive Tom.

'No! no!' answered Roger, 'he's got it into quieter water already. There! he's bringing it on shore, and close by us! Let's give him a cheer, Tom.'

And with hearty goodwill the two boys set up a cheer, and then ran down into the water to help drag up the tub, and to congratulate the hero of this strange feat of 1806.



MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

IX.—THE MANCHESTER SHIP CANAL.[2]



The merchants of Manchester were not satisfied with the means they had for receiving goods from abroad and dispatching their own in return. They wanted to be nearer to the sea; but as Manchester was much too large a place to be carried to the coast, it seemed more reasonable to carry the sea to Manchester, and so turn the town into an inland port. They had thought and thought about it for a very long time, without being able to hit upon any satisfactory plan, when, in 1882, a Mr. Daniel Adamson invited some friends to his house in the suburbs of Manchester, and made a proposal and a suggestion which led to the accomplishment of the great design. Mr. Adamson was a gentleman of great energy and courage, and though cities might stand in the way, he would bring the sea to Manchester when once he had made up his mind to do so. It was almost safe to say that he would have cut the canal with his own hands rather than fail in his determination. It is such men as he who make England prosperous.

[Footnote 2: The illustrations are based upon photographs kindly supplied by Mr. Banks, of Manchester.]

Permission having at last been gained from Parliament, a number of steam dredgers arrived in the mouth of the Mersey, and work was begun. The distance from the starting-point to Manchester is thirty-five and a half miles, and over most of these the river itself was followed.

At Eastham, on the south side of the river, foundations were laid for three locks side by side, and these form the entrance of the water-road to Manchester. One or two points with regard to them must be mentioned. In the first place they are not locks in the ordinary sense, as the water that flows through them is tidal water; but they serve to keep that tide in the canal at one uniform level. As they are within reach of boisterous sea-water, there is an additional protecting gate in front of each, while between them and the shore there are three large sluices to regulate the passage of unusually heavy tides.

On passing through the Eastham lock, vessels bound for Manchester find themselves in a channel about one hundred and seventy-two feet wide and twenty-six feet deep, separated from the broader Mersey by a long embankment thirty feet wide at the top, and following the curves of the river for nine miles. But in that nine miles there are several sights to see, for Eastham is not left very far behind when, on the right, the river Weaver is reached. This is a broad river flowing into the Mersey, and its ancient rights could not be taken away, though it was absolutely necessary to control them. Consequently, all across its wide mouth a number of sluice-gates, sliding up and down on rollers, had to be erected. These are worked by hydraulic power, and are raised at suitable times, according to the condition of the tide, when the water, flowing from the Weaver across the canal, finds its way into the Mersey through long openings in the top of the embankment of which we have spoken.

Streams less important than the Weaver are treated in a less dignified way. Thus, a little farther on we come upon two small rivers which are carried under the canal in huge cast-iron pipes. At the busy town of Runcorn we reach the first railway bridge, and the canal is narrowed to ninety-two feet, flowing in a graceful curve between concrete walls. The railway bridge, as it stands to-day, was built by the Canal Company, for the old one was too low for ships to pass beneath. It is now seventy-five feet above the surface of the water, and all other fixed bridges that cross the canal must be equally high.

Ten long straight miles beyond Runcorn a vessel comes to a halt in front of the first lock on the canal proper. It is at a place called Latchford. We are twenty-one miles from Eastham, and at the end of the tidal course. Fourteen and a half more miles to Manchester—and in that distance we have sixty feet and six inches to climb! As we move slowly into the lock the hydraulic machinery is set in motion; the gate behind us is closed, and the one in front slowly opens. In rushes the foaming water, lifting our vessel as it rises in the lock, and in a few more minutes we are steaming on our way—sixteen feet above the level of the waters just left behind. We have mounted the first step in the watery stairway leading to Manchester's front door.

Some seven miles further on another lock is reached, and passing through this we shortly come in sight of what is, perhaps, the most interesting engineering feat performed in this great enterprise. It is the Barton swing bridge, and was constructed to carry the Bridgewater Canal across the one upon which we are travelling in imagination. About the year 1756 the young Duke of Bridgewater employed an engineering genius named James Brindley to make a canal from his coal-mines near Manchester to the town of Runcorn. With astounding skill, James Brindley carried out the work, finding his greatest difficulty at the point of which we are speaking. The river Irwell flowed directly across the course of his canal and at a considerably lower level. Friends advised him to lead his canal down to the river by a large number of small locks, and lift it again on the other side by similar means. 'That is the usual thing to do,' they said.

But Brindley preferred the best way to the usual way, and boldly carried his canal over the river on a stone bridge or aqueduct. It was the first time such a thing had been done in England, and it served its purpose for nearly one hundred and fifty years. Then the Manchester Ship Canal comes along the Irwell, and the stone aqueduct must be turned into a swing bridge, or how is any ship to pass?

'Very well,' said the owners of the Bridgewater Canal, 'but you must not let much of our water be lost, for we have little to spare.'

And this is how Mr. Leader Williams, the engineer, got over the difficulty. He built an island in the middle of the Ship Canal for the iron bridge to turn upon, leaving the two ends free. The bridge itself he made in the form of a long tank, nineteen feet wide and seven feet deep, the two ends being hinged so that they would open and close like doors. Strengthening iron girders, rising to a height of some twenty feet, form the sides of the bridge, while cross-girders close in the top. The two ends of the canal proper where it reaches the entrance to the bridge, are also provided with watertight doors. When the bridge is in position there is a narrow gap between its two ends and the canal. This is filled up and made watertight by a ponderous wedge, weighing twelve tons and shaped like a U, its sides and lower part thus corresponding in outline with those of the tank and canal. The wedge is further padded on each side with indiarubber which, when squeezed into place, effectually prevents any leakage. As soon as a ship is signalled on the Manchester canal, the doors at each end of the tank-bridge are closed, together with those at the ends of the canal. Then the U wedge is lifted from between them, and the bridge (weighing, with the water it contains, sixteen hundred tons) is swung round on its island pivot till the channels are open on either side. The ship passes by and the bridge is swung back to its original position. The towing-path (for all craft on the Duke of Bridgewater's canal are drawn by horses) is carried across the bridge on an iron shelf, nine feet above the water.

Beyond Barton the Salford docks are reached, and after passing one more lock, we sail triumphantly into the magnificent docks of Manchester to which this thread of silver leads.



When first the canal was opened Manchester seemed to be taken by surprise, and hardly knew how to perform the part of a seaport; but that is all changed now. The docks are growing fast, and only in 1905 their Majesties the King and Queen opened a new dock two thousand seven hundred feet long, two hundred and fifty feet wide, making an area of fifteen and a half acres, and capable of accommodating ten of the largest steamships entering the canal.

Thus this great city, at a cost of fifteen million pounds, opened its gateway to the ocean, and receives at its doors rich freights of merchandise from all quarters of the earth, though it stands thirty-five miles away from the sound of the sea.



IRON-SMELTING IN INDIA.

In many parts of India iron is made in a very simple way, which has probably been followed for centuries without much change. The iron-worker builds a little furnace of clay, in the form of a tower which is narrower at the top than at the bottom. This tower is only four or five feet high, so that it is after all no bigger than the towers and castles which children build in the sand; but its builder makes good use of it, small though it is. The top of it is open, and at the bottom there are one or two openings in the side, through which the iron-maker can blow the air of a pair of bellows. These bellows are goat-skin bags, which have been made by sewing up whole skins. A hollow bamboo is fitted into the end of each bag, in order to form the pipes of the bellows and there is also another opening in each bag which may be closed very quickly by the man who blows the bellows. He works the bellows by pressing upon the goat-skin bags with his feet, so as to drive out the air through the pipe which is fixed in the end of each bag. He works two bags at one time, pressing first upon one and then upon the other. While he is pressing one bag, he raises the other, which is empty, and allows it to fill again through the hole which has been left in it for that purpose. In this way he contrives to have one bag filling with air, while he is squeezing the air out of the other.

The smelter, before he can make iron, must have iron ore and fuel, as well as furnace and bellows. The ore he has already dug from the ground and arranged in a little heap near his furnace. It is usually a rather dark-coloured stone, or a soft, red earth. The fuel is charcoal, which the smelter makes by burning wood in a heap more or less covered with earth, in such a way that the wood chars rather than burns away.

A very hot fire is needed to change the stony or earthy iron-ore into iron, or rather to burn out the iron which lies in the ore, and the clay furnace and the bellows are employed for the purpose of maintaining this hot fire. The smelter lights the fire inside the bottom of his furnace, and the tower acts as a sort of chimney. The pipes of the goat-skin bellows are joined on to clay pipes which pass into the bottom of the furnace, and lead the draught of air from the bags into the fire. The bellows-pipes themselves cannot be put into the furnace, because they would take fire.

When the smelter has got his fire well aglow, he places upon it a layer of charcoal, and above that a thin layer of iron-ore. On the top of these he puts another layer of charcoal and another of ore, and thus he goes on loading his furnace until he thinks that he has filled it sufficiently full. Then he works away at his bellows for three or four hours.

At the end of this time the charcoal and much of the ore are burned away, and there is not much left but glowing embers in the bottom of the furnace. The smelter breaks a hole through the furnace, and, poking with his tongs into the ashes, draws out a little red-hot ball of iron, scarcely as large as a cricket ball, which has been formed from the ore, partly by the heat of the fire, and partly by the help of the red-hot charcoal which has acted chemically upon the ore. This little ball of iron is well hammered, in order to knock out any ashes which may have lodged in it, and it is then ready to be worked up into an implement, or to be made into steel for a sword-blade or some other weapon.



THE PRINCESS HAS COME.

The white snow has gone from the vale and the mountain; The ice from the river has melted away; The hills far and near Are less winterly drear, And the buds of the hawthorn are peeping for May. I hear a light footstep abroad in my garden; Oh, stay, does the wind through the shrubbery blow? There's warmth in the breeze, And a song in the trees, And the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.

The crocus has lighted its lamp in the forest, Though it shelters its flame with a close-drawn green hood; The primrose peeps out, With a shiver of doubt, And wonders if winter has left us for good. But hark, from afar comes the sound of a bugle! Or is it the bee where the rose-bushes grow? He loiters so long, With such joy in his song, That the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.

The blackbird has climbed to the top of the cedar, And there in the sunshine he whistles a strain. 'She's coming! She's here!' Are his messages clear, As squadrons of swallows sweep by in the lane.

Now the woodlands rejoice with the green-tinted hedges; The young wheat peeps up and the blue sky looks down. Then out and away! Our respects we must pay, When the Princess of Springtime is wearing her crown.



THE MISUNDERSTOOD POETS.

The village wiseacres of Cumberland, to whom the habits of the poet Wordsworth and his eccentric friend Coleridge were a mystery, had decided that they must be terrible scoundrels. One sage had seen Wordsworth looking fixedly at the moon; another had overheard him muttering in some strange language. Some thought him a conjuror; some a smuggler, from his perpetually haunting the sea-beach; while others were sure that he was a desperate French conspirator.

One day, while on a walking excursion, Coleridge met a woman, who, not knowing who he was, abused him to himself in unmeasured terms for some time. 'I listened,' wrote the poet to a friend, 'very particularly, appearing to approve all she said, exclaiming "Dear me!" two or three times; and, in fine, so completely won her heart by my civilities, that I had not courage enough to undeceive her.'

This hostility seems very ludicrous now; but at the time its effect was such, that the person who had the letting of Allfoxenden House refused point-blank to re-let it to Wordsworth.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

II.—AGRICULTURAL ACROSTIC.

My first is very quiet, My second was very noisy, My third is very watery, My fourth is often very fierce, My fifth is very musical, My sixth is done to newspapers.

Every week my finals and initials are held in many large towns.

W. S.

[Answers on page 323.]

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 254.

9.—1. Board. 2. Death. 3. March.

10.—Lilac.

1. H e L e n. 2. C r I m e. 3. G a L e n. 4. T r A i n. 5. B a C o n.



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 275.)

Thomas advanced towards Estelle cautiously, an artful smile on his face. Before the little girl was aware of his presence, he was close to her.

'Hush!' he muttered, fearing she would cry out; 'you come along with me, and I will take you home, my lady. It is not true friends that keep you here. I know my lady is dying to see you.'

He caught her suddenly in his arms, and bore her back into the tent. The curtains dropped heavily behind him, just as Estelle, the spell of her terror broken, uttered the cry Jack had heard.

Jack turned at the sound; so did Julien; so did Mrs. Wright. But Estelle was nowhere to be seen. No further sound betrayed her whereabouts.

But Jack was not a man to be easily disconcerted. Mrs. Wright and Julien stood still in consternation, but Jack made up his mind at once. He was naturally impetuous and hasty in thought and action. Only the sore troubles through which he had passed, and the knowledge that he had brought so much unhappiness on his mother as well as on himself by his quick temper, had had power to make him as calm and gentle as he had shown himself to Estelle. It was as if a fire smouldered within him always, but was held in restraint by a strong will.

Now, however, calmness was cast to the winds. The child was in danger. She had no helper but himself. Till her parents were found she was his child—his by right of being her protector, her preserver. On him she depended for everything; on him and his mother. Who had dared to touch her? His face flushed, then turned white. His keen eye searched every corner. There was one place only in which the child could have been concealed—the tent. She had been standing near it when he turned to give the coppers to the children.

Without an instant's hesitation he sprang forward, the curtains were thrust aside, and he was among the tawdry, excited crowd of play-actors. They had been resting between the performances. Suddenly they were startled by one of their number rushing through the tent with a child in his arms, whose cries he was stifling with a large cloak. None understood what the noise was about, nor had any of the men and women seen the face of the little girl; therefore none were interested, and none stirred themselves to ask what had happened. Only one spoke—she whose cloak had been snatched up to enfold the child. She called out a rough remonstrance, but Thomas answered her hurriedly, as he tried to wind the garment closely about Estelle, with small regard as to whether she could breathe or not.

'The child has been kidnapped,' he said, quickly. 'I know her parents, and I must—— '

He got no further. Jack was upon him. The sudden appearance of the tall sailor in hot pursuit caused a sensation among the people standing about. The men pressed forward to see what would happen, and were knocked over by the giant. A storm of resentment arose as they struggled to their feet, and threatening fists were shaken at Jack. None, however, ventured to attack the broad-shouldered, sinewy sailor, whose gigantic height and powerful arms inspired awe. At sight of him Thomas caught up the little girl, the cloak still trailing on the ground and hampering his movements, and tried to escape through another opening in the curtains of the tent. He did not require a second look at Jack's enraged face and blazing eyes to understand that in him Estelle had a mighty defender, who was not likely to let her kidnapper off easily. It seemed barely a moment before violent hands were laid on Thomas's collar, the child torn out of his hands, and himself hurled back among the angry crowd behind him. A murmur of increasing wrath went up, but Jack paid no heed to it. Getting rid of the cloak, and taking Estelle in his arms, he strode out of the tent to where he had left his mother and Julien. Estelle had fainted, and he was anxious to get her home as quickly as possible. Her white, unconscious face alarmed him.



CHAPTER XVI.

Mrs. Wright and Julien were still where Jack had left them. Both had been too frightened to move, and now the sight of him, as he hurried towards them with Estelle's insensible form in his arms, alarmed them.

'Not dead!' cried Mrs. Wright, with a catch in her throat.

'No, thank Heaven! M. Julien, will you run for the doctor, and send him down to the Hospice at once? Mother, I will get on ahead, and perhaps M. Julien will come with you as soon as he has spoken to the doctor.'

Julien agreed gladly. He could not have borne to leave them at such a time, and he felt some relief that he was able to do something to help.

'The doctor is in one of the shows, but I will soon find him,' he said. 'If you will walk on, Madame, I will catch you up in no time.'

Jack was already almost out of sight, watched by a curious crowd. The incident had made some stir, and various versions of it were circulated among the throng. To his dismay, Thomas found that his action might have very serious consequences. His word would go for nothing against Jack's. The sailor was too well known, and too highly respected, for Thomas to hope that even a man like Fargis would say a word against him. All the blame would naturally fall upon Thomas, and his explanations would not be believed. Things looked blacker still when he discovered that the police were making inquiries about him.

In dismay he crept out of sight, and remained in hiding till the caravan began to prepare for departure. Then, after receiving his wages, he disappeared. When Jack, in the afternoon of the following day, made inquiries as to his whereabouts, no one could tell anything. The man had not gone with the caravan, that was the sole piece of information Jack was able to gather.

Meantime, Estelle's unconsciousness lasted long enough to alarm even the doctor. He and Goody were doing all in their power, while Jack and Julien stood close by the sofa with anxious faces, but ready to do anything which might be possible for them. Oh, how often in that time of suspense did Goody wish that she had heeded Jack's misgivings, and refrained from going to the Fete des Loges! It had proved anything but a joyous festival to them. She doubted whether they had seen the end of the bad business. Who knew where the man might be who had seized Estelle, or whether he might not again make efforts to carry her off? Would the child be safe anywhere in the absence of Jack? Would she, a weak elderly woman, be a match for such a man while left in sole charge of the child? Could she ever see Jack go off to sea without fearing what might happen while he was away, and beyond reach of recall? Such thoughts tortured her mind as she leant over the little girl, and obeyed the doctor's directions.

(Continued on page 234.)



STORIES FROM AFRICA.

X.—THE LAST TIME.



Early in the September of 1905, a short announcement appeared in the daily papers under the heading of 'German East Africa,' 'Masasi has been destroyed.' There had been for some time past disquieting news of rebellion among the native tribes, and grievous reports of the murder of white men working in the district. To ninety-nine people out of a hundred, Masasi was only another outlandish name of an unknown station. But the hundredth person read the meagre intelligence with a thrill of dismay, asking himself the question, 'Does history repeat itself, or have we gone back three and twenty years?'

Nearly thirty years ago, a party of those released slaves, of whom we spoke in a former story,[3] were brought from Zanzibar and settled at Masasi, some four hundred miles southward, and a hundred and twenty miles from the German port of Lindi. The place is situated upon a high plateau above the river Rovuma, on fertile ground, easy to cultivate, and with grand mountain peaks towering above it. Here the little community grew and nourished, people from the neighbouring country came to be taught, and for six years all went well. Then came a threatening of trouble. Far away, near the shores of Lake Nyasa, dwelt a tribe known as the Magwangwara—Zulus, who, says the story, were once defeated in warfare, and settled there rather than return home to meet death at the hands of their own countrymen. Tidings of the coming of the Europeans had reached this fierce race, to whom war was the business of life, and they had announced their intention of measuring their strength against the white men. They were marching eastward, and had shaken their spears towards Masasi.

[Footnote 3: See page 243.]

Mr. Maples, one of the two Englishmen in charge of the station, started at once, with five of his own men, to meet the invaders, and try to persuade them to peace. On the afternoon of their second day's journey, they discovered, to their dismay, that they had missed the enemy, for they came upon the camping-ground of a large army, and could see their tracks, marking the detour by which they had escaped meeting the little embassy. There was nothing for it but to return as quickly as possible, in the hope of catching them up before they reached Masasi. All that night they hurried along, making what speed they could in the darkness; but when, soon after dawn, they reached the outskirts of their own territory, some four miles from Masasi, a terrible sight met their view—columns of smoke were rising from the place where their dwellings had stood. Clearly the village had been attacked, their friends were dead or captive, and nothing remained but to learn their fate, and in all probability to share it.

Kneeling, in sight of their burning homes, the little party commended themselves to God's keeping, and were starting forward again, when shouts were heard close to them, and they found themselves in the midst of an armed body of the Magwangwara. Only Mr. Maples' presence of mind, and the perfect obedience of his followers, saved them from instant death. At his word of command the little band laid down their guns, and, though thrown to the ground and threatened by the assegais of their enemies, made no attempt at resistance, while Mr. Maples, trusting to the well-known awe of the natives for a white man, remained perfectly calm, fixing his eyes upon the assailants, and explaining by gestures that he and his party intended no violence. After a few moments' consultation, the Magwangwara bade them go into Masasi, but Mr. Maples, realising that this would probably mean death, or at any rate slavery, for his followers, without the hope of saving their friends, decided to strike eastward to Newala, a village some fifty miles away. The chief there was friendly to the white men, and, if any one had escaped from Masasi, it was to Newala that they would probably go.

So, once out of sight of the war party, they started upon a terrible journey through the thick bush, avoiding the beaten track, and every moment expecting a fresh attack by one of the scattered bands of the enemy. The heat was overpowering, the party had no food with them, and, to add to their troubles, Mr. Maples sprained his leg so badly as to make progress after sunset impossible. By morning, however, he was able to go forward, and there was another painful day's journey, still without food, save for a little sour fruit and cassava root, though water was mercifully plentiful. As they drew nearer to Newala, a terrible question began to weigh upon them all—what would they find? Was it possible that Matola, the friendly chief, would be there to receive them? Was it not more than likely that the village would be deserted, the inhabitants escaped to the bush, and neither food nor shelter awaiting the worn-out fugitives? Haunted by these fears they lay down for another night of hunger and uncertainty, eleven miles from Newala, and then, on Sunday morning, pressed on once more. Their hearts sank at finding the huts on the outskirts of the village deserted. Then came a joyful sight, a native carrying fowls, the universal food in Central Africa. He was hailed, and the eager question asked, 'Is Matola here?'

'Yes,' was the ready answer, 'he waited for you. He felt sure some of you would come, since Masasi has been destroyed.'

A good reply, this, to the accusation that the Central African tribes are incapable of gratitude or devotion. Matola was a heathen chief, used all his life to the sudden flights from a stronger foe which are the custom in this land of raids; but the lives of the white men, who came to Africa without hope or gain for love of their dark brothers, had taught him something of a higher law than that of self-preservation. The best he had was at the service of his exhausted guests, and, with a tact and consideration not always found even among Europeans, he insisted on hearing and sifting all the reports brought in by fugitives before they reached the ears of Mr. Maples, whose sprain kept him for some days unable to move.

After all, only seven of the Masasi people had been killed in the first mad onslaught of the Magwangwara. The rest were saved by strict obedience to the order to make no resistance. For twelve days the terrible visitors remained in their camp near the village, while Mr. Maples' colleague, Mr. Porter, exhausted all his bales of cloth, the current coin between Europeans and Africans, in ransoming those of his people who had been seized and carried as slaves to the camp. When at last the war party retreated, they carried with them twenty-nine of the Masasi people. Mr. Porter, having replenished his store of cloth, set off after them, and actually remained a month among the Magwangwara, bargaining for the freedom of the prisoners. Some of the poor creatures were already dead, some had escaped, or had passed to other owners, but Mr. Porter succeeded in ransoming the rest. He must have gone with his life in his hand, since the Magwangwara believed the heart of a white man to be an invaluable charm, and had announced their intention of securing one when starting on their raid. But the quiet tact of the Englishman conquered the savages, and Mr. Porter returned in safety with his ransomed people, bearing the blunted spear of the Magwangwara in token of peace.

Such is the story of the first destruction of Masasi twenty-three years ago. Of the two Englishmen who stood so stoutly by their people through those anxious days, one sleeps in his grave by Lake Nyasa, drowned in the waters of which he wrote with such enthusiastic love. The other, Mr. Porter, was one of the little group of fugitives, who, on a Sunday night in August, 1905, turned their backs, with sore hearts, upon the district, for the agitation was against white men only, and, without them, the natives would be safe from attack.



CREBILLON AND THE RAT.

Claude De Crebillon, son of the well-known French poet of that name, and himself a man of letters of some merit, had been sent to the prison of St. Vincent on account of his writings. The first night he spent there he had scarcely fallen asleep when he was roused by feeling something warm and rough in his bed. He took the thing for a kitten, drove it away, and went on sleeping. In the morning he was sorry to have frightened the poor animal, for he was fond of cats, and in the solitude any companion would have been agreeable. He sought in all corners, but could not find anything alive. At noon, he was just beginning to eat his frugal meal, when he perceived an animal sitting on his hind legs and looking steadfastly at him; he thought at first that it was a very small monkey, and rose to have a nearer view of it, for the room was none of the lightest. He held a bit of meat in his hand, and the creature came to meet him; but what was his surprise when he saw that he had to deal with a remarkably large and well-fed rat! Now, rats were detested by him; he could not even bear the sight of them. He would almost have preferred to see a rattlesnake in his room, and he uttered a cry of horror on making the discovery.

The visitor disappeared immediately, but in his place came the jailor, who had been attracted by the exclamation. He laughed at the prisoner, and told him that his predecessor in the cell had tamed the rat when it was young, and that the two fellow-lodgers had become so intimate as to eat continually together. 'I was so interested,' he continued, 'that when the man obtained his liberty, I tried to win the affections of the animal, and you shall see how far I have succeeded.' With these words he seized something on the table and called out, 'Raton! Raton! Come here, my little friend.' Immediately Raton's head was protruded, and as soon as he saw his well-known benefactor, he did not hesitate for a moment to jump upon his hand and to eat what had been offered to him. From this moment Raton was restored to all his former rights and privileges; and Crebillon related afterwards to his friends, that he had tried to obtain the creature from the jailor, and that the latter's refusal had actually cost him tears at his release from prison.



THE SOLDIER OF ANTIGONUS.

A soldier of Antigonus was once ill with a terrible disease, the pain of which robbed him of all joy in life. He had ever been foremost in the fray and the bravest of the brave, for he strove by reckless daring to dull his pain, thinking that he had nothing to fear and nothing to lose.

Antigonus admired this ardour shown in his service, and at last sent for a doctor, whose skill found means to cure the man. But as soon as he was healed, the warrior lived at his ease, and no longer took the lead in the battle, for he desired to live, he said, now that life was no longer a burden, but a joy.

The noblest work is often done by the weakest hands—by those whose courage is redoubled by pain and misfortune.



MY GARDEN.

I have a little Garden Where many flowers are seen; Bright lilies bend beside the walks And daisies in the green. There pansies grow and tulips, And many a lovely flower; They blossom in my Garden, And give me joy each hour.

I have another Garden That I must tend with care, And fill with lovely growing things, Lest weeds should gather there. May sweetness, kindness, mercy, And joy be in each part; To grace this other Garden, The Garden of my heart.



THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

X.—THE MARIMBAS OF ZULULAND, GUATEMALA, AND COSTA RICA.



The Zulus, or more correctly the Amazulus, take the front rank amongst the native tribes of the African continent. Their code of laws, military arrangements, and orderly settlements resemble those of civilised nations at many points.

Their dances are a national feature, and a great company of young warriors performing a solemn war dance is a most impressive sight. One of their chief instruments is the 'Marimba' or 'Tyanbilo,' a form of harmonium. The keys are bars of wood called Intyari, of graduated size. These are suspended by strings from a light wooden frame, either resting on the ground, or hung round the neck of the player. Between every two keys is a wooden bar crossing the centre bar to which the keys are attached. On each key two shells of the fruit known as the Strychnos McKenzie, or Kaffir Orange, are placed as resonators, one large and one small. The use of resonators is to increase and deepen the sound. The Marimba is played with drum-sticks of rubber, and the tone is good and powerful.



Another form of Marimba is popular amongst the natives of Guatemala, in Central America. Its construction is much that of a rough table, the top being formed of twenty-eight wooden bars or keys, from each of which hangs a hollow piece of wood, varying in size; these take the place of the resonating shells of the Zulu Marimba. The instrument is usually about six and a half feet long, by two and a half wide, and the keys are struck by hammers topped with rubber. Three performers often play together with great skill. This form of Marimba is also met with amongst the natives of Costa Rica.

African instruments are as a rule very noisy, their chief use being to alarm the enemy in war-times. An amusing story is told of Sir Samuel Baker, the explorer. When quartered for a time near the native town of Masinda, where dwelt the King of the Unyori, he was startled one evening, when the air was perfectly still, by the deep tone of a Nogara or native drum. This, ceasing as suddenly as it had begun, was followed by a terrific burst of sound, thousands of human voices yelling like maniacs and endless horns playing their loudest, besides the clashing of everything that could be persuaded to make a noise. Calling for his dragoman, or guide, Sir Samuel inquired what all this meant, and was gravely informed that it was all for his benefit, that he might be thoroughly frightened and quit the neighbourhood. The leader forthwith sent an order to the bandmaster of his regiment to assemble his men and make them play their very loudest, after which the clamour from the town speedily came to an end.



A tribe called the Niam Niam make a drum like a wooden horse, which is beaten on all sides at once, and certainly fulfils the condition of noise. Many tribes use a rattle, or 'Sanje,' which has the merit of simplicity, being merely a gourd filled with pebbles. The negroes of the Soudan play cymbals made of two thin plates of iron, after the plan of saucepan-lids, with handles of leather, whilst the Ashantees have a love for the clanging of brass pots, either banged together or struck with sticks; and some of the Congo tribes use a rude kind of bagpipes.

It must be remembered that the natives have not only human beings and wild beasts to scare, but believe in and dread a vast army of evil spirits, who they think must be kept at a distance and prevented by terrifying noises from exercising their powers.



CURIOUS GRANARIES.



When the English farmer has cut his ripe corn, he gathers in the sheaves, and piles them up into neat corn-stacks. After a time he sends for a thrashing machine, with the help of which he is able quickly to separate the corn from the straw. The grain is placed in sacks, and these are put away in a dry barn, until the farmer can sell them to some miller or maltster, who will take the grain away, and make it into flour, horse-corn, or malt. The farmer must take care, however, that his corn does not get wet, for if it does it will turn mouldly and spoil; and he must also see that the rats and mice do not reach it, for if they do he is sure to lose some of his precious harvest.

If the English farmer, who has strong-walled and well-roofed barns, must take watchful care of his corn, the poor savage, who knows no better dwelling than a wooden or mud hut, can scarcely take sufficient care to save his little harvest from destruction almost as soon as it is reaped. He has far more enemies than the English farmer. In a wild, tropical country, rats, mice, and similar grain-eating animals are much more numerous, ants and weevils are terribly destructive, and enemies of the human kind frequently plunder the grain-stores. The tropical rain is heavy and often almost incessant, and the warm nights help on the growth of mildew, when once it has begun. In the tropical parts of Africa it is almost impossible to keep the grain from the harvest for more than a few months, and the natives save nothing from harvest to harvest, but eat it all up, rather than let it be consumed by the ants or spoiled by the rains. And thus, when the harvest fails, they are quickly reduced to starvation.