Mrs. Wright accompanied them down to the harbour, and, as they rowed out to the ship, Estelle watched her standing there till distance and tears blotted out the sight.

The wind was fair abaft, and they made good way. Estelle began gradually to like the smooth motion. Her spirits came back as she felt that every knot brought her nearer home and Aunt Betty. Jack had done his best to make her comfortable, but the smack was not a large vessel, and its accommodation was necessarily limited. Nevertheless, all that could be done to make her voyage a pleasant one was done by Jack, Fargis, and the crew. She had the cabin all to herself, and a chair was always ready for her on deck when she chose to occupy it. Usually, however, she preferred to sit near where-ever Jack was, and to talk to him. She would build castles in the air of what would happen when her father returned, and she could tell him all her wishes. He would be quite sure to do all she desired; he never refused any reasonable request, and all her requests were reasonable. Jack smiled. He let her ramble on in her dreams of how they were to meet again, and how he must have a boat of his own, and a comfortable home in England for dear Goody to live in.

Then the talk would revert to other and sadder matters. These were never mentioned except when they were quite alone, which could not be often. Once or twice, however, they did get such a quiet hour when the night-watches had been set, and it was Jack's turn on duty. Estelle would not go to bed; she preferred to come on deck to talk to him. How often afterwards did she look back upon those nights! Fine, clear moonlight; the sky full of stars, stretched like a dark curtain over them; all around the equally dark water, through which they cut with almost uncanny smoothness; the silence about them broken only by the soft lapping of the waves, and the occasional creak of the spars, or the flap of the sails.

Fargis, who had some knowledge of the coast, made for Tyre-cum-Widcombe, where, he declared, all the information required could be obtained. And so it proved. Jack, leaving Estelle on board, went to the biggest inn in the place. There he had his questions answered, with the additional assurance that he could have any carriage he liked to take the little lady home. The Earl himself was now staying at the Moat House.

As soon as it became generally known that little Lady Estelle de Bohun had been found, and was at that moment aboard the French smack in the harbour, a crowd began rapidly to get together on the little quay. The cheering, the pressing forward to get a glimpse of her, astonished the French crew quite as much as it did Estelle. Neither she nor they had any idea of her importance. They listened with keen interest as Jack translated to them what he had been told of the lost child, and how Lord Lynwood had routed the whole country upside down in his determination not to leave a stone unturned to find her. Jack became a hero to all who knew how he had saved the child; and there were a few who, pressing up to Fargis, made out the story of the rescue from his broken English.

Time, however, was of importance. Jack wanted, if possible, to get back to the boat before nightfall. Fargis would wait for him, in any case, but the matter had best be got over at once. His approaching interview with Dick Peet weighed upon his mind; other details connected with it must be settled—some decision arrived at. He was glad, therefore, when the carriage came round, and he and Estelle drove away from the amiable, but inquisitive, crowd.

As they passed through the deep lanes, and over the wide common, where the gorse was in full bloom, then under the trees of the wood, Estelle's thoughts were with Aunt Betty, whom she was to see so soon; or with Dick, and the wonderful surprise she was bringing him. Now and then she took a furtive glance at Jack, and wished the happiness of the one did not mean the unhappiness of the other.

On reaching the Bridge House, she begged that they might get out there, instead of driving up to the house. Without a word Jack sprang down, and, lifting her out, paid and dismissed the carriage. Estelle had run forward as he was doing this, but now returned to his side, saying—

'Shall it be first or last, Jack?'

Standing quite still a moment, his eyes on the blue sky and the fleecy clouds, he braced himself for an interview which must be full of pain. He looked very pale, but there was a set expression about his mouth and jaw which spoke volumes.

'As you please, Missie. Though there is no last that I know of.'

Gazing at him earnestly, she wondered of what he was thinking, and how she could soften this first meeting. Her first impulse was to run straight to dear Aunt Betty and her father. But she felt it her duty to see Dick while the interview had the chance of being quite a private one; it would be more difficult to secure secrecy if the fact of her return were known. She was sure Aunt Betty would say that whatever the sacrifice was to her, she ought to make it.

'Dick is quite alone,' she said, at last. 'I don't know when we shall find him so again. Isn't it better not to put it off?'

Without a moment's hesitation, Jack turned and followed her, though he could not have spoken to save his life. Fortunately, they reached the gate and went up to the Bridge House porch unperceived. Sitting in his armchair, as usual, was Dick, resting after his morning's outing in a wheel-chair. Comfortably happy and half asleep he looked, as Estelle put her hand upon his, saying—

'Dick!' in her soft voice.

Startled and bewildered, he gazed at her for some moments before recognition came into his eyes; then a bright smile spread over his face, and he grasped the little hand near his.

(Continued on page 358.)



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

XI. THE GREEN MAN.

There are always people in every age who delight in notoriety, and will do anything to get themselves talked about; and there was a man of this sort, at Brighton, in the year 1806.

His craze was to be always dressed in green, and large crowds would assemble every day, outside his house, to see him drive off in his green gig, with a green whip, and a servant in green livery beside him.

The gentleman himself was invariably dressed in green pantaloons, and a green waistcoat, frock, and cravat. A green silk handkerchief stuck out of his pocket, and a large watch, with green seals, was fastened by a green chain to the green buttons of his waistcoat.

His food too was only green fruit and vegetables, and his house was entirely furnished in green.

Such fads and fancies are not unknown in our own day. At one time 'Browning' teas were held in a peculiar way. The guests would assemble and find the table laid with a brown, unbleached table-cloth; brown bread and butter and chocolate cakes were the chief diet, and every guest was expected to wear a brown costume. During the meal selections from Browning's poems were read by one of the company, and in this way they thought they honoured their favourite poet!



PLANTS WITH SIGNS.

In the olden time people did not study botany very deeply, being too busy with other matters, and they had neither books nor pictures about plants. But they talked of plants more than we perhaps think they did, and had a good many ideas concerning them, showing that they kept their eyes open to observe Nature. One of the facts noticed many centuries ago was that some plants have curious marks on flower, leaf, stem or root. Indeed, some persons supposed that all plants had signs by which you could tell their use for physic, food, or whatever else it might be.

Several plants were thought to be like the human body, such as the mandrake and the ginseng; and these, it was said, must also be good for man. Again, amongst the orchis tribes, foreign specimens of which are often so valuable, we find very singular marks and shapes. England has a man orchis and a lady orchis, but neither of them really suits the name, for their flowers have rather the appearance of a winged insect.

It is worth noting that not only the common people believed in the signs or marks to be discovered upon plants, but learned men also supposed that there was something told by many of these marks at least, if not by all of them. Certainly the general look of several poisonous kinds tells us to beware of them, such as the wild bryony, for instance, and the nightshades.

We have, too, a few instances where it does seem, even if it is only an accident, that a plant has a value which agrees with a mark or sign. Several of the old poets praise the eyebright, or euphrasia, which has a black pupil-like spot on the corolla; therefore, it was thought by our ancestors to make a good eye-lotion. At the present time, it has been proved that a medicine made from this plant will strengthen weak eyes. The flower of an English plant called the self-heal has rather the shape of a bill-hook; it is of a pretty colour, and was believed to cure wounds; and it really does act in this way to some extent. Some of our gardens have specimens of the Solomon's seal, a kind of lily. When the root is cut across, curious marks show, a little like a seal, and so it is called after the wisest of kings. People used the root as a remedy for wounds and hurts. Nowadays, again, looking at a walnut, we might not see a likeness to the human head; yet in the olden time men did, the inside having a resemblance to the skull, and the kernel representing the brain. Hence, walnuts were thought good for complaints of the head. Similarly, as the cones of a species of pine-tree had the shape of teeth, it followed that they would ease the toothache.

Shaking being one of the notable effects of that troublesome complaint, the ague, as a safeguard the quaking grass was dried and kept in the house; the aspen, too, by its constant trembling, was thought to be another remedy of value. The broad, showy flowers of the moon-daisy, suggesting pictures of the full moon, had an imaginary value, for it was used to cure the complaints which the moon was said to cause. A horseshoe being held a token of good fortune, a vetch with pods of that shape was believed to have many curious properties. Bleeding could be stopped by the herb Robert, a wild geranium of our hedges, its power being shown by the beautiful red of its young and fading leaves. One of the strangest ideas people had was about fern-seed; it is very tiny, almost invisible, and so they believed those who got a particular sort of it, could make themselves invisible when they wished!



CLOTHED IN 'CHATTERBOX.'

A reader of Chatterbox has devised an original suit of clothing, shown in the illustration. It is made entirely of sheets of Chatterbox, gummed together and fitted to the body like an ordinary cloth suit. The sheets on the front of the coat are all coloured plates, so that the suit looked much brighter than our every-day wear.



This strange apparel was made by Mr. H. H. Neal, of Leatherhead, and it has caused much amusement and interest. At a 'costume race' held at some athletic sports, the suit took the special prize for the best costume.



THE TIMID MOUSE.

A mouse was kept in such distress by its fear of a cat, that a magician, taking pity on it, turned it into a cat. Immediately it began to suffer from fear of a dog; so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to suffer from fear of a tiger, and the magician, in disgust, said, 'Be a mouse again. As you have only the heart of a mouse, it is impossible to help you by giving you the body of a noble animal.'

It is hopeless to try to accomplish anything without pluck.



THE UNION JACK.

What is the very first thing we talk of doing when we hear that the King is coming to pay a visit in our neighbourhood? I fancy I can hear every boy and girl answer at once, 'Why, hang out all our flags, of course!' But how many of us know anything about the most famous of all these flags—the Union Jack?



In the first place, it is called 'Union' because it is really three flags united in one; and 'Jack' after King James (Jacques) who ordered the first Union Jack (fig. 1) to be made, to stop the quarrels between the English and Scotch over their flags of St. George (fig. 2) and St. Andrew (fig. 3), each country naturally wanting its own flag to occupy the first place. In this flag, the red St. George, with a narrow border of white, to show the colour of its field, is placed over the white St. Andrew, which keeps its own blue field.



But when Ireland was united to England in 1801, we had to ask our Heralds' Office to design a fresh flag, to include the Irish national flag of St. Patrick (fig. 4).

This they managed very neatly by taking away from each quarter of the 'Jack' one half of the white St. Andrew's Cross, and in its place putting the red St. Patrick with a narrow white border, to show the colour of the field (fig. 5).

You will notice that St. Andrew's cross is arranged so as to come above St. Patrick's in the two quarters of the flag next to the flag-staff. If the flag be hung in any other way it becomes a signal of danger and distress; so let us always be careful to have our 'Jack' hung properly.



'MR. HAROLD.'

No one who had seen John Green sitting on a mile-stone opposite to the huge iron gates which opened into the Manor-house drive would have thought that it was a bitterly cold evening in December. His hands were in his pockets, and he was wrapped in thought, and he did not notice the cold.

He had been to town to try and collect a few small sums which were owing to his mother, but with little success. Things had not gone well with Mrs. Green and her son since Mr. Green's death, six months before. Mr. Green had had a long and expensive illness, and all his savings and most of his furniture had had to go in medicine and doctor's bills. He had been a carpenter, earning good wages, and Mrs. Green was very anxious to live in the same cottage, as there was a big garden, which she thought she and her son ought to be able to cultivate profitably. But, unfortunately, the apple crop failed that autumn, their rent was in arrears, and Mr. Tucker, the land agent, whom John had just met in the town, had told him that they must either pay in a week or go. There were plenty of people who would willingly have lent them the necessary money, but Mrs. Green declined to borrow under any circumstances whatever.

'If the Squire really knew what was happening on his estate,' said the boy, bitterly, to himself, 'I don't believe he would let old Tucker go on as he does. It's a shame to live up in a great house like that, and never take the trouble to find out how his agent is treating people. I'd go to him myself, but they say he always speaks to Tucker if any tenants do that, and Tucker turns them out at once. At any rate, there's one more week in which to raise three pounds—and a lot of chance there is of finding it,' and the boy laughed aloud bitterly.

'Well, there does not appear to be much to laugh at to-night,' said a voice at his elbow, and turning round Jack saw that a man, apparently a tramp, in even shabbier clothes than his own, had come up noiselessly over the snow. 'Also,' continued the new-comer, 'it would be possible to find a warmer and more comfortable seat than that mile-stone.'

'I was waiting opposite the gates, trying to make up my mind whether I would go in or not,' answered the boy, 'and I was laughing because I did not think it would make any real difference whether I went in or stayed outside.'

'That depends, I suppose, on what you want there! If I might ask, what is it?'

'I want the Squire to give my mother a little time to get together her rent; but since Mr. Harold ran away, ten years ago to-day, the Squire has never been the same man. That nearly broke his heart, and now he takes no interest in anything; he has turned us all over to an agent, who does just what he likes with us.'

'Then Mr. Harold was—— '

'His son. My father said he would have run away too if he had been Mr. Harold, though the Squire wasn't as bad in those days.'

'And who was your father?'

'Peter Green, the carpenter.'

'Well, Peter Green's son,' said the stranger, with a queer laugh, 'if you will go in and see the Squire, and come out and tell me in what sort of temper he is, I will give you my last shilling,' and he spun a coin in the air. 'You must go in by the front door, and I will wait for you in the drive.'

'Right you are,' said the boy, jumping off the mile-stone. 'I'll risk it for a shilling.'

Side by side they tramped up the snowy drive till they saw the light shining through the glass in the front door. Then the tramp drew aside, and John went boldly up the steps. The clang of the bell had scarcely died away before the door was opened by an elderly butler.

'Can I see the Squire?' asked John, in as brave a voice as he could muster.

'Show him in at once, Williams; show him in at once,' called out an impatient voice at the back of the hall.

The butler stepped back. 'I don't think, sir,' he said, 'that this is the gentleman you are expecting.'

'How do you know what gentleman I am expecting? 'Show him in at once, I tell you.'

'You'd better come straight in,' said the butler, shrugging his shoulders. He led the way across the hall, and ushered John into a comfortably furnished library. An old gentleman was sitting by the fire, enveloped in rugs. He leant forward and peered into John's face. Then he fell back wearily into his cushions. 'Dear, dear! another disappointment,' he groaned. 'Take him away, Williams.'

But John, having penetrated into the lion's den, did not mean to be dismissed so easily.

'Please, sir,' he began, hurriedly, 'I want to know whether you will give my mother a little longer to pay her rent. We have had a very hard time. Mr. Tucker is going to turn us out.'

'You must go and see Mr. Tucker about that,' answered the old man, indifferently. 'I leave all such matters to him; or, stay,' he added, 'I am expecting Mr. Harold to-night. You can come in and see him about it next week if you like.'

Then John remembered that he had heard that on the anniversary of his son's departure the old man always expected him to return, and he understood why he had been shown in so hurriedly.

'But, please, sir,' he pleaded, 'won't you write me a line for Mr. Tucker, in case Mr. Harold missed the train or anything?'

The old man put up his hands feebly. 'Take him away, Williams,' he said, querulously.' I can't be worried, or I shall be too tired to speak to Mr. Harold when he comes. Do whatever you think Mr. Harold would like.'

John followed the butler out of the room, and half an hour later he went down the steps triumphantly. In his pocket was a paper which the butler had written out and persuaded the Squire to sign, stating that Mrs. Green was on no account to be turned out of her cottage without Mr. Harold's express orders. He found the tramp waiting for him, and told his story joyfully, declining to accept the proffered shilling in return.

The tramp listened attentively, and drew himself together at the end. 'I think I will risk it,' he said, huskily. Then he turned to John: 'Look here, young man, you will find it to your advantage to say nothing about to-night, whatever news you may hear in the village to-morrow. See?'

'You aren't going to hurt the Squire?' asked John, anxiously.

'I hope not, but you will probably understand to-morrow,' and the shabby figure strode away up the drive.

* * * * *

The next day the villagers were electrified by the news that Mr. Harold had returned at last.

That is many years ago now, and John Green, the head-gardener at the Manor-house, sometimes wonders, as he watches the care with which the present Squire selects an orchid for his button-hole, whether the tramp who spoke to him on that snowy December night was not the figure of a dream.



IN HARVARD MUSEUM.

The American University of Harvard contains in its Museum one of the greatest artistic marvels of the world. This curiosity consists of hundreds of specimens of flowers and plants, all made in glass, and so true to nature, both in form and colouring, that the flowers seem as if they had just been gathered. Even the tiny hairs which appear on the stems of certain plants are faithfully reproduced on these glass imitations.

These glass plants are made by two Germans, a father and his son, and so jealously do they guard the secret of the manufacture that it is possible the knowledge may die with them.



A THOUGHTLESS DAISY.

'Tis very cold,' a Daisy said Upon a meadow green, 'Dark, gloomy clouds are overhead, Without a ray between. These angry gusts of bitter wind (So unexpected too) Are really more than I can bear— They chill me through and through.'

Just then his discontented eye Looked sorrowfully up, And chanced across the path to spy A golden Buttercup. Its petals flinched before the wind, The stalk was roughly bent, And yet the Daisy could not hear One word of discontent.

And then this foolish Daisy cried: 'It's plain enough to spy, Most blossoms in this meadow wide Are better off than I! They do not mind the shadows dark, Nor feel the bitter wind; If I could be a buttercup, I really shouldn't mind.'

Now, like this Daisy in the grass Some people I have known, Who, while their daily troubles pass Do nothing else but moan, And think that those who bravely bear The chilling wind and rain Can feel no sorrow in their hearts Because they don't complain.



JOCK'S COLLIE.

A True Story.

Travellers over the great trans-continental railways of the United States and Canada gaze with awe and wonder at the grandeur of Nature in the wild canyons and rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains. In many places the railway tunnels through overhanging rocks, or winds round narrow shelves above gloomy precipices.

The railway companies take the greatest precautions for the safety of their trains in the mountain sections. Besides the usual working gangs, there are special track-walkers, and 'safety switch-openers,' who lead solitary lives in the great hills.

Spring thaws and showers loosen the frost-bound soil, trickling snow-rills grow into gullying torrents, and the jar of a passing train sets in motion a loose boulder, which, with ever-increasing speed, at last hurls itself upon the track. Even the echoes of the locomotive whistle will in some states of the atmosphere bring disaster. Tiny snow crystals are jarred by the sound-waves; these start on a downward career, gathering volume and speed until a mighty avalanche has been developed.

In one of these mountain canyons lives a Scotch track-walker and his only companion, a beautiful and intelligent collie dog, who always accompanies his master on the inspection rounds.

It was in the late afternoon of a strenuous day in May, when Jock and Collie arrived weary and hungry at the 'shack' (hut) door. Everything was satisfactory in the canyon, the section gang had gone down the track, and with a sigh of content Jock set about preparing his evening meal. Collie, with his head between his paws, watched the proceedings. Suddenly he assumed an alert, listening attitude, then he set off at a great rate up the track.

When supper was ready Jock whistled for his companion, and on looking out was surprised to find him gone; but from the narrowing walls of the gorge came the sound of his furious barking. Jock whistled again and again, but the dog did not come. Perfectly convinced that something was wrong, he seized his rifle and hurried off, expecting to find that Collie had cornered some wild animal, or that some animal had cornered him! Round the curve he hurried, and what he saw almost paralysed him.

A great boulder, weighing many hundredweight, lay across the track, and on top of it, wild with excitement, was Collie.

On the little flat near the 'shack' was the switch at which the Pacific and Atlantic Expresses—the trains going East and West—crossed. They were due almost at once. He was alone, time was short, and upon his action depended the safety of many lives. He could not go both ways at once with his warning; but down the western track beyond the switch he sped with explosive 'torpedoes,' or detonating signals. Then he hurried back again past the dog (still on his signal station), and far to the east, round the long curve, with his red flags of danger.

The express from the Pacific, warned by the torpedoes, steamed slowly, very slowly, to the switch, then came to a standstill.

The train crew ran down to the hut, which was thick with smoke from burnt 'flap-jacks' and frizzled bacon, but found no sign of Jock or Collie. Round the curve they ran, and there, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking, as the brakeman expressed it, 'to beat the band.'

The others continued the pursuit of Jock, while the brakeman tried to coax the dog down. But Collie was there for a purpose, and not until Jock returned would he leave his post. His master's smiling face and hearty voice gave assurance that all was well, and then Collie fairly hurled himself upon Jock, licked his face and gave frantic yelps of delight.

An extempore breakdown gang cleared the track, and the great trains thundered away to Atlantic and Pacific—saved by a dog!



ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

VIII.—THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.

'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?' asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer—a voyage of about sixty miles—but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and—for all one can see—confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if one is more terrible than the other—drowning or burning.

'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby, 'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'

'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'

With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.

'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I hope for the best.'

* * * * *

We had gone about half-way to our destination—town called Shukisama, on the other side of the lake—when it was suddenly discovered that our little steamer, the Toki Maru, was on fire. With very little warning, flames sprang up from the hold—no one ever discovered how the fire began—and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against which the little steamer was making its way.

The captain quickly ordered every passenger forward into the bows of the vessel, out of the reach of the heat and suffocating smoke. The crew then attempted, with hose and pump, to keep the fire in hand; but already, it appeared, the flames had obtained the mastery, and their attempts came too late. The cargo, I believe, was tow, or some other oily substance difficult to extinguish once the fire had secured a firm hold upon it. Moreover, the smoke and heat were such that it was impossible for the workers to approach near enough to concentrate their efforts where they would be most likely to succeed.

The passengers huddled together in the bows of the little steamer and watched the efforts of the crew. It was obvious that these efforts had failed.

'Have we time to reach Shukisama?' men and women asked one another; 'it is twenty miles, or more—nearly two hours—shall we do it?' The captain, when anxiously asked as to this, replied: 'We hope so; who can tell? Much depends on the man at the wheel.'

The man at the wheel! Not one of us selfish people in safety and comfort—speaking comparatively—in the bows, had thought of the poor fellow back there in the stern, sticking bravely to his post in spite of the dense, hot smoke which must be enveloping him in its suffocating fumes.

'He cannot last long, captain,' said some one, 'in that atmosphere; he will be suffocated, or he will give up and jump into the sea. What will happen if there is no one to steer the ship?'

'She will go round and round,' replied the captain, laughing grimly, 'while we are roasted or drowned. At present he is sticking to his post, and we are travelling in our course. You may be thankful, all of you, that we have a brave man, young Hayashi, at the wheel. He was only married last week, and his wife is at Shukisama; you may be sure he will do his best to get home.'

'A man may be ever so much in love,' said a passenger, 'but he cannot breathe fire and smoke for air: it must be pretty hot where he is, and it will soon be hotter!'

A cry went up for volunteers to relieve the man at the wheel. Several came forward—they are brave as lions, these Japanese. One was selected as the first to make an effort to pass through the smoke and flame to the stern of the vessel. A line was made fast to the good fellow's waist, for, he had said, in case he should collapse in the dense smoke, he would rather be hauled back in any position, than left there!

Three times the brave man rushed into the mass of hot, poisonous vapour, and twice he returned staggering and choking. The third time he entirely collapsed, and was pulled back. His jacket was on fire and he was unconscious. A second man instantly volunteered; he had a new suggestion to make.

'I will slip over the side of the ship, and you can pay out line gradually until I have reached a spot where I think I can climb up. When I pull, you must slack out the line.'

'Mind the screw. Don't get sucked back too far astern,' said the captain; 'be careful.'

The man jumped into the water, and was carried instantly astern; he tugged, and line was paid out. Soon it became evident, by the tension of the line, that he had clung on to the vessel's side; probably he was climbing laboriously upward—his plan was going to succeed.

But the line suddenly sprang outwards; he had jumped into the sea again; a few minutes, and he was hauled back, out of breath and exhausted.

'I couldn't climb it,' he said, 'it's too steep and slippery. I nearly got sucked into the screw. The flames are not near the wheel yet, but the smoke is flying right over it in dense, black volumes. How young Hayashi is standing it, I don't know.'

But the steamer was standing straight as a line upon her course; it was obvious that the good fellow's nerve still held out, his eyes were not yet dimmed with the smoke and heat—good, brave Hayashi!

Some one proposed that the passengers should approach in a body as far aft as the fire permitted, and then shout together words of praise and encouragement. This was done. Some thirty men and women stood together nearly amidships and shouted in time to the beat of a conductor: 'Hayashi—Banzai—brave Hayashi—you shall have glory and reward—Banzai!' Some said they heard a voice reply 'Banzai,' some heard nothing. Other attempts were made to relieve the plucky fellow at the wheel. His lungs and breathing apparatus, a doctor present declared, must be made of cast iron; since he had stood the poisonous fumes so long, he might perhaps last out; people would see the burning vessel from Shukisama before long, and help would come.

But the flames began to gather strength; the after portion of the steamer seemed now to be a kind of seething cauldron of fire. The heat grew intense, even up at our end; what must it be for poor Hayashi, with the wind carrying it at close quarters into his face? Would he actually stand at the wheel, devoted fellow, until the flames caught him and burned his hands as they gripped the spokes, and scorched his eyeballs so that they could see the course no longer? There was no knowing what these marvellous Japanese could not do in the way of pluck and fortitude!

On went the little vessel upon her way; Hayashi could not possibly have steered a better course, said the captain. He had not once deviated by a hair's breadth.

But every moment the heat grew more and more; women wept and hugged their children to them. Another half-hour, and—unless help arrived—every passenger must swim for it. In spite of the headwind, the fire was encroaching forward as well as aft.

Another five minutes of acute suspense was passed. Personally, after a brief prayer, I spent the time in deciding which woman I would try to save when it came to swimming. I had already made my selection, when suddenly a voice called out from the rigging, 'Banzai! they have seen us—a steamer comes!'

Then the heat and the danger were forgotten in the excitement of watching the oncoming steamer. When two vessels, both going at full speed, are meeting one another, the intervening distance is soon covered. Suffice to tell, the succour arrived in time, and every passenger was taken off in safety.

Meanwhile a boat had been sent round the stern, with orders to shout to Hayashi to jump clear of the ship and allow himself to be picked up. The boat returned almost immediately; no one, the crew said, replied to their shouts. Presently the steamer separated from her burning sister and dropped back; then it was seen that the flames now swept the entire stern of the ill-omened Toki Maru. The wheel still stood, but no one was at it, nor could any human form be discerned on deck or in rigging.

Sadly we steamed homewards. We were saved, indeed, every one of us, but he to whom all were indebted for their lives, the young hero, Hayashi, the best and bravest of them all, had fallen a victim. Probably he had sprung, scorched and maddened with pain, into the sea, and had gone down like a stone.

But you will scarcely believe it, while groups of us still stood upon the quay at Shukisama discussing the tragedy, and wondering who would break the sad news to the wife at Hayashi's home, a small boat hove in sight, coming in from the lake; in it sat a man rowing, and some one said, 'That is like the Toki Maru's boat which we thought burned.' Another said, 'What if it should be Hayashi in it?' Well, it was Hayashi. He arrived, grinning and well, though black with smoke and fire and half suffocated.

As the largest subscriber (Vandeleur ended), I was asked to present to Madam Hayashi the testimonial which the passengers united to offer to our brave 'man at the wheel.' He could not be made to see that he had deserved it, however.

'It got too hot at last,' he said with a laugh, 'and I cut down the boat and dropped overboard. 'The wheel? Oh, I lashed it so that it couldn't turn. Yes, I choked very much, but that is nothing!'

'I should like to meet a few more of Hayashi's kind before I die,' said Vandeleur, after a pause—'good, simple, humble chap; the very stuff heroes should be made of.'



A HELPING HAND.

A cabman, who had for some time been in the habit of drinking too much, signed the pledge at the request of a friend, but soon afterwards broke it. Conscience-stricken and ashamed, he tried to keep out of the way of his friend; but the friend was not to be put off. One day he found the poor, miserable man, and taking hold of his hand he said:

'John, when the road is slippery and your horse falls down, what do you do with him?'

'I help him up again,' replied John.

'Well, I have come to do the same,' said his friend. 'The road was slippery, I know, John, and you fell; but there is my hand to help you up again.'

The cabman's heart was touched. He said: 'God bless you, sir; you will never have cause to regret this. By His help I will never fall again.'

And to this day he has kept his word.



AN EASTERN PUZZLE.

An old Persian died, leaving seventeen camels to be divided among his three sons in the following proportions: the eldest to have half, the second a third, and the youngest a ninth. Of course, camels cannot be divided into fractions, so, in despair, the brothers submitted their difference to a very wise old dervish.

'Nothing easier!' said the wise Ali. 'I will divide them for you.'

How did he do it?

H. B. SCORE.

[Answer on page 371.]



WELL REPAID.

A man who often travelled with large sums of money in his care was persuaded by his friends to carry a pistol as a safeguard.

On one of his journeys be was stopped by a tramp, and, loth to use his weapon, for he was a Friend, he resorted to stratagem, and gave up his money at once. Said he to the tramp: 'I must not be thought to have given up my master's cash without a struggle.' So, taking off his coat and hat, he said, 'Take a shot at that, friend;' and the robber complied.



'Fire away again,' said the Friend. The thief did so. 'Again,' said the other.

'I can't,' said the robber; 'I have no more shot.'

'Then,' said the other, producing his own pistol, 'give me back my money, or I will shoot you myself.'



HOW THE ARABS BAKE THEIR BREAD.

The wandering Arabs subsist almost entirely upon bread, wild herbs, and milk. It is rather strange that they should eat so much bread, because they never remain sufficiently long in one place to sow wheat and reap the harvest from it. They are compelled to buy all their corn from the people who live in towns, and have cultivated fields. When these townsmen and villagers have gathered in their harvests, the Arabs of the desert draw near their habitations, and send messengers to buy up corn for the tribe, and perhaps also to sell the 'flocks' of wool which they have shorn from their sheep.

Having obtained their supplies of corn, the Arabs return to the deserts or the open pasture-lands. They always carry with them little hand-mills, and when bread is to be made, it is the women's duty to grind the corn. The hand-mills are two stones, the shape of large, thick cakes, one of which lies upon the top of the other. The stones are about eighteen inches in diameter, and there is a hole through the centre of the upper one. A wooden peg, which is stuck upright in a small hole in the lower stone, projects into the larger hole of the stone above, and serves to keep it in its proper place. A smaller peg, inserted near the edge of the upper stone, forms a handle by means of which the whole stone may be turned round upon the top of the lower stone, and in this way the faces of the stones are made to grind against each other. The Arab woman places the mill upon a cloth spread upon the ground, and taking a few handfuls of corn she pours them into the hole in the centre of the upper stone, and begins to turn the mill. The grain falls through the hole, and passes between the two stones, where it is ground into flour, which flows out all round the mill, and is caught in the cloth.

When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together, places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.

The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this plate, and are baked in a few minutes.

This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they press small but thick cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate, are eaten hot.



SANTA CLAUS.

A while ago the silent house Re-echoed with their voices sweet— The music that their laughter made, The patter of their little feet. Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill, And all around the snow lay white; But little cared they for the storm, For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'

We heard them running to and fro, So eager in their merry glee To hang their stockings, limp and long, Where 'he' will be most sure to see. Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave, Such pictures of those far-off shores From whence each Christmas-tide there comes Their unknown friend, and all his stores.

Now they are all in Slumberland, And Mother comes, with noiseless tread, For one last kiss; the shaded light Gleams softly o'er each curly head. A rustle, and a murmur low; Half-opened are the dreaming eyes. 'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!' ''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.

To-morrow, when the dawning light Breaks through the wintry eastern skies, What joy will greet the morning bright, What happy hearts and sweet surprise! And we, whose childhood long since fled, Would fain entreat old Time to pause, To give us back our childish faith, And simple trust in Santa Claus.



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 347.)

Shocked beyond measure at the change in the fine, handsome Dick Peet he remembered years ago, Jack looked at him. His heart died within him. He had not, thank Heaven, killed his friend; but, alas! how little short of that was the mischief he had done! Could Dick ever forgive him? Even if he should, Jack could never forgive himself. Never should he forget his first sight of the changed, ruined Dick, nor that it was his hand which had wrought the change and ruin.

Estelle's touch roused him. 'Jack, dear Jack, come and speak to him. He is ready to forgive. See, he is waiting to do so. Be very gentle, and speak low. He will understand then.'

Jack's face was ashen, and his stalwart frame trembled as he approached the chair in which the invalid reclined. Dick's eyes shone with some of their old intelligence when he saw his former enemy, and his hands were held out in eager welcome. It almost seemed as if he looked upon Jack, not as an enemy to be pardoned, but as an old comrade with whom there had been a grievous misunderstanding.

'I wonder if he remembers there is anything to forgive?' thought Estelle, as she watched him.

Jack took the hands held out to him. He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'

'As I hope to be forgiven!' came in clear, steady tones, such as Dick had not been known to utter since his misfortune. There was a long silence. Estelle's eyes were full of tears. Jack, his head raised, was looking at Dick. But Dick's face was radiant with a joy that was not of this earth. His great desire had been granted. He was lying back, still clasping the hand of his enemy, but with his eyes on the blue sky he could see above the trees. Presently, as no one moved, he looked again at Jack, murmuring in his usual half-inarticulate way, but with a smile which meant a great deal to the sailor, 'My friend!'

'To the end of my life, if you will let me!' answered Jack, fervently. 'Thank Heaven you are alive! But that you can treat me so, receive me as a friend, after—— '

'Have waited—hoped—thankful!'

'What can I do for you? Let me do something!'

'You have come! All—clear—now!'

He began to look so faint that Estelle said hastily: 'We will come and see you again, Dick. You must rest now.'

'Come—again!' repeated Dick, his eyes appealing to Jack.

'I will,' replied Jack, getting up to go into the cottage.

'How do you do, Mrs. Peet?' said Estelle, as Dick's mother appeared. 'Poor Dick is quite startled and faint at the sight of us.'

'Lady Estelle!' she exclaimed, lifting her hands in amazement. 'Wherever did you come from? No wonder Dick is startled! Why, you might knock me down with a feather! And how bonnie you look! Not at all the worse for all you've been so long away.'

'I am coming to tell you all about it, but I must first go and see Aunt Betty.'

'Well, it will do her good to see you. It is a sight for old eyes to see your sweet face again, Missie!' Then, glancing at Jack, 'Is that the man who has taken care of you, and brought you home?'

'Yes, Mrs. Peet, it is; and you shall hear some day how good and kind he and his mother have been to me. But I have not time now, and you had better see how poor Dick is.'

Jack had wandered down to the gate in a stunned frame of mind, and here Estelle joined him, to beg him to walk up to the house with her.

'No, no, Missie, I could not—not after what has happened. I couldn't have people thanking me, and all that. I should feel a brute!'

Estelle looked distressed, but Jack went on, his hand on the gate:

'You see the business is not over yet. I must tell Dick's father. Where do you think I can find him?'

'Must you tell him to-day—just to-day?'

'It is best got over at once.'

'Then come up with me and find him, and we can see Aunt Betty at the same time.'

The gate at which they were standing was some dozen yards or so from the road, and, as Estelle spoke, some one rode round the bend and came towards them.

'Father!' cried Estelle, springing towards him, her face radiant, and forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.

'My little girl!' he cried, springing from his horse.

He clasped her in his arms with a force which at any other time would have startled the child. Neither could speak, for at such an hour speech fails. Who shall describe the meeting? After nearly a year the lost had been found! A year which had laid its mark on all their lives, but which, now that it had passed, seemed to Lord Lynwood as 'a dream when one awaketh.' His child back in his arms, looking well and strong as ever, with every evidence of having been well cared for, her sweet eyes looking up into his!—is it wonderful that for some moments he could think of no one else, look at nothing but the face of his only child?

Jack remained quite still lest he should disturb them, his eyes on the distant hills; he would not, even unnoticed, intrude on their meeting. It was enough that he had seen a light—radiant, beautiful—break over his 'Little Missie's' face before he turned away.

There was a swift question and answer after the silence, and then Lord Lynwood, recovering himself, spoke.

'How can I thank you, my good fellow?' he said, holding out his hand to Jack.

'No thanks required, thank you, sir' returned the sailor, gravely; 'but if you'd be so kind as to tell me where I can find Mr. Peet, the gardener?'

It sounded so very commonplace that Lord Lynwood gave a laugh.

'Do you think he will be more grateful than we are?'

'I want no gratitude, sir,' replied Jack, gruffly; 'it is not for that I want him. If you wish to thank anybody, sir, it is my mother, who has nursed the little Missie through a terrible time.'

'Father,' said Estelle, who could scarcely speak even yet, and was clinging to her father's hand, as his arm rested round her shoulders, 'this is the dearest fellow that ever lived, and I have been cruel to forget him while I was so happy. But for him—— '

'Come now, Missie,' broke in Jack, turning red and pale alternately. His changing colour reminded Estelle that this day, so full of joy to her, must be one of acute pain to him.

'I know why he wants Peet,' she said, a shadow crossing her face. She was puzzled as to her duty in the matter.

'Do not stop my daughter,' said Lord Lynwood; 'I want to hear all that her kind and good friends have done for her. You must come up to the house and let my aunt, Lady Coke, see you. You will be bringing back new life to her with the restoration of my little girl. We should like, also, to ask you,' he continued, in a courteous tone, 'how it is that you have not been able to bring back the child before this?'

'I lost my memory, Father,' cried Estelle. 'I was always trying to remember my name, and who I was, but I could not. Then I had a dream—the night when Jack would go out to sea, that kept coming back to me, but still I could not put a name to anybody. Suddenly I saw Thomas, and dreadful things happened, from all of which Jack saved me; and then it all came to me, and I told Jack who I was, and where I lived. Then he brought me back at once.'

Lord Lynwood pressed her to him, and looked down with dim eyes at the sweet little face.

'Wright,' he said, 'I am not going to take a refusal, I must hear all about it. There is so much to ask! My child lost, and nobody knows how it happened, or what followed after you found her! We made all possible search, but no trace of her could we come across, and we had given up all hopes of ever seeing her again. You cannot now go away and leave all our questions unanswered. We will go to Lady Coke, who will like to add her thanks to mine for—— '

'Sir,' returned Jack, becoming very white, but looking determined, 'if that is your wish, then it is my duty to tell you what sort of a man I am before I can accept thanks or go to your house.'

'Jack! Jack!' pleaded Estelle, springing to his side and clasping his hand in both her own.

But he took no notice; perhaps her handclasp only strengthened his resolve.

'Do you see that poor fellow there,' he continued, pointing to Dick, over whom Mrs. Peet was leaning, administering some cordial. 'Do you see that poor wreck of a man? I did that!'

He turned away.

There was silence. Lord Lynwood stood dumbfounded. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Estelle, looking from one to the other, exclaimed, 'Father, don't look at him like that. He is so miserable; so very, very miserable, and oh, so sorry! And, Father, Dick has forgiven him, and calls him his "friend." What can any one say when Dick forgives?'

'Nothing,' answered her father. 'Wright, my poor fellow, they say the greater the sinner, the greater the saint; so there is your chance for you. As for myself, I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay. So don't expect me to cast stones. Ah, you ask for Peet? Do you wish to make your confession to him?'

'It is my duty, sir.'

Lord Lynwood was silent a moment, but Estelle exclaimed, in anxious tones, 'Dear Father, this need not be told to everybody, need it? Only to you and Aunt Betty, and Peet? Why is poor Jack to have—— '

'Certainly not,' returned Lord Lynwood, looking up. 'Wright, come with me to Peet. He is a gruff sort of chap, but true blue at bottom. He will take it hard at first, so I had better prepare you.'

(Continued on page 367.)



STORIES FROM AFRICA.

XII.—DARKNESS AND DAWN.



No one can rightly understand the African races without knowing something of the terror of witchcraft, magic, and ill-luck which hangs like a cloud over their lives. Differing from each other in many ways, the African tribes are alike in this, that their religion is one of fear, dread of unseen powers that work against man's peace and well-being unless propitiated by gifts, or defied by charms; and the result of this belief is to put unlimited power into the hands of those who profess to have intercourse with the spirit-world, and to foresee, or even to influence, the future of their neighbours. Therefore the European who comes to teach, to civilise, or to govern, finds his mightiest opponent in the witch-doctor, or medicine-man, who knows a little more than his neighbours, and makes capital out of their ignorance.

Some seventy years ago a party of these witch-doctors, who were making an excellent living among the Kaffirs by professing to make rain and find witches to order, met their match for once in the English Governor of the newly annexed province known as 'Queen Adelaide,' the genial and energetic officer of Peninsular fame, Colonel—afterwards Sir Harry—Smith.[5] The English 'father,' as he was styled by the Kaffirs, had acquired an extraordinary influence, by dint of much practical common sense and knowledge of humanity, a rigid military discipline, and last, not least, a stick with a very large knob at the end. Not that he ever used this stick to correct offenders, but it was always present on state occasions, and was reverenced as a sort of magic wand by the natives, for the words spoken by the 'father,' when he took that stick in his hand, were as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 'I shall wait for two hours before I touch my stick,' he said to a trembling, cringing chief, who had tried to stir up rebellion against the English rule. 'I must be quite cool; Englishmen are generous, but they must be just.'

[Footnote 5: Harrismith and Ladysmith, in Natal and the Orange River Colony, are named after Sir Harry and his wife.]

It was a very anxious two hours that the chief spent, waiting for the touch upon the magic wand, and when he was summoned to the presence of the 'father,' and solemnly forgiven, he was cured of treasonable practices once and for all.

Colonel Smith started a vigorous campaign against rain-making and witch-finding, the latter being a practice not altogether unknown in England, where, three hundred years ago, it was not difficult to get rid of an obnoxious neighbour by a charge of witchcraft.

A poor man, robbed of his cattle and cruelly burnt by a chief who was rich enough to pay the witch-doctor, came to the 'father' to declare his innocence, and beg for redress. The knobbed stick, of course, came into action, and from behind it the judgment went forth that the chief should at once restore all the cattle taken from the injured man, with ten extra in compensation for his sufferings, and another ten as a fine to the English Government. East and west the news of the judgment was carried, in native fashion, the watchman on each of the low hills taking up and passing on the news of the 'father's' decision; so that, when the chief took no notice of the order, his evil conduct was known far and wide. Down came the cavalry upon the obstinate chief's territory; his cattle were driven off, and a receipt for them handed to him, that the whole affair might be thoroughly business-like and judicial. The astonished Kaffir had no resource but to cast himself humbly before the 'father' and the knobbed stick; and he became thenceforward the Governor's faithful friend and adherent.

The rain-makers were dealt with after another fashion. The Governor gathered a party of the most famous professors, and, in the presence of their clients and admirers, asked if they could really make rain as they declared. The wizards evidently felt that a bad quarter of an hour was coming. They hesitated; then, looking at the expectant faces of the people, who had doubtless paid many an ox for a shower, or the promise of one, they answered, as stoutly as they dared, that they possessed such power. The Englishman went on to exhibit various articles of English manufacture—his knife, his hat, his boots, and so on—asking, 'Can you make this?' And, as they all agreed in denying, he kindly explained how such things were made, without magic, in his country. Then, suddenly holding up a glass of water, he inquired—

'Is this like the water you cause to come?

'Yes,' agreed the chief doctor, cautiously.

'Very good.' Colonel Smith emptied the glass, and said amicably to the Kaffirs, 'Now, fill it again; put your rain into this glass.'

The rain-makers sought in vain for escape.

'Put more rain into the glass,' demanded the 'father,' sternly.

'We cannot,' faltered the baffled magicians, knowing their reputation gone for ever, while the Governor, addressing the people, announced that since none but God, the Great Spirit, could really make rain, any one who professed to do so henceforward would be promptly 'eaten up'—that is to say, deprived of his property by the 'father's' orders. He had the sagacity, however, to make his peace with the discomfited professors by sending for them afterwards, and providing each with some cattle and a little 'stock-in-trade,' as he calls it, to start them on a more honest way of life.

And if the African's dread of witchcraft makes him ruthless to the accused, he is equally pitiless in his terror of what he calls 'ill-luck.' An 'unlucky' child may, he believes, bring misfortune upon a whole village, and if mother-love triumphs sometimes over fear, and the little one grows out of babyhood without any neighbour knowing that it has cut its top teeth first, or is in some other way marked for misfortune, the secret may none the less leak out some day. And then the poor little bringer of 'bad luck' will quietly disappear, or will sicken and die of poison, administered by some terrified neighbour.

Two or three years ago, a frightened young mother brought her little one to a teacher in East Africa. The poor, precocious baby had been born with one tooth, and it showed some love and courage in the mother that she had come for help to the white friend who taught that it was wicked to kill babies for fear of bad luck. She could never hide it, she declared; the neighbours knew it already. Could the English 'Bibi' save the child?

The English 'Bibi' determined to test the faith of one of her Christian girls, a young wife who had no children of her own. She sent for her and asked the question, 'Rose, would you like a baby to take care of?'

Rose's beaming face was sufficient answer.

'But, Rose, it is a kigego (unlucky) baby.'

Rose met the information with disdain. 'I am a Christian; I am not afraid of a kigego.'

'But you must ask your husband first.'

The wife, in East Africa, is generally the more powerful influence in the house, and Rose would probably have been prepared to carry off the infant there and then. However, her husband proved to be quite of the same mind; and under the watchful care of the devoted foster-parents the poor little kigego will have every chance of bringing happiness into the house.

One more story of the triumph of light over darkness.

Under the banks of a river in West Africa there waited, some years ago, two or three canoes, concealed by the overhanging trees. A great man of the place was dead, and, according to the native custom, a little girl must be thrown alive into the river to drown. The few Christians had protested in vain against the murder, and, finding they could not prevent the deed, waited now in the shadow of the bank to save the child, if they could. They watched the poor little terrified creature flung into deep water, struggling and sinking. But, mercifully for her, one of the customs is to fasten a dozen or so of fowls about the neck of the victim, and the frightened birds, by their fluttering and flapping, kept her head above water until she drifted within reach of the rescuers. The little one was saved, and taken away from the neighbourhood, where her life would never have been secure.

And so, little by little, the sun rises upon the Dark Continent. One by one the old evil customs pass away. The Moorish galleys no longer hold the seas in dread; the slave caravan no longer leaves its terrible track of bleaching bones from Central Africa to the coast. Benin and Omdurman, and other 'cruel habitations,' have been thrown open and broken down. Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, noble lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the shadows are fleeing before the dawn.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.



THE FAIRIES' NIGHT.

The foxgloves are the sentinels That guard the fairies' sleep, When twilight comes, and to their beds The wee elves softly creep.

And each wild rose a cradle is To lull them to repose, While over them, so pink and white, The petals tightly close.

They all night long serenely sleep, Until the peep of day; And then the roses open wide To send the elves away.



THE COW-WAGGON.

During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'—an immense canvas-covered van drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one, lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.

The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of space is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds, provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the 'outfit.'

The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand the cattle) are men of mighty appetite. Meals served on the prairie by the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans, bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other 'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough' is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A later use of 'sour-dough' is as a title for newly arrived miners in the Arctic goldfields of the Klondyke.

When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary land' for the tired puncher.

Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain, gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up is in Alberta, the grass is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.

The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet; others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden grass. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a rapid disappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the day.



The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the 'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the plain.

Like many other institutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.



THE BROKEN PROMISE.

'I don't want any tea,' said Roger, as he pulled off his muddy boots, with a very sulky expression.

'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and bother—I'm tied to her apron-strings. Opening his paper he looked at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.

'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'

'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.

'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came away before most of them.'

'Well?'

'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a baby!'

And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to find in it a remedy for his grievance.

'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'

Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.

'My mother was just the same,' he said.

'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to stay, I do what I like.'

'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister Phyllis?'

'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'

Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.

'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else—oh, yes—it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'

'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'

Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'

'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with questions about my games and successes.

'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister—she was always delicate—still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire—she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is—fussy, you would say—and off I went, in high spirits.

'"I won't be late," I called from the door.

'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim. Mind you win the match."

'But mother followed me to the door.

'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."

'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the way of giving her a good deal of advice.

'"I wish I could think so," she said, anxiously; "but, anyway, Jim, just run in on your way to the ground, and tell him. Then he will come before he starts on his round."

'"All right," I replied, with a hasty kiss, and off I went.

'In the next street I fell in with another fellow, who was in a great hurry.

'"I say, old chap, we shall be late," he panted, as we dashed into a short cut for the playing-field.

'I wish, Roger, that I could comfort myself by saying that I forgot my mother's request. But as I turned that corner I saw the doctor's house, and thought of it at once. "But, then," I said to myself, "she is only fussing. Phyllis will be all right in the morning, and I dare say the doctor has gone out. It will do just as well after the game."

'For the rest of the afternoon's pleasure, I never gave a second's thought to my mother and sister.'

'There,' said Roger, triumphantly, 'you were just as bad as I, weren't you? And how did the match go on? Did you win?'

'Roger, from that day to this, I have never tried to remember how that game ended. At the end, two of the fellows who lived the other side of the town asked me home to tea with the rest of the team. I felt it hard to be the only one who was out of everything, so I went. I felt a little uncomfortable, and called at the doctor's, just to satisfy my mother, and he came into the hall to speak to me.

'"Anything wrong, my boy? Not Phyllis, I hope?" he said. Phyllis was a pet of his. He attended her pretty often.

'"Just a cold, sir," I said, easily; "nothing serious. Mother's fidgeting, and says she is feverish, and all that. You might call round some time."

'"I will come with you at once," said Dr. Harris, and he took his hat off the peg. I thought he was glad of my company, and gave him a vivid account of the match on the way.

'When we reached our street the hall was dark, and there was no light in the little front sitting-room. But the bedroom overhead was lighted, and the blind was pushed back as we reached the door. The next thing I saw was my mother's face. Shall I ever forget it?'

'Don't tell it, Uncle,' said Roger. 'I can guess.'

'She had been waiting for the doctor. It never occurred to her that I would neglect her message. They let me see my sister for a few minutes, before she died. A few hours, the doctor said, might have saved her life. There! that's all!'

Uncle James blew his nose vigorously, and went back to his paper; but Roger bent his head over his plate. At this point his mother came in. The boy jumped up impetuously.

'Mother dear, I am awfully sorry I broke my promise, I will never do it again, if I can help it—never, so long as I live!'



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 359.)

They walked up the avenue, with Estelle between them, and Lord Lynwood received some answers to his many questions. He thought it was more of a help to talk about things which took Jack's mind off his trouble, than to dwell on it, and unnerve him for the interview. He wished also to show that he had the greatest respect for a man who could go manfully through the ordeal to which poor Jack had pledged himself. At the end of the avenue, just before it widened into the broad sweep in front of the Moat House, was an opening in the thick laurel and rhododendron shrubbery, which, as they passed it, enabled Estelle to see that Aunt Betty—the dear Aunt Betty she was so longing to see—was on the lawn, cutting roses. Without a word, she broke away from her companions and flew across the lawn.

'Wright,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood, hastily following; 'my aunt has been seriously ill with anxiety about my little girl, and we are afraid of a sudden shock for her. Come, we may be wanted.'

Estelle, unconscious of all but that Aunt Betty was there, was calling out in glad tones which made the little old lady turn hastily.

Fortunately, joy does not often kill. Though faint and unable to stand the first excitement, Aunt Betty recovered herself more quickly than Lord Lynwood could have expected. Jack thought he had never seen anybody quite like Aunt Betty—he had not known that any such existed. He had made up his mind to tell the truth about himself to Estelle's aunt, but now that he saw her he did not feel the shrinking he had anticipated. 'She would understand,' was the way he expressed it.

Lord Lynwood, fearful of over-excitement for her, insisted on Lady Coke going into the house with Estelle. She consented, after making Jack promise to come and relate to her all the wonderful things which had happened in those long months of Estelle's absence.

'Auntie,' said Estelle, as she sat on a low stool—low enough to let her look up into the face of her aunt, lying on her sofa—'if I have a lot to tell you, you must have a great deal to tell me; and, chiefly, why it is you look like that. Are you ill?'

'I have been, with grief and anxiety about you, Estelle. But I shall get quite strong now you are at home again. I don't know how to be grateful enough to the good God Who has guarded you from harm all this long time, and to the kind people who have been such friends in need.'

'And have taught me such a lot of things, Auntie. You must meet Goody some day, and then you will know what a dear she is, and how good she is. She has been such a mother to me! And Auntie,' she continued, with some hesitation, 'Jack is going to tell you something by-and-by, something which has made him dreadfully miserable. And if you are grateful to him and to his mother for all they have done for me, you can repay some of it by helping him in his trouble. Father says it is not necessary for everybody to know; only ourselves, and those whom Jack has bound himself to tell.'

Thus Estelle prepared the way for the confession which took place that evening. By dint of great persuasion, Lord Lynwood made Jack put off speaking to Peet till the next day. He was to sleep at Moat House that night, and in the morning the explanation with Peet would take place.

Aunt Betty was greatly touched by the story. Jack related the finding of Estelle, her dangerous illness, and the opinion of the doctor with regard to her memory, which had been fully justified. He made light of the rescue in the cave, the truth and full details of which Estelle told later on. Lady Coke listened with a heart full of thankfulness for the mercies which had shielded her child. So it came to pass that Jack, resolute in his idea of duty, found a very tender, sympathetic listener to his own sad history.

'Your mother must be a good woman, Jack,' she said.

'She has been the saving of me,' he answered. 'Hers has been the purest, the most unselfish love in the world.'

'Yes,' said Aunt Betty, with moist eyes; 'and because her love was capable of so much, you have been led to look beyond, to that greater Love which encircles us every day and hour. Your mother is a grand woman, Jack!'

'Indeed, she is,' replied the sailor. 'It is amazing that such a man as I should have been so blessed! It forces one to believe in the forgiveness of sins, if those I have injured can so forgive and forget.'

It was getting late, and, as Lady Coke looked tired, Jack got up to go. He was to meet Lord Lynwood next morning, and walk down with him to the Bridge House about the time Peet returned for his breakfast.

As he left the room, Lady Coke said to her nephew, 'I like that sailor. His has been a great repentance; as great as Dick's forgiveness has been noble.'

Meantime Estelle, in her own room once more, was thinking how strange it seemed to be in a house with windows and curtains, with Nurse and Mademoiselle making much of her, and all her own pictures and treasures about. She was very tired, however, and had scarcely time to murmur, 'I shall see my cousins to-morrow,' before she fell asleep.

An hour or two later Lady Coke and Lord Lynwood were gazing, with thankful hearts, at their sleeping child, while Jack was kneeling at the window of his room, praying in deepest grief for pardon and for Dick.

(Continued on page 370.)



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 367.)

CHAPTER XX.

True to his appointment, Jack met Lord Lynwood on the lawn next morning, and together they walked to the Bridge House in silence. Though Jack was anxious to see Dick once more, he had to brace himself for what he knew would be a trial to both. In one sense, the worst was over. In the knowledge that Dick was alive, and had forgiven him, he had gained what nothing could take away—peace of mind. But, on the other hand, he could not but feel sorrow and self-reproach for the grief and loss he had brought upon Dick's parents. He realised that they also had much to forgive. It seemed, indeed, almost worse to face them than to look at patient, suffering Dick. He had been so ready to pardon; would they be as willing? Jack knew instinctively how his question would be answered when he saw Peet coming towards them across the drawbridge.

'We wish to speak to you, Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, quietly.

'I know what ye want to say, my Lord,' returned Peet, gloomily, and taking care not to glance towards Jack. 'My Lady had me up this morning and told me.'

'In injuring your son I have injured you, Mr. Peet,' said Jack, coming forward, and speaking in an earnest voice. 'I do not know how to ask your forgiveness; but, if your son could express himself, he would tell you how deeply my sin has been repented, and what years of misery it has brought on my mother and me. Unhappily, I cannot undo the deed; neither can I give you back the lost years—— '

'You can do nothing, and I want nothing, thank you,' replied Peet, without looking up.

'Your son has forgiven all he has suffered,' began the Earl.

'Beg pardon, my Lord,' returned Peet, drawing himself up; 'but I'm making no complaint. I have not said a word for or against him. If my son likes to forgive him, he can do as he chooses—his acts are no rule for my wife nor me.'

'So you have spoken to your wife?' said the Earl, in a tone of regret, as Jack moved away.

'I know my Lady was against it, but my wife has been a good wife to me, and I never keep things from her.'

'And what did you wife say?'

'Well, my Lord,' replied Peet, with a little less confidence in his tone, yet with the stubborn look still in his face, 'she was upset, of course, and cried a bit, as women mostly do. But when Dick, who has not spoke for this many a year, looks up, and says he, "Mother, don't bear malice—for my sake forgive him;" why, she gave in at once. I am sure that it was from sheer astonishment at Dick's speaking so clear. She didn't think of forgiving no more than myself. Mothers are like that—mighty queer sometimes just when you least expect it.'

'Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, signing to Jack to leave them, 'I think your wife is quite right. She is acting the nobler part. You have suffered terribly; we are fully aware of that, and we have felt for you and done all we could for you. Surely you would not wish to give Lady Coke pain by refusing the very first request she asks you? Think how nearly we lost her last summer, and remember it is owing to the great care and kindness of Jack Wright and his mother that she is spared the grief of having lost the child entrusted to her keeping. You know this responsibility is what weighed most on her mind, and Jack has brought her great comfort by restoring the child. He is broken-hearted for the injury he has done you and your family, and he begs your forgiveness. Why is it impossible for you to give it? If not for your own sake, or because it is the right thing to do, then because there is one who has asked you who has been the best of friends to you through all your troubles.'

Peet looked down, red and surly. It was a hard fight for one of his stubborn character to acknowledge he was in the wrong, or to listen to arguments to which his better nature responded. Seeing that he did not reply, Lord Lynwood left him without further efforts to convince him. Peet gazed after him with lowering brow; then turned and went to his work.

Estelle was up early that morning, and after a delighted survey of all her surroundings and treasures, rushed to her aunt just as the gong sounded. Would Auntie beg a whole holiday for her cousins—just for once? How could Aunt Betty refuse this first request? It did not require much coaxing to make her promise to go directly after breakfast to Begbie Hall with Estelle and her father. She even declared she would fearlessly invade the premises sacred to Miss Leigh and learning.

Little suspecting the delight in store for him, Georgie had come down in a bad temper that morning, and he was venting it on his lesson books, and on Miss Leigh.

'What is the matter with you, Georgie?' asked the long-suffering governess at last. 'Did you get out of bed the wrong side? Nothing seems to be right this morning.'

'I always get out of bed the same side every day,' replied Georgie, firmly, placing his books in a heap as near the edge of the table as he could. 'It's not the bed; it's Alan.'

'What has Alan done?'

But Georgie's answer was drowned in the crash of his books which scattered in every direction, some of them without their covers.

'Now, Georgie!' cried Miss Leigh, exasperated.

'I believe you did it on purpose!' exclaimed Alan, who was anxious to finish his work, and found the noise disturbing.

Marjorie was about to pour oil upon the troubled waters by picking the books up when the door of the schoolroom was burst open and Estelle was among them! Miss Leigh and the three children could scarcely believe it was the 'real live' Estelle they saw, and a great gasp of amazement sounded through the room. But when they perceived Aunt Betty herself standing at the door, and behind her their father, mother, and uncle, all smiling at them, there was a general cry of delight.

Everybody spoke, but nobody listened. They all danced and raced round Estelle till the uproar became so great that their elders, including Miss Leigh, fled. Then Estelle, as soon as she could persuade them to listen, told them how Jack had saved her and brought her home; how Mrs. Wright, her dear Goody, had nursed her through her bad illness; in what a comfortable, pretty cave-house she had lived, and how even the biggest storm that ever blew, and they had had many such storms, could not shake its walls. Then there were the Treasure Caves, and Estelle made their faces quite pale as she related her adventures in them, and how Jack had saved her from drowning. She told them of the dream also, and how she could not remember their names, and how suddenly it all came back to her. This led to a stampede in search of the hero, Jack, who, after much racing about in all directions, was found at the door of the ruined summer-house. Lord Lynwood and Colonel De Bohun were with him, and it was evident that they were talking of how the accident happened. The children insisted on shaking hands with the Giant of the Treasure Caves, as Marjorie called him, and on thanking him for bringing back their dear Estelle.

'Why, you are a real giant!' cried Georgie, much impressed by Jack's height. 'I never saw a giant before.'

They all laughed, but Georgie was right, for Jack was a good deal taller than Lord Lynwood, who was six feet three inches, and yet looked dwarfed by the sailor. They all admired him so much that they would not leave him.

(Concluded on page 382.)



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

13.—LITTLE CHARADES—TRIADS.

A.—1. Bereft of father and mother. 2. The period of time during which a person or thing exists, or has existed. A home for those who have no other. B.—1. A collection of printed sheets. 2. A small creeping animal without feet. A devourer of that which is written, C.—1. The edge, or brink, of a fountain or river. 2. A hardened mass of earthy matter. A mineral substance. D.—1. A rodent of the genus lepus. 2. A hollow sounding body of metal. A flower of the campanula kind. E.—1. An emblem of innocence. 2. An extremity. A peculiar joint. F.—1. An uncertain quantity. 2. The organized material of an animal. A person unknown, or uncertain.

[Answers on page 395.]

C. J. B.

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 322.

12.—T og A H or N E hu D S oo T P us H I sl E D ea F E vi L R el Y



A HORSE'S REVENGE.

Founded on Fact.

A certain King of Syria had a horse of which he was very fond, and which in turn was devoted to its master. The King used to ride this horse out to battle, but at last was defeated and killed in the fight. His enemy, rejoicing in his victory, seized the King's horse and mounted it. The horse seemed to know what had happened, and who was on his back, for he began to show the greatest fury. After trying for some time to throw his new rider off, he suddenly dashed off up a steep cliff; and when he reached the top, he leapt wildly down the sheer precipice, with the man still on his back. The rider had no time to save himself, and both he and the horse were dashed to pieces. Thus the King was avenged by the faithful steed to which he had been so kind.



ANSWER TO 'AN EASTERN PUZZLE' ON PAGE 355.

The old dervish divided the seventeen camels into the desired proportions by adding one of his own to the number, thus making it eighteen. The eldest brother then took his half—nine; the second his third—six; the third his ninth—two, making seventeen in all, and giving back the one camel over to its owner, the wise dervish.



PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

XII.—ONE OF NATURE'S FAILURES.

We have now come to the last chapter of our series, and herein I propose to bring to your notice some curious facts which 'point a moral and adorn a tale' that should not be lost sight of.

Strange though it be, there are many creatures, among what we sometimes call the 'lower order of creation,' which give promise of great things during the earlier period of their lives, but later degenerate out of all recognition.

Let us take one or two of the more remarkable instances. Many of you, when at the seaside, must have found, clinging to rocks and shells, peculiar, tough, leathery and somewhat bottle-shaped bodies, popularly known as 'sea-squirts,' from their habit of squirting out water when touched. But how many of you have any idea that these same 'squirts' really belong to the great division of vertebrates or backboned animals? Yet such is the case, though not even scientific men were aware of this until the facts which I am about to relate were discovered.

But before I proceed, I might add that while some of these sea-squirts lead solitary lives, fast anchored to the rock or sea-weed, others form colonies, while yet others, and more distantly related forms, are transparent and swim, sometimes in countless millions, at the surface of the sea, covering an area of several miles. Some of the stationary forms make coats for themselves of sand, others build them houses to live in. While most are dull-coloured, some are, on the contrary, very brilliant. Their range in size is no less varied, some being almost microscopic, while others attain a length of as much as four feet.

But though so different in their adult stages, they all begin life as vertebrated or backboned animals, though in some this stage is more perfect than in others.



As you will see in the illustration (figs. 1 and 2) of one of these youngsters, the resemblance to the tadpole of the frog is most striking, and in some of the points wherein the sea-squirt differs from the tadpole, it represents a yet earlier structural stage which frogs have long since passed through, and no longer repeat in the course of their growth. Take the case of the eye, for example; this in the young sea-squirt lies embedded in the brain, and is only dimly able to perceive light received through the transparent head; but the eye of all the backboned animals is really an outgrowth of the brain which has forced its way to the surface; here we see it in its primitive or original condition. The mouth in the young sea-squirt, again, opens on the top of the head instead of in the front, which is here modified to form a sucker. But the gills, by which this little creature breathes, expel the water by which they are bathed through a single hole at the side of the head, as in the frog tadpole; while in the possession of a brain, a spinal cord, and a soft backbone, both sea-squirt and tadpole agree.



Thus, then, the captor of one of these baby sea-squirts though he knew nothing of the peculiar after-history of the creature, would yet be sure that he had here a very young or 'larval' stage of one of the backboned animals. But he would be surprised indeed, as he watched the career of this little creature, to find it grow daily more sluggish, and at last fix itself by the sucker at the front of its head, and there remain as if in 'the sulks.' From this time onwards the change for the worse grows rapidly. This creature, as if indifferent to the great possibilities before it, or caring nothing for the good name of its race, speedily degenerates. As it will use none of the good gifts of Nature, one by one she takes them away—eye and brain are the first to go; then the tail begins to grow less and less (you can see the last remnants of a tail in fig. 3), and finally there is neither head nor tail, power of sight, nor power of motion; all that remains is an irregular-looking leathery lump, which scarcely seems to be alive (fig. 4). It feeds by drawing water through a hole at its upper end into a great throat pierced by gill-slits (shown in fig. 5, which represents a sea-squirt with the outside wall cut away); the water passes out through the slits into a big chamber. From this chamber the water escapes by another hole (marked 'discharge' in fig. 5) to the outer world again; meanwhile, the food, consisting of microscopic animals, has been caught by a moving rope of slime running along the back of the throat, and so into the stomach. But what a fall! Think of it—a career full of promise, the equal of that of vertebrate animals, ending in an ignominious surrender of its birthright, and a drop to the level of the humble oyster!



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



THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN.

It was a bitter evening in mid-winter, the fire burned cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackling and flaring up the wide chimney of a comfortable cottage home in one of the wildest parts of the Inverness-shire highlands. It was a shepherd's hut, and, as the storm continued the owner of the cottage rose and looked out of the window over the desolate expanse of moorland.

'Is it snowing still?' asked his wife, from her snug corner by the fire.

'Thick and fast,' replied he. 'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night. Many a one has been frozen to death hereabouts before now.'

Presently, however, it ceased snowing, and, through a rift in the clouds, a star appeared, while at the same moment a whining and scratching noise was heard at the door. The shepherd opened it and whistled to his dog, but, inviting as the ruddy glow must have been to her doggish heart, 'Lassie' would not enter. Standing just on the threshold she whined once more, looking up in her master's face with dumb entreaty, then running off a few steps and looking back as though inviting him to follow.

The shepherd watched her curiously. 'All the sheep are in their folds,' he said, 'and Lassie knows that as well as I do, but something is amiss with the creature to-night. What is it, Lassie?'

But the intelligent creature only whined again and moved still further away from the door.

'Give me my plaid, good wife,' said the shepherd, now fully persuaded that serious work lay before him. 'Give me my plaid, and warm your blankets, and you may as well brew a kettle of tea. Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'

As soon as the dog saw that her master was really following, she sprang forward with a joyous bark, then, settling down into a swinging trot, she led the way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. It was a walk both difficult and dangerous, but the experienced shepherd followed steadily after his guide until, having come to a certain spot by no means differing in appearance from the rest of the dismal landscape, she suddenly stopped and began to dig wildly in the snow with her paws. The shepherd stooped down and pushed aside the dog, who was now quite contented to stand aside and watch, while her master took the case in hand. Very soon he extricated from the snow what seemed to be a mere bundle of clothing, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be the rigid form of a little old woman, poorly clad and quite insensible. It was only the work of a few minutes for the stalwart shepherd to lift her into his arms as gently and tenderly as though she had been an infant, and to carry her away to his warm and sheltered cottage, where his kindly wife had everything in readiness for the succour of the half-frozen old woman.

But long hours passed ere complete consciousness returned, and the poor wayfarer was able to tell her simple story. She was an Englishwoman from Liverpool—a widow with one only son, the dearest and best of sons. He was a soldier stationed at Fort George, but he had been ordered out to India, and she had felt that she could not let him go without once more looking on the dear face. Accordingly she had gathered together all her available means and had reached Glasgow by train. But in that city her difficulties began, her money was all spent, but the mother's love still burned brightly in her heart. She resolved to proceed on foot, and had actually accomplished her design so far, when, being overtaken by the sudden snowstorm, and having wandered from the road, she would certainly have perished but for the sagacity of the shepherd's dog.

How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine, when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.



THE SENSIBLE HARE.

A Fable.

Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare. When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did not know what to say.

There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.



CLOUD PICTURES.

Among the grass I love to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds pass by: For many pictures there I see, So clear although so far from me.

Sometimes across the blue there floats A stately fleet of white-sailed boats; On shining mountains' rugged crests The grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.

And o'er the sunset's radiant bar, Lone fairy lands most surely are, With ruby isles in lakes of gold, Where towers in crimson light unfold.

The black clouds gather from afar, As mighty armies march to war, And when they meet in thunder-crash, I see their spears of lightning flash.

For ever changing, to and fro, Blown by the careless wind they go; No wonder the cloud pictures there Are always fresh, and always fair.



A HASTY JUDGMENT.

'What is the new step-mother like?' asked Walter Howard. He was cycling from the station with his friend, Jack Trehane, having just arrived to spend a few days of the summer holidays.

'No good,' was the short but expressive answer.

'I remember you thought her rather a good sort before your father married her,' Walter remarked.

'You never know what people are really like until you live in the same house with them,' said Jack, gloomily.

'Hard lines, when you had such decent holidays with your father alone. How is it she is not nice to you now, when she used to be so jolly?'

'Oh, she isn't exactly nasty,' Jack explained, 'only I do so hate her mean, saving little ways.'

Walter's face fell. It would be a nuisance if he had to waste some of his precious holidays in a place where there was not even enough 'grub!'

However, the food proved to be excellent, so Walter felt that it must be in some other way that the stinginess would be evident.

'It is such a lovely day,' said Mrs. Trehane the next morning at breakfast. 'What do you say to an expedition to Pengwithen Cove?'

The boys were delighted with the idea and ran off to get ready, so that they did not see Mrs. Trehane set to work busily to cut sandwiches.

'What is that hamper thing you are carrying?' asked Jack of his father as they were starting.

'Our lunch, Jack; and, knowing who packed it, I can promise we shall not do badly.'

'But you always used to give us lunch at the hotel, Father,' Jack said.

'Ah, but we have learnt a trick worth two of that, have we not, my dear?' and Mr. Trehane smiled at his wife.

'It is so much jollier to have our lunch close to the sea,' she said, 'instead of in a stuffy room.'

'And who is going to carry that horrid, great basket, I should like to know?' muttered Jack, as he rode on ahead with Walter. 'That is one of the mean dodges I told you about. She thinks it will save the expense of a lunch at the hotel.'

The white-crested waves were rolling in over the blue waters of the bay as the Trehanes and Walter followed the cliff path towards the Cove for which they were bound. Jack loitered behind the others, for it was his turn to carry the lunch. Presently a cry from him made them look round, and what should they see but the precious picnic-basket rolling down the sloping turf which edged the cliff! As they watched, it went over with a loud report of bursting lemonade bottles, and the contents were dashed into fragments on the rocks beneath.