'How could you be so careless, Jack?' his father said in tones of vexation; but as he never dreamed it was anything but an accident, he did not say much.

They were obliged to return to the hotel for a meal, and Walter shrewdly suspected this was the result Jack had worked for.

However, the lunch was not a success. A crowd of excursionists had swept nearly everything in the shape of food before them, and left very little for any one who came after.

'Oh, dear,' sighed Mrs. Trehane, 'when I think of the nice ham sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, the lovely meat patties and raspberry puffs, which are now floating away to sea, I do feel sad!'

'What an idiot you have been!' whispered Walter to Jack, and the latter was inclined to believe his friend spoke truly.

When Mr. Trehane pulled out some money in order to pay the bill, his wife gave another sigh.

'This is worse than the cold mutton, is it not?' he asked, laughing.

Then she laughed too and held up a warning finger.

'Hush!' she whispered, 'you must not let out my secret.'

'I think we must share it with Jack,' said Mr. Trehane. 'It will make him more careful in future when we trust him with our luncheon-basket.'

He had noticed his son's scornful look when the settlement of the bill was mentioned, and had partly guessed what was in his mind.

'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Mrs. Trehane said; 'but now you have revealed half the secret, perhaps it is as well to confess the whole.'

'Well, Jack,' his father said, 'you know you have been bothering me for a new watch, but I told you I could not manage such a piece of extravagance now, and you would have to wait another year.'

'My old one is no more use than a turnip,' Jack broke in.

'All the more pity that part of the new one went over the cliff with the lunch,' remarked his father.

'What do you mean?' asked Jack in bewilderment.

Mr. Trehane looked at his wife.

'It was your plan; you had better explain it,' he said.

'You see, Jack,' she began, 'it seemed rather hard you should not have a new watch when you wanted one so badly, so I told Father I was quite sure I could save money in many little ways without robbing us of any real comforts. One of my plans was to take a luncheon-basket when we had picnics or expeditions, and to have a first-rate meal of delicious home-made dainties instead of a second-rate lunch for which we should have to pay more. Now, Jack, do you approve of my little scheme?'

Jack was almost speechless with shame and confusion, and the twinkle in Walter's eye made him even hotter.

'I think you are awfully good,' he stammered, 'but I don't deserve that watch, and I shan't have it now I was such a silly donkey as to throw the basket over the cliff.'

'Oh, yes, you will, Jack,' said his step-mother, though she did look a little astonished at the confession that it was a deliberate act instead of an accident. 'There will be plenty of money saved by the end of the holidays, if you will be careful not to lose any more baskets.'

Jack never forgot this lesson, and the beautiful new watch he carried back to school with him was a constant reminder that hasty judgments too often prove unjust.



A GENTLE DONKEY.

I.



'Do sit down, Master Harry, and allow me to put your shoes on!'

'Well, try like this, Mary. I will pretend to be a stork, and stand on one leg.'

'Really, you are a tiresome boy to-night,' said poor Mary with a sigh of despair, 'and you know that Nannie is waiting for me to get Baby's bath ready. Poor Master Harry,' she continued after a pause, during which that young gentleman had been trying, unsuccessfully, to balance himself on one leg, 'I don't believe I shall have time now to tell you that interesting secret.'

'Interesting secret, Mary?' asked the boy in an eager voice. 'Oh, Mary, I will be quite good if you will tell it to me.'

Harry loved a secret. So many of the nice things in his life had been sprung upon him in this form that the very word 'secret' was to his youthful mind a promise of coming happiness.

'Let me guess,' he pleaded in answer to her nod, and for at least two minutes, during which time Mary put on and buttoned the shoes, there was silence.

'Is it about my birthday?'

'Yes,' said Mary, taking advantage of the unusual peace to give a few additional touches to her young master's smart sailor suit. This over, she drew his curly head down and whispered in a deep, slow voice, that sent a shiver through Harry's little body, 'As to-morrow is your birthday, your father and mother are going to give you a present that has four legs! Now run away downstairs; for I heard the motor going round to the stables, and your father must be home again!'

At this moment Harry's quick ears heard a footstep upon the stairs—a footstep that he loved with all his heart—and with a cry of delight he disappeared through the nursery doorway, and down the broad staircase.

'Well, old man! What do you mean by not coming to meet me?' and the father picked up his little son and kissed him affectionately.

'I never heard you come, Father. Did you remember to "toot, toot" on the motor?'

'No, I didn't. That little imp, Paddy, rushed out at the hall door, barking at the motor, and I was so busy wondering what he would look like squashed quite flat that I forgot all about toot, toot. But run and ask Nannie to put on your coat, for I am going to take you out to the stables. Remember to ask very politely,' he called after the receding figure in a warning voice.

'Please put on my coat, Nannie,' gasped Harry, bursting into the nursery like a whirlwind; and as she buttoned it across his wriggling little body, he put his arms round her neck and whispered, 'I expect I am going to see the present with the four legs! Oh, I wonder if it will be a wheelbarrow!'

A few minutes later Major Raeburn, with his son on his back, was standing outside the stables, calling, 'Simmons, Simmons!'

'Yes, sir,' answered a smart young groom, who hurried out of the stables at the sound of his master's voice.

'Here we are, Simmons. I have brought Master Harry to see his new present. What do you think of it?'

But at this moment a pair of restless feet kicked vigorously against the Major's sides to remind him that the future owner of the mysterious present was impatient; so bending his head he stepped into the stable.

For a second there was silence, while the child peered into corners.

'Well, old man,' said his father, 'see nothing?'

'No,' he murmured in a disappointed voice; but just at that moment, a pair of long ears appeared. 'Father,' he gasped, 'I see a donkey! Is that my present?'

'Yes, that is your present from Father and Mother, and as to-morrow is your birthday you must take Mary a drive on the Common. There is a jolly little governess car, also, that will just hold Nannie and Mary and you and Baby, but it is too late to go to the coach-house to-night. Looks a nice little animal, doesn't he, Simmons? I should think that Mary could drive him all right. She says that she always drove a donkey in her last situation!'

'Oh, yes, sir, she will be all right. He is a pretty donkey, and not a scrap of vice about him, I should say.'

'And what are you going to say to Father for giving you such a nice present?' said Major Raeburn as he retraced his steps.

'Oh, thank you very much, Father,' murmured the boy, laying his golden head against his father's, and clasping him tightly round the neck with his strong little arms; 'and now be a kicking horse back to the house.'

Later on Mother had a full description of the donkey's appearance, followed by an exhibition of how Harry would ride him. This he demonstrated by means of a drawing-room chair and the hearth-brush: and if there were moments when Mother had fears for the fate of her chair, neither by word nor look did she show it, though when Mary's voice from the door was heard saying, 'It's your bed-time, Master Harry,' the expression on her face was distinctly one of relief.

(Continued on page 390.)



FINDING FAULT WITH NATURE.

A certain lady was in the habit of spending her leisure time in making flowers and fruits of wax and other material. In time she became very clever at the work, but her friends always found fault with everything that she made. One day she passed round a large apple, and said that she thought she had been very successful this time. Her friends, as usual, were not pleased with it. One found fault with the shape, another with the colour, and every one had something to say against it. After the apple had been passed round, and had come into her hands again, she ate it without saying anything. Her friends had been finding fault with a real apple.



MADE BEAUTIFUL.

I saw a little beam of light Strike on a coloured glass; And lo! it showed more fair and bright As it away did pass. It caught the radiance and the glow Of that illumined scene, And did more fair and lovely show Than it before had been.

I saw a little thought of love Enter a childish heart, That heart to kindness it did move, And filled up every part; And when I saw that thought again, Oh, it was sweet indeed, For it was changed to glory then, And showed in kindly deed.



THE BRAVE COUNTESS.

A German lady, belonging to a house which had formerly been renowned for its heroism, and which had even given an emperor to the German empire, once got the better of the terrible Duke of Alva. When Charles V. of Spain, in the year 1547, came through Thuringia upon a march to Franconia and Suabia, this lady, the Dowager Countess Katharina of Schwarzburg, got a letter of protection from him, to the effect that none of her subjects should suffer any harm from the Spanish troops. On the other hand, she bound herself to provide bread and other provisions for fair payment, and to send them to the Saal bridge for the Spanish troops, which were to pass over it.

Although there was a great need for haste, the Germans adopted the precaution of taking down the bridge and erecting it at a greater distance from the town, which, being so near, might have led their rough guests into temptation. At the same time, the inhabitants of the villages which lay on the soldiers' march were allowed to shelter their most valued possessions in the castle.

In the meantime the Spanish general approached, accompanied by Duke Henry of Brunswick and his two sons, and, sending a messenger in advance, they invited themselves to breakfast with the Countess of Schwarzburg. Such a request, under such circumstances, could not very well be refused. They would be given what the house contained, they might come and be as considerate as possible, was the reply. At the same time it was not forgotten to mention the letter of protection, and the Spanish general was asked to bear it strictly in mind.

A friendly reception and a well-spread table awaited the Duke of Alva at the castle. He was obliged to confess that the Thuringian ladies knew how to keep a good kitchen and to maintain the honour of the house. Yet scarcely had they sat down, when a servant called the Countess out of the hall. She was informed that the Spanish soldiers not far off had used force and had driven away the peasants' cows.

Katharina was a mother to her people, and what befell the poorest of her subjects concerned herself. Irritated to the uttermost by this breach of faith, yet keeping her presence of mind, she commanded all her servants to arm themselves in swiftness and silence, and to bar the castle gates. She herself went back to the table at which the visitors were still sitting. Here she complained in the most touching way of what had been reported to her and of the manner in which the Emperor's word had been kept. They replied to her with laughter that it was only a custom of war, and that on a marching through of soldiers such little accidents were not to be prevented.

'We will see about it,' she answered in anger; 'my poor subjects must have their own returned to them, or'—raising her voice—'Princes for oxen!'

With this clear declaration she left the room, which in a few moments was filled with armed men, who, sword in hand, planted themselves behind the chairs of the princes, and with much respectfulness served the breakfast.

At the entrance of this warlike troop the Duke of Alva changed colour; cut off from the army by a superior number of sturdy men, it only remained for him to be patient and to make the best terms he could with the offended lady. Henry of Brunswick recovered himself the first, and broke out into ringing laughter. He took the wise course of turning the whole occurrence into a jest, and highly praised the Countess for the care and the resolute courage she had shown. He asked the Germans to keep calm, and took upon himself to persuade the Duke of Alva to do everything that was reasonable. He did persuade the Duke of Alva so effectively, that upon the spot he sent an order to the army to deliver up without delay the stolen cattle to their owners. As soon as the Countess was certain that restitution had been made, she thanked her guests, who then very courteously took their leave.

The Duke of Alva had met his match in the brave Countess, and had been forced by her to keep to the letter of protection given her by the King; but he ought to have had sufficient chivalry to have not required such a lesson about keeping his King's promise.

Many Chatterbox readers, as they grow older, will probably read in their histories of the terrible Duke of Alva, and will perceive more fully what a brave woman this Countess must have been. Without doubt it was through such incidents as these that Countess Katharina von Schwarzburg came by her name of 'The Heroic.'



THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

XII.—MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBES.

The Indians of America, especially those of North America, show a much higher mental development than is common in savage nations.



This is shown in many tribes by a communal system of government, loyalty to their Sachems, or chiefs, their skill in embroidering leather articles with dyed quills and grasses, and not least in their production of stringed musical instruments. Instruments of concussion and percussion, like drums and cymbals, and also wind instruments of shell or horn, and rude forms of bagpipes, are inventions of most savage races; but the production of even the most elementary form of stringed instrument is a distinct advance, showing an understanding, however faint, of the use of vibration in developing and strengthening an original note.

The Apache Indians have a small fiddle with one string, and the Yakutata of Alaska have also a form of violin. The Nachee Indians of the Mississippi regions have a sacred instrument of great antiquity. It is of wood, about five feet high by one foot wide, and is held between the feet, resting alongside the chin of the performer. The strings are made of the sinews of a large buffalo, and it is played by a bow, held by two men, one at each end. Probably we might be inclined to think it more noisy than musical, but happily in music, as in most other things, tastes differ.

In Central Africa an instrument is made of the shell of the armadillo, or of the turtle, having strings stretched across it. It is suggestive of the primitive lyres of antiquity, in which a tortoise-shell was used as a sounding-board.

Among nearly all Indian tribes, conjurors or 'medicine-men' are held in high repute, and some weird instruments of theirs are met with. The drum in the illustration (fig. 1), with the queer animal on its head, is a conjuror's drum in use among the Sioux and the Dakotas on religious occasions. It has two heads, gaily coloured with vermilion, and is adorned with one of more figures of animals or birds, probably the family 'totem,' or crest. These drums are quite small, only measuring ten inches across by three deep, they are carried by a handle and are supposed to act as talismans.

The peculiar rattle (fig. 2), showing a face made of raw hide, and profusely ornamented with feathers, is also used by medicine-men, who prepare the instrument secretly with mysterious rites. In length it is about twenty inches.



The long narrow box attached to a pole (fig. 3) is also used by the Sioux and the Dakotas. It is usually decorated with feathers, sometimes very long. The construction is primitive, consisting merely of grain put into a box and shaken with more or less violence.

HELENA HEATH.



THE LEOPARD'S LOOKING-GLASS.

An old leopard came out of his den, and wandered for miles through the forest. As his lithe, spotted body glided amongst the tropical undergrowth, other creatures slunk out of his path, and he found nothing on which to prey. Hunger and restlessness drove the animal on, however, till a new and strange object made him pause to see what it was that stood in his way. The queer thing, made of wood, like the trees, had something bright within it; something that was never seen on the trunk of any tree.

The leopard drew nearer, and found himself, for the first time in his life, face to face with a looking-glass. He looked in, and saw what seemed to him the eyes of another leopard gazing into his own. Curiosity, alarm, and anger, by turns, possessed him. What did the strange beast mean by gazing at him so? He raised his heavy paw, and gave a crushing blow upon the glass.



Down fell the trap—for trap it was—and the sharp spikes, heavily weighted, did their work. But though the trap was a terrible one, the leopard had in his life done greater harm than he suffered, and the forest was well rid of such a dangerous and cruel animal.



SPIDER RUNNERS.

If I had to undergo one of those transformations we read about in fairy tales, and were to be turned into a spider, I should very much wish to be one of the wandering spiders, and not a web-maker. Both in houses and out of doors, things go badly with spiders' webs and their occupiers; they are constantly disturbed, and if they get away alive, their work has to be done over again. But a spider that does not make a web is usually suffered to go on his way undisturbed; sometimes, indeed, the hunting spiders are scarcely recognised as spiders, and pass for some other kind of insect.

The hunting spiders, however, do resemble the spinners. They are mostly, perhaps, rather more slim in the body, and are furnished with eight legs, sharp jaws and a poison fang, being able also to spin threads, should they need to do so. Our British hunters are nearly all small. Some of them do not run after their prey; they lurk beside a little pebble, or in the folds of a leaf or flower.

The running spider, called the tarantula, is not very common in Europe, though it is found in some parts of Italy; it is sometimes known to bite people, and an old but false belief held that the poison forced them to keep on dancing till quite worn out. Not long ago, some persons allowed themselves to be bitten by it, but the only effect was painful swelling. In tropical countries, however, this spider grows to a great size, and can cause great pain by its bite. The tarantula is of the wolf-spider family, whose habit is to chase their prey, not lie in ambush.

We have many British wolf-spiders: one for instance—he has no English name—is Lycosa amentata. This is a species that is found in numbers about heaps of stones by the wayside, or upon chalky banks. When alarmed, these spiders seem to vanish like magic. They also do a good deal of hunting upon low-growing, large-leaved plants. It is amusing to watch one standing on the edge of a leaf, whence it makes a dash at some flying insect that alights. Frequently it misses, but, when successful, it carries off the prey, bigger perhaps than itself, to a safe retreat. During autumn, the female spider bears about with her the egg-bag of yellow or whitish silk, in which the little spiders are hatched. They are much paler than the old spiders, and remain with their mother till they have attained to some size. They manage to live through the winter, and are fully grown in May. Amongst the wolf-spiders generally, we find a difference between the movements of the males and females. If hard pressed, the females escape by a succession of short runs, but the males can manage to jump from leaf to leaf with much agility.

Several of the hunting spiders are equal to flying, or at least manage to be wafted along by the breeze, when they want to take a trip. The silk these throw out is occasionally called 'gossamer;' it is slight, and not unlike the true gossamer, made by web-spinners of various sorts, which we usually notice in autumn, covering bushes and grassy spaces. The family to which the airy spiders belong is notable, because it contains those species which have a likeness to crabs in form, having short broad bodies, feeble front legs, and long, powerful hind legs. They run easily forwards, backwards, or sideways, and are mostly pale, with dark markings. Generally, such spiders follow their prey, since they are good runners, but a few have the habit of living in ambush, ready to spring upon insects that come near.

Very common in gardens are the Saltici. Most people have seen one species in particular, which is grey, the back and legs being barred with white. This spider leaps upon its prey, and you may notice that it always has a thread attached to some object. Probably it is a precaution against slipping, in case the jump is a failure.

Some small, black, very agile spiders, which are found about our rooms, and also out-of-doors, are evidently hunters; people call them money-spiders, for it is supposed to be lucky should one of them crawl over you, or come towards you. There is a spider popularly known as daddy-long-legs, though this name is shared by other insects; it has a narrow body, and long pale legs, with dark knee-joints. It is often noticed roving about, for some reason or other; yet the species is a web-maker; its web is usually in a dark corner.



A GIFT TO SIR THOMAS MORE.

Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor, and one of England's worthiest sons, was one of the most upright of judges, at a time when so much could not be said of every one. It is recorded of him, that on one occasion a person who wished to move him to take a favourable view of her cause, sent him a present of a pair of gloves, in which forty pieces of gold were wrapped up. Sir Thomas accepted the gloves, but returned the gold, saying that he did not like his gloves to have any lining.



THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Concluded from page 371.)

The children did not notice that Estelle had slipped away. She had caught a glimpse of Peet at his work, looking gloomier and more surly than ever.

'Peet,' she said, running up to him with a sunny smile and a hand held out, 'how are you? Dick is looking better, I think, and Mrs. Peet was as nice and as well as ever. She gave me such a welcome yesterday, and said she was so glad to see me. It is lovely to see you all again.'

'Welcome back, Miss,' returned Peet, taking the little hand shyly. 'I am not one to talk, but I am right glad to set eyes on you.'

'Thank you, Peet. But there is one thing that I do not feel happy about, and that is dear Aunt Betty. How different she seems—not half so strong as she used to be!'

'No, Miss, she is not. She has been ill with losing you. We did miss you sore, Miss.'

'It's nice of you to say so. But is it not wonderful that Jack should have picked me up when I fell into the sea? It was high tide, you know, and I was swept out so far I should have been drowned but for him. He took me home, and both he and his mother were so good to me.'

She told him the story which she had already related once that morning, dwelling especially on Jack's gallant rescue.

'Oh, Peet, he is such a good fellow,' she went on, 'so kind to every one, and so good to his mother! As to her, she is just the best mother possible. Peet, do you know Jack—have you spoken to him?'

She was anxious to know if Jack had had his interview; from Peet's manner she feared he had not, or that something was wrong.

'Why should I speak to him?' asked the gardener, in his most forbidding tones.

'Because Dick has,' she ventured, scarcely knowing how to say more in Peet's surly mood.

'Dick and I are two different persons, Miss.'

'Yes,' said Estelle, softly, 'Dick is a—is very near Heaven, Aunt Betty says. Peet, I think it is worse for the man who has done the wrong.'

'Do you, Miss? Well, I can't see it. It's not my way of thinking, anyhow.'

'It would be,' said Estelle, taking her courage in both hands, 'if you believed in forgiveness at all. Auntie told us what a hard time you had with Dick's illness,' continued Estelle, as Peet's face had not relented, 'but you are all right now. Jack has had a hard time too, because he was so dreadfully sorry for the wrong he had done. But it is not all right with him, and he says it never will be, because he cannot undo the harm.'

'No, he can't,' replied Peet, grimly.

'Well,' said Estelle, with a sigh, 'I am glad he has Dick's forgiveness, and that Dick called him his friend. Jack felt that more than anything. He said it was like coals of fire on his head.'

Seeing Peet made no attempt to reply, but continued his work as if the subject were ended, Estelle sighed again, and went slowly back to join the others, who were crossing the lawn with Jack, on their way to the Bridge House, where he was to say good-bye to Dick.

'Oh, Jack,' cried Georgie, 'Estelle says you sing so beautifully! Will you sing to Dick? He loves music, and some day I shall buy him a barrel-organ to play to him always.'

Jack shook his head. 'He won't care to hear me, Master George.'

But Georgie was so sure Dick would care, that he ran on ahead of the party to ask him. As the rest came up, Mrs. Peet was at the door to receive them. She looked into Jack's face and held out her hand.

'For his sake!' she said, motioning with her head towards her son. 'I can't go against his wishes.'

Grasping her hand in his big palms, Jack could only murmur gratefully, 'Thank you.' The next moment he had been seized upon by Georgie, and dragged to Dick's chair to sing. Turning very red, he said he did not know if he could trust his voice. Mrs. Peet, however, urging her son's fondness for music, begged him to give them something. Against such an appeal Jack could make no resistance. He sang as he had never sung before. Dick's eyes never left his face, and when Jack rose to go, Dick shook his hands with a world of feeling and pardon in eyes and clasp.

There had been one listener unseen by all, who stood with bowed head, leaning heavily on the gate of the porch. Perhaps it was Aunt Betty's gentle pleadings which had fallen like the 'gentle rain from heaven' upon his hard temper, preparing the ground for Estelle's soft words on behalf of Jack. Perhaps it was that his own better nature had asserted itself when all outside arguments had failed, and made him see how 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Peet waited there in front of his house; and when Jack's voice came to him through the half-closed door in the concluding words of the last song, he understood dimly, in his own fashion, that no one could have sung in that way who had not known what real suffering was.

As Jack came out of the little garden, Peet stood in front of him, grim and determined, though there were wrinkles about his eyes. They showed how severe the pain and struggle were. Holding out his hand, he muttered gruffly, 'He is pretty near a saint, he is,' nodding towards the house, 'and I would not like to be shut out from where he goes. So we will just let bygones be bygones. There's my hand on it, if you will take it in the same spirit.'

Jack grasped the proffered hand with a mighty grip. His heart was full.

'Let it be how you please,' he said, in eager gratitude, 'so long as you do forgive me. I am more thankful than I am able to say for the kindness and forgiveness which have been shown me. But do not think that I shall ever forget the past, or cease to feel the most bitter sorrow for what I have done.'

Peet returned the pressure of his hand with a little more warmth, and Estelle thought his face was softer.

There was no time for more words. The children rushed out to pursue Jack. Mrs. Peet, even with Estelle's assistance, could no longer restrain them.

Jack must say good-bye to Aunt Betty, and have a word with the Earl. As they all walked up the Park together, the sailor told them that Lord Lynwood had asked him to persuade Mrs. Wright to come to Tyre-cum-Widcombe. He would give her a little cottage, a pretty garden, and would see that she wanted for nothing all her life. Jack himself was offered a permanent berth on Lord Lynwood's own yacht. A shout of delight greeted this announcement. Estelle was full of joy.

'We shall see you and dear Goody very often,' she cried, with sparkling eyes. 'Oh, won't we make you both happy!'

The other children echoed her delight.

'I have a great plan,' went on Estelle, dancing along gleefully, 'and I know it will simply send everybody wild with joy.'

'What is it?' asked Alan, eagerly. 'As long as it does not take you away, I don't mind.'

'I think I can persuade Father to take us all in his yacht, and we will bring Goody here ourselves.'

This proposal did indeed send the children wild. Not a word could Jack get in edgewise for several minutes.

'You are sure she will come?' asked Estelle.

'I think she will,' said Jack, smiling. 'She will never be happy away from our little Missie.'

THE END.



ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

IX.—A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.



'Oh, yes,' said Bobbie Oakfield, a night or two after Vandeleur's story of the plucky Japanese sailor; 'that young Hayashi was a smart fellow, and as brave as they make them; but as you have blown the Japanese trumpet, I think it is only fair I should blow a Russian one, if only to show that the Russians can be, in an emergency, as brave as the Japs themselves, which is the same as saying as brave as any man on this earth, not excepting an Englishman of the true kind!'

* * * * *

Well, I was in Russia—I have been many times, as you know, getting a little big or other game-shooting from my relations there. On this occasion there were reports up from my cousin's 'shoot' of wolves having been seen about; it was a cold season, and that is the kind of season in which the sportsman gets a good chance of adding a wolf-skin or two to his collection, for they become more accessible—tamer perhaps, certainly bolder—when it is cold. It is not a matter of choice with the poor creatures, but of stern necessity; they must come nearer to the villages, because food is difficult to obtain elsewhere. My cousin could not respond to Michael the keeper's invitation to come down and make a battue for the wolves. 'You can go by yourself if you like,' he said to me; 'Michael will make you comfortable, and if there are any wolves he will show them to you. Don't miss them, if he brings you within range, for that is an unpardonable crime in Michael's eyes, and he would never forgive you!'

Well, I went down to Dubrofda, prepared to stay for a week. I found that Michael was away, trying to secure a family of elk, which he had followed for several days. The under-keeper, Gavril, was there, however, and under his auspices I hoped to find sport, though he informed me sadly, on my arrival, that he had not seen wolves for several days. 'They came into the village after straying dogs one night,' he said, 'and pulled down a sheep of old Ivan Trusof's. Ivan fired his old blunderbuss at them, and the noise seems to have scared them away. To-morrow I will try after them, and if that fails we must see whether a squeal-pig will attract them.'

'A squeal-pig?' I repeated, laughingly; 'what in the world is that?'

Gavril glanced at me in some displeasure. 'It is a common way of hunting the wolves,' he said. 'Perhaps the method is not known in England.'

I explained that the last English wolf was killed many years ago. Then Gavril described the process which he had called the squeal-pig method of wolf-hunting.

'You get a very young pig,' he said, 'and put it into a sack. Now, no pig likes being put into a sack, and when a pig does not like a thing he squeals as though he were being killed. The sportsmen drive slowly through the wood by night, and all the while the pig is making a terrible din—a din that can be heard a mile or two away. If there is one thing in the world that a wolf prefers above another, as a delicacy, it is pork. Every wolf in the forest hears the yelling of the pig, and comes to see what is the matter, and whether there is a chance of any pork for supper. Sometimes the beasts become so excited that they will come quite close to the sledge in which the pig is squealing in its bag. Then comes the chance of the man with the gun.'

'Good,' said I, 'that sounds all right; we will try it to-morrow night. Is there a pig to be had?'

'Anton's sow has a litter a month or two old. I will buy one—a rouble will purchase it.'

Gavril procured the pig, and brought it safely housed in a small sack. It was squealing when he brought it, and I may say, without exaggeration, that so long as that pig and I were together, it never ceased for more than a second to give vent to its feeling of disgust and anger at the treatment to which it was subjected.

'I chose it for its voice,' said Gavril, grinning; 'the wolves prefer loud music; they come miles to hear it!'

Then we settled ourselves in the extremely comfortable village sledge which Gavril had brought with him, and started for our midnight drive.

That drive was delicious. The moonlight, the ghostly pines, the cold crisp air, the gleaming snow everywhere, the delightful motion, all added to the delight of it; the horrible noise made by our little friend in the sack was the only thing that broke the peace.

I dozed at intervals, and perhaps Gavril dozed also. At any rate, he gave me no warning of what was coming, and the sudden shock of it, I have reason to believe, surprised him as much as myself. I was fast asleep at the moment, and the entire situation burst upon me with absolute suddenness. I was conscious of a sudden violent jolt, the sledge overturned—or half upset, and righted itself, and I found myself rolling in the snow, together with the sack and the little squealing pig, which yelled lustily—more lustily than ever—in protest at being pitched out.

What had happened was this. First one wolf, then another had appeared on either side, among the trees, and Gavril was just putting out his hand to awake me, when a third wolf darted suddenly at the pony's hind leg; the frightened little animal swerved, the sledge brought up violently against a pine-tree, and out rolled the pig and I; Gavril and the gun remained in the sledge, which righted itself and went on swiftly as the pony bounded forward in fear. I sprang to my feet and looked after the sledge—it was out of sight in an instant.

At the same moment I became aware that half a dozen or more great grey creatures sat and stood within a few yards of me, looking, with the moon behind them, like dark spectres in a dream. Was I dreaming, I wondered, or was I really standing in mid-forest, the centre of interest to a company of hungry and therefore dangerous wolves? The pig answered the question conclusively enough. He suddenly yelled his loudest, using his very highest note. Then a remarkable thing happened. A wolf, maddened I suppose, by hunger, and unable to resist the temptation of sampling the owner of so vigorous a voice, suddenly sprang upon the sack. In an instant the wretched little creature imprisoned within it was torn into a hundred pieces and swallowed, sack and all. The savoury morsel whetted their appetites I suppose, for several of the brutes began to steal around, watching for an opportunity to spring upon me. I yelled and waved my arms and kicked my feet; the wolves withdrew a little way; I danced wildly, and yelled again, but they withdrew no further. The situation was obviously very serious.

Then I backed towards a tree, for I did not relish the idea of being surrounded. The moment that I moved a step further from them, each wolf advanced three, growling, showing his teeth, snarling. I caught sight of a piece of wood lying near the road; I picked it up, a wolf sprang forward to dispute possession, and I banged at him and missed; every wolf within sight—I should think there were two dozen by now, two or three of them quite close to me—showed his teeth and snarled again.

I backed for the tree, and had almost reached it when a gaunt beast sprang at me, and actually tore a piece out of the sleeve of my coat. I struck furiously at the brute, and I think broke its leg; he went limping and yelping amongst his companions, and they instantly tore him to pieces. The smell of his blood excited them, and several came leaping and snarling at me; I shouted and struck at them, but they would not retreat; they stood and growled, and licked their lips. How was it going to end, I began to wonder.

Several times a wolf or two wolves attacked me, and I beat them off, but I grew weary, and, what was more disastrous, my nerves began to fail. I realised that I could not keep up this nerve-destroying fight for ever, and Gavril had evidently not dared to return to my assistance.... Suddenly, when on the verge of collapse, I heard a shout in the distance. I replied with all my strength.

'All right,' called Gavril, 'I am coming; but it is difficult.'

It did not matter now, though Gavril seemed to spend an hour in covering the few hundred yards which lay between us, and I fought desperately on with renewed spirit. Then at length I caught sight of him in the moonlight, coming towards me; he seemed to limp; he stopped, and a shot rang out. Instantly the wolves disappeared as if by magic.

Gavril drew near. 'Here, take the gun, Excellency,' he said. 'I am hurt, I must sit.'

I just had time to take the gun out of his hands when Gavril stumbled and fell with a groan. 'Oh, my leg!' he muttered, and with the words he fainted.

The poor fellow's ankle was broken. It had been broken at the first jolt, when I fell out, but he had been unable to free himself from the sledge until, a quarter of a mile away, he had succeeded in pulling up the frightened horse and getting out.

Then he had deliberately walked back the whole way, with his broken ankle causing him agonies at each moment, straight into the midst of a dangerous wolf-pack, in order to bring me the gun and save my life.

* * * * *

'Without, for a moment, wishing to disparage the Japanese,' Bobby ended, 'I think you will agree with me that it would be unfair not to accord the Russians equal honour for pluck and devotion to duty—this particular Russian, at any rate, and I know of many others equally brave.'

'Carried nem. con.,' said Vandeleur.

As for Dennison, his contribution to the discussion was a loud and prolonged snore.



WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY.

A True Story.

Not long ago there lived a nobleman who was noted for his extreme obstinacy and his determination to have his own way. He had arranged one morning to meet a friend of his at a country station. When he got to the station, his friend had not come.

After he had waited some time the train came in; and just then he caught sight of his friend's carriage driving along at a gallop in the distance. He knew that it would take some five minutes for it to get to the station, and the train was due to start in one minute. So he went to the station-master, and explained to him that his friend was very anxious to catch the train: he asked him if he would be so kind as to stop it till the carriage arrived. The station-master, however, refused to do so, saying that the train was already late.

'We will see about that,' retorted the other; and he actually went and sat down between the rails right in front of the engine.

The station-master dared not let the train start, and though he begged the nobleman to get up, the latter refused to move until his friend arrived. While they were arguing the carriage drove up, and his friend got his ticket; and then at last the obstinate old gentleman left his dangerous position, and they went off in the train together. The trick had been successful, though it was a very dangerous and foolish one.



HEART'S-EASE.

There is a little simple flower, Heart's-ease by name—I know not why; And yet, perchance, it has the power To cause a tear or calm a sigh.

And if a dear one sends to me The tiny flower, I'll prize it well; For in the token I should see The wish the flower was meant to tell.

And still its faded leaves I'd keep, Although they had no scent to please; Ah, better still! they seem to speak A message, praying my heart's-ease.

By waters still in sweet spring-time It lifts its sweet, mild gaze to me, While on my ears faint falls the chime Of evening bells across the lea.



TABBY'S GHOST.

All at once the matter was settled. Dr. Whitehead had given his orders—Mother must have change of air at once, and they were all going to Clifton for two months. The house was to be shut up, and in Edith's heart the question arose, 'What shall we do with Tabby?' Tabby was a pleasant, gentle cat, her especial property. 'Mother,' she said, 'might we not take Tabby with us? I could pay her railway fare with the half-crown Aunt Dora gave me. I should like it so much!'

'No, dear, it is quite impossible to do so,' replied her mother; 'but perhaps Mr. Merry, the milkman, would keep her for you; she would get plenty of milk, and you know she is a good mouser. Mr. Merry would be pleased with that; I have heard him say that his barn is over-run with mice.'

'Oh, there he is!' cried Edith; 'I will run and ask him at once.'

Very soon she returned, smiling and happy. 'Mother,' she said, 'I have given Mr. Merry my half-crown, and he says he will call to-morrow and take Tabby home with him, and keep her as long as we please.'

'And so you have no money now,' cried Evelyn; 'why, you will not be able to buy anything at Clifton.'

'Never mind, Edie,' said little Ina, kindly, 'I will give you a shilling out of my money; but I do think it was very unkind of Mr. Merry to take all that you had; don't you think so, Mother?'

But Mother would not tell her thoughts; she only smiled to herself and said, 'Run away, darlings, and pack up your dolls' clothes, and remember you must take nothing except what can be put into the dolls' trunk.' And away the children ran to look after this important matter.

Next day the cab was at the door. Mother had taken her seat, Jane had locked the hall door, and Mr. Merry, with Tabby in his arms, was just leaving the house, when, with an angry 'fuff,' and a desperate spring, she leaped to the ground and disappeared in a moment among the trees at the side of the house. What was to be done?

Edith was ready to cry, but Mr. Merry comforted her by promising to return in the afternoon, when, no doubt, Tabby would be at the door, hungry enough. He would give her a saucer of milk, and, while she was lapping it, he would secure her and take her away. Edith was greatly relieved; she thanked him warmly, and, in the excitement of railway travel, Tabby was almost forgotten.

What a delightful place Clifton was! Such toy-shops, such Zoological Gardens with real lions and tigers! Could children ever weary of such a place? Certainly neither Edith nor her two sisters; and so it was with a feeling of disappointment that they saw the travelling boxes once more pulled out, and faithful Jane begin to pack again. Mother was much better, however—that was one great comfort, and, as she was longing to be home again at the Grove, the children were fain to be content. As they drew near Ventnor, the three girls began talking of home and Tabby. 'Do you think that Mr. Merry will be willing to give her back to me, Mother?' said Edith, anxiously. 'She is such a darling, perhaps he may want to keep her!'

'Don't be afraid, dear,' said her mother, smiling; 'I dare say he has a cat of his own, and will be quite glad to send Tabby back.'

'Oh, Edie!' cried Evelyn, 'here we are; there are the chimneys of the Grove. Mother, may we not run home and not wait for the cab?'

'Very well, dears, run away; Jane will go with you.'

And away the little girls ran. They had just opened the gate and entered the avenue, when they saw some object approaching them. It seemed to be the ghost of Tabby! Staggering weakly down the avenue to meet them, her ribs sticking out, her fur torn off her in patches, her eyes dim, her voice quite gone, and her tail almost bare of fur, came poor dear Tabby, feebly trying to welcome her little mistress home.

Edith burst into tears as she lifted the poor cat into her lap, while kind-hearted Jane ran to the nearest cottage and returned with some warm milk. Oh, how greedily it was lapped up, and with what hungry eyes she looked for more! Jane had to warn the children lest in their compassion they should give her too much food at once, which would have been very hurtful to an animal so starved as the poor cat had been. Mr. Merry had only fulfilled one half of the agreement; he had taken the half-crown, but he had not taken the cat; and great was the anger of the children at his treachery and cruelty.

The next day, when he brought the milk as usual, they all ran down to scold him. But he was a man of composed manner and few words; he listened in silence, then he grinned at the sight of poor pussy's tail which Edith showed him, and, taking up his milk-cans, he departed, saying, 'Her should just have coom when I were willing to take her. Her deserves all she have got!'

'And, Mother,' said Ina, as she told the story, 'just think! he has kept poor Edie's half-crown. What a wicked man he must be!'



THE FORCE OF LABOUR.

The mere drudgery undergone by some men in carrying on their undertakings has been something extraordinary; but it has been drudgery which they regarded as the price of success. Addison amassed as much as three folios of manuscript materials before he began writing. Newton wrote his Chronology fifteen times over before he was satisfied with it; and Gibbon wrote out his Memoir nine times. Hale studied for many years at the rate of sixteen hours a day, and when wearied with the study of the law, he would recreate himself with philosophy and the study of mathematics. Hume wrote thirteen hours a day while preparing his History of England. Montesquieu, speaking of one part of his writings, said to a friend, 'You will read it in a few hours; but I assure you that it has cost me so much labour that it has whitened my hair.'

From SMILES'S 'Self-Help'.



A GENTLE DONKEY.

(Continued from page 378.)

II.

The next day, just before the donkey-cart was expected round, Major Raeburn ran up to the nursery.

'I should drive down that quiet road towards the Mill, Mary; and don't allow Master Harry to irritate Tim with a whip, or any nonsense of that sort. Do you hear?' he continued, turning round to that young gentleman, who, seated in baby's chair, was pretending to be a motor. 'Promise that you will be a good boy.'

'All right, Father, but you had better get out of the way now, or you will be run over by my motor. People that get in front of motors always get killed.'

Here he uttered a piercing yell, at which six-months-old Baby crowed and kicked to show how much she enjoyed the game.

'That's just the engine exploded,' he explained, 'and Mary, you must come and see if the driver is killed.'

At this point in his game the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel outside; with a bound Harry was on the seat of Nannie's chair at the window.

'It's Tim, it's Tim!' he cried, and picking up his little sailor cap, he tore downstairs to inspect his new present.

'Good morning, Master Harry,' said Simmons, as Harry danced out upon the drive; 'are you going to give Tim a piece of sugar?'

'May I?' he called out to his mother, who was looking through the rugs in an old oak chest for one that would be suitable for the size of the donkey-cart.

'Yes, dear, certainly. Ah, there you are, Mollie,' she continued to her sister-in-law, who had been roused from her book in the drawing-room by the sound of the voices. 'Are you sure that you care to go? I am afraid that you will be dreadfully cramped in that small cart. If I were in your place, I should keep the door open and hang my legs out.'

'Keep your mind quite easy about me,' answered Aunt Mollie, laughing. 'If the worst comes to the worst, I can always get out and run behind! Where is our driver? In the cart? I never saw you come out, Mary. Now then, Harry, tumble in, opposite to Mary. Aunt Mollie is going to be the footman and sit at the door.'

Mary chirruped to the donkey, Harry waved his cap, and as Simmons shut the door of the cart with a sharp bang, Tim tossed his head in the air with a 'don't I look nice?' expression in his large soft eyes, and trotted away down the broad tree-lined avenue.

All went well at first, and Mary was delighted.

'Donkeys can be so nasty,' she said, 'but this one is a perfect little dear, Miss.'

At this moment Tim saw something very interesting in the hedge, and turned across the road to examine it.

'Oh, you naughty donkey,' exclaimed the girl, 'I can't allow you to do that,' and she gave the rein a sharp pull to bring him into the road again.

Tim, however, took not the slightest notice, but continued his examination.

'We really must get him to move,' murmured Aunt Mollie, anxiously, 'for we are right across the road, so that nothing can pass us.'

Meanwhile poor Mary was using every effort to get him away from the hedge.

'Don't you be nervous, Miss,' said the girl cheerfully; 'nothing ever comes along this road, for it only leads to the Mill Farm.'

Mary's words were greeted by a loud 'Hullo!' from the driver of a baker's van that was coming along the road behind them at a sharp pace.

'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' murmured Mary, 'it's Crawford the baker! What will he think when he sees that I am beaten by a little donkey? Can you drive, Miss? Perhaps you could make him go.'

Miss Raeburn shook her head ruefully. She was a Londoner, and her knowledge of animals was extremely limited.

'What shall we do?' she said nervously, and mentally she drew an awful picture in which the baker's weary-looking horse became a spirited charger, dashed into the donkey-cart, and trampled the whole party to death.

In vain did Mary, now desperate, bring the whip across Tim's fat, well-groomed sides; he merely shook his long ears, whisked his tail angrily against the shafts, and resumed his investigation in the hedge.

'Let me see if I can help you,' called the young baker at last. 'Donkeys are artful little things; but perhaps if I get him round again, he will follow my van; that is to say, if I can pass in this narrow road.' As he spoke he took Tim firmly by the head.

For a second or two the donkey tossed his head in a vain endeavour to free himself; then he gave the baker one of his gentlest glances and stepped round into the road.

'Oh, thank you so much,' said Aunt Mollie, as the baker carefully drove his van past the little cart; but poor Mary only hung her head. She had been beaten by a little donkey!

'Perhaps he will follow if I give him a lead,' suggested the obliging young man; 'but if I were in your place, I would take him home by another road. Coop, coop, coop!' he called to the donkey, in a sing-song voice as he drove away, and Tim, who seemed to understand his language, galloped after the van as fast as he could put his four little feet to the ground.

There was a slight difference of opinion between Mary and Tim when the former, taking the baker's advice, turned down a narrow road to the right.

Tim wished to follow the van, and for a few anxious moments, Mary was afraid that he would be victorious.

'This is a very exciting drive,' said Harry in an awe-struck voice, as the donkey turned the corner so sharply that for an instant they all expected to find themselves lying in the ditch.

'Very!' answered his aunt.

She had her eyes on the donkey, and her hand on the door of the cart, which was open, and ready to be used as an 'emergency exit.'

'Oh!' she gasped nervously, as Tim showed a strong desire to climb the steep bank by the side of the road, 'I don't think I agree with you, Mary, that this donkey is a "perfect dear!"'

'He is a deceitful little brute,' said Mary angrily, 'and he will never be safe for the children.'

No sooner did Tim turn in at the Lodge gates than he became the same sweet, docile little creature that had trotted out, and as Mrs. Raeburn watched him come down the avenue she gave a sigh of relief.

'We were in luck to get such a treasure,' she thought, 'and I feel certain that no one could guess he had come straight from a greengrocer's cart; he looks such a little gentleman.'

(Continued on page 398.)



A MODERN WIZARD.

'Come along, Gussie, quick! Here! in by the garden-door.'

'Oh! what is it, Jack?'

'S—sh! Can't you make less noise? Just like a girl!'

Grumbling and muttering, he stole into the schoolroom—deserted now at three o'clock in the afternoon—followed on tip-toe by his younger sister, Augusta.

She eyed his movements eagerly, as he let down the Venetian shutters, drew together the heavy serge curtains, and poked up the sleepy fire till little tongues of red light darted mysteriously about the room. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out something!

Gussie retreated into a corner, and clasped her hands together.

'Not a mouse, Jack? Oh! I can't bear them—please, please——!'

'Are you nine, or are you two, Gussie?' asked Master Twelve-year-old.

He put a dirty, yellowish mass on the table. Gussie approached it anxiously. It might have been anything in that ghostly light—but, at least, it did not move.

'Wax!' announced Jack, triumphantly.

'Nasty, dirty stuff!' sniffed Gussie.

'Oh, very well! If you're going to talk like that, you can go away,' said her brother, turning his back on her.

'No, no, Jack! I want to see what you are going to do with it. Please let me stay!'

'Then lock the door, and don't make a row over it.'

The boy was bending over the fire, and moulding the messy lump between his fingers as he spoke.

'What is all that stuff for?' pleaded Gussie, anxiously.

'It isn't stuff, I tell you. It's wax. Can't you see what I am doing?'

'It's so dark!' expostulated the child, peeping over his shoulder. Then she gave a cry of delight.

'Why, Jack you are making—I know!—a little man! It's just like the idol Uncle Joe brought Lilian from Burmah. Is it an idol, really? I thought it was naughty to make idols.'

The boy held the little figure up, and surveyed it with pride.

'Of course it's a man! What should I want to make an idol for?'

'What do you want to make a man for?' wondered Gussie.

'Half a minute, and I will tell you. I must paint the thing now, and I can't see properly. Get a candle, and I will light up.'

He drew a small match-box from his pocket, and lit the candle with excited fingers.

'Blue trousers,' he murmured, dabbing on streaks of paint—'bother! a blue coat too. So dull! If only he was a soldier, now!'

'Oh, won't you tell me what it is for?' asked once more his sorely tried sister, her patience nearly at breaking point.

'You are such a ninny. You would go and tell.'

'No, I won't! I promise, Jack.'

'Lots of gold buttons,' continued that exasperating boy, splodging them about in great abundance; 'and black eyebrows, and a red nose. Like a Pirate King, you know. Dare say he is a pirate in disguise, if only one knew. It's Captain Halliard, Gussie!'

'Is he as ugly as that?' asked the little sister; 'he doesn't look so in his photograph.'

'You can't tell from photographs,' said Jack—adding, 'I expect he is a good deal uglier! He must be, or he wouldn't want to take Lilian away.'

'I thought he was going to marry her. I'm to be a bridesmaid, you know, and wear a white frock, with—— '

'That's all you girls care about!' said Jack, with contempt. 'Did you think he would bring her back here afterwards?'

'Of course. Where else should she go?'

'I dare say they would not tell a kid like you,' he answered loftily. 'They have taken a house at Southsea—miles away from here. Now do you see why I have made this figure?'

'No-o-o!' she said, half crying.

'Oh, do dry up, Gussie, or I won't tell you anything! Don't you remember in the history lesson this morning, Miss Gower told us that when people hated one another, ages ago, they got wizards to make wax images of their enemies, and let them melt slowly away, and as they melted, the other fellow began to get thin and ill—and went on getting thinner and iller, till—— '

'Till he died!' shrieked Gussie. 'Oh, Jack, you won't do that?'

The boy blew out the candle, and placed the figure opposite the fire, just inside the fender.

'We shall see!' he said mysteriously. 'I shall do it very slowly, a little bit each day, and watch the effect on Captain Halliard. He's coming here this evening, you know. Of course, Lilian will never want to marry a man who gets thinner and iller every day; but if that's not enough, and he still wants to carry off my sister, I'll just—— '

* * * * *

'Children! children! open the door, quick! The hall is full of smoke.'

The girlish tones were emphasised by most undoubtedly manly thumps. Jack hesitated, but Gussie flew to turn the key.

Lilian Phillips rushed in, followed closely by a tall stranger. The draught from the open door located the origin of the smoke only too easily. The schoolroom curtains burst into flames!

Gussie ran up to her elder sister. Jack, the bold, the self-reliant, was momentarily paralysed.

It was the stranger who jumped on the sofa, and tore those curtains down—crushing them with his hands—- stamping on them till the flames were extinguished, finally emerging from the smoking curtain with singed hair and beard, and shaking his scorched fingers, but otherwise calm and unruffled.

'Hullo, young man! Are you responsible for all this? What had you been up to? Guy Fawkes' Day is long past. All right, Lilian, don't bother about me. I'm not hurt—though I'm afraid as much cannot be said for the curtains.

'Oh, George, what should we have done without you? What a mercy it was you caught the afternoon train. What were you two children doing?' gasped Lilian, almost in one breath.

'Gussie wasn't doing anything!' asserted Jack, stoutly. 'I had lit a candle. I don't see how that could have set the curtains on fire, though,' he added, gazing open-eyed at the stranger called 'George,' and trying to get between him and the fender.

'What did you do with the match?' demanded George, curtly.

'Chucked it away!' came the reply, with equal brevity.

The grown-ups exchanged significant glances.

'Why did you lock yourselves up here?' asked Lilian, laying gentle hands on her small brother's shoulders, and turning him round on the hearthrug to face her.

It was seldom that Jack resisted Lilian, and he did not do so now, though he wriggled, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.

'I—I——,' he began hesitatingly, when a loud laugh from George interrupted him.

'By Jove! here's a funny little image, Lilian! A sailor too, by all that's curious! Not me, eh?' he roared good-temperedly, as he fished the blue-bedaubed figure out of the fender, and, holding it at arm's length, surveyed it by the now cheerful blaze of the fire.

Jack wriggled himself free from his elder sister's grasp, and faced round.

'Are you Captain Halliard?'

'Certainly, young man.'

'Then I'm sorry I made that.'

'Why! it is I, then? What should you be sorry for?' he asked, bewildered; 'it's not at all bad, for a young 'un—bar likeness, I hope! Never mind, though, if you don't want to tell me,' he added, good-naturedly, sorry for the boy's evident embarrassment.

But Jack continued: 'It is you—and I made it of wax, so that it should melt, and you should get ill, and—— '

'Oh! you wicked boy!' exclaimed Lilian, aghast; 'what harm had George done you?'

'He wanted to take you away,' explained Jack sullenly, 'and I don't want him to. But I tell you I am sorry now about the image.'

'Why?' demanded Captain Halliard.

'You are a brave man. You pulled those curtains down. I couldn't have done that! I don't care if you do marry my sister now.'

'Hooray!' shouted Gussie, capering wildly about; 'and now you'll let me be a bridesmaid, won't you, Jack? I didn't—oh, I didn't want that nasty wax image to melt all away!'

And so Jack learnt that magic is not only silly, but wrong, and found that Captain Halliard was after all not so terrible as to need a wizard to drive him away.



PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 371.

13.—(A.) Orphan-age. (B.) Book-worm. (C.) Brim-stone. (D.) Hare-bell. (E.) Dove-tail. (F.) Some-body.



AVERAGE.

In old French, 'aver' meant a horse. So it did in old Scotch, which still has not a few French words in its dialect. Burns, in his 'Dream,' speaks of a horse as a 'noble aiver.'

In old times in Europe, a tenant was bound to do certain carting of grain or turf for the lord of the manor. In the yearly account this was set down as aver-age, or, as we might say, horse-age. The tenant had to strike a balance between his rent and his horse-work done, and this just proportion came to be known afterwards as average.

Average is a very difficult word to define. One day an Inspector asked a class what it meant. A little girl eagerly answered, 'What a hen lays eggs on.'

The Inspector was greatly surprised, but knowing that the child must have some reason for her answer, he asked her what made her think so, when she at once pointed to a sentence in her reading-book which said that 'a hen lays four or five eggs a week on an average.' The little girl evidently thought that an average was a mat or something of the kind, on which the hen deposited her eggs.



GAS-LIGHT INSECT-HUNTING.

Why should insects rush eagerly to an artificial light when they do not attempt to fly towards the moon, however brilliantly she may shine on a summer evening? We cannot tell, nor why some moths are indifferent to lamps which make their brethren excited, often to their peril. By searching gas-lamps, the entomologist can obtain specimens of moths that would otherwise be difficult to find. Lamps, of course, are most productive when their place is along a country road, but even in towns they have their winged visitors after dark.

Dull or cold nights will bring few insects to the lamps, and those would usually be not worth catching. Earwigs appear—a proof that they can fly as well as crawl, and as they are insects of rather a shy habit, it is surprising to find that they are fascinated by a light. Gnats are abundant, and sundry flies often lie in little heaps at the bottom of the lamp; sometimes the number of gnats is thus greatly reduced in a stinging season, when thousands of persons are attacked by these insects. Beetles occasionally come, and spiders also, not drawn by the light, but knowing that they will get prey at the lamps. Away from any town, bats are frequently amongst the evening visitors on the look-out to secure part of the arriving insects, especially those having plump bodies.

Many of the moths, to the disappointment of the collector, have their wings singed or damaged. Others enter the lamp and avoid the flame, settling down quietly upon the glass, and others again stop outside upon the glass or the ironwork. During the twilight the slim moths, or Geometers, arrive, with now and then a large moth; towards ten o'clock the Noctuas, or stout-bodied moths, begin to appear.



NIGHT AND DAY.

The Night is like a Fairy Prince, So good, and strong, and great: His jewels are the stars; they deck His purple robe of state.

His dinted shield, the silver moon, Gleams brightly on his breast; See, how he comes so silently, And moves towards the West!

The Day a fairy maiden is, With flower-garlands gay, And as the Night approaches her, She blushing hastes away.

But he, undaunted, still pursues Because he loves her best: Then lo! he clasps her to his heart, Far in the crimson West.



THE ROSEMONT GROTTO AND THE PETCHABURG CAVERNS.



About three hundred miles from the coast of Madagascar, and over one hundred from the Mauritius, lies the beautiful island to which its French owners have given the name of Reunion. It was formerly known as 'Ile de Bourbon,' out of compliment to the family name of the French monarchs, but at the time of the Revolution the island was renamed, and became Reunion. It is of small size, only thirty-five miles long by twenty-eight broad; but it contains a range of fine mountains, some as much as ten thousand feet high. These mountains are of volcanic origin, and one peak, 'Polon de Fournaise' by name, is one of the most active volcanoes in the world. Below another, known as the Pic Bory, is a remarkable cavern, though it only measures sixty yards long by twenty high. Its chief feature is the curious method of its construction.

In its active days, the Pic Bory had a way of tossing high into the air huge spouts of boiling lava, which rushed with great force down the mountain-side, overwhelming everything which came in the way. Now, just as gunpowder rammed into a cannon drives heavy balls immense distances, so this lava is driven out of the craters by gases which are imprisoned below the crust of the earth. When these succeed in getting free, flames, cinders, and red-hot lava rush out, great explosions are heard for many miles, and clouds of fiery gas escape into the air. Sometimes, however, the lava is too densely packed for all the gas to escape, and some of it remains imprisoned, and is carried down the mountain beneath the boiling mass; but although it cannot get free, its energy finds vent by driving its roof of lava upwards, and so a high mound occurs in the channel of the lava, and when in course of years the gas does find a way out, a hollow cavern remains inside. The Grotto of Rosemont is one of the finest-known instances of these gas-formed caverns, and, hence its fame. Other volcanic grottoes are also found in Reunion, two of them very fine, and many similar great hollows are found near volcanoes in other lands, notably beneath the peak of Mount Etna in Sicily.

* * * * *

In the kingdom of Siam, about two days' journey by boat from the capital city of Bangkok, rises a fine group of mountains, and on the highest of these has been built a royal palace. The mountains are of volcanic origin, and the palace actually stands on an extinct crater, which would be very inconvenient if the slumbering fires below suddenly awakened.

In the neighbourhood of the range are the fine caverns of Petchaburg, some of the largest existing instances of volcanic grottoes. Two are especially grand, as the lava in cooling has twisted and twirled about in marvellous fashion, making most wonderful effects.

The moisture coming from the roof has decorated the caverns with splendid stalactites and stalagmites, whilst, like many other volcanic rocks, the walls are of brilliant and harmonious colours.

The king and his people are justly proud of their caverns, and have taken great pains that they shall be made accessible to visitors, the ground having been levelled and staircases placed in many directions. The largest and most beautiful cave has been turned into a temple, and all along the sides are rows of figures. One of these is of colossal size, and richly gilded, representing a sleeping Buddha.



THE KING OF PERSIA.



Once upon a time a certain King of Persia went out hunting with all his court. The chase that day happened to be long, and the king became very thirsty. But no fountain or river could be found near the spot on the plain where they rested for a short interval. At last one of the courtiers spied a large garden not far off. It was filled with trees bearing lemons, oranges, and grapes. His followers begged the monarch to partake of the good things in the garden.

'Heaven forbid that I should eat anything thereof,' said the king, 'for if I permitted myself to gather but an orange from it, my officers and courtiers would not leave a single fruit in the entire garden.'

The higher in life a person is, the more careful he should be, for all his faults are copied by those beneath him.



JESS.

A Dog Story.

'Now, Lottie and Carrie,' said Mrs. Sefton, coming out into the garden just as the daylight was beginning to fade, 'it is time to be indoors; bring your things and come in.'

'Oh, Mother!' cried both the little girls, 'we are just in the middle of our game; do please let us stay a little longer.'

But their mother shook her head. 'I can't possibly do that,' she answered. 'You will never be at school in time to-morrow unless you are in bed by eight o'clock. Don't stop to talk about it, but come, like good children.'

Then Carrie took up the dolls which were lying on the grass, while Lottie loaded herself with the little basket-chair and the three-legged stool, and in a very short time the two sisters were in the snug white beds.

'Good-night,' said Mother, as she kissed them both. 'You have been good girls to-day, and in the morning I shall have something nice to tell you.'

'Tell us to-night, please—tell us to-night,' they pleaded. But Mother was not to be moved, and the thought of what that something nice might be kept Lottie and Carrie awake till the darkness had really come on.

But though they were late in going to sleep, you may be sure they were awake early in the morning. They helped each other to dress, and were downstairs reminding Mother of her promise long before they were expected.

'I shall know now how to make you get up in good time,' Mrs. Sefton said, laughing; 'but come along, it is not only something to tell, but something to show you.'

She led them to the tool-house at the bottom of the garden, and there, tied to a nail in the wall, was a pretty little black-and-tan dog—a terrier.

'This is a present which your uncle has sent you,' Mrs. Sefton said. 'You are to have it for your very own—its name is Jess. Stand up, Jess, and show your mistresses how you can beg.'

Jess stood up on her hind legs, and crossed her paws in such a funny way that Lottie danced about with delight. Carrie was timid and hung back; she did not like to say so, but she was really rather afraid of the new pet. This was silly, but Carrie was only a little girl; in a short time, when she saw how good and gentle Jess really was, she too forgot her fears.

Lottie and Carrie went to school together. Now that they had Jess they were always glad when school hours were over, and they could run home to play. Jess was as pleased to see them back as the children were to come, and all through the summer they learned to be better and better friends with the little terrier.

But after the summer holidays Lottie went away for a while, to visit some friends, and Carrie was left to go to school by herself. She was very lonely and dull without her sister. When one is only six years old, a fortnight seems such a long time, and at last Carrie settled that she could not go to school another day without Lottie.

Then she did a very foolish thing. After she was sent to school, she turned back and hid herself in the tool-house at the bottom of the garden. She had heard her mother say at breakfast that she was going out for the forenoon, and Carrie thought that she would just wait till there was no one at home, and then come out from her hiding-place and play.

Mrs. Sefton had a long walk to take, and as soon as possible she put on her bonnet, and then, thinking that her little girl was safe at school, she locked up the house, and started on her errand, leaving Jess to run about the garden and take care of things.

Carrie heard her mother close the front door, and then she came out from the tool-house. She had thought that it would be very nice to stay at home and play, but she soon began to feel lonely and frightened, and to wish that she had not deceived her mother.

'Oh, Jess!' she said to the little dog, 'I wish I had been good and gone to school!'

Jess looked up at Carrie, and wagged her tail, but she could do nothing more to comfort her little mistress.

Carrie walked up and down, feeling ready to cry.

'I never shall be able to stay here all by myself till Mother comes back,' she thought. 'I will try and get over the wall.'

Now, the garden wall was high, and just as Carrie, by a great effort, had managed to reach the top, her foot slipped, and she fell heavily down on to the mould.

She was so much hurt that she fainted away, and then it was the dog's turn to be distressed. Jess walked round and round the little fallen girl, and, finding that she could do nothing to help, she set up a piteous bark, and barked so long and so loudly that she drew the attention of the neighbours.

'Whatever is that dog of the Seftons' barking at?' one woman inquired of her husband; and Mr. Curtis, who was a shoemaker, and worked at home, stopped a moment to listen.

'I don't like the sound,' he said, presently. 'It's as though there was something the matter, and Mrs. Sefton is out, for I saw her go past the window.'

'Perhaps it would be best for you to go and see,' his wife said, and though he could ill spare the time, kind-hearted Mr. Curtis put down the boot which he was mending, and ran down the lane till he reached the garden wall.

Then he soon saw what was the matter. There was Jess with her paws on Carrie's frock, while Carrie was lying quite white and still.

The shoemaker carried the poor child to his own cottage, while his wife went to look for Mrs. Sefton.

Carrie proved to be badly hurt; she had to lie in bed a good while, and you may be sure that her mother and Lottie, and all her friends, were very grieved and anxious about her.

But every one praised good, faithful Jess, who had brought help to her little mistress; and when Lottie came back, and Carrie got quite well, as I am glad to say she did at last, Jess was a greater pet than ever.



A GENTLE DONKEY.

(Continued from page 391.)

III.

'You know, Mollie,' said Mrs. Raeburn to her sister-in-law next morning as she looked through the letters, which had just come in, 'I cannot believe that Tim is so wicked as you and Mary both say. I ran out to the stables before breakfast, and the dear, sweet thing rubbed his nose against my sleeve, and then tried to find my pocket. He evidently expected sugar, for he looked up at me as much as to say, "Now then, where's that sugar?" You see, dear,' (here she lowered her voice to a whisper and looked cautiously round) 'although Mary is a splendid maid for the nursery, she may be no good as a "whip," and so I have made up my mind to go in the cart myself this morning. Luckily, Cook has made some soup for poor old Mrs. Woods, and I shall get Mary to drive me there when she takes Harry out.'

'What does Simmons think of this new treasure?' asked Aunt Mollie.

'Oh! Simmons is ridiculous. He agrees with Mary, and says that yesterday it took three men to hold him while he was being harnessed. I never heard anything so absurd! I thought that we might go round to the stables about eleven and see for ourselves. Why!'—looking at her watch—'it is almost eleven now. Come along, Mollie, or we shall miss the fun,' and picking up the tail of her long skirt, young Mrs. Raeburn disappeared through the French window.

As the two girls neared the yard, loud voices were heard and the clattering noise of the donkey's feet upon the cobble stones made it evident that the harnessing had began.

'Well! how is Tim behaving himself to-day?' called out Mrs. Raeburn.

Instantly three flushed, angry faces looked up, and three fingers touched three perspiring foreheads respectfully.

'Well, ma'am!' answered Simmons, sulkily, 'I never came across such a little brute. Just look at that,' he continued, as Tim made a sudden plunge for the duck-pond, and in spite of the frantic efforts of the two strong boys who were holding his head on either side, he nearly succeeded in joining the ducks which were swimming here and there on its smooth surface.

'Now then, now then,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn, in a soft, cooing voice, as she walked in front of the donkey, and began to rub his nose; but he tossed his head angrily to one side, and showed her a set of large, strong teeth in such a suggestive manner that she discreetly stepped back.

'Take care of his heels, M'm,' said one of the boys, in an anxious voice, as she laid her hand on Tim's back, and she had just time to move away when back went his ears, and up went his hind feet.

Clatter, clatter, clatter went those evil little heels against the cart, till Mrs. Raeburn thought that by the time he had finished, the pretty little cart would be fit for little else than match-wood. Suddenly he stopped, turned gently round with a surprised look in his soft eyes, as much as to say, 'I wonder what you are all here for?' and from that moment he gave no more trouble.

Apparently this tantrum was at an end, and as he stood placidly whisking his long tail over his pretty back, Mrs. Raeburn mentally began to make apologies for him. Doubtless the men had teased him, and naturally the poor dear little thing had tried to take his revenge.

'No,' she said, in answer to a murmured question from Simmons, 'you need not take him round. We can just start right away from here. You have the soup, Mary, and the whip?'

'Oh! do let me hold the whip, Mother,' pleaded the shrill voice of her son, and Mother weakly consented.

'Tim is a darling, isn't he, Mother?' said the small voice, as they drove past some cottages; 'but I expect he could be naughty. I wonder what he would do if I gave him just a teeny, weeny touch with the whip! Would you like to see?' The voice had a pleading note in it, and the blue eyes looked very wistful.

'Oh, no, old man! That would be very unkind. Mother does not punish you when you are quite a good boy, does she?'

'No—o,' doubtfully. 'Mother, if the whip was to touch him quite by accident, don't you wonder what he would do? Just put your head down till I whisper something. Perhaps,' in a low voice, 'he would buck-jump. Wouldn't that be lovely?'

But Mother, who had already witnessed Tim's acrobatic performance in the stable yard, did not take advantage of the offer.

'Lovely day,' she called out brightly, to an old woman who was sitting outside her cottage door. 'How are you feeling? I must come—— ' but the sentence remained unfinished, for at this point the donkey gave a violent lurch forward, then, putting his head down, commenced to kick just as hard as ever he could.

In vain did Mrs. Raeburn try to put a stop to it; neither voice nor whip made the slightest impression upon him. He seemed to consider it in the light of an exercise, which, to be of any permanent good, must be continued for a certain length of time. He finished by backing hard into the small wooden gate which led into the old woman's trim, old-fashioned garden. There was a splintering, crackling noise, and Mary jumped out of the little cart to examine the amount of damage done to the gate. Tim turned slowly round with quite a vexed look in his eyes, scrutinised the gate also, then looked at Mary with a reproachful look, as if trying to lay the blame on her innocent shoulders.

'I am sorry,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn to the old woman, who had hobbled down to the gate. 'Yes! he is a naughty donkey! I can't think what made him kick just now. Now, don't you worry about your pretty little gate; Major Raeburn will have it repaired at once.'

'What can have made him kick just now, Mary?' she said, as they drove away; but Mary, instead of answering, turned and stared fixedly at Harry.

As the stare, apparently, had not the desired result, she took hold of the whip, still firmly clasped between Harry's fat little hands. 'Now then, Master Harry, what did you do to Tim just now?'

'Well, Mary,' in his most innocent tone of voice, 'I just touched Tim's back very, very gently with it; just like this, Mother,' and the young rascal raised the whip to give a demonstration.

Now, unfortunately for the occupants of the cart, Tim saw the whip; he took advantage of the opportunity, and shied right into the shallow ditch.

Away rolled the bowl of beef-tea from between Mary's hands, and the soup which had been so carefully prepared for Mrs. Wood trickled down her white skirt in brown streams, and formed small pools upon the vacant seat facing her.

'Give me the whip at once, Harry,' said Mrs. Raeburn angrily. 'You are a very disobedient little boy. Now poor old Mrs. Wood won't have any dinner. Well, Mary,' with a sigh of resignation, 'as we have no soup, we might drive on to the Common for a blow.'

(Continued on page 402.)



A GENTLE DONKEY.

(Continued from page 399.)

Peace was soon restored, and by the time that the Common was reached, Mrs. Raeburn had again quite explained away the donkey's behaviour.

'He is evidently very nervous,' she said. 'Poor little beast! Perhaps he has been ill-treated at some time, and dreads the sight of the whip from sad experience; we must take care not to frighten him again.'

'Yes, Ma'am,' acquiesced Mary meekly. 'The mistress drives horses beautifully,' she confided to Nannie later, 'but she knows nothing about donkeys and their artful ways. You take my word for it, that donkey is a wicked one.'

'Now then, pretty one!' chirruped Mrs. Raeburn to Tim as they rambled along the broad road on the Common, 'you must be good, and not show us those naughty little heels again.' Tim whisked his tail in response and trotted amiably along.

'Why, the road is quite gay to-day, Mary! Oh! of course, it is market-day. Now, good little Tim, keep to the side of the road, so as not to frighten these tired sheep. Warm day!' she called out genially to a man who trudged wearily along behind his flock.

But in spite of her kindly precautions, the nervous sheep scuttled across the road on to the heather-clad common, bleating plaintively: then their scuttle became a run. At sight of this flying column, Tim stopped, put his head on one side, and prepared to follow.

'No, thank you, Tim,' laughed Mrs. Raeburn as she tried to pull him up. 'I have no ambition to herd sheep. You little wretch!' she continued in quite a different tone of voice; for Tim was in "full cry" after them.

Bump, bump, bump went the springless governess cart over the lumpy Common, rocking from side to side like a boat in a storm.

'What are you doing?' yelled the herdsman. 'I'll report you, that I will, trying to steal my sheep.'

'This is very exciting,' whispered Harry. 'I like driving with you, Mother.'

But Mother was not enjoying herself. Here was she, the wife of a Justice of the Peace, apparently stealing a flock of sheep in broad daylight. At this moment she could have killed Tim.

'This is dreadful, Mary,' she murmured. 'What can we do? Oh, these idiots of sheep, why won't they stop?'

But the terrified sheep, instead of stopping, only increased their speed. Away they flew over the Common, and behind them, in hot pursuit, galloped Tim, while round both sheep and governess cart barked the frantic sheep-dog.

On, on they raced, over hillocks, through gorse bushes, down into treacherous holes, till at last the gate leading out upon a narrow road was reached. Through this surged the sheep, and close behind them tore Tim. The cart gave a bone-shaking dump as it took the descent from grass to hard road, and Mary, who at the beginning of Tim's flight, had opened the door, was thrown out.

Suddenly a motor was seen coming towards them, along the narrow road, and Mrs. Raeburn gave a gasp of fear.

'Hold your hand up, Harry. Quick—quick!'

Harry, eager to assist, raised both his arms.

'Hullo!' called a familiar voice: the motor came to a sudden standstill, and out of it jumped Major Raeburn.

'What in all the earth are you doing, Maud?' he said in a voice of the greatest astonishment, as he walked towards them; but Mrs. Raeburn motioned him back.

'Turn the motor across the road as fast as you can, and don't let one of these sheep pass it!'

So the panting sheep were stopped, and Tim's race was at an end.

'And now, good people, please explain yourselves,' continued the Major.

'Oh, Jack,' burst forth his wife, 'we have had the most awful morning with Tim. He has smashed Mrs. Laurence's gate, run off after these sheep, Mary is thrown out, and I expect is lying dead somewhere, and I don't know where the drover is.'

'And, Father,' interrupted Harry in his shrill treble, 'we have had such an exciting drive! Mother can drive Tim just beautifully!'

'Well, look here!' said the Major, smiling, 'I suppose I must stay here and speak to the drover of the sheep. You two had better go home across the fields. I will drive Tim home,' he added, with a look in the direction of the donkey.

Half an hour later the motor puffed into the stable yard, and close behind it cantered Tim, looking a most angelic little donkey.

'Can't make the little beast out,' said Major Raeburn to his wife, as they walked towards the house; 'I shall take him out myself to-morrow.'

(Concluded on page 410.)



THE SINGING BIRD.

A singing bird within my heart Has surely built a nest, For every morning when I rise So early from my rest, I find a song for me to sing Is waiting in my breast.

One song is of the flowers bright, That nod in every breeze, Of birds that in the tree-tops dwell, Of butterflies and bees, Of fairy-haunted woodland ways, And tall, dark, swaying trees.

Another song it softly croons As from a far-off land: But this a deeper meaning has, I don't quite understand, Because of all the mysteries That lie so close at hand.

These sweet songs thrill me with delight— I carol them all day; I hope that cheerful singing bird Has really come to stay; But whence it came and why it's here I'm sure I cannot say.



HUGE BIRDS.

Travellers in all parts of the world hear strange and surprising tales about the huge or wonderful creatures which the natives have seen, so they say, and which, perhaps, they also declare they have hunted years ago. People believed all these stories formerly, and put them in books for the benefit of others; but matters have altered now. Travellers' tales are not so plentiful, because they are not deceived as they used to be, and when they are told, their truth is searched out. The sea-serpent, for instance, has been 'seen' many times, and once at least—in 1906—by properly trained scientific observers. But people are still unwilling to believe entirely in its existence.

Some of the commonest stories brought home from far countries have been about the existence of gigantic birds, and, when we look into these, we find they are not all fables. In many countries, birds quite unlike any now seen, and of huge bulk, existed before man's time; and it is evident that a few of these bird-monsters—shall we call them?—did not vanish till a recent date, so that human beings had the chance of making acquaintance with them.

Australia, New Zealand, and other countries that are on the opposite side of the world to Britain, are the home of many curious forms of life, animal or vegetable. New Zealand has, in time past, been the habitation of a family of immense birds, which have not died out very long. In fact, some suppose there are retreats there where the birds still live, which are seldom or never visited by men of any race. We have no English name for them, so we must give them the Latin one of Dinornis. A search during 1870, amongst the old cooking-pits, or ovens, in the Province of Canterbury, brought to view sundry remains of the dinornis, being a sure sign that some of the huge birds had been caught and cooked.

Farther back, in 1842, there was an account of a strange bird the New Zealanders knew, and called a Moa, published by a Mr. Williams. They told him it had lived in places difficult to reach amongst the hills, and that their grandfathers had seen the bird alive, but they themselves had not, though they had discovered bones of the species in the mud of some rivers. According to observations, the height of the dinornis may have been from twelve to fourteen feet, or even more; it is supposed the birds were numerous at one time, and lived to a great age. What their food was is only to be guessed, probably vegetable, for the dinornis does not seem to have been a bird of prey. The natives described them as running or striding over the ground with tremendous speed, but nothing was said about their being able to fly.