Hawarden Castle is close by. It was at one time of importance as a fortress. It now derives its celebrity from its owner, Mr. Gladstone, for the castle itself has almost disappeared. We soon pass Holywell, so called from the holy well which sprang from the place where Princess Winifrede's head fell. Caradoc, a Welsh prince, wickedly cut it off, and it rolled down the hill. Where it stopped the spring burst forth; and the head being picked up was placed on Miss Winifrede's body again. It became fixed, and she lived for many years afterwards, a little red mark round her white throat being the only token of her decapitation! So the story goes.

We are now approaching Abergele, near which such a terrible accident happened to the Irish mail in 1868. Some trucks had been shunted from a train in front, and they, by some mistake, came running down the hill to meet the "Irishman." The driver saw them, and the shock was not severe, but unfortunately they were filled with oil barrels, which broke open, the petroleum caught fire, and in two minutes all the fore part of the train was enveloped in flames.

Nothing could be done; the poor people in the carriages—lords and ladies and gentlemen—were burned, and with difficulty any escaped. This was a fearful catastrophe, and quite puts aside any ordinary accidents which (not a few) have happened to the "Wild Irishman."

Let us leave the scene and come on to Llandudno Junction and Conway Castle, by which is the first "Tubular Bridge." We have all heard of Conway Castle, founded by Edward I. If you little folk ever go to Conway be sure and see the castle, and go all over the thick walls, which will afford you a pretty view.

But I have something else to tell you about Conway "Tube"—the bridge through which the railway runs over the river.

Once upon a time—a good many years ago—a lady and gentleman got permission to walk through the new tubular bridge, which was then a curiosity. A railway porter was with them and told them no train was expected on that line, so they went into the tube and darkness.

A strange gentleman who had joined them went on first because the lady could not go so quickly, and of course her husband remained to assist her over the rails, and stones, and the girders which support the sides.

But when the lady and gentleman had got halfway through, the first man was at the end, and saw the down Irish mail approaching on the very line on which his acquaintances were! He called out—

"Take care of yourselves, a train is coming!" and then he waved his hands to the engine-driver.

The lady and gentleman in the "tube" could not stand up at the side, and so they hurried back. It was a terrible race. The "Wild Irishman" whistling and roaring, hissing and straining at the brakes close behind; in front only a few yards to the station, but such long yards! On came the train, and just as the gentleman rushed from the "tube" and dragged the lady down, the express came out grinding and growling. They were only just saved by two yards from a terrible death.

Now let me tell you something else. The year after that nearly fatal accident, I—the writer of this anecdote—was visiting the "Britannia" Tubular Bridge which crosses the Menai Straits, and through which the "Wild Irishman" rushes on its way to Holyhead. I was with my parents, and we talked to the caretaker at the bridge.

"Yes, sir," he said, "it is dangerous to go into the tubes. We do not allow it now. Last year a lady and gentleman were nearly killed in the Conway tube. I was the guard of the mail train; they had a very narrow escape."

"What became of the tipsy porter who guided them in?" asked my father.

"He lay flat down, and the train went over him—he was dismissed—but how did you know, sir?"

"Because this lady and myself were the two people who were in the tube," said my father. "I assure you we remember the incident very well indeed."

That is what most people would, call a "curious coincidence," and it is, moreover, quite true.

But we are nearing Holyhead. Our "Wild Irishman" has not far to run now. We are through the "Britannia" bridge, upon whose unfinished summit we have raced on slippery plates of iron, one hundred feet above the straits, and gazed down into the Menai waters beneath, as the ships went up almost touching the tube apparently. Ah! this was many years ago, and even now as we rattle on we can recall the scene and shiver.

Away by Llanfair—something—a long Welsh word—away by the lake and the river; over the marsh comes the scent of the sea, and then in ten minutes the "Wild Irishman" walks down the pier. Mail-bags are put on board the steamer; passengers hurry down; the carriage doors are shut. The paddle-wheels revolve; we quit the harbour of Holyhead, and lose sight of the "Wild Irishman."



MASTER TOM'S "RAINY WEATHER."

"Ettie," said Master Tom, "do you like to be naughty or good?"

"Naughty," replied Ettie promptly.

Ettie was five years old, and Master Tom nine.

Ettie and Master Tom were at the far end of the kitchen-garden, going through the gate that led into a small paddock, when Ettie suddenly said—

"Pigs."

"Where?" exclaimed Master Tom.

"Poor pigs in pen all shut up," answered Ettie.

"What a shame!" said Master Tom. "I say, Mrs. Pig, wouldn't you like your little piggies to have a run this fine day?

"There's grass around in plenty For the little ones to eat, And in the kitchen-garden There's cabbage for a treat.

Now, Ettie, get out of the way; I am going to open the door of the pigstye."

And Master Tom threw the door wide open, and out rushed not only the ten little pigs, but Mrs. Pig herself. They came with such a rush that Ettie, not getting out of the way quickly enough, was knocked down. But she did not cry; for she was used to falling in her expeditions with Tom.

Through the garden gate, into the garden, over the beds, went the pigs, and after them went Master Tom and Ettie, driving them until they went into the middle of the crisp early cabbages.

"Now then, eat to your hearts' content," said Master Tom. "Eat away, eat away! How they do enjoy themselves; there won't be a cabbage left. Won't Joseph be surprised. Let us get up into the great pear-tree and watch them. You can climb up if I push you."

"Yes," responded Ettie, grasping the trunk and putting her foot on a jutting-out knob.

"That's famous," said Master Tom, as he helped his little sister up until he landed her in one of the highest boughs.

"Isn't it nice?" said he.

And he began swaying the branches to and fro, whilst Ettie held on tightly and laughed with delight.

"Oh dear! oh dear! how can the pigs have got in?"

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Master Tom from the pear-tree, mimicking the gardener's voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Ettie in her shrill voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Joseph in dismay; "the children up in the pear-tree such a height; they'll tumble down and break their necks. Oh, Master Tom, Master Tom, whatever did you go up there for, and take little Missy with you? What shall I do?—the pigs, the children, the children, the pigs! I daren't leave the children; and yet if I don't go after the pigs the garden will be ruined. Oh, my lettuces, my peas, my cauliflowers, my fine young cabbages!"

And then Joseph suddenly raised his voice and shouted as loud as he could—

"Help! help! help! Hallo! hallo! hallo!"

In a few seconds out came several of the servants, and amongst them was Nurse. "Oh! what is the matter?" she cried; "is it Master Tom again?"

"I should think it was," said Joseph; "he's in the pear-tree, and Miss Ettie's with him. Jack, get a ladder to get her out of the tree."

Jack, the boy, went off, and now the branches were seen to sway backwards and forwards, the two children chuckling with delight.

"And here I come first," said Master Tom, suddenly descending in so rapid a manner that he seemed to tumble down amongst the group, and, stumbling against Joseph, the gardener was tripped up and fell to the ground.

Nurse tried to seize upon Master Tom, who, however, shook himself free, leaving it to Joseph and the boy to get Ettie out of the pear-tree.

II.

When Nurse returned to the house with Ettie the first thing she saw was the turf beneath the nursery window strewn with every possible thing that Master Tom could find. He himself was looking out of the nursery window with an armful of Ettie's frocks and sashes, which he aimed at Nurse and her charge as they came nearer the house.



"Oh dear! shan't I be glad when you go back to school, Master Tom. Here's an hour's good work for me in carrying back all these things."

And Nurse wrathfully ascended to the nursery, but Master Tom was not there.

"Well," said Nurse, "it's a good thing he's gone off by himself, and not got Miss Ettie with him. You stay here and play with your dolls, and I'll run down and pick up your frocks and shoes."

So Nurse, having settled Ettie with her playthings, departed.

But she had not been gone a minute before Master Tom put his head in at the door.

"Ettie," said he, "come down into the drawing-room, and we'll have the greatest fun in the world. I've got a large umbrella and water-bottles, so we'll play at rainy weather."

Up jumped Ettie.

"Hush! don't make a noise, or some one will hear us. Come very softly."

And Ettie, on tiptoes, followed Tom to the drawing-room, where, having locked the door, he provided Ettie with a large umbrella.

"Now sit down on the floor," said he, "and hold it over you. You must pretend that it is a rainy day, and that you are obliged to shelter under it."

Down went Ettie on the floor, and up went the umbrella.

"Now," continued Master Tom (who had borrowed a pair of high boots so that, at least, he should not get wet), "I shall pour water over the umbrella and it will splash down like rain. You must say, 'What a dreadful day! What a dreadful storm!'"

"Yes," answered Ettie. "Splash, splash, splash! what a storm! what a storm!"

And down came the water, splashing Ettie's velvet frock and wetting her shoes, and making pools on the drawing-room carpet. What fun it was! so Master Tom thought, and so did Ettie; and the more he emptied the water-bottles the more they both shouted with glee.

Guided by the noise, Nurse soon arrived at the door.

"Open the door! open the door!"

But Master Tom took no notice. Nurse might batter away as she liked; he was safe inside.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing at rain," cried Ettie; "my frock and my shoes all wet. It is rainy day, Nurse."

"The road is all of puddles," said Master Tom; "splash, splash; don't you hear it?"

Yes, Nurse did hear it, and wondered what it was.

"I've finished the bottles," said Master Tom; "now for the watering-can, it's quite full. It will come down like a shower-bath, Ettie."

"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Ettie, for the umbrella slipped from her hand and she received the contents of the watering-can on her head, neck, and arms. Then Ettie, for the first time, began to cry.

"You bad boy," cried Nurse in a state of despair; "open the door or I will have it broken open."

Master Tom unlocked the door, and then making a rapid retreat to one of the windows, he leaped through it almost before Nurse had opened the door.

Nurse held up her hands in dismay. The beautiful drawing-room carpet was soaked with water, and in the midst, crouched on the floor, sat Ettie, with her hair and her fine velvet frock dripping.

"Tom poured water," sobbed Ettie, as Nurse lifted her off the ground.

Nurse rang the bell lustily, and the housemaid came running to see what was the matter.

"What will the mistress say?" said Jane as she looked at the carpet; "I shouldn't wonder if it is spoiled altogether."

"I know what I should say, and what I shall say!" said Nurse; "I shall tell the mistress that if something isn't done to curb Master Tom, he'll be such a plague, that no one will care to see him. I've had such a day with him to-day as I don't intend to have again!"

And Nurse carried Ettie off to the nursery, where she took off her wet clothes, and put her into a warm bed. For Ettie was shivering, though it was a hot day, and Nurse gave out that she thought Master Tom would make his sister quite ill.

Which opinion reached Tom's ears; so he crept upstairs cautiously.

"Nurse, nurse," he said, "is Ettie very bad?"

"She's got a shivering and a shaking, and it may be an inflammation," said Nurse severely, "and what shall you say if, by your mischievous doings, you have hurt your sister!"

Master Tom's soul was filled with terror.

"I don't know how it may end," continued Nurse, "but the best thing you can do is to go downstairs and sit in the dining-room till master and mistress come home. Go away from here."

And Nurse shut the door and bolted it; and Tom, feeling more miserable than he had ever felt in his life, went away, but not to the dining-room.

He went to his own little room, where, with a white face, he watched, till his mother came home. He would tell her everything, and he knew that she would let him just look at Ettie before he went to bed. And he said to himself—

"I will never get into mischief again."

It was a good resolve; let us hope that he kept it.



THE MAIDS AND THE MAGPIE.

Three little maids and a magpie Went out one day for a walk; The little maids hunted for flowers, The magpie did nothing but talk.

"I've three little maidens to care for, Each one from dangers to save— Wild dogs or runaway horses— What a good thing I am brave!"

Soon they were laden with flowers— Bunches of red, white, and blue; Great ox-eyed, snowy-leaved daisies, Harebells, and bright poppies too.

Then they turned homeward together, Magpie still hopping before, Passed through the wood and the village, Came to the rectory door.

There stood a quiet grey pussy— Magpie flew off in a fright. So, after all his vain boasting, Proved himself coward—not knight!

FRANCES HAY.



CHILDREN'S GAMES IN DAYS OF OLD.



Both my little nieces had been unwell. They were not very ill, but they were shut up in one room for a time, and they found it rather difficult to amuse themselves all day long, without having their lessons to do or their brothers to play with. I told them a tale every afternoon, when the light was getting dim, and the fire was poked into a bright blaze; but I came to the end of my store at last.

"Oh, auntie! what shall we do now if you can't tell us any more stories?" said Maggie. "We read such a lot that we really don't want to be read to."

"Let us have a nice talk," I said.

"But what shall we talk about?" asked Edith, looking into the fire, as if she could read something there. "Oh, I know, auntie! tell us about the time when you were a little girl; tell us all about your pet toys."

"Auntie has told us that so often," said Maggie.

"Let us talk about something very old, and yet quite new to both of you," I said. "What do you think the children played with hundreds and hundreds of years ago?"

"Didn't they have dolls?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, they had dolls, but not like yours. They were small, and their arms and legs were fastened on with bits of wire or wood."

"What were they made of?" asked Edith.

"They were generally made of clay or terra-cotta, but sometimes of wood or wax. The hair was often ornamented with rows of beads, and sometimes the dolls were painted all over with very bright colours, to please the little ones to whom they were given. They used to make little toy animals, too, and in Greece they had those small dancing figures which we call marionets."

"Have they found anything besides dolls?"

"Yes; there are some little toys at the British Museum which were found in Greece and Turkey. One of them is a woman kneading bread; another is a black boy sitting on a pony, with a basket of fruit in front of him. If ever you see them, you will think you are very fortunate little children to have such beautiful toys."

"But I don't care about dolls," said Edith, blushing a little, for she had been grumbling because her mother would not buy her a new one. "I'd rather have a big ball. Did those old children play at ball, auntie?"

"Oh, yes! The very oldest we know of—the Egyptian children—had balls of leather and some of painted china."

"I shouldn't like that," remarked Edith. "Fancy Charlie with an earthenware ball! he'd break all the windows in the house."

"I don't suppose they let the children throw the hard balls about much. The Greeks in later times loved ball as much as you do, but they played it in a different way. They used to sing and dance at the same time. Can you think of any word that we have which means dancing, and yet sounds like a game?"

"Like a game of ball, auntie?" said Maggie.

"I know!" cried Edith clapping her hands; "you've just said it, Maggie—a ball. Don't you know people always dance at a ball."

The children were very much pleased to find out that the grown-up people's amusement took its name from one of their toys, and that the short songs, or ballads, which we sing came from the songs which the Greeks sang whilst they played ball.

"Did they play ball in any other way?" asked Maggie.

"Sometimes it was put on the middle line, between the two parties playing, and each party tried to seize it, and throw it over the adversary's goal-line."

"Why, that's like our own football, isn't it, auntie?"

"Yes; the Epikoinos, or common game of ball played by the Greek children, is really the great-great-great-grandfather of our football."

"Had those children any hoops?" asked Edith.

"The Romans had hoops, and even the same kind of hooked stick, but they played very differently from what we do. They tried to snatch the hoop from each other with the hook."

"I'm glad I am not a Roman, then," said Edith, "for I do love a good straight run with my hoop; and that must have been more like fighting than playing. But do tell us some more about those children's games. It seems so strange to think they had balls and hoops like us."

"They had whip-tops, too," I said. "And some people say that the great Emperor Augustus used to play at marbles when he was a boy. You have seen Charlie and Tom play with knucklebones; the Greek children had them too, and sometimes there were numbers on them, and each bone had a different name. Backgammon and draughts were played by the Greeks, and we see by some of the pictures on the tombs in Egypt that the game of draughts was very popular there."

"But hadn't they any nice romping games?" asked Maggie.

"Yes. Blind man's buff was a great favourite with the Greeks and Romans. And they were very fond of playing a game which was known as oyster-shell."

"Do you mean making grottoes? I don't call that romping."

"The children were divided into equal numbers on each side of a line drawn on the ground; one party would be called white, the other black. They then tossed an oyster-shell into the air, and whichever side came upwards, one of that party ran off. If it was the dark, one of the blacks ran away, and one of the whites dashed after him. As soon as Mr. Black was caught, he had to take Mr. White on his shoulders and carry him to the camp, where he remained till all the others were caught. This is the origin of our prisoner's base.'"

"But that is a boy's game," said Maggie. "I want to know about the girls'."

"They played blind man's buff, as I told you just now; then there was 'runaway,' or 'touch,' which was like our game. One girl would shut her eyes whilst the others hid. A place of refuge, or, as we call it, home, was fixed upon, and she had to try and touch some of the others before they could get safe there. Kiss-in-the-ring was very popular too, but the girl used to hold the boy by the ears as she kissed him, and this was called pitcher-fashion."

"Our pitchers have not two handles," remarked Edith.

"No, but they had a handle on each side in those days. Then the Greeks used to play a game like our follow-my-leader, called 'Commands,' and all sorts of funny things were ordered to be done by those who took part in it."

Just then the bell rang for me to go down to dinner.

"Oh, auntie, don't go yet!" cried both children; "we haven't heard half enough."

"I will just tell you one thing more, and then I must go," I said. "There was a very favourite game played hundreds of years ago in Asia, called 'Kings and Subjects.' One day a little boy named Cyrus was playing at it with the children of the village in which he lived. This little boy was about ten years old, and had been adopted by a shepherd. He was chosen king by the boys, and having appointed his ministers, he set each of his companions to do certain work. One boy refused, and Cyrus ordered him to be flogged. The boy was angry, and ran off to tell his father, who was one of the chief men in the place. This man was very indignant that his boy should be beaten by a common shepherd's son, and went to King Astyages to complain. The king sent for Cyrus, and asked him how he dared to treat the son of a great man in that way.

"Cyrus answered bravely that he had only done what was just; he had been chosen king, and he ought to have been obeyed. Astyages was very much surprised by this answer, and began to look more closely at the fearless boy; then he saw that he was very like himself. He sent for the shepherd, and after many questions, he found that this little Cyrus was his own grandson who was supposed to be dead. So the sham king really became the heir to the throne, and in time was a real king."

"Why, auntie, that's as good as a fairy tale!" said Edith.

"Better," I replied; "for it is true, and it teaches us that we ought always to try to do right, even in our games, and then we shall never be ashamed."

E. M. W.



THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c.



CHAPTER IV.—A TERRIBLE SURPRISE.

Mr. Gregory and Mr. Clair arrived at Riversdale early the next day, and Mr. Gregory at once took the management of everything into his own hands. The greater part of the afternoon he was shut up in the library with the lawyer, and when he found the boys in the dining-room, he looked very grave and anxious, and even reproved Mr. Clair for amusing the children by making caricatures, and illustrating some of their story-books. No two people could be more unlike than those two uncles, who would probably be the guardians of Edward and Bertie Rivers. Mr. Gregory was a tall, portly gentleman, with grey hair and keen eager eyes; his voice was loud, his manner always stern and abrupt. People usually feared and respected him more than they loved him; he was always very busy and fussy and important, and had an idea that nothing in London would go on quite right without him. However, Mrs. Rivers had been his only sister; the boys were her children, and he was their nearest relative and natural protector. On his way down he had arranged all his plans: the boys should go to school, and he would let Riversdale till Edward came of age; he knew some one in the City who was just in want of such a place. Mr. Clair, on the other hand, thought very little of the future; he was sorry to see the children look so sad, and did his best to cheer them up; but then, every one said Mr. Clair was the most unpractical person in the world. He was an artist by profession, and had married Mr. Rivers' sister Amy, an offence for which he was never pardoned, either by Mr. Rivers or Mr. Gregory. However, as the marriage proved a very happy one, Mr. Clair did not fret about that, neither was he in the least offended at the coldness and neglect of his wife's relatives. He loved his profession, he loved his wife, he loved his shabby roomy old house in Fitzroy Square: in fact, the chief characteristic of Mr. Harry Clair was that he loved everything and everybody, and now he was quite willing to take to his heart his wife's orphan nephews and niece. But Uncle Gregory was made of sterner stuff, and the young heir of Riversdale, he thought, was a person to be reverenced and treated with deference; besides, he was not either very affectionate or very demonstrative in his manner, therefore the children, who were hungry for love and sympathy, turned to Uncle Clair. The next day Aunt Amy arrived, and both the boys felt they had found a true and loving friend, while Agnes clung to her, trembling and sobbing, for since her uncle's death she had felt strangely alone in the house, just as if she belonged to nobody, and until it was known what provision had been made for her, no one could say what was to become of her. As the days passed Mr. Gregory looked more anxious and worried. A strange gentleman from London remained in the house, and spent several hours every day in the library examining letters and papers; lawyers were constantly coming and going, and at last it became clear, even to the boys, that something was wrong; the gloom deepened on every face, even the servants stood in little groups and talked in whispers; only Uncle Clair seemed unconcerned, though Aunt Amy's eyes often filled with tears as she looked at the boys. But none of them seemed quite prepared for the terrible tidings Mr. Gregory had to unfold. Mr. Rivers had been buried in the family vault at Riversdale very quietly, as his wish had always been. The boys, their uncles, the doctor and lawyer and the strange gentleman, whose name and real business no one seemed to know, attended as mourners, and when they returned to the house Mr. Gregory led the way to the library, and the family lawyer read the will. It was very simple: Riversdale to Edward; five thousand pounds to Bertie when he came of age, and the choice of a profession, the expenses of which were to be paid for out of the estate; and a few legacies to faithful servants and deserving charities; not a word of poor little Agnes, for the simple reason that the will was made several years before she came to Riversdale; not a single word of any person else, except that Mr. Frank Rivers, his brother, Mr. Gregory, his brother-in-law, and Mr. Harry Clair, his brother-in-law, were appointed executors and guardians. The boys' minority was to be spent according to their direction. Every one breathed a sigh of relief: they had all expected much worse; but Bertie, happening to glance at his Uncle Gregory's face, started, and cried suddenly, "There's something else, sir. I'm sure there's something you are keeping from us."



"Yes, my lad, unfortunately there is. When your father made this will his property was his own to bequeath how he liked; since then he has been unfortunate. He has speculated largely in mines that he hoped would prove a success: they have failed; a few days since the utter failure of a bank in which his whole private fortune was invested gave him a shock from which he never recovered. Riversdale is fully mortgaged; the income of the estate will barely pay the interest now, for your father has parted with most of his property. In a word, this is the state of affairs: you must either sell Riversdale, then this gentleman tells me there may be a few thousands to spare for you boys; or you may let the place stand, put your shoulders to the wheel, and work both of you to redeem your home. You are only boys, but some boys with energy, patience, perseverance, and, above all, a cherished object in view, can achieve much. This gentleman tells me that by careful management there may be a trifle saved every year, which should go towards lessening the principal, then every year will be making the interest less too. But the grave question is, what in the meantime is to become of you boys?"

"And Agnes?" Bertie cried; "we must not forget Agnes?"

Mr. Gregory looked rather coldly at the shrinking, timid little girl; she had not entered into his calculations at all. She was not his sister's child, and he really saw no way of helping her.

"I am, as you know, only a London merchant," Mr. Gregory continued, ignoring Bertie's earnest remark, "and I cannot do much for you, but this I can offer: you may both have a place in my office, and, believe me, many lads have found the humblest seat in a London counting-house the road to fortune. Once started in business under my protection, everything will depend on yourselves. Merit, industry, integrity must make their own way. What do you say, Edward? Mind, as your guardian, I have a right to command, but I want to hear what you think."

"I—I don't care for business, Uncle Gregory; I have no taste, no talent for it," Eddie replied humbly, though his eyes flashed. "I always wished to be an artist, and papa promised I should be one day."

"Unfortunately, many of your papa's promises are not easily fulfilled now," Mr. Gregory said coldly. "If you will not enter my office, may I ask what you intend to do, Edward?"

"I don't know, uncle. I had hoped to go to college, and then travel, and study abroad, and become an artist."

"Impossible!" Mr. Gregory interrupted sharply. "Where's the money to come from?"

"I don't know, uncle; I have not had time to think;" and Eddie cast an imploring glance at his Uncle Clair.

"Well, my lad," that gentleman said, laying his hand kindly on Eddie's shoulder, "if you really are determined to become an artist, I will do all I can to assist you on certain conditions, and subject to the approval of your other guardian. You can come and live with me, and I'll teach you the groundwork and details of art: inspiration, genius, success are not mine to bestow; nor shall I send you to a university. In the first place, I can't afford it; in the next, I don't think it necessary; but if I see you have a real love of and taste for art, I'll send you to study abroad for a few years, if possible; but first of all you must work. You can live with me; my house will be your home, your aunt will take care of you. Your mornings must be spent in my studio, your afternoons devoted to continuing your studies; but I want you clearly to understand, lad, that you are not coming to visit or to play, but to learn a profession—and an honourable profession. You will find many things irksome perhaps, and have to perform many unpleasant duties, but if you work with a single heart, and try to make the best of everything, you will find, taking the rough with the smooth of it, that art is a noble profession. But I cannot honestly call it the high road to fortune. Your Uncle Gregory has made his proposal; I have made mine. Think before you decide."

"I will go with you, Uncle Clair," Eddie answered, drawing nearer to the artist. "There is no need to think; I never could be a merchant; I must be a painter. My mind is thoroughly made up."

"As you will, boy. Your Uncle Clair has made you a liberal offer; according to his means, he offers you of his best freely and kindly. I hope you may prove worthy of his trust in you, but as I do not want my sister's son to be entirely dependent on a stranger——"

"Uncle Harry said I could work," Eddie said, drawing still nearer to his favourite relative.

"Yes, Mr. Gregory, the boy must be independent. If I find him useful, I'll pay him a small salary," Mr. Clair replied gently, no way ruffled by Mr. Gregory's cold, scornful tones. "That matter is decided: Edward is to come to us."

"And you?" Mr. Gregory continued, turning to Bertie. "Are you also anxious to become an artist?"

"No, uncle; I want to make my fortune and get back Riversdale."

"Well spoken, my lad. Then you decide to come with me?"

"Yes, please; I should like to be a great, rich, powerful merchant, and own ships and things. But, Uncle Gregory, who's to take care of dear little Cousin Agnes?"

"I am really quite at a loss to know," Mr. Gregory said, frowning. "Has she no friends of her mother's? The child has no claim on me."

"But she has on us," Bertie replied promptly. "She's our cousin; her papa was our Uncle Frank, and we must take care of her."

Mr. Gregory frowned and looked thoughtful, but Aunt Amy had stepped forward, and taken Agnes into her arms. "We'll take care of her," she said, with a loving look at Bertie, who had spoken so bravely for his little cousin, while Eddie had entirely forgotten her. "Don't be afraid, Bertie; while your Uncle Harry and I have a home Agnes shall share it."

"Thank you, aunt; and I hope Uncle Gregory will let me come and see you often. It is so nice to think that we shall all be in London together;" and then Bertie smothered a sigh as he remembered how he disliked cities and loved the country, how he would miss the dear delights of Riversdale, and how he dreaded the duties of an office. But he had plenty of courage, and he resolved not to begin by being unhappy or discontented; "besides, it mayn't be so bad," he said to himself; "and Dr. Mayson declares it's worth a thousand a year to be able to look at the bright side of everything."



Agnes was weeping silently with joy: no other arrangement could have given her half as much pleasure as going back with her Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair; she could surely pick up some crumbs of instruction in the studio, and then she would always be at hand to help Eddie, and little Agnes did not wish for any greater happiness than that. But Eddie did not seem altogether so well pleased by the arrangement. He did not like a rival, either in affection or talent, and he knew that both his Aunt and Uncle Clair loved Agnes, and also that she was a great deal cleverer with her pencil than himself, though she was very shy and nervous, and distrusted her own powers. However, the arrangement was the only one that seemed possible, and the very next day they all returned to London, Agnes and Eddie going in a four-wheeler with their aunt and uncle to Fitzroy Square, Bertie accompanying his Uncle Gregory to a splendid house in Kensington Gardens, where he was rather coldly received by his aunt and cousins, and informed that, for a time at least, it was to be his home.



CHAPTER V.—BERTIE BEGINS LIFE.

It was a long time before Eddie and Bertie Rivers could realise that Riversdale was no longer their home—that they were quite poor lads, dependent on the kindness of their relatives, and that if they wished to win fame and fortune, there was nothing for it but hard work. Bertie was the first to realise the great change in his position. Mr. Gregory was not unkind, but he was stern and cold, and after introducing him to the head clerk (who showed him a corner in the office where he might sit, and explained his work), Mr. Gregory took no more notice of him than of the other lads. After the first day, he found that he would have to go to the City by himself, and return alone; his uncle gave him a second-class season ticket, and desired him to catch the half-past eight train every morning. He also told him where he was to have his dinner, and for the first month desired one of the older clerks to see to him, and pay only a certain sum; then he was to return to Kensington at half-past five every evening, have his tea in the school-room, and read or amuse himself as best he could till bed-time. His aunt, he rarely saw; she was not up when he left in the morning, and always was either entertaining visitors at home or going out to parties in the evening. His two cousins were quite grown-up young ladies, who seldom condescended to notice the little office-boy, as they called him, and two other cousins, about his own age and Eddie's, were away at Eton. So that poor Bertie would not have had a very lively time, had he not possessed a wonderful capacity for enjoyment, and a perfect genius for finding occupation and amusement for himself. He had undisturbed possession of the deserted school-room, and before long it was a sort of little museum. He had a number of pets; then he begged corks from the butler, and manufactured ingenious flower-pots and stands, in which he grew dainty little mosses and ferns; he made cork frames for some of Agnes' pretty little pictures, and his grandest achievement was a boat that he built and rigged entirely himself. Often in the early mornings he would go for a walk as far into the country as he could, and sometimes, before going home in the evenings, he would have a run in the park, and those were all his pleasures. Mr. Gregory scarcely ever thought of him out of the office; there he always observed every one closely, and he saw that Bertie was quiet, attentive, industrious, and, best of all, quick: he never had to be told to do anything a second time. On Saturdays and Sundays he might go and see his brother, provided he returned in good time, for he dined with the family on Sundays; but Eddie was never invited to Gore House, and Uncle Clair was never mentioned without contempt. But to Bertie, the hours spent in the dingy old house in Fitzroy Square were the pleasantest of his life. He was too happy when he got there to notice that Eddie looked gloomy sometimes, but little Agnes was always sweet and happy, and Aunt Amy's welcome was worth anything.

"How I do wish I could come and live here!" Bertie cried one wet afternoon, when they were all gathered round the fire in Mrs. Clair's old-fashioned parlour. "I should not mind being in the office a bit if I could see you all in the evenings; but it is dull at home!"

"It's dull everywhere at times, dear," Aunt Amy said gently, remembering how very gloomy Eddie often looked. "You must try and make the best of it."

"I do, auntie," Bertie replied; "and I suppose I won't have to live with Uncle Gregory always."

"Gore House is pleasanter than Fitzroy Square, I think," Eddie said, a little crossly.

"And Fitzroy Square is ever so much pleasanter than Mincing Lane," Bertie replied. "Why, if you were in our office, Eddie, I don't know what would become of you! You would have to sit on a high stool all day, copying things into big books, or else copying things out of them. Then you have to add up columns of figures till your eyes ache, and if you are even one wrong, Mr. Wilson seems to know just by instinct. I wonder," Bertie added suddenly, "how many columns I shall have to add up, and how many ledgers fill with entries, before I begin to grow rich?"

"I wonder how many pictures I'll have to paint before I begin to grow famous?" Eddie replied; and then, as Aunt Amy left the room, he jumped up impatiently. "I'll never be an artist, Bert, if Uncle Clair keeps me drawing lines and triangles and cubes. Any one can do them; I want to begin to paint!"

"Then why don't you do just as Uncle Harry says; he knows best!" Bertie replied gravely. "I always do exactly as Uncle Gregory says, no matter what it is; and now it's time for me to go back. Oh, I forgot to tell you something: our cousins, Dick and Harry, are coming home in a few weeks; I'll bring them to see you. It won't be so bad when they come, but it is dull at home these long evenings."

"It does me good to see Bertie: he's always so happy and cheerful," Aunt Amy said, after she had kissed him, and watched him a little way down the street. "I wish, Eddie dear, you would try to be contented and happy."

"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"

"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art, and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember, the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work. Just see how Agnes gets on!"

Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself, and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind, gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie, and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune, and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnes begged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian, Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites. Then there were pleasant hours in the British Museum, studying rare old prints and illuminations; visits to the numerous other picture galleries; and, best of all, pleasant hours in other artists' studios, where Eddie heard a good deal of discussion and criticism, and thought himself a very important person. Then there were pleasant evenings at home, when friends dropped in, and the conversation was still of art and artists, of "studies," "designs," "models," and other matters of absorbing interest to painters; and Uncle Clair would sit in his big easy-chair by the fire, and talk in his soft, pleasant voice of the picture he was going to paint for the Academy some day, when he got tired of portrait-painting. He would dwell upon his subject lovingly, describing it in minute detail, and then forget all about it, while some one else went and painted it, and won money and fame thereby. Being of an easy temper, and entirely devoid of ambition, Mr. Clair was unable to sympathise with Eddie's impatience; but though not enthusiastic about art, he had a thorough knowledge of its technicalities, and Eddie might have learned much from him if he would. Meantime, Agnes was studying hard and making wonderful progress, but her aunt one day observed that she was growing thin and pale again, and her sight becoming weaker; so the drawing-materials had to be laid aside, except for one hour a day, and then Agnes and Aunt Amy began visiting the picture-galleries too, and walking through the parks, and enjoying the bright, cold, frosty mornings out of doors, while Uncle Clair worked at his portraits, and Eddie too often sulked in the studio; and Bertie went to his office every day, and in spite of all his efforts, felt very dull and dispirited in the cold school-room during the long winter evenings, cheered only by the thought that his cousins would soon be home, and then he nothing doubted they would spend a great deal of their time with him; for of course he would have a good long holiday too.

CHAPTER VI.—A NEW ARRANGEMENT.

"Uncle Gregory, may I spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square?" Bertie said one morning before the holidays began; and Mr. Gregory looked at him curiously as he repeated his words.

"Spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square? why? Are you not comfortable at Gore House?"

"Yes, sir; but it's just a little too dull sometimes in the evenings," Bertie replied, very humbly.

"Hum! what do you do in the evenings?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Oh, nothing! Well, you may go to Fitzroy Square if you like, and stay till—let me see—stay till the second of January." Bertie's heart gave a great bound, and his eyes fairly sparkled. "I always give my boys a present at Christmas," and Mr. Gregory placed two sovereigns in Bertie's hand, and positively smiled at him. "I'm very pleased with you, my lad, and when you return we will have a new arrangement. You shall have Dalton's place in my office, to help with the correspondence, and I'll pay you a small salary. You can never begin being independent too soon—and there may be other alterations," Mr. Gregory continued, "but we will speak of them when you return. Tuesday, the second of January, mind, and don't be late. You may go at once if you like."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye, uncle," Bertie said, with a radiant smile; and ten minutes after he was hurrying towards the Mansion House Station on his way back to Kensington, fairly hugging his two sovereigns. He was beginning to get rich already; never had he quite so much money of his own before, and as he hurried along, he began wondering what he should do with it. "I know," he said to himself, with a triumphant smile, as he leaned back in his corner: "I'll give Agnes ten shillings and Eddie ten, I'll keep ten for myself, and put ten in the savings' bank. Uncle Gregory says that the way to become rich is to save some of everything, no matter how little. Ten shillings won't do much towards getting back Riversdale, but it's a beginning. I hope Eddie has begun to save too." When he reached home, Bertie found his aunt and cousins just going out for a drive, and they all seemed a little surprised to see him.

"What's the matter? is anything wrong?" Mrs. Gregory asked, stopping him in the hall.

"No, aunt; only I've got leave to spend the holidays at Fitzroy Square. Good-bye, aunt; good-bye, cousins," he added hastily, for he did not want to lose a moment.

"Wait a moment, Bertie," Mrs. Gregory said, more kindly than she had ever spoken before; "John will drive you over in the dog-cart, and I must send your brother and cousin their Christmas gifts; and I hope you will enjoy yourself very much. Good-bye, my dear;" and Mrs. Gregory went into the dining-room to order a hamper of good things to be packed for Fitzroy Square, and then she selected from her enormous store of presents a workbox for Agnes, a capital volume for Eddie—though the book had been intended for her own Dick, but it would be easy to get another copy for him—and a knife for Bertie himself, that gladdened his heart for many a day. The truth is, that when Mrs. Gregory saw Bertie, her conscience smote her. She was not really unkind, but very thoughtless; and ever since her boys came from Eton she had entirely forgotten him. Had he been at home all day, he might perhaps have shared in their pleasures; as it was, he scarcely ever even saw them. When he returned from the City they were generally off to some place of entertainment, and arrived home barely in time for dinner; when that was over, they were off again, their mother never being tired of going about with her two handsome lads, while the equally handsome "office-boy" spent his evenings in the solitary school-room. Still, it should be said, she had not wilfully ignored and neglected Bertie, and when she saw how delighted he was to get away from Gore House, she felt naturally ashamed of herself, and resolved to be kinder to him when he came back, for he was really a very good, quiet boy, who never gave any trouble. Meantime she filled a hamper with dainties, packed up the presents, even sent her love to Uncle and Aunt Clair, and a very handsome card; and half-an-hour after Bertie was driving briskly through the park, looking proudly at the hamper and parcel, and wondering if there were so happy a boy in all London that bright, frosty day. Just as he turned into Fitzroy Square a sudden thought struck him: Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair had not invited him, did not even know he was coming, and the fact damped his spirits for a moment. But he laughed off the uneasy sensation. And before long he was flying up the steps; but ere he could reach the knocker, the door swung open, and he was in Aunt Amy's arms.

"My dear, how glad I am to see you, and so are all of us!" she said, kissing him tenderly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise for us, Bertie!"

"I've come for ten days, auntie," he cried: "that is, if you will have me; but I never thought of asking you till I saw the house; but I may stay, may I not?"

"Stay! I should think so. Why, child, I'm delighted!" and Aunt Amy kissed Bertie again, and then bustled out to see after his things; but John had already deposited them in the hall. Bertie forgot nothing but his own personal belongings. "I am so sorry," he cried, "but I've forgotten my things and my dressing-case. I was so excited, I really did not know what was doing."

"I'll bring them over in the morning, Master Bertie," John said, good-naturedly, though he could not help wondering at his forgetting his wardrobe; but that was because he did not know Bertie, who never forgot his friends, or neglected a single living creature that he once undertook to care for.

"What a delightful surprise this will be for Eddie and Agnes!" Mrs. Clair said, when they were alone in the parlour. "They are out for a walk with Uncle Harry. It was only this morning they were saying what gay times you would have at Gore House now your cousins are at home, and that you would not think of us; but I knew better, Bertie."

"Why, Aunt Amy, I've scarcely ever spoken to my cousins: they're always out enjoying themselves; and I was longing to come here. Was it not good of Uncle Gregory to let me come, and give me such a long holiday? and look, auntie, two sovereigns for a Christmas present, and" (dragging in the hamper and parcel) "Aunt Gregory sent these—a workbox for Agnes, and a book for Eddie, and such a knife for me! And it was she told John to drive me over in the dog-cart. And, best news of all, when I go back to the office there's to be a new arrangement. I'm going into Uncle Gregory's private office and am to have a salary; think of that, Aunt Amy! I'm beginning to make my fortune already, and I dare say I'll be rich before very long, then Eddie and Agnes shall have Riversdale; but I think I'll be a merchant always, and perhaps be Lord Mayor of London some day, like Whittington, though instead of having a favourite cat I've only white mice!"

Aunt Amy laughed almost as heartily as Bertie. It was good to see the boy's happy, honest face, and hear his cheery voice. Whatever Bertie Rivers undertook to do he certainly did with all his heart, and that was the true secret of his happiness. While they were still enjoying the idea of Bertie being a Lord Mayor, the door opened, and Uncle Clair, Agnes, and Eddie entered the room, and it was hard to say whether they were more amazed or pleased to see Bertie established there.

(To be continued.)



THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN AUGUST.



Beds and borders which have been very showy and pretty from the latter part of May to the end of July will now have reached their highest stage of perfection. Such plants as geraniums, calceolarias, lobelias, &c., make an exceedingly small amount of growth all through the summer, but so soon as the dewy nights and often wet days of August and September arrive, they start into growth with the greatest of rapidity. This state of things is, of course, almost an infallible sign that the irksome labour of watering can be dispensed with. At the same time, the plants must on no account be allowed to flag from want of water, and this matter needs very careful attention; it will be often found, even after what seems to be a heavy shower of rain, that the earth is perfectly dust-dry half an inch under the surface. This circumstance is a most misleading one, and a valuable plant is quickly lost through neglecting to take necessary precautions.

* * * * *

Whilst making the strong growth just mentioned, it will be very necessary to properly train the young shoots in such a manner as to ensure a neat and compact growth. All decaying vegetation, such as leaves, stems, &c., must be promptly removed, and that before they cause other leaves, &c., to become equally diseased. Nothing looks so excessively deplorable as to see what was at one time a neat bed of plants in a semi-rotten state. When a stem or leaf of a geranium becomes wholly or partly separated, it rapidly decays; hence the great importance of removing such before it becomes a mass of decomposition. It is the same with the fuchsia and many others. Hoeing and otherwise cleaning the surfaces of beds and borders must be carried out where practicable. Weeds and objectionable vegetation of all sorts should be removed to the rubbish-heap at the earliest possible moment, thereby securing a general tidy appearance to the place.

* * * * *

Almost every day will occasion some new operation to be carried out, and all plants having a naturally rambling habit, such as petunias and verbenas, must be strictly kept within bounds by being pegged down. This can be done by using what are known as "verbena-pins," and these can be purchased at a cheap rate from any local seedsman, or may be easily made by converting pieces of galvanised or any thin wire into sizes and shapes identical with small hair-pins. Each shoot must be carefully secured close to the earth with one of these. It must be remembered that the young shoots are very tender, and that the least clumsy handling will destroy them. Hollyhocks and dahlias, and, indeed, all tall-growing herbaceous plants, will require very careful looking after, in the matter of tying and training more especially. Dahlias and hollyhocks are really the supreme ornaments of the garden during the latter part of the summer and throughout the autumnal months. The latter-named, unfortunately, is extremely liable to the attacks of a virulent form of fungoid disease, which rapidly destroys it. We know of no real preventative, and the only plan we can recommend is to select strong young plants, which are in no degree affected with it, and on the very first appearance of the disease to destroy all those infested.

* * * * *

The rose—that "Queen of flowers"—will, in all probability, require attention; extra strong and gross-growing shoots may be cut back, and train all young growth with the view of securing not only a well-formed specimen, but also a robust growth. As a general rule, the training of roses must be left to a good practical gardener, but we strongly advise all our young friends to pay careful attention to what he does, and to the advice he gives, so that they may themselves at another time perform the necessary operations, with, of course, a considerable amount more pleasure. We may here remark that all young people must never be above taking hints and advice from gardeners, because the power to give such has been almost invariably acquired by long experience, and is given with the best of intentions. And, moreover, few things are more pleasing to a gardener than to see young folk taking a practical interest in his favourite pursuit.

* * * * *

Cuttings may now be made of a great number of plants, and cold frames or shady spots in the garden may be utilised for growing them. As a rule, the separation should be made a little way under the joint. A cutting has been truly defined as a part of a plant with growing appendages at either end, and a space between to keep them sufficiently apart, so that one part shall be in the soil to form roots, and the other in the air to form leaves and stem. They are usually obtained from the young wood, and strike most freely in sand. It is easy to determine whether a shoot be in a proper state for making a cutting: bend it carefully back, and if it breaks or snaps it is in a right condition, and if it bends without snapping it is then too hard. The most general "cut" is a slanting one, but we have invariably found a level one both easiest made and quickest rooted. Whichever is done, let it be done with a sharp knife, and let the cut be "clean," not jagged—this is an important consideration.

* * * * *

The kitchen-gardens of young folk will require but little attention during the month of August, although just the reverse is the case in large establishments. However, all the necessary weeding, raking, and hoeing should be done without fail. Seeds also may be now sown of cress, mustard, and radishes, but they must all be gathered when in a very young state. Seeds of the American Red-stone Turnip or other good sort can be sown in any odd piece of ordinary garden soil. Delicious little turnips will be produced in about five or six weeks very easily, if a small amount of care is given, the chief requirements being water when the weather is dry, thinning-out where they come up very close together, and keeping thoroughly clear of weeds—mere matters of detail, which require but little time to carry out, and which will ensure a very good crop of a most desirable vegetable.



JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE.

By the Author of "Claimed at Last" &c.



Jemmy was five, I seven—two quaint little people we must have looked, as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.

"We mustn't be idle—the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy, turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded—

"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."

"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?" reasoned Jemmy.

"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and thinking myself a very industrious little woman.

Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the cross-roads, we met Uncle John.

"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"

"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.

"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma—and we're not midges, uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.

"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply, putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.

"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."

"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and we ours.

"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not such sillies as to lose ourselves."

"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.

But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them, some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes, we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been reaped and gleaned.

"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.

"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.

"I don't see them," was the reply.

"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them—them's havin' their harvest," saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.

"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.

"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest folk, if ye go far enough."

"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like a miniature man.

"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.

"Yes," was the child's reply.

"And where are they?"

"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of what would befall us ere long.

"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.

"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign clime.

"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.

"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.

Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to the sun, our faces—ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead, and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling. And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely creatures.

"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed near us.

"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.

Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl—at least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung to each other.

"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.



"Wolves don't live in England," said I.

"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Caesar, felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of terror, as did he.

In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest, just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting up his only friend, his trusty dog Caesar, at home. Their stealing away on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress, and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Caesar, broke loose from home, and come to find him; Caesar's fight with a wolf which followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.

"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling, wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.

"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.

But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery; we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.

And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling, moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril. Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood; now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet, scudding on as before.

On, on, still on—glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William, and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on—whither?

Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now—as in the story of little William—there stretched before us a stream of water. What could we do?

I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we had well-nigh rushed.

Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me, only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon us, like some giant in the gloom.

"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.

"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did, and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."

"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves—how could I when there are no wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.

"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.

"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question—what have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"

"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed it, and so—and so we forgot and were lost."

"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into something like a turban, Ben trotting on before—"Ah, children, little feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown. Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."



MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VII.—ABOUT THE BATS.



Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed. Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.

Until the time of the illustrious Linnaeus the bats had been more or less a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the German name for the creature, Fledermaus, or fluttering mouse, points to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."

Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.

As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood. Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.

In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a "constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats, according to Mr. Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These "chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.

The margined fruit bat—so called from the white border that surrounds its ears—works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds. They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa, and Australia.

Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British bats—the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,—feed upon insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat, which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date, more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their powers.

JAMES A. MANSON.



A GAME OF CRICKET IN ELFLAND.

A FAIRY STORY.

It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."

It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing at the gander, said—

"Goosey, goosey, gander, Whither shall we wander, Up the hill, or through the vale, Or in the pinewoods yonder."

And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied promptly—

"Pinewoods."

And a goose in the distance cried out—

"Make haste then."

Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at both the birds.

"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and

Away we'll sail Down the river in the vale, Away to the pinewoods, away, away."

Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was shining.



How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be gathering some flowers growing in the water.

As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.

"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.

"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.

"It's all the same," answered the gander.

"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."



"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."

"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.

"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to them in vain."

"I don't understand," said Felix.

"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I leave you to take care of yourself."

So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the Pine Queen.

As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds, and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very glittering and dazzling altogether.

She looked at Felix, and then said—

"Two little maidens winding wool all day, If you want to see them please to walk this way."

"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine Queen along the path through the trees.

It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.

"We wind, we wind till we've wound enough Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."

sang the little maidens.

"What for?" asked Felix.

"For cricket-balls we work away, With which pine-cricket players play."

sang the maidens.

"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.

"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are brushes, and we make no scores."

"It must be a queer game," said Felix.

"We think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught out."



"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a game."

The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.

"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.

"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was everything seemed so very strange to him.

"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care, Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne. Roses in flower-pots put round here and there, And the roses must all be full-blown."



The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.

"We roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.

"We scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.

"We play with bats," Felix went on.

"We play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our players in full costume."

Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle, as a salutation to the Queen.

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.

"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the balls well?"

Felix stared at him.

"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good cricketer."

"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."

The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes popped up their heads and laughed—

"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"

There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got an answer.

"What are they laughing at?"

"At you," answered the boy.

"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the magpies, which were chattering.

"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."

Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground, saying—

"Thank you! thank you!"

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen knew what he was saying, for she said—

"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground, and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy was about to throw.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen—

"Throw, throw, hit, hit! No danger, not a bit."

But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at the snow-covered patch of land.

"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to be seen when the regular game begins."

And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.

"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."



Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground, frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.



Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players, brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours whirling past him.