"A smack-boy! that's a queer name," said Ben, laughing.

"Ah, ain't it? and there's a double meanin' in it too, for I can tell you the smack-men ain't very slow for to give the youngsters a knock over the head, or a smack of the face, or a rope's-endin'. But as it's Yarmouth we're bound for, you will soon see what our fisheries are really like; and there, too, you'll find our men hard at it in tarpaulins or canvas frocks, and wet through and through perhaps, and not much time to get a drop of hot coffee nor a bit to eat. Think of that, Benny."

Ben looked serious when he heard this, and it was not till they had taken their seats in the railway-carriage, and were rattling along far beyond the houses and amidst the trees and fields of the country that he began to talk again.

"Don't the boys that go fishing like their business?" he asked.

"Well, you see," said his uncle, "they've got to like it, because when they're once in it they can't well turn to anything else. It's a rough, hard life, especially for the young 'uns, Benny. Not so hard as it used to be, though. I can remember when I was a younker we used to go fishing for cod off the Dogger Bank, which is a great ridge of hills at the bottom of the sea, not far from the coast of Holland. We'd be out for a good while, and not have much to eat except cod b'iled or cod fried in a pan; and if there was much sea on, and the wind blowin' a gale, it was a hard matter to cook it at all. Now the cutters bring us some of our meat and vegetables and soft bread; but still the boys have a hard time.

"If it's the herring-boys, they have to watch the floats—the big, round things that you'll see at the edge of the nets, Ben—to keep them near the top of the water; and whether it's drift-nets or trawling-nets, they must take their share of hauling in and of playing out, night or day. More than that, too: any sort of work is boy's work, whether it's to swab the decks or to take a turn at frying fish in the cooking-galley, or paying a boat with tar, or helping to take a boat-load of fish off to the cutter in bad weather, when the waves tosses so that the fish, being loose, may slide, so that one side of the boat may heel over, and before you know where you are you're capsized and struggling in the dark, cold sea, with a singing in your ears, and the faint cries of your mates just as bad off as you are."

"But, of course, it isn't always so bad," said Ben.

"Well, no; and there's times when we've no call to grumble. Such weather as this, when there's green sea and blue sky, and bright sun overhead and clear moonlight nights, with fresh and light breezes to take the sail. Nothing could seem more pleasant than the life of a fisherman if it was always like that; but then, this isn't exactly fishing weather, Ben, and however fine it may be the boys haven't any idle time of it.

"There's always ropes to splice, or sails or nets to mend, or something to clean or to scrape, or to pay down with tar; and if there's any good in going out at all the nets must be looked to and lowered and hauled in. Even on Sundays there's things to be attended to by the lads, and though I don't say as 'ow boys is made to do useless work, yet, when they're there on that day, they toil pretty hard for little 'uns.

"And now, Ben, if you don't object, I'm going to smoke a bit o' bacca, and then you can rest your tongue a bit, if you like."

But Ben had a hundred more questions to ask about the fishing-boats, or "smacks," as they are called, and how many of them there were, and how many fish they caught at a time; and his uncle, who settled comfortably down and lighted his pipe, told him a great deal about them.

And Ben was surprised to hear that there are many thousands of men and boys who go out to catch the millions and millions of all sorts of fish that are sent to the markets in the large towns of England by railway nearly every day. He had been to Billingsgate Market in Thames Street, and to the new fish-market in Smithfield, and had seen the great piles of cod-fish, and skates, and soles, and plaice, and the boxes and baskets of white fresh herrings, and the beautiful shining mackerel, but he did not know how great was the number of herrings, and pilchards, and cod-fish that were also salted and put in barrels to be sent from England to foreign countries. He knew what bloaters were, of course, and had heard that they were herrings just a little salted and smoked over burning wood, but how was he to know that at Yarmouth there was a great fleet of herring-boats, and that in the cold November weather they went far out to sea in the mist and rain, and were night after night hauling in the great nets full of glistening silver fish?

His uncle was the owner of two smacks, but he did not go herring-fishing. He was what is called a trawler, and he and his men and boys used a different sort of net. The herring-nets are called drift-nets, and catch the fish that swim in shoals, which means a large number together, near the surface of the sea; but the trawl-nets are shaped like a long purse or bag open at the mouth. These nets go to the bottom of the sea, and in them are caught cod, whiting, soles, and other fish that lie at the bottom, and swim deep down in the water.

When Ben's uncle was a smack-boy the trawlers, after they had caught as many fish as they could carry in a deep well in their boat, used to sail away as fast as they could to Billingsgate Market, or to some place where people would buy their fish and send it by railway to London; but now the old fisherman said they had much bigger vessels, and would stay out sometimes for four or five weeks tossing about in the North Sea, or, as it is sometimes called, the German Ocean, and dragging the great trawl-nets night and day.

"Not much time to play, Ben, my boy," said the bluff old fellow. "Sometimes not too much to eat either, except fish and biscuit, and not much room to sleep in when you turn in to your hard wooden bunk and pull a rough blanket over you to keep out the cold."

"But you don't keep the fish long on board, do you, uncle?" asked Ben.

"No, no, my lad. A fast-sailing boat that we call a cutter comes and goes from shore to the fleet of trawlers, and takes the fish off; backwards and forwards it goes, and away goes the fish directly it's sold—up to London, or elsewhere, where there's millions of mouths waiting for it. Ah! I well remember when the smack-boys, or the fisher-boys, would have to help to take the fish off in a boat to the cutter on a dark night, and many a time the poor fellows would get capsized, and afterwards go down in that cold North Sea. Hard work, my lad, hard fare; and in danger half the time. Things are better now, perhaps; but we're out longer a good deal, and there's a big fleet that belongs to a company that keeps the men and the boys out for weeks at a time, and fetches all that they catch, so that by the time they get ashore the poor fellows are pretty near worn out. Of course the cutter takes out food for 'em, but it can't take 'em out warmth and dry clothes, and snug beds, and every year there is some of the vessels lost, and perhaps all on board lost too."

"Well," says Ben, looking very solemn; "there's some that get lost on land too. They fall ill or get a bad cough, or have some sort of accident with machinery or something, you know, uncle; but we're obliged to work all the same."

"Well said, my boy Ben," said the fisherman. "The thing is to do our duty, whatever it may be, and to pray that we may be made able to do it. Some of our smack-boys go to school when they're at home, and there's a mission-room where they go to hear and to read the Bible, and have teas and singing, and various treats, and some fun too sometimes. Yes, things are better than they used to be in my young days."

It was a long journey to Yarmouth, but Ben greatly enjoyed it, and when he and his uncle got there they went at once to have a look at the sea.

Such a great broad expanse of soft yellowish sandy beach, where the great waves came rolling in! such a long pier where people were fishing with hooks and lines, and sometimes catching a codling or a whiting! "I'll go and have a try at that by-and by," said Ben; "but what are those great wooden towers that look like a sort of big puzzle stuck up on end?"

"They're the look-out towers, Ben. Now, do you see that cutter over yonder, coming into shore with its big sail like a sea-bird's wing? Keep your eye on it for a minute, and then look at the top of that tower, and you'll see that there are men there that have got their eyes and their telescopes on it too. Now do you see these carts coming along, and do you see those black barges floating ready to pull out when the cutter comes near in shore? The cutter will unload a rare lot of fish. The men on the look-out tower saw her coming, and signalled to the barges and the carts to be ready. That shipload of fish will be off by a special train to-night, Ben; and if you were in London you might, if you could afford it, have some of it."

"But where's the herrings—the Yarmouth bloaters, you know?" asked Ben.

"Ah, well! this isn't the time to see so much of them. It's in the winter you see the herring-smacks come in at the herring-wharf over yonder, and hundreds of baskets full of the shining fellows brought ashore and sold, and sent off fresh in no time; while others are kept here to turn into bloaters, or red herrings, or kippers. Those sheds in the yard over there are where hundreds of women and girls set to work to salt or pack the herrings in barrels; the bloaters are what we call cured in the herring-office."

"That's a funny name," said Ben.

"Yes; and it's funny what goes on there. The herrings are brought ashore, are shot out of the baskets on to the stone floor, shovelled into big tubs to be washed, and then threaded through the gills on to long laths of wood. Then these laths with the rows of herrings strung on 'em are hung in frames from wall to wall of a top room, like a barn with a stone floor, and a hole in the roof. When that room's full of herrings all hanging in rows—thousands and thousands o' fish—a fire of oak chips and logs is lighted on the floor, and the smoke going all among the herrings, and only by degrees getting out of the hole in the roof, the fish are smoked; and them that's salted first is red herrings, and them that's only just touched dry with the smoke like are bloaters.

"So now we'll get down to our lodging, and have some supper, Ben; and so to bed, that we may be up early in the morning; but don't you dream about being a smack-boy, or you won't sleep at all sound, I can tell you."

/* THOMAS ARCHER */



THEIR WONDERFUL RIDE.



As I passed down the pathway I heard a merry pair Shout from behind the garden wall, "Let's ride the old brown mare."

With whip and voice I heard them Urge on the maddened steed, Whilst to my frantic warnings They paid no single heed.

Then quickly down the garden, Trembling with fear and fright, And bursting open wide the door I saw this curious sight:—

Upon a wooden railing That ran down from the wall, Two little folk were riding, Quite safe from fear or fall.

"Why, auntie, what's the matter?" Shouted the merry pair; "You cannot think what fun it is To ride the old brown mare!"



OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S DREAM OF THE HUGE TREE.

A Mighty king lay stretched upon a magnificent bed of gold. His head rested upon pillows of crimson satin, beautifully embroidered with gold, and studded with golden spangles and precious stones. Over him was a coverlet of crimson satin, also adorned with gold: and everything in his chamber was in keeping with the richness of his couch.

Costliest delicacies and oldest wines had weighed down his supper-table, round which had sat some of earth's grandest and most powerful lords. He had been lulled to sleep with soft strains of sweetest music. Ever-watchful attendants stood by him, as he slept, and cooled his brow with gentle breezes stirred up to life by fairy fans. His last thoughts had been of his vast wealth, his uninterrupted prosperity, and his great power. He was king of kings, and the whole world trembled at his feet. He had attained to the highest pinnacle of glory. Earth had yielded to him its most costly treasures, and had nothing more that she could give. Men had profusely showered upon him their highest flatteries, and addressed him in humblest language.

Yet his sleep was troubled. His brow grew dark, and the colour deepened upon his cheeks. He breathed heavily and moved nervously on his luxurious bed, which, grand as it was, could not give him rest. Hundreds of years afterwards it was said of the bruised and bleeding martyr Stephen, that he sank peacefully to rest amid a shower of stones, and the yells and hoots of bitterest enemies; for in all circumstances He can give "His beloved sleep." But this flattered son of pomp and splendour, this mighty king, upon whose very breath seemed to hang the fate of nations, tossed restlessly upon his bed of gold and purple. No, he knew nothing of that joy and peace that pass all understanding, which the world can neither give nor take away, and which has converted many a fiery furnace into a shadow from the heat.

Over those who love Him God watches in the night, and holds sweetest communion with them, as through the long dark hours they lie upon their beds; but to the wicked He sends no thought of comfort or consolation. He does not soothe them to rest with the remembrance of His loving care. And often He troubles them with dark thoughts and unwelcome dreams, that banish true repose.

So this wicked king, Nebuchadnezzar, who lived for himself, and not for God, who enriched himself at the expense of others, who closed his ears to the cry of the fatherless and the widows, and who passed by judgment and justice and mercy, was perplexed with a mysterious dream.

He saw, growing in the middle of the earth, a mighty tree, which reared its lofty head to the skies, and, on every side, sent out boughs to the ends of the world. Large bright green leaves thickly covered its branches, from which hung, in unheard-of abundance, great clusters of fruit. The beasts of the field found under it a grateful shadow from the heat of the burning sun. The fowls of the air came and built their nests in its leafy branches, and there laid their eggs, and reared their young, and joyously sang out their gladness. All was bright and beautiful; and the sleeping king, as he gazed wonderingly at the giant tree, admired its grandeur and its greatness.

To what length of days, he thought, might this majestic tree not attain! and how would the earth be able to hold it if it should go on increasing in size?

But suddenly there was a fluttering in the air; and down from the bright heavens came "a watcher and an holy one," who was terrible in his strength, and whose face shone like the sun. Judgment, and not mercy, was written upon his forehead. And oh, his voice! How dreadful it sounded to the startled king, who would gladly have closed his ears to it.

"Hew down the tree," the Angel cried, with a voice of thunder, his eyes, which were like balls of fire, flashing with righteous indignation. "Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit. Warn the beasts to get from under it, lest they be crushed with its weight. And bid the little birds leave its branches. But do not destroy the tree. Leave the stump of his roots in the earth. Let it be wet with the dew of heaven; and let his portion be with the beasts in the grass of the earth. Let his heart be changed from man's, and let a beast's heart be given unto him; and let seven times pass over him."

What a strange dream for a king to have! And how troubled his countenance was when he rose from his bed! His eyes moved restlessly from one object to another, telling of a mind ill at ease. His limbs shook; and he seemed many years older than on the previous day. His grandly-arrayed lords came round him as before, with pleasant smiles and flattering speeches. But he could heed none of them. Whatever he did, he could not give his mind to affairs of state. Try to control them as he would, his thoughts would wander back to the towering majestic tree, to its great thick trunk, its leafy branches, its rich profusion of delicious fruit affording sustenance to all the world, and to that bright but awful being who had come from heaven and pronounced over the tree that dread sentence.

What if the tree should mean himself? Who in all the wide world but himself could be compared to it for strength and majesty? Who but himself had attained to such power and magnificence? And oh! what if all should be taken away from him? What if the widely-spreading tree should indeed be cut down, its glory and its beauty and its strength alike gone?

How he wished he knew the meaning of his dream! And how anxiously he consulted the wise men who were summoned to his presence! Magicians, astrologers, Chaldeans, and soothsayers, all the wise men of Babylon came to his palace to hear his dream, and to try to tell the meaning of it.

But the effort was in vain. The dream was from heaven, and not all the vaunted wisdom of this world could interpret it. The meaning of it could only be told by one inspired by the Spirit of God who had sent it.

Then Daniel, the Jewish captive, to whom Nebuchadnezzar had given the name of Belteshazzar, or a layer up of things in secret, was brought. Not long before he had not only told the king the meaning of a most mysterious dream that he had had, but he had also recalled the dream itself, which Nebuchadnezzar had forgotten. And as an interpreter of dreams and the wisest of mortals, his fame had spread far and wide; and Nebuchadnezzar could see that the Jewish prophet had a wisdom far surpassing that of his wisest and most skilled magicians.

So the strange dream of the mighty tree cut down was told to the Jewish captive, and the usually calm face of the prophet grew dark and troubled as that of the king.

"Do not be distressed by the dream or its interpretation, Belteshazzar," Nebuchadnezzar said in his gentlest tones; for he saw that the dream meant something bad, and that Daniel did not like to tell him. "Show me the interpretation."

"My lord," the Jewish prophet replied sadly, "it is a dream that will please only your enemies; and all those who hate you will rejoice at it." And then he went on to explain to the king that the great tree that he had seen towering towards heaven, and spreading itself over the whole earth, with its fresh green leaves and abundance of fruit, with its thousands of beasts taking refuge under its spreading branches, and its myriads of feathered songsters nestling amongst them, was himself. "It is thou, O king," he said; "for thy greatness is grown, and reacheth unto the heavens, and thy dominion to the end of the earth."

By the coming down of the holy watcher, and his commanding the tree to be despoiled of its glory, and hewn down, Daniel showed the king was meant his own humiliation. He should be driven from the abodes of men, his dwelling should be with the beasts of the field; he should eat grass like an ox, and his body should be wet with the dew of heaven.

But he was not to be for ever removed from his place. The malady was to continue only for seven years; for as the stump of the tree was left in the earth, so that it might some day put forth its branches again, and once more abound in foliage and fruit, so his terrible affliction should only last until he should acknowledge that it was not by the strength of his own arm, but by the power of God that he had been raised to so great a height of glory; that the kingdoms of the earth belong to God, and that He raises up whom He will to govern them.

"Oh, learn this lesson in time, mighty king," Daniel pleaded; "that supreme power belongs alone to the living God. Humble thyself before Him. Put away every iniquity; and begin to show mercy to the poor and the defenceless, who have hitherto cried to thee in vain. For it is in mercy that God has sent thee the dream, to show thee how thine heart has been lifted up, and to give thee an opportunity of averting the punishment by timely and sincere repentance."

Oh, if Nebuchadnezzar had but heeded the warning dream! If he had but taken his kingdom and his glory, his riches and his honour, and laid them all at the footstool of the great King in Heaven, acknowledging that they were all from Him, and must be held and used for Him; what great trouble he might have saved himself, and all those who looked up to him! How soon, by humbling himself, and how effectually he might have turned aside the threatened judgment! How the great and compassionate God above would have rejoiced to show mercy! And how the holy angels would have sung for joy over the repentant king, and the blotting out of his great sin, and the withholding of judgment, and the showing of mercy!

But the dream was unheeded. The warning was lost.

The great and mighty king having conquered all his enemies round about, and extended his power to the utmost limits, devoted his attention to the improving and embellishing of his capital. And as he saw Babylon increasing in glory and beauty, his heart became still more lifted up. He had done it all himself, he thought. He was so great, and so wise, and so glorious a king, that he had no need of divine aid. Such a thing as being in any way dependent upon a higher power never entered his mind, and by very severe means he had to be taught the needful lesson that might have been learned from the dream that had in mercy been sent to warn him.

While surveying the glorious city from the roof of his palace, and congratulating himself upon the dignity to which he had attained, a voice, like that which he had heard in his dream, fell from heaven, telling him that his kingdom was taken from him, and that he should meet the fate of which he had been forewarned by the cutting down of the huge tree.

And so it was.

That same hour, the terrible malady predicted by Daniel came upon him. He lost his reason, and became as a wild beast. His costly crown of gold and pearls and diamonds was taken from him, and he was driven from his throne. For seven years he lived with the beasts of the field, stooping down to the earth and eating grass like an ox, and drinking with his mouth of the flowing streams. The rude winds blew upon him, ruffling the hair that had been so carefully kept, and the scorching sun tanned his face, once so expressive of majesty. The hairs of his neglected beard became like eagles' feathers; and his uncut nails grew like birds' claws. He noted no difference between the changing seasons; and when the sun sank in the west, he lay down to sleep upon the hard ground, like the beasts, his companions, and his body was wet with the falling dew.

At the end of seven years another opportunity of repentance was offered to him, and after so severe a lesson he gladly accepted it. His reason returned, and instead of taking glory to himself, he ascribed it to God, acknowledging that He rules above all.

So the dreadful affliction was removed, his kingdom was restored to him; and his glory and honour and majesty were greater even than before.

As he once more lifted up his head amongst his nobles, he said humbly, "The great God of heaven is King; and those who walk in pride He is able to abase."

H. D.



BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

25. How many times is the Lord's Prayer recorded?

26. Where are we told that departure from evil is understanding?

27. From what words is it supposed that St. Paul, like Elijah, visited Mount Sinai, there to hold communion with God, before entering upon his apostolic work?

28. Where are we told that he who rules his own spirit is better than he who takes a city?

29. Where is the Eastern custom of gathering the tears of mourners in tear-bottles alluded to in the Psalms?

30. Where is it said of the departed that they have "fallen asleep"?

31. How is the passing away of the Old Testament saints spoken of?

32. Which of the Evangelists tell us of Christ's offering three successive prayers in Gethsemane, on the night of His agony, and of His three times finding the disciples sleeping?

33. Where, in the New Testament, is David called "David the King"?

34. How many days elapsed after Noah's entering into the ark before the flood came? And who shut the door?

35. How many armour-bearers had Joab?

36. What was done with the sword of Goliath?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (13-24. See p. 84).

13. St. Matt. xii. 49, 50; St. Mark iii. 33-35; St. Luke viii. 21.

14. In Prov. xvii. 17.

15. In Neh. ix. 17; Ps. ciii. 8, cxlv. 8; Joel ii. 13; Jonah iv. 2; Nah. i. 3.

16. From St. Luke xi. 1.

17. In Prov. xv. 18, xxvi. 21, xxix. 22.

18. In Prov. xvi. 32.

19. In St. Luke iii. 38.

20. From St. Matt. i. 5, 6.

21. In Gen. ix. 13.

22. In Rev. iv. 3, x. 1.

23. The names of the women are Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James and Joses, the mother of Zebedee's children, Joanna, the wife of Chuza (Herod's steward), and Susanna. (St. Matt. xxvii. 55, 56; St. Luke viii. 2, 3.)

24. In Ps. cxxi. 4.



The Water-Carriers of the World

In the hotter countries of the world, in which water is the very mainstay of life, a number of persons drive a considerable trade in the sale of that liquid. Most of us know what a trouble it is to get water during a severe winter when the pipes are all frozen. Suppose such a state of things to be usual the whole year round, and you will perhaps understand the difficulties of families in some tropical lands with regard to what is to them—in a sense almost more than it is to us—a necessary of existence. Thus it is that the water-carrier is so important a personage in these warm climes. His figure is as common in the streets as our milkman, though he is generally a very much more picturesque-looking individual.

In the illustration on this page we have grouped together portraits of the water-carriers of different countries, and it will be seen that, in respect of their quaint attire and the curious vessels in which the water is carried, there is no reason for surprise that they have engaged the brush of many painters.



No. 1 represents a water-carrier of one of the provincial towns of France. With his cocked hat and queer staff, and his water-skin strapped like a knapsack on his back, he reminds one not a little of an old soldier. His next door neighbour's nationality is a good deal more obvious. Whose can that jaunty, lazy air be but that of the gay, ease-loving water-carrier of Madrid? With earthenware pail hanging from each arm, turban on head, bright-coloured waistband, and cigarette in mouth, you can tell at a glance that he belongs to a sunny country where leisure and pleasure go hand in hand. In No. 3 we find the representation of the Peruvian water-carrier. He does such good business that he can afford to keep a donkey to carry the water, which is contained in a big leather sack that lies like a bolster across the animal's back. I am afraid he is not so mindful of Neddy as he ought to be, and that some of our own costermongers could teach him a lesson or two in the humane treatment of his patient beast of burden. Leaving Peru and South America, and travelling to the northern continent, we are introduced in No. 4 to a water-carrier of Mexico. Notice how he carries the water in two odd-shaped vessels suspended from his head by means of a broad band. In No. 5 will be observed an Egyptian fellah woman carrying a jar of water on her head. Compared with her, the Norwegian peasant in No. 6 looks prosaic and businesslike. The last two are not sellers of water, but are merely taking home a supply for their own households. How fortunate those towns are where the water is conveyed by pipes from house to house!



BURIED ALIVE;

OR, LOVE NEVER LOST ON A DOG.

"Heigho!" sighed Thusnelda, as she lay on the straw not far from the spot where her three beautiful puppies were curled up in a heap. "Heigho!" she sighed, "I do hope dear master will not deprive me of any more of my darlings. Let me see now, there were ten of them originally. Yes, ten, for I counted them over and over again fifty times a day, and now there are only three. Heigho!" Here she glanced round towards these sleeping beauties in the straw, and her lovely eyes were brimming over with motherly affection and intelligence.

"To be sure," she added, "master has kept the three prettiest, that is some consolation, and the others have all gone to good homes, where I doubt not their virtue will be duly appreciated, though I shall never, never see them more."

Thusnelda was a dog of German birth and extraction. In truth, she was a Dachshund, and a high-bred one too, and both in this country and in Berlin she had taken many honours at dog shows.

Some might not have thought Thusnelda's body shapely. She was long and low, with a red jacket as smooth and soft as satin; so low in stature was she, that her chest almost touched the ground, and her fore legs were turned in at the ankle, and out at the feet—the latter indeed were almost out of all proportion, so big and flat were they; but no one could help admiring Thusnelda's splendid head, her broad intelligent skull, and her long silky ears and gazelle-like eyes. If ever eyes in this world were made to speak love and affection and all things unutterable, those eyes were Thusnelda's.

She got up at last and went and stood over her darlings. She gazed at them long and fondly, wondering and thinking what future they had before them. She held her head so low as she did so, that her splendid ears trailed and touched them. They moved in their sleep, they kicked and gave vent to a series of little ventriloquistic barks as puppies have a habit of doing; then the mother licked them fondly with her soft tongue, and therefore one awoke. It was Vogel. The names of the other two were Zimmerman and Zadkiel. As soon as Vogel awoke she gave a joyful wee bark of recognition, which aroused both her tiny brothers, and the whole three rushed at once to their good mother.

"Ah, my dears," she said; "you are very fond of me at present, I dare say, but you will get to be different as you grow older, I expect. However, I must make the most of you while you are young. Why, let's see, you will be six weeks old tomorrow, and you can lap every bit as well as I can. Yes, and it's quite a treat to see you lapping, and master thinks so too."

"Master" did.

"Master" was very fond of dogs, and he doted on good ones. He used to come and admire these three puppies by the hour. The milk he gave them was of the freshest and creamiest, and he even thickened it with a little boiled flour. Whenever Vogel and Zimmerman and Zadkiel saw him coming with the milk-pan they expressed their joy by saucy little barks and yelps, and made a headlong but awkward rush towards him, and when he put down the pan they weren't content to simply put their heads over the side and lap. No, they must have their fore feet in as well, although their mother often told them it was only little piggies that fed in that fashion. But Vogel was worse even than Zimmerman or Zadkiel, because she used to insist upon getting in the dish bodily. Only Vogel was master's favourite, and he used to take her kindly out of the dish again and place her by the side of it, and try to show her how to lap like a lady.

Vogel was the prettiest, Zimmerman the biggest and sauciest, and Zadkiel by far the wisest of the trio.

In the picture with which our artist has presented us, Vogel is standing in the centre, Zimmerman is lying on the left, while the far-seeing, deep-thinking Zadkiel is sitting on the right.

An impudent sparrow has just alighted on the puppies' pan, and is coolly helping himself to what has been left from breakfast.

"Delicious!" the sparrow is saying. "I'm the king of all the birds in the creation. Everybody admires me, I build in the choicest apple-trees, and feed on the daintiest food. Farmers cut down their hay that I may make my nest, farmers' wives kill the fowls that I may find feathers to line it, and even the cows cast their coats to aid in the same good work. Why, you little puppies, don't you admire me also, you ridiculous-looking fluffy things?"

"I admire your profound impudence," Zimmerman is saying.

"I am astonished at your daring audacity," Vogel is remarking.

But Zadkiel is thinking. "I dare say," he says at last, "that even such a wretched mite of a bird as you must have been meant for some good purpose. To pick up the grubs and the green flies perhaps."

"Absurd," cries the sparrow, and off he flies in disgust.

Then the pups forget all about it, and begin to lick each other's noses and toes—I was nearly saying toeses—in the funniest way imaginable. After that they go in for one of the most terrible sham fights that has ever been fought.

"You'll be a badger, Zadkiel," cries Vogel, "and Zimmerman and I will worry you to death."

So at it they go pell-mell. Zadkiel is hemmed up in a corner of the cart-shed, and his brother and sister make pretence, to tear him limb from limb. Zadkiel defends himself gallantly, but has to succumb at last, for he is fairly rolled on his back, and in a few minutes is, figuratively speaking, turned inside out. Then they espy the good-natured admiring face of their mother, peering at them over the corner of the straw, and at her they all rush. They make believe that she is a fox, and her life is accordingly not worth an hours' purchase.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughs some one not two yards away, and looking up they espy "master," who all unknown to them has been enjoying the fun for the last half-hour.

"You dear, delightful little pets," he says, "why, you are as lively as kittens, and as healthy and happy-looking as the summer's day is long. You will do your mother credit yet. Your legs are straight, but work will bend them into the right shape, then you'll be able to creep into any rabbit's hole in the country,

"To beard a badger in his drain, A wild wolf in his lair."

So in order to make these little rascals' legs bend to the proper shape, master, as soon as they got a little older, used to bury bones for them deep down in the garden earth, and get the whole trio to scrape and find them.

This was grand fun, and by the time the puppies were six months old they were just as shapely as the mother was, or as unshapely, if you like it better, for after all perhaps the beauty of their bodies consisted in their ugliness.

It isn't every one who knows how to rear puppies properly, but this master did. He fed them on bread and milk, and broth and scraps of meat four times a day, he never forgot to give them plenty of the freshest of water, and as for straw, why they could at any time bury themselves in it. But this was not all, for he made the little things his constant companions, when he himself went out for exercise. And didn't they scamper and didn't they dance, and frolic, and run! Many a rat, and stoat, and polecat had reason to wish them far away, I can tell you.

Few people know how wonderful, intelligent, and sagacious a dachshund can become under proper treatment. But there must be system in the treatment. The whip must be hidden away out of sight entirely, the animal must be treated like a reasoning being, as indeed it is; it thus soon comes to know not only every word spoken to it, but your will and your wishes from your very movements and looks.

A dog never forgets kind treatment, and whenever he has the chance he acts a faithful part towards a loving master. I could tell you a hundred true stories illustrative of that fact, but one must here suffice. Had you seen the dachshund puppies then as they are represented in our engraving, brimful of sauciness, daftness, and fun, and seen them again two years after as they appeared when accompanying their beloved master in his rambles, you certainly could not have believed they were the same animals. They were still the same in one respect, however, for Vogel was still the beauty and Zadkiel the philosopher.

One day their master went out to hunt in the forest. It was far away in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. He had gone to shoot deer, but as he was returning in the evening after an unsuccessful stalk, he caught a glimpse of a fox disappearing round the corner of an old ruin.

"Ho! ho!" he cried. "You are the rascal that steals my ducks. We'll have you if we can."

But the fox had taken at once to his burrow in the ruin. It was a very ancient feudal castle, only just enough of it remaining to give an idea of the shape it once had been, for regardless of the respect that is due to antiquity the keepers had carted away loads of the solid masonry to build their houses, leaving the place but a beautiful moss-grown chaos.

"Watch," was all the master said to his dogs as he crept in through an old window into the donjon keep. It was a foolhardy thing to do, for the stones were loose around it, but he had many times got in there before, and why, he thought, should he not do so now. Besides, this was Reynard's favourite den, and he hoped to shoot him in it. But the fox had improved on his dwelling since the hunter had last paid him a visit; he had excavated another room. Stone after stone the hunter began to pull down, when suddenly there was a startling noise behind him, and he found himself in the dark.



Buried alive! Buried in a dungeon in which there was hardly room to turn. The situation is too dreadful for pen to describe. He sank on the soft damp mould of the floor and gave himself up to despair. And thus hours went past.

Hitherto there had not been a sound, but now the impatient yelping of the faithful hounds told him they had begun to appreciate the terrible danger of the master.

The rest of the story may be told in a very few words. Vogel did nothing but run about wild with grief, and made the rocks around her echo the sounds of her grief. Zimmerman set himself to work to dig the master out. But alas! solid stone and lime were too much for even his strong little limbs. But where was the wise and thoughtful Zadkiel? Gone. He turned up some hours after at his master's house, and his strange behaviour soon caused the servants to follow him into the deep forest and straight to the old ruin.

Morning had dawned ere the hunter, more dead than alive, was extricated from his living grave. His first act as soon as he recovered was to return thanks to Him who had delivered him, his next to embrace his faithful dogs.

ARION.



LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—IX.

By PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do," &c.

"I wonder what we shall do to-day, Mary?" said Margaret, as the two children stood by the kitchen table waiting for the next lesson.

"I don't know," said Mary; "but I fancy we are to learn something about fat, for I heard mistress giving orders to put the fat ready for us. And there it is. Don't you see all those pieces of fat on the dish?"

"Well, children," said Mrs. Herbert, who at that moment entered the kitchen, "how would you like to learn to fry to-day?"

"We should like it very much, mother," said Margaret.

"But what shall we make?"

"I wish we might make some apple fritters, like those we had the day before yesterday."

"You shall learn to cook the fritters at our next lesson," said Mrs. Herbert. "To-day we shall be quite sufficiently busy preparing the fat for frying. Can you, Mary, tell me what it is to fry food? If you had to fry the fritters, for instance, how would you set about it?"

"Please, ma'am, let me think," said Mary. "When we fried the pancakes, we put a little fat in the frying-pan, and let it melt, and then put in the batter. So I suppose we should do the same with fritters."

"That is exactly what we must not do," said Mrs. Herbert. "There are a few things which we must fry in a shallow pan, with very little fat. Pancakes and omelettes are amongst them. But as a rule, this is a very extravagant, wasteful mode of cooking. It is much better to fry properly, that is, to cook in an abundance of fat, using as much fat as will cover the food entirely, so that we may be said to boil the food, but in fat instead of water."

"I should have thought it was very wasteful to use a quantity of fat," said Margaret.

"Do you remember how much fat we used when we fried the pancakes?" said Mrs. Herbert.

"I remember," said Mary: "for every pancake we used a piece of fat about the size of a walnut."

"And how much of this was left when all were finished?"

"Why, none, mother," said Margaret. "The fat was used each time, and it seemed to dry up or go into the pancake, or something. At any rate, it was lost altogether."

"Then if we were trying to find out how much the pancakes cost, we ought to include the cost of the fat in which they were fried?"

"I suppose so."

"Do you not think, then, that if in frying we could so arrange matters that the fat should be used again and again and again, that would be less wasteful?"

"Of course it would," said Mary.

"Then this is what we will do. We will provide a quantity of fat, as much as will half fill a good-sized iron saucepan. When we use this for frying, we shall find that if we are careful of it—that is, if we lift it from the fire as soon as it is done with, do not let it burn, and strain it—we can use it again and again and again. In fact, it may be used any number of times, and we keep adding fresh fat as we get it."

"But we could not fry pancakes in that way," said Margaret.

"No; I told you just now that pancakes and omelettes must be fried in a little fat. This process is generally called by cooks dry frying. When plenty of fat is used, and the food is boiled in the fat, the process is called wet frying."

"And how are we to tell which way is suitable for what we have to cook?" said Margaret.

"Ah, Margaret! you want to get on too quickly. To know which is the best way of treating different kinds of food is a large subject, and can only be learnt with time. I may tell you, however, that nearly all small things which can be quickly cooked, and can be covered with fat, may be wet fried. Things which need longer cooking, such as uncooked meat, bacon, sausages, &c., should be dry fried. Chops and steaks, too, are often dry fried, but they are best when broiled; and of broiling I must speak to you another day."

"We shall easily remember that wet frying is using plenty of fat, and dry frying is using very little fat," said Mary.

"Of course you will. And now for the kind of fat you are to use. There are four kinds of fat used in frying—dripping, oil, butter, and lard. Of these, dripping is the best and lard is the worst."

"But please, ma'am, lard is generally used, is it not?" said Mary, looking astonished.

"Indeed it is," replied Mrs. Herbert, "and this is the mistake which is made. Those who do not know have a great scorn for dripping. They sell it for a small sum to get it out of the way, and when they have done so they buy lard. Yet lard is more apt to make food taste greasy than any fat which can be used."

"What is the dripping made from, then?" said Margaret.

"From little odds and ends of fat, either cooked or uncooked, left from joints, and 'rendered,' that is, melted down; also from the fat which is skimmed from the top of the water in which meat is boiled. I should like you little folk to remember that one of the surest signs of cleverness in cookery is that nothing is wasted, and one of the most certain ways of preventing waste is to look after the fat. A good cook will not allow as much as half an inch of fat to be wasted. She will collect the scraps together and melt them down gently, and so she will never need to buy."

"Just as cook has put those pieces of fat together there, ready for us to melt down?"

"Yes; and now we will go on to render them down, shall we? First we cut them up in very small pieces. We then put them into an old, but perfectly clean, saucepan, with a quarter of a pint of water to each pound of fat. We then put the lid on the saucepan, and boil gently for about an hour, or till the water has boiled away, when we take the lid off, and stew the fat again until the pieces acquire a slight colour, when the fat is ready to be strained through a jar. We must not forget to stir the fat occasionally, to keep it from burning, and also to let it cool slightly before straining, for fear of accident; for boiling fat is very hot, more than twice as hot as boiling water."

"Supposing we have no pieces of fat, mother, what shall we do then?"

"We must buy some. Those who like beef fat will find ox flare excellent for the purpose. The most experienced cooks, however, now prefer mutton fat to any other, because it is so hard and dry. Fat which is bought must be rendered down as scraps are rendered. I fancy, however, that where meat is eaten every day it is seldom necessary to buy fat, if only proper care is taken of the trimmings."

"If dripping may be used for frying, could we not take the dripping left from joints, mother?" said Margaret.

"Certainly we could, dear. Only we must be careful to have it thoroughly clean and dry, with no water or gravy in it. To make it thus we should probably have to wash it in three or four times its quantity of boiling water, then let it go cold and scrape away the impurities which would have settled at the bottom. After which we should melt it gently down again to get rid thoroughly of any moisture there might be in it."

"Wash dripping! I never heard of such a thing," said Margaret.

"It is a very necessary business at times, for all that. The most certain way of taking care of anything we value is to keep it clean: and certainly we value our kitchen fat. But then, as I told you, besides keeping it clean we must keep it dry; and one reason why good cooks prefer mutton fat to any other is that it can be more easily kept dry than other fats. Fat should be thoroughly strained also each time it is used, as well as after being rendered the first time, and this will help to keep it pure."

"I think the water has all boiled away from our fat now, ma'am," said Mary, who had been looking very earnestly into the pan, and stirring the pieces very vigorously.

"Then," said Mrs. Herbert, "we will take the lid off the pan, and when the pieces begin to colour we will let the fat cool and strain it away. It will so be quite ready for our purpose, and at our next lesson I will show you how to fry some apple fritters."

"I think we shall enjoy frying fritters as well as making pancakes," said the two children together.

(To be continued.)



THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

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

CHAPTER VII.—AN INVESTMENT.

The holidays were over at last; the ten days flew by only too quickly to Bertie, for, compared with Gore House, Fitzroy Square seemed the most delightful place in the world. He was not very artistic in his taste, and thought but little of carving and gilding, soft carpets, and luxurious chairs; therefore the shabby parlour with Aunt Amy seemed far more beautiful than the very grandest apartment in Aunt Gregory's grand house.

"If I could only stay here always, Aunt Amy, how happy I should be!" he had said a dozen times during his stay; and each time, though her heart echoed his wish, she cheered him with loving smiles, encouraged him with hopeful words, begging of him to try and make the best of his Uncle Gregory's home, and be as happy and contented as he could. Eddie often wished that he had such a magnificent residence, for he made no secret of his contempt for the shabby and somewhat dingy comfort of Uncle Clair's house and its dreary surroundings. He thought artists should have everything beautiful and graceful about them, and looked very much astonished when his uncle said, in his sweet low voice, that beauty and grace were certainly essential, but they should be in the artist himself, and then he would see them reflected everywhere. Both Bertie and Agnes endorsed that statement, for they loved the old house, and were quite happy there. Eddie, still longing for something out of his reach, instead of making the most of what was at his hand, grumbled and shook his head; but Uncle Clair only smiled, and said, "You'll be wiser when you are older, my boy. Knowledge comes with years."

Mrs. Gregory's presents caused Mrs. Clair to think that she was sorry for her neglect of Bertie, and meant to be kinder to him in future; besides, Uncle Gregory had said there might be other arrangements when he returned, so that it was with a very hopeful heart that Bertie entered the office punctually at nine o'clock on the 2nd of January, and was taking his old corner to await the arrival of his uncle, when the head clerk conducted him into the inner room, and pointed out a seat at a desk near a window looking into a narrow court.

"Go through all those letters," the clerk said, pointing to a huge heap; "select the circulars, open them, and place them on that stand; arrange all the English and foreign letters on Mr. Gregory's table, and then address those envelopes from that book on your desk."

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied cheerfully. It certainly was much pleasanter in that warm room, with its clear blazing fire, soft carpet, leather-covered chairs, and draughtless windows, than in the large, and often chilly, outer office, but when Mr. Gregory entered with his compressed lips and keen piercing glance all round, Bertie began to think it would not be pleasant to have to sit always within the reach of his critical eyes.

"Good morning. You have not forgotten, I see: that's well," Mr. Gregory said, as he hung up his coat and pulled off his gloves. Then, with a quick glance at his table, he added, "You may go on with your work."

Bertie copied industriously for an hour, never raising his head from his desk; then his master's voice startled him. "Come here, Bertie. I want some conversation with you. How old are you?"

"Nearly thirteen, sir."

"You look more. Do you like business?"

"I think I do, sir. I shall like it more when I understand it better."

"Quite so. Now, Bertie, because you are my nephew, and have been a good, steady lad, I am going to place you in a position of great trust. You are quick, and write a good hand, and I shall train you to be my private secretary. You shall answer all my business letters, from my dictation. Of course I don't mean all my letters," catching Bertie's nervous glance at the table, "only those I have been in the habit of attending to myself. It means several changes: one is, you need not get here till I do in the morning; another is, that I shall require your services for an hour or two every evening in the library at Gore House. You can leave here at four instead of half-past five, and I wish you to take lessons in French and German three times a week. I have engaged a master for you, and you can leave here every other day at half-past three. I will pay you twelve shillings a week, out of which you must pay for your luncheon, and you will dine with us, except when there is a large party. Now sit down, and write exactly as I tell you, and as quickly, as neatly, and accurately as you can."

"Yes, uncle; thank you," Bertie replied, his heart throbbing violently. That was indeed a change from the dull routine of the past five months: he had won his uncle's confidence; he was to have no more solitary evenings; and, best of all, he was to have a salary, and only luncheon to buy out of it.

"Why, I shall only want a Bath bun and a glass of milk every day. I can save nearly all," Bertie whispered to himself at luncheon-time. "Uncle Gregory is good to me, and no mistake!"

Mr. Gregory was good to his nephew, but not before he had thoroughly satisfied himself that the boy fully deserved his confidence, and, what was more, would fully and amply repay it. That twelve shillings a week was a master-stroke of policy, for it made Bertie eternally grateful; and if the young gentleman fancied his Uncle Gregory did not know that nine shillings of it went into the post-office savings' bank regularly every week, he was greatly mistaken. The dining down-stairs was not quite such a success; he was usually completely ignored, and always felt glad when the formal prolonged meal was over, and he was at liberty to follow Mr. Gregory to the library. There, indeed, Bertie had often two, or even three, hours' trying work, copying out prospectuses and share lists, reading aloud a strange jargon he did not half understand about stocks, consols, and dividends, adding up prodigious sums of money, subtracting other sums from them, and, when the result did not quite satisfy Mr. Gregory, having to consign them all to the waste-paper basket, and begin over again. Still, it was better than the long dreary evenings in the deserted school-room, though so much confinement was beginning to tell a little on Bertie's rosy cheeks and healthy young frame. The atmosphere of the Underground Railway, too, was injuring lungs that had never breathed anything but the purest country air, and at last Mr. Gregory noticed his altered appearance, and invited him to drive into the City in the dog-cart with himself every morning. That was indeed a red-letter day,—almost as good as driving to Dr. Mayson's at Riversdale: better, in fact, Bertie began to think later on, for the bustle and confusion, the eager, hurrying, restless life of the City began to have a strange charm for him, and that brisk drive to and from Mincing Lane was a real pleasure. Then he was progressing famously with his French and German. The old professor who gave him his lessons was a sociable, voluble, eloquent gentleman, who waved his hands, rolled his eyes, chattered nonsense that made Bertie laugh, but at the same time interested him so much that he took great pains to listen and remember; and having learned his grammar fairly well at school he was soon able to make his way with tolerable ease through either a newspaper or letter.

But you must not suppose it was all sunshine and smooth sailing for Bertie Rivers. He had a great many trials and troubles, and perhaps the heaviest was his inability to go to Fitzroy Square, except on Sundays, and not always then. Then he missed his runs in the Park and his walks into the country in the early morning, his wood-carving and cork-carving, and all the other amusements with which he was in the habit of filling up his spare time. Then Uncle Gregory was becoming daily more exacting and particular, and Bertie gathered from the letters he wrote that some of the many speculations of the great City merchant were not going on entirely to his satisfaction. Every evening he remained later in the library, and Bertie had more letters to write and circulars to address, and sometimes his head ached sadly, and his eyes were dull and heavy in the morning. But there was one unfailing source of satisfaction—his weekly visit to the post-office savings' bank. Bertie would not have missed that for the world: nine shillings a week, and sometimes even ten—for nothing could tempt him to spend a penny, except on his luncheons and in writing to them at Fitzroy Square—soon mounted up to five pounds, and then Mr. Gregory remarked one day that if Bertie had saved any money he would invest it for him in a company that would pay five times as much interest as the post-office. So the money was handed over to Uncle Gregory, and Bertie received a very large and formal paper, which he never read, but still was proud of, and in his next visit handed it triumphantly to Mr. Clair. He read it carefully, and then shook his head. "This company promises too much, Bertie," he said; "better have left your money where it was."

"As if Uncle Gregory doesn't know best!" Bertie laughed. "Why, he has hundreds of shares himself."

CHAPTER VIII.—AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

"You may go and spend a few days with your brother," Mr. Gregory said to Bertie one Saturday at the end of July. "I am going away for a week, and so I can spare you; but mind you are back on the Monday after next, and in good time."

"Yes, sir; thank you, uncle," Bertie replied, with a bright smile.



"You may go now, if you wish. I do not require anything further;" and Bertie fairly ran out of the office, jumped into an omnibus, and hurried straight to Fitzroy Square, instead of going home to Kensington. The moment the hall door opened he saw something unusual was about to take place: there were trunks and packages and muffle straps in the hall, and there, amidst them, stood Uncle Clair, looking quite calm, while Aunt Amy, Agnes, and Eddie flew hither and thither in every direction. There was a four-wheeler at the door too, so that evidently the family were going away. For a moment Bertie felt inclined to cry. What possible pleasure could he have in a week's holiday without Eddie and Agnes to share it? But the moment Aunt Amy caught sight of him, her bright face and cordial welcome re-assured him.



"Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your uncle could not spare you to come with us. But where are your things?"

"I haven't brought any. I only just came from the City to tell you Uncle Gregory gave me a week's holiday," Bertie replied, looking very much perplexed. "I did not know you were all going away, auntie, or of course I would not have come."

"Then you did not get the letter I sent you, dear?"

"No, aunt."

"Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission to come with us to the sea-side for a week. But I suppose the letter miscarried some way. However 'All's well that ends well,' Bertie. You are just in time. Come now, help to carry the parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything."

"If we were going to stay a year in a desert island a thousand miles from a shop, I should think we have enough luggage," Uncle Clair said, glancing comically at the numerous packages and trunks; "instead of which, we're only going to Brighton, and can get everything we want there just as well as in London."

"But am I really to go to the sea-side with you, Uncle Harry?" Bertie cried eagerly.

"Why, of course, child; you don't suppose we're going to leave you behind."

"Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!" and Bertie executed a sort of war-dance, tossed his hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a dozen times at least before taking his seat in the cab. "You had better go with your aunt in a hansom, Bertie," Uncle Clair said; "Eddie, Agnes, and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the station first, wait for us at the booking-office. Mind you don't get lost," he added, with a smile, as they drove away.

"As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!" Bertie said proudly. "Why, I know the place by heart now; and shan't I be glad to get away from it for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle Gregory to give me a holiday?"

"Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally. Do you know, dear, I am sorry we did not try to persuade Eddie to take his place in the office too: I almost think he would have been happier, and have got on better; he does not seem very contented with us, and, worst of all, he does not make much progress in the profession he has chosen. Agnes is far ahead of him."

"But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do anything if he likes," Bertie cried loyally. "And I do not think he would get on with Uncle Gregory: he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never cared to be told to do anything. Even poor papa used to say, 'Please, Eddie,' or 'Perhaps you will do so, Eddie.' Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to do forty different things in different ways every day, and I don't mind a bit; but Eddie would stand and look at him, and frown so, and just walk away. My brother would never get on with Uncle Gregory, Aunt Amy," Bertie repeated gravely. "Eddie would never make a merchant."

"And your uncle Clair says he will never make an artist, unless he changes greatly," said Aunt Amy, rather sadly. "Poor Eddie! I am really very anxious about his future: he is so like his father: his ideas are quite magnificent, but he has no energy."

"He's clever, though, auntie; papa often said Eddie was a genius," Bertie whispered, "and I can work enough for us both. When I am rich, and can buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy. You don't know how different he will be when he gets back to our beautiful home," and Bertie's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought, for the dream of Bertie's life was to get back Riversdale. The anxieties of the great establishment in Mincing Lane never touched him; he knew nothing of risks, disappointments, or failures; in fact, Bertie never even thought of such things, for he was but a child at heart, and had perfect faith in his uncle's assurance that if he were only a good, obedient, industrious boy he would be very rich some day, and get back his home. But no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office, or the hot library at Kensington troubled him as he took his seat in the train, and was whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie sat silently looking out of the window, envying his brother's high spirits; he could not think what made Bertie so happy when he felt discontented and miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything in the world. Agnes, too, seemed infected with some of Bertie's good humour; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed merrily at the utter nonsense her cousin chattered incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his discontent, and made the most of his misery. And yet he had no real cause to be unhappy: every one was kind, gentle, patient with him; he had not a reasonable wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of the carriage, while the others chatted and laughed, and seemed as if they could not keep still for very enjoyment.

"Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!" Agnes cried, "Look how the sun shines on the trees, and the brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to get away from London, and see the country once more; and such a sky, Bertie! you don't have anything like that in Mincing Lane!"

"No; but though our skies may be somewhat inky, Miss Agnes, they have a silver or a golden lining," Bertie replied, with the air of a judge. "We don't want sunshine in the City, because we have no time to look at it; and besides, we have plenty of gas and electric light."

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something about his brother's want of artistic taste, when Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

"Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite a philosopher as well as a capitalist and man of business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five minutes, and then for a glimpse of the glorious sea."

"Why, Uncle Harry, I've never seen it!" Bertie exclaimed, as if he were very much surprised at not having given the matter a thought before. "All the way down I never seemed to think we were going to the sea-side: I was so glad to get away from London. Will you let us have a boat, Uncle Harry?"

"That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps fine we may go for a sail some day."

"Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little punt on the ocean as we did on the river at home," Eddie said, rather scornfully. "He has no idea what the sea is like."

"Well, well, he will know better presently, for here we are," Uncle Harry said gently; and in a few minutes more they were all in a shabby, shaky, but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

"Oh!" Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy's hand. "Oh, how beautiful! I feel as if I can't breathe, auntie."

"It is jolly!" Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright way. "What a place for a swim, Eddie!"

"The idea of thinking the sea only a place for swimming!" Eddie replied contemptuously. "I——"

"You can't swim a bit: that's the reason you don't care about it," Bertie cried merrily. "But Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle Harry, so you will hear him say presently, 'What a lovely place for a row!' and I do believe it's not a bit rougher than our little river."

"It's very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears a very different aspect, Bertie."

"I don't believe it ever could be really rough, just like Turner's pictures," Eddie grumbled. "It's not a bit like what I thought it would be."

"It's ten times prettier than anything I ever saw," Bertie cried enthusiastically. "Just look at all the boats, and such pretty houses, and the donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have a donkey-ride? and such lots of boys!"

"What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his enemy at home, and he would be as happy as Bertie," Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to Aunt Amy; and she only shook her head and smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though spoken in a very low tone, reached Bertie's quick young ears, and he glanced at his brother in sore perplexity. But at that moment the carriage stopped at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments, and in the bustle of getting in the packets, exploring the rooms, exclaiming at the beautiful view from the balcony, and Bertie's sudden discovery that it was a glorious place to test the powers of a pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot all about Uncle Clair's words and Aunt Amy's sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little, and agreed that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with the bright sun shining on her snow-white sails, was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head on the pillow—he had been running and dancing along the beach for hours—his last waking thought was, "I must find out who's Eddie's enemy; and if he's not a lot a bigger fellow than I am, I'll thrash him!"

CHAPTER IX.—A HAPPY ENCOUNTER.

Brighton in the first days of August is hot and dusty, noisy, and crowded with people; excursionists pour in by thousands, German bands and organs seem to spring up under one's feet at every step. The sun blazes in the windows of the houses on the Marine Parade all day, and the fine, dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be irritating to delicate throats; but for all that, Brighton in August is delightful, at least to children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious existence without danger of catching cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in every danger, most fortunate in every escapade, was Bertie. No one could look at his sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter, watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach, without saying, "There, at least, is one happy boy," and feeling glad that there was so much capacity for pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie and Agnes with him hither and thither, till by sheer force of energy and example he forced them to share his happiness, and brought the roses to their cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair about in the same way, only they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling in the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still on the beach and watch them. However, one day, very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade, and Bertie nothing doubted but they would be glad to join his many expeditions in search of fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances in Brighton, and felt half ashamed to acknowledge a relative who was only a junior clerk, and refused very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be friendly with Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very chilling to Bertie, and asked when he was going back to his office.

"Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay for another fortnight," Bertie answered brightly, without the least shade of discontent on his face.

"And why must you return before the others, my lad?" a gentleman said, advancing a step, and looking at Bertie steadily. "If I don't mistake, I have met you before somewhere. Where was it?"



"You have seen him at our house, perhaps, Mr. Murray," Dick Gregory said carelessly; he had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing a trip in Mr. Murray's yacht, and did not want to be interrupted; indeed, he was far from being pleased at meeting Bertie. "You know, he's in papa's office in the City," he added, seeing the gentleman still looked puzzled.

"No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at Riversdale," Bertie said, a little shyly, for a pair of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. "He used to come and see papa often; but I think he would remember Eddie better than me: he saw him oftener."

"Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember you quite well," he said. "You are Herbert, the dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs. Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the Rivers' being here. This boy's father is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to meet him."

For a moment there was an awkward silence; Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie looked up suddenly. "Papa is not here, sir: he—he is dead," he said steadily, but in an earnest voice. "I am in Uncle Gregory's office; Eddie is learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor papa lost his money, and we're going to try and get rich, to buy back Riversdale."

"Buy back Riversdale!" Mr. Murray cried. "You don't mean——" then glancing at Mrs. Gregory's confused expression, and the sudden gravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie's eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in the strangest way.

"Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?" he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.

"No, indeed; I did not even know he was here. I fancied he was at the office, as usual."

"Oh! then how did you come to be here, child? Are you alone?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday Uncle Gregory said I might have a week's holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it has been so splendid!"

"So you must go back to town to your office next Monday?" the gentleman said, after a moment's frowning. "Well, well, we shall see; this is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?"

Bertie told him the address: it was within a stone's throw; and as Mr. Murray noted down the number, and glanced at the house so as to remember it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly decorated with some of the children's trophies. Long trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed hung over the railings; there was quite a large heap of sea-stones, and a few shells piled up in one corner. Bertie's schooner was firmly anchored to a crimson bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before an easel standing in the open window, and a low chair with cushions outside. Altogether, the aspect of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair pleased Mr. Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray was unusually silent; the boys watched him, and saw by the expression of his face that he was thinking deeply. But it was not till he met their father at the aquarium that Mr. Murray said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then both gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked so long and so earnestly that both Mrs. Gregory and the boys became impatient, and not a little curious. What could they possibly have to say about the little junior clerk? and yet they were sure he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious. Mr. Murray was a very old friend of the Rivers' family, and though absence from England for several years caused him to be quite ignorant of the calamities that had overtaken the master of Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and the loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested in the family, and heard with regret of the almost friendless condition of Mr. Rivers' sons.

"I wish you had told me all this sooner," he said at length. "We might have done something better for that fine lad."

"He will do very well," Mr. Gregory replied, a little coldly. "You should be the last person in the world to object to business."

"I don't object, only the boy is too young—a mere child. Why did not you send him to school with your boys, for a few years at least?"

"I do not think that would be any true kindness. It would only make him dissatisfied with his future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very well."

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder of the afternoon he thought a great deal of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the more he reflected the less pleased he felt at Mr. Gregory's treatment of Bertie, and the undisguised contempt Dick and Harry expressed for their cousin. He resolved to call the very next morning on Mr. Clair, and have a talk with him about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong reason for being interested in their future. It was he who had persuaded their father to invest money in the speculation that ended so disastrously, but he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an extensive shareholder; he forgot that a simple country gentleman, without either knowledge or experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing as a man all his life acquainted with business. Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines himself, but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he was an exceedingly rich man, he only regarded the matter as one of the casual losses incurred in business. But his old friend's losses troubled him deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his power to repair the effects of his well-meant, but unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and some people said very eccentric, though, in truth, his eccentricity was only indiscriminate generosity. He was very fond of children, boys especially; he often spoke of adopting some promising lad to inherit a portion of his great fortune, and continue the grand old firm in the City that had flourished for over a hundred years as Murray and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory hoped that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately everything had seemed like it; therefore, the sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take in Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness, especially as the gentleman said at dinner that evening that the yachting excursion would have to be put off for some days, as he wished to make the acquaintance of his old friend's sons, and learn a little more of their history, and meant to call at their address the next morning.

(To be continued.)



AN APPLE SONG.

The Autumn sunshine falls so warm, So warm in the orchard green, A golden tent is the apple-tree; And under the leafy screen Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough, As high as he can go, Dropping the apples red and brown To his Cousin Prue below.

Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass, Spreads wide her pinafore, The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain, By two, by three, by four; With watchful eye and ready hand She lets no apple fall— As fast as Rex can throw them down She catches one and all.

The blackbird on the topmost bough Is singing loud and clear, The children shouting at their task It does him good to hear. He watches them with his bead-black eyes, And blither still he sings; But clearer than dear blackbird's note The children's laughter rings.



MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VIII.—IN THE FISH-HOUSE.

Of the Fish-house at the London Zoological Gardens it must be said that its contents are decidedly "mixed," for it is the home not only of a few specimens of the finny tribe, but also of some wading and diving birds, of a very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of several of the beautiful flower-like sea-anemones. The collection, however, loses nothing in point of interest because of its varied character, and will repay a good deal more study than it seems to receive from visitors.



Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy's familiar friend, the minnow. Others, like the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare—in England, at any rate. Then there are kinds known to every lover of angling, such as the perch and pike. Seldom has a popular name been so aptly bestowed as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses. In the upper half of their wee bodies they have all the equine look and bearing, but in the lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness, excepting that both animals have tails. But the tail of the sea-horse is a most useful appendage. The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds and vegetables, and by this means drifts along with the current into far distant seas and strange climes. To this cause the occasional discovery of foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed. With regard to the name of the cat-fish, one must not be quite so particular. There is, on a cursory glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the head of this curious animal to explain how the title came to be applied to it. It strikes one as being rather a morose and surly creature, an impression that is fully borne out when one learns that it will fight desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered as other than common fishes, they always are worth watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no body, but they may be regarded as being nearly all body with very little head, and the two bright black eyes, which look as if they were "stuck on," give them a rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive, too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and they will all flock to see what it is. On the contrary, other fishes, such as the pike and carp, will remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you may make, and some, like the timorous trout—for which Isaak Walton loved to angle above any fish,—will be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of your digit that they will dart off in every direction.

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest in the pikes, those "fresh-water wolves" and "tyrants of the rivers," as they have been styled in consequence of their ferocity. They thrive well despite their savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age. One was captured in a pond in Sweden, in 1449, with a ring round its neck, which bore an inscription which showed that it had been placed in the pond more than two hundred years before. However that may be, there is no doubt that the pike is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will clear a pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to attack those even that are nearly as big as itself. There is a case on record of a pike fastening on the lips of a mule, which had been taken to drink in the pond. They have been known to bite at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is a most voracious creature. It may be assumed also that it is unsociable, for it generally swims about by itself, and not in shoals or in companies like other fishes.



Among other inmates of this house which call for mention are carp, gobies, dace, roach, bullhead, gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels. They lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro in their tanks, in a wearisome way. But their graceful movements and curious colours are worth notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small specimens. Those in the deep sea sometimes attain a gigantic size. They are able to use their tail as a hand, and have been known by means of it to seize the gunwale of the boat in which they were imprisoned and jump into the sea.



One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates of the house, however, is not a fish but an amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians, one called tailless—to which frogs and toads belong—and the other tailed, of which the newt and the axolotl are members. The Zoological Society are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both the black and white axolotl. This creature, which is a native of Mexico, has a strange life-history not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of tadpole stage of existence, in which it is furnished with a collar of gills and lives in the water. After a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs grow much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look about its permanent form. In the first period of its history it is styled axolotl; in the final period it becomes known as amblystome. They say its flesh is esteemed a delicacy in Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard the anemones—the "most brilliant of living flower gardens," as Charles Kingsley called them—as useful in the way of ornament, and pass their tanks without paying further heed to them. This is not the case with respect to the diving birds, which are beyond all question the centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a penguin. The first-named is seldom seen in this country. It is a largish bird with webbed feet, long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming in the water with its body entirely submerged, it looks not unlike a snake forging along. Hence it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant and darter, though here classed for convenience' sake among the divers, really belong to the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may be looked upon as representing the divers of the Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most awkward bird ashore, but in its native element its movements are elegant and rapid. When the keeper has placed some food in the water-tank, the darter is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim round, then spots its prey and goes for it with unerring aim. Rising to the surface it throws the fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it with business-like despatch. It then goes fishing again, and after its wants have been supplied it returns to its house. The other three birds are allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling amongst them. Enough fishes are thrown in to keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly amazing. Once more one has an opportunity of noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank a platform with transverse bars is let down for the convenience of the birds, but the silly penguin, instead of going to the end of the platform and gradually working its way upward, sometimes endeavours to climb up the side, its frantic struggles to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the easiest manner, for Mr Keeper has to assist it with a long iron pole with a hook at the end, by means of which he pushes the bird along to the foot of the platform. The feeding of the birds is a very instructive performance. Unless some such occasion were afforded us of seeing these essentially aquatic birds in the water, one could not have the slightest idea of the power and grace of their movements.

And in leaving the fish-house let me say that this educational value, so to speak, of the Zoological Gardens undoubtedly forms one of their strongest claims upon public support.

JAMES A. MANSON.



WHAT CAME OF A FOXGLOVE.

A FAIRY STORY.

Behind, before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook gently, saying,

"The bells shall ring For the fairy king; Ding, dong, bell! Ding, dong, bell!"

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other fairies were laughing.

"We are the Queen's pages, And very great our rage is!"

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet, they burst out crying, saying—

"We are not fit to be seen By her Majesty the Queen; Our clothes are all blue and green, Who will wash and make them clean?"

"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.

My pages shall not be Treated so shamefully!"

And her face grew as red as a peony.

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea that the fairies were in the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one another.

II.

And then—

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.