CHAPTER VII

CHILDREN'S HOSPITALS

We have seen children rich and children poor, children at work and children at play, but we have not yet seen any of the poor little children who cannot run about as others do, who have to be still, and who very often suffer pain. A lady began a school for poor children who were ill. She had been visiting poor people, and she had found out that sometimes a mother had to leave her sick child the whole day long alone in one dark room. And very often these children were not ill for a little time only, as any of you might be, but ill always from babyhood, without any hope of getting well. To take one case, little Beatrice Annie Jones had a mother who was a widow, and used to go out to scrub people's floors and clean the houses; that is what is called being a charwoman. She had sometimes to go quite a long way to her work, and could not come back in the middle of the day for dinner; so in the morning before she went she used to give Beatrice Annie a bit of bread and an egg, if she had enough money to buy one, and a few sticks, and a little pan with water in it. Then she used to tidy up the room and go away, leaving the child alone. The door must be locked, for a thief might come in and steal the few bits of things there were. The window was dirty and very high up; Beatrice Annie could only see out of it by climbing on a rickety chair, and she could not stand there long, for it hurt her legs and back, for they were not like other little girls' legs and back, but weak and painful, so that she used to drag herself about the floor on all fours, like a baby, rather than walk, even though she was seven years old. The room she and her mother lived in was up many, many stairs, and it was very seldom she could get out at all; for though she was very light and small, her mother was too tired to carry her down after her day's work. Beatrice Annie was suffering from a disease very common with poor children, called rickets. It means that the bones are not strong—they are like chalk, and will break very easily; even a fall off a chair might do it—and it is sometimes caused by the children not having had enough milk when they were babies.

When her mother left her alone, Beatrice Annie used to look round the room and sigh. It was a very dreary room. When you are ill, everyone brings you nice things—flowers and jellies and pictures—to pass the time. This little girl had only one picture, a bright-coloured almanack, with a likeness of the King dressed in the scarlet uniform of a soldier, and she had looked at this so often she was tired of it. She was so lonely that she would have been glad if even a little mouse had come to play with her; but the mice did not come to that room; there were not enough crumbs to please Mr. Mouse. Beatrice Annie could not read; she had never been to school, for she was not strong enough. So she sat for a long time on the wooden floor and wondered what she should do. She had one dirty wooden doll, dressed in rags, and for a little time she washed its face, wiping it with a bit of rag dipped in the corner of the little pan she was going to boil her egg in; but she soon got tired of that. Then she tried to climb on the chair to look out of the window, but when she managed it, after trying several times, she could not stay long, it made her legs ache so; and the street was very far down, she could not see anything interesting. So the weary day went on. Long before one o'clock she had boiled her egg, and she ate it with great enjoyment; but that did not take very long, and then there were hours and hours to wait before at last the old stairs creaked and her mother put the key in the lock and came in with a tired face. She was a good woman this, though so poor and wretched, and she could not help her little girl's being left alone, and she always tried to bring home something for her to cheer her up.

'Look, Beatrice Annie!' she cried, as she opened the door. 'What hever do ye think I've brought for yer?' And she held up a bunch of red radishes for a treat.

Well, when this lady found out that there were many children like Beatrice Annie, she said that there might be a school just for such poor sick children, and that they could do as much or as little work as they liked. Several rich people joined in sharing the expense of starting the school, and one doctor gave a carriage that had two seats in it on which children could lie right down, and others where they could sit. Then a good kind nurse was found, and every morning the nurse went round and carried out or helped all the little sick children who were well enough to come, and took them driving in their own carriage to school. She had to begin very early, and go backwards and forwards several times, for the carriage did not hold a great many children at a time, and there were so many who wanted to come. She took them to a school in Tavistock Place, not very far from the British Museum, in a part of London called Bloomsbury, and by ten o'clock all the children were there.

Then they began work, a little reading and writing, and a few sums; but they were always carefully watched, and if any child seemed tired she was made to stop and lie down on a sofa. At twelve o'clock dinner-time came. At first a few of the children used to bring their own dinners, and as the mothers were very poor, sometimes the dinners were very nasty, and not at all good for a delicate child. Perhaps one little boy, with a white face and a big head, would unroll a filthy bit of newspaper, and show some cold herring, which smelt horrid. Or another would bring out a lump of greasy pudding, as heavy as lead. So it was arranged that if the mother could give a few pence, varying from three halfpence to threepence, according to her means, the children should have dinner at the school, and for these sums it is marvellous what a dinner they get. Beef and mutton, with vegetables, light puddings of milk and fruit, and sometimes rich people send game, and then these poor little gutter children have dinners like princes and princesses.

Though it is in the middle of London, there is a beautiful garden behind, which belongs to the Duke of Bedford, and he allows them to play there, for the house to which it belonged is now pulled down. Some of the children go hopping about on their crutches, and even play games upon the smooth turf under the great shady trees. After being out for an hour, they come in and do such interesting work. All sorts of things they make with their hands. The boys do iron work, and the girls lace; or the boys do painting and basket-making, and the girls embroidery. So that when they grow up and leave the school they may be able to earn a living for themselves.

At about three o'clock the carriage comes again, and they begin to go home. Now, cannot you fancy what a new world this is to the children? Before they went to school they knew nothing about the world they lived in, or about history, or about plants and animals. They had nothing to think of to make them forget their pain. They could just sleep or lie still all day, like little animals. Now they are bright and happy. If by any chance they cannot go to school, or the carriage does not come, they cry bitterly. There are other schools begun now like this one, so perhaps in time all the children who are invalids can go to school.

Of course, there are some cases where a child is too ill to attend any school, and then it must go to a hospital. There is one of these hospitals in Chelsea, and it looks out over the great gray river Thames. It is a large red-brick house, and boys and girls who can never get well can be taken in here and made comfortable, and saved as much pain as possible. It is a beautiful house, and it is very sad, but happy, too, to see the children, and how bright they look. They wear little red flannel jackets when they sit up in bed, and have a tray put across the bed, and upon it for them to play with are the toys that kind people have sent. The rooms are divided into two parts, for boys and girls, and the children are received between the ages of three and ten, so there are no tiny babies here. The large windows are down to the ground, so the children can see what is going on outside, and I will tell you what they see: first, the Embankment; I have told you about that. It is like a broad road, and taxi-cabs and bicycles and many other things are always passing and repassing. Then the river, up which the salt sea tide rolls every day, and when the weather is very cold and stormy the gray and white sea-gulls fly inland up the river, and wheel and scream; and when people throw bread for them they dart down upon it and catch it before it can touch the water, so quick are they.

On the river there are, in summer, pleasure-steamers crowded with people; these stop at a pier quite near the children's hospital, and sometimes they are so full that not another person can get on. Then there are great barges going slowly along, dragged by a little steam-tug; perhaps there are three or four barges one after another, so low in the water that it almost washes over their decks. They carry great piles of hay or coal further up the river, and they look like great lazy porpoises being towed along by the fussy little steamer. If they are coming in with the tide, so that the current helps them, they do not need the steam-tug; but men stand up at one end and help the barge along, and guide it by a huge oar called a sweep. Some of these men and their wives live always on these barges, and earn their living by taking things up the river. There is only a tiny dirty little cabin, the size of the smallest room you ever saw, and so Mrs. Bargeman can't bring fine frocks with her; but that doesn't matter, for it isn't likely that she has any. The faces of the men and women get quite brown with being out always in the open air. It is a queer life that, always going up and down, to and fro, upon the gray water, watching the red sun sink at night and seeing him rise again; watching the sunlight ripple in the water by day, and seeing the lights from the shore shine out sparkling like jewels at night.

The barges are quite low and have no funnels, so they can pass under the bridges; but the steamers have to bow down their funnels when they come to a bridge, and then they raise them up again, as if they were very polite gentlemen saying, 'How do you do?' to the bridge.

Well, the children in the hospital can see these things, and for those whose beds don't face the windows there are looking-glasses so arranged that all that goes on is reflected in them, so that it is like a wonderful picture-book, changing all day long. Though they look so happy, poor children! some of them suffer dreadful pain, and it is sad to think this hospital is for incurable children—that is, children who can never be well in this world.

In one room there is a large picture; I am sure you have seen one like it. It is Jesus Christ standing at a door, knocking, and the door is fast shut, and briars and brambles have grown all over it; but still Christ stands knocking, hoping it may open. In His hand there is a lantern, and the picture is called 'The Light of the World.' Now, the real picture, the one that the artist painted, from which all the others like it have been printed, was painted just where this children's hospital is; for the artist, whose name is Holman Hunt, had a house there before the hospital was built. So he gave a very large copy of his picture to the children, and wrote under it that it was from the artist who made that picture, in that place, to Christ's little ones.

There are other hospitals for children, which are for all sorts of illnesses and not only for incurable ones. There is one in Chelsea, not far from here, and another, a very large one, in Great Ormond Street, not very far from the school for sick children.

In the Great Ormond Street one they take in the very tiniest babies, and so the nurses have plenty to do looking after these mites. Sometimes a child is very naughty when it first comes in, and will do nothing but scream and cry, and the nurses have to be very patient; but it always happens that when it has been there for a time it loves them all so much that it cries when it gets well and has to go home. It is a funny sight to see a nurse or a sister having tea with perhaps three or four children who are well enough to be up. They climb all over her like little kittens, and love her so much she cannot get rid of them. In this hospital each ward is named after some member of the Royal Family: Helena Ward, Alice Ward, and so on, after the Princesses Helena and Alice, daughters of Queen Victoria.

There is a home for cripple girls in London, and another for cripple boys in a part of the West End called Kensington. Here the boys are taken in and taught, not only lessons, but all kinds of things that boys can do without having to walk. Some are tailors, and some make harness for carriage-horses, and some carve wood, and learn carpentering or shoemaking. And so they can earn their own living when they grow up to be men. They all seem very happy, and when you meet them on a walk it is a touching sight; but yet not really sad, because their faces are bright and happy. Fancy meeting twenty or thirty boys going along together, every one of them lame or deformed in some way! Some go on crutches, and some hobble, and others limp; but they do not seem to mind, because, perhaps, they have never known what it is to be active like other boys, and there are plenty of pleasant things they can still do.



CHAPTER VIII

STREETS AND SHOPS

When I asked a little girl who was visiting London for the first time if it was like what she had expected, she said, 'No,' and when I asked how it differed from the idea she had had, she said: 'I expected to see long rows and rows of houses, going on for miles and miles, but I never thought there would be so many things in the streets—cabs and omnibuses and people; it's all so much fuller and gayer than I thought.'

I think this is what would strike anyone who was seeing London for the first time, especially if they came in what is called 'the season.' The season lasts for three months—May, June, and July—and during that time the people who live in the country, but are rich enough to have houses in London, come up to town; and the people who have houses in London, but who go away a great deal during the rest of the year, make a point of being in London during the season; and many other people, who are gay and rich, come up to town just for those three months to meet all their friends and see what is going on. So the streets in the West End are very full indeed. In the beginning of May, when the fine weather comes, people in costly motor-cars appear in the Park in greater numbers, until at the height of the season there are rows and rows of them. If you were to go to the Park any fine afternoon about that time of the year and were to stand near one of the great gates at Hyde Park Corner, you would see all the traffic drawn up in double lines, with the well-dressed women inside the carriages waiting for something. They are interested in seeing H.M. the Queen, who is very fond of driving in the Park. Perhaps also there may be with her the popular Duchess of York, from her house in Piccadilly, and possibly baby Princess Elizabeth. When the royalties come there is quite a stir of excitement. The great iron gates opening on to Constitution Hill are thrown open—they are only opened for royalty; everyone else has to go through the side gates—and then there is a flash of scarlet liveries, and the crowd of people standing in the open space before Hyde Park call out, 'The Queen, the Queen!' And the much-loved Queen drives smiling through them, bowing this way and that, with that gracious manner that has made everyone love her; and the men raise their hats and the ladies wave their handkerchiefs as the carriage dashes across the open space, kept clear by the police, and goes into the Park, where all the waiting carriages are. The Queen has another lady with her, or perhaps her only daughter who has now a home of her own, and they drive round and round the Park several times, enjoying the fresh ah.

The streets of London are in some places very narrow—too narrow to allow tram-cars to run through them as they do in some other large towns, and at the height of the season the blocks in the traffic in some of the West-End streets are quite alarming. Imagine a tightly-packed mass of vehicles, restive horses in splendid carriages, huge motor-omnibuses, smart automobiles, taxi-cabs, and tradesmen's vans, all squeezed together. Perhaps the policeman has held up his hand at a crossing to let some carriages get across from a side street, and everything has had to stop, public and private alike. Stand up on the top of an omnibus and look this way and that: what can you see? Rows and rows of great omnibuses crowded with people, both outside on the roof and inside, all waiting just because one man has held up his hand. Nothing astonishes foreigners more than this; indeed, some people say it is the one thing Frenchmen like most to see in London—the power of the policeman. He has perfect control of all the traffic, and if he says a thing must stop, it must obey him even if it be the carriage of a duke. In Paris they tried to imitate this, and they gave their policemen little white wands to hold up to stop the traffic when it was necessary; but the drivers of the cabs took no notice, and the poor French policeman would run about yelling at them and waving his little white wand and shouting to them to stop, and when they took no notice he grew more and more angry until he was almost frantic—so different from our calm, grave policeman with his majestic arm. Sometimes, when the roadway is thick with carts and cabs and carriages, there is a roar in the distance, a shout of many voices that makes your heart stand still. It comes again, louder and louder, nearer and nearer, and all the vehicles pull to one side and make a lane down the middle of the road. Right up this lane dashes a shining fire-engine, with the smoke and sparks flying out behind, the men in the glistening helmets clinging on to the sides, and the driver guiding it so skilfully as it spins over the ground far quicker than it takes to tell. In a minute they have dashed out of sight; then the traffic closes up again. But there is another shout, another roar, and another engine follows the first; the firemen clinging to it are shouting all together a noise that sounds like 'Ah-h-h! ah-h-h!' to warn other things to get out of their way. Soon a third comes, and then follows a great red ladder on wheels, pushed by men on foot—that is a fire-escape. The fire can't be far away, so we run after the excited crowd, and soon come to a street blocked with people, where flames and smoke are shooting out of the windows. It is a house where many girls are employed in a dressmaking business, and some of them have been got safely out; but there are others at those high windows, screaming for help and stretching out their arms. The brave firemen begin to send great spouts of water on to the raging flames; they put up the fire-escape, and one man mounts it, going right into the smoke. He brings down two of the girls from one story, and disappears for a moment into the room; then he comes back, for the flames are beating fiercely on him. In the wild confusion no one seems to know if all the girls are out or not; but presently one cries out that two are still in the back-rooms, now blazing fiercely. Up go the firemen again and plunge into the windows right into the flames. A long time elapses. We hold our breath; it seems as if the brave men must have perished. Then there is a cheer as a fireman appears with something in his arms. It is a girl unconscious; gently he lowers her down the ladder, and goes again to help his comrade. They reappear and come down in safety. Are all out now? No; for all at once, at the end of the building furthest from the fire-escape, a woman appears shrieking wildly. She cannot wait, though the men shout to her to do so; there are flames behind her clutching at her, her hair is on fire and her clothes. She stands on the window-sill, and it is seen she is going to leap into the street below; a blanket is held, and a hush falls on the crowd as she plunges down. Hurrah! the blanket has caught her; she will be no worse. All are out now, but still the flames are fearful, and the houses on either side are threatened. The firemen play water on to them to keep them from catching alight, and an incessant stream of water spouts upwards from the great hose. The roof goes in with a crash, but it is seen that the water is doing something—the flames are quieter. Yet, with all the care and patience, it is not for several hours the fire can be pronounced to have been put out. If we came to see the house next day, it would stand up bare and smoke-blackened, just four walls, with the roof burnt out, the staircases gone, and inside only a mass of rubbish. Someone will have to pay heavily, but, at any rate, at this particular fire no lives have been lost.

The Fire Brigade is a wonderful power, and the brave men who belong to it perform heroic things in daily life without making any fuss. There are brigade stations all over London, and if a fire breaks out, it takes only a few minutes for the brigade to be summoned. Not so very long ago all the engines were drawn by specially trained horses who stood ready in their stalls, with the harness swinging above them. At the first sound of the alarm bell the harness was lowered, the straps buckled, and in a few moments the fire-engines were on the road. But now all the London fire-engines are run by motor power. In the streets there are little red posts with a glass at the top. By breaking it a bell is rung in the nearest fire station, and the men are warned. Mischievous boys or men sometimes broke these glasses 'just for fun,' and then ran away, and when the fire-engine dashed round the corner the men found no fire. This has been stopped by the infliction of a very heavy fine. If anyone is caught doing it now without cause he is made to pay richly for his mischief, and quite rightly too. Yet it does happen sometimes that men and engine are summoned on a false alarm, and when they arrive they find only a smouldering chimney, or perhaps even only a smoky one, and the people who have called them up have been needlessly alarmed. At Hampstead, in the north of London, where the ground is very high, there is a great tower rising many feet into the air, from which one can see almost all over London, and here there is a man always on duty to watch if fires break out. Of course, it would be a pretty big fire if he could see it from there, but then he could communicate with the nearest station and tell them to go to it. It must be a curious duty to stay all night at that great height overlooking the vast city of London. Sometimes a fire breaks out in some of the great warehouses down by the river, and then there is a magnificent sight. One such warehouse was full of paraffin oil, and you know paraffin burns more readily than anything else. As the barrels were caught by the flames the oil streamed out on to the water, and, floating on the top, seemed like a sea of flame. It must have been wonderful to see. The heat was so great that no one could go near, but on the opposite bank thousands of people assembled and watched the flames. There were flames above and flames below, fire shooting to the sky, and fire flowing down on the river's tide. The water reflected the fire above, and the fire that floated on its surface. It must have seemed like a burning world. That was a very difficult task for the brigade.

Sometimes the brave men themselves are injured or killed in the execution of their work, and at all times when engaged with a fire they run some risk.

But we have got a long way from the street where we saw the engine dashing down through the traffic, and we must come back again. All the bustle and the fuss that we have been talking of is on the roadway. What about the pavements? The pavement is often just as crowded, and though policemen don't hold up their hands to prevent people walking there, yet it is often quite a long time before you can get through, especially outside a gay shop window, where all the women want to stand and stare. In one place, where there are several big shops which stretch down one side of the street, with very pretty windows full of beautiful things, many nursemaids come to wheel babies in perambulators. This is not for the sake of the children, who are too young to care about shop windows, but it is for the sake of the nursemaids, who meet together and go slowly along two together, talking of all the fine things they want to buy, and staring with mouths and eyes round as saucers at the things they see. Now two nursemaids with two perambulators on a narrow pavement do not leave much room for anyone else, and people get tripped up and have their toes crushed by the wheels, or have to step off into the roadway to make way for Selina Ellen and Martha Theresa, who are far too much interested in their conversation to make way for anyone. Once a funny thing happened. An old gentleman was strolling along very slowly, and Selina Ellen, never looking where she was going, pushed her perambulator into him from behind. It took the old gentleman right off his legs, whereupon he sat down backwards on to the perambulator, baby and all! Poor baby! no wonder it screamed; it was a mercy it was not squashed up altogether!

Yet there is some excuse for Selina Ellen and her kind, for the shops are very beautiful. Those of you who have only seen shops in small country towns can hardly imagine what they are like. The great plate-glass windows stretch down the side of a street, and if you go inside the shop you walk through room after room of beautiful things, all arranged to show to the best advantage. The toy department would be enough to make any little girl or boy happy even to look at it. There are toys large and toys small; engines that can be wound up to run by themselves; horses large enough to ride upon; balls of all colours and sizes; and dolls—oh, the dolls! Dolls black-eyed and brown-eyed and blue-eyed, dolls fair-haired and brown-haired, dolls dressed and undressed. It is perhaps just imagination, but it always seems to me if we could be there when the shop is shut up for the night and left quiet we should hear and see some strange things.

One night, not very long before Christmas, in one of the largest shops, the young men and women who had sold things to customers all day long were putting away the ribbons and laces and folding up the great curtains and the dress-stuffs to leave everything tidy for the night before they went away to their homes. They had been there since nine o'clock that morning, and were very tired, for people, even ladies, are sometimes very tiresome when they come to buy; but the young men and women have to be very polite always, and never lose their temper, or they would be sent away. When the shop was just being shut up a lady hurried in, and said:

'I want a doll, please, at once.'

'This way, madam,' said the tall man in the frock-coat very politely, and he took her downstairs. 'Dolls, please,' he said to a tired, sweet-looking girl who stood there.

'What sort of a doll did you wish, madam?' asked the girl.

'Oh, it must be a baby doll in baby clothes with real lace. My little girl would not have one that wasn't dressed in real lace.'

'I'm afraid we haven't any with real lace, madam, but we have one or two baby dolls,' said the girl, and she took down one or two from the shelves.

'Oh no, those are hideous!' said the lady. 'The doll must have brown eyes and red-gold hair.'

'I don't think we have any like that, madam. Here is one with blue eyes and——'

'I didn't ask you for blue eyes,' said the lady rudely. 'If you can't show me what I want I must go elsewhere.'

'One minute, madam; I believe there is just one doll such as you describe, if it hasn't been sold.'

She looked about, and after a little while saw the doll she wanted on a shelf. She reached up for it and tried to pull it down, but another doll, rather larger, was leaning over it, so that she could not take one without the other. She thought the two seemed very close, but she disentangled them, and laid the baby doll on the counter. As she did so the big doll fell forward on the shelf, with its arms hanging over as if they were stretched out imploringly; but the girl never noticed it.

'I think this will be what you are wanting, madam,' she said.

The lady looked at it in a dissatisfied way.

'It hasn't got real lace on its clothes, but as its hair and eyes seem right, I must take it, and tell my maid to sew some lace on to-night to be ready for Gladys in the morning,' she said.

The girl tied it up in a parcel for her, and she left the shop. Very shortly after this everyone went home, and all was still in the dolls' department; and then suddenly there was a gentle little sniff, just as if a very wee kitten were crying, and a little movement from the shelf where the baby-doll had lain. Then a tiny little squeaky voice said:

'Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it; you knew the baby would have to go some day.'

'I—I—can't help it,' sobbed a gentle little voice; 'I did love that baby so.'

'You behaved very badly,' said a gruff voice; and the two dolls jumped, for they knew it was the Gollywog speaking, and they were all afraid of him. 'You did what no doll should ever do—you nearly showed you were alive before human people.'

'I know it was very wrong of me,' said the gentle little doll meekly. 'But I did so want to keep that baby; I tried to lie on the top of her so that she shouldn't be seen.'

'And you fell down and stretched out your arms. Let me tell you, madam, that you have merited severe punishment; you have broken the laws of dolldom, wherein we all swear never to speak or show a sign that we can understand the human world. You have broken the most solemn law in a daring way without provocation——'

'Oh,' said the second doll with the squeaky voice, 'please, Mr. Gollywog, don't be so severe; I think she had provocation: she cared very much for the baby.'

'What are you talking about?' growled the Gollywog. 'We don't want your opinion. We're going to have a trial now, and no women-dolls can sit on juries, so you won't have anything to say. Provocation, indeed! If she had pins stuck into her all over, or been roasted in front of a fire until she melted, as some dolls have done, you might have talked of provocation. She might have squeaked then, though many dolls have bravely endured these things in silence and died; but because a baby-doll she had taken a fancy to went away, to show off like that! She deserves death.'

Whereupon he stumped down off his shelf, and hunted about for a man-doll to make a jury to try the poor gentle doll. It was rather difficult to find, for there were so few men-dolls; but at last he rummaged out of a corner a sailor-boy doll, who was terribly afraid of him, and of him he demanded:

'What do you think that doll is guilty of?'

'Please, sir,' said the sailor-boy, trembling all over, 'what do you think?'

'I think she is guilty of a crime that deserves punishment by death.'

'Punishment by death!' echoed the sailor-boy.

Thereupon the Gollywog made a spring upwards to the shelf, and the poor little gentle doll gave a shriek and lost her balance, and fell head first on to the floor, where she was smashed to pieces.

When the shopgirls came again in the morning, the one who had served the lady found her lying there with her pretty wax face all broken.

'Oh dear,' she said, 'how careless of me! She fell off the shelf, to be sure; I remember seeing her fall down when I took away the other doll. I ought to have put her back.'

But the Gollywog, who had returned safely to his own corner, chuckled to himself silently.



CHAPTER IX

DOGS AND CATS

Have you ever heard of the Dogs' Home? It is for all the poor lost dogs that the policemen find in the streets of London. Once upon a time there was a very naughty little dog called Scamp; he had long pepper-and-salt hair, and very short legs, and he did not think it was fun to go with the children of the house he lived in for their walk in the Park: he wanted something more exciting, so he waited until they were not looking, and then scampered off after another big dog he saw in the distance. The big dog was very friendly, and began to play and run about, and Scamp went after him as fast as his little short legs would go; and by-and-by he grew tired, and lay down, panting, on the pavement, and the big dog went away home. Then Scamp saw a cat coming very slowly across the street to the little strip of grass that was surrounded by a railing on the other side, and if there was one thing he hated it was cats—nasty, cowardly, furry things! So he banged up suddenly, and the cat went off like a shot, and Scamp after her; but when he had chased her for quite a long time, she ran up a tree, and he could only stand and bark. A greengrocer's boy pretended to bark too, and teased him; so he grew cross, and thought he would go home. But he discovered all at once that he did not know where home was, or even in which direction; and he ran a little in one direction and a little in another, and then set off running at full speed, with his long tail down between his legs. A woman called to him and tried to stop him, but he only dodged her and ran faster, until he came to a wide street full of shops, and here people walking about, and carriages and cabs driving past, and he got quite bewildered; and then, just when he was in despair, a policeman caught hold of him and looked for his collar. Now, the silly little dog had not got his collar on. Ethel had taken it off that morning to rub up his name and address, and make them look nice and bright, and when she wanted to put it on again, he had raced round the room and played, and would not let her catch him until the governess had called out that it was lesson-time; so Ethel had gone down, leaving the collar lying on the table, and after lesson-time had forgotten all about it. So the big policeman did not know to whom the dog belonged or where to take him. Scamp was too well-mannered a little dog to bite, but he tried to get down when the policeman took him up and struggled hard. The policeman only laughed, and patted his head. 'No, no, my fine fellow,' he said good-naturedly; 'there'll be someone looking for you, or I'm much mistaken, and I must do my best to let them find you.' So he took him to a police-station near, and very soon Scamp was sent down with a shivering little fox-terrier to the Dogs' Home at Battersea.

He did not understand that it was his only chance of getting home; for Ethel and Jack's father would know about the home, and send there to see if he were there first of all. And he thought that the people at the Dogs' Home were going to keep him all his life, and he did not like the idea at all. For many dogs it would have been a comfortable place. There were nice little kennels and good beds of hay, and plenty of drinking water and clean good biscuit to eat, and little yards to run about in; but Scamp was not happy. He was accustomed to live in the house and sleep on the chairs, and be petted and made a fuss with, and nobody took any notice of him here. He was very hungry, though, so he tried to eat a little of the dog-biscuit; but in the middle he suddenly thought of Ethel and Jack and how he loved them, and that he should never find them again, and he stopped eating because a great lump seemed to stick in his throat, and he went and sat down in a corner of the yard, just a heap of gray hair and unhappiness. Presently a man came and patted him and spoke kindly to him, but he took no notice. He thought how often he had been cross when Ethel had hurt him in combing his hair, though she had only been trying to make him look nice, and how sulky he had been many times when she wanted to play with him; and he thought if only he could get back he would be so good. All the bad things he had done in his life came into his mind as he sat in the yard. He remembered that, when he was only a puppy, about a year ago, he had worried one of Ethel's dolls, and she had cried, and he had licked her face and tried to tell her he was sorry, and she had flung her arms round him, and said: 'Never mind, dear good old Scamp! I love you more than all the dolls, and I know you didn't mean it.' How good she was always! He loved her better than Jack, though she did tease him. She had often dressed him up in her dolls' clothes and made him lie upside down in her arms in a very uncomfortable position, while she pretended he was a baby.

He had killed a canary once, and once—it was very sad, and he did not quite know how it had happened—he had got on to the sideboard and eaten the cold beef while everyone was out at church on Sunday morning. The beef had been left there uncovered, and he was very hungry, and it smelt so good. He had climbed on to a chair and sniffed at it, and got a little nearer and nearer, and all the time he knew quite well he was doing wrong. And at last he jumped up and began to eat great juicy mouthfuls of it. Oh, how good it was! And he pulled it this way and that, and the cloth on the sideboard had got all crumpled up, and suddenly down went a dish of beetroot with a smash, and all the rich red juice streamed over the cloth and on to the carpet. He was frightened then, and turned to run away; but his broad, flat paws had got into the beetroot juice, and he left great marks all across the cloth. He heard the latchkey in the front-door just at that moment, and he ran upstairs and hid under Ethel's bed. Then the family came in, and he heard their cry of dismay, and Ethel called for him; but he only hid deeper under the bed. And then she came into the room, and said quite quietly, as if she knew he was there, though she never looked under the bed: 'Oh, Scamp! how could you?' And his broad tail went thump, thump against the floor. So he was dragged out and whipped, and he felt very much ashamed of himself.

Oh dear! if he could only get back to them all he would never do such naughty things again!

In the morning two or three other dogs were put into his yard, and though he wouldn't speak to them at all, and was too miserable to play, he heard what they said. One of them had been here before, and he explained that all the well-bred dogs, the good ones, were kept for a certain time to allow their people to come and find them, and if at the end of that time no one came for them they were sold; but the mongrels and little dogs that were of no value—well, it was very curious what happened to them. They went to sleep in a nice warm place like a drawer, but they never woke up again. They did not suffer at all, and it was all arranged very kindly. 'And of course,' said the dog who was speaking, 'it is quite right there should be some distinction between me and a mongrel!' She was very proud of herself, being a King Charles's spaniel, with soft brown and white hair and hanging ears and large goggle eyes. She came up to talk to Scamp after awhile; but he would not say anything to her, for his heart was sore within him. Yet what he had heard gave him some hope. All that day he sat with his face pressed close to the wires of the yard, watching, watching for his own people. Why did they not come? They must have known he would be there. Once two ladies came past—gentle, kind ladies of the sort to which he was accustomed—and he sat up and begged. 'Oh, look at that dear doggie!' cried one. 'We couldn't choose a nicer one; let us have him.' But when they inquired about him they found that Scamp was not for sale just yet.

Then toward evening, when it was growing dusk, he suddenly heard a voice that made his heart leap, and he jumped up and whined with excitement, and Ethel cried: 'Oh, father, there he is! Don't you hear him?' And he was let out, and she went down on her knees to kiss and hug him, and he jumped about her so wildly that he nearly knocked her hat off. Surely there was never a happier little dog went home that night than Scamp!

There are homes for cats in London, too; but often poor cats have a much worse time than dogs. You remember that a great many of the fashionable people only stay in London for the season, and then they shut up their houses and go away into the country for several months. Well, sometimes they are so thoughtless as to leave their poor cats without any food or shelter—they forget about them. But a cat can't live on nothing any more than a dog can. Perhaps poor puss has been out for a walk, and comes back to find the house all shut and silent, and she waits patiently a long time; but no one comes, and the boys in the street throw stones at her. So she runs across to the square, and waits there; but still the door is never opened. If she is lucky and clever at hunting she may catch a little sparrow or find something in the roadway to eat; but as the days go on she gets thinner and thinner, and weaker and weaker, and at last, perhaps, dies of starvation unless some kind person takes the trouble to send her to a cats' home. The cats' homes are much the same as the dogs. If possible the cats are sold, and if not they are quietly and painlessly killed—a much better fate than starving in the streets. Sometimes the rich people do remember their cats, but can't take them away; and so before they go they send them to a cats' home, and pay for them to be kept there until they come back. Puss is then well fed and happy; for a cat makes herself happy anywhere where she is comfortable much more readily than a dog does, and then when the family return for the winter she goes back to her own snug kitchen.

Some dogs who have lived in London all their lives as Scamp did, are used to it, and are happy enough, but it is not a good place for dogs. It is very difficult for them to run about enough, and they can't go out by themselves for fear of getting lost or stolen, so often a dog has a very unhappy time. There are dogs who are so much accustomed to London that they will follow an omnibus if their master is on it, and keep running by the side and looking up and barking. And they do not seem to get at all confused by the many, many omnibuses passing and repassing, but follow the right one all the time. But this is very exceptional. Generally a London life is an unhappy one for any but a very small house-dog.

In one part of Hyde Park there is a dogs' burial-ground, where people can bury their pets. You can see it from the road as you pass, or you can go in and look at it. It is very full. There are numbers of small stones like little gravestones put to mark the places where many a loved dog lies. Most of the stones are alike—small rounded ones with the dogs' names on them, and some are flat on the ground. There are flowers growing there, and the place is very bright and well cared for. We read here the names of many dogs—Punch, Dinah, Crow, Ruby Heart, Bogey, and Girlie. Strange names for dogs. The stones do not tell us what sort of dogs they were, though that would have been interesting. We can't find one in memory of Scamp, and I'm quite sure if he had died Ethel would have had him buried here, so near the gardens where he often ran and played. So Scamp must be living still. But other sorrowing mistresses have lost their little companions, and the inscriptions show a world of tenderness. We read, 'Alas, poor Zoe! as deeply mourned as ever dog was mourned,' and 'Darling Vic,' 'Snow, a dear friend,' 'Loving little Charlie,' 'Our faithful little friend Wobbles,' 'Jack, most loving and most fondly loved,' and many another. It must have been a happy world for such loved dogs as these.



CHAPTER X

ODDS AND ENDS

This is to be a chapter about all sorts of odd things that cannot be fitted in anywhere else. For instance, have any of you heard about the Messenger Boys? If not, I think that will interest you. Someone once formed a scheme of having a number of boys trained to go messages, or take parcels, or do anything that was required in London. And he set up offices all over London, where anyone could get one of these boys and send him on a message by paying his expenses and a small sum also, according to the distance he had to go. At every one of the offices there are a certain number of boys always going and coming. They take the messages in order as they come, and they may get a nice one or a nasty one. If you went into one of these offices and saw the boys sitting on a bench waiting, you would soon see how it works. Some of the boys are playing draughts, some are reading, but all are ready at any minute to go where they are told. There is a young man in charge of the office, and someone comes in with a message. So he turns to No. 1, a bright, chubby-faced little lad, and says, 'Go to this address and call for a parcel for this lady, whose name is written down, and take the parcel to her house. Be as quick as you can, and you can take a taxi-cab.' Off goes the boy, delighted to get such a nice job, and he feels very important to call up a cab for himself. He knows exactly where to go and how much to pay the cabman, for he has learnt all that before. The next boy is a big, awkward-looking lad, very tall for his age, and the young man laughs a little as he gives him a message: 'You are to call at No. 50 in this street,' he says, 'and the lady will hand over to you two children aged three and four. You are to take them to the Zoo and let them have a good time, and bring them back before six o'clock.'

The big boy makes a face. He does not fancy this idea at all; it is like being a nursemaid, and he thinks how silly he will look with two wee children. And all the other boys are grinning; but he cannot refuse. He is like a soldier, and must do just what he is told. So off he goes and asks for the children. But when he finds he can take them up in a cab, and that they are dear, bright, happy little things, full of mischief, he begins to enjoy himself, and they spend a lovely afternoon together; and when he brings them back safely, and the mother gives him half a crown for himself in addition to his fee, he feels he has had a good day.

Some time elapses when he has left the office before smart little No. 3 gets anything to do, and then he is told to go to King's Cross Station to meet two schoolboys and see their luggage is safe, and take them across to Charing Cross. When he gets there he finds both the boys are bigger than himself, but they are country boys going to school for the first time, and are very frightened and bewildered, and little No. 3 cheers them up, so that they part quite good friends.

But these are a few of the odd things the boys have to do, and most of their time is spent in taking notes about. You can see them anywhere in London in their neat dark-blue uniforms with silver decorations. Once a gentleman walked into one of the Messenger Boy offices, and said quietly, as if he were saying nothing extraordinary, 'I want a boy to take a note for me to America.'

The man in charge showed no surprise, but only asked when the boy was to start. The gentleman said he might go the next day, which would give him time to get his clothes together.

The boy who was next on the list was called Jaggers, and he was a bright, intelligent little lad. He ran home eagerly to ask if his parents would let him go, and having got permission, he went off cheerfully the next day across the Atlantic Ocean to New York. He arrived safely and delivered his message, and then went on to Chicago and Philadelphia, as he had been instructed. He returned in eighteen days, having travelled 8,000 miles, and he found he was quite a hero, and the man who had sent him gave him a medal with a clasp or bar of silver for each place he had gone to. I think many a boy might have been frightened when told to go off to the other side of the world so suddenly.

After Jaggers another boy did an even pluckier thing. His name was Halsey, and he was sent to California, which is on the other side of America, much further than New York, and he had to go right across the continent and find the way all by himself, and he was given no time to get ready as Jaggers was, but started almost immediately. That boy afterwards fought for England in South Africa in the Imperial Yeomanry, and is now in a responsible position in the Messenger Service. Another boy was sent to the Sultan of Turkey to take a dog as a present. I think that must have been the most difficult to do of the three things, for the dog might have died on the way, and when the boy got to Turkey he would have the disadvantage of being in a country where a foreign language was spoken. These are exceptional cases, of course, but the boys are still sometimes sent to the Continent with messages. But enough about the Messenger Boys.

There is a sight to be seen in London nearly every evening, and particularly on Saturday evenings, that always seems to me to be most touching, and that is the rows of little children waiting outside the shops for food that is sold cheaply. In great shops which sell food that soon perishes—for instance, fish, or fruit, or bread-stuffs—there is often a certain quantity left over at night that will not be quite fresh in the morning, and so it is sold cheaply, and it is this that the children of the poor come to buy. Some shops almost give it away. On Saturday night, outside a pastry-cook's, there was a row of patient boys and girls, each with a basket or bag, and some had been standing there for a long time, because it is a case of 'first come, first served,' and no pushing is allowed. As another little child arrived it took up its stand at the end of the row, and waited until the time came for closing the shop. Then each child paid so much—say sixpence—and got a large quantity of bread, and so much cake, and if there was not enough to go round the last ones had to go away without any.

At the fish shops there are different ways of doing this at different shops. At one big shop all the fish that is over after the day's sale is done is put into a large basket—there may be a piece of cod, and several small fish, and some whiting or mackerel—and then each child pays twopence, and the man in the shop deals out the fish as it comes, giving so much to each, without asking what the children want. The poor little bairns watch eagerly until their own turn comes. See that big bit of cod? That would make a Sunday dinner for all of Ellen's people, and Ellen watches it anxiously. There is a very small girl in front of herself, and Ellen nearly cries when she sees the man put it into her bag; but she cheers up again when a whole fish, of what kind she is not quite sure, but still it looks very good, is passed on to her. There is no waiting afterwards. How the little feet run home, and how the shrill little voices cry, 'Mother, mother! look what I've got!' But it may be also that a disappointed little girl goes away, crying softly, for she came too late, so she had to stand quite at the end of the row, and when her turn came there was nothing left. 'No more to-night,' the shopman said cheerily, and seeing the pale, wistful little face, he added, 'Come in better time another week, little girl.'

The little girl stole away quietly, but when she got to a dark corner she sat down and cried bitterly; it was not so much for the sake of the fish as because she knew she would get a beating from her drunken mother when she went home without it. Yet she could not help it; she had had so much to do that day—work, work, work from morning to night, partly at school, partly at home—and she had run to the fish shop as soon as ever she could, only to find herself too late. Children, there are sad times in the lives of little girls such as these which none of you will ever know.

But, as we have said once or twice, the lives of street children are by no means all darkness; the merry games, the society of other children, and the stir and life of London make up for a great deal. In some of the streets you can see the boys running about on roller skates—bits of wood on tiny wheels, strapped on to their boots. The smooth London pavements are very good for this sport, and the boys skate about, getting wonderfully clever at it, and enjoying themselves immensely. Then they have their tops, which they spin on the pavements or in the roadway among the feet of the people walking, without minding in the least. There are tops all over the streets at some times of the year spinning gaily. The girls have their skipping-ropes, which are apt to be a nuisance to the people who want to walk on the pavements; but sometimes there is a side alley where no one goes, and here the children can skip undisturbed.

One game that seems a great favourite with the children is called 'Hop-scotch,' or 'London Town.' They draw a number of divisions on the pavement with white chalk, and then hop from one to the other kicking a bit of stone along the pavement with their toe; they must send it into the next square at every hop, and they must not put the other foot to the ground until they send it safely into the last division of all, which is Home or London. The little girls get quite clever at this, hopping lightly and daintily. Sometimes they draw a circle instead of a square, which makes it more difficult to do, but the game is the same.

When the barrel-organ comes round, as it very often does, the children dance; they don't mind that it has travelled in wind and weather for perhaps ten years, and that it has lost all tune it may have had, and only grinds out a horrible noise: they like the noise, and dance up and down holding their little skirts, or twirling one another round in great enjoyment. The streets do not allow of wild, romping games, and it would be dangerous to dash about and try to catch one another, so most of these are games that can be played on the pavement in safety.

The children who live near parks are luckier than those who have only the streets for playgrounds, and these parks are filled with children, especially on Saturday afternoons. There is one called Battersea Park, near the river, where you may sit on a little knoll at one end, and, in summer, as far as you can see there are boys playing cricket. They are so mixed up that it is difficult to tell which ball belongs to which, and often a good hit sends one ball flying into the middle of the next game. Some of them have real wickets, and at one end there is a carefully kept ground where men play; but some of the little boys have no wickets, and only a bit of wood for a bat. So they get a stick from somewhere and make it stand up in the ground, and then hang one of their shabby little coats round it to make a wicket; but they shout loudly with joy, and enjoy themselves at their game just as much as the bigger boys with real wickets.

A thing you very often see in London, and, indeed, in other towns, too, is a man sitting on the bare stone pavement drawing pictures on the stones with coloured chalks. Sometimes he does them very well, and makes scenes of battles and views of pretty places or ships at sea, but at other times they are hideous and badly drawn. He does this in order that people may give him pennies as they pass. He is not allowed to beg, and if he tried to the policeman would come and take him up; but he doesn't like hard work, so he sits beside his pictures and holds his cap out piteously, and very often people give him pennies in passing, so he makes a living without too much trouble. But unless he is old or crippled, he ought to be doing better work than this. There are always a great many odd men who have no work to do in London; there are some who earn a living by going about in the early morning, when people put their dustbins out, and picking out anything that they think they can sell—a disgusting trade; others used to watch until they saw a cab with luggage on it, and then they ran after it sometimes for miles and miles, and when it stopped they would offer to carry the boxes upstairs. These men certainly earned their money, for they had to run fast and far, and to carry a box up the flights and flights of stairs in a London house is not an easy task; but, unfortunately, they were generally men who were out of work through their own fault, who had been drunken or idle or rude, and they were not at all pleasant to deal with, and sometimes they made themselves very disagreeable if they didn't get what they considered enough money, and refused to go out of the house until a policeman was fetched. So it is as well perhaps that now this means of extorting money is impossible, for no man could run fast enough to keep up with a taxi-cab.

The barrel-organ man we have already mentioned. He is frequently an Italian, and has a dark-haired woman with him, and she wears a red handkerchief over her hair to make her look more foreign; and they go from house to house grinding out their awful tunes, and they get very well paid, for the people in the poorer shops and in the foreign parts of London like the noise, and give them pennies. Sometimes the man has a monkey, which always attracts the children. Other men walk about with barrows selling ice-cream; this is sold at a half-penny a time, and the children lick it out of little glasses and have no spoons: one wonders how often the glasses are washed. But that does not trouble the little street children at all; they follow the ice-cream man in throngs like flies in summer whenever it is hot. Poor little bairns! they have no milk to drink or nice cool rooms to go to, only the hot, dusty street, and they must often be thirsty. Well, all these things you can see in the streets daily, and a great many more. I have not spoken of the 'sandwich' man; that is a funny name, and it means the man is sandwiched between two great boards, which he carries on his front and back. On these are written in large letters the name of a new play, or a restaurant, or anything else to which someone wants to attract attention. These men are paid a very little each day; they are hired a large number together, and walk along by the side of the pavement with their great boards one after another, so the people passing in the street read the boards, and perhaps go to see the play or to dine at the restaurant. The men are bound to keep on walking always together all day, and they very often are ashamed of their work; for they may have been something better than this, for to be a sandwich man is about the lowest work a man can do, but, at any rate, it is earning money honestly, without begging or stealing.



BOOK II

HISTORICAL STORIES



CHAPTER XI

KING EDWARD V

I think I heard someone ask for stories, and there are many stories connected with London, though they are generally rather sad ones. There was once a boy who became Edward V., King of England, who had a sad life and a short one, and though he was a prince and a king I am sure he would much rather have been neither. His father was Edward IV., and he had not become King of England by inheritance, but because he had won the crown by fighting.

Before him Henry VI. was king, and Edward claimed the throne by right of his birth. So they fought, and there was a civil war. You know what that is—a war between people of the same country who take different sides, and it is the worst of all wars. As Edward IV. was Duke of York, his side called themselves Yorkists, and wore a white rose as a badge; and Henry VI.'s side called themselves Lancastrians, and wore a red rose. Edward was very strong and very handsome, and a great many people admired him and fought for him because they thought he would make a fine king. And Henry was weak and feeble; but then he was king already, and his father had been king before him; so a great many people took his side for that reason. While they were still fighting Edward married secretly a beautiful woman, a widow, called Elizabeth Woodville, and soon after this he was so successful that he found he could settle in London and have himself crowned king, while Henry and his wife and son had to fly to Scotland. Then Edward told his great nobles that he was married, and for a time all went on well. Edward and Elizabeth were very happy. They lived in great state, and soon a little daughter was given to them, and they called her Elizabeth. All the time poor Henry and his brave Queen Margaret and his son Edward were hiding away in lonely places. Little did they think then that the time would soon come when it would be proud Edward IV. who had to fly and hide in his turn!



After awhile Edward IV. managed to capture Henry, and he put him in prison in the Tower of London, and then, no doubt, he felt he was very safe. But Edward had a follower called the Earl of Warwick, a very powerful man. And he was angry, because he had wanted the King to marry a sister of the King of France; but the King had not done as he wished, for he had married Elizabeth Woodville. So the Earl of Warwick waited for a good opportunity, and then raised up a disturbance in Yorkshire.

King Edward was frightened when he heard of this, and travelled north to quell the disturbance. And Warwick, who was in the north himself, seized him and made him prisoner. It was very bold of him to make the King prisoner in his own country. Now there were two kings in England both prisoners—Edward in Yorkshire and Henry in London. However, King Edward was not the sort of man to remain in prison long, and he soon escaped, and Warwick had to fly to France. Here he found Queen Margaret, wife of Henry VI., and with her he persuaded the French King to get together a great army to go to England and fight against Edward. This was a surprise for Edward, who had never expected it, and he could not get together enough men to fight against Queen Margaret's army; so he had to fly, and he went over the sea to Holland. But he did not take his Queen with him; he left her in England with her children, for by this time she had two other daughters besides Elizabeth, called Cicely and Anne. Poor Queen Elizabeth was in great distress; she did not know where to go or whom she could trust. But she was advised to go to the Sanctuary at Westminster. You have heard of Westminster already, and you remember it is a part of London, and at that time one of the King's palaces was there. There was also a curious place like a strong, dark little castle. It was a safety-place, and if anyone had killed a man or done any wickedness and fled there he was safe; his enemies could not take him out. That was why it was called the Sanctuary, and it was like the cities of refuge in the Bible. It stood quite near to the place where the Abbey stands now, and many hunted people rushed there for safety.

The Sanctuary was very dark, and had hardly any windows, and inside there was a chapel. There was a flat roof, so that anyone who had gone there for safety could climb up to the roof and peep over to see if his enemies were waiting until he came out. It was not the sort of place for a queen, and I should think Elizabeth must have felt very sad and lonely there. Perhaps she had only straw to lie upon instead of a soft bed, and bad food to eat instead of delicacies, and the darkness must have been terrifying. Every moment she expected to hear the footfalls of a man running with a message to say her husband had been caught or even killed, because, of course, there were no papers or telegraphs; all the news was sent by word of mouth or by messengers. Little Elizabeth was only about six or seven years old, and her sisters were still younger, and they could not have understood why they had to be in that nasty dark place; but perhaps the Queen explained to them something of the reason. It is very odd that little Elizabeth was afterwards Queen of England herself. She married the man who was on the Lancastrian side and claimed to be king when Edward her father and her two brothers were dead, and Henry VI. and his son were dead also, and so the York and Lancaster lines were joined in one.

Now while the Queen and her little daughters were there God sent them some happiness, for a little baby-boy came to them, and he was Edward V. afterwards. He was too little to know anything about his mother's anxiety, and was, I dare say, quite as happy as most babies, and he must have brought some brightness with him for his mother and sisters.

After this Edward IV. took heart again. Perhaps he felt that now he had a son to succeed him he must win back the throne, and he returned to England and fought again, and this time Queen Margaret and her men were quite defeated, and her son was killed. He was an Edward, too, and he was then about eighteen. Now Edward IV. was triumphant, and returned to London, and the very day he came back his enemy Henry VI. died, so there was no one to fight any more just then.

Cannot you imagine what a happy time that would be when Elizabeth showed her husband the new little baby-boy? They christened him Edward after his father, and as he grew up he was always treated like a prince, and everyone knew that one day he would be king after his father. He had a brother also, called Richard, two years younger, and some other sisters younger still, called Katherine and Bridget. Bridget sounds to us now a very queer name for a princess, but it was quite fashionable then. The little boys were very beautiful; they learned to ride and play at games and to shoot, and do all the other things that young nobles in those days were taught. The royal brothers wore fine suits of velvet and satin, with little daggers at their waists, and their hair grew long on their shoulders. We should think long hair silly for boys now, but it was the fashion then. Even men wore their hair quite long. These boys and their younger sisters, Katherine and Bridget, had always been treated like princes and princesses; they could not remember the time when their father was an outcast and their mother had had to seek shelter in sanctuary. Even the older children would have but a dim recollection of those days of anxiety and gloom, and would think it quite natural that they should be surrounded by pretty things, and that everyone should serve them.

According to a curious custom prevailing at that time, kings sometimes arranged marriages for their children when they were only a few years old, and sometimes even when they were babies. All King Edward's children were engaged to be married before they could speak! It happened, however, that most of these engagements were afterwards broken, but little Richard, who was created Duke of York, was actually married when he was five years old to a little girl called Anne, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk.

Edward and Richard were devoted to each other, and very happy together. Perhaps this was partly because they were so unlike in disposition, for people who are not like each other often agree the best. Edward was a quiet, rather clever boy, and Richard was full of fun and very mischievous. They had a great many uncles and aunts, for their mother had five sisters all married to dukes and earls, and she had brothers as well. Her eldest brother was Earl Rivers, and he was very good to his nephews, and they loved him, and were always glad to see him. The boys had also some step-brothers, their mother's sons by her first marriage, and they liked these older brothers very much. So they had many people who took an interest in them, and I dare say they were a little bit spoilt.

Their father, King Edward, had two brothers younger than himself. One was George, Duke of Clarence, and the other Richard, Duke of Gloucester. The Duke of Clarence was a weak, discontented man, who grumbled continually. The Duke of Gloucester was a hunchback, and he was as deformed in mind as in body; for he was of a malicious disposition, always ready to make mischief, and was so fond of his own way that he would kill anyone who dared to oppose him. He was jealous of Clarence, and so he told tales of him to King Edward; and King Edward believed him, and had Clarence seized and taken to the Tower. Then Gloucester was glad, and went about saying all the things he could think of against Clarence so that he should never again be let out of prison.

At that time the Tower was both a prison and a palace, and the King sometimes stayed there himself; but he lived generally at the palace of Westminster, which stood where the Houses of Parliament stand now. The great hall of this palace is still there, forming a part of the Houses of Parliament, but the rest of the building is very different from what it was in King Edward's time. Then there was a high wall all round the palace, and within it were streets of quaint old houses, with gables and angles, and in them lived the people who had to work for the King and his Court—that is to say, all the carpenters, and blacksmiths, and other work-people. And when the King and the princes went riding through the streets on great occasions, these people used to hang out beautiful pieces of cloth of many colours—red and blue and gold—so that the curious narrow streets looked like fairyland. The great wall was a protection to all the people who lived inside, and made the palace and houses like a little town by themselves.

One day when young Edward and Richard rode in after they had been playing with the nobles at some sports, they heard that their uncle Clarence was dead. They dared not ask how it was that he, a man in the prime of life, had died so suddenly, for their father looked very stern, and their uncle Richard seemed pretending to be sorry. But the truth was that Clarence had been killed by King Edward's orders, because Richard had made up stories about him, and pretended that he had discovered a plot of Clarence's to dethrone the King and make himself King instead, and, unfortunately, King Edward had believed this wicked lie. No one ever knew exactly how Clarence had been killed, but it was whispered that, as he was a king's son, he had been allowed to choose his own death, and he had chosen to be drowned in a great barrel of wine. This was the beginning of Richard's wickedness, and later he grew worse and worse, for he intended to be king himself some day, and so he deliberately murdered everyone who stood in his way. He had begun with Clarence, who was his elder brother, and who would have been king before him if anything had happened to the King and his sons, but he did not stop there.

Prince Edward was only eight years old when this happened, and Richard was six.

Five years more went by, and during that time, though all seemed to be well, there were really plots and schemes everywhere in the palace. The Duke of Gloucester was always creeping about after the handsome King and flattering him, and trying to win his confidence. The King still loved his wife, Queen Elizabeth, and he gave her relations, the Woodvilles, important posts about the Court and showed them favour. And this did not please Gloucester at all, for he hated the Queen, and was jealous of her relations; and so he made up stories against them and told them to the King, as he had done in the case of poor Clarence, but this time the King was not quite so ready to believe him.

But when little Edward was thirteen the King died suddenly, and then the Duke of Gloucester and the Queen's relations both tried to get young Edward into their own hands, for they thought that a boy so young would be easily controlled and made to do as they wished. Edward, who was now King Edward V., loved his mother and all her family, and wished to be under the care of his aunts and uncles on her side of the family; so when she told him to go into the country with his uncle, Earl Rivers, and one of his half-brothers, Lord Grey, he went gladly. The Queen had planned this to keep him out of the power of the Duke of Gloucester, whom she feared. But the Duke was too clever a man to be put aside so easily. He had made his brother, the dead King, say before he died that he was to be young Edward's guardian, and on the strength of that he now claimed the young King. Finding, however, that he had already gone to the country, he sent a message to him saying he must come back, and he himself started out for the country to meet him half-way.

You can imagine that Earl Rivers and Lord Grey were anxious when they received that message. But what could they do? If they refused to bring back the little King, the Duke would doubtless raise an army and come against them and compel them to give him up. So they thought the best way would be to pretend to do as Richard wished, but in reality to keep themselves very near to the young King and to guard him from harm. They set out for London, therefore, bringing Edward with them, and the Duke of Gloucester soon met them. He had with him a powerful noble called Lord Hastings, who, though he hated the Queen's relations and was jealous of them, was still an upright, brave man, who would not have hurt a hair of young Edward's head.

When the Duke of Gloucester and Lord Hastings met the other party, they were very polite, and so friendly that Earl Rivers and Lord Grey thought that they must have been mistaken, and that the Duke meant nothing but good; so they foolishly gave up all precautions, and left themselves in the power of the Duke. Then he seized them, and sent them off as prisoners to a strong tower in Yorkshire.

Poor Edward V. was terrified when he heard this, and found that he was alone with his uncle Gloucester, and he fell on his knees and cried—you must remember he was only thirteen—and begged his uncle to release the prisoners. Gloucester tried to comfort him, and assured him that he was only doing what was best for the safety of everyone. He told Edward that these men were bad men, and were plotting against him, and he said that it was for his safety he had seized them; and then he said that he was taking him back to London to his mother and brother and sisters, and that when he got there he should be crowned King. Then Edward was a little comforted.

Lord Hastings, however, began to be anxious: he did not like the way in which Richard was getting all the power into his own hands; so though he was no friend of the Queen mother's, he sent her a message to say that he feared the Duke of Gloucester, and she would be wise to go to a place of safety. I expect Gloucester found out about this message, for he always hated Hastings afterwards, and never rested until he had punished him, as you shall hear.

When the Queen received the message she left the palace at Westminster and hurried to the Sanctuary, where she had been once before, and she took all her children with her.

A bishop went to see her there, and he wrote a book about it, so we can tell now just how he found her. She was sitting upon rushes, which in those days were used instead of carpets, and all around her were bags and bundles and furniture, which had been hastily brought across from the palace. The Queen could be more comfortable this time than she had been in the first dark and lonely days, for she had been able to bring some of her own belongings to the gloomy Sanctuary. All the children were there except Edward. The eldest girl, Elizabeth, was now seventeen, and must have been a great comfort to her mother; yet, in spite of all this, it was a hard time for all of them, and more so when Richard fell ill. Perhaps it was because he couldn't run about as usual; but they all took great care of him, and presently he began to get better. I must tell you that on the very place where the Sanctuary used to stand is now a large hospital called the Westminster Hospital; and so where little Prince Richard was nursed by his frightened mother more than 400 years ago, other people, and among them children, are now nursed back to health and strength.

To go back to Edward and his uncle. The Duke was still pretending to be a good, kind uncle, and he treated Edward as a king. When they entered London the Lord Mayor and Aldermen came out to meet them. It was a splendid sight. The Lord Mayor was dressed in scarlet, and 500 of the citizens of London were in violet, and Edward himself, a very handsome boy, sat his horse like a king, while his long fair curls fell down over his blue velvet cloak. And the Duke of Gloucester took off his hat and bowed, and said to the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, 'Behold your Prince and Sovereign Lord!'

Then, as they rode on into the town, he told Edward that he should be crowned in a month. I wonder if Edward believed him? They went first to the Bishop of London's house, and then on to the Tower; but Edward did not feel afraid, because, as I said, the Tower was a palace as well as a prison, and as the palace at Westminster was very old and uncomfortable, it was natural to go to the Tower instead.

Now, the wicked Richard of Gloucester had got one of the little boys into his power; but that was no use unless he could get the other one, for if he killed Edward the people would say Richard, Duke of York, must be king. And he dared not kill either of them while Lord Hastings was alive. So he thought of a plan, and this is what he did. He called a meeting of the great nobles to the Tower to talk about business of State. Lord Hastings came, of course, among the others. At first Richard seemed to be in very good spirits, and laughed and jested; but as the morning went on he grew crosser and crosser, and at last he scowled so much that all the nobles were afraid of him. Then suddenly he stretched out his bare arm, and showed them that it was shrivelled and old. It had been like that since he was a baby, but now he pretended that it had only happened suddenly, and that it was done by poor Queen Elizabeth, who was then in sanctuary with her children; and he said she was a witch and had bewitched him, and turning quickly to Lord Hastings, he said: 'What should be done to those who did this thing? Ought they not to be killed?'

Lord Hastings knew quite well that the Queen had not done it; but he did not dare to say so, so he answered: 'Ay, my lord, if they have done this thing they deserve death.'

Then Richard roared out in a fury: 'Dost thou answer me with "ifs"? By my head! I will not dine until thy head is off!'

And he made a sign to some soldiers he had placed there before, and they rushed forward and carried out poor Lord Hastings on to the little strip of green outside, and there, before anyone could interfere, chopped off his head on a log of wood that lay there. No one dare do anything, for they were all afraid of the Duke of Gloucester; and Hastings suffered simply because he had been loyal to his little King. Richard had no heart to feel sorry for his victims; he just mowed down the people who stood between him and his wishes as if they had been daisies.

Now at last he could get his own way, for the two most powerful men who would have opposed him were out of the way: the King's uncle, Rivers, was imprisoned at Pontefract in Yorkshire, and Hastings was dead. So Richard's next idea was to get the little Duke of York and take him to the Tower to his brother, and then he would have everything in his own hands.

Even Richard of Gloucester could not go and drag his little nephew straight out of sanctuary, for the Archbishop would not have allowed it, and all the people would have been horrified at the sacrilege and risen against him; so he sent some men to try to persuade the Queen to give the boy up.

The Archbishop and some nobles went on this errand, and they found Queen Elizabeth sitting in the midst of her children in the dark Sanctuary, and when they told her their reason for coming she said never would she let Richard go. She knew his uncle only wanted him to kill him, and she said of the Duke of Gloucester, 'He hath so tender a zeal unto him that he feareth nothing but that he should escape him,' which showed she guessed his wicked plans. Besides, she added, the boy had been ill, and he was only a little boy eleven years old, and he was better with his mother than with men in that gloomy Tower. But they told her Edward was lonely and wanted his brother to play with; so she answered that there were many other boys, the sons of nobles, he could play with instead of his little brother, who still was not well enough to play.

It seems dreadful that these men, who must have known the reason why Gloucester wanted his little nephew, should have gone on trying to persuade the poor mother to give him up; but they did, and they said that sanctuary was not meant for children at all, only for people who had done wrong, and this boy had done nothing wrong, so he could not claim the right of sanctuary. Then poor Queen Elizabeth saw that they would take him whatever she said, and she could do no more. So she gave him to the Archbishop, and said he must be responsible for him, and if anything happened to the boy his blood would be on the Archbishop's head. Yet the Archbishop took him.

So Richard kissed his mother and sisters and ran out, and the first person he met was his wicked uncle, the Duke of Gloucester. And Gloucester caught him up in his arms and kissed him, and pretended to be very fond of him, and took him at once to Edward. The brothers had not seen one another for some time, and Richard cried out with surprise when he found how tall Edward had grown—much taller than himself, and in the joy of meeting at first they were very happy together.

The little boys were kept prisoners in the Tower, and suddenly they heard that all the preparations which had been made for Edward's coronation were going to do for the Duke of Gloucester's, and that he was going to make himself king even while his nephews were alive! Cannot you imagine how angry a high-spirited boy like Edward must have felt? But he could do nothing; he was in prison, and no one helped him. Then came the dreadful news that his two dear friends, his uncle Rivers and Lord Grey, had been beheaded in Yorkshire. And, worse than all, some page came talking, and said before Edward that he believed his uncle was going to have him to walk in his train at the coronation—walk behind his uncle like a page!

Perhaps Edward cried out, and said furious things at this; for if ever the Duke of Gloucester had meant to do it he gave up the idea. Perhaps, also, his idea had been at first just to keep his nephews prisoners without harming them; but now he saw that every year they grew older they would be more dangerous to his plans, and so he resolved on a terrible deed.

He sent for Robert Brackenbury, the keeper of the Tower, and told him plainly that if he would murder the little princes he should be well paid. Brackenbury was a brave man, and he refused boldly, saying he could not do such a wicked thing for all the money in the world. Then Richard said angrily: 'Will no man do what I want?' And a page who was sleeping on a couch near the door to guard it heard, and answered that he knew a man who would do anything the Duke wanted. Richard told him to fetch this man, who was Sir James Tyrrell, and between them they made up their dreadful plot. Tyrrell was to ask Brackenbury to give him the keys of the Tower for one night, and in that night he would see the deed was done. Now Brackenbury could not refuse. He might guess what was going to happen; but if he refused to give the keys his head would be cut off, and the little princes would be killed just the same. So he agreed, and went away sorrowfully.

Then in the dark of the night Sir James Tyrrell took with him two men—rough, odious men, called Dighton and Probyn, who would have killed anyone for money. One was a gaoler at the Tower, and the other was Tyrrell's own groom, and the three crept up the dark winding stair to the room the boys were sleeping in. Even those rough men were horrified at what they had come to do when they saw those two beautiful boys with their curling golden hair falling on their shoulders and their faces close together, sleeping so sweetly. But they remembered the money they were to have if they succeeded and the anger of wicked Richard if they failed, and they took up great pillows and held them down over the boys' faces until they were smothered. Perhaps the boys did not suffer at all, but just dreamed away into death.

When it was done the men showed the two bodies to Tyrrell, who was waiting, and then, hurrying down the heavy stone staircase, they pulled out some of the great stones at the foot, and buried them there and covered them up with stones. So that no one knew certainly what had become of the princes at the time. But two hundred years after, in doing some repairs, workmen came upon the bones of two boys, just about the sizes of the two little princes, at the foot of the stairs, and so the secret came out. And now, if you visit the Tower, you can see the very spot where they were buried.

Well, that is the end of the story of Edward V., and perhaps he was no more unhappy dying as an innocent child than if he had lived to be a man and ruled England for many years. But wicked Richard did not enjoy the throne he had gained by so many murders; for he only reigned two years, and then he was conquered by another Henry, a relation of Henry VI., who married Elizabeth, the boys' sister, and they two were the next king and queen.



CHAPTER XII

TOURNAMENTS AND PAGEANTS

In the last chapter I spoke about the young nobles who played with the little princes, and of their sports. In this chapter I will try to explain how very different the lives of boys were then from what they are now.

It was the fashion then for the sons of nobles to be taken from their homes when they were about twelve and sent to some other nobleman's house, to be brought up there and educated. These boys were called pages, and there were a great many of them about the Court. At the palace of Westminster especially there would be many, for it was considered a great thing for a boy to be noticed at Court. Every noble who came to see the King would bring with him some of these pages. The life must have been on the whole very pleasant for the boys, but there were many things in it that were disagreeable. For instance, it was one of the duties of the pages to wait at table and to carve the dishes on the sideboard, and they were taught to be very particular, and always to wash their hands before carving. We are told of one boy that his gentility was so great that he would not wipe his hands like the others, but waved them about in the air until they were dry! I think this must have made them red and rough, which would not be very genteel.

The pages were gaily dressed, with short doublets of velvet and fur, and little daggers, and caps with a feather in them, and often they were much petted by the ladies, and were much spoilt in consequence.

The boys joined in all the sports of the time, and there were many more sports then, when England was a wild country without many towns in it, than there are now. The chase of the wild boar or the wolf was a favourite sport, and stag-hunting was very popular. It was part of the duty of pages to know how to skin and cut up the stag. Can you fancy a refined boy of twelve enjoying that? The pages had to ride with their masters and lead an extra horse if it were wanted, and they were supposed always to be bright and courteous. This training served instead of going to a public school, as boys do at present. As for games, they had as many as the boys of the present time. One was the quintain. This was an upright post with two arms at the top, that swung round very easily. Tied to the end of one was a bag of sand and to the other a shield. The boy had to run up and hit the shield, and if he did not get out of the way very fast the bag of sand swung round and hit him on the back. Probably they played this in the courts of the palace, where are now the Houses of Parliament, and where one of the yards is still called New Palace Yard. Other old games of which we know only the names were 'Hoop and Hide,' 'Harry Racket,' 'Hoodwink Play,' 'Loggats,' and 'Stooleballe,' which was like our cricket. These were all very much liked in the days about the time that Edward's sister Elizabeth married Henry VII. and became Queen.